Sandi Kahn Shelton

My daughter Allie is a member of a book group consisting of moms with babies. They call themselves the Dead Tired Society and they meet whenever several conditions can be met: (1) they have all read the same book, or nearly all of them, at least; (2) they can agree on a day when a majority of them don’t have anything else they MUST DO; and (3) their babies are in relatively decent health, or at least good enough so that they won’t be the one blamed when two days later, the entire group is throwing up.

I think they’ve been together nearly a year, and they’re up to three books. My hat is off to them. It’s been a bad year for babies and flu.

Last week they invited me to come and talk to them about my book, What Comes After Crazy, which was the novel that took me 17 years to write. (I wrote it while I, too, was raising kids, and thus had to wait for conditions to be perfect). I told them I LOVE going and talking to book groups.

“Wellll…” said the hostess, whose name is Sam. She’s the mother of Esme, who has just turned 1. “There may be more crying at this group than you’re used to at most book groups you talk to…”

I said I was familiar with crying at book groups. Usually somebody has to go and get tissues.

But then there wasn’t any after all. We all sat in Sam’s wonderful Brooklyn apartment, while babies climbed over us, poked fingers in our eyes, played with rattles and balls, tried to climb over partitions so they could get to Sam’s valuable computer system (how is it that all babies can sense immediately where computers are located and just what button to push to dismantle them?) A very energetic toddler named Zane–admired by the others for his ability to actually WALK–went down the hall to the nursery and managed, with great difficulty, to come out with the entire floor covering for the nursery, a rubber puzzle mat consisting of the ABC’s, I believe. This was a very time-consuming project for him, but he was definite that it had to be done, and all the other babies were impressed.

It was lots of fun sitting on the floor, passing babies around. Young moms have such an incredible ability to do such things as breastfeed, wipe noses, change diapers, search out hidden pacifiers, tie shoes, soothe tears, and save a baby from leaping off a couch–all at the same time and ALL WHILE CARRYING ON AN ADULT CONVERSATION.  They don’t even break a sweat doing it. It’s always a pleasure to watch them. I think women in their twenties and thirties could run the world without any trouble at all, even on the limited sleep most of them get.

Because the book is about a woman raised by a mostly crazy, fortune-telling, narcissistic mom, book groups always love (and I love) to talk about our own moms, for good and for ill, and what they forced us to cope with and how we managed to grow up. Everybody always wants to know whether the book was really about my mother.

“Sort of,” I say. My mother wasn’t a fortune-teller, and we never lived in a trailer, and she didn’t get married seven times…but let’s just say there are certain qualities that she shared with Madame Lucille. When my publisher asked me if Madame Lucille was essentially my mother but just “exaggerated a bit,” I had to admit that she was partially my mother but actually TONED DOWN some.

That made the group laugh, and then they started telling stories about their moms–all except for poor Allie, of course, who had to sit there, smiling and insisting that she had a perfectly normal, sane childhood with a loving mother and no problems whatsoever.

I think I owe her, big time.

I am pleased to tell you that I have yet another person willing to come on my blog and entertain you. I am always seeking fresh voices to amuse you.

She is Eileen Cook, who clearly knows how to use a vintage typewriter to great effect. She has written Unpredictable, which has been called “laugh out loud funny” by Romantic Times. And she also writes a blog, called Just My Type, which has led to me not getting work done on many mornings. I have also spit tea all over my keyboard quite a few times, just because I don’t have the sense to read her blog before I take a big gulp of tea.

She is hilarious and so much fun, and I have ordered her book and cannot wait to read it. In the meantime, here is the great cover, and the picture of Eileen herself, and if you can’t see either of these because of my lack of skills at moving things around on the internet, (they’re showing up here NOW, but by tomorrow, the internet, in its wisdom, may snatch them away from here)…well, if they’re not here, just do yourself a favor and go to her blog. And now, scroll down to the bottom, beneath these pictures, and read Eileen’s guest post. Enjoy!

