Dear Readers,

         Every day I am privileged to witness an abundance of animals going about their daily business in my little corner of this mysteriously interconnected world. And whether their creatural antics move me to laugher or tears, I am forever in awe of their powerful sense of survival, innate curiosity, and playfulness.
        
       At any given moment, I can look out a window here at LakeWatch and see something happening. My short list of visitors consists of common birds, squirrels, loons, osprey, eagles, fox, raccoons, deer, moose, and the occasional coyote. Robbie and I have watched rutting bucks battle it out in our woods, osprey plunge into the lake for their dinner, and chickadees land on unsuspecting visitors in search of a treat.

         All of which makes me wonder if some animals might possess a sense of humor, or if I am merely projecting an endearingly human trait upon them. For that matter, do creatures mourn? Can they feel pride? Regret? Hate? Compassion? Love?

         I do know it never fails to surprise me how they interact not only with people but with each other. Crows are the town criers of the animal kingdom; toss out some food and the black-feathered busybodies broadcast the news to every scavenger within earshot. In minutes, our front lawn can look like the local landfill as seagulls come swooping in from every direction. (This doesn't exactly endear me to the neighbors, but since my sons have returned and are now my nearest neighbors, there's not much they can do about their mother's penchant for feeding the crows, is there?)

         We used to have chickens here at LakeWatch, and one afternoon I remember looking out my front window to see a crow and one of my hens engaged in a tug of war. Each had an end of some poor worm in its beak, and each refused to give up its prize. It was a comical sight, as my fluffy blonde hen went eyeball to eyeball with that equally determined crow. Needless to say, the worm was the ultimate loser when it finally snapped in half. Both birds quickly swallowed their treats, then immediately began hunting for their next victims – acting as if the wild\domestic interaction was a common occurrence.

         Another time, I was sitting on my back porch when it suddenly dawned on me that my crows were being unusually raucous. I scanned the field to discover a fox standing on its hind legs, stretched full length up against our small shed near the woods. I then noticed a cat (not one of mine) lying on the roof of the shed, calmly staring down at the out-foxed vixen. The crows were perched in the surrounding trees, cawing their little heads off as if shouting, "Fight! Fight!"

         So what does any of this have to do with my writing? Well … if you've learned anything about me these past few years, it's that I have a powerful appreciation for animals. I can't help but draw parallels between my feathered and four-legged friends and people – especially the characters in my stories. From observing Mother Nature, I have come to expect the unexpected. That is why it no longer confounds me to be happily writing along, blithely headed down my intended path, and have one of my characters suddenly do or say something I hadn't anticipated. Sometimes I don't even realize what's happened until after it's happened!

         Jack Stone caught me completely off guard when he first stepped onto the page. The guy was pointing a high-powered rifle at Megan and Kenzie, for crying out loud. I don't care that it wasn't loaded; that was not a nice thing for my hero to be doing.

         At this point – which was quite early in the story – I wondered if I was even going to like Jack. Would he be one of those characters who caused me all sorts of trouble, or would I fall head over heels in love with him myself? Honestly, people, I am very open-minded when it comes to my stories, in that I am just as curious to see what's going to happen next when I'm writing as you are when you're reading. After all, if I already know how things are going to turn out, then why spend months locked in my studio merely toying with the details?

         Does it shock you to learn that I don't meticulously plot out my books, or use a storyboard or scene cards? Heck, I don't even know my full cast of characters when I type "Chapter One" on that first page. (Please don't mention this to my editor, as she'll likely have a heart attack!) For me, telling a story is as unpredictable as life itself, in that I have no way of knowing what's going to happen tomorrow or next week or next year, much less in the next chapter.

         Do you?

         We can certainly try to plan our future, but how often does it unfold exactly as we've envisioned? And if we could know the future, would we really want to? If a caterpillar knew it was going to be some bird's dinner within hours of becoming a butterfly, would it even bother to emerge from its cocoon? Could you fall madly in love with someone if you knew you were going to fall out of love with him in a few years?

         When we open our eyes each morning, we understand that the decisions we make today will shape our tomorrows. And so it is with my characters. They are just as hopeful as we are, that the choices they make will be the right ones. Should they go next door and ask that cute guy if they can borrow a cup of sugar? Should they finally hand in their notice at work? Or should they sign up for that business class they've always wanted to take?

         My characters might think they've got their lives all planned out when we first meet them, and they might even think they know exactly how they'll react in any given situation. But guess what? They are often as surprised as I am by how they do react. Just as when my hen grabbed that worm and looked up to find a crow on the other end, my characters must ultimately decide for themselves if the prize they're after is worth fighting for.

         I so fell in love with Jack Stone.

         Until later, from LakeWatch,

         Janet

 June 2007

Dear Readers,

       Robbie and I are in the habit of loading the camper onto our pickup whenever the mood strikes us, and simply driving out of our dooryard. When we reach the stop sign at the main road, it's only then that we look at each other and ask, "Which way do we want to go? Right or left?"Right takes us toward the mountains; left toward the ocean. More often than not, Robbie votes we turn right. He likes heading into the mountains, as there aren't many places to spend money in the wilderness. Whereas the coastline of Maine is awash with tourist attractions, most of which have a way of sucking the dollar bills directly from our wallets. Lobster shacks, antique shops, amusement parks, and schooner rides call out as my husband tries to sneak by, his fists clenched on the steering wheel and his foot heavy on the gas as he steels himself against my softly spoken, "Oh, that looks interesting. Let's stop."

       For those of you who might not know, stopping a heavy truck camper in Route One summer traffic is about as easy as bringing a 22-wheeler loaded with saw logs to a halt. But my husband of thirty years knows that if mama ain't happy, ain't no one happy, and he smartly finds a place to turn around and go back.

