Lisa: An Angel by Any Other Name?

By L.G.C. Smith

I’ve known Lisa Hughey for fifteen years. We first met at our local RWA chapter meetings. I don’t remember when exactly, only that she was a beautiful young woman with long, long hair, quiet confidence and a quick laugh. Then we served on a chapter board of directors together, and I saw her competence, attention to detail, and sharp mind.

A couple of years later I joined her critique group, and came to appreciate her thirst for knowledge, her love of suspense fiction and her talent for writing a sexy blend of romance, adventure, and espionage that’s impossible to put down. Seriously. Suspense is not my favorite genre but I can’t stop reading Lisa’s books once I start one. I’m not biased or anything. That ten years of reviewing romance, more years than that spent researching the field and teaching in universities, thirty years of reading widely – I couldn’t possibly know what I’m talking about. Nor do I ever listen to my uncle, the market research sensei, or my sister the genius who has propelled her organic stone fruit farm into a nationally known brand name with the highest reputation in her industry. One learns things about marketing and identifying broad appeal. A lot of things.

Lisa’s books have those things. Kick ass characters. Authentic emotion. Gripping tension. HOT love scenes. And all sorts of smart and sneaky spy things. But mostly, it’s the way she puts everything together in fast-paced stories that, lest I wasn’t clear the first time, are impossible to put down.

To any editors who might stumble across our little blog – you want this woman in your publishing program. Readers are going to snap her books up like bears scooping up spawning salmon. She’s already got a fabulous agent behind her. Lisa is the real deal as a commercial writer. Mark my words: She’s headed for the bestseller lists.

However, Lisa’s writing isn’t her greatest gift. That distinction belongs to her spirit and the astounding capacity of her heart. She cares deeply about many, many people, and she does things every day that show it. If someone is late to a meeting or event, Lisa is taking note and phoning or texting them to make sure all is well. In times of stress, she checks in, letting us know she’s thinking of us. If Lisa knows you, even if she might not like you, she’s going to care about your well-being and wish you well.

She’s good to the bone, which doesn’t mean she’s a Pollyanna or a sap. Oh, no. She’s got too pithy a vocabulary for that, and too sharp a wit. But she would instantly give you anything she possessed if she thought it would make your life a little easier. She’s willing to hold her friends accountable for taking care of themselves and managing their writing careers. That last takes a lot of belief in those of us who may, at times, have shown tendencies to commit heedless career hari-kari.

Lisa is possibly the sanest person I know. She has a strong marriage (if it isn’t perfect, it’s what I hope for all the children I love when they grow up) and a wonderful family. She tends things well. Herself. Her home. Her family. Her friends. Her career. Watching her, I’ve learned how to be kinder and wiser in tending the things I love.

Most of all, Lisa loves with her whole heart. Unstintingly. All in. With deep compassion and inborn wisdom. This is a gift of the highest order, one that makes angels weep with joy, if there are angels. Looking at Lisa, one might be tempted to make a case for angels living in our midst.

Who is LGC Smith?

Who is LGC Smith?

I loved the idea of this topic as soon as it came up. And I was lucky enough to randomly be assigned to LGC. We’ve known each other for fifteen years, we’ve been critique partners for thirteen years, and we’ve been friends forever.

I know what you all want to know. And because it’s switch week, I’m going to tell you.

What do LGC’s initials stand for?




L is for....

Loyal: she is the most loyal person I know. She is always on your side. When you’re down over something (rejection, bad review, your children’s shenanigans) she will discourse for five or ten or fifteen (depending on the severity of the issue) minutes about why you can’t let it get you down. And by the time she’s finished, you feel a hundred times better because her arguments are really good and she’s really smart.

side note: She’s so loyal that if you did perhaps rob a bank with Sophie, she would ask you what you needed and then find a way to get it for you.




G is for....

Genius: LGC is really smart, the kind of smart that if you think too long about it, you start to censor your words and thoughts because YOU want to sound smart around her. But then the discussion becomes so fascinating because she knows a lot about a LOT of stuff, that you forget that you’re trying to sound smart because you are caught up in the subject and no longer worried about sounding dumb. She has that teacher ability to pull interesting thoughts and emotions out of you with seeming ease.




C is for....

Centered: LGC is really grounded in what is important. Family is her first priority. But if you’re lucky enough to be a good friend, you’re about as close as family. Which means she’ll talk you down off the ledge when life (or your kids or significant other or....) kicks you in the ass and you get mired in the moment. She reminds you that this will pass and re-focuses you on what is truly important. Family.