And now here is Eileen:

There is debate on some writer discussion loops as to when you can call yourself a writer. Some believe anyone who has the dedication to write, to focus on their craft, should be able to refer to themselves as writers. Others believe that the term writer should be saved for those that have reached publication.

Here’s my theory, you can call yourself anything you like. Heck, you can call yourself Wonder Woman and run around in your red white and blue bathing suit with go-go boots if you like, but it doesn’t mean other people are going to go along with your idea.

Transcript of an actual conversation.

Other Person (OP): What do you do?

Me: I’m a writer.

OP: Really? What have you written?

Me: It’s a romantic comedy called Unpredictable.

OP (looking distrustful): I never heard of it.

Me: It just came out.

OP: Is it going to be on Oprah?

Me: Um, well she hasn’t called yet.

OP: What about on the Regis and Kelly show?

Me: No plans for that either.

OP: You couldn’t even get on with Kelly Ripa? (should be said with a slight sneer that is insulting to both Ms. Ripa and myself.)

Me: I’m really more of an Ellen fan when you get right down to it, but before you ask she hasn’t called yet either.

OP: (looking around the room for more interesting people) Well good luck with your little project.

Some people are going to say you can’t be a writer unless you publish, or only if you publish with a major house. Someone else is going to weigh in and say it depends on your print run or if you hit any of the major lists. Others are waiting to see if you show up on Oprah (or Ellen or Live with Regis and Kelly) before deciding if your accomplishment should count.

Defining yourself isn’t limited just to writers, I hear the debate about who should get to call themselves a good mom, about who owns the right to say they’re an artist (versus a mere crafter), who is an athlete, who is a success. What would happen if we didn’t wait for others to approve our definition and we decided for ourselves? What if we decided what we wanted to be and pursued it with our whole hearts without waiting for someone to say it was okay?

If you feel like a superhero, then I say throw on the cape and get going. The world could use more saving and you look fabulous in Spandex.

eileen@eileencook.com

• News

  The first review for Unpredictable appeared in Romantic Times.

  “Cook’s debut novel seems destined to climb to the top of the bestseller lists. It’s laugh-out-loud funny, and readers will immediately fall in love with her style. This book reaches a new level of comedy with its hilarious heroine, exhilarating plot and fresh new approach to this well-loved genre.”

I have never had a guest blogger before. I felt like I should clean up the joint a little bit, maybe do some dusting and vacuuming before she arrived, put out the fresh hand towels. At least get the internet connection to behave itself.

But of course everything went wrong–and after fighting with the internet for the better part of the morning, I’m pleased to introduce DIANA HOLQUIST, whom I met when she hosted me on HER blog last May. (Her blog was very spiffy, with plenty of clean hand towels, I might add.)

Diana is on a virtual blog tour with her new book, THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE, published by Warner this month…and I would just like to say that it is a genuinely funny book, waaaaay above what you might be thinking just from the title alone. Lots of good, strong, solid characters and true situations and dilemmas. It combines the best of both worlds: it’s a fun book to escape your troubles with, while you loll in the bathtub with candles and a glass of wine (yeah, right)…and something you want to read because you love good characters.

And it’s so funny! (Nice cover, too!)  ;-0

Thanks for having me, Sandi. It’s great to be here. Secrets to writing funny? I’ve got one word for you: beer. No, not really. Well, sometimes. Anyway, I never try to write funny; I think that’s the trick. Most of the time, my characters are being completely serious, but they see the world in such unique ways, it turns out funny. Here’s the biggest secret to writing funny that an amazing critique partner once told me: no character may EVER react to humor on the page. If you type, “He smiled” or “he laughed” you’re dead in the water. Watch old classic movies and you’ll see, the humor is NEVER acknowledged. I think that’s the best advice I’ve ever gotten as to writing funny.

