Happy anniversary to my better half . . . a guy who wears a variety of hats: Mr. Petrol Head, Dad, son and lord & master over Team Sheltie (and thank God someone is in control of those two).

The phrase ‘better half’ is something of a cliché these days. While it’s come to mean the superior half of a married couple, it originally referred to a person so dear that he or she was more than half of a person’s being. Whatever way you look at it, the intent is clear: someone who is good and true and holds a place of deep importance in one’s life.

That would be my better half. Much has been written about the wealth of support writers receive from editors and readers and critique partners and writing friends. It’s support we depend on and appreciate. But a writer’s better half is rarely mentioned. It’s too bad. They’re a silent (and sometimes not so silent) yet intimate companion on this crazy publishing journey, a journey they didn’t always expect when they took their vows. In our case, there were signs but I’m pretty sure Mr. Petrol Head chose to ignore them.

Over the years, he has offered advice and solace, he has paid the bills when my writing didn’t, he has brainstormed plots and character arcs, he’s made too many dinners to count and he spent as much time as I did with our children so I could have this career. He built a sluice box for my gold rush book, designed business cards and websites, and he gave me innumerable hugs when the journey seemed too tough to manage. He has helped me makes sense of royalty statements, understand the business side of publishing better than some publishers could and he has pulled me back from the brink when I’ve been ready to press send on an irate email that needed a more tempered response.

He accepted without reservation my decision to trade a lucrative and successful job as a journalist for the uncertain and low paying job of a novelist. He has believed in me and loved me and never once complained that things didn’t turn out quite the way he expected on the career front. He is the wisdom and calm in my world.
He is, and always will be, my better half.

A friend of mine just left for a month in Italy. Barb packed everything she needed for four weeks in her carry on. She wasn’t austere about it either. She took scarves and jewelry to change up her outfits, an extra set of glasses and even a replacement glass eye in case the one she wears meets – I don’t know – some kind of shattering end. She took a second pair of shoes and a couple of books, but she left all her electronics and any extras at home. She is on vacation, in the true sense of the word.

I used to be pretty good at traveling light too. I remember once packing everything I needed for four months in Europe into a small duffel bag. Seeing my friend’s bag brought back memories of minimalist travel. There’s a real freedom that comes from traveling unencumbered by stuff.

I’m heading to Ontario this week where I’ll be touring for TD Canadian Children’s Book Week (under my Laura Langston writing self)  and I am packing a load. In fact, organizers are billeting me for the first night and I feel like emailing an apology to my hosts before I arrive (I’d also like to ask if they have a hair dryer I can borrow for that first morning but I’m too embarrassed. Anybody viewing my large suitcase and substantial carry on would swear I’m bringing an entire salon with me).

In fact, much of what I’m bringing is material I take into schools. I’ll be talking to almost nine hundred students over five days and I take props. As well as reading from my books and talking about where my ideas come from, I pull out character bags and I show them what the editing process is like with a marked-up manuscript. I’m lucky enough to have rough sketches from some of the illustrators I’ve been paired up with too, and a set of color separations to show them how a book goes together, so those go into the mix as well.

It’s going to be a whirlwind week and a lot of fun. Since I’ll give away my books on the last day of the tour, I’m be traveling much lighter on the way home. At least that’s the plan.

However, I am stopping for a few days in Manitoba to see my dad. And there’s a great deli on Portage Avenue called De Luca’s . . . a wonderful bakery called Gunn’s . . . and I could use another bag or two of wild rice for the cupboard.

So no guarantees.

 

 

 

Sometimes all you need is comfort: a warm blanket, a loving hug, a dog cuddle first thing in the morning.

Or a book.

I tried to cull my bookshelves last week. Tried being the operative word. I swear I have more books than I have shoes, sweaters, and probably underwear too (I also have an embarrassing number of spices, herbs and condiments in my kitchen – Ras el hanout anyone? – but that’s another blog and not relevant to writing unless you care to know how I eat; the short answer is very, very well).

