Murder She Writes

As challenging as 2008 was for so many people….this people included….I hold the utmost optimism for the upcoming new year. My hopefulness has nothing to do with a new president taking office, fuel prices coming down, bailout money free-flowing from the government, or even a new book contract. It has to do with hope, and I think that’s something that has to come from inside of a person. A willingness to stand back up no matter how hard you get knocked down or the size of the bruise left on your rear-end. Yes, we can, of course, gather hope from others, but how quickly the world would be drained of that valuable resource if we didn’t have some small token of it to offer others ourselves.

So, for my many friends reading this, most of whom had their butts kicked this year by the economy, by the universe, by life in general, I’d like to offer a small token of hope and support. I’m sending it by way of a song I heard recently. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to add it to this blog, but you can hear it straight away if you go to my myspace home page. www.myspace.com/deborahleblanc
So turn up your speakers, click on the link, (takes a second or two to start playing) and have a listen…..and may 2009 bring all of you great joy, peace, health, and success!
deb

P.S. For anyone who might have trouble understanding all the words due to the accent, I’ve added them for you below.

“Stand Back Up”

Go ahead and take your best shot,
Let ‘er rip, give it all you’ve got,
I’m laid out on the floor, but I’ve been here before,
I may stumble, yeah I might fall,
Only human aren’t we all?
I might lose my way, but hear me when I say,

I will stand back up,
You’ll know just the moment when I’ve had enough,
Sometimes I’m afraid, and I don’t feel that tough,
But I’ll stand back up,

I’ve been beaten up and bruised,
I’ve been kicked right off my shoes,
Been down on my knees more times than you’d believe,
When the darkness tries to get me,
There’s a light that just won’t let me,
It might take my pride, and my tears may fill my eyes,
But I’ll stand back up,

I’ve weathered all these storms,
But I just turn them into wind, so I can fly,
What don’t kill you makes you stronger,
When I take my last breath,
That’s when I’ll just give up,

So, go ahead and take your best shot,
Let ‘er rip, give it all you’ve got,
You might win this round but you can’t keep me down,

‘Cause I’ll stand back up,
And you’ll know just the moment when I’ve had enough,
Sometimes I’m afraid and I don’t feel that tough,
But I’ll stand back up,

You’ll know just the moment when I’ve had enough,
Sometimes I’m afraid and I don’t feel that tough,
But I’ll stand back up.

It’s December 30th, and while that may mean only one day until champagne gets uncorked or two days until you make that resolution list, the date means something entirely different and special to me. Nineteen years ago, on a snowy night in Boston in a candlelit church full of people I love and adore, I glided down the aisle and did the very thing my father always told me I’d better do: I married rich.

Only, in truth, I married Rich. That’s his name, so probably not exactly what my dad meant when he issued that edict. But I’m glad I listened to him. Because I married this particular kind of Rich, I’ve been laughing and feeling loved for almost two decades. When I look back on that dreamy night in 1989, it’s not the lovely ceremony I remember or the spectacular dinner at the Ritz Carlton for sixty of our favorite people. It’s not the dress, the gifts, the dances, the champagne, or even the wedding night. My most vivid memory took shape the next day, at a rickety table in the San Juan, Puerto Rico airport, on our layover from Boston to St. Barts. We shared a beer, face to face, punch drunk with exhaustion and giddy with love. I remember gazing into the deep brown eyes of a man I still think is one of the best looking I’ve ever seen, knowing that I would die, just keel right over dead if I had to go through the rest of my life this happy. No one could survive that strain on the heart, that much adrenaline pumping through the veins, that full-body shake-down sensation that is just-married love.

I have, I’m happy to report, survived it. And a lot of other things, too, including his early retirement. Since I have worked from home that same amount of time, Rich and I have basically been in the same house 24/7 for fifteen of our nineteen years, so technically, compared to a normal couple, we’ve been married about thirty-six years. I’ve enjoyed (almost) every one of those many days and years together, laughing first thing in the morning through the last thing at night…because I married Rich.

If you know me at all, you might hate me because know my husband is a talented cook, so I’ve been treated to gourmet meals for the entire nineteen years. He’s also an amazing father who has spent about a zillion hours coaching baseball, navigating the school car line, checking the math homework (don’t even think about bringing that algebra to me, baby), guiding our children through life with unparalleled wisdom and love and patience. They are turning into fantastic people…because I married Rich.

