Tag Archive for: Susan McBride

The Mid-Life Dating Game

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by Susan McBride

Promoting The Cougar Club has me thinking (and talking) a lot about dating in mid-life. It’s a fascinating subject, perhaps because it’s not something most of us imagine we’ll ever do, not when we’re in high school and crush-worthy subjects are abundant. Worrying about possibly being single for the rest of your life isn’t even a big deal when you’re out of college and embarking in the real world, becoming bridesmaids in your friends’ weddings and pursuing your dreams instead of Mr. Right. Then all of a sudden you’re forty, and your mother’s bemoaning the fact that she may never have a grandchild. Or worse, she makes comments like, “If you get pregnant by that adorable guy you’re dating, it’s okay. I’ll be there for you. In fact, I can babysit whenever you need me.” And she does it with a straight face.

Initially, I didn’t dwell much on the fact that I was still single when I crossed the big 4-0. After ten years of working like crazy to get published and several more after that building the foundation for my career, I was just thrilled to be writing mysteries for Avon that were selling well. I loved being on the road, hanging out with writer friends, and meeting fellow book lovers across the country. It felt like heaven to me.

So while I was too busy to worry about becoming a notorious cat lady, my relatives apparently weren’t, something I realized at any/every family gathering. I believe it was at my brother’s wedding that a male cousin asked if I might be a lesbian. When I told him, “No. I like men,” he nodded and leaned in to whisper, “But it would be all right if you were.” Thank you, Dr. Phil. My sister (who is a year older and still single) never seemed to get as much scrutiny about her love life. Perhaps because the myriad dating stories she theatrically shared (she’s an actress at heart) made everyone afraid to comment or ask questions! By the way, she’s the real Cougar in the family, having dated younger dudes since high school. My family calls her “free-spirited.” As a kid, I imagined she’d grow up to be a go-go dancer or a magician’s assistant. Not the kind of gigs that demand marriage and stability.

I, on the other hand, had a lot expected of me. I was the responsible one, the driven one so I expected a lot of myself, too. I was all about setting the bar high and meeting my career goals, not sitting at bars trying to meet men. Besides, the guys I ran into at book-related events, in airports, or through set-ups weren’t ever people I could imagine spending two dates with, much less the rest of my life. Wasn’t there a study that said women over forty have a better chance of being killed in a terrorist act than they do of getting married? Let me tell you, dating when you’re over forty sometimes feels like a terrorist act, especially if you’re looking for guys your own age. Here’s Kat Maguire’s Facts of Life for Women over Forty from The Cougar Club, which sums up the situation rather neatly:

The older you get, the harder it is to find a single man your own age who isn’t either: (a) married or gay; (b) divorced with insurmontable baggage; (c) looking for a girl half his age.

The idea of finding a soul-mate sounded oh so appealing, but how to locate the pearl among the swine? I soon learned what I had to do was open my eyes a little wider. I needed to chuck the list of “must-haves” that I used to judge potential boyfriends in high school and–not settle–but realize that maybe lack of fashion sense isn’t the kiss of death, that a doctorate in computer science is far more valuable to a writer than a doctor of medicine, and that humor and wit outweigh bulky muscles by a long shot. I should have written a book about my epiphany before someone else did. (Because it’s too late now. I just heard about a book this morning called Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough, which is really about looking for potential, not settling. It’s written by a 42-year-old single woman who had a baby via a sperm donor because she set her standards so high she blew off every guy she might have/could have/may have loved).

I feel extremely fortunate that I met Ed at a time when I was satisfied with the direction of my career and feeling very happy with myself. I still look back and shake my head, amazed at how events lined up so fatefully in 2005, leading to the introduction to my husband. So many “ifs” could have taken us in separate directions: if my mom hadn’t sent in an email to St. Louis Magazine asking them to consider me and my sister as “top singles” for that year’s issue, if they hadn’t selected me, if I hadn’t filled out the questionnaire, if I hadn’t made friends with Jeremy Nolle (Ed’s former co-worker) at the magazine shoot, if I hadn’t been talking to Jeremy when Ed showed up at the Contemporary Art Museum for the party the magazine threw…if so many little pieces of the puzzle hadn’t come together perfectly, I would have missed finding my own Mr. Right. (Ed and I honestly think that our deceased grandmothers had a hand in things somehow, meeting up in Heaven and saying, “Oh, your grand-daughter is single?” “Wait, you have a grandson?” You know the drill.)

I had always felt independent–lived independently–so much so that I imagined it would be very hard once I fell in love with someone I wanted to be with for the rest of my life. My family used to tease me about a comment I made long ago that even when I married I’d want a duplex so I could have one side and my husband the other. “I need time alone!” I would insist while they quietly chuckled. My mom even mentioned this in her toast at Ed’s and my rehearsal dinner. As it turned out, I never feel like Ed and I have enough time together. We’ll be celebrating our second wedding anniversary on February 24, and I love him more now for all the things we’ve been through together than I did when we were at that dewy “OMG, I could just suck face all night” falling-in-love stage.

If I hadn’t been part of the mid-life dating game, I wouldn’t have married an amazing man (who just happens to be younger)…and I would never have written The Cougar Club. The moral to my story: ladies over forty, it ain’t over ’til it’s over! Or maybe it’s that there’s always a book in everything. Hmm.

