What I'm reading: Contest #8 of 8; Space in his Heart, by Roxanne St. Claire.
A brief promo moment. I've just made Deadly Secrets available in print, for those who prefer that format. You can buy it here. And, there's another outlet for Danger in Deer Ridge as well. You can find it here
Also, for you, my loyal blog readers, I'm giving you advance notice that I'm opening up guest slots for April - June. If you'd like a slot, check the sidebar.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and while the media bombards us with ways to spend money to prove our love, I think most of us would rather have it spread out over time, and not be a budget breaker. I've spoken many times about why a Swiss Army Knife was one of the most romantic gifts I've ever received. And why I wasn't "offended" at the electronic tire pressure gauge I got one year. The first showed that Hubster had actually listened to me, and I wasn't even talking to him at the time. The second showed that he's concerned for my safety. (And as proof, I think he used it a LOT more than I did to make sure my tires were okay.)
When I was at the Emerald City conference, Sarah Wendell (more widely known for her "Smart Bitches" blog) gave everyone a copy of her book, "Everything I Know About Love I Learned from Romance Novels." One section struck a deep chord, and I'm reprinting it with her permission.
"As an article in the Boston Globe in October 2009 by oncologist Robin Schoenthaler stated, the ideal man is not the one with the biggest bank account or the extreme sports habit, but is the man who will hold your purse in the cancer clinic:"
Dr. Schoenthaler wrote:
I became acquainted with what I've come to call great 'purse partners' at a cancer clinic in Waltham. Everyday these husbands drove their wives in for their radiation treatments, and every day these couples sat side by side in the waiting room, without much fuss and without much chitchat. Each wife, when her name was called, would stand, take a breath, and hand her purse over to her husband. Then she'd disappear into the recesses of the radiation room, leaving behind a stony-faced man holding what was typically a white vinyl pocketbook. On his lap. The guy—usually retired from the trades, a grandfather a dozen times over, a Sox fan since date of conception—sat there silently with that purse. He didn't read, he didn't talk, he just sat there with the knowledge that twenty feet away technologists were preparing to program an unimaginably complicated X-ray machine and aim it at the mother of his kids. I'd walk by and catch him staring into space, holding hard onto the pocketbook, his big gnarled knuckles clamped around the clasp, and think, "What a prince."
Have a happy Valentine's Day, everyone. May you find your own prince.
Tomorrow, my guest, author and private investigator Colleen Collins, will be talking about Lust, Ethics, and the PI.
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