Life throws couples curves, as any married person knows. We’ve been through our share, including losing our home in a hurricane, building another that took sixteen endless, miserable months, job changes, life losses, stock market crashes, miscarriage, open-heart surgery, and, now, the granddaddy of all marital challenges, raising teenagers. Through every tough time, my husband has retained his humor, his affection, and his keen sense of balance. No matter what crisis we have to face, we always get through…because I married Rich.

About eight years ago, when I suggested I might walk away from a successful PR career so that I could spend my days with our kids and my nights on this wild and crazy dream of writing novels, my husband never flinched. He never waved the American Express bill at me with a reminder of my weakness for fine fashion. He never shook his head and explained that very few people ever get published. And he never suggested that romance novels weren’t the stuff of true literature. On the contrary, he assured me we’d be fine and he’d get creative with low cost cooking; he took the statistics of publishing, turned them on their head and said, “Honey, those 99,999 people submitting to the publishers aren’t you!” And as for romance? No, he’d never read one, but he’s read and loved every word I’ve written, even the early, clumsy efforts. And every single time, I kid you not, he puts down the last page of a manuscript, wipes a tear, and pronounces it The Best You’ve Ever Written. When I look at my wall of cover flats, all framed and bearing my name (not his, although when called Mr. St. Claire, he’ll treat you to that Cary Grant smile before he answers), I know I’ve had this rare and wonderful opportunity…because I married Rich.

In retrospect, I realize that my father wasn’t talking about money. He didn’t mean I should marry a rich man. He meant I should marry a man like Rich. A man who guards the cave, cracks me up, cheers me on, makes me think, loves the kids, offers brilliant advice (just ask him) and feeds me like I’m royalty. Is this man perfect? Not by a long shot. But, God knows, neither am I. He’s the glue that holds the pieces of my life together and without him, I would be bored, lost, hungry, and blue. Nineteen years later, I can honestly say that I’m still as happy as that girl in the San Juan airport, still looking into gorgeous brown eyes, still a little giddy about what lies ahead, and still in love…all because I married Rich.

(Honey, I know you’re reading this! Happy Anniversary! I love you!)

PS. My husband would be most unhappy if I dedicated this entire blog to him and didn’t use my slot today to remind readers I have a FREE Bullet Catcher novella that can be downloaded from my site for a limited time. Thanks to my fantastic publisher, Pocket Books, fans (and would-be fans) can catch “You Can Count On Me,” a RITA-nominated novella that first appeared in the anthology I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS two years ago. Since the book was holiday-themed, it wasn’t in bookstores for a long time and I’ve had lots of fans of the series mention that they missed it. So if you haven’t read this one, or you’d like to try a Bullet Catcher on for size (trust me, they fit real nice) go to www.roxannestclaire.com and hit “free download” and enjoy!

I don’t know about you all, but I’m still wiped out from the holidays and a lingering cold. So I thought I’d keep things simple on this last Monday of the year.

How about a Q & A?

• What was your most unexpected gift?
• Did you get your heart’s desire?
• Did you get any books? Care to share?
• Did you give any books this year?
• Favorite part of your holiday meal?
• Have you made your New Year’s resolutions yet?
• What are most looking forward to in 2009?
• Did you catch a cold, too?

* What was your most unexpected gift?
– Frosty the Snowman velour pjs from my hubby
* Did you get your heart’s desire this year?
– I really only wanted a toaster oven and hubby got me one.
* Did you get any books? Care to share?
– No books for me this year.
* Did you give any books this year?
– Yes, The Writing Diet, for my mom who’s always wanted to write a book AND lose weight.
* Favorite part of your holiday meal?
– sweet potato casserole
* Have you made your New Year’s resolutions yet?
– kinda, sorta. Still working on it.
* What are most looking forward to in 2009?
– having some time off.
* Did you catch a cold?
– Did I ever.

Happy New Year!

I don’t know about, y’all but I’m toast! I’m pigged out, burned out and shopped out. I am, officially ready for 2009!

