Jane's Blog - Page 91 of 93 - Jane Porter | New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author

Ready for Reno

July 25, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m all packed and heading to the airport to fly to Reno in the next hour for RWA’s annual conference. Last year’s conference was Dallas, the year before that it was NYC, the year before Denver. It’s exciting going somewhere different for each conference and my conferences have gotten busier and busier with agent, editor and publisher events.

At conference, I usually have dinner with Kim my Harlequin editor visiting from the London office, lunch with Karen my Warner editor and then a cup of coffee with my agent, Karen Solem. There is always a big Harlequin party for the Harlequin authors on Friday night, dinner with the Warner editors and authors another night, and then booksignings, workshops, and visits with my author friends from all over the world. Every year I’m excited to see everyone, and anxious to catch up with my friends and hear the latest regarding contracts, book proposals, as well as future writing and marketing plans. For one week we writers become social creatures, crawling from the woodwork (well, away our desks) to network, brainstorm, and remind our publishers who we are and what we hope to achieve.

This is a tough business and incredibly exciting–sometimes too exciting–especially for those of us who think of ourselves as bookworms and nerds. But I’ve learned that if you hope to make it as a writer you’ve got to grow a thick skin, and if you can’t grow it fast, then grow it extra strong because you’re going to need it. But a thick skin is a good thing for a woman to have, a good thick skin coated with teflon. We women need to learn not to take so much personally, as well as realize we’re not responsible for everyone and everything.

I’m signing off now, but I’ll be checking in from Reno and sharing whatever industry tidbits I can. Until I can report back–have fun, grow some more skin, and make sure you’re living the way you want to live. Yes, we can read about happy endings in books, but we shouldn’t just be reading about happy endings, we should be living those happy endings too.

Words

July 21, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

Writers, write. But I’m not writing a lot right now–although I’ve a book due in just weeks. However, the stories are in my head, not just one story, or two, but many. I’m reading a lot right now, too, magazines, novels, non-fiction books, essays, and thinking. I’m in that odd pre-write phase where I’m always thinking, analyzing, testing, wondering. But this is how the process goes for me: weeks of non-writing writing where I build the story in my head, where I feel the tension build in me, where I start at restless and end up explosive, and then I sit down and start pouring it all out.

Pouring sounds successful, doesn’t it? As if the words come out in a strong steady stream, but really, pouring is more like shaking. When I start a new book, or battle with a book in the first month or so of writing, I see so much in my head, too much. I have this huge screen with a movie camera rolling rolling rolling and I can’t get the words out fast enough to stay up with the camera. And then it frustrates, the rough bare words, so few and naked, versus the rich world in my head that mocks whatever I’ve managed to get on paper. Its frustrating. Its slow and tedious but once the writing starts, I keep at it, hacking as it is, and then pacing, and then hacking some more.

When strangers say ‘how do you churn out those books so fast?’ I want to kick them very hard in the shins. Or the knees. There is no churning the books out. I’m the only one that gets churned, and its my insides churning, my anxiety churning, my gut and insecurity churning. If I’m able to write four books a year its because I squeeze myself, and press and knead and beat and cajole and threaten. There’s no beautiful liquid stream of words…at least not until the very end of the book when the words do pour forth, but that’s forty eight hours of pouring compared to ten weeks of battering and beating. I think I deserve those two good days of writing after all the wrestling with words.

Words, words, words.

It’s time for me to start writing in earnest again. I’m restless and tired, pessimisstic, crabby and increasingly anxious. And no that’s not PMS, that’s PWS. Pre Writing Syndrome. And if I didn’t get PWS, I’d never write. I don’t write because I choose to. I write because I have to.

Defending the Craft

July 15, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m back in Fresno, California for a long weekend and am traveling with Teresa Medeiros’ ‘Yours Until Dawn’ and really enjoying it, but then as everyone here probably knows, I love wounded alpha heroes. If a powerful alpha is great, a powerful wounded alpha is even better.

