Congratulations to our Farewell Week Winners! Ladies, please send your contact information to the appropriate vagabond at romancevagabonds.com, and we will get your books in the mail. Enjoy!

Lindsey–Chelsea B, Amber E, and RachieG
Manda—Margay
Janga—Cheryl C
Élodie– Jane, Julie, and Mari

The campfire is extinguished. The vagabonds are on the move. Thanks again to everyone who made our time here unforgettable.

As I ruminated on my life as a Vagabond, I had to go back and look at that first blog. What fun it is to read our first thoughts and impressions! It’s like digging through an old journal you began years before and seeing how far you’ve come. It’s amazing how much we mature as humans, writers, and even bloggers in our thinking and perceiving the world. To give you a taste of Élodie, the early years, below is my first blog:

Hello out there to all you fellow romance addicts! So I’ve always found my life to be filled with more activities than there are hours in the day, and this worked out quite well for me.Then I found out about Avon FanLit. And my life was never the same. I first heard about it through the website of one of my favorite authors Eloisa James and thought it would be a neat idea, but didn’t consider jumping in there for anything more than voting on friend’s submissions. Well, you know how that say once you’ve been bit by the bug…I may not have been bit by the acting bug (this time), but I sure got bit by the writing bug! On a whim, I submitted my first chapter just hours before the first round ended and I was hooked. Daily I tracked my scores. As one friend very astutely put it, I had Avonitis. I think I still do. Or at least I’m going through withdrawals. I met some incredible people through this event and saw talent that makes me want to chunk it all and take up full-time reading. I offer much applause to all the writers who found a voice in this contest. It takes guts to put yourself on the line. And I saw much amazing talent that I hope to be reading within the next few years.

So after six weeks of juggling writing professional papers as well as fictional ones, it all has come to an end. And I know that my life will not be the same boring 25 hours crammed into 24, anymore. Now I plan to cram 30!

Since the onset of this contest, I’ve been pondering two questions: What happened to my life? and What’s next?

I could just go back to focusing solely on my academic work, but where would be the fun in that? I hadn’t pondered the upcoming NaNoWriMo, but once you’ve been bitten by the bug…I suppose I’ll just have to look forward to continuing my juggling act. So far the balls are still in the air…

So, tell me, have you ever participated in a writing contest, big or small? What did it do for you?

What is so amazing is that we all have done this in the changes in our lives. Whether we’ve Fanlitted, NaNoWriMo’d, Vagabondlitted, Thesis’d, or Dissertated it, we’ve all traveled the journey of writing adventures. And loved every minute of it.

For all those among us who have been wondering about where I disappeared to for the last several months, I have been buried in comprehensive exam-land–not nearly as much fun as Romanceland, I assure you. I now emerge ABD (that means All But Dissertation) and I am ready to conquer the dissertation. Of course, I have allowed myself the treat of writing 1 hour per day on works of fiction (and try to keep the dissertation from becoming a work of fiction in the process). So, I’m back to adventures in writing after a 2 year hiatus.

On a brighter note, fear not, we will not be demolishing the cite. There were way too many great blogs and comments to do something as heinous as that. So, RV will remain. Because you never know when you might get a hankering to go back and read one of Manda’s clever stories, Lindsey’s great reviews, Janga’s wise advice, Hellion’s (and Ely’s) insane parodies, Tiff’s wickedly sexy heroes, or Élodie’s odd ramblings.

And so, I bid you, my dear friends, au revoir, with three things:

A Final Parting Song:

How do I say goodbye to what we had?
The good times that made us laugh
Outweigh the bad.

I thought wed get to see forever
But forever’s gone away
It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

I don’t know where this road
Is going to lead
All I know is where we’ve been
And what we’ve been through.

If we get to see tomorrow
I hope its worth all the wait
It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

And I’ll take with me the memories
To be my sunshine after the rain
It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

And I’ll take with me the memories
To be my sunshine after the rain
It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

O come on! You had to know I’d go all 90’s Boy-Band on you! I just couldn’t resist.