I have a slew of resolutions: number one being: get healthy. I quit smoking, again. Not having a deadline hanging over my head has helped, a lot, and while I won’t blame the pressure I’ve been under as an excuse for lighting up again after years of not lighting up, I have to say, I really like to smoke! It’s damn hard to give up something you like! But it’s a slow kill and I don’t want to contribute to my early demise. So no mas cigarettes for Karin. And, I really need to shed this deadlines ass. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it gain, I feel like I’m being followed. Not good. So, with the beginning of getting back into shape, for me it’s walking five times a week and doing the medicine ball thingy a few days a week. I have another reason for the walks: my dog is getting fat. She’s getting old and doesn’t need the added weight on her hips. For her, I need to get out.

So that’s it for me, keep not smoking, walk five days a week, do the medicine ball thingy, oh, and cut out half the carbs I eat. I’m not going to diet. To me doing like the South Beach diet is telling myself I have write ten paged a day. Sometimes it ain’t gonna happen and damn if I’m going to beat myself up over it. So, no smoking, walk five times a week (at least 1 hour each walk), do the medicine ball thingy at least three times a week, cut carbs in half. That’s it. Oh, and read at least one book a week. And stop cussing. 

So, stop smoking, walk at least one hour, five times a week with my dog, and do the medicine ball thing, cut carbs in half, read at least one book a week, and stop cussing. No problem! Hah! I already know which one is so not going to happen! Can you guess which one?

And while you’re at it, tell me one or two or several of your 2009 resolutions!

Karin*

Considering I’m just now going to bed after wrapping presents while watching four episodes of Law & Order SVU (Season 10, through Apple TV), I don’t have a post for you today. It’s Christmas, a time for family, friends and reflection. My reflection? My kids are spoiled. But I certainly had fun doing it.

Merry Christmas.

Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas Eve, Christmas, and beyond.

As this time of year sails by, it’s a time to think of the year past–and to be grateful. And to that end, I’m thinking–evacuation! I am not being sarcastic in any way. I’ll begin at the beginning. I host a workshop every year. I don’t make money, I spend a great deal of money. I do it for many reasons, the first being that I simply love the city. Katrina hit Miami and then New Orleans during a week when I had just been there filming an ad for Ghost Walk–which takes place in New Orleans. After the hurricane, Bayley Crow, flooded out of home and school, came to live with us for several months, and she and Chynna are still best friends. Onward. It was my sister’s favorite city in the whole world. I could go on and on. But my first trip back, what I heard from friends that they were grateful for all that was being done for them, but what they truly wanted was to get back to work. You need people in a tourist city for other people to work. So, in a matter of months, we threw together our first Writers for New Orleans.

We do put on a heck of a good thing, I think. Great parties, good workshops, and basket sales that benefit the library foundation. Kathy Love and Erin McCarthy host a welcome party every year. Cherry Adair hosted tea and scones. Helen Rosburg throws an event, and she knows how to throw one major party. We put on something like dinner theater. My writer friends play and we have a band. It’s great. Those who come do so not because they can guarantee they will be able to make a deal on a bestseller–though they might, we do get wonderful editors!–but because they’re into the whole concept. I’m thrilled to say that many have been back several times, and that many are writing about the city, returning on their own, and falling in love as I did. So, we’re on a roll. It’s an annual event.

And then we hit the summer of 2008.

You know, it’s the in between stuff that gets you every time.

Now, I live in Florida. You can guarantee that any time from June to November, there might be a storm out there, or several storms. We all watch them, pray they’ll miss us, and pity the people who are hit, while thanking God that it’s them and not us. That’s the way it goes. The southern, and even the northern, east coast folk know this. So do those in the Gulf, Cuba, the Caribbean, and beyond. That’s the way it goes. We roll with the punches, nothing else to do.

But this year . . . .

Those wretched brats just bounced all over. And as I arrived in New Orleans early, the news about the storms became grim. So–let’s just cancel. Can’t–not because of our hotel. They’ve always had an agreement that we can cancel if the weather is threatening the city. But at that point, it was iffy. The storm was going to Texas. Can’t trust those suckers, never know quite where they’ll land. And, as the week progressed, N.O. was not being told to evacuate. Helen’s party was Friday night; we were informed that we had passed out cancel date–there would be a party with or without us. So, what the hell? Those of here will definitely show.

So, luckily, we first get in Kathy’s and Erin’s welcome party. They are my rocks, pitching in from the start, staying loyally with the plan.

