Barbara O'Neal's Blog, page 2

A Retreat With Friends

It is no secret that I like to wander. When I was fifteen, I wrote in my journal that I wanted to see the world, write books, and BE HAPPY.  I am rarely happier than when I’m out in the world, and I’ve just returned from a ten-day trip to New York City for a little ramble around BEA and also to see my son who lives there, then a whole week at a writer retreat in Montauk, on the very very eastern tip of Long Island.  

I’d been a little tired before I left and not at all sure I wanted to go at all. The garden is finally in explosion mode, with aliums and poppies and roses budding and expanding, and I wanted to dig a lot more.  The first flight was at 6 am, and I didn’t want to get up at 3 to travel….

And yet. As we drove to the airport, I felt the familiar lift of my heart–setting out to go somewhere at dawn. By the time I was settled in my little European style hotel in Chelsea, the bliss had already settled in. I walked for miles in the city, up to a publishing party where I met some friends, ducking into a noodle bar for some light supper when it started to rain.  After several visits to this hotel, I know the shops in the area and the place that has organic eggs for breakfast and that somehow comforts and delights me. 

The next day, I walked down to the West Village to meet my son for brunch at Blossom, and along the way, I spied a tall beauty, smoking a cigarette. Everything about her struck me–the turban and her height and her young, young face, and the cigarette, which she was going to hide when I took her picture, but I liked it and asked if she’d mind if that was part of it. 

The main reason for the trip was a writing retreat with 7 other authors, at a house we rented for a week in Montauk, which is a beachy little village at the very, very far end of Long Island. I’d never heard of it before the retreat, but it is now one of my favorite places.  Check out this view of the beach, on a windy Monday in early June: 

We ate and walked on the mostly deserted beaches, brainstormed answers to story problems and business problems and life problems, shared stories of our lives, and filled the well.  Our digs on a lake, after a rainy day. The night was so still and quiet and misty-soft that I was drawn outside and it gave me the gift of nourishment.

 

The sunsets were astonishing. 

 

I was working on a new adult novel (I’m writing as Lark O’Neal in that arena, just so readers will know what they are getting) and have been world building for the next book for Barbara O’Neal. There are peaches and dogs and mystical things I am not at liberty to reveal (also it would spoil the surprise).  

Here’s the whole crew: 

Back row, Anne Hearn, me, Tina Folsom, Bella Andre; second row, Christie Ridgway, Sara Ramsey, Barbara Freethy,  & Grace Callaway.  Good times, my friends!

 

 

New book!

We’ve been tussling over the title of my next book for Bantam, but I’m happy to say I now have both a title and a date!  Look for THE ALL YOU CAN DREAM BUFFET in May 2014.

It’s the story of four food bloggers who meet at a lavender farm and discover …well, you’ll just have to wait and see.  I will say that I did some of my favorite research ever for this book.

RITA Award Hall of Fame Edition

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Some of you have seen the news elsewhere, but it did seem there should be an official announcement.  How To Bake A Perfect Life won the RITA from Romance Writers of America last week, a third win in its category.

That means, my friends, that I was inducted into the Romance Writers Hall of Fame.  It was one great night, let me tell you.  Christopher Robin was there, and my best writing buddy Christie Ridgway, and my long-time editor Shauna Summers, who happens to be a great friend now, too.  We share a love of food and books and music, and dinners with her are always the highlight of my conference.

And this was the highlight of this conference.

 

Massive Book Signing in Anaheim

 

 

I’ll be signing copies of The Garden of Happy Endings, The Sleeping Night, and possibly How To Bake A Perfect Life (which is up for a RITA this year!) in Anaheim next week at the GIANT literacy event staged by Romance Writers of America every year.

The event will be held on Wed., July 25, from 5-8 p.m. at the Anaheim Convention Center.  Nearly 400 authors will be participating, and this year, we are not in alphabetical order. To find the authors you wish to meet, you will need a map, also available at the site.

I will be sitting at table 403.  Hope to see you there!

For more, including how to park and other practical details, click here.

The Garden of Happy Endings is now available!

It seems like it’s been a long wait for this novel about sisters, second chances, and a community garden, but it is finally here.  Read more about it here: http://www.barbaraoneal.com/bookshelf....

How to Bake a Perfect Life a RITA finalist!

I’m delighted to announce that my book, How to Bake a Perfect Life, is a RITA finalist for 2012.  The winners will be announced July 28, 2012 in Anaheim, California.  Read more about it: http://www.rwa.org/cs/2012_rita_and_g...

Win a Nook or a Kindle before Christmas!

