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I’m blogging today–all day–at The Pink Heart Society so please don’t be a stranger. The blog topic: What are You Reading?
I’m reading Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat! The book is a humorous and helpful how-to guide on screenwriting from yes, a real Hollywood “insider.” How about you?
Giveaways are three copies of Strokes of Midnight.
Christmas and Hanukkah may be over, but you’d never know it around here. Many thanks to all of you who stopped by my guest blog and contest at FreshFiction. The topic was The One Who Got Away, the book was Every Breath You Take…Â and the conversation was lively to say the least.
Congratulations to my three contest winners: Crystal B of Williamsburg, KY; Cindy M of San Diego, CA; and Jennifer M of Oklahoma City, OK. Your signed copies of my New Year’s themed Harlequin Blaze Strokes of Midnight are on their way to you along with cover flat keepsakes for Untamed, the finale to my “Men of Roxbury House” trilogy.
And of course I always have my regular contest running here at the site, so if you haven’t already, please take a moment to click on over and enter to win.
Hope
Ps Tomorrow, the 15th, I’ll be blogging at The Pink Heart Society, so please don’t be a stranger!
Last night I saw Twilight with my girl posse–birthday girl, Stacey Agdern, Elizabeth Kerri Mahon(EKM), Leanna Hieber and others. Based on the popular paranormal series by Stephenie Meyer, Twilight is a modern-day vampire romance set in a small town in Washington State. The protagonists are high school students, new girl in town, Bella Swan and resident undead hottie Edward Cullen, played by the winsome Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson.
I’ll admit upfront I’m not a huge vampire fan, though in the event that there are vampire lovers (or actual vampires) reading this post, I’ll add that I’m not against you–I mean, them–either. As for the lovers being both 17 (at least ostensibly–Edward admits to being 17 for “a while” as in since 1918), let’s just say high school for Yours Truly has been “a while” ago as well. And yet I really liked the movie. In fact, I bordered on loving it. It’s well acted, well crafted, and beautifully filmed. And the soundtrack is hauntingly lovely.
Afterward we headed ’round the corner to what has become our standard Irish bar where creamy pints and chilled glasses were enjoyed by all. A couple of us stayed long past the witching hour to sing along with the very authentically Irish band, which played a cross-section of tunes from traditional ballads like “The Black Velvet Band” to Cash’s “Ring of Fire.”
Earlier this month, I trekked out to Brooklyn’s beautiful Park Slope neighborhood with EKM and others to The Montauk Club. Founded as a private club in 1889, the stunning Venetian gothic club house is the host site for the Dances of Vice ball. Think 1770’s meets 1970’s glam rock. The costumes were uniformly gorgeous and innovative and the equally eclectic cabaret included opera, a tasteful striptease, and finally, a rousing rendition of “Rock Me Amadeus.”
I think of these time out treats to myself as “artist days,” or in my case, artist evenings. They stimulate my senses and fill up my creative well in a way that for a writer, for any artist, is absolutely essential. I call them my non-guilty pleasures because to write about life requires that first you really live it. So, whether you express your art through baking and decorating the perfect batch of Christmas cookies or crafting the proverbial Great American Novel, take time out this holiday season to live it up–not just a little but a lot. You deserve it.
Hope
I’m deep “in the soup” as my writer buddy, Liz Maverick is fond of saying, so immersed in my work-in-progress that if it weren’t for the occasional vocal intervention of hungry cats, I’m not sure I’d register the time of day.
Still, you know what “they” say about all work and no play. In this case, it makes Hope a dull girl and well, when you’re a writer of romance fiction and a purveyor of Happily Ever Afters, you can’t have that.
I took time out this Friday to meet friends for the opening of the new James Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, and I am ever so glad I did. First off, though, I have to cop to the need to eat a little crow. Before seeing the film, I had doubts, vocally expressed doubts, about Daniel Craig pulling off the classic role of Fleming’s uber suave British secret agent. Even though I’m a fan of the film series, I missed out on seeing the 2006 prequel, Casino Royale, Craig’s debut in the role. Not to cast aspersions on Mr. Craig’s acting abilities and well, obvious attributes, but he’s no Remington Steele, and make fun of me if you will, but I really liked Pierce Brosnan in the role. And Craig is blond, which seemed like it might work against the character’s edgy, dark vibe.
After seeing the film, I have to concede that the critics are right on the money this time. Daniel Craig is the penultimate James Bond, at least since Sean Connery passed on the revolver. As for edgy and dark, well, his performance may give new meaning to those words. I think he may be the most tortured Bond yet–and anyone who’s read my Men of Roxbury House trilogy books: Vanquished, Enslaved or Untamed knows I go for tortured heroes in a big way.