I love to hear how other authors get themselves organized to write their books. You’re a mom. Are you writing books between soccer games and ballet lessons, or between 2:30 and 4:30 a.m…or is your whole family trained to let you write every day, whenever you need to?

My kids are super old now (8 and 10), so they’re pretty independent. They trot out the door at 8:30 and don’t reappear until 4:00. It’s magical and lovely. I am carpool mom all afternoon, but to tell you the truth, I’m spent by then anyway, and I need the break. I spend at least half my day writing ad copy for various freelance clients. Then another few hours doing promo for myself: MySpace, blogs, videos, whatever. I maybe write two hours a day if I’m lucky. But when I have a deadline, I can up that to six or seven hours a day by cutting back on other stuff. Honestly, I do that maybe two months out of the year. But don’t listen to me. I’m considered a VERY slow romance writer, only turning in a book every nine months. I feel quite lazy compared to other romance writers, where two to three books a year is average.

Also, your videos–the headless sexy guy and headless author, and the one about your publisher not letting your husband be the model for the sexiest guy alive, made me laugh so hard I spit tea all over my keyboard. Now that my keyboard has shorted out and I can’t write anymore—no, no, never mind that. It was worth it for that kind of laugh, believe me. What I want to know, what all writers want to know is: Are those kinds of videos hard to do, and do you notice that they bring in readers?

Ah, video. Since my background is advertising, I find video very easy. Much easier than, say, writing a book. I maybe spend two hours on each one. But I don’t think that’s the norm. I do think that every writer has got to learn how to concept, write, and edit video. It’s the future of book promotion; I’m sure of it. My videos have been watched thousands of times all over the web. That has to make a difference—although as we say in adland, half of advertising is effective, we just don’t know which half. That’s why you’ve got to do it all. Sorry about your keyboard…You can watch my newest video, “Conversations with the Sexiest Man Alive” at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0bFYWrPC4c.

What kinds of book promotion are you doing for your book, and what seems to be working the best for you?

I think MySpace is the single most effective tool out there. I spend about an hour a day on MySpace, wishing “friends” happy birthday and blogging and such. I do a few romance-specific website promotions, but they’re hit and miss. I love video, and I’m starting to really push that by including other writers in my videos to spread the word (see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_n5L3S9Jmk). Interactive is the key, I think. I always try to engage readers. Of course, I read all of Dorothy Thompson’s blogs religiously—I’ve learned SO much from her about the web and how to promote. And yes, I only do the web. It’s where the readers are.

Hey, what’s the deal with psychics? Any clues into that world? Was it fun to write the character of Amy, or did she show up and try to boss you around and take over the whole plot? She is such a dynamic character–I’m sure it was hard to make her stay in her place.

Yeah, Amy is a piece of work. I had to “rehabilitate” her for my next book, Hungry for More, and it wasn’t easy. I don’t believe in psychics except as a metaphor for empathy and understanding. I see Amy’s psychic power as emotional insight, and her struggle with her power as a struggle with herself. I loved your book, Sandi, What Comes After Crazy, by the way. Another psychic character who won’t stay in her place. They steal the scenes, and it’s tough to keep them balanced with other characters, especially in a romance, where the hero has to play an equal role.

Thanks so much for coming! And I beg all of you reading this: do go to her you-tube links. But make sure you aren’t drinking anything near your keyboard when you watch them. Go to her blog at http://www.dianaholquist.com to see even more of her videos.

I know, I know. It doesn’t seem possible that “sexy” and “cancer” could ever be in the same sentence.

But talk to Kris Carr for a few minutes, and you’ll understand. She’s a 36-year-old actress who, four years ago, thought she had the world’s worse hangover after partying like a rock star. Turned out she had inoperable cancer, a cancer so rare they don’t even have a treatment for it. There’s no ribbons, no walks, no rubber bracelet to wear.  

