My dear old dad has been gone for almost a quarter century. No, no, it’s not going to be one of those sob-fest blogs, don’t worry.  Not this time. I just want to tell you about him, because he was pretty great.

1. Dad was skinny. I did not inherit those genes from him, alas. He was 6’1” and weighed about 165 pounds. I’m 5’8 ½” and weigh…never mind.
2. Dad loved clothes. That I did inherit from him. I swear, Barney’s went into mourning when he died.
3. He had a lot of the requisite “man skills”; he could ride a horse, sail a boat, fix stuff, make things and play sports. That being said, the washing machine befuddled him, and I never once saw him cook a meal or even make a sandwich. When Mom was away, he took us out to eat a lot.
4. He had this notion that if he sat down and banged on the piano enough, he’d teach himself to play by ear. This never happened.
5. He was very handsome. All my mom’s friends had a crush on him. He looked like these guys here. But even better-looking. : )
6. He was an incredible baby if he was sick or hurt. It was cute for about 6 hours.
7. He had a lot of confidence about what he could do in life, but even more about what his kids could do. I dedicated my first book to him; I can’t imagine I would’ve had the guts to have become a writer if I hadn’t been the daughter of Ed Higgins.

I just got back from a few days alone at the Cape, where I was wrestling my latest manuscript into submission (it’s getting there, though it’s a stubborn beastie. A lot of my books are). Anyway, some of you asked what it’s like to write for a living, so here’s a little peek into my time there.

1. Arrive at our little house. Greet it. “Hi, House! Did you miss me?”
2. Make bed and revel in solitude. “I’m alone! I’m alone!” Call family to tell them I miss them. Both emotions are genuine.
3. Open the old laptop. Skim through what I have already.
4. Despair.
5. Bolster self. “How many times have we thought a book sucked? Lots! Just keep going. You can fix it later.”
6. Write.
7. Turn on light after the realization hits me that it’s dark all of a sudden.
8. Drink glass of wine for health purposes.
9. Talk out loud as characters.
10. Engage in vigorous argument with characters. Dash down good lines.
11. Start to fall in love with hero. Sigh!
12. Lock doors so serial killers don’t get me.
13. Pull shades so serial killers can’t see me.
14. Remind self that I’m in one of the safest towns in America.
15. Write some more.
16. Go to bed— I’m alone! This is fun!— and sleep in starfish formation, taking up entire queen-size mattress.
17. Wake up early, start coffee, open laptop. Repeat steps 3-10.
18. Go out to dinner. Read. Return home. Watch Hannibal on TV.
    Repeat steps 12-15.

When it was time to go home, I’d written about 70 new pages in two and a half days. I knew my characters much better than when I’d started, and have a lot more faith in the book than I did on Monday. I packed up, cleaned up and stood in the doorway once more. “Bye, Dad,” I said, because my late father bought this house for us when I was little, and I always feel close to him when I’m there. “Bye, House. Thank you!”

And three and a half hours later, I was smooching my kids once more. : )

As is true in many a romantic tale, I met the man I’d marry when the last thing I wanted was a boyfriend. I’d had it with boyfriends! Me, a rented movie, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s…now you’re talking! Who needed a boyfriend?

You see, I’d recently been dumped. Twice. Quite dramatically, both times. The first breakup came after a two-year relationship that had really run its course after two weeks. This guy finally ended things by leaving me on a rock in the middle of a lake. I was the timekeeper for boat races, you see. The races ended. I waited an hour before finally swimming to shore. ) I have to give points to that boyfriend…mission accomplished, you know?)

I only dated the next guy for a week and a half. Man, he was fun…right until he sent his friend to the restaurant where I waited, sipping my ultra-sophisticated white wine spritzer, and was informed that my brand-new boyfriend was actually, um…engaged.

So it was that I decided to go to New York City. Take a class. Broaden my horizons. Stop sticking pins in my boyfriend voodoo dolls. I stood in line, waiting for class to begin with the other registrants, chatting, trying to look as cool as the real New Yorkers.

And speaking of cool…the guy in front of me was wicked cool. Curly black hair. Battered leather jacket. Faded blue jeans. Pointlessly long eyelashes. Uh-oh, I thought. Here’s trouble. Don’t look, Kristan. And do not speak. Don’t speak! You know how you are!

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Kristan.”

“Hi,” he said, turning. “How are you?”