The Weirdness of Being a Writer

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by Susan McBride

Here I go again, getting all geared up and nervous for a new book release (11 days from today, to be exact!). I’m strapping on my mental Kevlar vest and my sturdiest virtual helmet, and I’m crossing fingers, toes, legs, eyes, whatever’s remotely cross-able. On January 26, THE COUGAR CLUB will be available in bookstores all over the place, and three women who have lived in my head since I signed a contract in September of 2008 will be unleashed on the world, at which point they will cease to belong only to me. They will be wide open to public scrutiny, and I’ll have to accept the inevitable: some readers and reviewers will find these women fabulous and inspiring and all sorts of good things, and others will hold their noses and declare them odious, pounding out angry one-star reviews on Amazon that warn others not to spend a single penny on such drivel. Gulp! And I will have no control over either. (Sweat is breaking out on my upper lip as I type this but my positive thinking will surely evaporate it in no time, right?)

It’s a weird thing sometimes, being a writer. I mean, it sounds really fabulous when you decide at some point, “I want to be Margaret Mitchell (or Harper Lee or Barbara Taylor Bradford)! I have stories to tell! I want to share my wild imagination and love of words with the universe!” Only you don’t stop and think how unsafe an occupation it truly is, and there are no OSHA rules to protect those of us determined enough to proceed. It’s one thing to have your mother read your first manuscript and declare, “This is brilliant! Pure genius!” It’s another to peel one eye open enough to read what Publishers Weekly or Library Journal or Romantic Times decided about your latest opus. To put it bluntly, publishing can be scary!

Like, simply writing a book isn’t tough enough. I was emailing with Ellen Byerrum (who’s on a crazy deadline) the other day, and she asked me if the process ever got any easier. I didn’t need to think too hard to answer, “Nope, it never does.” THE COUGAR CLUB will be my 10th published novel–and number 11 has been in the can since last January–and even before I was under contract, I wrote 10 manuscripts that will never see the light of day. Whew, it makes me tired just recalling how much blood, sweat, and tears I’ve dripped on my keyboard through the years. Those of us who write don’t do it for the glory or the money. Anytime I hear a starry-eyed novice proclaim, “I’m going to write a book and make a lot of money so I can quit my job and support my family,” I have to fight the urge to say, “Are you crazy?” How nice it would be if it worked out that way! (Plus, you never know. I mean, if your name is Stephenie and you had a dream about a vampire, then that’s pretty much how it went.)

For those of us who are mere mortals, success doesn’t come overnight. It comes through persistence, determination, sacrifice of time with friends and family, lots of travel and self-promotion, and the unflagging hope that “maybe this will be the one.” Because, honestly, in this business you never know. It’s not always possible to predict where lightning will strike in book publishing (or else publishers would only be putting out best-sellers, as they say).

Despite the odds, despite how weird this game is to play (with the rules ever-changing), despite the naysayers declaring things like, “Books will be obsolete by 2025”–okay, I made that up but someone probably did say it!–I can’t imagine doing anything else. Words have always been my passion. I was the kid in grade school scribbling stories in my Big Chief tablet just for fun, not because it was homework. I was the student who grinned when I heard the phrase “essay test,” because I knew I could write my way through anything. I’ve always played “what if” in my head: “What if that boy on the bike is running away from something…what did he do and where is he going?”

It’s who I am, it’s what I do, and, God help me, but I love it. It’s never easy, but it satisfies some part of me that I can’t even explain. And I worry over every new book that’s about to be released, no matter that I realize I can’t control what happens to it any more than I can control the weather. So in eleven days, I’ll hold my breath for a second when I wake up, knowing that I’m letting THE COUGAR CLUB out into the wild. At least I can be sure of what my mom will say about it: “This is brilliant! Pure genius!” (You’ve gotta love moms!)

Sneak Peek at The Cougar Club by Susan McBride

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Kat Maguire on getting older:

Aging gracefully isn’t about aging gratefully. It’s about living life with your engine on overdrive, making love with all the lights on, trashing your diet books, and diving into the chocolate cake.

Chapter One

When it rains, it pours.

The sky opened up just as Kat Maguire exited Grand Central Station after taking the express train from Chambers Street in Tribeca. She’d left Roger’s loft without an umbrella as the chirpy meteorologist had promised “cloudy skies with a slim chance of afternoon showers.” Right! Maybe she should have peered out the window instead of sparring over whose turn it was to pick up the dry cleaning and running around like a chicken with her head cut off before dashing out the door. She had a client meeting scheduled for eight-fifteen, and it was nearly that now.
The late February drizzle turned the air gray around her, and Kat shivered in her trench coat. Mist settled on her face and falling drops pelted her hair. With a resigned sigh, she did the only thing she could, much as it pained her: she set her black leather Coach briefcase atop her head and merged into the mass of shuffling humanity. She noticed plenty of them had umbrellas.

She ignored her stomach which loudly complained about skipping her daily fix of coffee and bagel from Hot ‘n Crusty. She was running late and couldn’t afford to slow down much less stop. The BuzzShots account was too important to the advertising agency’s bottom line since profits weren’t what they used to be. With an unsettling shake-up in the employee ranks of late—“thinning out faster than Donald Trump’s hair,” as one nervous staffer had put it—Kat felt like her career was on the line as well.

Just a block to go and she’d be standing in front of the building that housed Dooney & Marling set smack across the street from the stone lions guarding the New York Public Library. Good thing she could walk it blindfolded after fifteen years, because she could hardly see two feet ahead of her. She didn’t slow her brisk pace until she pushed through the glass doors. With a “woo” of relief, she lowered her briefcase and her aching arm then brushed damp strands of hair from her brow.