In all seriousness, my heart feels the sad rain of knowing something I have loved for some time is coming to a close, but I look forward to the sunshine that will be there every time I see another Tessa Dare, Courtney Milan, Tiffany Clair, Maggie Robinson, Sara Lindsey, Manda Collins, Janga, Elyssa Papa, JK Coi, Santa, J Perry Stone new release on the shelves waiting for insatiable readers to gobble them up. And I know we shall all continue to be there for each I other; I simply will miss gathering around this campfire throughout the week to share our triumphs and trials.

A Profound Thought:

Friends will help you move. Real friends will help you move bodies. Let me know if I ever need to bring a shovel.

And A Toast:

To all our beloved Vagabonds and Vagabondettes out there, I raise a toast to friendship, support, love, and romance. Keep writing! I need new books to read!

Much love,
Élodie

P.S. I also forgot to mention that I have a teaching job lined up for next year, already!! Squeeeeeeeee! You know what this means?? I have to clean out some of the, er, “stuff” in my darling home, including some romance novels dying for new homes. Three lucky commenters will receive great romance books and treats from me! So please comment! Let’s really go out with a bang!

I’ve learned that even an introvert can work up the courage to invite authors she’s admired for years to be Visiting Vagabonds. I’ve learned how gracious and human celebrated authors can be. I’ve learned to scream almost silently so as not to wake my family when I discover in the middle of the night that Kathleen Gilles Seidel commented on my blog or that Christina Dodd is allowing the Vagabonds to break the news of a new series.

I have learned much from you, my friends, those who have visited with us along the way. You introduced me to new writers, made me see old favorites in a new light, and moved me to laughter and to tears with the words you shared. I have learned the most from Élodie, Lindsey, and Manda. Their patience, example, and unfaltering friendship have taught me to dream more, dare more, and do more. My gratitude to you all is greater than my words can say.

So with apologies to Ralph Rainger, Leo Robin, and Bob Hope, I offer my thanks in rhyme:

Thanks for the memory
Of posts I can’t forget,
Authors that I met,
Our wond’rous lists of eminents,
And Ritas and our bets.
How lucky I was.

And thanks for the memory
Of Super Tuesday bliss,
Hottest hero’s kiss.
The sizzlin’ scenes, the sweet and clean–
Not one did we miss.
How bookish it was.

Once past this farewell I’ll wake up
Alone on the next morning-after.
I’ll long for the “sound” of your laughter
And then I’ll see we’re history.

But thanks for the memory
Of all the readers’ thrills
And of the dreams fulfilled.
I’ve untied knots and learned a lot.
You’ve shared it all, and still
I’ll miss you so much.

Thanks for the memory
Of ev’ry A we gave,
Vagabondish faves,
That special win we squeed again,
The debuts that we raved—
How lovely it was.

Thanks for the memory
Of Visiting Vagabonds,
Contemps or beau monde.
We loved their books and caught their hooks.
How gracious they were.

Now gone are those days on RV
When together we’d explore issues.
So now I bring out the tissues,
And shed a tear,
And raise a cheer.

I know it’s been a great ride,
One in which we take great pride.
My friends, let’s lift a glass
To RVs here and past,
To memories that last.
And thank you so much.

At Lindsey’s invitation, I was the first guest blogger for the Vagabonds. I blogged on beta heroes. Today, in the first of what will be my regular Thursday blogs at Just Janga, I’m blogging on beta heroes again, proving that connections continue even as we move in different directions.

I leave you with a bit of advice from the very wise Dr. Seuss: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

What bit of song, what rhyme, what line will you leave us with?

One randomly selected commenter will receive a bag of books.

It’s time for these vagabond shoes to walk off into the sunset.

Well, not really. We’ll all still be around. Just not here in our own little piece of cyberspace where for three years we’ve held court, laughed, cried and in general had a grand time talking about this genre that for a myriad of reasons we all love so much.

