Virginia C

Kathy Yates

Please send your addy to Joann AT joannross.com

Congrats to our winners and thanks so much to everyone who stopped by today! I hope you’ll come back to RRC and check out some of our other authors!

Massive Waves

Top Ten Reasons Hurricane Season is Like Christmas

10. Decorating the house (boarding up windows)

9.  Dragging out boxes that haven’t been used since last season (camping gear, flashlights)

8.  Last minute shopping in crowded stores

7.  Regular TV shows pre-empted for “specials”

6.  Family coming to stay with you

5.  Family and friends from out-of-state calling

4.  Buying food you don’t normally buy … and in large quantities

3.  Days off from work

2.  Candles

1.  And the number one reason Hurricane Season is like Christmas … There’s a good chance you’ll have a tree in your house.

Stay safe this year!

And I was one of them.

Welcome to Boot Camp, a workout where 30 men and women pay to have someone make them do spider walks and dive-bomber pushups. The class, which meets at 5:30 in the morning (another form of torture), is primarily women, most of whom saw a more slender form many years ago. Our goals must be similar: we want to lose weight/get in shape/build muscles–and we need someone else to help us do it.

There is the romance writer side in taking the class too: an opportunity to watch two truly ripped guys show us less athletically inclined individuals the path to thin and toned. My romantic suspense protagonists are like most romance novels’ main characters: psychologically or historically flawed, but not physically. So I can’t help but wonder, how do people get that athletic build?

After a week of this physically demanding class, I’ve determined they aren’t getting fit through the running we writers often have our characters do. There is no running in this class. Unless you count the semblance of a run for a water bottle after 15 minutes of torture stations.

And weights don’t make our heroes and heroines sexy. Sure, my class used a weight during our last session. We looked like shot-putters who couldn’t get the shot over the shoulder. I was certainly capable of throwing mine, if only because the sweat running off my body was all over my palms. Not quite the racy scene authors usually describe.

(A side note: How would anyone think sweat dripping between a woman’s breasts is sexy? Kill that response by smelling her. Eww!)

Then there are the ropes. Don’t get excited, folks. One set hung from the ceiling, which might have potential, but it involved pulling the ropes from a squat with arm curls. These weren’t particularly difficult, as I was too uncoordinated to manage moving that many muscles at one time, so I faked it. The other ropes were Terminator-thick jump ropes, which we were supposed to keep moving up and down till our arms resembled the ropes in flexibility. Or they fell off (arms, not ropes).

At this point I’m still wondering how cops who never get any sleep because of the latest investigation, or shape-shifting griffins being chased by the entire evil underworld, or dukes without access to a Gold’s Gym, manage to keep their trim shapes. The answer might be found in the next five weeks of workouts. We’ll see.

My husband thinks I’m crazy, first for getting up at 5 a.m., and second, for paying someone to lead me in this torture. But I pointed out he should be looking forward to the potential of “abs of steel” when my “flabs of meals” are all nicely toned.

Any readers or writers out there who try to live the lives of their heroes or heroines? Or are you living vicariously through the books you read and write, prepared to forego the experience for various safety reasons, such as killing your instructor, needing sleep, or wanting to use your muscles on a daily basis?

I have been writing, and thinking, about alpha males a lot, and what makes for a ‘warrior.’ My current release, THE IRISH WARRIOR, has obvious ties to the topic. And my husband works for the MFLC program—Military and Family Life Consultant Program—which provides free, anonymous, completely confidential short-term counseling by Masters-level licensed therapists to Military Personnel and their Spouses and Families on all CONUS and OCONUS instillations.

Wow. That was a mouthful of information and syllables and acronyms. Still with me?

The heroes in the romance genre—and fiction–are often the warrior archetype. I think many people often equate ‘the warrior’ with ‘the fighter,’ and while that is often true, it misses the mark if its aimed too closely. It dilutes the totality of what makes for a warrior, in fiction and in life.

The warrior is active, not cringing at what is to come or may come, but moving forward into it. This doesn’t mean there’s no fear. It means the fear is integrated into the rest of the ‘knowing.’

The warrior is self-directed. Not that s/he does not take orders, but that she has an inner compass for what needs to be done, and takes care of that without needing someone to tell her to. This requires a focused mind and determination, and the exercise of both restraint and power, following along the trajectory of will.