A chance to win a Nook or Kindle before Christmas

I'm giving away one Nook and one Kindle this Christmas season. All you have to do to be eligible is join my mailing list. Go here:

https://www.facebook.com/awriterafoot...

A Piece of Heaven on sale in digital format

[image error]Just noticed that the digital price for A Piece of Heaven has dropped to $4.99.   Check it out at

Barnes and Noble Nook Store

Amazon Kindle Store 

First Chapter

Filler from The Taos News: Full Moon Facts The full moon is the phase of the Moon in which it is fully illuminated as seen from Earth, at the point when the Sun and Moon are on opposite sides of the Earth. The full moon reaches its highest elevation at midnight. High tides. Names for the August and September full moon: Full Red Moon, Full Green Corn Moon, Full Sturgeon Moon.

It was a good thing for Placida Ramirez that the moon was full when she set her house on fire at three o'clock in the morning that August night. Because it was the moon, shining like a searchlight through her bedroom windows, that had awakened Luna McGraw. Technically, it was a dream about her long-gone father that yanked her out of sleep. It was worries about her daughter's arrival tomorrow that kept her awake.

But the moon, so coldly white in the summer sky, took the blame.Dragging on a pair of shorts beneath her sleeping shirt, she got up to make some coffee. It would make her mother crazy to know Luna was making coffee in the middle of the night. Why not a cup of tea? Something soothing and relaxing?

Not her style. Once upon a time, she would have poured a hefty measure of gold tequila into a water glass and sipped that. A part of her still wished she could.

At least coffee had some bite. Measuring out Costa Rican Irazú into her new Krupps grinder, she counted out the seconds to twenty-one. Perfect grind for a latte. Perfect grind for her, anyway. The world was entirely too full of coffee nazis these days—coffee was about individual taste, and no one should let anyone else tell her what to like. She liked hers strong enough to stand and walk by itself, withsteamed milk and a pound of sugar. As drugs went, it wasn't bad. Also, a good latte took some detail work. The measuring. The grinding. Now she pressed the grounds, the color of good earth, into a tiny metal basket, and clicked on the machine. While it was heating up, she poured one-percent milk into a giant ceramic mug and waited, yawning, for the steam to be hot enough to make a froth.

The actions and the smell of coffee eased some of her restlessness, and she found she could stand there with one bare foot over the other without twitching too much in nicotine withdrawal. Or wondering why it had suddenly seemed like such a brilliant plan to quit smoking right now, when her daughter was coming to live with her for the first time in eight years. Maybe, she thought with resentment, it would be better to try again in a few weeks, when there wasn't so much at stake.

But of course, Joy was the reason she had decided to try. The reason she could stick with it for a few more days. Joy hated cigarettes and Luna hated feeling like such a failure in front of her daughter. Not smoking seemed like a gesture of earnestness.

And really, she needed to quit anyway—everybody had to quit, right?—it stunk and made you wrinkle faster and it was bad for your health, and it was nearly impossible to go out and have a long, lazy dinner with anyone these days unless you wanted to keep a patch handy, which was almost as sick in its way.

Primary reasons, she said to herself, an old habit. A note taped to her cabinet said it: smoking stinks. Never mind dread diseases or wrinkles. She hated the smell of cigarettes on her body and in her hair, in the air and on her hands. Yuck. The way things smelled mattered to her—perfumes and incense and flowers, herbs and morning on the desert. Coffee brewing in the middle of the night.

The machine started to gurgle, and she stuck the steamer into the milk, bringing a fine foam to the top, then poured the finished espresso into the mug, added three packets of turbinado sugar, and stirred it all together.

Now what? There was a button that needed sewing on her best blouse. A novel, lying facedown on the kitchen table, could be read. In the workroom off the kitchen an assortment of crafts, including a half-painted table, waited. Luna went and stared at it—the wildest one yet, a blooming pink rose with a bleeding heart at the middle of it. Her mother hated it, said it was scary, and while Luna didn't agree with her, she wasn't in the right mood to work on it, either.

Tobacco. Tequila. White zinfandel. A long Marlboro, red pack.

At least they would be something to do.

With a half-bored, half-agitated sigh, she carried the mug outside to the porch. The cold moon burned overhead like an evil omen. Luna glared at it, settling into a metal, motel-style rocker she had painted with a kitschy, smiling Virgen de Guadalupe in a pink dress and lime green cloak and a Barbie-doll face. Guadalupe Barbie, she told people who wouldn't be offended. Even people who really loved her—and frankly, what was there not to love about 'Lupe?—were pleased by the rendition. Sitting there eased Luna, like sitting on her mother's lap.