Afterward, we decamped to an Irish pub around the corner where we tucked into a booth, ordered pints and pub grub, and settled in for a recap. Those shoulders, that chest, those burning blue eyes, those oh so chiseled if somewhat implacable features…Oh yeah, and the movie was really good, too.
Will Daniel Craig be the prototype for the hero of a future Hope Tarr novel? I’d say it’s a strong bet he will. An historical, I’m thinking, and yes, definitely British-set.
Okay, enough about me and my new Daniel Craig obsession. Anybody else do anything cool this weekend?
Hope
Congratulations to Tracey T of Gassaway, WV, Karen H of Colorado Springs, CO, and Jessica P of Norman, OK who knew that in Every Breath You Take, Cole saw that the old Alex was still there from the glimmer in her eyes.
The three winners will each receive coverflat keepsakes for my Victorian-set historical, Untamed and TWO signed copies of Strokes at Midnight — my winter holiday Blaze — one for themselves and one inscribed to a person of the winner’s choosing, perfect for a sweet and easy holiday gift.
And if you didn’t win this time ’round, don’t despair. Check out my new contest, which just started yesterday.
Let the merry making begin…
Hope
Okay, after I pulled what my buddy Liz Maverick is affectionately referring to as the Big Red Lever I more or less cruised through Election Tuesday waiting for the evening’s festivities to start. For me, said festivities meant a short subway trek out to Brooklyn where Megan Frampton of Risky Regencies fame and her husband, Scott, graciously agreed to host an Election Night party.
Now I like to keep this blog not only bipartisan but apolitical, unless of course you want to debate the latest trends–in shoes. Peep toe booty: fashion forward brilliance or cruel joke played upon those of us who actually have to uh…walk outside in actual snow?
In this case I can’t dish on the fancy footwear because this being a roll-up your sleeves and plunk down on pillows on the floor kind of affair, most of us took our shoes off. So, I’ll do what I do (second) best, dish on yes, the food!
The Freedom Fries were a tad soggy by the night’s end, but the apple pie more than held its own. Fortunately we were all backing the same ticket, so no Humble Pie or crow need be served, and we could have our cheese sans the…whine. The Swirl cheesecake was Obama-licious and the McCain Fried Chicken was well, one tough old bird.
And yes, we partied like it was 1999 and then some!
By the time mes amies Leanna Hieber, Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Liz Maverick, and Elizabeth’s visiting British friend, Simon, made it back into the city, it was well after three in the morning and yes, in my neighborhood, there was actual dancing in the streets, accompanied by “steel drum” playing on the newspaper stands. Tired but replete, we said our good nights and went our separate ways, joyous in the knowledge that the American Dream isn’t a myth, not hardly.
Hope
“I want to meet Mr. Big, get married, and live in New York.”
I am freezing my butt at the outside bar of the Bryant Park Grill, sipping shiraz, eating french fries, and fielding questions from two twenty-something German chicks who’ve come to New York for the first time, ostensibly on vacation. For tonight at least, they are on a fact-finding mission more so than a holiday. They want to know where to find Mr. Big and a good deal on American jeans–in that order.
The more animated of the two, or at least the one with the better English, is leading the charge. Even though she has barely touched her sweet-looking drink, she is more than slightly drunk. She waves her stick thin arms in the air a lot and slides her Size 0 butt around the stool a lot, and steals my fries when she thinks I’m not looking. So far, though, she’s more amusing than obnoxious, certifiably happy to meet me and anyone else who lives in New York. Even if it’s partly vodka-induced, that kind of unbridled, unjaded, over-the-top enthusiasm is well, kind of refreshing.
She smiles frequently and broadly, and I can’t help noticing her teeth could really do with a bonding. Still, she is lovely in that haphazard, waifish, just-breezed-out-of-my-bunk-at-the-youth-hostel sort of way, a look you pretty much stop being able to pull off the day you turn thirty-five. With her straight brown hair, full mouth, and pencil thin body, she also bears a striking resemblance to the 80’s supermodel, Paulina Porizkova. I’d tell her so only she probably wouldn’t know who Paulina is. You see, she was born in 1981.
“No, really, I want to know,” she persists, plumping her full lips into a pout which if I were a guy I’d probably find really hot. “Where do the Mr. Big’s go?” She tosses her bangs out of her eyes for the umpteenth time and slants her big round eyes at her friend, whom until now she seems to have forgotten. “We want to go there.”
Yes, well, good luck with that. Not that I say anything so remotely bitchy, of course. Instead IÂ smile back and shake my head and admit it’s a worthy goal–and one hell of a good question.
Just what my friends and I need, another nubile twenty-something model look alike swimming in our dating pond which even though it’s Manhattan sometimes feels more like a puddle. Supposing I do know where Mr. Big hangs out? Does she really expect me to give it up out of what, the goodness of my heart?