But back to books. The problem started in early January when we took down the Christmas tree and put away the holiday decorations. You know that delicious feeling of spaciousness you suddenly have in the New Year?

I know it too. It’s one of the comforts of Bloatuary January. Except I didn’t feel it this year. Sometime between October and December, my book pile had babies. I’m pretty sure each title had triplets (Don’t even ask about my Kindle).

I needed to find space. So after a few months of procrastinating, I went through a couple of bookshelves and pulled some titles to donate to the Goodwill. In the process, I stumbled over books I hadn’t looked at in a while. And one of those books brought me so much comfort at the time I read it I decided to put together a list of books specifically written to comfort writers.

These aren’t books geared to craft or business, though many writing books on those subjects also include terrific advice and comforting thoughts. I wanted books where comfort, insight or advice, was the primary goal. Think of these books as a New Year’s tonic. A writer’s jump start. The equivalent of a warm blanket, a loving hug or a cuddly puppy.

Rejection, Romance & Royalties: The Wacky World of a Working Writer by Laura Resnick. Sharp, funny, honest and insightful, these essays on the writing life cut right to the heart of the joys, sorrows and rewards of being a writer.  On my keeper pile and never leaving.

 The Mindful Writer: Noble Truths of the Writing Life by Dinty W. Moore. Though it’s small enough to fit in a back pocket or a bag, don’t let size fool you. This small book packs a big punch. The Mindful Writer starts by outlining the four noble truths of the writing life and then goes into four key areas:  the writer’s mind, the writer’s desk, the writer’s vision, and the writer’s life. A wonderful source of inspiration and insight.

The Writer’s Book of Hope by Ralph Keyes. According to Keyes, inspiration isn’t nearly as important to the successful writer as tenacity. And encouragement and hope are cornerstones to keeping that tenacity alive. Drawing on his experience as both a writer and teacher of writing, Keyes details some of the tactics well-known writers have used to maintain hope, particularly during difficult times. Enriching and full of encouragement.

For Writers Only by Sophy Burnham. One of the first ‘comfort’ books I ever bought on writing, and still a favorite. A collection of thoughts from many great writers interspersed with Burnham’s own observations on everything from nerves and letting go to audience, productivity, and aloneness.

 Writing from the Inside Out by Dennis Palumbo. Since Palumbo is both an author and a psychotherapist, he brings a unique empathy and insight into the writing life. A positive and fresh take on topics like envy, rejection, loneliness and the joy of commitment.  Wise, compassionate and funny.

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. In spite of the fact that Lamott is one of my all-time favorite writers, I wrestled with whether to include this title because Bird by Bird does have a number of chapters directly relating to craft. However, in most cases they go well beyond craft, and reading them is more like having coffee with your favorite writer friend. That aside, this book is a must have for these three comfort chapters alone: Broccoli, Perfectionism and Radio Station KFKD.

 

 

 

I’ve been thinking about the pros and cons of self-publishing for a long time. When it comes to traditional publishers, I’ve worked with some of the best. They’ve done more for my books than I could ever do on my own.They’ve edited, they’ve promoted, they’ve distributed. Sure, there’ve been glitches (and times when I wondered what kind of rabbit hole I’d fallen into) but show me an endeavor without glitches and I’ll show you a fairy tale.

So the idea of publishing a book on my own didn’t hold much appeal. I love the writing and the editorial process, but the business and promotional side of things? Not so much. And I knew if I ventured down the self-publishing highway, I’d have to wear those hats occasionally. Since I’m already wearing a few too many hats, it was an easy choice to say no.

But I had this book. Note the word ‘but.’ That but is a big but. It’s the equivalent of a teenager saying ‘but it was just that one time’ or a confirmed bachelorette saying ‘but I met this guy.’ It’s a but that leads to change.

