oday, I was forced to think about methods of authentication. I have a scene or two in my book in which my heroine heads to a bank to make a withdrawal from an account. When I originally wrote them, I did a little bit of research to see where banks were and what interest they paid and that sort of thing, but the research I found did not give me any details about the actual practice of banking in London in 1836. Feeling to lazy to delve further, I made a mental note to do Actual Research (namely, hoping someone on the Beaumonde knew better) later, and I made the rest up. (For those of you who are cringing at this lackadaisical attitude, I have to say that there are some historical details I find endlessly fascinating–like, when did the courts of law and equity merge? And what happened to cases pending in Chancery when they did? There are others, like, say, everything to do with finance that I find immeasurably boring.

This, I thought, fell in to the latter category. It turns out I was wrong. Well, wrong about some of the details I’d made up, but also wrong that the details would be boring. It turns out–and this is oh-so-topical–that problems of authenticating identity have always existed. My biggest problem in thinking about banking in 1836 London was this. By the time 1836 rolled around, London was a large enough metropolitan region, and the larger banks had sufficient clientele, that authentication by recognition was simply not much of an option. That is, the banks had lots of clients, and while they probably knew the wealthier ones (or, more like, the solicitors of the wealthier ones), they probably didn’t know Farmer Jones and Grocer Bob. How did Farmer Jones and Grocer Bob go about keeping a banker? In other words, even setting aside questions of bank failure, how could Farmer Jones walk into a bank and trust them not only to keep his money, but to give it up to Jones–and only Jones–on request? And these mundane details that were of actual plot-significance for me–who would actually bother to write them down?

After all, there are so many aspects of our life today–how an ATM card works, for instance, and the manner in which checks function, and the financial web that allows us to walk up to a bank in the Netherlands and withdraw Euros from the American Dollar salary direct-deposited by our employer–I mean, all of those words today, if you had no idea what they meant, wouldn’t even explain how the system works. Enter this incredibly detailed description of how banking works. It is essentially a comprehensive manual, describing exactly how to run a bank, with everything discussed in both minute detail, with a running commentary about the purpose of all the things that are required. It discusses things I would never even have thought of researching, but that I got wrong, including the method in which debits and credits were entered into an account (I shoulda known that they did double-ledgered accounting–of course they did double-ledgered accounting–my brother taught me better than that!), and the manner in which debits and credits were entered (they were not, as I had thought, entered as 3l 5s 2d, as sums were so often written–that takes too long. Instead they were £ 3-5-2.

I also learned that when people talked about a holographic draft, they meant a draft in the account owner’s own handwriting–a historical detail that I suspect can’t be used since the word “holograph” would only confuse the modern reader who attributes a very different meaning to the word. They also had a signature registry, which they used to match signatures on drafts. In any event, I feel suitably chastened. I thought I was going to be searching after arcane details, but it turns out that I was actually searching after intelligent solutions to an extremely hard problem.

I had dreaded it for so long, and it was fun! It was like going to the dentist and getting a book instead of a teeth-cleaning!

  lot of people are talking about goals. I have three lists of goals. One is my mid-year goals list–the things I want to accomplish by July of 2008. Then I have the 2008 goals list. And then I have my 10-year plan, for 2018.

The one thing I always keep in mind is that I cannot have everything I want (sadly), and so I don’t make goals lists so I can strike off every item on the list. I expect to not achieve all my goals. That means I have to know what trumps what. So, for instance, on the ten year plan, I have listed “build my own home.” Because that is a dream of mine, and it would be nice. And another thing on that list is “have at least a million dollars in liquid assets.” Which would also be nice. I think that either of these things are attainable. It’s probably going to be difficult to do both. A third item on that list is “Have sex on every continent (including Antarctica).” Which may not exactly be compatible with the million dollars, either.

And so I have to know where my priorities are. Of the the three, the one that is (obviously) highest priority is. . . . The third one. Obviously. And yes, I’m serious. Because at the end of my life, I am not going to lean back and say, “I had a million bucks when I was forty.” And while I might enjoy the process of acquiring a custom-built home, I know myself well enough to know that 90% of the time I spend there will consist of my ignoring my surroundings because I am enraptured in what I am reading or writing. I just don’t pay attention to what’s going on around me.
But the third one not only involves two of my favorite activities, it’s one that will make a lot of memories and bring me closer to Mr. Milan. And so if I have to sacrifice the other goals to get that one, I’ll do it.

Remember: Goals are dreams. Goals are not death sentences. Don’t pursue them just because you want to cross them off your list. If you stop wanting a goal, don’t be afraid to give it up.

With those cheery, encouraging words for 2008, I wish everyone all the best! Happy New Year!

o, this is not a post about writing–at least not directly.  It’s a post about my mother.  Mrs. Milan, if you will.  My mother is in town.  During this time, she talked to someone I work with, and when that person asked her what she did, she shrugged her shoulders and hunkered down and said in a quiet voice, “Oh, nothing significant.”

Gah!  I prodded her in the shoulder, and then told the person that she was writing a series of books for parents of very young children, based on her experiences both as a schoolteacher and as a mother.  She has a research agenda and as a schoolroom teacher her methods were overwhelmingly successful.  She has a unique ability to get into someone’s head and understand why they’re not learning–what little thing it is that they can’t quite get.  And then she figures out how to communicate it.  This, she says, is “nothing significant.”  And when I questioned (okay, when I bullied) her about her word choice later, she said that little things like teaching kids and books for parents just don’t seem all that important.

Gah.  It made me think of how many times we women tend to downplay the feminine side of things we do.  I know I used to.