“Raining cats and dogs out there, eh, Kat?” the white-haired security guard quipped as she passed his desk with a cursory wave. “Bet it’s the dogs part you hate.”
Ha ha. He was lucky she didn’t have a moment to waste, or she might have tasered him with the lonely weapon dangling from his utility belt. Her mood was as foul as the weather.
“Hold it, please!” Kat called out as she made a beeline for the bank of elevators just as a pair of doors slapped shut. Dammit. Sneezing, she sent soggy brown bangs into her eyes again as she pressed the “up” button. While she waited, she stamped on her drenched leather boots, leaving tiny puddles on the marble floor. She watched the long hand on the clock above the elevators tick ahead a notch, to 13 minutes past eight, and panic set in.

Mindful of the slick tiles, she hurried toward the stairs. High heels tapping, she climbed rapidly at first but had to slow down around the fourth floor. When she arrived on nine, she was panting, heart skidding against her ribcage. With no time to catch her breath, she pushed open frosted glass doors and trudged through the lobby of D&M, homing in on the glorified cubicle that served as her office. She’d scarcely gotten off her coat to hang it up when someone cleared their throat behind her.

“Ms. Maguire? Mr. Garvey wants to see you.”
“Now?” Kat blinked at the pony-tailed stranger standing at the cubby’s threshold. Gertrude, her secretary for a decade, had departed just last week in another round of brutal lay-offs, and everyday there were fewer familiar faces and more per diem fill-ins floating around the place. “I’m sure it can wait.”

“He said ASAP,” the girl insisted, her un-rouged skin positively blood-less. She gnawed on her lower lip, most of her plum-hued lipstick already chewed away.

Kat laughed. “Like that’s gonna happen.” She quickly wiped off her boots and briefcase with a handful of Kleenex and tried not to drip on the paperwork she’d dumped atop her desk. “I’ve got a meeting in the conference room that started already. I’ll duck into Chace’s office after I’m done.”

The temp cleared her throat again. “He said it’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” As in her client meeting had been canceled? Kat couldn’t imagine any other reason for being summoned pronto. Had she missed an important text?
Kat snatched her BlackBerry from her bag but it didn’t show anything but a fresh message from Roger—the only way they communicated lately besides arguing—getting in the last word on the Great Dry Cleaning Debate: Its UR turn! And wld U plz get Chinese 2 nite while UR at it? Wow, placing his dinner order already? Well, at least he’d said “plz.”

“Mr. Garvey’s waiting, Ms. Maguire,” the girl prodded, obviously not going away. “You want me to walk you down there?”
“No, thanks, I can manage,” Kat said brusquely and left her BuzzShots files on her desk. She couldn’t very well blow off her boss, even if it meant having to apologize profusely to the energy drink execs. Kat just hoped her two juniors on the account had arrived early enough to ply the clients with Krispy Kremes and coffee. “You can let Mr. Garvey know I’m on my way.”

The temp scuttled back to her desk as Kat marched toward the office of Chace Haywood Garvey, Jr., the very young senior vice-president who lorded over the New Accounts division. She passed the conference room en route and glanced through the glass panels to see Steph and Marsh on their feet, well into the Power Point presentation she’d been working on for weeks.

Kat jerked to a stand-still, so startled they’d begun the pitch without her that her head spun. She nearly barged into the room, forgetting Chace altogether; but a weird feeling in her gut made her reconsider. Something bad was brewing, and it wasn’t the Sam’s Club Kona. One foot in front of the other, as her daddy liked to say; so she moved on.

“Morning, Maryanne,” she greeted her boss’s secretary on the way into his office; but the frizzy-haired woman didn’t even peer over her monitor. In fact, she seemed intent on looking down at her keyboard, avoiding Kat’s eyes.

Uh-oh. Kat drew in a deep breath before briskly knocking on her boss’s door. She didn’t wait for an invitation to step inside.

“Do you realize Steph and Marshall are mid-pitch with BuzzShots, and I’ve been slaving over that account for months?” she complained as he rose from his desk and motioned for her to take a seat. “Whatever you have to say, please make it quick.”

Chace frowned, puckering his baby face. “Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” He seemed to have as much trouble looking up at her as Maryanne. Usually, he was all smiles and back-slapping, like he was still in the frat house at Penn State and not a decade removed. He didn’t even mention that she looked like a semi-drowned rat.
Run, Kat’s intuition was telling her. Run straight back to the loft and call in sick. Only it was too late for that. She sat down opposite him, and the anxious knot tightened in her belly.
“I don’t know an easy way to put this.” Chace leaned forward and blinked pale-lashed eyes in her direction. “The economy’s not doing us any favors. We’ve had to make some tough choices here at D&M, and sadly that means letting go of valuable employees on every level.”

“I’ve already lost Gertrude so what else do you want from me?” Kat asked and rubbed her hands over her knees, wondering who was next. “Are you breaking up my team? Steph’s a little green, but she’s a fast learner and ambitious as hell—”
“We’re not letting Stephanie go,” Chace interrupted.
“You’re laying-off Marshall?”
As soon as Kat said it, she knew it wasn’t possible, considering her boss had been the one to hire him, a fellow Penn State grad and brother in Sigma Chi. The two of them hit bars together after work. Which could only mean one thing, couldn’t it?