The lashes framed green eyes. How dare you have green eyes! I fumed. He asked me questions about where I was from, what I did for work. He listened to the answers. Smiled. Don’t you be nice to me, bub, I thought. I’ve had enough of nice men, thank you very much! Of course, this was far from the truth. I’d had plenty of the other variety…not nearly enough nice men.

He was Irish…ruddy cheeks, cheekbones to die for, achingly lovely green eyes. It wasn’t that he was gorgeous per se — it’s even arguable that some of the voodoo doll boyfriends were better looking — but there was something about that face. He looked…yes, it’s true…a bit like Bono. It was the 90s. You understand.

Then, remembering that I was on the rebound, had sworn off men, was terribly important and extremely busy, I turned my thumping heart away and pretended to do something. Pick gum off my shoe. End world hunger. I don’t remember. I do remember telling myself, “Do not go out with him, Higgins.”

Our first date was a few days later. He lived in Brooklyn. There was a coffee shop. Those green eyes, those lashes. He poured cream into my coffee. Held my hand…none of this dead-fish stuff, but a warm, reassuring grip from his working-man hands. Sigh! And the piece de resistance…he called when he said he would. I was in love.

Six weeks later, he proposed. We were married a year to the day after our first date. On our first wedding anniversary, he sent me roses — the same color as my wedding bouquet — and took me to dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village where the waiters don’t speak English and the food is incredible. We walked home through the snow to our tiny apartment, our Christmas tree and our little cat. Ever since, despite the sorrows and bumps of life, we’ve been living…well, you know. Happily ever after.

I love hotels. That’s good, because I stay in hotels a lot. For business, I like a comfy bed, lots of counter space in the loo, a remote control with the “sleep” feature, so I can fall asleep to Deadliest Catch or Say Yes to the Dress or The Bourne Identity, which always seems to be on TV when I travel. I don’t have  TV in my bedroom at home, so watching a show in bed is quite a thrill.

For vacations, I like a view. A balcony is awfully nice; we had one when we stayed in Glacier National Park last year, and didn’t I feel like Teddy Roosevelt himself, sitting there, overlooking the mountains! The bathrooms in those lodges were the size of caskets, though, and the beds were older than I was,  a thought upon which I couldn’t dwell. At the Westin in Sydney, we had a great view of the city and a beautiful clock tower, and McIrish and I sat in front of the window, sipping wine and feeling as if we were in a movie. Riding the elevator is always kind of a thrill, too. We don’t have elevators in my town.

This past weekend, the Princess and I went to western New York for a book signing and college swing. We stayed at the newly renovated Radisson in Corning, where my signing was taking place. The manager sent us up a fruit tray, complete with wine (my favorite fruit!) and cookies (my second favorite fruit!).  The Princess was most impressed— “Mommy! You’re famous!”— and fell upon the fruit and cookies with a vengeance. Never has proof of my coolness been more evident to her. : )

Boutique hotels are nice, I’ve found, if you’re staying alone. They tend to be tiny, and two people barely fit. Also, you have to have the time to drink in the cool factor. Yes, yes, I’m in the city and have read The Great Gatsby and even remember what it’s about, sort of, that kind of thing. Generally, taking photos in the lobby is frowned on, I learned from personal experience as I posed at the top of a staircase and said to McIrish, “I’m king of the world!” I’m surprised they let us stay, frankly. The maître d’ of the lobby bar was German and dressed in skinny orange jeans and a printed t-shirt. I’m sure his outfit cost more than my wedding dress. He scared me a little. He was about 6’6”, too. Picture Lurch from the Addams Family. In orange pants.

The more you pay in a hotel, the less you’re apt to get, I’ve found. You never get free Wi-Fi in expensive hotels, but they always give them to you in the more affordable places. This makes no sense to me. Free coffee should be a given, too, I think. I don’t mind shlepping to the lobby to get it, so long as the staff doesn’t mind seeing me in my jammies. Which of course they never do mind. ; )

One of the things I struggle with is insomnia. I’m extremely high maintenance at bedtime, as McIrish can tell you: I need a perfect room temperature, clean pajamas, sufficient blankets, radio tuned to the news station/baseball game, Huggy Pillow perfectly plumped, windows open the exact right amount. If I’m not sleepy enough, forget it. I’m awake for hours. If I’m too tired, I can’t sleep, either. If I’m worried, stressed, sick, if the kids are sick or if I have to travel the next day, I have trouble sleeping.

