Tara Taylor Quinn | A Ninth and a First

The first, first. Last week delivered to my door, in five boxes, were my copies of my first, first printing hardcover. It's not wholly mine. It's an anthology of work by five authors. But my name is on the cover. My story is inside. I've had two other books in hardcover. One was a foreign edition. The other was a subsidiary sale to Thorndike Press who prints mostly for libraries. Both were cool.

This is cooler.

The book, More Than Words Volume 5 is due out in April. Heather Graham, a woman I've known and admired for years, is the headliner. I'm honored to be in the volume with her.

Even more meaningful than being out in Hardcover, or being published with Heather, is having been a part of the work itself. More Than Words is a project that Harlequin started several years ago. Throughout the year, the company solicits applications from private women's charities. Five are chosen. Each of the five authors, who are hand chosen by the publisher, are given one of the charities. I was given Sandra Ramos, founder of Strengthen our Sisters. Sandra founded the very first battered women's shelter in the United States. She's an amazing amazing woman. I spent a couple of days reading about Sandra, speaking with her, getting to know her. And then I wrote a fictional story inspired by all that I had learned. Each of the other four authors in the anthology did the same with their charity founders.

All proceeds for the book go to the five charities.

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Tara Taylor Quinn | Pie Day

Today is pie day. For my entire adult life the holiday season has started with pie day. It's the day before Thanksgiving. And I am the pie maker. Doesn't matter where Thanksgiving is happening, I make the pies. Conveniently, it's worked out that where ever Thanksgiving was happening, pies have been needed. I make four of them. Whether dinner is for five or fifteen. Four pies. Two pumpkin. A pecan. And an apple.

I can still remember the first time I made an apple pie. I was a young adult. In an apartment. I don't know why I had to make an apple pie. I'm fairly confident that I had a reason. Just not one worth remembering apparently. But I do remember the process. Clearly. I was an adult. A woman. I could follow directions. I could make a pie. That's what women did. I had a great cookbook that I got from I have no idea where. I probably knew that back then, too. Today I can tell you that I still have that cookbook. So, whoever gave it to me (probably my mother) thank you.

On that holiday more than twenty years ago, I opened the book to apple pie. And I followed the directions. Literally. To a 't'. That's me. I take everything literally. And when I don't know how to do something, I take it step by. I read one sentence of instruction, complete it and go on to the next. I did precisely that with that pie. I remember being in the kitchen. I remember what the tiny kitchen looked like. I can remember studying and smelling my concoction as it appeared. Every step of the way. Reading and re-reading instructions. Double checking my result.

Satisfied that all seemed fine, I happily, and with a huge amount of relief, delivered my pie to the oven. Set the timer. And waited. Aromas started to waft. To fill the small space. Great aromas. I'd done it. I'd made an apple pie.

The next day, Thanksgiving, I couldn't wait for dessert. To share my creation with everyone. I was a woman now. A cook. They'd all see. I cannot remember what the table looked like. I can't remember who all was sitting there. I can't remember what we ate, what anyone wore, or even what the room looked like that we were in. What I can remember is a table with bodies sitting all around it. And the pie. Oh yeah, I remember that pie.

I had a little trouble cutting it into pieces. I couldn't get the knife to go smoothly through. Couldn't get the pieces to come apart in a clear slice. I forgave myself. I was woman - not perfect. I'd learn to cut.

I served. And then I sat. My own piece of pie lay untouched before me as I waited for all to take their first bites. I watched for reaction. People chewed, and smiled through their chews. Nodded. And chewed. It must be okay, I thought. They were so busy enjoying my wonderful pie that they'd tell me about it when they were done. They didn't want to talk with their mouths full.

I figured I might as well fill my mouth, too. That way when they told me how great the pie was, I'd have an empty mouth with which to accept their praise. I took my bite. I chewed. Once. And stopped. All I can say, as I look back on that moment, is that those people, whoever they were, must have loved me an awful lot. Or at least were nice enough to not want to hurt my feelings. I, suddenly, wasn't all that fond of myself. Nor was I feeling kindly toward me. As soon as that slimy, slightly sharp edged thing hit my tongue, I spit the pie out. Right there in front of everyone. And announced to the table that everyone else was welcome to do the same. I can't remember if anyone did. Or if everyone did. What I remember was the one Thanksgiving in my life where there was no dessert. And it was all my fault.