Oh, shit, it’s me, Kat realized just before Chace puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “I’m sorry, Kat. We hate to lose another seasoned player, but things are tough all over. We either have to trim the budget or take down the whole ship.”

A neon EXIT sign started flashing in Kat’s head, though the rational part of her thought no, no, no, this can’t be real.

“I’m being pink-slipped?” She grinned like a goof, praying it was some kind of bad joke. She’d been with the agency since well before Chace’s family connections had gotten him his cushy veep gig. Hell, since before Chace had taken his first legal drink. “You’re kidding, right?”

For a third of her life, she’d devoted herself to this place, sacrificing holidays, her family, and her social life, all so she could ravage her manicure climbing the ladder from lowly copy writer to New Accounts Team Leader. If the BuzzShots campaign scored a hit, she’d be due a more senior position with plenty of perks and more job security.

“It’s a scary world,” she heard Chace saying as he slid a dreaded red folder from beneath his pudgy hands. “Nothing’s certain these days.”

Like loyalty of any size or shape?

“I think you’ll appreciate the package we put together for you. A year’s severance, a year of Cobra, glowing references,” her boss intoned as he rose from his ergonomic leather chair and skirted his desk to drop the red folder in Kat’s lap, snapping her out of her momentary haze. “It’s painful, I know, and I guarantee it hurts us as much as you.”

“So you feel like a million Ginzu knives just impaled you?” she asked, bitterness flooding her voice as she flattened her palms on the file, unwilling to open it up and look inside. That would make it all too real. “How can you do this to me?”

They were keeping Marsh and Steph, who were barely out of school, but letting a veteran like her go? Kat suddenly wondered how many of the recently shed D&M staff were old-timers like her, deemed too expensive to keep?

“Please, don’t take it personally,” Chace murmured, giving her a wounded look, but Kat wasn’t having it. “We certainly appreciate all the contributions you’ve made to this company. If only things were different.”

But Kat heard instead: if only you were younger. She felt like she’d been kicked in the gut.

Starting 2010 on the Right Foot (or the Left Foot, If You Walk That Way)

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by Susan McBride

I’m not sure how 2010 got here so quickly, but it did. Sometimes I’m glad when a year’s over, and other times (like now) I wonder how 365 days could’ve zipped by in a couple of blinks. Regardless, I like the idea of getting a chance to start over, if you will. What better excuse to attempt self-improvement than making New Year’s resolutions? So I’m going to show you mine, and maybe you’ll show me yours.

Resolution #1: Banish negative thoughts and stop dwelling on ickiness from the past. I just read EAT, PRAY, LOVE, and that’s a huge theme running through the book. My goal this year is to keep scooping out the poopy stuff like used cat litter so I can better focus on the positive. Or as John Burroughs put it, “One resolution I have made, and try always to keep, is this: To rise above the little things.” Amen.

Resolution #2: Pause before I speak (or email). Instead of reacting emotionally and immediately to everything, I need to step back and take a breath first. I’ve had a few chances to practice this recently, and I did a pretty good job. Maybe one of these days it’ll become second nature.

Resolution #3: Keep cheering on my friends and their triumphs because a victory for one is a victory for all. Really. The more good stuff that gets spread around, the better.

Resolution #4: Practice random acts of “just because,” like surprising someone with a thoughtful note or kind word when they least expect it.

Resolution #5: Be self-disciplined enough to exercise regularly and eat good things because my body deserves it. How can we care for those around us if we don’t take care of ourselves?

Resolution #6: Enjoy the moment. I am famous for looking too far into the future and worrying about things that haven’t happened yet (although I’m not as bad as I used to be). If I stop and smell the roses more, I’ll spend less money on Tums.

Resolution #7: Forgive myself for bad judgment and recognize that everyone I’ve met who’s had an impact on my life, good or bad, has helped me to make a choice and/or learn a lesson and/or realize what I truly want/need/love. Stepping in doo-doo sometimes reminds us of how unpleasant it is to have stinky shoes. So next time, we’re a little more careful of where we walk. (If Confucius didn’t say that, he must’ve thought it.)

Resolution #8: Continue to test myself as a writer, tackling projects that once seemed terrifying and out of reach. Every time I survive something crappy or write something I never imagined I could write, I understand better how anything is possible if you put your mind to it.

Resolution #9: Read as much as humanly possible in a variety of genres. Reading, like exercise, is something I’ve been carving out more time for. I love when I find stories that not only entertain me, but inspire me. Like, Garth Stein’s heartfelt THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN, Sarah Addison Allen’s magical GARDEN SPELLS, Kate Morton’s meaty multi-layered THE HOUSE AT RIVERTON, and Elizabeth Gilbert’s engagingly soul-baring EAT, PRAY, LOVE. I so agree with Thomas Jefferson’s remark that “I cannot live without books.”

Resolution #10: Stop writing resolutions because I could go on forever, and life’s too short.

A-hem. (Lifting a virtual glass.) Here’s my toast to everyone as we enter 2010: May we always strive to be the best we can be and forgive ourselves when we stumble now and then; may we never be too busy to appreciate the sweetness of a kind word or a held hand; and may we never run out of wonderful books to read so that our minds can explore new people and places without having to pack a bag or leave the house. Cheers!