A lot of people–most likely I’m one of them–would have  would have just heard their diagnosis and gone and gotten under their beds and sucked their thumbs and cried, but Kris, who says she’s always been full of sass, decided instead that it was time to give cancer a makeover. As she put it, since there was no cure and no treatment, she might as well figure out her own answers. To hear her tell it, she pulled a Dumpster up to her life, and started renovating: learned how to meditate, eat nutritional meals, take care of herself; then she reached out to other young women with cancer, and best of all, decided to learn how she wanted to live the rest of her life. (It didn’t involve lying in her bed and thinking about tumors, believe me.)

It all sounds like one big cliche–and believe me, I have a very overdeveloped cliche-detector, and sometimes things that are supposed to be “inspirational” and “heartwarming” make me want to run in the opposite direction. But Kris’s accounting of her kick-ass four years dealing with cancer doesn’t shy away from the tough parts. She just doesn’t have time to stay wallowing in self-pity. Anybody who reacted to the news she has Stage IV incurable cancer by taking her camera along with her to doctor’s appointments gets my vote every time!

The name of the book–and oh, yeah, there’s a documentary too–is “Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips,” and it comes from the fact that when Kris would send mass emails out to all the other “cancer babes,” that’s what she would type in the subject line. And whenever she mentioned cancer, she would always capitalize the “C.” Finally one of the other women said they should stop giving cancer the benefit of a capital “C”: that was giving this disease waaaay too much power. In fact, they decided, they should even misspell the word. Spell it CANSER or something. I love that! That you can hurt cancer’s feelings by not even bothering to spell its name correctly.

Anyway, click here to go buy her book, even if you don’t have cancer…it’s that good, and by all means, click here to go visit her website and blog. (There’s even a little movie there you can watch.)

Honestly, she makes life sound like so much fun that you’ll be glad you’re alive.    

This is a picture of my mother in the hospital, with her little dog Bear, a few days before she died.

Bear is looking at Peggy, my mother’s friend who had brought him to the hospital for a visit. Peggy lived across the hall from my mother and she now (bless her) raises Bear. He was restless and agitated in the bed, and a few minutes after this picture was taken, my mother said, “Okay, he knows I love him. He needs to leave now.”

I have been thinking about her a lot lately. I miss her so much, even though in the last year of her life, all I did was worry about her all the time. She was always feeling sick and tired, and she was constantly ticked off at her friend, Mike, whom she said was too clingy and also smelled bad. They took turns calling the ambulance on each other, like two children tattling on each other to the principal.

Yep, it was a precarious life there in the senior housing complex in Clearwater, Florida, and she was always getting into scrapes. When I went through her papers at the end, I saw that she was often getting fined because Bear “would urinate on the rugs in the public area and sometimes on the other residents.”

I remember she would call me up in outrage that somebody in the hallway hadn’t moved out of the way in time when it should have been clear to anyone that Bear was lifting his leg! “And now,” she’d sputter, “I have to pay the fine because SHE didn’t get out of the way when Bear was going to pee!”

“Why don’t you teach him not to pee on people?” I’d ask her, but she had no idea that was the kind of thing that dogs and humans could ever negotiate. Dogs do whatever they wish. Didn’t I know anything?

It’s odd how when someone dies far away, you almost can’t wrap your head around the fact that it’s really over. I still go to the phone, thinking I have to call her, I have to make sure she’s okay, and then I remember a split-second later that she’s gone. I feel sadness mixed with relief. Ohhh…she’s not in the hospital again. She hasn’t gotten evicted. Whew.

As though those things would be worse somehow than what IS true: that she’s dead.

