Growing Older

I'm older than most people think I am. At my high school reunions I always win the award for the most NOT changed. I kid people by telling them I have an aging portrait that I keep in the attic. My house does have an attic, but it has no floor and I never go up there.

When I was in graduate school one of the questions the professor asked us was to name some things that technology had made obsolete. My small glass of thirteen frowned and scratched their heads. I rattled them off like jelly beans. His comment, "You're a lot older than you look."

Same thing happened with a doctor when I went for a colonoscopy (now you know my age). He looked at me and said, "Why are you here?" These comments made me feel good. If they couldn't tell my age by looking at me, I must be doing it right.

I believe I'm growing old gracefully. Of course, I don't know what my real hair looks like because I keep having it done and redone. But why not? It makes me feel good and I'm the only one that I need to please. I've long since stopped doing things to please other people. That's a strong statement and I don't mean I'm a mean person, but if there is something I want to do, I don't need approval to do it. That's the me that's pleasing me.

I'd say growing old gracefully runs in my family. My parents died at young ages, but some of my aunts and grandparents lived long lives. Now that I'm equal to or older than some of them who have passed away, I can see that at the same age, I look as good or better than they did. I exercise (walking two miles a day) and try to eat right, although I didn't even think of resisting the chocolate at the recent Romance Writers Conference. I don't think that's all of it, however.

You just gotta be lucky.

And since I think I got gipped on the long hair and boobs genes, I at least got the good skin, weight control and non-dimpled thighs ones.

Getting older does worry me some. I have so much I want to accomplish and I'm afraid I won't get to do some things. I have a five year old to raise and educate, and I pray that she's an adult before I pass into the next level of creation.

I plan for the event by keeping things in order like wills and insurance and making sure my family knows where they are and how to get them. I also make sure they know that I have collections of value that they may not realize, like my first edition Nancy Drew novels and a huge non-DVD record collection, the vinyl stuff. Some of those are worth a lot of money.

All any of us can do is take it one day at a time and live it as if there was no tomorrow. And being romance writers, we all believe there is another day to live and love.

Speaking of living and loving, I love that song from RENT about 525,600 minutes. The end of the song says there are 525,600 minutes of love in a year. What a wonderful thing for anyone!

Aging . . . Just Like Mom

Visible signs of aging – oh, the enemy, for sure. For years my goal was simply not to let it get me the way it had gotten Mom. Her fair skin was deeply lined while she was still in her forties. She developed a turkey-wattle chin. When an angry colleague told her she “looked about 95 years old,” she shrugged it off. “I work rings around the woman, and she’s just jealous” – but I knew the insult had hurt. Lesson learned. Nobody was ever going to have the chance to say such things to ME.

As I entered my middle years, Botox became a trusted friend. When my sagging face began to look . . . well, saggy . . . and my double chin grew floppier by the day, I steeled myself for a facelift. It got rid of the jowls and wattle but not the wrinkles. Time had its own plan for etching itself on my skin.

Then my 57-year-old husband, the handsome, fit-looking man I’d lived with for more than 30 years, died of a massive heart attack while hiking in the mountains with his brother. That was six years ago. I haven’t worried about my wrinkles since.

What concerns me now is spending time with people I love, while I still can. Working as much as I can, while I still can. I’ve even had the chance to write a few books about aging women, plastic surgery and all. Time and age, those old adversaries, have turned out to be gifts.

In the mirror these days, I see an aging woman with a pale, lined face, who looks a lot like Mom once did. I wonder now why I ever wanted to eradicate her from my reflection – why any of us do. Except for the wealth of warm memories, it’s all of her that I have left.
Ellyn Bache
http://www.ellynbache.com/

Aging, Gracefully Or Not?

Aging? Who, me?

I don’t like to think about that, but this morning I’m almost forced to admit that time is, yes, marching on. I just got home after nearly a week in Dallas at the annual RWA (Romance Writers of America) conference, and as usual I didn’t get enough sleep.

Who needs sleep when a bunch of normally reclusive writers get together and the much-needed chatter starts flying? It was so good to see people from the various chapters to which I’ve belonged, and still miss, and to meet others among our group of Nexties with whom I’ve e-mailed. The PAN (Published Authors Network) workshops, plus a number of RWA sessions, certainly helped to recharge my creative batteries—one of the best benefits of going to conference each summer. And all those fabulous meals when I’m more used to simpler fare, even sandwiches all but inhaled in the race to finish a book by August? What a treat. It seems safe to say that a great time was had by all.

My stay in the beautiful conference hotel, the Hyatt Regency, was almost enough to make me forget the hassles of travel. My trip home proved to be quite a challenge—delayed flights, lost luggage (with all my best clothes inside the missing suitcase)—but I’m here. And ready to work again. Never mind that my not-quite-youthful body is still struggling to readjust after that (finally) five a.m. arrival in Chattanooga. My bag, thank goodness, did eventually, and unharmed, show up at my door. (sigh of relief)

But today—yes—I’m feeling a wee bit old. Older, that is.