I first wrote WHAT LAINEY SEES years ago. It received very positive attention from a number of editors. One wanted to buy it and held onto the manuscript for a year only to be overruled by her publisher. In the end, there were two main reasons he said no.

First, WHAT LAINEY SEES is a hybrid. It’s the kind of novel marketing departments don’t know what to do with. It’s a romance with suspense and paranormal elements. It’s both contemporary and historical. It’s not time travel, which is an established category, it’s more of a time slip novel, where two distinctly different story lines play out at the same time. Time slip is a quirky, barely-there genre. Publishers prefer a sure thing over quirky, particularly from a mid-list author.

An even bigger hurdle had to do with Native Americans. As the story unfolds, Lainey Hughes starts remembering life as a Native American woman living in the Pacific Northwest. She believes the memories from that life could stop a terrible tragedy from occurring today. But the one man who can help her is a man who doesn’t believe in her visions – the Native American lover who died in her arms centuries earlier. Native Americans, I was told repeatedly, don’t sell. One editor even went so far as to suggest I lose the Natives and use another culture, another time period (I think she suggested Scotland; Diana Gabaldon was big at the time).

I couldn’t – and didn’t – do that. The Native American element was intrinsic to the novel. So I put the novel aside for a number of years. But like a sliver that won’t go away, WHAT LAINEY SEES remained with me. I wanted it published. I wanted people to read it. So I took the manuscript back out, rewrote and updated where I needed to, and weighed my options. Since I didn’t have the patience to listen to more editorial feedback about how I needed to replace the Native Americans with Vikings . . . or make the time slip less time slip and more time travel, I decided to publish it myself.

From the cover design process, to working with an editor followed by a formatter, it’s been quite a process. It’s given me even greater respect for traditional publishers. It’s opened my eyes to a world that’s not going away – direct, author-controlled publishing. And it’s made me grateful for the many friends and colleagues who traveled the road before me and were so willing to share their stories and expertise as I bumbled along.

Is self-publishing the future for me? It’s one probable future, but traditional publishing remains my future too. I’m a hybrid . . . like WHAT LAINEY SEES. It’s up on Amazon. If you have a minute, check it out:

http://www.amazon.com/What-Lainey-Sees-Laura-Tobias-ebook/dp/B00UZK92M2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This time last year, I set up a treadmill desk in my office. I didn’t know how it would work out – or even if it would – but I was determined to give it a shot.   More and more studies are pointing out the dangers of regular sitting. Not only is movement healthy, but it engages the brain and it’s always good to have an engaged brain when you’re working.

A year into the practice and I can honestly say that working on my treadmill desk is so much a part of my day that I can’t imagine not doing it.  I walk slowly, probably about 1.5 kilometres an hour, which averages out to around 70 or maybe 80 steps a minute.  And I take regular breaks too, working on the treadmill for an hour followed by an hour at my sit down desk.  I rotate between the two stations two or three times each day, and I usually take a break somewhere in there to walk the dogs too.

After a year, here’s what I’ve learned:

• I need to switch it up. After a month or so adjusting to the technique of working while walking, I began using the treadmill desk almost exclusively for several weeks. And I paid for it.  My feet got sore, my back started to hurt, and my hips ended up too tight. I have SI (sacroiliac) joint issues and I worried that maybe the treadmill desk would aggravate the condition. As soon as I limited myself to an hour at a time on the treadmill, and stayed at or below 3 hours a day, I was pain free. And my chronic SI pain from regular sitting disappeared.
• Shoes matter.  Since I go to the gym I’m in the habit of replacing runners regularly and I always buy high end shoes. It’s even more important on the treadmill. I’m replacing my runners every six months these days.
• Walking does engage the brain.  It’s not a fallacy.  Working on the treadmill also eliminates any tendency I might have to surf the web or check email. As long as my manuscript is open on my monitor and as soon as my feet start moving, my brain moves along with them. Getting into the story and keeping it flowing is easier when I’m engaged in physical activity.
• Walking is easier than standing. The treadmill will sometimes stop when I’m in the middle of a scene and want to keep going. I used to stand and continue writing. I paid for that with low back strain. If the treadmill stops now when I’m in the middle of something, I finish up my paragraph or maybe two (I allow myself five minutes, max) and then I step down and take a break.
• Walking makes you thirsty. At least it seems to make me thirsty. I always have a glass of water or herbal tea beside me when I write. At my sit down desk, I’d often forget to drink it. At my treadmill desk, I never do. So my water intake is up which provides additional health benefits.
• It’s not as hard as you think.  Over this last year, I’ve had people ask me how it’s going and say they’d like to try a treadmill desk but they know they couldn’t do it.  Don’t be so sure.  The pace is so slow after a while the movement becomes habitual. And, quite honestly, if I can adjust to it, anybody can.