There are authors who write witty, sexy romps, and sizzling dialogue (Loretta Chase and Julia Quinn immediately come to mind) and then there are authors who do a darker story, with tortured characters and while tortured isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, tortured suits me to a T. I never question what a writer writes, or why a writer writes. I’m just glad for books and great reads. But every now and then I come across folks–usually non-writers–and they want to question why a writer has made certain decisions and why a character is this way instead of that, or why the resolution goes one way instead of the other. And I always scratch my head at these questions. I think really hard and I want to give a good answer–I want to say something smart and literate, something conclusive but honestly, all I can think is, ‘this is how the book came to me. This is how the characters were made/shape/born.’

Writers come in all sizes, colors, packages, ages. Writers have different backgrounds, different goals, different motivations and each of us responds to different archetypes. We look for a certain resonance in our literature and stories. I look for big, hard, harsh, severe–broken. I look for epic and sweeping, dark, dangerous, chaotic. And then I look for depth and breadth, complexity and layers of emotion and excruciating tension. I want power. Substance. Does this necessarily make a fun read? No. But it does it for me, its what I’m driven to make, shape, create. It’s how I tend to live and how I see the world. I’m no ladylike debutante sipping tea from a fragile china cup. I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing and its the unknown that appeals to me. If a path has been taken, and I must take it, then I want to know–what can I do differently? What can I, Jane Porter, bring to it? What can I introduce that is fresh, new, intriguing? Some of my stories succeed, and some apparently don’t succeed as well, but each and every time I sit down to write, I go for broke. I try to do what I haven’t done, try to generate as much conflict and emotion as I can. And every book in the end works for me or I wouldn’t send it to my editor, and I wouldn’t allow it into print.

When a reader asks me, or wonders why, a certain characters has certain characteristics, I say, because that’s who that man or woman is. I don’t intentionally make anyone all good or all bad because I don’t believe anyone is all good or bad. Instead I let a character come to me as a real person, a flesh and blood person with weaknesses and strengths. I won’t ever make a hero or heroine better than he or she should be just to make a story more commercial, or to try to humor certain readers. I love my readers, value my readers, but the reader doesn’t get to dictate my story. The reader gets to read, and I get to write. But when I take my writer hat off and just read, like I’m doing right now with ‘Yours Until Dawn’, I’m not wondering why Medeiros chose to do A instead of B. I don’t criticize her decisions or compare her to other authors. I just give myself over to the pleasure of reading and savor the story. And if there is an author, and/or a book, that doesn’t hold my attention, then I move on to another book, but I don’t lamblast the author, or publish negative reviews at Amazon or elsewhere. I just don’t get that. It’s not that it’s wrong, or shouldn’t be done, but a story is such an organic thing for me, a story comes from such a mysterious place (the writer’s heart/mind/imagination/soul) that I’d never want to lob nasty shots at an author for taking the risk to create in the first place.

And lest anyone think this is about me, or my books and reviews, it isn’t. It’s about the business in general, and then the personal private world of the writer. Writers shouldn’t have to explain or defend their work. Our stories are what they are, our themes are personal, and we want to give readers great books but the only way we can hope to craft a great book is by going inward, going to that murky place inside each of us, reaching deep, working hard, and hopefully handing over something wonderful and new. And the fact that writers do this, and successful writers do this over and over, year after year, earns my praise, support and devotion. Readers should feel free to critique, but don’t expect a writer to defend his or her work, or the different decisions made in writing a book. Writing doesn’t work that way. And I won’t ever write that way. I bowed to criticism of The Sheikh’s Wife, my 3rd book for Harlequin, nearly five years ago, and I won’t ever do that again. I write what I write because it’s who I am, and what I am, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Just the Facts, Ma’am

July 12, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m really glad I went to Texas, really glad I organized a nearly two month book tour that covered 7 states as well as a weekend in British Columbia. I’m glad I decided I’d get behind the book–not just with ads, but with my face, my time, my energy and my ideas. But I’m also really glad the touring part is nearly over. I’ve a few small weekend events here and there scattered over the next couple of months, but nothing like the California, Pacific Northwest and Texas tours just completed.

Truth is, I’m beat. I’m sick of planes and cars, maps and hotels, restaurants, suitcases, cardboard boxes and high heels. It’s been hectic and nerve wracking and I’m ready to pass on the flat iron for my hair and the lip liner topped by lip gloss for a week of scruffy jeans and t-shirts, minus the pretty underwire bra.