Peace, Love, and Chocolate

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by Susan McBride

In my last post I bemoaned Scrooges so my intention today was to write something filled with sugarplum fairies and sparkly snowflakes and “it’s the most wonderful time of the year” sort of things. Only it didn’t quite pan out. I blame it on The Fray. You see, I had my iPod on shuffle while I treadmilled, and The Fray’s “Over My Head” began to play, and I started thinking of how much there always is to do and how I so often feel like I’ll never keep on top of things. I don’t even have a January deadline this year (merely a proposal to write and my debut in women’s fiction coming out on January 26!). Still, all the things I’m working on behind the scenes–plus getting ready for the holidays–are enough to make me hyperventilate.

In fact, on Sunday while personalizing mailings to some of my favorite library peeps around Missouri, I had a near melt-down. It had just been one of those days…make that one of those weeks low-lighted by a very strange and surreal situation (let’s just say, some people don’t see the line between reality and fiction as clearly as others). Anyway, as I worked on the mailings, the cats kept racing across my desk, scattering paper and scaring me to death; and I kept messing up the letters, wasting toner and holiday stationery. Nothing life or death, but it was enough stress on top of stress that I popped. Luckily, Ed managed to talk me down quickly enough. Having dinner at my Mom and Dad’s also helped, as did trimming their tree and watching my three-year-old niece puke up blue frosting from a kiddie birthday party earlier in the day.

But it got me remembering how I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do this frantic routine anymore or worry about what I couldn’t control. During my breast cancer ordeal, I kept saying, “I will never let stupid s**t drag me down again. I will learn to take things slowly. I will accept that I can’t handle everything alone. I will let myself breathe.” Whoops. Somewhere along the road, when I got to feeling awfully close to back-to-normal, my attempt to be Zen fell by the wayside and my impatient must-do-a-million-things-every-minute side took over again.

The lovely Maggie mentioned in her post on Wednesday how she felt anxious after sending off her latest manuscript, only to remind herself that the most important things in life have nothing to do with reviews or online numbers. Having your health (especially after losing it for even an instant!), having a family who loves you, living your passion: these are what matter. How right she is (honestly, this Stiletto Gang is full of wise women–I have a long way to go in that department!).

So I’ve been reminding myself of the great philosophy that “whatever happens, happens.” Once I began to let go, the bad started fading away and the good took its place. On Monday, I heard from my agents and editor about a good review for The Cougar Club in Publishers Weekly (and the fab Misa has a nice review for Hasta La Vista, Lola in the same issue!). On Tuesday, I received even more amazing news (I’ll share it as soon as I’m able!). It was more proof to me that positive energy flows when I stop worrying and trying to control everything. You would’ve thought I’d learned by now that stressing myself out only harms me (and makes my family concerned). Nothing good comes of negativity. Period.

I do get it. I really get it. And since I’d like to keep it, I’m going to practice my mantra of “peace, love, and chocolate” during the Christmas holiday. I’m not even turning on my computer unless it’s absolutely urgent. I always feel so much calmer and more grounded when I’m fully in my “real-life” as opposed to when I’m doing my “crazed-author-trying-not-to-miss-a-beat” routine.
So in case I’m not around much in the coming week, I want to wish everyone a very happy holidays, whatever you celebrate. May you get off the Internet long enough to really enjoy your friends and family, read a good book or two, listen to music, or find a quiet space to think. And here’s hoping we all learn new ways to free stress from our lives in the year ahead. That’s one New Year’s resolution worth repeating!

P.S. On a very positive note, my kick-off event for THE COUGAR CLUB on January 26 will be a fundraiser for Komen St. Louis! I’d like to put some baskets together to raffle with signed copies of books by cool authors. If you’re an author and are willing to donate a book or two, please email me. And thanks in advance!

First Drafts

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I have the distinct honor and privilege of having had my fourth book published last week and my fifth book, which will be published next year, done and submitted. It is called “Third Degree,” and I finally let go and sent it off yesterday. Although I’m overjoyed by the publication of “Final Exam,” which so far, has been well received, I’m a nervous wreck having submitted the new manuscript yesterday. You’d think that a day as joyous as that would leave me relaxed and serene.

Far from it.

Let the nail-biting begin.

Thanks to fellow Stiletto-wearing Susan McBride, I’ve stopped (kind of) engaging in risky behavior once a book is published. To wit: I no longer Google myself. I no longer read reviews unless my publisher sends them via email with a cover letter that’s either filled with glee or comes with a warning to not open until I’m sitting down (hate those, by the way). I definitely don’t check my Amazon numbers. These are all very wise instructions from a very wise, and not to mention, fabulous, writer.

But when you turn a manuscript in, there’s nothing left to do but wait. I hemmed and hawed about this latest manuscript’s “doneness” for far too long. Let’s just say that after repeated calls to the only other member of my writing group, the supremely-talented, Alison (no relation to Bergeron), to get assurance that I could indeed send it in and not be embarrassed, I hit the ‘send’ button. Honestly, I thought that I would be happy and relieved that I had beat my deadline by not one, but TWO, weeks. But instead, I feel anxiety.

Why is that?

I’m sure that the venerable Stiletto Gang ladies and all of our faithful followers can weigh in with a variety of theories. I’m fairly sure that they’ve all felt what I’m feeling right now in varying degrees during their writing careers. You worry that it isn’t as ‘done’ as you had thought. You have separation anxiety, thinking that with just one more day, or one more edit, it will be perfect. You have concern that your agent and/or editor won’t ‘get it’ and that they will look askance at you like “what the heck were you thinking, girlfriend?” You fret that it’s just not good.