But still that searchlight of a moon blazed over Taos. In the canyons of her mind, Luna's demons howled at it. She could see them, with their greenish lizard skin and long claws and ears like bat wings, dragging out all the forgotten sins of a lifetime, the little and the big. All the sorrows that ordinarily stayed safely buried, the tattered bits from childhood, the protected velvets of things she couldn't bear to look at. One demon plucked out a bracelet made of copper links, machine-stamped with thunderbirds, and hearing her gasp of surprise and outrage, ran off cackling with it.

Night sweats, her mother called them, but that seemed to be understating the case a bit. Especially when Kitty had them, she was probably thinking about things like the time she swore at her boss, or the night Luna and her sister Elaine saw her grabbing a boyfriend's rear end on the way out. Kitty had just not done that much she'd have to regret.

Unlike Luna, with her AA pin and the daughter she'd lost custody of and the career she'd destroyed.

Oddly, though, none of those things were the ones haunting her tonight. Instead, she'd awakened thinking of her father, who'd left home when Luna was seven and never came back. She dreamed about him once or twice a year, so it wasn't particularly unusual. Sipping her latte, holding the sharp, milky taste in her mouth for a moment, she did think it was amazing how long you could miss a person, especially when he didn't deserve it.

Sitting now in Guadalupe's lap, with a smooth wind blowing over her face, Luna heard the trained therapist in her head, Therapist Barbie, who wore big tortoiseshell glasses and her silver hair in a French knot, point out the truth: Not too surprising you should dream about him to- night, when your own child is coming to live with you. That drags up a lot of old issues, doesn't it?

Bingo.

She was wide-awake in the middle of the night trying not to smoke cigarettes because her fifteen-year-old daughter was coming to live with her for the first time in eight years. More than life itself, Luna wanted to get it right.

A smooth wind, warm from sunbaked rocks high in the Sangre de Cristos that circled the town like a ring of sentries, blew across her face and knees. It smelled of the fields of chamiso and sage it crossed, fresh and utterly New Mexico. She'd missed that scent more than she could say when she'd left home at sixteen. Tonight there was a hint of woodsmoke in it, and Luna imagined a pair of honeymooning lovers curled before a kiva-shaped fireplace. The picture eased some of her tension, some of that crawl of nicotine need.

It helped so much, she did it again, just breathed in the night, hearing crickets and the faint howl of the wind, or maybe La Llorona, the famed weeping woman of legend who was said to walk the rivers here, looking for her lost children.

Lost children.

Bingo, said Barbie, dryly.

It was perfectly normal to be nervous, especially because there was quite a bit of murkiness surrounding the sudden change in custody agreement. Joy had been in a little trouble the past year, but it hadn't appeared to be serious. Luna had flown down to Atlanta twice, a hardship financially, but hadn't made much progress. Joy's appearance had shifted, her attitude was sometimes hostile, and her grades were slipping, but there were no signs of drugs or other substance abuse. Still, Luna had been uneasy, and asked her former husband to consider letting Joy spend a season or two with Luna in Taos. He'd adamantly refused.

Things had grown worse over the spring and early summer, during which Joy had been forced to stay in Atlanta instead of coming to Taos as she usually did, thanks to flunked classes. And then, suddenly, Marc, Luna's ex, had called to say Joy could come live in Taos. Luna, suspi- cious of a trick, had asked Marc to put it in writing. He had agreed. Even stranger.

Something was afoot. But whatever Marc's ulterior motives, Luna had a chance to make sure her daughter was all right, a chance to see her and be with her every day, a chance to find out what had caused such a dramatic change in her behavior over the past year. A chance, as the old Quantum Leap show said, to put right what once went wrong.

She'd painted the second bedroom, framed the thick-silled window with gauzy curtains, brushed up on the nutritional aspects of cooking for a child, even shifted her schedule at work to make sure she could be home after school. Friends teased her about it—no fifteen-year-old particularly cared if mommy was home after school, they said—but Luna just smiled. Her own mother had worked nights to be at home for her daughters after school, and it had meant a lot to her.

The crickets went utterly still, as if a giant hand had squashed them. Luna straightened, hearing a gust of wind gather in the distance. It rolled toward her, and she covered her eyes and put a hand over her mug just as it slammed into the little porch. It wasn't cold, just dusty, and Luna waited, eyes closed tight, for it to pass.

Smoke.