So, now you know what the LGC really means. But just in case you want more...here are some fun facts about LGC Smith:

*she taught English at Cal Berkeley

*she lived in Guam as a kid

*she taught English on a reservation in South Dakota

*she has this fantastic visual memory, she knows exactly where a piece of research is in a notebook

*she bakes fabulous gluten free yummies

*she is an amazing writer. In my mind I compare her to Tolkien (you know he made up Elvin languages for Lord of the Rings). LGC uses Rosetta Stone in Gaelic to work out the language for her books. She has maps of the area and diagrams everything out. She can describe what the village looks like now AND what it looked like hundreds of years ago.

*she is really, really flexible

*she cooks incredible jams and jellies

*she is a fantastic aunt

*personally I think of her more as a big sister than a friend. And I’m truly thankful for her.

xoxo
Lisa

Pens and their Pals Holiday Dinner

The Pens had our annual holiday get together along with some very special pals. And we've got the pictures to prove it. The great semi-colon debate was almost re-ignited but we all restrained ourselves and kept the evening civil.



Happy Pens Mas!!!



Adrienne, Tom, Rachael and Gigi












Pens Pals (in the front) Theresa Stevens, Alicia Rasley,and Alice Gaines joined the rest of the Pens!


















A toast to a new year and old friends (only one missing: Martha couldn't make it :( )








Happy Holidays from us to you--may your season be full of joy and good tidings!!!!

Adrienne: Our Heart and Sole (yes, a title with a little pun to get your day going)

Note from Gigi, who is writing about Adrienne today: She was wearing a pair of Converse Allstars while writing this post so that she could get properly into the mindset to do Adrienne justice.

I met Adrienne only in 2009, but as I look back over the photos I've taken of the Pens over the past year-and-a-half, Adrienne is at the forefront of many of them. She didn't jump in front of the camera, but rather her dynamic spirit led me to want to capture her character.

The first thing you might notice upon meeting Adrienne, after her welcoming smile, is her shoes. I don't mean anything fancy. I mean the fact that Adrienne effortlessly pulls off Converse Allstars with whatever she happens to be wearing.



I think the cool, comfortable shoes are part of Adrienne's life plan -- the one that allows her to be fearless.



I've been wowed by the fearlessness of this woman many times. Whatever life has thrown her way lately, I've seen her seize the opportunity to throw herself into her writing, then let go with some good scotch with her friends -- all the while never forgetting the important things in life.



I'm looking forward to many more years of merriment from Adrienne, both in life and on the page.

Our Juliet

To see who Juliet Blackwell is, all you have to do is look up at our banner. Yeah, right above these words. See Sophie (Clooney) there in the middle? She’s the one with the gun, of course. I’m on the far right, grinning my fool head off as usual. Martha, third from the left, looks like she has something up her sleeve (and she probably does – either a queen of hearts or a hand-made shiv).

But look at Julie, just to the left of Sophie.

She’s smoldering. Isn’t she? The camera lens melted right after that shot.

Julie is our resident sex bomb. And by saying this, I don’t mean to take anything away from all the other amazing things she is: She’s a wonderful, caring, involved parent. She writes well, and fast, and is really damn good at her job. She’s created a home in which everyone who visits wants to set down roots and stay forever. She’s generous with everything: her time, her clothes, her vodka. She's an artist, a real artist (and she wants to paint ME! Hello, yes please). Julie is the total package.

And that and she’s hot. Smokin’. There’s something about Julie that makes every man (and most women) turn to gaze after her as she passes. She gives a completely friendly “Well, hi!” along with her signature full-wattage smile, and those two things should add up to mere congeniality. But the WAY she does it implies, “I know a marvelous secret, and later on, I’m probably going to tell you, and you’re going to love it.” You just long to get closer, to have her whisper in your ear.

Perfect strangers trip over themselves to buy her a drink. Well-reviewed authors lose their words, stuttering and stammering when talking to her. When a man fails to notice her charms we don’t assume he’s gay (because gay men fall in love with her as quickly as anyone else); we assume there’s something wrong with him. We avoid him as if he was the one man in the world our dog ever barked at—something about him must be broken.

Julie writes about magic and mystery, possibly because she embodies magic and mystery. She’d be the first one I’d invite to a séance (as if my heart could take that—IT COULDN’T, by the way), and she’s definitely the first one I’d invite to my hot-tub pillow-fight pajama-party. And the best part is, she’d be there: committed, excited, ready to get a little work done and then to celebrate life in every possible way.

