When our eldest left for college, I prepared myself for the waves of grief everyone so caringly warned about in the hushed tones usually reserved for discussing terminal illness and death. I packed tissues and braced myself for move-in day. I had best friends on stand-by for those first empty nesting weeks. I waited for the sobbing to begin. I’m a weeper. Surely the tears were only a matter of time.

Packing for college move-in…

But at drop-off, while I admit to feeling momentarily nostalgic (as I discreetly palmed a tissue to DH), my overwhelming feelings were those of excitement for our son and relief that we’d somehow managed to get this wonderful, messy, brilliant, scattered, lovable child launched into the world. I high-fived hubby on the way home and life went on.

Four years later–after celebrating kid #1’s diploma and kid #2’s high school graduation– it’s our youngest’s turn to spread her wings.

The warnings about our soon-to-be empty nest have been rumbling like thunder in the distance since June. As such, I’ve spent the summer in a flurry of distracting activities buying dorm supplies and ironing out logistical issues like a hurricane prepper hoarding plywood. Maybe everyone was right? Maybe this time, when my baby and only daughter left the nest, it’d feel different?

I delivered her to her dorm Sunday in sweltering heat, making a glorious impression, I’m sure, on all the other parents, delicate rivers of sweat soaking my mask and my hair declaring war in the humidity. The perky RA came by repeatedly to offer lunch at the dining hall as if anyone moving mini-fridges in 90 degree heat wanted anything that didn’t contain alcohol.

Giving College Girl one last squeezy hug, I hopped in the car. I felt myself well up a bit as I scrounged for wet wipes with which to bathe, waved goodbye to my baby–the girl who just yesterday I caught coming into the world–and drove away.

And that was it.

I drove five hours sipping the iced tea I got at the drive through, scrolling through radio stations, playing with the cruise control of my new car–not crying, not feeling bereft, looking forward to a shower, hoping my girl was settling in well.

Monday morning I woke up with the dogs too early for my liking, fed the cats, waved goodbye to hubby on his way to work and took stock. I decided maybe I needed to give things a few days. Surely I was in shock and the grief had yet to set in. I made fresh coffee.

It’s now Wednesday. 

I don’t want to jump the gun on this, but I think I’m okay.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my children with a ferocity and pride I can’t quite describe, but they were never mine to keep. Our job these many years was to shepherd them through childhood in one piece, give them the tools and lessons and support they needed to go out into the world and do their thing. Remember how it felt to launch into the world? Remember that? I do. Home felt like the clothes I was outgrowing on the way to adulthood. 

Remember, too, how exciting it was to buy and choose new clothes?

That’s the excitement I feel for my kids now. They’re deciding what they like, how they want to be in this world, and that’s fun and a space of dreams and possibilities. I never want to be the cord that holds my kids back, just the soft place for them to land. 

Our house today is emptier and quieter and feels a bit as if we’re left standing in the aftermath of a storm that’s been swirling in our lives for two decades. I walked around much of that first day putting things away and to rights, tucking away those items College Girl deemed okay to leave behind as she fled with the storm at her back…

Yet we’re still here, DH and I, the survivors, surveying the changed landscape of our lives. Remembering the tree that used to be out front with the fairy houses underneath, the sandbox that’s now overgrown and being reclaimed by the neighboring woods. I walk around this house and remember who and what DH and I dreamed about before the storms of parenthood blew them off course and took us in new directions. I’m cleaning. Getting things in order. Planning new plans. Writing. I’m feeling blessed that DH and I can look at one another, recognize one another despite the weathering of the years, and still genuinely like one another. It’s okay if we cry. It’s okay if we don’t. Parenthood is messy and disorienting. Those of us who’ve reached this phase of life should be proud to have made it through the storm.

As for me?

I’m looking forward to hearing tales of high winds and cleansing rains when my little birds fly back for a visit. 

My kids are out in the world living life and dreaming dreams, and that’s exactly how it should be.