The German educational system is reputed to be among the world’s best, but I’m thinking the curriculum must not include any Darwin.
To segue from science to literature–that’s litter-ah-chur–I’m reading or rather re-reading Candace Bushnell’s SEX AND THE CITY. It’s interesting how living in Manhattan has altered my perspective on the book as well as the HBO series. Before moving here, references to The Bowery Bar (B Bar and Grill now), Bicycle Boys, and yes, Modelizers seemed about as relevant to me as Ancient Egypt. I mean good to know, fascinating even, but really what does any of it have to do with my day-to-day? Now nine months into my Single Girl in Manhattan Life, I find myself sighing and shaking my head. And groaning occasionally. Okay, a lot.
The Paulina girl interrupts my momentary musing, her eyelids listing toward closed though her drink is more than three-quarters full. “You are Carrie Bradshaw, yes, but you have brown hair.”
I don’t smoke, either, but well, when you’re being compared, even remotely, to Sarah Jessica Parker, is it really any time to quibble?
Candace Bushnell, whom I met last month when she stopped by the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, is frequently likened to literary icon, Edith Wharton. The only Wharton books I’ve read are ETHAN FROME and THE BUCCANEERS and well, it’s been a while. (As for THE AGE OF INNOCENCE, so far I’ve made due with the Daniel Day Lewis film). For sure both authors offer an insider’s sometimes scathing perspective on Manhattan culture, though Bushnell’s take is a lot closer to the Age of Un-Innocence. And even though SEX AND THE CITY was first published in 1996, dating some of the references, it’s amazing how much of what she wrote in the 90’s still holds true. If you have any doubts, see my 9-22 blog on “Keeping It Real.” Believe me, modelizing is alive and well.
Fortunately, so are dreams. Yes, “girls” of all ages still want to have fun. But along with the fun, we want the fairytale. Sure, Prince Charming is now Mr. Big, the castle is now an Upper West Side high rise, and the glass slippers are Manolo slingbacks with some sort of really amazing detailing on the vamp, but otherwise the story, the fairytale, plays out pretty much the same.
And I for one am holding onto it with both white-knuckled hands. Even Bushnell’s Mr. Big got it right in the end, at least in the television and film adaptations of the book.
“Sometimes you just want to be with the one who makes you laugh.”
Happily Ever After–and Happy Halloween,
Hope
PS In celebration of the day-long Witching Hour, I’ll be pulling out my Inner Princess along with my ghoul-friends Liz Maverick, Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Leanna Hieber et al as the Goth versions of popular fairytale princesses. I’m going as Goth Snow White and in addition to that Poison Apple, my costume’s corset is well, murder.
For most of my adult life, I’ve lived by the mantra that we eat to live, not live to eat. That thinking served me in good stead–until I moved to Manhattan.
Food–gloriously good food–at all price ranges is available everywhere at all times. At any given hour a good half of the pedestrians pushing past me on the busy streets are eating on the go. Once I saw a young woman, dressed to the designer nines, clicking down Fifth Avenue eating sushi. Okay, it was California Roll but still…
I’ve been playing gastronomic tourist since February–and grooving on every bite. Just as you can walk out your door and easily hear five languages other than English being spoken, you can step out onto most city blocks to a smorgasbord of cuisines from around the world. And if you don’t feel like going out, you can get any or all of those diverse cuisines delivered to your door. It’s well, pretty great.
I’m a seriously big list maker, and I have a food-to-try list just as I have a list for practically everything else. Topping my to-do’s since moving here was to partake of yes, a cupcake from the West Village’s Magnolia Bakery. Sounds like a modest enough goal, right? If so, then you’ve never seen the line, which is usually not only out the door but wrapping around the corner and snaking up 11th Street. And yet the other day when I was walking home from my run at what should have been peak time, there was no line. Nada. Peering through the storefront glass, I spotted two, maybe three, customers max.
My first thought was to ask what my fellow city dwellers must know that I didn’t. Were we talking evacuation? Armageddon? A return trip by Benicio Del Toro with me missing him yet again?
Sure, even one cupcake would pretty much cancel out the previous 6+ miles of cardio pavement pounding. Then again if “Rome” was burning, was this really any time to be carping over calories or denying myself yummy carbs?
The bakery was even running a promo special: buy one Pink Ribbon cupcake and fifty cents of the proceeds would be donated to a popular breast cancer charity. Scarfing down that high calorie, high carb cupcake wouldn’t just be physically satisfying. It would be positively philanthropic! Social awareness blanketed in buttercream–really, does it get any better?
In the spirit of “an heir and a spare,” I bought not one but two cupcakes: a red velvet number and yes, the special Pink Ribbon promo.  The red velvet one I ate like a true New Yorker, which is to say while walking home. Only unlike the uber cool chick with the sushi, I couldn’t pull it off. When I got home I looked like I’d been on the losing end of a paintball competition–assuming the game was played with pastry bags, not paint guns.