But after four books that have gone into the interwebs and to my editor and agent, I can tell you that a variety of these things happen, sometimes all at once, sometimes one at a time, sometimes in batches. It may not be perfect or they may not ‘get it.’ Or they get it, but it needed one final edit. Or some parts are great, and others just don’t work.

When all is said and done, it’s a first draft and you’ve been treating it like a printed book.

You’d think I would have avoided this pitfall because as you all know, my day job is an editor. But the wise counsel, hopefully, that I give to the authors with whom I work apparently doesn’t apply to me. It takes some getting your mind around but everything that one puts on the page is not brilliant the first time around. That’s why we have editors, and agents, and trusted friends who tell us the god’s honest truth when something just isn’t that good.

Until that time comes, however, I’m going to revel in the wonder that is good health, a wonderful family, a fulfilling career, and an overall feeling of happiness and well-being that a perfectly-constructed mystery can add to but can never bring totally.

Best wishes, Stiletto faithful.

Maggie Barbieri

To All the Scrooges Out There…Bah Humbug!

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by Susan McBride

You’d think that with the world in such turmoil people would start being nicer to each other, but it seems just the opposite. I don’t know why civility seems such a rarity these days, but it is (had a nice rant with Maggie on Wednesday about this!). Is it because technology has made it unnecessary to deal with people face to face? Is it that profit has taken such precedence over people that “customer service” has become as extinct as “Made in the U.S.A.”? Is it because rudeness has become so commonplace that it’s pretty much acceptable? What the heck’s going on, and how can we fix it?

During hard times, people are supposed to band together, aren’t they? Instead of sounds of cooperation, all I hear is political sniping. I am so sick of seeing grown-ups on TV, lying and arguing and acting like misbehaving children (paging SuperNanny!). How can we expect our kids to act polite if there aren’t any role models of politeness to follow?

I’m feeling strangely nostaglic for my growing-up years. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but every new neighborhood we landed in had a similar sense of community. You knew all the families on your street and probably several more streets around you. Neighbors looked out for neighbors, and any families with kids became close friends. We shared dinners, played kickball or softball or Red Rover, and raced our bikes up and down the streets. I had a cute older boy once offer me a cigarette while hiding behind a bush during flashlight tag, and I realized after one puff that I never wanted a cigarette to touch my lips again! When I fell off the slide and landed on my head during recess (brilliantly trying to go down standing up in tennis shoes), my mom couldn’t be reached. So Mrs. Butler next-door picked me up and let me lay on her couch and watch TV, eating Charleston Chews, until my mom got home hours later. It was awesome.

As I grew up and moved around a few times as an adult, I felt more of a sense of isolation in my neighborhoods. There’s more distance between people, and everyone’s so wary (perhaps, rightly so, considering the headlines on the evening news). Could be that all this fear and distance has made people less practiced in common courtesies. I’m rather stunned when someone opens a door for me these days (and it’s usually an older man). I actually try to open doors for people whenever I can, just to freak them out.

And the uncivility doesn’t stop with pedestrians. It’s almost worse when people get in their cars. I dread having to go anywhere as no one seems to obey traffic rules anymore. Red lights don’t mean “stop” for most. In St. Louis, if you have any sense, you wait about three beats for cars to keep going through a red light at an intersection before you can go on the green. Say the guy in the far left lane decides he needs to be in the far right lane. No problem. He just cuts across three lanes of traffic to make his exit. It’s ridiculous. I don’t say the f-word in public and only in private when I’m very frustrated; but somehow when I’m out running errands, it pops out of my mouth a lot. Were drivers always this bad? Or is it more of the rudeness thing? The “I don’t give a s**t about anyone else but myself” attitude that seems so prevalent?

I know, I know. It’s the holiday season. Everything should be all pretty lights and bows, but I can’t seem to stop stumbling over Scrooges everywhere I go. Now that I’ve ranted, I’m going to say “poo poo to mean people” (did I do that right, Marian?). I am going to stick a smile on my face even if I’m pinned against the Wii display during crowded shopping days. I plan to say, “Happy Holidays,” open doors, and be as pleasant as can be no matter how many Scrooges I encounter. If I’m nice then maybe it’ll make someone else feel nicer, too, and so on and so on, like that old shampoo commercial. Pretty soon it’ll catch on like the swine flu and become an epidemic! (And, no, I haven’t been dipping into the loaded eggnog–yet–but that does sound mighty, um, nice!)

Where Do You Get Your Ideas?

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by Susan McBride

One of the questions that writers are asked most frequently has to be, “Where do you get your ideas?” I remember hearing Denise Swanson once tell someone, “I order mine from J.C. Penney,” which I thought was pretty funny. Personally, I pluck mine from the Idea Tree which grows right beside the Money Tree in my backyard (oh, man, don’t I wish!).

Okay, seriously, I find ideas everywhere all the time. It’s almost impossible for me to go out anymore–or to take a shower or get on the treadmill–without the seed for a plot planting itself in my mind. When I first began writing seriously post-college, I’d cut stories from the newspaper that intrigued me, usually those concerning a missing person or a baffling homicide that got me thinking, “What if it had happened this way instead?”