Ergo (you just don’t see that word enough, do you?)…Ergo, I often have to trick myself into sleep. The first time-honored Kristan Higgins tradition is to imagine myself in a coma, preferably, a medically induced coma. For some troubling reason best left unexplored, those three words—medically induced coma—are very soothing to me. I picture myself in a cozy hospital room with gentle, ambient lighting. A doctor who has just gone off duty has opted to sit next to my bed. Even in my comatose state, I’m dimly aware of this guardian, and I feel very cozy and important, knowing he’s sitting there by my bed (hopefully halfway in love with me already). I know I’ll be okay—eventually—but for now, my job is to rest. This is basically what heaven looks like to me: a nice long nap. : )

For a while, I tried those self-hypnosis things, where you relax your scalp, your eyebrows, your jaw, but I found myself arguing with the narrator. He’d be saying (in that slow, irritatingly soothing voice) “You are deeply relaxed,” and I’d think “Am I, hotshot? Because I don’t feel relaxed!” He responds by ignoring me: “You’re in a boat and you can feel the gentle lapping of the waves,” and I think, “What about sharks? Are there any sharks? Am I getting a sunburn? Did I bring sunscreen, the non-sticky kind? I’m probably getting hungry. Is there anything to eat?” So those didn’t really work. Curse of the writer: an overactive imagination.

Another tried and true Higgins method is to have McIrish tell me how the car works. This can be tricky, because like so many men, McIrish can be asleep five seconds after lying down, so I have to blurt out my request the second we hit the sheets, or he’s out. But if I get him at just the right moment, he’ll patiently and quietly tell me how the engine starts by…something. I’m usually asleep by then. I’m still completely ignorant of how a car functions. It’s like voodoo magic as far as I’m concerned.

But even if I lie awake for hours, I really love bedtime. It’s so dark where we live, and quiet, and I’m happy to know my kiddies are snug in their beds, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

I’m not in love with my current hero. Oh, his personality is fine. He’s great! Very alpha and smokin’ hot and yummy. But I STILL don’t have a face for him. And that’s a problem.

See, I often start my workday by staring at the many photos I store on my Mac. Here are James Franco and Tom Hardy, who’ve done it for me in the past. Staring (and sighing) gets me in the mood (not just for love, but for writing). Women read romance to fall in love with the hero, don’t you think? It’s always been incredibly important for me to fall in love with my hero, and to have a face to match, at least kinda sorta, the way he looks in my head. Hence my expert trawling for pictures of good-looking guys on the Internet, which still embarrasses my children.

So for now, I have everything but the face. I even know his coloring. But I haven’t found The One—that face I can gaze upon every day around 8:30, that I can click to when I need a little inspiration. But soon, I’m sure. Soon.

When I first started writing, our large, ungainly Mac was in the unused bedroom in our little house. Our kids shared a room at the time, so this other room was empty and unfinished. After our daughter claimed it at the age of six, McIrish kindly framed out a tiny room in our basement: the Pit of Despair, I called it, because as any writer can tell you, writing is HARD! And wonderful. But hard!

Then, a couple of years ago, I moved just down the street to a little apartment over my neighbor’s garage. It’s adorable. It was fairly filthy when I moved in, but I love to clean (Hungarian, what can I say?), and I scrubbed away. A year or so later, I got new carpeting. Just recently, it was painted, so now it’s wicked cute. Writing is still hard, so I call the place the Lair of Despair.

Here are a few of the little things I love about the apartment. Thought you might want to see them, too.

The chair of chairs. Yes, it’s so comfy! And dopey and cheerful, don’t you think?

Yoshi and Spike and Edmontosaurus, donated by my kids to keep me company.

The bowl of Hershey Nuggets with Almonds. Note the three empty wrappers. The day was young…

The Tom Hardy calendar. Much inspiration is derived from this, brought from my friend all the way from London!

The all-important coffee cups.

My plant table. Please note Henry, the iron turtle, my companion and guard-animal. Willow barks at him.

My kitchen. Should you visit, I can offer you coffee, seltzer water or soup. Maybe some yogurt. You should probably check the sell-by date. But I’d be happy to see you!

So glad you could stop by!

The other day, I had to be in the great city of Manhattan, that architectural miracle, the center of the universe, as it is so modestly named. I noticed that virtually every cool Manhattanite seemed to be wearing a scarf, no matter that it was 71 degrees that day. Were I savvy about these things, I imagine I would’ve been able to recognize a lot of designer sunglasses. Owning a mutt seems to have become a trend in the city, which is a very good thing, in my opinion. I saw fewer purebred dogs than hybrids, and a lot of pit bull mixes, which indicates more people are rescuing dogs from pounds. Good for you, New Yorkers!