The warrior has the capacity to be a master. And there is only one route to attain such a height: devotion, dedication, hard work and utter focus.

The warrior has a variety of intelligences. She can absorb information, accurately determine what’s relevant to the goal, distill that knowledge into something meaningful, and adapt in response. The true warrior is flexible—the essence of intelligence.

The warrior values life, sometimes as a direct result of having taken it, but certainly as a result of knowing he can take it. He has that power. And therefore, exercises that restraint.

Many of you are warriors. Many of you love warriors, as husband, wife, son, daughter, cousin, friend.

I call it the ‘good alpha.’ Adrenal junkies, sure. There are worse things to be. Alphas in charge, often. Real men and women with families and feelings. Above all.

Even in our books, there’s that inner world, the one that fuels the hero’s fire, for better or worse, usually a little of both. In our books, the love of the heroine is at minimum the motivation for growth. That’s true in real life too. In real life, though, there’s more than 400 pages, and sometimes the love of a good person (and insight) is not going to be enough.

Warriors use all the tools available to let them become a master.

Like the MFLC program.

It’s possible this program may be just the thing our real-life warriors needs once in a while. Again, it’s free. It’s confidential—no one ever knows you even went. It’s on US military installations in the US, Europe and Asia. It’s for military personnel and their spouses and families.

And best of all, it’s completely anonymous. You don’t even have to say your name.

You can contact the Family Support program on your base/post to find out more. The MFLC consultants also often give program brief at various meeting. And they just walk around the installation, hoping to get the word out, so keep your ears open.

They’re there for one reason: to help. They serve the warriors and their families.

Because the strongest among us cannot stay strong for the rest of us if they don’t stay strong. And it is a tripartite: mind, body, heart/spirit. So here’s to keeping our warriors true to the spirit of a warrior in our fiction, and here’s to keeping them healthy and strong in this real world.

Thank-you to all the warriors who serve our country.

Kris Kennedy writes sexy, adventure-filled medieval romances for Kensington and Pocket Books. At her website (http://kriskennedy.net) , you can sign-up for the newsletter and drop Kris a line saying Hi! THE IRISH WARRIOR, winner of the 2008 Golden Heart® Award for Best Historical Romance, released June 1. Read an excerpt here!

I’ve collected:

1. 1 husband, 1 daughter, 2 sons, 1 son-in-law, 1 daughter-in-law, 2 granddaughters, 2 grandsons, and 1 as yet unborn grandson.
2. 3 brightly colored laundry baskets to replace 1 with broken sides, 1 with broken handles, and 1 with a hole in the bottom.
3. 2 sets of flatware (service for 8 each), minus 5 forks (a disastrous picnic I will never forget) and 2 knives (bent when sons were ’sword-fighting’).
4. 2 bent iced tea spoons (hard ice cream)
5. Too many wrinkles to count or think about
6. 7 partially used jars of wrinkle cream. These creams don’t work! — Wait… maybe that’s where the wrinkles come from. Let me go read those labels 1 more time.
7. 3 tubes of lipstick with a little bit left in the bottom, and a few of those tiny paddles used to dig it out with. In a drawer. In another room. Somewhere.
8. 67 spools of thread (in colors I don’t even wear, LOL)
9. 1 worn-out broom
10. 1 worn-out mop
11. Various porcelain sheep and lambs in different poses. 1 had its legs glued back on after they were broken off years ago, when the boys got into a fight in the living room. They put it back together and never said a word. But — they didn’t glue it, so the first time I dusted and picked it up… Imagine my surprise when the legs stayed behind! Imagine the talking to they got! Yeah. Not for breaking something. Life happens. Glass breaks. But for being deceitful.
12. A list of friends’ names in my email address book. Some of these friends I’ve never seen face to face, but they’re as dear to me as sisters.
13. Last but not least, a box full of mismatched socks whose mate the dryer-monster ate. Surely, some day, they’ll show up. Probably as soon as I throw out that box…

So, what kinds of things have you collected over the years?

After all, how many pairs of shoes does one person really need? Okay, okay. We’ll skip that question. LOL

Fun shoes in a rainbow of color

Being the list type, I sat down and sketched out ideas, and ended up using several. Fortunately, I keep those sorts of things, and my notes were handy recently when one of my sisters experienced an apartment fire. No one was hurt, her items were cleaned, and she was moved to a new unit in her apartment building. Still, once she settled in, she had to redecide where to put everything. Both units had the same square footage, but not everything fit the way it had before.