Dancing. My girls are into it–and I have sons who dance and plenty of husbands and others who show. But then again, lots of my friends from FRW go and we’re not proud, we’re used to dancing with each other!

Then Helen’s.

It was a great party. The world’s most unbelievable food. Marilyn and Shannon doing readings, Lynn doing pictures, parlor games, guests beautiful in costumes or street clothing, their choice.

Thank God!

The next morning, Paul Wilson and Cathy Maxwell speak. They’re wonderful together. Different genres, different perspectives and histories, and I love it because we all realize that no two authors will ever take the exact same path.

Then . . . .

The dreaded wrench-away of the microphone! No warning–the city has said to evacuate. Now.

We’re dumbstruck. Devastated. But it is what it is. So, tell people, apologize for the weather, promise all registrations will be returned, and lock up what can’t be taken away, like Connie’s amazing costume assortment and her decorations for the dinner. This means we’re the last out of the hotel.

Then, my group has to get it together and leave. My nephew, his wife, and their baby have a rented car–they decide they’ll just drive it home. A best friend since I was fifteen is there with his wife and baby and mother-in-law. They will hop in the rental with my son, and drive on to Miami. Two babies taking a chance at spending a night in the airport? No, I think they’re right. Drive, I say, drive!

So. We have two cars. Connie’s, and my sister’s sister-law Teresa’s rental. In these two vehicles we have to get my five children, husband, Alex Sokoloff, James Gilbride, Jessica Magazine, daughter-in-law Zhenia, Al and Josh Perry–and Connie and Teresa, of course. It is like that very old commercial in which 20 clowns emerge from a Volkswagon bug. We have to stop by the hospital first because Josh has an infection. The poor nurse on duty nearly had heart failure, watching us all walk in as the city tried to evacuate. She was confused but relieved when she learned there was just one patient, the rest of us were along for the ride.

Josh is seen and set. We take off again. Chynna is stretched across three laps in the back, which is pretty funny if you know her–she’s six feet even. I have real luggage–not overnight bags–on my lap. But we’re moving, heading in the snail-like flow of traffic to the airport.

Then, we see an open Burger King. Ahha! Food, there will be no food at the airport, so we’ll be smart and get in line. We think we’ll cleverly outwit the drive-thru by going inside. Except we discover, after trying to be so clever, that no one else has been that clever because only the drive-thru is open. So, we have time. We have a list. Whopper, Whopper with Cheese, two regular hamburgers, shake . . . finally, after half an hour, I’m at the window with my list. “Whopper–” I begin. “Chicken, we have chicken!” a weary and irate voice tells me through the speaker. Okay. We bought two hundred dollars worth of chicken.

Which was good. When we got to the airport, I saw Barbara Vey from PW sitting near the store where they had drinks and chips and candy, but nothing else. I tried to apologize to her, and she just told me how wonderfully nice everyone had been at the airport. She was just a little hungry.

No problem. I had two hundred dollars worth of BK chicken!

Some of us made it out right away. About twelve of us spent the night. But it was great; Barbara is amazing. She told me it was a wonderful adventure. Alex just got busy creating rooms out of suitcases for us to use for sleeping quarters. We talked most of the night; it was a great slumber party.

The sad part was my daughter Chynna. We were heading with her straight to California for her first semester of college. On Saturday night, she’d been supposed to meet up with a bunch of friends after the dinner theater. She never got her chance to see them, and she was leaving home for the first time. But she was with her oldest brother and many of my friends who love her, so it was some solace.
Come the morning and our military meals. Many may not agree, but it was worth it for me just to watch people with their meals. “Cut open with Swiss Army Knife. Hm, we’re in the airport. Anyone have a Swiss Army Knife?”

Barbara was again great. She just needed me to film her with her meal for her blog!

By the afternoon, we were all flying away.
Connie and Al and my two sons–who were going to go back with her when possible to pack up–were headed for Lafayette. The weather service warned that now, Lafayette was going to get more of it than New Orleans. They paused in Lafayette, and headed for the airport in Houston. We all wound up in California.