But do I have any regrets about the weeks on the road? No. (Okay, I do regret being away from the kids–hate that.) But regrets about investing so much time and energy into promo efforts that might or might not increase sales, and after all, sales is what matters? Nope. No regrets there. I’ve worked hard to get where I am career-wise, worked hard to write an average of four books a year for the past four and a half years, worked hard to write stories that matter to me. If I work that hard to make sure my Harlequin Presents sell, why would I do any less for my Warner single titles?

I wouldn’t.

In fact, I’d do it all again. Or, most of it.

There are a couple bookstores where the events fizzled rather than sizzled. There was some miscommunication on some events and readers who’d hoped I’d read, ended up lining up to just say hi. I’ve been placed in the children’s section of one bookstore and then forced to politely argue with parents about why I didn’t think The Frog Prince I wrote was appropriate for their second grade daughters. I’ve spent an entire hour at Alexander’s Bookstore in San Francisco reading the first chapter of Frog Prince aloud to black, hip, urban Bernard, my little brother holding his infant daughter, and a man from Turkey–my very own version of Three Men and a Baby.

I’ve gotten on wrong freeways (Dallas) and missed turnoffs (Dallas) and nearly missed flights (Dallas, again). I’ve lost my purse and wallet (Houston) with all my ID and cash and cell phones and everything I need to get to the next event, never mind buying a soda or boarding a flight.

I’ve repeatedly jumped time zones and drunk Starbucks frappacinos at the wrong time of day and ended up lying awake in strange hotel beds all night trying to fall asleep. I’ve grinned through hours of sitting at cardtables hoping someone would talk to me and then jumped up from other signings to hug 75 plus readers, friends and family. And maybe that’s the hardest part of a book tour: never knowing what kind of day, or event, it’s going to be.

Some events like my evenings in Waco’s Books-a-Million or Katy Budget Books feel effortless and others, like my signing in Plano at the Collin Creek Mall, are pulling teeth. The few folks that wander in the store seem to make a huge beeline just to avoid me and the booksellers flagging them over don’t help their apathy.

I don’t blame the folks who didn’t want to talk to me. I wouldn’t want to talk to me if I met me in a bookstore. I go to a bookstore to buy books, not socialize. Fortunately, not all readers are like me and some are kind enough, or curious enough, to wander over and ask me about the book, or even, what am I doing. Some even buy the book. Some even buy four books. Some even email me a day or two later to say how much they loved the books. (Always a balm to the nervous writer’s soul.)

Now after 7+ hours flying, two Continental jets, one cab ride and a 40 minute drive home, I’m home, and I’m going to be home for a bit, gearing up to get busy writing. But tonight as I look at all the photos taken these past 7 weeks, I know this tour thing has been a success. Not because I sold a thousand books (I think I sold closer to five hundred), but because I bit the bullet, got behind my new book, put myself out there, and introduced myself to potential readers. And for an introvert who’d rather curl up in a comfy chair than answer her own phone, that’s quite a feat.

Oh, and since I’ve been asked–what is the best thing I did on the booktour? It was buying a few wardrobe pieces that coordinated with my bookcover. It’s true. I did this. I nearly always wore peaches, corals, creams and greens so I never clashed with my bright orange, pink and green Frog Prince cover. It also made the packing a heck of a lot easier. And that my friends, is a Jane Porter tour tip you can remember.

For The Girls

July 11, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m just starting my last day of the Texas book tour.

I’ll be signing tonight at the Waldenbooks in Hurst and will hopefully be able to swing by a couple bookstores in Fort Worth and sign stock first.

But it’s hot here in Texas, so hot that my face feels like it melts every time I step from the car and I’ve become some horror-film creation, a girl with a wax doll face and the face is now sliding off. Sounds pretty, doesn’t it?