Two weeks ago, I finished a draft of a novel. I hit “send” to my editor. Then I stood up, sent her a text, drove to Trader Joe’s and bought the bottle of Laphroig I’d been promising myself for three months. We sat in her courtyard in the sun under trailing jasmine vines and propped our feet up on an extra chair as we talked. I never, ever wanted to leave.

Everyone wants to bask in the warmth of Julie's gaze. And when she picks you as a friend, you really, truly feel like you’ve won the prize you never knew existed but had always been trying to win.

Rachael In Her Own Words

Rachael is the baby of our group. I don't mean she's the youngest. I mean she was latest to the game and came in alone.

Sophie and Lisa practically came from the same womb and brought Lynn with them. Sophie, Julie and Gigi are long-time Boucher Buddies. Adrienne and I are such soul sisters that Sophie assumed we were best friends the first time she spotted us (which, incidentally, was the first time we spotted each other.) While Sophie may have Clooneyed us together, we came in rag tag assortments.

Except for Rachael.

Rachael walked into our lives (and Sophie Clooney's sights) at a San Francisco Area Romance Writers meeting where she announced her recent sale - a three book deal, at auction no less, to Avon even no lesser so.

Could we bring ourselves to like this sparkly-eyed stranger strolling into our midst with such fanfare? When Rachael fisted her hands and jiggled her booty while telling her auction tale, I think we all sat back and decided: yes, yes we could.

But like her or not, Rachael's still a bit of an enigma. A yarn celebrity. The kind of person people literally call when their lives are in danger. A shoo-in to star as an extra in any glamorous 20's film.

I don't have the words to describe her. But she does. So I stuck her website into Wordle to see which words would pop out.

GOING: As in, this chick is going places. Big places. High places. I have a comfy spot right on her coat tails, and you will need to rip it from my cold, dead hands.

THOUGHT: As in, Rachael doesn't just think. Rachael has thoughts. Have you had a conversation with her? In the midst of announcing recent good news about her distribution she tucked in a happy anniversary to our Adrienne and a witty rejoinder about an individual's price on integrity. You need three brains to talk to her sometimes.

LACE: As in, well, I'm not sure but I assume it's knitting related. The girl can knit, didja know?

BACK: As in, girl's got your back. There's not a lot of people I would take into bar fight or to stalk Kristin Higgins. But trust me. Rachael's on that list. Have you seen Ben Affleck's The Town? When he walks into his friend's apartment and says, "I need your help. I can't tell you what it is, you can never ask me about it later, and we're gonna hurt some people" and his friend responds, "Whose car we taking?" Well, Rachael would already be starting the car up.

KNOW: As in, she's one to know. If you don't know her yet, don't worry. You will soon.

Sophie

We're switching things up around here. For the next couple of weeks, instead of writing about a particular topic, we're writing about each other. We've fired up the ol' randomizer and received our assignments. So instead of tuning in today to read what Sophie has to say, you get to read what Adrienne has to say about Sophie.

My husband and I love to watch Ocean’s 11 together. Sometimes it seems like half of what we say to each other is recycled dialog from that movie. One day--I think we were on some long car ride--we played a game trying to figure out which character we were the most like. From the beginning we admitted we wanted to be Danny Ocean. Sure, we would have settled for Rusty, but dear god, we wanted to be Danny. 

Everybody wants to be Danny Ocean. He’s cool, gorgeous, fabulously connected, and manages to keep everything together even when it looks like it’s all falling apart. 

Everybody wants to be Danny

But we just weren’t. At best, I was Linus Caldwell, though I think that my husband was being generous with that one. I’m really more of a Livingston Dell. And, yes, if you don’t watch Ocean’s 11 on a weekly basis, I’ll wait here patiently while you Google who these people are.

But here’s the thing, Sophie is Danny Ocean. She’ll tell you that she’s not, but don’t you listen to her. She’s the real deal.

 Don’t believe me? By show of hands, if Sophie took you aside and asked you if you wanted in on this little heist she was planning, you’d at least think about it wouldn’t you. You, who have never stolen more than a couple of hair metal keychains from the Spencer’s Gifts when you were in Jr. High. 

Now replace heist with workshop at one of the dozens of conferences she jets off to every year. Or group blog. Or a volunteer position in any number local writing organizations.

Yeah, you can put your hand down now.

Twice as cool as Clooney.