As CM and Lindsey have already explained this week, the Romance Vagabonds were born out of the friendships that formed out of the 2006 Avon Fanlit competition. And when we started out Sara, Lindsey, Tiffany, Azalea, Elyssa and I knew next to nothing about blogging. But we all knew we wanted to write and we all knew that we wanted to somehow preserve the high we all got from being together. And so we blogged.

It was not easy. For those first few months it felt like we were sending our carefully crafted essays out into the ether to be read only by each other (and sometimes not even then). Or at least that’s what it felt like to me. But we learned. We realized what worked (lists!) and what didn’t (posts w/out images). We bit the bullet and invited authors we loved (and quaked in our boots when they accepted). We started getting requests from authors who wanted to guest blog (which made us quake in our boots again). And as time progressed we even got good at this blogging thing.

Things changed. Elyssa and Tiffany left to start the Vauxhall Vixens (which is still going strong) and Aza left to pursue her interior decorators license. And Sara and Lindsey and I invited Janga to come aboard. And we kept going.

So many things have happened since we started this gig in 2006. Heart surgeries, career changes, books written, authors met, books read, health scares, pets lost, agents gained. And that inescapable part of being a writer: rejections, lots and lots of rejection. And all this has only been what’s gone on with me. If we made a list of everything that’s happened to each of us we’d spend a couple more years blogging about the list.

Since we announced last week that we were closing up shop, we’ve had so many lovely comments from past Visiting Vagabonds as well as from “regulars” and lurkers. What I am most proud of from my time as a Vagabond is the sense of community that we were able to establish here. I count the friendships I have made here and during fanlit and on the Eloisa James Bulletin Board among the most important in my life.

Without them, I know I would never have had the courage to take writing seriously. And that’s what I’m doing now. Writing.

Seriously.

Thank you so much, Vagabonds, present and past, for letting me be a part of this special endeavor. It has been an honor and a privilege. I know I will work with you all again in some other capacity, but never again as a wandering gypsy with a keyboard and a story to tell.

And to all of you who have visited our blog over the past three years, I hope you have had half as much fun reading my blogs as I’ve had reading your comments. You’re a bloggers dream! Now go out there and show all those other blogs what you’re made of!

So, one last time, what about you? Do you have any words of wisdom to impart to us as we set out on our solo journeys? Or, if you do not feel comfortable dispensing words of wisdom, read any good books lately? Inquiring minds want to know!

A few notes: This version is unedited. I haven’t let myself read it, because if I do, I know I will be itching to correct parts, to edit and tweak it. There are a lot of things not to like about this story. One of them is that it is essentially a complete story in 1500 words. But for better or worse, writing this story changed my life.

Here was the writing prompt we were given:

The time: London, 1815, Spring;
The setting: The Duchess of Alderman’s annual ball

When your chapter opens, it is well after midnight and the ball is in full swing. A hush comes over the room as the beautiful and mysterious Countess Fraser enters. With little more than beauty, wit and charm, she has taken society by storm. But what is her background? The ladies are suspicious, and the men are predictably smitten.

All except Damien, the Earl of Coulter. He is convinced the lady is a charlatan. Determined to unmask her deception, he demands a dance.

The chapter concludes at the end of the evening. The twists and turns are up to you.

And this is what I produced:

–
The Goddess of Small Things

The clock had long ago struck twelve, and Captain Damien Rathbourne, Earl of Coulter, had developed a ferocious itch in his left leg. As that leg had been amputated over a year ago, he had no choice but to suffer in discomfort. The itch, of course, was the least of his pains. Tonight, the small things festered: women fastidiously avoided his eyes; conversations politely fixed on the weather rather than his health.

Half-foxed and wholeheartedly tired, he longed to leave. And yet at this late hour, guests still arrived. The latest announcement–Countess Something-or-Other–was a disaster. Her orange hair was twisted into a careless bun from which strands were already escaping. Her gown was outmoded, and her figure leaned towards chubby. As she walked down the stairs into the ballroom, she slipped on a step, and crashed into a gentleman. A ghastly silence swept the ball; a woman tittered.