Fortunately the Texas readers and women I’ve met so far have a great sense of humor and they just laugh at my horrible jokes and make me feel like a million bucks and despite all my worries about touring Texas on my own, this has been a great week. I said Texas men would make great romance heroes, but Texas, I think, is all about the women. Texas women are cool. They kick butt. And I mean that is the nicest sort of way. They’re charming and smart, strong, friendly and feisty and I think that sweet, tangy addictive barbecue sauce they serve on steak and ribs had to be inspired by Texas women.

On this trip I’ve stayed with a Porter cousin, Judy, in Austin, and then overnighted in Temple with Debbie, a friend from Visalia (my hometown in California) and have now spent a couple nights in Heath with Cyndi, one of my best friends. Heath, Texas, in the outskirts of Dallas and its been a perfect place as a launch point for Dallas book events.

Both Debbie and Cyndi have three kids, Debbie has two girls and Cyndi has all girls and while staying with them I slept in each of the oldest daughter’s bedroom (thanks Cat Curry and Devanne Parent!) and late at night with the girls posters and awards, photos and shelf of dolls surrounding me, I read copies of their magazines, Seventeen and Teen Vogue, and I felt like a young teenager again. Suddenly jr high and high school wasn�t so long ago and I remember how I dreamed endlessly, dreamed big. I, too, had colorful painted walls, a pretty comforter, and bulletin boards crammed with movie tickets, school photos, trophies, dolls, and school mementos. I didn�t play land sports–was a swimmer–and earned my Varsity letter my freshmen year on the swim team. I wasn’t popular like the gorgeous girls, but was well liked enough (Debbie was RHS’ homecoming queen my senior year and Cyndi was the FFA Sweetheart) and those friendships and Friday nights of cruising Mooney Blvd (or being forbidden to cruise Mooney Blvd) and the parties in the orchards and the high school dances on the tennis courts made us who we are. And who we are is perfect. Who we are is who we should be.

I’d been so afraid to come to Texas and do so much traveling on my own. It�d just seemed overwhelming to have three events in a day plus hours on the road in a rental car, day after day for 8 days straight, but as it’s turned out, I’ve actually come home. I’ve found the young Jane who learned to do her make up from tips in Teen magazine, and styled big 80’s hair because that’s what Farrah Fawcett and other celebrities had (and we in Tulare County still favor big hair….maybe its to go with that love of country music?). Being around young girls and teenagers again makes me laugh. The girls are so fun, and I love the giddiness of being young and hopeful and anxious about the future.

Devanne and Cat, thanks for letting me take over your bedroom. And Cyndi and Debbie, you are awesome parents. I love how you’re raising your children, especially your girls. I don’t have daughters, but if I did, I’d want them to be like yours–pretty, yes, but more than pretty–smart, athletic, funny, kind, curious, and best of all, confident. Cyndi and Deb, you’re wonderful moms and wonderful women and I’m so glad I got to come to Texas to remember what it’s like growing up a girl.

North on I-35

July 8, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

I’m in Waco, getting ready to head to Plano in the morning and since leaving Houston Wednesday night I’ve been traveling north on I-35. I like this freeway. It’s almost straight and it goes exactly where I need to go: Austin, Temple, Waco, Dallas.

I’ve been busy on the road, too, each day filled with lunch, brunches, teas, book signings, dinners, coffees.

It’s late to bed, up early, suitcase dragged out, suitcase dragged back, books signed, books sold, books given away, books shoved into a spare suitcase and into my rental car trunk.

I do give my books away, too. Sometimes I’ll hand one to a flight attendant. Sometimes I’ll leave one with the hotel’s concierge. Other times I’ll run to the car and sign one for my waitress at the Texas Smokehouse BBQ. Maybe I won’t get rich buying and giving away my own books, but I make friends and I thank those who’ve helped me and it takes my book tour and makes it personal. Makes it fun.

It’s easy for me to forget that not everyone’s an author, and that some people don’t know lots of authors. So many of my best friends are writers and I think about writing night and day so I assume everyone else is as obsessed (or exhausted) by writers and writing as I am, but that not always the case. Some people have never met a writer and they think it’s amazing that I’ve written one book, much less twenty.