I didn't know what had gone wrong. I stared at my pie. Dissected it. Tried not to cry. I couldn't look up. And then I remember this voice - it was feminine, though I can't remember to whom the voice belonged. It said only five words. Softly. In question form. And I remember every single one of them. Clearly. In order. "Did you peel the apples?"

What? My head flew up. I hadn't read anything about peeling apples. I went for the cookbook. Opened it to the proper page. See, there was no place there in the directions that said to peel apples. No place. It didn't say to peel apples. I did just what the directions said. It didn't say to peel apples. Well, the voice said, (or some rendition thereof) you just kind of know you have to peel the apples first.

Maybe that's why the whole four pie tradition started. If one is screwed up, there's always another one to offer. A chance to redeem yourself.

And if all four pies are great. I've got another reason to be thankful on a day of giving thanks.

It occurs to me that perhaps the whole four pie thing comes in to play this holiday season where my work is concerned as well. I've decided that that's why there are two books out this holiday season. If you don't like one, I've got another one to offer you. There's "The Holiday Visitor" - a holiday love story. And "At Close Range." A suspense novel. They didn't even put romance on the spine on that one, though, for those who like romance, there is a romantic element there. I'd like to think that with both stories I'm offering you award winning apple pie reading pleasure. And like that first pie, I'm sitting here waiting for your reactions.

I've got the pie thing down. I'm fairly confident that when my house is full on Thanksgiving day with many family members, from out of town and in town, I will be serving up four delicious pies. I've had more than twenty years of practice. And actually, I'm not making all four of the pies. We started a new tradition last year. Tim and I and my mom gather in the kitchen. We have all utensils and ingredients before us. We listen to me ask who wants to make what kind of pie. And then we have a race to see who finishes first. In this race, it is best to finish last. Whoever finishes first has to start on the dishes.

Today is pie day. The official start of the holiday season. Today I'm thinking about all of us, striving in a difficult year to face our challenges successfully. While there might be changes in some of the lavishness this year, I look forward to the holidays with a new awareness of just how important they are. Whatever surface trappings are or are not there, what remains is the point. To love and be loved. To find the joy. And to remember to be aware of and thankful for the things that we have that cannot be taken away.

With that in mind, I wish all you a successful holiday season.

And to the one I love with all my heart who will not be with me on Thanksgiving day, I pray that you are healthy, happy, and feeling loved.

Tara Taylor Quinn
tarataylorquinn.com

Tara Taylor Quinn | Black and White; Right or Wrong; You Tell Me

My favorite colors are…non-colors. And that’s so me. So TTQ. I’ve never been a joiner. Hard to believe from someone who was president of a large writer’s organization, huh? You’d think a person had to be part of the ‘in’ crowd to get to such an elevated position. Except that the position wasn’t elevated, and when I entered the board room for my first term of service, I didn’t know anyone well. And only two people by name. I hadn’t run for office, and had no idea how the current president had ever heard of me or why she thought I was the one she wanted to appoint to a vacated position. After eight years of service, I came away knowing a lot more names, but only a handful of people personally.

It’s not that I like being alone. Or that I don’t want friends. I’ve just always been alone. I grew up with my nose in a book. Literally. By the time I was fourteen, I was reading a Harlequin romance a day. Throughout high school I attended class, did my homework, worked in the nursery at a bowling alley and then at Wendy’s, and I lived for those moments every day that I got to escape into my books – even when those moments had to come in the wee hours of the morning. I graduated from high school never having attended a single party or having gone on a single date.

And this is pertinent today only because I’ve come face to face with myself – with a few major differences. This mirrored image is a loner, too, no close friends, doesn't know how to socialize, spent high school reading on the computer instead of books, but still reading. The differences? The person I’m facing is only twenty-three years old. And male. His name’s Ryan Mercedes. He’s Sara’s Son. Ryan isn’t like any other twenty-three year old guy I’ve ever heard of. When he presented himself almost two years ago, the twenty-one year old son of a woman who’d been raped at sixteen, I told him to go away. He came back. He told me that his mother had to meet her rapist. I told him he was nuts. And sent him away. He didn’t go. He just stood there. Silently for a long time. I wondered how he could wait so long without getting tired. Eventually, of course, he won. Because that’s Ryan. He doesn’t believe in losing. He doesn’t believe in giving up. He’s hard headed and stubborn and when he’s sure he’s right, he’s sure he’s right. Period.