“Unbelievable,” Damien muttered to himself.

Lord Darby, who stood near him, cast him a shocked look. “Countess Fraser? She’s a goddess.”

Damien’s gaze flicked back to the Countess. She had picked herself off the floor and appeared to be apologizing, her hands gesturing animatedly. She didn’t seem to be a beauty. “If you think so, you shouldn’t have much competition for her.”

“Are you mad? Countess Fraser could have her pick of any man.”

“She’s an Incomparable?” Damien was dubious.

“‘Course not,” Darby remonstrated. “I can compare her to loads of girls. She just comes out on top, is all.”

“She’s an Original, then.”

Darby waved his hand in denial. “No. Originals are all alike–snooty girls who think that wit and insult are synonymous.”

“Well-dowered?”

“Penniless, if rumor holds true.”

“Blue-blooded?”

“Before she married the now-departed Count Fraser, her people were nobodies.”

“Connected to the grand dames of London society?”

“So far as I can see, the women all hate her.”

“She’s a goddess?” Damien frowned dubiously.

“A goddess.” Darby affirmed. “Not Aphrodite, of course. But a goddess of little things gone right. You can’t understand unless you meet her.”

Damien shifted his weight from one crutch to the other. After Vitoria, it was as if his human interactions had been amputated along with his leg. His cohort stopped speaking to him of sport and war, and gradually withdrew from him altogether. Damien was suddenly furious with the purported goddess. He had everything but his leg, and yet could find no one. This mysterious woman had nothing and yet charmed everyone. He suddenly wanted to prove that she was like every other girl at the ball. She would be wretched. Conniving. And above all, she would be unable to meet his eyes.

“Well,” he said, striving to hide his anger. “Why don’t you introduce me then?”

Damien felt every eye in the ballroom carefully choose to look in another direction as he crutched his way across the ballroom. He could move at a reasonable clip; Darby barely had to slow his pace. The little things, however, irritated. Young maidens magically waved to friends across the room as they registered his direction; they dashed away lest he should corner them. Men fixed their gaze on some far away point. Damien gritted his teeth and clumped along.

Darby had not been lying; the Countess held court over a veritable bevy of men, ranging from pups down from Cambridge to sixty-year-old widowers. “Countess!” cried Darby, edging inside her circle. She smiled and gave Darby her hand. He bowed over it, and turned. “Allow me to introduce Captain Rathbourne. Earl of Coulter.”

The Countess extended her hand to Damien as well, and then stopped. Her gaze traveled down, and caught his single leg. Up close, he could see something more of beauty in her features. Her complexion was clear, and while her coiffure was less than perfectly arranged, her vivid hair sparked about her face like orange flames. Damien could see her animated blue eyes realize that he could hardly take her hand without dropping his crutches. She raised her face and met his gaze directly.

“Captain,” she said, dropping her hand. “I think that I should bow to you.” And she did. Her bow was inelegant and choppy, but her voice seemed sincere.

Sincerity. Eye contact. He would weep if he thought she were real. But it would take so little effort to expose her for a fraud. She, too, could see no farther than the surface. He was sure of it. The opening bars of a waltz played.

“Countess,” he said, before he could think. “May I have this dance?” The members of her throng opened mouths to object, but shut them one by one. They had spent a year pointedly ignoring his lack of a leg; they could hardly talk about it now.

But the Countess smiled sweetly. “I’d be delighted,” she said, and walked towards him. Calling his bluff, was she? Oh no; he wouldn’t back down now. He could not take her arm, and so she placed her hand on his elbow, as he limped out onto the ballroom floor. She turned towards him and smiled.

“Now, how do we do this?” she mused.

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“You’ve never danced–?”

“Not since Vitoria.”