Which reminds me–I did eat Texas barbecue today. BBQ chicken and beef brisket. Cornbread, too. I passed on the pinto beans. They weren’t sweet enough. But I covered everything else in rich tangy bbq sauce (the original recipe) and drank my ice tea like a professional Southern girl and I like Texas, I really do. My grandfather Lyles was born in El Paso and in California years later he became President of the California Cattlemen’s Association and he loved land and Black Angus cattle. I think I love land and Texans. From Houston to Waco everyone has welcomed me with open arms and shown me true hospitality and lots of kindness. I’ve had some misadventures in Texas, too (that’s another blog) but everyone’s rushed in, helped put things aright, and I know I could live here. I like Texas’ big heart, cocky confidence, sizzling heat, and sexy humor. I’ve never dated a Texas man but I’m sure some of these Texans would make amazing heroes.

Fired Up

July 4, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

Today’s the 4th of July and Houston, we’ve landed. I actually wasn’t sure I was going to get here. Last night I started to get a headache at my computer but wouldn’t stop working–too much to do before I left–and by the time I went to bed at midnight I was throwing up. Yes. A migraine. I haven’t had a migraine in years–fifteen, maybe–and it caught me by surprise. I don’t even have prescription medicine for them anymore….don’t even have aspirin or Excedrin in the house. Just good old Tylenol.

I didn’t sleep last night–lay with ice packs on my head and whimpered (quietly) as my 6 year old crawled into bed with me around one a.m. and my almost ten year old wandered around the house, still recovering from jet lag and unable to sleep despite the wee hours of the morning.

I felt like a ghoul. Wanted to take my own head off. Wondered who to call in case pain got worse and I needed to go to hospital.

I didn’t go though. Instead I poured coffee down my throat, wore sunglasses around my house and forced myself to leave for the airport. I kept my eyes closed most of the flight, but I’m here now, at the Houstonian Hotel and its a gorgeous place. The Galleria is heavily wooded and tranquil and outside the light is long and golden, warm yellow white light that lingers despite the late hour. The fireworks can’t start until the sun sets but I love the way the light threads through the trees and the hotel sits queen-like in her park. They say George Bush stayed here for awhile. I’d like to stay here for awhile.

Houston kicks off my Texas book tour and I’m fired up, 4th-of-July-firework-fired-up. I’ve gotten a lot of email regarding my blogs this past week. Most readers like my take-no-prisoner posts but I’m sure there are a few who aren’t sure what to do with a woman like me. Don’t feel bad. I don’t know what to do with a woman like me, either. I spend a great deal of time scratching my head and/or kicking myself for not keeping my mouth shut. But that’s the beauty of life. Every day we get to wake up and try it again. For better or worse. Sickness and in health. With or without migraines.

You know, the Houstonian Hotel has a spa. I’m thinking I should see if they can work me in for a massage tomorrow. Might just help the old head, hmmm?

Happy 4th to all my friends. You’re awesome. Thanks for sticking with me.

Jimmy Choos & Me

July 3, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

I’ve been reading (and listening) to discussions lately regarding heroines in novels. Apparently many women like to read books about heroines who are unlike themselves….or are perhaps like themselves, women who take charge, seize control, kick butt and generally feel fabulous….and if not fabulous, they certainly don’t feel bad, and they never whine. At least not inwardly. Instead they take action. They talk with friends. They exact revenge. They look splendid in spaghetti-strap t-shirts. They know expensive shoes. And did I mention, they never suffer from self-esteem issues?

My God. If only I’d been a woman like that. I’d be well….cool. Yes, cool. I’d be wildly popular, have a closet jam packed with Jimmy Choos and Mahnlo (what’s his name?), could forgo my Victoria Secret padded push up bra and frolic in the surf with confidence not worrying about the jiggles and dimples in my 40 year old backside. It’d be such a different life than the one I’ve lived. It’d certainly be more frothy and fun, and my heroines would be female 007’s, the Bombshell kick ass women that don’t fall for the wrong guy, or the sob story, or worry about doing the right thing because they don’t worry–they just act. They’re action heroines. Bam, bam, bam. Don’t need to think too much, certainly won’t feel too much, and life will be a dazzling series of fast-paced, action-laden adventures.