That’s how I wrote AND THEN SHE WAS GONE, my very first published mystery. A little girl had gone missing from a public park in broad daylight in Plano, Texas, with loads of people around watching T-ball games; yet no one had seen a thing. That bothered me to no end until I had to sit down and write about it. The next Maggie Ryan book to follow, OVERKILL, had its plot loosely based on a school bus shooting in St. Louis. Something about being able to control what happened in my fictional tales had a soothing effect on me, like justice did win out (even if it doesn’t always in real-life).

Once I started writing the humorous Debutante Dropout Mysteries, I couldn’t exactly use such heart-wrenching real-life stories as my jumping-off point. I had to tone things down a lot (although there’s no on-the-page violence or much of anything graphic except emotion in either GONE or OVERKILL). BLUE BLOOD, the first in the series to feature society rebel Andy Kendricks, involved the murder of the loathsome owner of a restaurant called Jugs (think “Hooters” with a hillbilly theme). I’d gotten so sick of seeing ginormous Hooters billboards all over Dallas that it felt pretty good to exterminate Bud Hartman, a sexist and hardly beloved character. Next, in THE GOOD GIRL’S GUIDE TO MURDER, I offed a Texan version of Martha Stewart after watching one too many of Martha’s holiday specials and feeling like an inadequate dolt. I must admit, that felt very cathartic, too.

When I was asked to write THE DEBS young adult series, I had to change my mind-set. I mean, I wasn’t going to kill anyone in those books (except maybe with dirty looks and reputation-destroying words). Then I got to thinking about the teens and twentysomethings I know, and I realized that technology might have changed since my high school days but emotions had not. So the ideas for the plotlines in THE DEBS; LOVE, LIES, AND TEXAS DIPS; and the forthcoming GLOVES OFF stemmed from relationship issues. Who hasn’t experienced a friend’s betrayal, a broken heart, a mother’s ultimatum, or a dream dashed? The best part about writing those novels was getting to re-enact some of my high school drama via the characters in the book…and getting to have my debs say all the witty and acerbic things that I wish I’d said in similar circumstances. Ah, sometimes it’s really therapeutic playing God, at least on the page.

When the chance came to write THE COUGAR CLUB, I leapt at it. I’d been dying to write about women my age who happened to date younger men (I only dated one but I ended up marrying him). I’d gotten sick and tired of the way the media portrays “Cougars” as desperate old hags with fake boobs, tummy tucks, spray-on tans, platinum hair, and Botoxed features. My friends in their 40s and 50s who’ve dated and/or married younger guys are smart, successful, classy, and real. So I came up with the idea of three women who’d been friends in childhood but slowly drifted apart through the years because of jobs, marriage, children, and distance. When they’re all 45, they end up coming together again as they each hit huge potholes in their respective roads. What they help each other to realize is that true friendship never dies, the only way to live is real, and you’re never too old to follow your heart. These are the middle-aged (but hardly old) women I know. Heck, the kind of woman I am.

I’ve got a zillion ideas floating around my brain for the next books I need to write (namely, a young adult novel that isn’t a DEBS book and another stand-alone novel to follow THE COUGAR CLUB). The hardest part for me is getting the ideas down on paper for my agents and editors to see in a way that makes sense and conveys all the nuances I’m imagining. But enough about my Idea Tree. I’d love to hear from y’all. Do you order from J.C. Penney like Denise? Cut out pieces from the newspaper? Eavesdrop in restaurants? Inquiring minds want to know!

Garanimals for Grown-Ups

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by Susan McBride

I love October, and not just because it’s my birthday month. The older I get, the happier I am when summer has ended. Since I shun the sun (how else can I keep my ghostly pale complexion?), I’m a lot less fond of shorts and bathing suits than I used to be. I long for crisp days when jeans and sweaters are the norm. And I’m thrilled that scarves are in, even with T-shirts. I’ve never worn scarves much before, except thick woolly ones to keep the cold at bay; but my fashion sense keeps changing as I, um, mature. When I go shopping now, I realize I’m drawn to items that I would’ve bypassed maybe even a year ago. I’m less prone to buy trendy things and more enamored of classics (although I’ll never dress in Polo head-to-toe again as I did during my early college days!).

I guess I’ve got clothes on the brain as I desperately need to clean out my closets (more like purge) and sort out what fits, what I don’t wear, and what I’m lacking. The last four years have kind of ravaged my wardrobe as I’ve gone through so many changes. Back in 2005, I had shrunk down to a size zero after eating healthier (read: going vegetarian) and trying (successfully) to get my cholesterol down. I had new author photos shot, and the photographer had sent me out with a stylist because “you’re much cooler on the inside than you are on the outside,” as she put it. I was advised that my hairstyle was too “anchor-woman-ish” and my sweater-sets had to go. The stylist definitely kick-started my interest in fashion again. I realized, too, that when you’re the size of a clothes hanger, everything looks terrific. I had wonderful outfits that I wore with high heels to speaking engagements, conferences, social outings, wherever. I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in “Sex & the City” (minus the cigarettes and the promiscuous sex).

Then came my breast cancer diagnosis in late 2006. The first thing I craved out of surgery was a hamburger (which I inhaled–God, it tasted good!–but haven’t had since). I was told on no uncertain terms to eat more protein during radiation therapy so I consumed plenty of yogurt, nuts, fish, and chicken. My doctors were thrilled when I put on 10 pounds, and my friends and family breathed a sigh of relief, too. I hadn’t realized until then that everyone thought my skinny (albeit very healthy and energetic) self had resembled nothing more than a “bobble-head doll” or a “human lollipop.” Nice. As for my fashion sense during this rough period: I lived in camisoles and sweats. Comfort was key. I worried more about healing and feeling strong again and less about dressing like a magazine cover girl. So my chic little clothes and high heels gathered dust. Once I recovered from treatment and started working out again, I lost a few pounds as I got back in shape; but my size zero days were gone for good. Which meant I had a closet filled with clothes that didn’t fit.