To help her get started, I shared some of my notes, and realized that they would make a good blog article. I say that to say this — getting organized doesn’t always mean throwing everything out. Here are some other ways to get started.

Money makers:

• Yard sale with a family member who has a yard and wouldn’t mind getting rid of things either.
• Post the items on eBay.com “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure” Buyers always pay shipping.

Giveaways:

• Have a family “yard sale” where only family has the choice of what pieces they want. No money has to change hands.
• Post a note on the bulletin board in your subdivision or apartment building that you have xyz free to a good home. Others might love to have it.

Storage:

• A plastic storage container is better than a box because it protects against moisture and insects, and is less likely to crush and damage the contents.
• Start with a medium size box and add another as you fill it up.
• Wrap each piece you want to keep in clean paper (newspaper is okay for non-staining items, but don’t use comic pages or color print ads).
• Place the heaviest items on the bottom and most fragile on top.

Donating:

• Some thrift stores and family agencies will pick up items. Most have limits, so call ahead to find out.
• Ask for a receipt. These are generally blank except for a date and a signature. Write out the kinds of things you donated, and affix a fair-market-value to them if you want to deduct the donation on your taxes. Essentially, use the price you would expect to pay in a resale shop.
• To better understand how to affix a value, go to http://irs.gov and search on the subject “value of donated items” or use this link: http://www.irs.gov/publications/p561/ar02.html#d0e545 Here is the tinyurl for the same spot: http://tinyurl.com/2b7ht6x

Avoiding Junk in the First Place:

As the old saying goes, the best offense is a good defense. Avoid taking home things that will end up being considered clutter. To do that, ask yourself a few questions before taking things home. If the answer to any of the following questions is no or you’re unsure, leave it and move on. Adjust to fit your purpose (for example, if you’re picking out something for someone else).

• Will it add value to my life?
• Can I use it now?
• Will it fit me and do I have items to match it already? (especially clothing)
• Is it my favorite color?
• Is it in good repair?
• Do I want to dust/clean/maintain it regularly?
• Do I know exactly where it will fit in my home/closet?

When I feel overwhelmed by an organization task, I set a timer for ten minutes, and work on only one thing during that time. When the bell rings, I stop and assess what I did. I’m usually pleased with how much I accomplished. I take a five-minute break and then set it for ten more minutes. It’s amazing what you can achieve in ten to twenty minutes. Some days, you may only have time for five minutes, on others, fifteen to thirty. Make it small numbers and you won’t begrudge the time. It takes me just under five minutes to strip the bed and put the sheets in the washer. I can also put away the silverware from the dishwasher in the time it takes to fill a one-gallon pitcher with filtered water at the sink. I try to make it fun, and see how quickly I can do things while something else is happening, like folding towels during commercials on TV, which has the bonus of keeping me from snacking.

As a little girl, I took great joy in playing house. I’d fold and refold, smooth and straighten doll clothes, and make everything just so. My toys weren’t always dolls; I loved playing in the mud too. I realized one day that I’d lost the joy of handling these details, and challenged myself to make work more playful.

It’s surprising how much fun playing house can be. It’s almost as much fun as playing doctor. *wink*

I’m an Air Force reservist, 26 years of active service. It doesn’t take much to add up the numbers to know I’m on the high side of 40 years of age. When the Air Force implemented our current test five years ago, I actually had to start working out. I’d be the first to admit that our previous test—riding a stationary cycle and measuring heart rate—might have been a bit shy of demonstrating our fitness. So we added pushups and situps to the regimen and brought back the 1.5-mile run.

To get in shape, I started with the treadmill, even sought out a personal trainer for a short while. My office had a challenge that if anyone cursed, the guilty party had to do 20 pushups and the rest had to do 10. Fortunately, I don’t generally curse, so I got the smaller number. Not that it mattered. The first time I did pushups, I did one. Sort of. By the end of the first day (there was a lot of cursing going on), I’d resorted to “girly” pushups, and was still well below five. The next day I couldn’t lift my arms to type at my strenuous desk job.

So I added weights to my fitness program. Now I lift weights twice a week and spend 40 minutes on an elliptical three to four times a week. The good news is after three years of this program, most of the chicken flaps under my arms are gone and I am moderately more toned than I was when I started.