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But as I dusted today with my certified melanoma-free body (thank you sunblock and good genes!), I traveled the long road of memory lane to a time when I was just beginning to think of myself as an adult. Voting in an election for the first time. Holding down a full-time job. Paying off student loans. Money was tight, and my shiny new husband and I were so frugal we only owned one small car between us, but I digress.

It was in this time when I was still firmly in my 20s when I took that step that felt, for me, like a monumental leap into “things adults do.” I walked into a small local gallery on my lunch break, fell in love with a piece of artwork, hemmed and hawed, and finally plunked down the small ransom to take it home.

I felt quite the spendthrift walking out with my brown-paper wrapped Original Artwork. That’s what hubby and I called it: O.A. It felt momentous buying something for the pure luxury of hanging it in my living space. I mean, I couldn’t eat it or drive it, and its market value peaked the moment I handed over my credit card. It was the first piece of art I’d purchased that wasn’t available in multiples at the mall. Watercolors on rice paper. A local artist. Why this piece, you might ask? I loved the colors. I still do. Its colors and composition were both soothing and interesting and something someone spent time and creative energy on, then had the guts to hang in a small local gallery. It called to me but not in a poltergeist-y way.

I walked out of there that day feeling the pinch of a wallet unused to extravagance, but I’ve often wondered how that artist felt knowing their work was valued. Enjoyed. I hope that, somehow, they see this post and feel the glow of having made something lasting and lovely. It would make doing my taxes this week feel worth it.

What did it for you? What was your first “adult” moment?

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It’s likely many of you have gotten wind of the turmoil going on within Romance Writers of America (RWA). I won’t go into details, as there are plenty of summaries and reports out there.  If I seem silent (or relatively so) it is because I am listening to voices too long spoken over and pushed to the side. I am also sitting in the uncomfortable space of recognizing that I have often been oblivious to others’ exclusion and pain and have benefited from my own privilege of being a white cishet Christian woman writing stories that largely reflect that lived experience. Sitting at the table has been a privilege I too long took for granted, and I have to come to terms with that truth.

However, if you’ve met me or read my books it should come as no surprise that I believe in and value inclusivity. Period. No qualifications. No discussions. I have been warned in the past few days to be careful about what I say and do. I have been chided that social media isn’t the “place” for this discussion. I have been told, ironically, that inclusivity is divisive.

Friends, this is MY table. You are ALL invited to sit here. If sharing this table with those who look different than you, love differently than you, or hold different beliefs or experiences than you makes you uncomfortable, I invite you to sit here for a while anyway. Listen. Share this table even if it places you in a seat which challenges you. There will be those who do not choose to sit in this space with me. That is their choice. Their seat remains open.

What happens next? I will continue to write books in the genre I love, and I look forward to building and supporting a community of like-minded souls. Whether that takes place within or outside of RWA remains to be seen. I’m at peace with that. This blog post isn’t meant to induce discussion or divert attention from the important revelations taking place elsewhere, but to share my thoughts, as I believe that honesty, transparency, and love should guide my every action, even professionally. So here we are.

I don’t know how this post will sit with folks, and I am accepting of that discomfort, too. It’s how I grow and become a better person. I hope you’ll join me.

The post A Seat at the Table: Thoughts About Turmoil at RWA appeared first on Cheri Allan.

My offense? The impeachment vote was imminent. I don’t remember which one. Does it matter? Anyway, I noticed that a new hashtag had sprung to life #ImpeachmentBackFire. “Huh,” I said to myself. I say this often when scanning twitter. “Huh. That seems… calculated. Premature. Designed to raise hackles and cause division.” So, I clicked on the hashtag, and it soon became clear this was, indeed, a manufactured hashtag cued up to trend before the vote had even taken place. As a public service to my fellow twitterers, I tweeted the following:

How to clean up your twitterverse. Search for hashtag #ImpeachmentBackfire
Block all obvious trolls and Russian bots with gleeful abandon.
Whistle to self as you go on with your day. You’re welcome.

Heaven forbid.