Bryee, Jessica, James, and Teresa had been on a plane to Miami standby. My very tall friend and guitarist, Dave Simms, and his girlfriend, Tracey, had already gotten on that plane–even though they were headed to Massachusetts. They teased the others as they got on. As it happened, there were four seats left, and so the young crew were able to get on. In first class. Since Dave had teased them, they waited until the entire plane exited so that they could be in their first class seats as very, very tall Dave deplaned. They had to tease in return. And they said they all had a good chuckle over it, and since Dave and Tracey were then stuck in Miami, Bryee-Annon took them home for the night.

Well, I wrote letters of apology to everyone and suggested that maybe in the future I should change the date. But what a pack of troupers. No, people love the date. And it was an experience. People go to a zillion conferences. They run together. Will they ever forget that one? No!

So, I am grateful. Grateful for an evacuation in which I saw nothing but amazing behavior by people–even strangers–and where I also learned that I have acquired amazing friends who will weather just about anything in an effort to get together, and to give.

So, it’s Christmas Eve. Almost New Years. And I’m looking back. And, once again, I’m grateful.

Okay, so no, I DON’T want to do it again!

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Kwanzaa, or whatever your choice of celebration might be!
Peace on earth.

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Since I added the final polishing touches to my latest story yesterday and it’s almost Christmas, I’ve had a few hours to reflect on the holiday and my life. Christmas, I think, was a pivotal turning point for me when I was about eight. You see, I only have one sister and she’s a lot older than me, which left me no one to play with as a child except my brother (two years my junior) and all those male cousins. Mostly we played Cowboys and Indians and other shoot-em-up type games. We used sticks or our fingers as the guns. We had lots of fun running through the pastures and woods on the farm where I grew up. Oh and did we have some adventures! We happened upon snakes and skunks and possum and deer. We climbed trees and occasionally fell out but fortunately didn’t break anything. We waded through creeks. Lots and lots of high energy fun (which is exactly why I never allowed my girls out of my sight as they were growing up). Anyway, when I was about eight we all gathered around the Christmas tree to open presents and my “big” gift was a lovely baby doll all dressed in pink with a diaper bag and bottle. I should have been thrilled but all I could do was look at my brother’s present and wail. You see my brother had gotten this cool gun and holster set. To make matters worse, every single one of my cousins had gotten the same thing! What kind of Santa would do that? How was I supposed to have a shoot out with my brother and cousins with a frigging baby doll???? Thankfully, Santa, having realized his mistake, executed a do over that very night. The next morning I woke up and a shiny gun with holster lay at my feet on the bed.

So you see, I was destined to do something with guns from early on. Since then I’ve branched out and and turned to other methods of torture and murder. Lucky for me, the summer after the baby doll incident my Mother found an old typewriter at a yard sale and made my life complete. I had been handwriting stories and she wanted to nurture my love of storytelling. That was a really long time ago, but since it’s almost Christmas and I just completed a big do over of my own, I was reminded of those carefree days.

We make a lot of decisions everyday, lots and lots of little ones and some bigger ones. Some conscious, some instinctive. At the time of each decision we have motive for making that decision and are fairly certain it’s the right way to go based on how we feel and perhaps advice from others. Sometimes it turns out to be a good one, sometimes not. Sometimes it turns out to be a bad decision which triggers a better decision and ultimately proves the bad decision was the only way to go in the first place–if that makes sense. To prove my point, I just experienced the latter with my latest story for St. Martins. I wrote a synopsis for the story and it was approved. Then, as I was writing the story, I came up with this stellar idea that would surely make it even better than I had proposed. I incorporated all these changes and a couple of extra characters. When it was finished I was proud of myself for this cool new direction. I sent the project to my editor and breathed a sigh of relief. I promptly went to work on another project, one for Harlequin Intrigue, all the while anticipating how surprised my editorial team at SMP would be. They were surprised all right. But not in a particularly good way. A phone call was made and I quickly saw the consequences of the decisions I had made. It wasn’t that the story was bad as written, but there were problems with the way I wanted to end the story and then move into the next one which would be closely connected. Hmm…I hadn’t thought of the points my editor made. Obviously, I should have. All I could see, at the time I was making said decisions, was the story in front of me. Now, time was short. Changes had to be made quickly. So I plunged into the revision knowing I was going to be darned lucky to pull it off as quickly as was needed. I worked day and night, did nothing else but ponder the story when I was supposed to be sleeping and pound the keys the rest of the time. When I emailed it to my editor I was certain I had done exactly what needed to be done based on her concerns. I gave my brain a rest over the weekend. Then, yesterday I read through the finished work. And guess what? SHE WAS MORE THAN RIGHT! The story was ten times better and I was so very proud. My husband breathed a sigh of relief and muttered something to the effect that it was probably perfect the way I’d done it the first time. (He always champions me, the sweetie pie!)