How else to explain the white face I see in my mirror? Or those new dark shadows under my eyes?

Still, there’s hope. My mother-in-law will turn eighty-nine in October. She still wears makeup, styles her hair in her signature red beehive, and has her nails done, fingers and toes. Last week, while I was in Dallas, she went with my husband to dinner and the theater. She and I are planning a girls’ day out soon to shop for an end-of-summer suit she can wear to my younger son’s wedding in August. She’ll be taking the trip to Connecticut then, a traveler herself at nearly ninety.

Graceful? Yes. Old? I don’t think so.

There have been lots of articles written lately about the now-retiring Baby Boomers. In fact, we Nexties did a workshop at RWA on just that topic, well, and with some sex thrown in for spice. Our somewhat older characters still know their way around a bedroom! Today’s retirees are no longer riding off into the sunset of their years, or plunking down in a rocker on the front porch.
We—and our characters—are moving and shaking and developing second careers. My husband, for example, is in New York right now, building his new business as a consultant to the financial world. He’s been busier than ever since he took early retirement in February! No grass grows under his feet. And then, again, there’s his mother who must have given him that energy and drive, a little of which I could certainly use today.

Right now I’d rather take a nap.

But that’s not going to happen. I have a book to finish for Next. My forty-four-year old heroine and her still-hunky-at-forty-six ex-husband are waiting.

And as further inspiration I’m reminded of my great grandmother who lived to be 105. Even then, she thought of herself as a young bride.

With so many grand examples like these, I’m convinced that the old saying is true: Aging is a state of mind.

Or—to use another cliché—you’re only as old as you feel.

My First Romance

I read my first historical romance novel at the age of 13, SHANNA by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, and from then on, I was hooked. I compared all my teenaged suitors to the dashing, steadfast Ruark Beauchamp. Too bad for them. No one could seem to live up to those standards.

Years later, inspired by Ms. Woodiwiss's works, as well as those by Johanna Lindsey and other greats who transformed the genre in the late 70s and early 80s, I started to write my own historical romance novels. And too bad for me, because my own writing could never seem to live up to their standards.

A few years ago, just before I was published, I had the honor of meeting Ms. Woodiwiss at a writing conference in New Jersey. I'm embarrassed to say, I cried. I blubbered to her that she was my inspiration, and yada yada yada. She was very sweet and gracious, and I must say, really embarrassed by my display. But she murmured some encouraging words and gave me a tissue, and it was one of my great writing-related moments.

Afterwards, I wished I would have said something else. Instead of telling her she inspired me to write, I should have told her how many hours of pleasure she'd given me as a reader--a gift I now know, as a writer, is no easy thing to give.

I learned yesterday that Ms. Woodiwiss passed away on July 6th. It was a sad day for romance, indeed.

I hope she is mentioned in tribute at the RWA National conference this week in Dallas, TX. I can't be there in body, but I will be there in spirit, and my guess is that Ms. Woodiwiss will be, too.

Because you simply can't have a gathering of romance writers without her.

Music--inspiration or. . .um. . .what was I saying?

Is music a distraction for. . .
two out of three ain’t bad. . .
What was I saying? Oh, right. Music. Is it a. . .
If you see my reflection on a snow covered hill . . .
Yes, yes, right. So, music.
Here you come again. . .

Hmm. Maybe I should turn off iTunes.

The truth is, I love music–can’t produce a note, can’t even carry a tune. My older sister once said I sounded like a giraffe with a sore throat when I sang. She’s apologized many times for saying it, but has never said it wasn’t true!

Anyway, that’s beside the point. I love --when I’m alone and no one can hear me--to sing to music. Especially country music. I like to clean to it. (Well, as much as I like to clean. . .) I like to dance around to it (when no one’s around to witness that, either). I like to fall asleep to it, I like to wake up to it.

But write to it?

Ha! Words in my head are words on the paper, and if there are lyrics in the room, they are, as you saw at the beginning of this blog, on the paper.

The only time I write to music is in airports and on planes, where I can’t shut out the conversations around me and they begin to appear on my laptop screen (as in: “Well, it started as just a burning, but then the itch started and I don’t know how to tell him, but the doctor says. . .” and “He thinks I’m on my way to a conference in Dallas, but. . .”) Okay, not really. The conversations are always boring, but they invade my brain space and make writing impossible. And so I plug into my iPod. But I only allow myself the classical, non-lyric stuff that is really too highbrow for my tastes (remember I like country music. Gretchen Wilson, Dixie Chicks, etc.) but which block out the conversations around me.

After writing the above, I thought I should take a look at what my fellow Nexties had to say on the subject. Wow. We’re all, it seems, in the same Row, Row, row your boat. . .

Earworms? Thanks loads, Hank. The actual experience of having a song floating in your head isn’t bad enough? It has to have a gross name attached to it?

Anyway, right now I’ve got the music blasting because I’ve finished another Teddi Bayer book–this one is called WHO CREAMED PEACHES, ANYWAY? and now I’m allowed to blast the music and dance. And maybe even have a glass of wine. . .