Within a minute, I had my first response. This was soon followed by replies asserting that I was “stupid” and a “c**t.” I was told I have “tds” (had to look that one up) and that I was unfairly taking away others’ right to free speech. Ah, bless you children, but you made it all too easy to identify who I no longer wanted to interact with on twitter. #blocked.

You see, the thing is, like bullies and abusers everywhere, trolls, bots, the angry mobs of social media want you to believe that it is their right to express their brand of ugliness at top volume and that you must listen. They will label those who seek to mute them as weak, snowflakes, or the enemies of freedom. It can be frightening to have the ire of the keyboard bandits turn their eyes on you and yell to their followers, “Fire!”

But as I watched the ugliness swarm out of the woodwork like so many cockroaches in a horror film, I decided that replying in kind, engaging in any way, would only give them oxygen. So, instead, I tweeted this:

Bless you. I’ve decided to share a Mr. Rogers meme
for every trollish reply I get to my tweet. Starting now.

And I did. For every ugly tweet that rose up in my mentions, I tweeted another Mr. Rogers meme at the #ImpeachmentBackFire hashtag. It was cathartic to see the beauty of Mr. Rogers in action, to send that energy back out into the world. There was Mr. Rogers dancing with a child, kneeling to speak to someone in a wheelchair, dipping his toes into a wading pool… and it was as if I’d thrown open a door and let the sunlight stream in. The swarming anger disappeared. The nasty replies just… stopped.

In those moments, I had a revelation. Too often those of us who want to find a peaceful way forward are told that we’re Pollyannas. We’re told that you must fight fire with fire. We’re told that too much is at stake to not fight back with equal force and vengeance. We’re told we’re weak.

It takes courage to stand up in the face of vicious attacks and respond not with anger or hostility but with kindness. Mr. Rogers understood the power of kindness. He stood before Congress all those years ago to defend the importance of Public Television and a safe place to express your feelings. He stood up for inclusion and dignity when too many actively worked to diminish and belittle others. Mr. Rogers knew the power of kindness to render the ugliness of the world impotent. What are they going to do? Complain about our civility? Our reasonableness? Go ahead. I’ve got a dozen memes ready to roll…

So now you know the secret. Put on a gift from a loved one. (Maybe a hand-knit cardigan.) As you zip it up or slide it on, remember you are wrapping yourself in the gift of love. Go out into the world determined to spread that feeling wherever and with whomever you meet. Show the trolls of the world that anger and fear and spite can’t diminish the love in your heart.

Yes. I’m just Pollyanna enough to believe I can save the world: one Mr. Rogers meme at a time. #thanksmisterrogers

(FTR, I’ve chosen to delete my twitter post mentioned in this blog, so don’t bother hunting for it. I have screenshotted it if you insist on receipts, but I wanted to erase the ugliness where I had the power to do so. You are free to make your own choices. I reserve the right to delete comments that bring anything other than light into the room. I may be hopeful, but I’m not weak or a pushover. Peace.)

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At long last THE RUNAWAY CUPCAKE QUEEN has arrived at her destination! <toots trumpet horns and throws confetti> This is the first in an all-new Lucky Charm Romance spin-off series.

You may recall back in Book 3 of my Betting on Romance series (ALL OR NOTHING) that we left poor, fish-out-of-water Helen Walker standing alone and rejected on the bandstand in snowy Sugar Falls, New Hampshire. Ian and Bailey had their happily-ever-after on the live finale of the reality dating show of the same name. But Helen? Yeah. It was not a peak moment for her.

THE RUNAWAY CUPCAKE QUEEN picks up here, in the minutes after the cameras stop rolling. Helen (our sassy, sequined heroine) dashes from the bandstand–and through a series of events–finds herself hiding from paparazzi in the backseat of our hero’s car (Jack Adams). Now, normally, this is where their story would end. But this is a romance, folks. A romantic comedy, at that. So, of course, it does not!