But that’s not my life and those aren’t my heroines. I grew up in a place where going away to college was a big deal. The population in Visalia back then was 35,000 and the nearest ‘big’ city was Fresno and I grew up shopping at Penny’s and a local kids clothing store called Merry-Go-Round. It was at Merry-Go-Round that I got my first bra (I still blush when I remember getting measured around my barely nippled chest) and the grown up girl outfits I couldn’t wait to wear to church. My clothes weren’t expensive, and we didn’t get new clothes often–usually back-to-school outfits, Christmas presents and birthday. But waiting for new outfits made those skirts and blouses special and if that’s dopey, well, I love being dopey. I love that I wasn’t spoiled and jaded, and that my brothers and sister were my favorite people growing up. As a kid, all I wanted was to grow up and be happy and dance with the Bolshoi Ballet (okay, that one wasn’t so normal) and write books like Louisa May Alcott.

You know, there are lots of kinds of women, and lots of kinds of heroines. Not all heroines have to be kick-ass women. A woman isn’t weak just because she doesn’t jump out of a speeding train, or spit in her mean boss’s coffee cup. A woman doesn’t have to know everything immediately, or get all the right answers by age 30. A woman can figure out life any time and any way she needs to. A woman can think, and feel, as much or as little as she wants to. And a woman has a right to whine or battle with self-esteem or have fantastic self-esteem.

The answer isn’t being a super secret agent spy or never struggling to understand the meaning of life, the answer is doing your best. And if your best means you fall down a lot and cry but you still get up again and brush off those skinned knees, then you’re my kind of girl, and my kind of heroine.

Some women get it together sooner than others, and some women just want to read about women who are more perfect than they are. I don’t want to read about women who are better than me if they’re fake. I don’t want false standards, or impossible ideals. Women already have too much nonsense thrown at them from the media, corporate America, and other women. Yes, other women. Women are far harder on women they they are on men. There’s nothing more wonderful than a true friend. And there’s nothing worse than an unhappy woman who wants to punish other women.

So women, this is what I think. I think all of us girls should be real. We should like ourselves but I know it�s not always easy when bad things happen or we’re not sure how to get from point A to point B. I understand that some of us just need more time, and some of us need a lot more patience. But everyone needs love and that�s what I’m going to do. It’s what I’m going to write. Even if it’s sappy. Because in my world, and in my book, love is more important than anything…including a closet full of stylish clothes and amazing Jimmy Choos

So for the average-Janes out there like me, keep on keeping on. You might not know it, but you’re in the middle of a fantastic story. It’s an awesome plot, with wonderful characterization, and a happy ending. As one of my favorite people in Hawaii likes to tell me, ‘Girl, just enjoy the ride.’ And you know, he’s right. Why shouldn’t we?

The Random Universe

June 28, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

Every now and then I’m all set to become the serious philosopher, a member of the superior analytical race and then all the little planets collide and I’m thrown off course. It’s like tumbling into a Bill Murray/Owen Wilson film (yes, I know, they did just star in a movie together, but that’s my point) and nothing is quite as it seems…including the red caps.

I’ve had five days of complete and total angst. Angst over everything, real and perceived, and then in one day all the planets shift and the universe seems overwhelmingly kind…truly benign.

Today I had four different, utterly distinct emails and each one in and of its own would be a gift…but four in a day? First, my editor at Warner is really enjoying early drafts of next year’s book, Flirting with Forty. She called the male character, Kai, scrumptious. (He is.) But that’s high praise, indeed. Thank you, Karen K. And then I hear from one of my favorite friends and room mates from UCLA, Karen Cope, and she’s emailed me and picked up my books and after years of not being in touch its wonderful to have ‘found’ her again. (Okay, those Christmas cards help but who knows if the cards are ever read….?) Something else huge, heard from a fellow Visalian now living in Greater Seattle and her parents taught with my dad at the college, and my mom sold her parents a trip to Alaska and she opened up the Costco Connection magazine and saw a photo of me and the cover of The Frog Prince which means–yes!–that Costco is carrying The Frog Prince in July in their wherehouses. AND (see, this is a good day, I told you) Julia Quinn, one of my favorite historical authors and a woman who amazes me and delights me with her novels wrote a dazzling review of The Frog Prince and posted it on her website (www.juliaquinn.com) and I just heard about it today. See? A good day.