 

This Christmas, my kids got together and sprung for a FitBit which I find much more useful than a basic pedometer (mine has a sleep monitoring component which I absolutely love).  With the FitBit on my wrist I’m getting a better sense of how those daily steps add up.  During the week when I write, I average between 15,000 and 17,000 steps or about 10 kilometres a day.

That’s not bad for a day on the job.

 

We’re marking the start of a new year. I’m looking forward to it.  If you’ve stopped by looking for the cyber equivalent of fireworks and champagne, or maybe a cyber rainbows and unicorns, you won’t find them here. Not today. Not this year.

2014 was bookmarked with the death of two friends I’d cherished for decades. One died at the start of 2014 and another one just a few weeks ago.  Their departure has left me in a contemplative state of mind. It’s weird when friends take the celestial highway ahead of us. There’s disbelief and shock. There’s grief. There’s also the sense of one’s own mortality spinning ever closer.  For me, there’s also thankfulness that I was lucky enough to know them.  Bob and Larry both gave me a boot in the butt when I most needed it. They were change agents on my writer’s path.

I met Bob before I’d written anything other than news copy. He was music director at the radio station; I was news director.  He had a wicked sense of humor, and wisdom beyond his years. When things started going south for me and I knew it was time to quit, I told him what I wanted more than anything was to write.

“Why aren’t you?” he asked.

“What if I don’t get published?” I said.

“So what? Do it anyway,” he said.

“I don’t know what to write about.”

“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Fiddle around. Have some fun.”

I quit the station, spent a few months fiddling around, and then we moved – very suddenly – to Winnipeg.  I met Larry, and his wife, Lois.  We connected through a non-denominational spiritual group, and we met every week to talk about . . . well . . . stuff. The big stuff. The small stuff. How we could be better at all of ‘our stuff.’   By then, I was working in television which fed me rich ego cookies but didn’t satisfy my soul. Since we talked about soul type stuff, I again mentioned my desire to write.  This time, I mentioned a specific story – a time travel romance that was so quirky and out there, I wasn’t sure how I’d sell it.

“So,” Larry said. “What does selling have to do with it?”

“I’d like people to read it,” I said.

“Maybe only five people will read it,” he replied. “Or maybe 500,000 people will. Why should that matter anyway?  What should matter is the joy you have doing it.”

We moved back to the coast. I started that book and I finished it. But I did nothing with it. I started other books, and finished them too. Some were published. One was launched in Winnipeg, and I flew back for the event. Lois and Larry came. Afterwards, when we talked, they asked about my time travel. “It’s written,” I said.  “But I haven’t done anything with it yet.”

“You will,” Larry said. “When you’re ready.”

Whenever I saw Bob, he’d ask about the writing too. He was happy for me that I’d taken the leap and followed my heart. In the last few years, we talked about the changes in the industry and how they were impacting authors. As a friend, he was supportive. As a musician, he could relate. But at the end of the day, for Bob it was about making the music, not thinking about results.