Helen is having serious second thoughts about being the next lead of Happily Ever After. So, she and Jack escape on a road trip that will take them from Sugar Falls, New Hampshire, to Heaven, Alabama. On the way they’ll discover that taking detours in life can sometimes be the route to happiness.

There’s a stray dog. Flying squirrels. Lots of sneaking around. You get the idea. It’s a RomCom road trip adventure. Hilarity ensues! So, snag a copy today and eat dessert first. You’ve earned it. Happy reading!

iBooks
Amazon
Kobo
Barnes & Noble/Nook
Google Play

The post New Release: THE RUNAWAY CUPCAKE QUEEN appeared first on Cheri Allan.

If you’ve been on social media the last few days, you’ll know Romancelandia is facing some hard truths. RWA, an organization whose very existence is founded on the genre of love, is failing our AOC and LGBTQ+ members profoundly. The Rita finalists again fail to reflect the diversity of RWA’s broader membership, and it’s no surprise. Years of anecdotal and data-driven evidence tells us that our signature contest is marred by racism and bigotry. Full stop.

As a white, cishet woman hailing from a predominantly white, conservative state, I struggle to own my biases and work to counteract them. I know I don’t always get it right. So, as the frustration and pain of those who have been shut out of this contest has hit online forums and social media, I’ve tried to keep my lips shut and my ears open. This isn’t about me, and yet it is about the ignorance and comfort of my white, cishet privilege. Because the awards have historically looked like me, it didn’t hit home until the last couple of years that that wasn’t true for all. For that, I apologize. I see how I have, by virtue of staying in a very comfortable and familiar lane, participated in a system and celebrated a contest that has caused immense hurt and held a large segment of our membership back from honest and fair competition.

When #RitasSoWhite #RITAGH and #weneeddiverseromance are trending, it’s past time to acknowledge that this contest fails to lift up the “best of the best.” Instead, it’s a reminder that we are failing to serve our whole membership as equals, as professionals, and as creatives deserving of recognition, support, and celebration. I do not want my annual dues going toward any activity which doesn’t serve to advocate for and nurture ALL its members. We either find a way to ensure that all members are fairly judged and equally included in all aspects of RWA, or we end the Rita and seek more inclusive ways of celebrating the successes of our members.

Love is love. I firmly believe that. And everyone deserves an HEA that looks and acts and loves like them. EVERYONE.

The post Everyone Deserves an HEA: Racism & Bigotry in Romancelandia appeared first on Cheri Allan.

Today’s post is not full of rainbows and unicorns, so serve yourself some ice cream before digging in…

You see, like yours probably is, my news feed has been full of “adults behaving badly.” From plagiarists to digital piracy sites to the college admissions scandal, cheaters appear to be having their heyday and many peeps are rightfully up in arms.

For the record, aside from fudging my weight on my driver’s license, I have never cheated. I have, however, watched it happen. It’s been over thirty years, so I’m guessing it’s beyond the statute of limitations, but I SAW it happening, KNEW it was happening. Each time, the cheater looked me in the eye as if daring me to stop them. We were always in a room of our peers, but somehow I was the one expected to raise the alarm.

I never did.

Let’s be honest. Part of my silence was fear. No one likes a tattletale. Don’t shoot the messenger. You don’t rat on your friends. There’s a real social risk for those who choose to speak up and expose injustice and wrongdoing, and we as a society communicate that to others early and often. I was nothing if not a quick learner.

But, the other reason I didn’t say anything was, oddly enough, pity. I actually felt sorry for the cheaters. What was their home life like that they cared so little about personal integrity, felt so unseen they were driven to act out, or felt so disadvantaged that they needed to cheat to feel they’d gotten their due?

With the recent college admissions scandal, I’ve seen a lot of name-calling and blame-laying and, yes, some very righteous outrage. It ticks me off that those who are already ahead of the game in life feel they somehow deserve more for themselves and their offspring to the point where they will lie and cheat and pay obscene amounts of money so their kids can get into the best schools–when so many others struggle and scrimp only to be squeezed out of the race. It stings to have the myth of a meritocracy proven untrue. It makes playing by the rules feel like being punked. Those cheaters should PAY. Right?