The cupcake was most certainly scrumptious. Would I stand in line for it a really long time? Honestly, no. But then at this point in my life there isn’t much in the way of food for which I would stand in line barring catfood and that assumes my fur-babies were down to their last collective can.
Other good eats for this week include lunch at Tea and Sympathy, also in the West Village, where I caught up with writer buddy, Dee Davis. Being what I like to call a “recovering vegetarian,” I’m not usually much for “British food,” so I gave the bangers and mash and like menu options a broad berth. Instead I opted for the “Tweed Kettle Pie,” salmon and cod in a parsley sauce with a potato topping. It was seriously delish.
And no New York City food report would be complete without pizza. One of my favorite stops is Amore’s on 14th Street though on the service end, the staff is starting to royally pi** me off. Memo to the young lady working late nights at the register: if I’m ever going to cross over to the Dark Side and embark on a Life of Crime, I’m a lot more likely to knock off the Manolo Blahnik store across from the MOMA than I am to scam an extra eighty cent pizza topping. Really. Maybe you might want to reward a regular customer with a little trust rather than making “her” untape and open her friggin’ pizza box every time like you’re the guard tasked with making sure the Crown Jewels don’t take a walk. If I say I ordered the white pizza, the one with the mozzarella only, then that’s what I’m packing–period.
Eat and be merry,
Hope
Hi All,
Tomorrow, August 26th, I’m over at Elizabeth Kerri Mahon’s “Got It Goin’ On” blog–and boy does she ever. Along with being an uber-talented author, British history buff, and president of the New York City chapter of Romance Writers of America, Elizabeth finds time to blog–every day. Her Scandalous Women blog is one of my favorite places in cyberspace, especially on those days (and you know “those days”) when I really need to remember that “Well-behaved women don’t make history.”
And then repeat it like a mantra.
Also, I posted more photos from my Ireland trip to my Facebook page, so when you find two ticks, check it out.
Happy Monday,
Hope
It’s Friday–again–and as I’m mapping out my weekend, my thoughts keep circling back to last weekend.
Since moving to Manhattan in February, I made a pact with myself to experience at least one new “thing” each week. In that spirit, last Friday and Saturday nights, I braved the elements (think wind, rain, more wind, more rain) and trekked out to the Chelsea Art Gallery District. Having been to many art gallery receptions, but none before in Manhattan, I have several observations to report.
First off, there’s no food, not a morsel, not a scrap, not a nosh, not a nibble. But then food is messy and distracts from the main purpose of attending a gallery reception, which is of course…
Being Seen. (And you thought I was going to say viewing the art, silly you).
Thankfully, there is wine, though usually stain-proof white. That said, one gallery had run out of even that by the time I arrived–for shame!
The reception experience varies greatly by the personality of a) the gallery and b) the artist or group of artists being shown. The first reception on Friday night, a series of black-and-white photographs with a sobering theme and a heavy political message, definitely attracted the older, intellectual set–think jeans and Ducoti leather wear and unapologetically gray hair.
Saturday night mere blocks away I attended two more openings, the first a family affair complete with strollers and young children racing around. Stain-proof white wine and designer water was surely the way to go. Yours Truly couldn’t fathom how the heap of soil–oops, I mean “art”–set in the center of the gallery floor managed to survive those eager-to-explore little fingers, but it was still intact by the time I left.
Gallery reception #2 featured “an exploration of the totality of color” and lots of “installations.” (Memo to Self: Manhattanites “in the know” get mightily miffed if you mispeak and say “sculpture.”) Yours Truly thought the um…”installations” amounted to old boards with nails hammered in–artfully hammered, not haphazardly hammered, but still–though naturally I kept such Simian thoughts to myself.
The attendees at this final reception were more gliterrati than intelligentsia, which is to say there wasn’t a scrap of denim in sight. Think “haute couture” as in off the runway, not the rack. I chatted briefly with one dashing fortysomething man, a student of the German artist whose work was being shown, who explained to me that he now has assistants who do his hammering for him. I also made the acquaintance of an exquisite older woman accompanied by her Peekaneese. After some mild coaxing, she (that would be the dog) performed several rolls for me in the center of the wide, glossy wood floor.
The dog really took to me, the people not so much. For one thing, I seemed to be the only one actually looking at the art–oops, I mean installations. Secondly, it was probably pretty apparent to the sponsors I wouldn’t be asking for a price list anytime soon.
As to what’s on tap for this weekend, that largely depends on the weather. I think I’ll likely skip the galleries this week, though when I do go back, I’m hoping to see at least one friendly familiar face.
I bet that dog has more than one trick up her sleeve.
TGIF,
Hope