Larry was a musician too. Like Bob, he was dedicated to practising his craft and he loved to perform. Though they never met, both men were all about having fun in the moment, about living in the now. That said, neither of them lived in a bubble. They recognized that love doesn’t pay the bills. They understood my writer’s need to make a living. They acknowledged that some attention had to be paid to the business side of art.  But too much attention to that goal detracted from what they believed was the most important goal of all: telling my story the best way I could and letting go of the results. They weren’t writers – or editors or agents or publishers – yet they taught me an essential publishing truth: the story should always come first. Anything else could be worked out later.

There’s a saying that’s popular these days about someone being the kind of friend you can call up in the middle of the night and they will come and help you hide the body. That, it’s suggested, is a true friend.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

Larry and Bob were true friends, but there’s no damn way they’d help me hide a body. They’d come in the middle of the night – of that I have no doubt – but after one glimpse of that body, they’d pick up the phone and call the cops. Then they’d stand beside me no matter how bad things got and no matter what I’d done. And they’ve love me in spite of it.  They’d do it in the same way they called me out on my fears about writing all those years ago without making me feel small for having them.

Their belief in the people they cared about was genuine and absolute. They saw your best self. Even if your bad self was rocking the dance floor.

In the next week or so, I’ll be heading to Bob’s funeral. It’s a reminder for me to live life while I can. To enjoy my writing process, to have fun in the moment and to let go of the results.

Whether you’re a writer or a reader, or whether you stumbled over this blog by mistake, I hope 2015 is rich with all the things that count: time with whatever work brings you pleasure, time with family who love you unconditionally, and time with friends who can propel you down whatever path you choose with the occasional loving kick in the butt.

It helps if they take calls in the middle of the night. And if they can watch your bad self rocking the dance floor once in a while too. Trust me on that.

  Nikki’s Perfume Journal Entry

SCENT OF HOURS

November 22, 1978

Definition: Chypres

Chypres is a highly original group that is based on contrasts between bergamot-type top notes and mossy base notes. Chypres perfumes tend to be strong, spicy, and powdery.  This perfume group was named after the famous perfume from Cyprus of Roman Times.

 

            I told the insurance company I was sleeping when the house blew up.

            In actual fact, the cold woke me. I stood at the top of the stairs that led to my basement at three A.M. on a morning in late winter, daring myself to go down and find out why the furnace was not working. Puffs of dust-scented air wafted around my ankles. The narrow wooden steps disappeared into yawning darkness, and even when I turned on the light, it wasn’t particularly inviting. I hate basements – spiders and water bugs and the possibility of creepy, supernatural things lurking. Ammie, Come Home scared the holy hell out of me when I was seven, and I’ve hated basements ever since.

Scent of Hours, Barbara Samuel

 

I view story openings in the same way I view the appetizer to a good meal.  Done well, an appetizer primes my palate, hints at what’s to come, and leaves me wanting more.  But while a meal doesn’t need an appetizer to be delicious, a book definitely needs a strong opening if it’s going to be devoured by the reader.

Scent of Hours (previously published as Madame Mirabou’s School of Love)  by Barbara Samuel met my expectations on multiple levels.  Since I love perfume and aromatherapy, the journal entry kicking off the story acted as my primer. I quickly read on.  I told the insurance company I was sleeping when the house blew up. That single sentence impacted me on a visceral level. It hints at what’s to come and it begged me to read on. I quickly understood this is a woman alone having to deal with things she really doesn’t want to deal with (daring myself to go down and find out why the furnace was not working).   It’s the middle of the night, it’s cold, there’s the yawning darkness of the basement and I know from the first sentence that the furnace is about to blow.

Will she be caught in the explosion? Will she get out in time? I needed to know.  That was me as a reader wanting more . . . the gut emotion of the thing.

On a more cerebral level, I’m struck by the sharp contrast between the journal entry talking about perfume, which is sensual, indulgent and sweet, and the harsh reality of a cold, broken furnace in a dark, dusty basement. Contrast doesn’t seem to be talked about much in fiction these days, which is too bad. It’s an excellent, and often overlooked, tool.