But we know they don’t. Usually, like in high school, they get away with it. Sometimes they get caught, are publicly shamed, but usually, they graduate, get jobs, have families, and we never know whether they now and then feel a bit ashamed of that time they stole a glance at the test in the filing cabinet when the teacher was out of the room or bribed their kid’s way into college. It’s all one long, ugly continuum. The slippery-slope we’ve all been warned about.

It galls me that there will always be a fraction of the population that believes cheating is their right. And a part of me will always wonder if my silence allowed those early cheaters to live a life without consequence.

But, and this is the unpopular opinion I’m now going to voice, I’m having a hard time coming down with full vengeance on the kids here. I look at my own teens, at 19 and 16, and I know they aren’t fully cooked. Being a teen or young adult in today’s world is rough. Their school dress-codes sexualize them before they hit puberty, cell phones mean there is a permanent digital record of every teachable moment they might experience on their way to adulthood, and everything from politics to social media influencers suggests that success is measured as much by who you know as who you are. That is a level of stress most of us never had to navigate. But in the last week, I’ve seen the teens/young adults involved in the cheating scandal treated with more vicious outrage than the adults who committed the fraud, and it troubles me. It troubles me, because I’ve said and done some pretty thoughtless, privileged, hurtful things in my life, and thank heaven they only exist in the memories of those who were there to witness them. Hopefully their sting has faded and the hurt they may have caused is replaced with the goodwill of my words and actions in the years since.

Absolutely, all involved in this scandal should be held accountable as is appropriate, including expulsion. Both the administrators who were complicit and the families involved should suffer real professional, legal and personal consequences. Restitution should be made for those students whose slots were stolen. But, if we can’t expose the cheating without resorting to death threats and name-calling and scorched earth fury, we run the risk of losing the empathy, integrity, and general sense of fair play we’re fighting so hard to preserve.

In the end, it’s been a rough week with the time change and a head cold, and I mostly want to hide in bed and NOT DEAL. I also don’t want to face that when I think about this scandal, I have to own that I’ve played a part in a society that has habitually turned a blind eye to self-serving, privileged behavior and threatened those who expose it, and morality is rarely clean and crisp and distant. It’s right here in the room, playing out in real time in front of us, daring us to engage, and our response can be harsh or apathetic or empathetic or somewhere in between, because we’re human and trying, and while I haven’t cheated, I’m not without blame.

The post Adults Behaving Badly appeared first on Cheri Allan.

I was chatting with friends yesterday about discussing politics in today’s social climate. They wondered why I would want to given how ugly and contentious it often becomes. I told them that engaging on hot-topics helps me practice my tolerance–like any skill, it feels easier when exercised consistently. It gets me out of my own self-validating bubble and helps me understand others who, by and large, feel just as passionately about their point of view.

But, if these discussions rarely change anyone’s mind, why bother to “enter the fray” at all?

Years ago when I was but a fresh-faced college student, I stood waiting at a bus stop with a handful of others. An older woman ambled down the sidewalk. We all shifted to allow her room to pass, but at the moment she came abreast of me, she whirled toward me, cursing, flailing her arm angrily, and spat: “YOU GET OUT OF HERE! WE DON’T WANT ANY OF YOUR KIND AROUND HERE! YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!!!” I backed away at her continued abuse, darting glances at my fellow bus-stop crowd, because, obviously, I did not know this woman, she did not know me, and yet for some reason in her mind, I was THE ENEMY.

The post Why I Talk Politics When Everyone’s Angry appeared first on Cheri Allan.

So, if the universe isn’t immediately slapping us up ‘side the head the moment we step out of line (which, frankly, could be useful in some cases, just sayin’), is Karma describing something more subtle about human nature? Years ago Dr. John Gottman conducted a study on newly married couples where researchers counted the number of negative versus positive comments the couples used with one another. Turns out the researchers could accurately predict which couples would later divorce based on the proportion of negative comments (even those that were deemed “jokes”). That negative energy those couples were sending out–even sarcastic comments that were “just kidding” jokes?–they were poisoning their relationships.