Not cigarette smoke, which she would have gladly inhaled to the very deepest part of her lungs. And not the gentle wisps of a honeymoon cottage. This was full-bodied, almost a taste, the thick smell of a fire that was pretty full of itself. When the gust of wind died, fast as it had come, she peered into the darkness, wishing that moon wasn't so bright so the flames would show. The summer had been painfully dry and fires were burning all over the Four Corners. The ancient neighborhood, surrounded by fields of dry grass and sage, was particularly vulnerable. Even a small fire could be disastrous.

She put her cup down and dashed out to the road, turning in a circle very slowly to see if she could see it, breathing in the strong smoke smell for clues to direction.

"Oh, shit!"

The fire wasn't at all distant. Bright orange flames poured out of the window of the very old woman who lived two doors down the street.

Charged with adrenaline—and likely caffeine—Luna dashed inside, phoned in the fire to 911, and then dashed back out, up the dirt road on bare feet, then up the grassy, prickly expanse of yard toward the old woman's house. A goathead bit her arch and she had to stop to pull it out, hands shaking. Fire danced through the kitchen window, licked at a pine that stood sentry near the back, threatened to burst, any second, through the roof.

Thinking with a sick feeling of the old woman, Luna leapt onto the porch and yanked open the screen door. "Hello!" she cried, pounding with her fist on the door. "Hello! Are you in there?"

Nothing. She tried the door and found it locked. "Hello?" She pounded harder. No answer, and smoke thick enough it was making her want to cough. She tried the window. Locked.

There was a flowerpot thick with chrysanthemums sitting on the step. Luna grabbed it, smashed the window, unlocked it, and stuck her head in the smoky interior. "Hello? Is anyone here? Grandma!" Maybe Spanish would be better. "Abuela!" she cried. "Hola!"

The smoke, sharp and acrid, stung her eyes. An ache of some primal terror burned in her chest. For a moment, she hesitated. The firemen would be here any second. They were trained for this. It was arrogant of her to think it was her job to try to save someone, wasn't it?

But then she thought of the wizened, tiny old woman, and there was no way she could just walk away and live with herself in the morning. Before she could chicken out, she ducked into the house through the window, dropping to the floor in some remembered bit of lore. The smoke wasn't so thick down there, and the air felt cool. Crawling on her hands and knees, she made her way through the dark. Living room. Door to a bedroom, closed.

Her heart was skittering so fast that she felt shaky. The fire was beginning to crackle and breathe, an animal gathering power. Get out, get out, get out. Luna resisted the terror. Coughing, she opened the bedroom door.

The room was blissfully free of smoke, at least for this second. She stood up and checked the bed. Empty.

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The simple pleasure of tea

A reader wrote to me recently with these comments:

I just finished another of your books and I really enjoy them……In your stories the women drink a variety of teas…..I'd like to find a good breakfast tea to replace coffee in the morning, is there one that you would recommend? So many choices on the shelves its[image error] confusing……

Although I didn't realize the characters in my novels drink a lot of tea, it really is not surprising, since I am a serious tea drinker. Always have been. When the Englishman entered my life, that particular habit found a cozy spot and settled in for good.  We always drink tea first thing in the morning, and when together mid-afternoon will often indulge another.  It's easy and comforting and reviving. If you, like the reader above, are overwhelmed when it comes to shopping for and preparing a good cup of tea, I am sharing the advice I sent in reply. Perhaps you'll find it handy.

Dear Reader:

To replace coffee, the main thing to remember is that you want black tea. Not green or anything else.  And most coffee drinkers prefer to start with something not flavored, so go with straight black tea.

My #1 favorite breakfast tea is PG Tips, but you have to get the kind that is imported from England (the "English" tea sold in the US is made with different parts of the tea leaves and is not as flavorful). Unless you're just insanely in love with tea, that's a bit expensive.  Because Christopher Robin is British and must begin his day with a classic cup (two sugars and milk), we have his mother send boxes of it.  I also buy it at the English store (most towns have one).  Again, pretty expensive, but fun to try maybe.

To get started in the US, I'd suggest trying Twining's English and Irish breakfast teas.  The trick is to get the water boiling and pour it over the teabag as soon as it stops boiling, then let it steep for a full five minutes.  The color is good after 1 minute, but the flavor is not really developed until five minutes.  Also important: don't put cream in tea, only milk.  Add sugar as desired.
Do not let my beloved hear me say this, but I also think just plain Lipton's is very good. It was what we drank as children and I still find it very good if the water is hot enough.  (The temperature of the water is what makes having a good cup in US restaurants so difficult. The water is almost never hot enough.)

Those are the best black teas.