From the journal entry describing the strong, spicy, and powdery scent of chypres to the narrative describing puffs of dust-scented air, I realize this is a character who is heavily influenced by scent and the sensuality of her world.  The journal entry also tells me she likes to write, and the reference to Ammie, Come Home hints at a romance, possibly even a touch of the supernatural.

This opening held a huge promise of good things to come.  I was not disappointed. And, yes, I devoured the book.

 

 

It’ll be Canadian Thanksgiving in a few days and my thoughts are turning, as they usually do in the fall, to the things I’m most thankful for. This time last year, I blogged about why I’m thankful to be a writer. And many of those same things (the joy of playing with words; the ability to ask endless questions; regular and mandatory reading; wearing yoga pants and slippers to work) still apply.

But for a pile of reasons I’m feeling more serious this year and it occurs to me that even though I work alone, I don’t work in a vacuum. In fact, I couldn’t do what I do without a pile of people in my corner. And for that, I’m profoundly, extremely grateful.

My long suffering partner, Mr. Petrol Head (possibly to be rechristened My Squirrel Slayer – watch for an upcoming blog) has had my back, along with the rest of me, since I started this gig way back when. Not once has he questioned my sanity, my ROI or my need to bounce endless (and I mean endless) questions off of him.  He cooks, he designs my business cards, he listens to me rant, and he laughs. I love him for all of it. Mostly I just love him.

My kids – Uptown Girl and Teen Freud (the latter needs a rename since he’s left teen hood behind forever; sob) – have made me the writer I am. They’ve helped me become more patient (they may not agree with that), more disciplined and more creative. They’re bright, funny and truly the best kids a mother could ask for. I love them more than life. Even if they weren’t mine, I’d want to spend time with them. Yes, they are that cool. Mr. Petrol Head pointed out the other day that my career has, to a large extent, followed the trajectory of their growing up years. When they were young, I started writing picture books. As they grew, I segued into middle grade fiction. And now I write for teens and adults.

My web guy keeps my site up to date. Thank you Miles Barr for achieving the seemingly unachievable . . .  for returning my panicked emails . . .  and for reassuring me that glitches can be fixed even when they seem unfixable.

My fellow authors who follow the publishing road.  No one else gets it the way you do. I’d be a whole lot crazier if I didn’t have friends like you on the path with me.

The editors I’ve been blessed to know. I’ve been hugely lucky in the editorial department over the years and it shows in all my books. You might want to thank those editors, too. Trust me.

My readers.  A reader was the impetus for this blog. Not a reader of my books, but a medical technician who reads science fiction and fantasy. I was in for a test recently and when he found out I was a writer, he spent about ten minutes talking books with me. Not in the ‘how do I get published? sense’ but the ‘have you read this author?’ and ‘what do you think of this author?’ sense.  His passion was a sharp reminder of why I do what I do and for whom I write (it was also a good distraction from the task at hand but that’s a whole other story).

And last but not least – Team Sheltie.  They sometimes drive me nuts with interruptions and they bark waaaaay too much, but they get me out of the house for several walks a day, they always make me smile and they’re my soft place to land when I walk away from the keyboard at the end of the day.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Virginia Woolf said, ‘a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.’

No argument there. But with all due respect, Virginia, you missed something. Along with money and space, a squirrel-free zone helps too.

We have squirrels in our attic. Or at least we did. It’s been quiet the last few days, though that’s no guarantee. They’ve tricked us out before. We noticed them first this summer. They’d run through the yard taunting Team Sheltie. One took to sleeping on our fence where the sun hit in the middle of the day. I thought it was sweet. We had a house squirrel, I told myself. A totem protector.   How cute is that?

I am so naïve.  So. Naïve.