And best of all, I was discovering all this good news on my sister’s computer in my sister’s hotel room at the Hilton Hawaiian Village with my kids playing a fierce game of Nintendo boxing (don’t ask me…even their girl cousin was having a great time) nearby and it was all so normal and wonderful and impossible all at the same time.

It’s late now and kids must be put to bed but I’m still marveling at the day, and my good fortune, and the four emails…

It’s so weird. All that nail chewing, and pacing, and risk-taking and sometimes it ends in pain, and sometimes it pays off, and how do we ever know which way it’ll go? Maybe we don’t, which is why we always have to try. And something else I realized today–maybe it’s enough to just be yourself and go for it. Maybe it’s enough to just do your best. Because if you’ve done your best, what more can you do? If you’ve done your best, how can one apologize?

Today I realized being a good girl’s great.

Risk Management

June 26, 2005 by Jane · Comments Off

The title above is misleading. I know nothing about risk management. I am not one to play it safe. Even my closest friends will say, ‘Jane is terrifyingly impulsive.’ I’d like to say it’s because I’m brave. The truth is, I’m absurdly naive. Compound naivete with bravado (not the same thing as brave) and you have Jane Porter in a nutshell. A swaggering, swashbuckling woman of epic proportions—and epic mistakes.

I have succeeded in my profession because I take risks. I see a challenge and Pavlov-like I salivate and go for it. Instead I sitting on huge decisions I go with the gut, and my gut is emotion laced, not intellect based. I’ve sat with glasses of wine or decaf lattes late at night with the same close girlfriends, wiping tears, trying to recover from a spill and my girlfriends–bless them for loving me despite everything–gently press advice on me: ‘Jane, think caution, patience, steadiness.’ It sounds good when such advice is dispensed–yes, slower, quieter, calmer, yes, yes that is what I want. But then I wake up and its morning and the sun in Seattle might or might not be shining and caution is thrown to the wind. It’s a new day. Must dive in, must live, must try, must go for it.

This is how books get written. This is how new ideas take shape. Not from my keen, razor-sharp intellect (ha!) but my battered heart. And yes, it is a battered heart. I am steadfast with friendship, fiercely protective of my children, adoring of my family, but when it comes to romantic love…it seems beyond me. Or maybe I am beyond it. I am so full of emotions and passions, dreams and ideals. I want everything–not stuff, not possessions–but ideas, thoughts, experiences, life. Life.

I am in Hawaii this week with my children and my sister, Kathy, and her daughter and we’re having a wonderful time together and I know this is my last trip to Hawaii. It’s time to face forward, not back, and Hawaii taught me much but the only way I can reach for whatever comes next is by being open to new ideas, new experiences, new hopes and dreams. But what is this next? What will the next year be like? Where am I going in life? Does anyone else ever feel as out of control as I do? (Please, please say yes…)

Considering my close relationship with risk, you’d think I might have made peace with it. No. I hate failing, falling, hurting. I hate the cold dread one gets in the stomach, and the painful flutter-stutter in the chest when hope is dashed. I hate being disappointed, hate the sadness and sense of loss. If only we could find a way to take the sting out of stubbing one’s toe (or heart)?

I am strong, though (or is it foolish?) as I’d never tell someone how much I need him, share with a trusted friend how much I fear the road ahead, or let my family know how worried I get sometimes trying to pull of this whole writer facade. What if I’m not a writer at all? What if the curtain is pulled aside and everyone sees the Wizard working the controls in Oz? What if I’m cheating by trying to put order and structure on chaos and then blithely term it fiction? Romance?

If you ever meet me, you should know I am not the great hair and teeth of the photos on my site, but a bundle of questions and doubts I try to answer by throwing myself headfirst into everything to discover what is real, what is true, what endures. I don’t have my close friends here in Hawaii right now dispensing earnest advice, but my wonderful Libra sister has looked me in the eye more than once these past few days, and said, ‘Jane–slowly, patiently, calmly.’

She’s such a good sister.

If only I was ruled by my head and not my heart.