Once I donated some things to charity and gave others to petite friends and relatives, I was left with a wardrobe mostly comprised of various colored zip-up jackets with matching camisoles, jeans, and sweatpants. Perfect attire for writing, but not exactly how I want to dress when I’m doing a bunch of speaking gigs this month…or promoting THE COUGAR CLUB next February.

I wish there were Garanimals for grown-ups with colored tags that told me what went with what. It would make life so much easier. I find it amazing how my tastes have changed over time. I want to look good, but I need to be comfortable. I’d like fewer pieces that work together better. I want to wear heels on some occasions and flats on others, depending on what I’m doing. It’s kind of like my changing wardrobe reflects the changes I’ve made in my life. I’m learning to focus on fewer things that are more important, to toss the bad stuff as fast as I can, and to celebrate all the good stuff. It’s taken me awhile to figure out that it’s the good stuff that never goes out of style.

P.S. I’ve done a MAJOR closet overhaul, donating three fat bags of clothes and shoes to charity. Whew. That calls for a little shopping to celebrate, don’t you think?

The Creaky Joint Gets the Grease

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by Susan McBride

I’ve been helping my parents move this past week, and it hasn’t been easy. I feel bad for my mother who loves her old house (built in 1921 with green tile roof, original stained glass, and character coming out the wazoo). It’s been hardest on her as she told us once, “I want to die in this place.” But my dad’s bum knees and back made it tough for him to go up and down stairs (and that house had plenty of them). So they put Casa McBride up for sale a year ago and looked at ranch houses, finding one they both really liked. Only their house didn’t sell. It was on the market for months and months, and no bites except for a man who looked twice with his fiance, nearly made an offer, and then decided he didn’t really like his fiance anymore. This year, they hired a different realtor, started at a bargain basement price (something Mom was not willing to do a year ago), and they sold within a month. Thankfully, they found their new house just in time. They closed on it last Wednesday. The buyers closed on their old house yesterday.

For the past few weeks, it’s been Crazy City with my mom trying to clear out stuff that she couldn’t take to a house 1,000 square feet smaller than Big Old House. She had my sister come in town from NYC to go through all the crap she’d stored in their basement (and closets and third floor). Molly hardly got rid of it all, but did fill several Goodwill bins. Then my brother (who is married with two kids and has a plenty-big house of his own) finally took everything belonging to him that they’d been keeping for years and years, too. Even still, there was too much to move. So last weekend, they had an estate sale of lovely antiques (and, yes, some junk) that Mom had collected for 30 to 40 years. It went fabulously with about 75% selling on the first day and another 15% selling on Sunday for half-price. (Um, anyone want a 17″ x 21″ rug, a chrome and glass coffee table circa 1972, or a very old French baker’s rack?)

My aunt, uncle, and I helped them load a U-Haul before the real movers came. Mom didn’t want movers doing any packing of boxes. We moved about five or six times when I was growing up (Dad worked for IBM = I’ve Been Moved), so Mom’s an expert packer. Well, she packs by kind of throwing anything within reach into one box and then moving onto the next. Precision-packing it ain’t, but it gets the job done. We filled the rental truck with box after box after box, finally shoving in anything else that wasn’t bolted down that we could lift. We unloaded it all at their new house the next day then went back again for another load. Oy!

I’ll be 45 in October, and I usually feel a decade younger (have to keep up with my husband who’s, er, 35). But after all that bending, lifting, and carrying my right knee and hip felt about 100. I used to pride myself on being so athletic and flexible. I was a gymnast, a cheerleader, a Varsity track star (okay, a really slow star, like one who trips over the finish line after finishing last in the 400 meters). What had happened to me?

I can’t even blame it on the breast cancer. That was 2-1/2 years ago, and I’ve got nearly full range of motion in my left arm/shoulder and darned good strength again. I hired a personal trainer once I was cleared by my surgeon, and Nicole whipped me into great shape before my wedding in February of 2008. I kept to that routine even after I couldn’t afford Nicole anymore (or at least, justify spending $60 an hour on Nicole several times a week), and I felt as good as I’ve ever felt. Until my deadline crunch this year with two books due within five months of each other nearly killed me. My Epstein-Barr flared up again, which is like having mono revisit. Oh, joy! I felt drained, exhausted, tearful. The only way I could write 24/7 and get the books done was to drop everything else I could possibly drop. Yep, I stopped exercising.

Now I’ve got everything turned in, and I’ve started testing the exercise waters again. I went to Nicole’s Pilates class several times to check it out, and I’m hooked. It’s like one of those things where you feel like you’re doing something but you’re not sure how much because you aren’t dripping profusely with sweat…and then the next day you can hardly move. I wish I’d had about a month or two of those classes before The Great Parental Move. I feel like a wimp.

I read somewhere that it takes 10 days to lose the benefits of regular exercise and at least 10 weeks to regain it. That hardly seems fair. I just wish someone could invent WD-40 for humans. “One squirt and you’re silent as a well-oiled door hinge!” It’d make billions.