I’m so glad I had those days with her in the last month, but of course they don’t feel like they were anywhere near enough of what they should have been. I guess the mind looks for meaning somehow, and there was no meaning. Looking back, it boils down to the fact that one ordinary Wednesday afternoon, she called me up crying and said she thought she had cancer all over her body and that her doctor was making her have a colonoscopy to find out for sure, and then two days later her surgeon called and said, yup, that’s pretty much what we found…and then I went to see her, and for a while it seemed like she might have some time left, but then the time ran out more quickly than anybody expected, and the last days were very hard, and then there was a moment at the very end when she looked up at me and talked to me in such a way that I could remember that once, a very long time ago, before a lot of the bad stuff started happening–the mental illnesses and the separations and the charging thousands of dollars on Home Shopping Network–I had been her beloved child, the one she loved so much and took such good care of.

And then, just when I remembered that, she closed her eyes and died.

I spent two days cleaning out her house and giving her possessions to her friends, and then I came back home. And when I came back home, there were these new babies to cuddle, and a book to finish, and a whole rich life going on right where it had been going before, and after a week or so, it was almost hard to remember those days in Florida when I was there with her, pushing her in her wheelchair and talking about what the end might be like, and whether she should have another cigarette before we went back inside, and wasn’t that a funny time when my uncle sang that song in a bar. All of those conversations–the mundane and the tragic–all mashed up together.

One night when I was there, I had to do a phone interview with a book group that was reading “A Piece of Normal,” and my cell phone would only work outside the hospital. My mother wanted to come with me outside, but I didn’t want her to. I was worried that she would be too cold or too bored, and she’d be stuck outside with me until I finished being interviewed, but no, no, she wanted to come. So I pushed her wheelchair, and we sat outside while I talked to the book group, and it was the first time I had ever had any book-related thing to do with my mother present. My books were sort of abstract to her. She read them, she said “how nice,” but she never heard me talk about them. I was interviewed for about 45 minutes, and she just sat there beside me, in her wheelchair. I was surprised to look over and see that she was smiling and listening–really listening–and when I hung up from talking to the group, she started to cry. She said, “I never knew what your life is really like…I didn’t understand how you felt about your books.”

So there are all these things, these little memories of her, that rise like bubbles to the surface of my mind, and then pop. My mother was the only person left whom I had known for my whole life, and some days now are heavy with the knowledge that there was so much we didn’t get to yet.

Tomorrow, though, I’m going to call Peggy and see if Bear has peed on anyone lately. I’d like to think he gave that up.

I have finished my book. (I think I have made that statement here before; it sounds awfully familiar.) Ah, yes, on May 13, I declared I was finished with the book.

In fact, come to think of it, I was always going around, declaring that I had finished my book…and then I would wait a few days, and the book would somehow come unraveled, and I would have to go back and write other things in it, and then while I was fixing one part of it, another part would come undone. It was like my knitting projects: you fix one loosened part, and the whole structure needs retooling.

But now, I HAVE REALLY, REALLY FINISHED THE BOOK. And to prove it, I actually mailed it away to my editor…and as a reward, was taken out to dinner by my sweet husband, who was beginning to fear, I think, that I had some kind of psychiatric disorder that was going to prevent me from ever being able to actually submit this book.

But I mailed it–which, may I just say, is a little anti-climactic these days. You simply press the SEND button, and the book zips itself away.

It’s not like the old days when, suspecting you were nearing the end of a manuscript, you started looking around for a suitable box to place it in–usually a box that a ream of paper had come in. And then you found an envelope big enough for this to fit in (or else you had to look for brown paper and tape and maybe even string), and then you have to find the address of the publisher, and sometimes you even had to put in a self-addressed, stamped envelope just in case the publisher would like to send the book back to you. And then you went to the post office and stood in the line, and if you were in MY post office, one of the postal clerks was willing to rub the package against his Guinness Ale tie tack, for luck. (Sometimes you had to let other customers go in front of you, so you could have that specific clerk–most of the others in the U.S. Postal Service don’t know about the Guinness tie tack rub/book acceptance connection. I don’t think it’s something they teach them at the training school.)

But now these days–no need for Guinness for luck. Just the SEND button, and then out to dinner, where we drank to our own luck.