But you didn’t come here for movie analogies, did you? You want the dirty dirt, right. Well, I can’t give that to you. What kind of friend do you think I am? But I might get away with sharing just a few choice Sophie secrets.

*Sophie is a freakin’ empath. I’m not kidding about this. The woman is scary good at reading the emotions of others. If you have met her for more than a few minutes, rest assured, Sophie Littlefield has got you pegged. Yeah, even you, Mr. Too Cool For The World. The second you opened your mouth, Sophie knew your every insecurity and deepest fear. One time over coffee, she read the whole story of my childhood by the way I ordered a bagel. Once again, not kidding.

*Sophie is far more complex than any character from her books, and, as we all know by the quarter of bazillion award nominations she’s received, that’s no easy task. It’s no secret that Sophie likes scotch, and yeah, she’s from Missouri. But she isn’t Stella. What she is a delightfully complex blend of midwestern hospitality and brutal honesty. She likes to stay in luxury hotels, but drink in dive bars. She’s half five star restaurants and half nut-rolled cheese log. She’s kind but not a pushover. She’s honest, but never cruel. It’s a lovely tightrope that she walks, and one that makes her attractive to all kinds of people. Any time you see Sophie, she’s surrounded by people. I’ve only been to one conference with her, but I’m willing to wager that the only time she was alone that whole week was when she went to the bathroom.

*Sophie loves to bring people together. Romance writers and mystery writers. Thrillers, fantasy, sci fi, literary, doesn’t matter. We’re all just writers in Sophie’s mind, and we should all be welcome at the same table. It was that attitude that first really drew me to Sophie.

And after a couple years of being able to call her my friend, I’ll freely admit it; if she asked me to help her rob a casino...check that, three casinos...I would totally do it.

Weaving In and Out of Worlds

Today's guest is mystery writer Supriya Savkoor.

Supriya is a former journalist turned mystery writer. Her international suspense novel, Breathing in Bombay, was awarded the 2010 Helen McCloy/Mystery Writers of America Scholarship for Mystery Writing. Supriya is based near Washington, DC, where she lives with her husband and two daughters.


One minute I’m here, the next I’m there, though I don’t always have to be in motion to make the transition. How do I do it? No, I’m not a shapeshifter, but sometimes my dual lens on the world makes me feel like one.

About ten years ago, my husband and I decided to backpack through Europe, choosing random points from a map. We started in Prague, ended in Rome, and hopped between as many cities as we could pack into the three weeks we had off from work.

Needless to say, the trip was extraordinary. Stone castles in Prague, the Duomo in Florence, San Marcos in Venice, the Jungfrau in Switzerland, those rustic, romantic lanes of Salzburg followed by that exquisite panoramic view of its skyline from the fortress. And always, endless stretches of gorgeous scenery whizzing past us, from one Eurorail stop to the next, especially those great open fields of yellow. Often, we watched from the dining car, as we sipped delicious, inexpensive house wine and tried to think of ways to extend our holiday.

There was plenty to fill us with awe--history, grand architecture, fabulous food, gelato, and lots of photographs. We did little shopping except to hunt for cheap film a couple times. Remember those days?

But then on our long walks, we’d encounter something both familiar yet so foreign. A small dive of an Indian restaurant in a back alley of Florence, loud bhangra music blaring from its open doors, the day’s specials written in Italian (pollo tandoori) on a chalkboard hanging in the scratched window, a string of colorful lights framing it. A little Indian grocery store in the grand train station in Bern, plastic bangles lining the counters, the pungent aromas of cumin and cardamom filling the air. A glitzy Indian wedding party sweeping through the streets of Interlaken. Young Bangladeshi men, refugees we were told, hawking colorful scarves on the fountain steps of Piazza Navona in Rome (one of my favorite places to sit and watch the grand and ordinary come together).

Restaurants, shops, weddings, street peddlers. Despite these visible aspects of our shared heritage, I could barely relate to them. It felt as though we were worlds apart, them emigrating from Asia and planting roots in Europe and me, an American of Indian heritage visiting as a tourist. Yet these little brushes of cultural intersections deeply intrigued me. How did these people get here? How did they learn the local language? What are their lives like? Do they bridge cultural divides differently than I do? How do they adapt? Do they feel at home?

Looking back, I wished I’d asked, but it seemed awfully impertinent to ask what amounted to, “what are you doing here?” The answers I wanted were deeply personal, about their inner lives more than the mechanics of uprooting their families and making the physical move.