But then, last night as I considered the fact that I have no holiday shopping done and dinner is at my house in a mere two days–I realized something else. Not only was the story ten times better after the revision, but making the wrong decision as I initially wrote the story had been an essential element to the final outcome. If I had not written the story wrong or different or whatever, I wouldn’t have realized certain things afterward. I wouldn’t have looked at the characters in this certain light that my editor pointed out. I wouldn’t have realized I needed another element that proved the final meshing of the two main protagonists. So, ultimately, my do over was absolutely the best thing that could have happened to me the past couple of weeks. Like Santa (aka my mother) all those years ago, the do over prompted a wondrous result.

Maybe everything does happen for a reason. I don’t know. But I do know that life is a journey and so is the writing. Just when you think you know what you’re doing, you realize maybe you don’t. You’re just going after the dream…or perhaps the obsession. And with some luck and lots of determination it all works out in the end.

So, with mere hours to go before the Christmas festivities, what revelations or do overs have you experienced lately or in the past that made you stop and think and realize that a particular choice (maybe a wrong one) ultimately turned out for the absolute best?

Merry Christmas!

We went to a Christmas Dinner last weekend for my husband’s company.

Those rumors about me are totally untrue. To my knowledge, no one has any photographic proof of me dancing to Jingle Bell Rock on a table, or sliding across the floor ala Risky Business. Nor did I ever drunk dial Nora Roberts and Stephen King to set them up on a blind date. And as long as no one has proof, then I will stand by my assertion that those things are lies, all lies!

So what was I talking about? Oh! I remember, at the party, a really fun question came up. And by the way, if I remember this question coming up, isn’t that more proof that I was completely sober and behaved myself? I do remember the question exactly as it came up, here it is:

If you could break one law, or do one thing, with no consequences, what would it be?

Isn’t that a cool dinner party question? (Hey it’s better than the usual, “How’ve-you-been-how’s-the-kids-what-about-this weather…” chit chat). I immediately jumped on this question and started collecting answers.

Man #1 said he would speed (umm, not the first thing that comes to my mind.)

Man #2 insisted he wouldn’t kill anyone. (Bwahahaha! I believe you. No really, I do.)

Man #3 said he would have voted in the election (he’s here legally but not a citizen so he couldn’t legally vote, but still, that’s what he’d use his free pass for? To vote?)

Man #4, otherwise known as my husband, immediately started talking about spending a night with Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson or Kate Walsh.

I was ignoring Man #4 because I had already known what his answer would be, but one of the women gasped in horror and looked at me. I shrugged. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

“Aren’t you upset?” The shocked woman said.

I shook my head. “If any of those women come to the door and ask for my husband, he gets a free pass.”

The poor woman choked on her drink. I tried not to laugh out loud. Apparently, she has never played the Free Pass Game, but that’s another blog.

So far, we had answers from the men. And I gave them a really hard time because, frankly, they were boring.

Now women…ah the women.

Woman #1 said she’d break into a high end jewelry store and get some rare diamonds. Now there’s some imagination, right?

Woman #2, and this was my favorite, said, “I want to fly.”

Huh. I was surprised by that.

She said, “You didn’t say WHAT law I could break, just that I could break a law without consequences. I’m breaking the law of gravity.”

I loved it! I mean Way To Think Out Of The Box!

The conversation shifted and I never answered. Actually I hadn’t thought about what I would do, I was having too much fun asking everyone else. But if I could break one law, or do one thing, without consequences…hmm…okay, here it is. I would slap Nora Roberts (or JD Robb, or JR Ward, or any super-nova-famous) name on my books for one year until the public gets addicted to my books and I become a bestseller, then reveal the truth.

Don’t yell at me, this is just a game! I wouldn’t really do something like that!

What about you all? If you could break one law, or do one thing without consequences, what would it be?

Happy Holidays, and I hope you all have a fun and safe New Years! And in mid-January look for my new blog-site at Jenniferlyonbooks.com!