Would You Like a Slap with That Whine?

I really should write about going off to Atlanta. I love airports. I'll be seeing friends I haven't seen in a year. I'll get to schmooze with my favorite authors. But am I going to talk about the trip? Heck no.

So you ask: what are you going to chat about, Kate?

Well, I kind of want to whine. It's hot, I'm lonely because Nate's away, I can't figure out this book I'm working on, it's too early to for a glass of wine... The list goes on.

Except I hate whiners. I mean—really—why can't people just buck up and get on with it? Hence my moral dilemma.

So again you ask: what are you going to chat about, Kate?

Hell if I know. But I do know what I don't want to talk about.

The only available topic that leaves is food. For those of you who don't know me personally, I have no problem talking about food—ever. I love food. I may not be a domestic goddess, but I can cook.

Only why talk? I'd off to do. A big dish of pasta is calling my name—carbs be damned. With a simple sauce of garlic, tomato, and basil. And maybe a touch of wine. Followed by an ice cream chaser. It's as close to bliss as I'm going to get today.

What's in a Name?

Recently I started a book that I thought I'd like, but I couldn't get into it. It was more than the writing, which was pretty good actually. My problem: I didn't like the characters' names. At all. The names didn't seem to go with the personalities, and whenever I read them, I experienced a sense of discord.

Nate's parents once told me that they almost named him Thor.

Could I love a Thor? I'm just not sure. When I picture a Thor, I imagine a hulking blond Viking who acts impetuously without thought to the consequences. Is this Nate? Heck no. Nate is grounded and wise. Okay, he's hulking, but in a quiet, won't-lord-it-over-you kind of way.

But what's the point, Kate?

Hold your britches—I'm getting there.

I've been pondering the power of a name and how it conveys character because for the past two weeks I've been agonizing over what to name my new hero. You won't believe how many movie credits I've watched (my favorite source for name ideas), and still nothing stood out. Nothing seemed to fit.

My friend Misa Ramirez is constantly changing the names of her characters. Even the main characters. And just the small change from Lily to Johanna alters the personality of the character more than you can imagine.

I'm pretty careful about how I name my characters, and I don't typically change them after I decide because their names become part of who they are. Maybe this is why I agonize over what to call them.

But two weeks...

That's got to be a record for me. I wanted something that shows strength and spirit while being masculine, above average, and slightly—well, odd.

Then, finally, a couple days ago it hit me. And the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it's the perfect name. Should I tell you what I decided on?

Nah. Why spoil the surprise? Evil grin.

Afra, Queen of the Ganges

Two seconds after the first half of the World Cup finished, the phone rang. It was my friend Diego, of course. Unlike most of the heathens I know, Diego appreciates a good game of futbol. I attribute it to the fact that he comes from Darkest Peru (just like Paddington Bear).

Anyway, after a brief discussion on the game and my blog, he said, "Afra is a little upset though. She wants to talk to you."

Afra came on. "I changed the TV since it's halftime. I'm watching the Indian channel. I love old Indian music."

"I know." I heard the wailing in the background and winced, feeling bad for Diego.

"We need to talk," Afra said in her no-nonsense, I'm a high-power lawyer, heed my words voice. "Why haven't you written a blog about me yet?"

I blinked. "Um..."

"I think you should. I deserve a blog dedicated to me."

"True." And I didn't just agree to please her. She's been one of my best friends for over twenty-two years and has supported and encouraged me faithfully. Plus, she's beautiful, driven, intelligent, interesting, kind of driven, successful, and did I mention driven?

But I'm no dummy, so I asked, "What do you want me to say about you?"

"None of the boring stuff" was her answer.

"Okay." I pursed my lips. "Is being a lawyer for one of the country's top firms boring?"

"No, but it's also not thrilling."

I thought about it for a moment. "Maybe I'll talk about your longtime dream of becoming a Bollywood actress."

"That's perfect!" Afra squealed. "Will you make sure you say what an excellent dancer I am? In case a Bollywood producer reads your blog."

"Of course." A small thing to do for friendship. "I'll also say that you taught yourself Hindi from watching movies. That'll show how intensely you feel about Bollywood."

"Have I told you how much I love you?" she asked. "But you need to go. Diego usurped the TV, and the game is starting again."

I glanced at the TV and she was right. "You don't mind?"

"No. This game will never happen again, and I'll still be here when it's finished."

That was one of the best things about her.

"Besides, Diego's going to give me a pedicure. But don't mention that on your blog, okay? It might compromise his manly image."

I grinned. "Would I do something like that?"

¡Gol! Confessions of a World Cup Fan

First confession: I manipulated my critique partners into meeting Sunday evening instead of Sunday morning so I could watch the World Cup finals.

Second confession: I don't know who to root for tomorrow—France or Italy. I've been agonizing over it all week because I love both teams. So I made a list. Of course.

In the end, it's got to be France. I can't believe I even had a dilemma about this. Sure, France's game never seems to be quite on for the first fifteen-twenty minutes of the game but when they get it together, they are so on.

But first, today: the losers' game—er, I mean the game to determine the third and fourth place teams. Clear cut on who to root for here: Germany. Portugal plays brilliantly but dirty, and I can't decide if I like that. Besides, can we say Ballack?

Fourth of July

On Friday, Nate laid down the law. The conversation went like this:

Nate: Love, you aren't working this weekend.
Me: Of course I am. Are you smoking crack?
Nate: It's a holiday weekend.
Me: (Eyes narrow.) Are you making that up?
Nate: It's fourth of July weekend.
Me: Oh. What does that have to do with working?
Nate: You need to take a couple days off. You just finished a manuscript yesterday and your sister is visiting. This is the perfect moment.
Me: Oh. Maybe I can just work on the synopsis for my next book. I think I figured out what was wrong with her goal—she should want to become a stripper instead of a doctor.
Nate: You are not working. (Beautiful blue eyes go steely.) At all.
Me: (Bat eyelashes.) I'll love you forever if you'll let me write just a few pages.
Nate: No. And you already love me forever.
Me: Oh. Right.

So I'm not supposed to be writing this, because everyone knows blogging counts as work. That's why authors blog—to work while they're avoiding work (think about it). Ergo, I had to sneak outside with my laptop, predawn, and furtively type before he woke up.

Which leads me to wonder... Why didn't anyone tell me it was a holiday weekend? You guys all know authors aren't aware of the day of the week. If I'd known it was a holiday, I would have written this sooner and scheduled it to be automatically published. Instead, I've had to resort to subterfuge. And deceit.

I used to believe that if my skirt was tucked into my underwear, someone would let me know. Now I'm having doubts. Yeah, I'm a little disillusioned. Rightfully so.

A Quick Note...

... to let y'all know that PROJECT DADDY's backstory is being featured on MJ Rose and Jessica Keener's backstory blog.

Stayed tuned for your regularly scheduled program. Over and out.