The bad news is it’s not going to be enough to excel at the new test. Someone who obviously is not a woman past middle age, decided for this new test all women from 40-49 should be able to do the same scores. To pass the test with a minimum score of 75 percent, I have to do 11 pushups and 24 situps in a minute. A “good” pushup, by the way, is achieved with a 90-degree angle on the arms, no girly ones allowed! My fitness program has made it so I can pass the minimum—barely. My biggest problem will be the run: I will just skim the passing score for running.

My only option appears to be to work out harder. Needless to say, I’m a bit panicked. I’m already taking an hour nearly every day to work out. But I’m not the only one. Air Force units all over the world have started pushup challenges, group training, and checking out hard-core workout videos guaranteed to give you stellar abs in weeks. A recent Air Force Times estimated that one in four of us will fail when the program begins in June.

Me? I’m going the next step. Bring out the hard core videos! I’m going to show up at RWA National with muscles everywhere and I’ll challenge my fellow writers to pushup contests, wherein I will be an amazing example of the superior fitness of Airmen everywhere.

If not, I hope my arm muscles don’t flap while I’m lifting my wine glass.

LAURA GRIFFIN is the RITA-nominated author of seven romantic suspense novels. Her titles include Whisper of Warning, Untraceable, and Unspeakable, which comes out June 29 from Pocket Books. Visit her Web site at www.lauragriffin.com.

The military has its own form of double speak, often using acronyms. When I was in the Navy, I found a book of slang terms and official Navy terms that included common acronyms. The book’s name? NavAbrDic. o_O

Corporate spin may be as insidious as a butcher shop advertising that they’re donating to an animal rights group. What’s wrong with that? If we can’t tell, perhaps we are too used to hearing this kind of speak.

I found a fun site when researching this subject. Here are two examples they provide of the “real meaning” behind some of the finest coporate spin.

Key Enabler
The person that will get all of the credit on a project.

Outside the Box
Creativity. Those that do think outside the box are generally considered rabble-rousers and trouble-makers. While verbally encouraged, your reward for thinking outside the box may be a pink slip party.

Have you ever been to http://despair.com and checked out some of their posters? They are a delight to read, with great lines that motivate through demotivational words.

Here’s one called Motivation. 

This is corporate speak used to change your mind about what is being said. The poster tells you that you are a loser, but makes you think twice about simply accepting that definition. It also makes you laugh. Check out their site for more terrific posters. Fair warning — they’re addictive!

How do we, as writers, avoid double speak and cliches? At the end of the day, when all is said and done, it’s simply a matter of not using the same old thing day in and day out, except in this case, it’s meant in an entirely different way, and for a radically different purpose.

There. How was that?

Hubby was no better. No matter how often he drove them to the same friends’ houses, or to Choi Kwon Doh practice, choir rehearsal, or any other place they regularly went he’d miss turns or go the wrong way. The kids would tease him, “Dad, we’re lost here again.”  

For years, we were both afflicted with Cantfindit Syndrome, but back then, we simply didn’t have the awareness to recognize the signs. We took the usual precautions like getting a map (always out of date by the time it was printed due to the constant building and renaming of streets) and of course, we would call for directions. Now, let me pause here and put this kindly to those of you who give directions to people like us. First, we are really not morons. It’s congenital. Some of us come into the world backward and spend the rest of our lives like that. Cantfindit Syndrome turns someone who can take apart the most complicated piece of equipment, fix it, reassemble it, and still be capable of turning a six block trip into a frenzy of steering-wheel bashing, red-in-the-face, screaming monster “Thriller” try-out-wannabe maniacs without all the dancing — and no Michael Jackson music to enjoy it by. Second, no matter how many times you assure us that we “can’t miss it,” — we will. It’s in our genes.

Back when hubby and I had that folding green stuff that you put in a wallet… what was that called? It seems to me it was “M” something. Muh…Mun… oh, I remember! Money! Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen it — I even had the plastic kind that comes in those cute little cards… But I digress.