And now we’re back to my favorite colors. They’re black and white. I’m wearing them today. I wear them many times a week. I have many many renditions of black with white shoes, white with black shoes, white shoes, black shoes, blank and white shoes – and purses – and jewelry to match. I have at least seven white button up blouses, and more black and white other shirts than I can count. I have at least five black cardigan sweaters. Three-quarter length sleeves, long sleeves, long body, short body, heavy, light. I have a black sweater for every occasion. (I get cold a lot!) And Ryan, darn him, showed me that I AM the clothes I wear. Or he is.

A long time ago someone told me once that ‘Life is not lived in black and white. It’s lived in shades of grey.’ This was not someone I knew well. It was not someone I particularly liked. And I liked the message even less. I want things to be clearly delineated. I want there to be right and wrong. One right and wrong meant for every occasion. I want to know that there is a right, best choice that fits every situation (just like my shoes and shirts are made for my black and white days) and I want to do my best to make that best/right choice every single time. Ryan again. That’s him. Exactly.

Only difference is, Ryan’s more than twenty years younger than I am. He has the ignorance of youth to bolster him. I, on the other hand, have enough years of experience to know that that person I didn’t like all those years ago, that message about life being shades of grey, was pretty accurate. Life isn’t black and white. For every situation there are multiple sides, multiple layers, multiple people with multiple needs that will be effected, and multiple choices that serve different goods. There isn’t one right answer waiting to be found. Or one best choice, either. Rather, life is a learning experience, and a choice that might seem ‘wrong’, if it teaches us a lot, could then be deemed the best choice we could have made. If we grow and progress and get a tiny bit closer to ultimate joy and happiness with that learning, to being able to bring it to others, then how can we pronounce the choice wrong?

I posed the question to Ryan. He argued with me. Adamantly. He stood again. For a long time. Staring at me from the back of my mind. But I’d learned. I knew him. I stood, too. For longer. It was an eternal stalemate. Except, somehow, while Ryan and I stood stubbornly, refusing to budge, we ended up creating Trusting Ryan. (He came up with the title, not me.) See, Ryan orchestrated a meeting between his rapist father and his biological mother in my July ’07 Superromance Sara’s Son. They went behind his back and fell in love. He couldn’t accept that. At all. And he was blaming me.

Readers, on the other hand, thought I did a good job with Sara and Mark, but they were not happy that I’d left Ryan hanging around. They couldn’t leave him behind. They wrote clamoring for more. Ryan, with an unsmiling nod, took this in stride. While he challenged me to give him his own book – his own forum to have his say. Let’s just say, the end result wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting. At all. And now, in just a few short days, you’ll all have a chance to see what happened when he and I met head to head. Trusting Ryan, the sequel to Sara’s Son, a 2008 RITA finalist, is a July ’08 Superromance.

Some say I made wrong choices when I gave my high school years to books. I missed a lot. I never learned to socialize. Or make friends. (My best friend was a girl I met when I was five who lived two states away!) I didn’t go to a single dance. I never went to prom. Or even to a movie with a guy. Bad, bad, bad, wrong choices. Yet…all of those years of reading romances instilled in me a need to spend my life with Harlequin books. I was driven to give to the world that which had been given to me. To that end, while others scoffed, or humored me, regarding my ambition to write for Harlequin, I put pen to paper. And then fingers to keyboards. For years. Over and over. I wrote many stories. Opened many rejections. And, like Ryan, I was sure about what I was sure about, I didn’t quit believing. I have no idea why. Ryan could probably tell you. I just knew that I was a writer and I was going to write for Harlequin and I had to write. And now here I am, fifty published novels later, giving you my story. Oh, wait, I mean Ryan’s story. (He made me say that.) Did I mention, Ryan’s a cop?

Anyway, we hope you’ll pick up a copy of our joint effort. And that, if you do, you’ll write and let us know what you think at staff@tarataylorquinn.com. And right here, right now, tell us…black and white? Or shades of gray? What do you think?



Tara Taylor Quinn