Friend: What are you reading?

Me, hiding cover of romance: Oh, nothing.

It wasn’t until I got rabid that I started telling people that I read romances.  That I started realizing how hiding this part of myself told people it was okay to belittle romances, and by extension, okay to tell women that their desires–stability, family, friends, love–were not as important as gunshot wounds and war zones.  That the best things in life were just not that significant.

So, tell me:  What have you learned to stand up for?  Is there anything you wish you had the guts to say?

  have a dirty secret. I listen to conversations. I listen to private conversations. In restaurants, on the bus, on the street–you name it. If it’s in earshot, I’m listening. I can’t help it.

Okay. I can help it. I just don’t want to. And occasionally–like tonight–I hear things that make me want to jump up and shake the person in question. Tonight, I heard a girl who insisted, rather vociferously, that the American fascination with all things Japanese is just about sex. The rationale is one I won’t repeat here, but the person made the assertion that (1) the fascination with anime (she meant “manga,” incidentally, since she was talking about print cartoons) was all about pedophilia; (2) if Americans really were interested in Japanese culture, they’d understand that Japanese culture was all about death, witness their preoccupation with suicide; and (3) you didn’t see anyone interested in samurai culture.

Mr. Milan had to forcibly restrain me from getting up out of my seat to beat her over the head with my soup bowl. If I’d been talking to her, I would have scoffed in her face. The problem? I wasn’t talking to her. I don’t even know her. I was just overhearing her commentary. (It didn’t help that it feels like it’s 4 AM here.)

So . . . . We’re all authors. Do you ever listen in on conversations? What’s the most egregious thing you’ve ever overheard, and what (if anything) did you do about it?

kay. So I haven’t blogged in something like a month. You’re all wondering what I’ve been doing, right?

The answer is: Not much. And boy, does it feel good. I visited some friends. I’ve been cooking dinner (something I did almost never last year), and rediscovering that oh, yes, I enjoy cooking. I really enjoy cooking. And I enjoy being cooked for. Two days ago, I made a kind of fettucine: ribbons of carrots and zucchini (use a vegetable peeler), lightly blanched and tossed with black pepper fettucine (you want about 3 parts vegetable to 1 part pasta), with olive oil and roasted garlic and a twitch of basil and salt and pepper, and topped with mounds of freshly grated romano. The great thing about this dish is that it leaves leftovers: bits of carrot and zucchini that can’t be peeled into ribbons without slicing your hands, and about half the clove of roasted garlic. So on the next day, you chop those into bits and fry them in olive oil along with a little of the sopressata you got for sandwiches on your road trip, and then add enough egg to make a brilliant frittata. When you have time to cook, one meal slides into the next which slides into the next, without ever invoking that curse word: Leftovers.
All this makes me think about food, and the surprising fact that although I love to eat, in my current WIP, my characters never eat together. This is extremely bizarre to me. Food is love; I could never love an anorexic man. If I can’t eat with him, drink with him, and make food with him, I doubt I could ever really love him. But the truth of the matter is that there are very few times when our characters would ever make food together, if we’re writing in historical times. Someone else always did all the work.

And then that makes me think of all the novels I have stuck in my head. Somewhere in my head, there’s a romance novel where one of the main characters is a chef–an absolutely hyper French-trained chef–the kind you always hear bursting into tears when the souffle falls. And that is going to be a novel about food and sin and gluttony and indulgence.

But speaking of gluttony and indulgence: I had one good writing day this last month, and that’s about it! What is up with that?

So what do you do, when you’re not doing anything?

irst, the winners! The winner of the random drawing is . . . Elyssa! As for the job I’d most like to have, let’s see. You all gave me some really great options, and it’s hard to choose just one. But I have to say that Estelle’s last choice sounds pretty awesome:

[S]omebody suggested the need for a job called Mongol Librarian. You’d ride around to all the different libraries, shoot arrows at annoying patrons, and sleep in tents outside.

Plus, think how great it would be at dinner parties:”So, what do you do?”

“I write books. Plus, I’m a Mongol Librarian.”

“What’s a Mongol Librarian?”

“I slay those who annoy me.”

“Uh, and does this pay well?”

“Sure. Especially if the people who annoy me are rich.”

Elyssa and Estelle, contact me with your snail-mail address and tell me the name of a book you want!

In any event, some statistics from the last two days:

Total Miles Traveled: 2012

Total Time: 47 hours (29 on the road)

Gallons of Gas used: 58 (I love my car! Plus it was packed full.)

Speeding tickets: 2

Speeding tickets I deserved: 1

Speed I was going when I got said ticket: 101.

Number of hours it took to pack car to brim: 7

Number of hours it took to unpack car with Mr. Milan’s help: 0.5

How much I love Mr. Milan: infinity.

Pages written in last week: 0. But I excuse myself.

his is the last of the super busy times I’ll have for a while. After that, things will lighten up for another month or so, and then they’ll be really light for a few months after that.
I am really looking forward to that. I try not to complain too much about my job, but in the last 317 days, I have had a total of 9 days off. Yes, that includes weekends (what weekends?) and holidays. No, I don’t get paid overtime. I have resigned myself to being an incredible flake at the vast majority of things. I forget to pay bills; I’m lucky if I manage to rush things in at the last minute. I haven’t talked to some friends in months and months. I don’t have time to go to the store, and I visit the dry cleaners about as often as Febreze will let me get by. Some weeks I almost forget what real human interaction is like.
But now all I really need to do is get through another two weeks. If I can do that, it’s all downhill.