“Well,” she said, undaunted. “We’ll have to figure out how to make do. Now let’s see.” She stepped closer to him. “I’ll have to put one hand there.” One hand lightly touched his shoulder. “As for the other one . . . .” She paused and laid it atop his right hand where it gripped the crutch. “Here.”

He had to lead. How, he thought, could he lead when he barely had room to place his crutches? Desperately, he heaved one crutch forward and shifted his bodyweight. Unfortunately, she stepped to the left. Her foot caught his crutch, and she tripped, sending his support flying. She fell; he followed, the wood floor of the ballroom bruising his wrist as he landed. He heard something that sounded like the ripping of cloth.

It was really only a few bars of music before he leveraged himself into a sitting position. She was kneeling next to him, a look of concern on her face. The lace hem of her dress had torn.

“Go.” He whispered. She had called his bluff; he had paid the price. He fumbled behind him, blindly seeking his other crutch. “Go!”

But she shook her head. “If you leave this dance floor now, you will never return.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t believe you.” The Countess stood up, grabbing his other crutch. He glared at her balefully. She reached down, took his hand, and hauled him erect. He leaned against her, helpless, until she handed him the other brace.

“I’ve always wanted to sweep a man off his feet,” she said, dimpling into his eyes. “But I had never intended to do so literally.”

It took him a few moments to understand. She had not tripped him on purpose. She was not making fun. She was treating him with care and reason, but not pity. He hadn’t realized what a weight there was in his chest until it lifted.

He gave her a tentative smile. “Foot,” he replied.

“Pardon?”

“You swept me off my foot,” he explained. She laughed. It wasn’t a genteel titter, or a giggle, but a real laugh from the belly.

“Let’s start again,” he said, and she moved against him, once again resting her hand against his chest. “I don’t believe I can waltz the normal way.”

“No,” she murmured, looking up at him. “But think,” she said, “how well-designed you are for the waltz.” He blinked at her. “One-two-three,” she counted.

He shook his head, confused all over again. “One,” she explained, patting his right crutch. “Two.” She motioned to the left crutch. “And three.” Her hand gently patted his thigh. He lived. Oh gods, he lived.

“One, two, three.” He counted, in tune to the music. “One,” he said, shifting a crutch. “Two,” he said twitching the second crutch into place. “Three.” And he pulled his leg into place. “Brilliant. Now you just need to dance along with me.”

Laughing together, they hopped along. It was not an elegant dance, nor a sensual one.

“I feel like a frog,” he complained.

At first she didn’t respond. Then–”Ribbit,” she croaked. And he laughed. She gleamed up at him like sunlight.

When the music ended, he grinned at her. “Thank you, Countess.” Had he really thought her plump? Suddenly, the other women seemed skinny and without substance. She was not graceful, like the pinched swans that glided around the ballroom. But grace also meant salvation.

He would never have her, he thought. Not when he was a cripple, and every man in London wanted her. But perhaps he would share her company again, and bask in the pleasure of small things gone right.

Manda: Even then Courtney’s writing (or CM as we called her) was superb. And now we’re celebrating the publication of another short work, the novella, “The Wicked Gift,” which is included in the anthology, The Heart of Christmas, along with stories by Mary Balogh and Nicola Cornick. One lucky commenter will receive a copy of The Heart of Christmas.

Thanks, Courtney, for agreeing to be our final Visiting Vagabond!

Thanks to all our readers. I may not remember each and every comment posted on my blogs, but I’ll always remember the joy of getting comments and the triumph of getting a lot – of knowing I’d started a discussion that resonated with people. I’ve always loved seeing readers delurk and been secretly thrilled when authors pop by.

Thanks to the authors who’ve been so incredibly generous with their time and knowledge. I still remember our excitement and surprise when writers like Eloisa James and Anne Gracie were willing to join us back when we were just getting started. I’ve learned something from absolutely every visiting vagabond we’ve had, and I think it was these thoughtful and informative discussions of writing that set out blog apart.