New York is my road not taken—when I was younger, I worked in the city and lived just across the Hudson River. I always wanted to live in the city proper, though, and become one of those confident women who could stride down Madison in heels and recognize a designer bag from fifty feet. I wanted to be a regular at a cool restaurant and be able to transfer on a subway without fear of ending up in an outer borough, completely lost. I’d live in a small but charming apartment on the upper West Side, and my neighbors would adore me. My friends and I would get together for drinks, and I’d have an urbane, dryly funny boyfriend who could quote Sartre and yet still liked Star Trek movies.

Instead, as you probably know, I married a firefighter (he does like Star Trek movies, thank heavens). I live in my hometown on the very street where I grew up, next door to my mom. I have lots of high-heeled shoes, though I can’t bring myself to go for the really expensive kind…it just feels morally wrong for some reason. I’m not terribly confident, but I’m not a trembling wreck, either. I know I’m a good mom, and my kids know they’re fiercely loved. My house is small and sweet: a farmhouse with lots of flowers and a front porch. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.

And yet, there’s something very melancholic about wandering through Manhattan, through the breathtakingly perfect Central Park, down the streets that are graced with townhouses and flowering trees. I see those people I might have become, walking the road I left. It’s possible that someday I’ll live in the city, but I’ll always be an observer, never the real deal. And that’s fine with me.

McIrish, who firmly believes himself to be perfect, does the grocery shopping for our household. As he is the primary cook, this works pretty well. However, he often forgets that the kids no longer like a certain type of granola bar, or that we stopped buying whole milk 17 years ago. He also cannot seem to remember to buy me Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Brittle ice cream, which is not only grounds for divorce, but also for justifiable homicide.

I suggested that we have “Family Grocery Shopping Hour” so that those of us whose needs aren’t being met by the steel trap memory McIrish thinks he possesses will have no one else to blame but ourselves. His response: “Do we have to?”

Okay, he has a point. I am incapable of being serious in a grocery store and often pretend to wash my hair in the hydrating mist that squirts out over the veggies. I put items in the cart just to see if he’ll notice: pig’s feet, laxatives, Depends. The children also regress; the 17-year-old princess crawls under the cart and inches it away with her hands, pretending she is invisible. Both Princess and I love to be pushed on or in the cart, which makes for quite a display and much hysterical wheezing.

Dearest Son, who is a dignified 14, ignores us only to beg for foods high in fructose and white flour. “Please? Please! You said I could have these SugarPopCakeProductsWithExtraJimmies!” When I assert that I wouldn’t say yes to such poison with a gun to to the back of my head, he complains about the unkind universe and stomps away, muttering death threats and fondling the Little Debbie’s.

Meanwhile, Firefighter McIrish pretends not to know us, leaving the cart at the end of each aisle and racing down with breathtaking efficiency, tossing in items with lightning speed, only to have me replace them with the brands I prefer. “Generic tissues? Don’t you love me anymore?” (At this point, the answer is probably no.)

Exhausted, filled with loathing, we return home, find some PopTarts we forgot we bought, and indulge. Happiness restored!

Yesterday, two friends and I drove to New York City and spent the day eating and walking and eating some more. We had fancy cocktails and were all dressed up and felt terribly sophisticated indeed (well, not really, but we were trying). We got stuck in Midtown gridlock and overpaid for parking, as every non-native New Yorker is required to do if they’re so foolish as to drive into Gotham. We talked to sanitation workers in Washington Square Park who were cleaning up after a flash-mob pillow fight, and a homeless man seeking money for a sandwich that cost $9.95 (I gave him a couple of bucks for the cause). A toddler high-fived me on the street, proving my friend’s claim that I had two super-powers: child-hypnosis (the other being parallel parking).

We were torn: should we stalk Tom Hardy in Brooklyn so I could declare my feelings, or accept the fact that we are star-crossed lovers, fated never to find happiness? (The latter.) Should we eat Italian or Thai? (Italian.) If we lived in the city, would we choose the West Side, or the East Side (West.) Could we ever buy designer clothes at full prices and avoid feeling morally bankrupt? (No.)

The three of us who’d driven in together spent a total of 13 hours together. I don’t think there was more than 5 seconds of silence. Proof of genuine friendship, methinks: you never run out of things to say.