That was a week ago, and since then I’ve been talking to old friends I haven’t seen in months while I was working on the book. I have read other people’s blogs that I have missed. I even brushed the dog and trimmed his toenails. I have played with my grandbabies. I made dinner most nights. We went to the the beach. One day I didn’t get out of my jammies until 3:30 in the afternoon. I started going for long walks again with my friend Karen.

And today–well, today, another character showed up in my head. Daria, she said her name was. She’s married to Will, who is a professor. And a long time ago she was in love with Will’s mentor.

“Uh oh,” I said to her. I was watering the plants. “Could you just hold off for a minute? I think I need to go and write this down.” 

I’m leaving tomorrow morning to go and see my mother, and it’s beginning to feel as though this will be the last time.

She’s much weaker now. She’s had a few falls, and she is refusing to eat, the nurses tell me–and even though they bring her to the telephone when I call, I almost feel that I shouldn’t be taxing her strength by wanting to make her talk.

She’s that weak now.

But she does know that I’m coming. I had hoped when I booked this trip that we could take a ride out and see the beach once again. She always loved the ocean. But now it doesn’t seem as though that will be possible.

Although, as the hospice social worker told me, you never know. Sometimes patients can rally–and perhaps that will happen in this case, too.

Mostly, though, I expect that I’ll just sit next to her bed while she sleeps…

It’s so hard to believe it was just a little over four weeks ago that she got the news that her colonoscopy showed some cancer.

But just to show me that life does go on–tonight I’m scheduled to do a reading for a book that I was a contributor to. “Blindsided by a Diaper,” published by Three Rivers Press and edited by Dana Hilmer, is released this week. It’s about the amazing thing that happens to your marriage once you have a baby. I’ve written an essay called “Dating the Hubs,” about the first time my husband and I tried to go on a date. 

The reading is at 7 p.m. at Curtain Call in Stamford, if you’re anywhere near the place, and would like to come. Four authors are going to be reading: Beth Levine, Bill Squier, Pamela Kruger, and me. And best of all perhaps, the cast of “Baby” is going to sing songs from their show in between our readings.

No, what I mean to say is: IAMFINISHEDWITHTHEBOOK!IAMFINISHEDWITHTHEBOOK!IAMFINISHEDWITHTHEBOOK!

I actually wrote the words “THE END” at 6:30 in the morning. (How corny is it to write “THE END”?–but, what can I say, the moment called for it.) I was so tired and shaky that cartwheels were out of the question–as was opening up the bottle of champagne that Nancy had brought over earlier in the week for The Moment of Completion.

It was an odd, but delirious, moment.

The house was quiet. Everybody was asleep, even the Faithful Writing Dog. I had been working all night long…because I needed a long, uninterrupted stretch during which the phone absolutely would not ring, and dinner would not need cooking, dogs wouldn’t need to go in and out, and during which I could carefully listen to what the resolution of this story would be.

I mean, I knew I wanted the end to be. But always there is that tension about the end: will it turn out just right, or will it feel contrived when I get there? Will it make sense, given all that has come before for the characters? Will I get to the end and think, “YUCK”?

Or worse…will it be page 2,460 by the time I wrap this turkey up?

All I felt was a sense of profound relief and happiness. Now, I’ll take a few days off from Jamie McClintock and Sam Goddard and their various children and insecurities and problems. Today I planted petunias and geraniums and pansies and snapdragons everywhere, and then sat in the sun on the lounge chair and just thought about nothing.

Early next week I’ll be ready to go back in and see where just what kind of journey that really was that we were on in this book. No doubt many changes will need to be made.

It’s called “Kissing Games of the World.” I hope they’ll let me keep that title.

And so I have a question for all of you writers who come and visit here sometimes: Is it this way for you, too, when you finish a book? Is it always in the dark of night, after a long stretch of furious, frantic writing–or is it ever broad, sane daylight, after which you go off to resume regular life, the carpool and dinner?