Thanks to our fellow bloggers – Pirates, Mavens, Vixens, First Editions, all. It’s been great to share the blogging experience with you, to learn from what you were doing and to create a larger community of aspiring writers. Kudos to those of you who are continuing to keep the spirit going.

Thanks to our FanLit and Vanette friends. You’ve all been our inspiration and our support. It’s been such a thrill to extend the friendships than began in FanLit, and amazing to see the success within the group. I wish we could keep the blog open long enough to celebrate all the 2010 debuts and beyond, but we know each and every one of you will find your audience.

Thanks, most of all, to Elodie, Manda, Azalea, Tiffany, Elyssa, Fran, and Janga. You’ve all given so much of yourselves to this blog, and that’s what truly made it a success. I’ll remember not only our discussions and celebrations on the blog, but also all the behind-the-scenes efforts and emails and late-night chatter that fueled everything we did.

Thanks to everyone who hopped aboard the caravan for this wild and crazy ride. You’re all Vagabonds in spirit, and though our tribe will scatter, our relationships are lasting. We’ll look forward to seeing all of you on Twitter, at conferences, and generally around the interwebs.

What are your favorite Vagabond memories? Share them below – I’ll be drawing three winners to receive a selection of assorted books.

We have loved hosting the Visiting Vagabonds, and it seems appropriate that a Visiting Vagabond will be part of our farewell week. We announce with pride and pleasure that our final Visiting Vagabond will be Courtney Milan, Vagabond friend and favorite, who is celebrating her print debut this month with “This Wicked Gift,” a novella in the Christmas anthology, This Heart of Mine. Courtney will join us on Tuesday, October 6.

Each Vagabond will also post a final time to say her own good-bye to you. We will be giving away great books each day, so be sure to join us October 5-9 for the gypsies’ farewell party.

We’ve all had it happen. A friend raves about a book or an author, insisting that we “just have to read” this book or this author. We trust our friend and so we read the book or we give the author a try–and we are left wondering what all the excitement is about. Maybe we don’t hate what we’ve read, maybe we found it just so-so, but whatever stirred our friend’s enthusiasm just escapes us. I’ve been on both sides of this experience. Just the other day I saw that a friend had rated a book I highly recommended to her as a 2. I confess I was taken aback. How could she not appreciate such a remarkable book? But I know there are books that friends have recommended to me, often in the most glowing terms, that end up in a pass-it-on bag because they failed to connect with me.

Let’s be honest. We don’t always agree about what constitutes “bad writing,” but we all know that it exists. Some of the writers (and they shall remain nameless) that I purge from my author list are just poor writers. Their characters lack dimension, their plot holes are large enough to drive a two-ton truck through, or their prose is awkward, bland, or dripping purple ink—or at least I see these flaws. Either the reader who recommended them doesn’t see the flaws, or she sees them but believes what the author does right compensates. I understand. A friend and I were discussing just this week a hero created by one of our favorite authors. We both loathe the hero, but my friend’s dislike for the hero ruins the book for her. She will never reread it. For me, the heroine and the secondary characters are so marvelous that I’m willing to endure the hero, and the book is on my keeper shelves.

Then there are the authors that I agree are good writers, but their voice or their style or their content just does not appeal to me. I could provide a long list of popular writers of paranormals, urban fantasy, and romantic suspense that I willingly concede are good, sometimes brilliant, writers, but they will never be writers whose books I buy because these subgenres rarely attract me. I have friends who would say the same thing about some of the women’s fiction writers who are on my autobuy list.

A prime example of this response is Nora Roberts/J. D. Robb. I love Nora Roberts’s books. I have read her books for nearly twenty-five years. Some of her books are among my most beloved comfort reads, and she is one of the few authors for whom I’m willing to spend $$ for the hardback books. I don’t read the Robb books. I tried a couple, I understand that the same skill that makes Roberts a favorite are at work, but the books just don’t appeal to me. In contrast, one of my best friends, not a reader of romance fiction, is a huge Robb fan. She knows every release day and the BAM clerks know to expect her before closing time.