For some other great things to try, here are a few:

Constant Comment, by Bigelow, the classic orange flavored tea.  Also try their Lemon Lift and Mint teas.

If you ever see Twining's Blackberry tea for sale, grab it.  It's one of the seasonal releases, and it's absolutely delicious.



Caffeine free:
Celestial Seasonings have many different kinds.  Peppermint is nice after dinner.  I like Sleepytime when I'm having trouble sleeping.  Mandarin Orange Spice is nice, too.  You might choose a box of mixed flavors and see what you like.

One of the best teas in the world to me is Good Earth caffeine-free blend.  It's strong and sweet without sugar, and has no caffeine, so I can drink it all morning while I'm writing.  It smells wonderful, too!

Now I'm off to put the kettle on. There's a rain storm bearing down over the mountains and a nice cup of tea sounds like just the thing.  Do you have other favorite teas to recommend?  I know there are readers here who, like me, have to have the English blend. Raise your hands and be counted.

Posting at The Lipstick Chronicles

 

If you only read my blog here, you would think I had disappeared into the far reaches of Tasmania, but in fact, dear readers, I have been blogging twice a month at The Lipstick Chronicles, with a group of very entertaining and interesting women writers.  I am posting there the first and third Friday of every month, and here are the opening paragraphs of  the most recent three.   Stop by!

 

Ian and the Blue Gill

Three women, ranging in age from senior to ancient, are settled in a half circle at the end of the dock.  The chairs have been dragged down to the pond from the main house, metal lawn chairs with green and white woven seats.  My young son and I sit on the wooden slats of the dock.  A little while ago, there were some bigger boys, young teenagers in baggy shorts and skinny chests, daring each other to swim in the murky water with snapping turtles and water snakes, but they're gone now.

The old women wear cotton skirts and sensible shoes and soft cotton hats to protect their good complexions. Gnarled fingers fix bait. Fishing lines trail lazily in the water of the small pond.  The air 

is thick and still, so hot I find it hard to breathe, and my son's pale cheeks are flushed.  We are Colorado natives, and this is the countryside of the border between Missouri and Illinois.

I'd rather be almost anywhere else.

I hate fishing. I hate humidity.  I hate the heat.  Before we arrived, I'd been excited about this gathering with my husband's family, but the reality is daunting. It's hard to understand some of their deep south accents, and I don't understand references to times and people I don't know. And maybe they're notpatronizing me, the much-younger, blond wife of an older African-American man, but all the usual in-law negotiations seem particularly exaggerated.

READ MORE AT THE LIPSTICK CHRONICLES —>>>>

 

 

The Ghost in the Garden

Have you ever lived with a ghost?  I have.  In fact, I'm pretty sure she wanted me to save her house.

My eldest son was in kindergarten when I first saw this house.  It was a narrow, two story brick, with a bay window on the top floor, and deep porch.  It was well over a hundred years old, and looked it—the yard was bare dirt, baked by the southwestern sun to absolute sterility, the paint on the old wood was peeling.  There was a crack in the brick over one window.  It was empty. Abandoned.

But every day, as I passed by with my son's five-year-old hand in mine, the house caught my eye.  A pair of windows faced east, illuminating a staircase with a beautiful old banister, and spilling sunshine into the open front rooms.  The light was so inviting, so peaceful, that often I would pause on the way back home and peer in the windows to see what else I could see.  That inviting upstairs bedroom with the bay window.  The enormous front windows overlooking the street, arched and ancient, the glass thin and wavery.  One of them had a tiny bb hole in it.  The kitchen was horrific—a single bank of cupboards made of tin, covered with wood-grain contact paper.

READ MORE AT THE LIPSTICK CHRONICLES  –>>>

 

How to be a Perfect Mother In Law

My son was married on April 7.  This means that I am a new mother-in-law. I have to forget everything I knew about mothering, and adopt a new approach.

This is not the simple transition I imagined it would be.  For one thing, the son who got married is my mama's boy, a child so devoted to me as a baby that I called him my joey.  He was two weeks late emerging from the womb, and then I carried him on my hip for the next ten months because he wouldn't allow anyone else to so much as change a sock.  He'd howl piteously even if it was his father.

He's grown into a strapping man who towers over me and has tattoos all over his arms and shoulders

(including, natch, one for "Mom" (please note the quill)).   His bride is a serious, level-headed Air Force sergeant who looks at him with enough love in her eyes to make any mother happy.  He's an exuberant character, and worships the ground she walks on.  I liked her immediately and have only grown to love her more

over time.

READ MORE AT THE LIPSTICK CHRONICLES —>>>