Back then, in the pre-economy-steps-on-a-banana-peel-days, we bought a GPS for our car because the only fights we ever have (well… almost) were we went somewhere together outside our normal one or two mile radius. For five years, we worked in the same building, and after mastering the tricky backwoods twists and turns (we are Rural with a capital Rur) we would only yell at each other when we were someplace we’ve never been before and couldn’t figure out how to get where we were supposed to be. Why is it that two normal *cough* sane *cough* adults think that screaming at each other from opposite sides of the car will help either of them find a place quicker? It’s that dreaded Cantfindit Syndrome again, I tell you. It’s insidious. I think it’s akin to that syndrome where you go to another room and Cantfigureoutwhy. That’s even scarier in a way because it starts happening right in your own house!

 
 I’d been called for Federal Jury Duty downtown. That alone gets your knees knocking and your palms sweating. I managed a miracle and found it, got into the pay-for-parking lot. The clerk in the judicial building validated my ticket and I spent the next five hours waiting only to be told to go home because I wasn’t needed. The rest of the week, I only had to call in to see if my number was chosen, but it never was. Good thing for me. That first day, I’d had good directions on how to get there.

 

Capitol Building Atlanta Georgia

No one told me how to get out. Because the street I came in was one way, I had to pull out and turn to the right instead. I figured since I was only a block off the freeway, all I had to do was make a left turn at the next corner, then a left at the following corner, and I should be back at the entrance ramp. Oh, how naïve I was! I forgot for a moment this was Atlanta, the city that invented the phrase “just-because-it-makes-sense-don’t-mean-it’s-so.” The next block was also one way – going the wrong way. So I went to the next block. Still wrong. By now, I’ve driven two blocks in rush hour traffic and because I’m not keeping up with all the thrill-seeker drivers downtown, people are starting to honk. And I’m getting nervous. Remember I said I’d been there only five hours – which made it about 2pm; I forgot to mention it’s rush hour from 5am on day one through 1am on day two in downtown, and then miraculously everyone disappears, the buses stop running, the cops cruise slowly through the area, and it’s like a normal town anywhere, except with canyons for streets and more one-way signs than you’ve ever seen in your life.

Let me give you a first-hand scenario of driving in downtown Atlanta without a GPS. The beautiful gold-domed Capitol Building has a lady holding aloft a… a… I have no idea! I was too busy reading street signs to get more than a glimpse. It could have been anything from a peach pie to a hammer and I wouldn’t have noticed. Just a female symbol with one hand in the air holding … an object. No matter what side of the building you face, you still can’t tell. Now, picture driving around downtown trying to keep an eye on traffic, pedestrians who have no idea what a traffic light or crosswalk is for, and the local buses and taxis swooping in and out in front of you. Nuff said. 

I spent an hour trying to figure out which way I had to go to get back to the freeway. I literally saw the lady on the capitol building from every single side. I still have no idea what my route was, and every time I saw a cop, he or she was writing a ticket for someone who looked dangerous enough to commandeer my car and drive off with it, so I kept going. Every time I glanced up at the capitol building, there was that woman from a different angle again. Suddenly I spied a sign reading, “I-75 Exit next left.” Joy filled my heart. I felt the way a rat must when he runs a maze and finally finds the cheese. The exit came up quickly and I zoomed down it. About one car length in I noticed a sign that read “HOV Lane only.”

Now, I’m sorry, but anagrams escape me, so I can’t remember exactly what HOV stands for, but I did know you had to have more than one occupant in your car or you’d get a ticket. People have dressed up their dogs and had them ride in the front seat, used blow-up dolls (I kid you not), and one guy had a cardboard cutout of Spock which he duct-taped to the front seat. I swear I couldn’t make this stuff up. So as I’m gaining speed going down this long curving ramp so I can merge into what I can see is heavy traffic, I’m also looking in the rear view mirror for cops. So far, so good. Then I see him. Right at the bottom, waiting like a fly trap for a stupid fly, and he’s already turned on his lights. I’m thinking about the fact that I’d served jury duty and maybe he’d left me off … when it dawns on me, he’s already pulled someone over! Fast as I could without leaving a jet trail, I sped past him and into traffic. My heart pounded for at least two miles down the road, even though I’d immediately moved to the right and out of the special more-than-one-occupant lane.

GPS has saved my sanity more times than I’d care to admit. I no longer have to hear “We’ve been lost here before,” and hubby and I haven’t screamed at each other in the car since we bought it. Now we scream at the GPS unit. “You moron! How can I turn right when the sign says ‘Road Closed!’” To which it calmly responds, “Recalculating. At your earliest convenience, make a U-turn and return to the intersection.” Technology. Ain’t it grand?