What I find most puzzling are those writers who are good writers, who write in a subgenre I love, but who for some inexplicable reason I can’t read. In some cases these authors are among the brightest stars in the romance galaxy, praised by reviewers and beloved by fans. But they are just not my cup of tea. I’ve learned just to listen when these authors are discussed because no argument, however eloquent, is going to change my mind, and I can’t really articulate my failure to connect any more than I can explain why I prefer my tea sweet and iced or hot with lemon, no sugar. It’s just a matter of taste.

Are there popular authors you just don’t “get”? Have you ever raved about a book that a friend considers a dud? How do you take your tea?

But the slow economy has reissues growing like kudzu. September boasts more than 200 reissues of romance novels from all of Jane Austen’s novels to modern classics like books by Georgette Heyer, Daphne DeMaurier, and Victoria Holt to older titles by current favorites such as Linda Howard and Teresa Medeiros. Debbie Macomber’s October Christmas reissues are a small industry on their own. It doesn’t take an economics major to recognize that reissuing titles is a boon to publishers, but what do they mean for readers?

Surely I’m not the only one who has picked up what I thought was a new book by an author I like only to discover when I start reading it that I have already read the book. Most romance readers read a lot of books. I read a couple of hundred a year in a bad year, and that has been true for much of my reading life. At a conservative estimate, I’ve read 9000 romance novels. I don’t remember all the titles, and I don’t even always remember enough about the story to recognize it from the back cover copy. I do get irritated when I buy a book I’ve already read. For one thing, it means there’s another book I didn’t buy. And that book may be by a midlist or debut author for whom each sale matters. I know it’s unlikely, but I would love to see something like the symbol Nora Roberts uses on her new releases adopted to identify reissues.

On the other hand, reissues have definite benefits for readers. Loretta Chase’s Lord of Scoundrels consistently ranks at the top of readers all-time favorite romances. It was published originally in 1995. Readers who were introduced to Chase from such lists or through her popular Carsington books (2004-2007) find it much easier to find LOS since it has been reissued. I bet I’m not the only Judith Ivory fan who cheered when she learned that Black Silk (2002), first published under the name Judy Cuevas, was an August reissue. And Susan Wiggs’s newer fans are discovering through reissues that Wiggs wrote terrific historicals well before she wrote her recent romance/women’s fiction hybrids.

Then there are writers whose later books earn them a greater popularity than their earlier books achieved. I know many readers who fell in love with Eloisa James’s Desperate Duchesses who are delighted that her first two books, Potent Pleasures and Midnight Pleasures are being reissued. Christina Dodd’s first Fortune Hunter books, Trouble in High Heels and Tongue in Chic, are fairly recent publications (2006-07), but Dodd’s even more recent paranormal series, Darkness Chosen and The Chosen Ones, have earned her significant numbers of new readers. I expect new fans will be pleased to try Dodd’s sexy contemporaries.

Large numbers of romance readers are rereaders, and paperback books, which more than 90% of them buy, suffer from repeated rereading. Covers come off, pages yellow, and leaves come free from their binding. Reissues give rereaders a chance to replace battered, tattered copies with bright new ones. I have Georgette Heyer and Mary Stewart books that I had to stop rereading because they were so fragile; some of them are more than thirty years old. It is a joy to replace those books with readable books with great covers.

Even among current bestselling authors, some have been on my autobuy list for decades. I started reading Mary Balogh and Jo Beverley with their first books, Mary Jo Putney with her second, and Nora Roberts in 1985. I have books on keeper shelves by all these writers that I have been rereading for a couple of decades. Replacing the Roberts books has been easy, but I am looking forward to replacing books by the others. Beverley’s very first book, Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothal, will be reissued next month. MJP’s Thunder and Roses will be reissued in November. And Mary Balogh’s A Precious Jewel in December. Beginning in March with Dark Angel and Lord Carew’s Bride (my favorite Balogh) and continuing through 2012, all those coveted older titles of Balogh’s will be reissued. All of these will go on my TBB list.