In my experience with my three novels, they always get done in the deep middle of the night, after a push that is reminiscent of childbirth. So my question: How do YOU finish a big project that’s taken a year to work on?

Oh, also–I hope you can come by and visit me at Conversations with Writers where I was interviewed by Ambrose Musiyiwa, a British freelance writer whose blog presents conversations with writers, with a view to promoting writers, reading, literacy, and small press publishers.

I am on the Home Stretch of my novel, which means I am hardly even eating and sleeping. Instead, I mostly just type, and every now and then I get up and let the dog out and then I shuffle around and mumble incoherent things and eat crackers.

But what passes as good news came through today: a letter informing me that I’ve won $950,215.

Oh, I don’t believe it for a minute, don’t worry. I’m busy but not crazy. But it cheered me up just the same. How can you not be cheered by a letter that goes like this:

“Dear Winner,

We Apologies, for the delay of your payment and all the Inconveniences and Inflict that we might have indulge you through.

However, we were having some minor problems with our payment system, which is Inexplicable, and have held us stranded and Indolent, not having the Aspiration to devote our 100% Assiduity in accrediting foreign payments.

I wish to inform you now that the square peg is now in square whole and can be voguish for that your payment is being processed and will be released to you as soon as you respond to this letter.”

Like most good correspondence, this one has helped me identify my own emotions. I realize now what that I have been feeling stranded and Indolent myself, and that for a while now I, too, haven’t had the Aspiration to devote my 100% Assiduity.

But…the novel is going to be done in mere HOURS, and that must explain how the square peg is now in the square whole. What a relief that this can be voguish for me.

And speaking of voguish, I’ve been having a wonderful voguish time visiting on other people’s blogs. Please go check out my blog post at Alison Kent’s Blah Blog and my post at Kathy Holmes’s Fiction with Attitude blog.

Hope all your square pegs are behaving themselves!

My cousin Jennifer IM’ed me today. I was sitting on the back porch with my friend Nancy who comes over to write with me. We write together because it helps to have someone notice when you’re getting up too many times and perhaps not writing your novel. If she weren’t here, as I told her today, I would most likely be at the store. Or I might be wanting to plant things in the dirt patch that needs to turn into a garden.

Instead, I’m working, and that’s a good thing.

But Nancy is sitting across the porch from me, and so she doesn’t notice when I check my email or when someone IMs me…and today that someone was Jennifer who reminded me how when she lived in Boston and would come over to visit, we would often make the best chocolate cake anybody had ever heard of.

Every now and then a person needs to remember that there is chocolate cake in the world…and that even though it’s right now nobody’s birthday, you can still make one.

We agreed that we would both go make chocolate cakes, in solidarity with each other. And because it’s spring and we don’t live close together anymore.

And well, because sometimes you need a chocolate cake.

Here is the recipe we’ve always used–and I promise you it’s good:

Buttermilk Chocolate Cake

4 oz. ounces semi-sweet chocolate

1 stick butter

1 cup water

2 cups sugar

½ cup buttermilk

2 eggs

2 cups unsifted plain flour

1 ½ teaspoons baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

1 ½ teaspoons vanilla

Melt chocolate, butter, and water together in a saucepan. Set aside. In a mixing bowl, combine and beat sugar, eggs and buttermilk. Add flour, salt, soda, and vanilla alternately with liquid chocolate mixture. Mix well. Pour into two greased and floured cake pans. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes or until done. Cake should almost cool before removing from pans. Frost as desired.

Here is the frosting I use:

¼ cup butter

2 squares of chocolate

1 1-lb box of confectioners sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Cream

Melt butter and chocolate. Add sugar and vanilla. Add cream to obtain spreading consistency.

And oh, yes, I’m visiting the Night Owl Romance blog tomorrow (Friday). Lots of hunky guys on the covers of the books.