Is negativity poisoning our society? There’s a lot to be negative about. I get it. Oh, how I GET IT. We can’t scan social media or the news and not be exposed to someone’s contempt or outrage. Sometimes that outrage is warranted. Outrage can be a passionate desire and catalyst for action–to change things for the better, to protect the defenseless, to give voice to those who struggle to be heard. It’s okay to be angry. It’s not okay to be cruel.

I’m not a Pollyanna. I know full well there’s a lot of ugly in the world. I choose not to feed it. For all the times I enter into the fray of contentious discord? I’ve held myself back 100-fold. I’ve walked away, gotten a cup of coffee, pet the cats and asked myself whether I’m contributing to the problem or the solution. I write hopeful, humorous romance, because I genuinely believe that if negativity can poison our relationships with others, then kindness and hope, even humor, can cure us. Yes, it may take a lot of kindness, and immense self-control, not to recycle the negativity that others hurl our way, but I have a drawer full of smiley-face buttons, and I’m not afraid to use them.

I leave you with one last thought for today, a book recommendation, actually. It’s called I Like Your Buttons by Sarah Lamstein. It’s a children’s story about the power of kindness. And kittens. And how the many small, positive interactions we have with others make us all happier–and sometimes come full circle.

It’s about believing in the power of love, and isn’t that what romance is all about?

The post Kindness, Karma and Why We Need Romance appeared first on Cheri Allan.

But here I am, vague-blogging about it (sorry, not sorry), clearly NOT letting it go, in fact still swirling the events and details and the rational proof around in my mind (I could make a spreadsheet SHOWING I’m right, people!) as if focusing on the problem must lead to the answer.

DH says I need to “let it go.” Frozen’s theme song springs to mind (you’re welcome for that earworm), but then I realize Elsa is actually singing about venting about what’s bottled up inside, so now I’m torn between feeling I need to be mature about the situation (sadly, not my first instinct) or taking the advice of a Disney princess, letting my frustration flag fly, and freezing the crap out of my enemies. But, do I really want to be the one that calls forth the second winter as satisfying as that sounds? Doesn’t doing so just freeze us all in that hard, cold place together?

If not that, what do I want to see happen? I want to be heard. I want an apology for being dismissed. I want amends made for those negatively affected. Will that happen? <shrug> Maybe. Maybe other voices will carry through, dust will settle, and the wrongs will be righted.

And maybe they won’t.

BLERGH. I tell my kids when they find themselves smacking against the same immovable obstacles in life to “be the water.” I tell them if they keep ramming into a problem or situation, it only hurts them and doesn’t change anything, but if we are the water? We flow around life’s obstacles, find the little outlets to get beyond them, wear other problems away little by little over time…

Be the water.

I think I need to take my own advice. (Thanks for letting me talk it out with you. You’re a good listener.) Elsa, my dear, freezing water only holds us in place. But rain? It makes things grow. So, now I’m thinking of the GOOD things about this situation–the people and things that went right and make me feel proud and thankful and excited about the future. These thoughts warm my heart. From that place of happiness, I can hope that kind and nurturing hearts will help those who need to grow–help them learn it’s okay to admit when you don’t have the answers, make a mistake, or are overwhelmed and need help. We’ve all been there. I also hope those of us who felt frustration will remember how hurtful it can feel when others refuse to listen, when they don’t take the time to hear our pain or confusion, so that we learn how to approach future scenarios with compassion and open minds.

Yeah, I want to be THAT water. The good kind. The warm spring rain kind. I don’t want to be an icicle, stuck in place. I want to be the kind of water that grows a d*mned flower! (Okay. Clearly this thawing out may take some time. Send kittens. And wine. I’m almost out.)

The post Let it go? Yeah, right. appeared first on Cheri Allan.