       But sometimes a girl's just gotta shop. I mean, what's the point of venturing out into the big beautiful world if you can't lug some of it back home with you? Granted, when we go to the mountains I return with unusual rocks, beaver-sculpted sticks, and maybe a discarded antler or two. They're all fantastic treasures to display around the house, but so are bird feeders that look like lighthouses, wind chimes that sound like offshore buoys, and lobster trap coffee tables. And the blueberry jam from Washington County is to die for.

       Robbie is loading the camper right now as I write this, and just between you and me, I already have a destination in mind. When we reach the stop sign, I'm going to strongly suggest we turn left.
"Why?" he'll ask, even as he sighs in defeat.
 
       Because, I'll tell him, I am smack in the middle of writing a book that takes place in KeelStone Cove, an imaginary town on the downeast coast of Maine. And everyone know that authors must thoroughly research their story settings.

       After all, it's been a full year since I've taken a schooner ride. I also believe we should eat lobster on the pier, just to add some authenticity to my work. And what kind of writer would I be if I didn't peruse the tourist shops? How can I hope to convey the essence of KeelStone Cove if I don't hit every attraction each tiny fishing village has to offer? And I have to lug something home to place beside my computer, to nudge my muse when I find myself staring at a blank screen.

       It's summer, people! Get out and explore your own corner of the world. Lug little bits of it home with you. Leave your chores, your challenges, and your worries behind, and have fun.
Can't get away right now? Then find a good romance novel and indulge yourself in a mini-vacation!

Until later ... keep reading,
Janet

The Camper

Winter 2006-2007

Dear Readers,

     I most often wake up writing. Usually between three and four a.m., the characters in whatever story I'm working on begin stirring in my subconscious, urging me out of my earth-bound dreams and into their ethereal world. It doesn't seem to matter that I could use another hour of sleep; these conjured people are in such a hurry to get on with their lives that they don't much care about mine. They've been quite patient, they point out, to have put their problems on hold while I recharged my mental batteries. And since I had the nerve to imagine them into existence to begin with, they insist that I am their only means of achieving happily ever after.

I have awakened to whispered conversations, the sound of something falling in a far corner of my bedroom, and occasional eye-opening shouts that only I seem to hear. I've tried ignoring these determined figments of my imagination by using my sons' trick of simply pretending I'm still asleep. I've tried directing my thoughts to other things, such as grocery and to-do lists.   Sometimes, I must admit, I even shout back. But inspiration is a relentless task-master, and eventually I am compelled to get up, get dressed, get over to my studio, and get writing.

       This is not an easy thing for me to do in the dead of winter, when the outside thermometer reads ten below, there's a foot of new snow on the ground, and I just happen to be scared of the dark.  That's why, I think, God saw fit to bless me with an indulgent husband who, without complaint, will get up, get dressed, walk me to my studio, and open every closet door in the place looking for the proverbial bogeyman.  (Though Robbie claims he checks the newspapers regularly, and has yet to see any reports of anyone being accosted by a bogeyman, I still can't make that short trek alone when it's dark out, much less bring myself to open those closet doors.)

       Time is an earthly concept, I've decided, designed only to give us humans a false sense of control. I came to this conclusion one particularly early winter morning when Robbie and I stepped outside and found ourselves in a fantasy world. Four inches of new snow covered everything in a pristine mantle of white that glittered in the starlight like crystal gems. The world was uncharacteristically silent, and so were we as we gazed around at the splendor laid before us. My eye caught the flash of something overhead, and I looked up to see thick ribbons of green light pulsing across the sky in endless waves of brilliant energy.

       The aurora borealis is a well documented, scientifically explained event that occurs when electrons from the sun's solar winds are drawn into the earth's magnetic field, where they collide with oxygen and nitrogen in the ionosphere. The results is a light show that in my opinion is unrivaled in its ability to instill sheer awe. And on this particular morning, the sky appeared to be a living, breathing thing.

       Time suspended as the universe gave us a small glimpse of its vast, mystical powers, and my incessant need to rise hours before the sun became clear – if not to Robbie, then at least to me. There are no clocks or calendars out there, I realized, which is why inspiration never seems to arrive with any semblance of order or logic. Nor does it seem concerned about sleep, meals, familial obligations, contract deadlines, or a new grandson needing his gram's attention.

       Inspiration, like the universe, just IS.

       Many people have asked me where I get my ideas for the stories I write, and I have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. But not for lack of trying, for I too would like to know not only how but why these characters step out of the ether and take up residence in my mind, refusing to leave until I tell their stories so that they may enter your minds through my books. They want to be known, to inspire us, tug on our emotions, and endear themselves in our hearts. They want … they want simply to BE.

       Once I've told their stories, they very quietly get on with their lives and leave me to get on with my own. My peaceful little corner of the world – and my sleep pattern - returns to normal. That is until another group of characters come marching in like Mardi Gras revelers, shouting and knocking things off my bureau.

      Not that I'm complaining. I love these people. Just like you and me, they have wants, needs, secret desires, dreams of their own. They bravely face their trials and tribulations, and hopefully conquer their fears and triumph in their endeavors. They laugh and cry and feel very much what we flesh-and-blood mortals feel as we try to find our own way in this mystifying world. Yes, the characters in my stories are as real as the northern lights that blessed Robbie and me with the wonderful gift of connective awareness on that utterly magical morning.

       So what awakens you, and compels you to get up, get dressed, and get going?

Until later, from LakeWatch … happy reading!
Janet

Where the magic happens.

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