So excuse me while I crank up the music and dance~ cause we all know you gotta dance like no body’s watching you, sing like nobody’s listening. . .
Stevi Mittman

Imperfect - Perfect Day

Hi,

I didn't get to post a Perfect Day post when we were in that subject. I did write one, so late as it is, I still would like to post it. So here goes.

My perfect day is a fantasy since I’ve never actually lived it. I’ve been into reading biographies for a few years now and I read Katherine Hepburn’s Me: Stories of My Life. To sum it up, the book said: It’s All About Me! That would be my perfect day. One in which I was pampered and praised. Not too much praise mind you. Sometimes it can get embarrassing.

I’d begin the day with a relaxing massage. I had one massage in my life and I thought the guy was trying to force the fat out of my body through my pores. I hated it. By the time he finished, I could hardly walk back to my room. I slid into the bathtub and let the soapy water wash the oil off me and then I crawled into bed. However, at a conference in a resort in Arizona, my fellow friends and writers were having massages and raving that they wanted to marry the masseuse. It sounds wonderful and my perfect day would include one of those.

I’d have a light lunch prepared by my housekeeper/cook (who also shops and keeps me on my diet) and while it’s also delicious, filling and nutritious, it won’t add any pounds to my Barbie-doll waistline. Then I’d get dressed to be ready when the limousine comes to pick me up to take me to my booksigning. The line wraps around the block with people waiting for my signature. At the bookstore, my picture is on the store bags and walls. I’ve already checked out Barnes and Noble and know that not all the people on their bags and walls are dead, so I don’t have to die for the opportunity.

My publicist would be there to help with the books and store personnel for crowd control. We know NeXt fans are courteous and friendly, so most of the store personnel’s work is to talk to the people in line and give them papers to write the names they want in the multiple copies of the book they plan to buy. Of course this would be exhausting work for me, but I love this kind of exhaustion.

After a short drink (soft drink) with the publicist where we discuss promotional plans for the next book, I’m returned home for a short nap. I get up to write and the words just stream out of computer. My fingers can hardly keep up with the story the characters are telling. The book pours out of me like an open water faucet. When I finish for the day, I spend the evening with my family and we watch a movie – a love story, of course.

Notice, my perfect day doesn’t include kids or husbands or picnics in the park. After all if it’s perfect. And it’s all about me.

EARWORMS. YES. EARWORMS.

I think they call them "earworms." Have you heard that term? Now that you have, you can’t get it out of your head, right? And that’s exactly why I can’t listen to music when I write.

Don’t get me wrong. When I was in high school, much to my mom’s chagrin I insisted I could not do my homework without listening to music. I had my little transistor radio, and I would put that plastic earpiece in, and bop around to Da Doo Ron Ron or I Get Around or It’s My Party. Dancing in the Street. And then: The Byrds, Simon and Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, Judy Collins… And then the Beatles Beatles Beatles. I cried when they were on Ed Sullivan. I was president of the Midwest Chapter of the National Beatles Fan Club. (High school. A blog for another day.)

But I digress.

Now, older and wiser. I’m a television reporter, have been for 30 years, and there’s not a moment of my workday when the television is not on. Sometimes three of them, all turned to different stations, all humming and buzzing in the background. And I ignore it, until my brain (is it the hypothalamus?) picks up on a word or phrase or sound that drags me to the remote to zap up the volume. Extraneous noise? Nope, it’s just the music of the news, and I’m used to it and embrace it.

But in my study, at home, at the computer, working on the next Charlotte McNally mystery--(Which, ta-dah! Just sold to the wonderful Harlequin Next line, and will be called Air Time. There’s Prime Time, on the shelves now as I hope you know, and Face Time, coming out in October. Then Air Time, and then Drive Time! So go meet investigative reporter Charlie McNally, age 46 and counting, savvy smart and successful—and just a tad worried about her age…)

But I digress.

Anyway, at home, working on the computer, I cannot, cannot listen to music. It’s the earworm thing.

What’s an earworm? Let’s say you’re in the grocery, and that Muzak is on. Just in the background. And you have the misfortune to hear "It’s A Small World after All." Ahhhhh. That darn song is going to stick in your brain, humming over and over, forever. It’s an earworm.

How about Saturday in the Park by Chicago? (Saturday, in the park, I think it was the fourth of July…) Ah…stop. Oh Mickey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind…

There’s a commercial for sour cream about "a dollop of daisy." Have you heard that? I heard it once, and sang it for about a week.

Hey, Macarena.

And so, that’s why no music when I write. Or read, even. If it has words, they stick in my brain and play where my own words are supposed to be.
Otherwise, bring it on. Turn it up. Radio. CD’s. Records! (remember those?) But not while I’m thinking about Charlie and her adventures.

Do you have your personal earworms? Tell me—if you dare!

Hope you’re having a prime time of a summer…

Love
Hank Phillippi Ryan

PS. Someone told me: if you get an earworm, the only cure is to sing Jingle Bell Rock. Okay, I know. It sounds weird. But it does seem to work.