Friday, February 1, 2013

M. S. Spencer Tale Spinner: POETRY

M. S. Spencer Tale Spinner: POETRY: This is about my daughter. Emma Deep deep hazel eyes Thick thick auburn hair The innocent look of the newly reborn Of the believer i...

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Lolita & Chocolate--Interviewed at Joyfully Reviewed--


Joyfully Reviewed interviewed me July 13.  In it I reveal my first encounter with Lolita and who I’d pick to play the lead in Artful Dodging: the Torpedo Factory Murders. Quick note: Mai Tais & Mayhem is now in production!


Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Leap Year Blues

Welcome to the World’s First Leap Year Blog Hop (oh there are so many word play possibilities I can’t begin to count…). To the commenter who can name the origin of Sadie Hawkins Day I am giving away a pdf copy of your choice of my four romantic suspense novels. Please make sure you leave your email address in your comment so I can contact the lucky winner.  And now for the main attraction:


Leap Year Blues
There is a tradition in England that if a woman wears a red slip on Leap Year Day the man she proposes to will accept her, love and cherish her for the rest of her life. I’m not from the UK, but I am an anthropologist and therefore willing to play by Roman rules where it suits me.
You know where this is leading. Yes, Leap Year. And this little Wile E. Coyote light bulb  went off in my head.  Ooh, ooh. I’ll propose to him. He won’t be able to deny me—after all, it’s Leap year (this is known in psychiatric circles as Denial). But, how to do it? In the words of another equally successful romantic figure, the wicked witch of the west, “These things must be done delicately.”
So, I Googled. And discovered the above tradition about red slips.  I hauled myself to Victoria’s Secret. No dice. Red lingerie is sold only at Christmas and Valentine’s day. Today we have your black, your teal, your hot pink… No? Off to Nordstroms. “My dear, scarlet niceties? I don’t think so.”
And so it went.
Around about twilight on Leap Year Eve I sauntered…well crawled…into Sears.
I love Sears. After all, Sears gave me my very first credit card, with which I bought my very first TV (a little black and white number with snazzy push buttons and a real antenna). I renewed my vows when I found the one and only red slip in the entire Washington metropolitan area.   Lacy, carmine, slinky and it fit. Sold, to the desperate little lady in bunny slippers.
I wended my way back home and booted up the laptop. Since the love of my life only communicated via email (he did not insist on my actual presence at our R-rated exchanges—a clue perhaps?) I wrote him. “I have the requisite red slip.”
He wrote back, “Huh?”
Me: “Now it’s okay for me to propose.”
Him: “Huh?” (I said he was gorgeous, not quick).
Me: “So?”
Pause. “Wait a minute, are you proposing?”
I refrained from the non-articulate and possibly insulting “Duh,” and answered with simple clarity: “Yes.”
Wait for it.
A little longer.
Okay, one looooong minute.
“Aren’t you sweet.”
“…”
For a more cheerful romance, try my latest, Triptych, in which legend, history and romance intertwine in a triptych of suspense. Click on the cover to your left for more information.

Please visit the next great blog on our hop: Juliette Springs at www.darkersideofromance.com  for more Leap Year leaps of faith…






Sunday, December 18, 2011

My first guest!

Just a heads up, I'll be hosting Toni Sweeney next day (date TBA) who'll talk about her TWO new books--one a fantasy/futuristic novel entitled Variation and the other a sci/fi romance called For the Love in Adler's Brain.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Shell keeping: Is there a motive in the madness?

           There are very few people (mostly men) who are immune to the seduction of shell seeking. Yesterday, as I walked the beach near my house in Florida I began to ponder why we yield to the urge to continuously scan the half-moon circles of shells carelessly left behind by the receding tide.
Why do I ignore the vast swath of turquoise sea to my right and the ghost crabs, royal terns, skimmers, and ibises to my left, concentrating instead on a heap of the empty houses of long-dead sea life? Over the years the craving has diminished, but it unfortunately it only lies dormant. The second my eye is caught by corrugated ribs, a distinctive color, an oblong shine, sticking out the sand, I’m hooked again. I pause, I nudge the potential find with a tentative toe, I bend at the waist, I snatch. “Ooh woo, an olive!” I cry aloud, then look around guiltily.  (I don’t know about you but I always talk aloud (and sing) while walking the beach).  Holding the treasure between thumb and middle finger I admire it, waiting, hoping that another walker will stop and say, “Hey, whatcha got there?” If no one’s around I continue on, still holding the shell out, ready to brandish my trophy at the next hapless stroller.
Note: seasoned beach walkers know to keep walking, eyes averted, when they see a creature lugging shells.  So it’s important to frequent an area that attracts foreigners—a Canadian, or even an Ohioan, can be counted on to admire your loot.
            My beach is ever changing and little frequented by man. On one visit I picked up thirty-two intact sand dollars. I had so many I tried to give them away to other collectors—who would silently hold out their bag of dollars and mournfully shake their heads. On another trek gorgeous orange conchs could be had simply by stooping.
            No matter how many of the little treasures you find, the rule is, you MUST pick them up. Dozens of perfect sand dollars littering the beach and I could not leave a single one in situ. When I met up with other addicts we would try to barter them, or give them to other humans, anything rather than return them to the sand. Why is that? What is so special about the shells you’ve found? Why is it so hard to discard them? Why, when you’re packing for home, do you carefully wrap every whelk and coquina in bubble wrap and place them in your suitcase, if necessary leaving behind your laptop or a child, whichever frees up enough room? It’s not as though you’re going to display them back in Albany, or Alexandria or Akron. You know they’ll sit, cozened in paper towels, locked in a Tupperware container. Forever.
            I pondered these questions as I walked the beach, holding in my outstretched, rapidly tiring hand a large clam shell filled with my treasures. This is what I surmise.
            It’s not the shells per se; it’s the finding of them. To find a perfect olive on the sand means you’re the first to discover it—no one else has touched it. A true first, like an invention or a new galaxy. You have discovered something with no help from parents, spouse, government, or map. You have recognized something special and unique, all by yourself.  You have found treasure and it belongs to you. How could you possibly give it up? It’s the proof that you’re good at something, worth something, have something worthwhile, and are lucky. The world is now your oyster shell.
Plus, it is both free, and very precious.  Like love.