Just this month I replaced worn out copies of Teresa Medeiros’ s Breath of Magic (1996) and Touch of Enchantment (1997) and Lisa Kleypas’s Someone to Watch Over Me (1999). By December, I’ll have new copies of all Linda Howard’s Mackenzie books. I get almost as excited about these new copies of old favorites as I do about new books. And, of course, a crisp new copy is an irresistible invitation to reread.

What do you think about the increase in reissues? Are there books that you long to see reissued? (I’m keeping my fingers crossed for Connie Brockway’s As You Desire since the front cover fell off my copy the last time I reread it.)

A friend who has suffered substantial hearing loss tells me that she often finds that, while she can hear everyone talking with the help of a hearing aid, she is sometimes unable to understand what others are saying. She can no longer pick up some of the higher frequencies. Consonant sounds occur in the high frequency range, so my friend may pick up only vowel sounds. She hears the “e” in “help,” but without the consonant sounds, meaning is lost. Her description perfectly describes what is happening to me as I try to rewrite a section of The Long Way Home. I can hear my characters talking, but I’m missing some of the frequencies and their messages make no sense to me. I’m suffering from a form of writer’s block.

Some people don’t believe in writer’s block. I’ve read the direct statement that writer’s block is the excuse of a lazy writer. My response to this statement is that I’ve spent a large chunk of yesterday butt in chair trying to write. The result of ten hours work is 575 words on TLWH and twelve pieces of blogs that refuse to jell. I’m frustrated and irritated; I’m weepy and weary.

It seems worse because I was blindsided by this malady. I’ve been writing from one to four thousand words most days. But something I read Tuesday gave new life to my demonic Inner Critic whose brutal estimates of my work are coming through loud and clear. Even reading, my usual refuge, from this enemy isn’t working. IC just reminds me how foolish I am to think I belong in the company of the author whose book I’m reading.
I’ve tried drowning her out by reading advice from accomplished writers.

“People have writer’s block not because they can’t write, but because they despair of writing eloquently.”–Anna Quindlen

“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”–Margaret Atwood

“Don’t get it right, just get it written.”–James Thurber

“Lower your standards and keep writing.”–William Stafford

I particularly like that last one. I know that I’m never going to satisfy the expectations of my Inner Critic. But so far the truths I know in my head have not made their way to my fingers. My last ditch effort to win the battle is listening over and over again to a favorite song, Martina McBride’s “Do It Anyway.”

You can spend your whole life buildin’
Something from nothin’,
One storm can come and blow it all away.
Build it anyway.

You can chase a dream
That seems so out of reach,
And you know it might not ever come your way.
Dream it anyway.

God is great, but sometimes life ain’t good,
And when I pray
It doesn’t always turn out like I think it should.
But I do it anyway.
I do it anyway.

This world’s gone crazy,
And it’s hard to believe
That tomorrow will be better than today.
Believe it anyway.

You can love someone with all your heart
For all the right reasons,
And in a moment they can choose to walk away.
Love ’em anyway.

You can pour your soul out singin’
A song you believe in
That tomorrow they’ll forget you ever sang.
Sing it anyway.

I sing.
I dream.
I love anyway.

I’ve even added my own verse.

You can wound your heart in writing
the words that just won’t come
That voice keeps on shouting, “You’ll never get it done.”
Write it anyway.

So hear I am with another day—believing, dreaming, writing. Even with the Inner Critic insisting that it’s garbage, I’m writing it anyway.

And I’m allowing Richard Lederer to remind me “To be a writer, one must behave as writers behave. They write. And write. And write. The difference between a writer and a wannabe is that a writer is someone who can’t not write, while a wannabe says, ‘One of these days when . . ., then I’ll . . . .’”

Have you ever suffered from writer’s block? Any cures you’d care to share?