And as curious as they were to me in those settings, foreign really, they hardly registered us, two ethnic-Indian backpackers wandering through their towns. Meanwhile, I still think of them. My cross-cultural upbringing may have planted the seed for the fiction I like to write today, but travel has had a huge hand in growing that seed.

Visit Supriya on the Novel Adventurers blog.

Gigi's Trip to South India - Part II

(The first part of this post, which appeared 2 weeks ago, can be viewed here.)

I traveled to India in late October and early November this year, my third trip to the country, and my first to the southern states of Tamil Nadu and Kerala. We also visited Bangalore, in Karnataka.

I previously posted some of the more serene images from my visit (e.g. boats along the Kerala backwaters and sunrise in Kochi), so today I'm going with the loud vibrancy that hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane.

Traffic in Bangalore.

Theoretically there are traffic lanes in India, but I swear I didn't see a single car drive within a lane. But I've gotta admit it works for them -- because I also didn't witness a single traffic accident. Crossing the street as a pedestrian isn't for the feint-hearted either. But a couple days into the trip I could hold out my arm and jog across the street with the best of 'em.


Women in saris on the back of motorbikes and scooters.
Because of the dense traffic, a motorbike is the fastest way to get where you're going, even for a family of 3 or 4. Women sometimes sit facing forward on the seat, but more often than not they side side saddle, like the woman in the right image.


Men catching a ride on the backs of trucks.
Yes, in the lower left photo that's a guy sleeping on top of the sacks the truck is transporting.


A family traveling with their goat on an autorickshaw.


An elephant walking down the road.


The backs of two colorful trucks.
Both of these trucks bear the common "sound horn" text, asking drivers to honk their horns when passing. Since nobody drives within lanes, this occurred at least once a second in every city I visited.

Moving onto a different type of traffic, just as colorful:

Boats lining the coast in a fishing village along the coast of Kerala.


Colorful boats of Kanyakumari (the southern tip of India).


Crowds walking to the ferry in Kanyakumari.

A banana stand at the side of the road.


And lastly, a detail of the colorful Meenakshi temple in Madurai.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

--Gigi

Martha's Travel Diaries

During January of 1992 I went on an 8th grade class trip to England.
During Summer of 1996, my best friend and I backpacked mainland Europe.

If you ask me now about these trips, I will wax poetic about the cultural significance of the sites, the artistic beauty of the museums I visited, the historical awe I felt from being at the birthplace of William Shakespeare or Rome's government.

But in reality, at the time, with the brain of a teenager, my thoughts went like this:

January 19 1992

I was not in the mood to get on a boat {to England} when I knew I was going to get extremely seasick. On the ride to the youth hostel I spent most of the sleeping (on {my boyfriend}). The food at the hostel is halfway decent. I love the fact that our bedrooms are better than the guys. It's a nice feeling.

January 22 1992

We went to an Aerospace Museum where we were given booklets with twelve airplanes and various data which we were supposed to fill out by running around a place the size of a football field to find the particular plane and examine it. After lunch we went to the Black Country World coal minds. Then we came back for dinner. Then, forced into bathing suits in which we were not given time to diet into, we went to the pool.

January 23 1992

We went to see a performance of Romeo and Juliet. At one point when Juliet was dancing in a semi see-through nightgown, all the boys, including {the male teacher} leaned forward and used binoculars.

July 2 1996

I am on the train headed for Madrid. The last few days were hectic {in France}. We walked over five hours and I thought I was going to die because my feet hurt so much. We got to bed early and started again at ten the next morning. Although I would love to say I grooved with the eight or so hours of walking we did, but I'm in some serious pain.

We did see some really cool sites. The PereLachaise and the graves of Oscar Wilde and Victor Hugo. We set off in search of the Pantheon . My legs were killing me and I could barely waddle down the street. We proceeded to walk (I limped) down the Champs Elysees and finally stopped at Haagen Daaz.

July 6 1996

{My friend} and I arrived in Madrid to find that none of our money worked. The hostel wouldn't accept it because it was so old.

July 8 1996

We're in a campsite in Bordeaux. Last night {my friend} and I had the hardest time falling asleep because I told a horror story and we both got really freaked. We sat huddled in the tent willing {her boyfriend and his brother} to come from their tent and sleep on our sides so that if a murderer with a machete came, they'd die first.

July 9 1996

We spent most of yesterday in the sun and I have an insignificant tan. My butt really hurts from all the biking and I'm thinking about not doing that again ever.