We no longer have a house squirrel. We have an army of squirrels. They’ve captured the attic and are defending their territory with a vicious determination that makes ISIS look like a group of kindergarteners. Given that Mr. Petrol Head is protective of his family, not to mention the fact that he’d like to keep our roof, our insulation and our wiring intact, he declared war.  He would eradicate the mighty army himself. Just call him the original squirrel slayer.

Just to clarify – our attic isn’t a traditional space where you store clothes and steamer trunks and kids go to play on a snow day. Our attic isn’t accessible, at least not by anybody taller than eight inches.  It’s a narrow space just below the roof where the insulation lives. It is accessed by vents. Vents in squirreldom are known as front doors. And ours apparently have a great big flashing WELCOME sign visible only to squirrels.

After some on line research, the Original Squirrel Slayer got to work. He tried moth balls which squirrels apparently hate. Maybe they do somewhere. Not where we live.  He screened off the vent. The squirrels laughed and chewed through it. He made a ‘foolproof’ one way door out of all sorts of heavy, squirrel proof material and snapped it over the vent.  Squirrelgate he called it. The squirrels thumbed their noses. They pulled a break, enter and repeat. Squirrelgate was breached.

I’d had enough. Call in the experts, I said. Let me try something else said the Original Squirrel Slayer, who was spending more and more time on our roof determined that the rats-with-tails wouldn’t get the best of him.

A new and improved Squirrelgate was created and installed. Things got quiet. We were hopeful. We were sure the army had been conquered.  We were sure we’d won the war.

Then came Saturday.  I woke up to find the Squirrel Commander-in-Chief chewing his way through the screen on our open skylight.  The army was on the move. The attic was no longer enough. The capture of new territory – in the form of our TV room – was the goal.

The Original Squirrel Slayer conceded defeat.  Refusing to accept his new moniker, he picked up the phone, dialed the Squirrel Whisperer and went back to being Mr. Petrol Head.  Some things, like marauding squirrels, are better left to the experts.

 

Over the last week, I’ve been writing material for a series of guest blogs that will upload to various sites throughout the month of September, coinciding with the release of The Art of Getting Stared At ,  my latest YA novel being released by Penguin Razorbill under my Laura Langston name.  A number of questions focused on the book itself but others were more general.  Several people wanted to know my favorite book as a child.

That was a tough question to answer.  I read early and voraciously, and my tastes changed as rapidly as I grew. I didn’t have just one favorite book. I had a series of favorites.  But as I gave the question some thought, it occurred to me that my natural inclinations were obvious early on.

For the most part, even as a kid I gravitated to two types of books:  contemporary stories that dealt with serious issues or over-the-top glamor romps. A close third was mysteries. I was a loyal Nancy Drew fan.

By the time I was 11, I’d fallen in love with a series of Sue Barton nurse books. She had red hair (how glamorous) and helped save lives (how meaningful).  Though it was toned down somewhat, there was gritty realism in those books.  There was also realism in With Love From Karen about a young girl with cerebral palsy, and in a novel called Mrs. Mike about a 16-year-old Boston girl who moves to the Canadian wilderness, falls in love with a Mountie and copes with extreme hardship. At the same time, I escaped with a series of books about Donna Parker who visited relatives in Hollywood, traveled overseas, and talked a lot about clothes.

The serious/light split continued into my teens as I went through an Ann Rand phase, took up with depressing Russian novelists (Anna Karenina was a favorite) and scared myself silly with Sybil.  At the same time, I devoured the rags to riches story of A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford, Once is Not Enough by Jacqueline Susann and any Sidney Sheldon book I could find.

Maybe that’s why when people ask me to name a favorite book or favorite author I’m as likely to say Jodi Picoult as I am Jennifer Crusie. Or maybe Jojo Moyes or Meg Cabot. It depends on the day. It depends on my mood. It just . . .  well . . . depends.

And don’t ask me to name my favorite food either. That’s another impossibility.