A while back, I had addressed a group of writers and readers, when, in the Q & A session that followed, the subject of the many, many, many hours I spend writing came up. Specifically, a reader asked, “What do you do when you’re not writing books?” “Laundry,” I replied without a second’s thought – and I actually think it’s true. Laundry is right up there with food shopping and housecleaning on a list of things that simply can’t be put off for the whole nine months it takes me to write a book.

Having mothered three sons, I’ve done so many loads of laundry that I pretty much do it in my sleep. It’s actually a productive work break for me, meaning that whether I’m gathering the dirty things, loading the washer, transferring wet clothes to the dryer, or folding the finished product, I’m away from the computer but still thinking about my book. Sometimes that thinking is so on-target that I’ll drop the laundry in the middle of whatever stage, and run back to my computer to make sure that I don’t forget the brilliant idea, argument, or phrase that had come to mind. Laundry can be truly inspiring.

It can also be frustrating, which is why I’d like to share a tip or two and invite more. Not all laundry is run-of-the-mill with fabulous results. Let’s talk about the stubborn little stains that come more often now that spring is here and we’re apt to be wearing a lighter weight, lighter color top that shows every little stain in ways that winter sweaters do not.

Take the tiny dots of grease that appeared on my tee-shirt tunic the other day. How’d they get there? It took me a while to realize that they had spattered on me when I pulled off the top of the can of cooking spray. I mean, really tiny dots right there on my chest for all the world to see. I’ve found that the best way to get them out is to squirt a little Shout Gel on them, scrub them a little with the built-in brush, then wash. If the shirt in question is white, a little clorox on a Q-Tip, dabbed on the stain before washing, does the trick.

Speaking of tricks, here’s another. Jeans shrink a tad each time I wash them, even if I don’t put them in the drier, but if they don’t tumble a little, they’re stiff and hard. So I do put them in the dryer – but only for 12 minutes. Literally, I set my kitchen timer for 12 minutes and go about my other business while the drier is tumbling. When the timer goes off, I take the now-damp jeans out, pull them by hand first widthwise, then lengthwise to stretch them. Then I hang them to air dry the rest of the way.

This stretching trick works on other clothes, too, like the tunic that did cover my butt pre-washing but post-washing does not. A little tug here or there prior to drying does it.

If you have tips and tricks -- like how to most efficiently remove all of those tiny white shreds when a piece of tissue accidently goes through the wash and gets all over everything, or how to get towel lint off wool socks -- I'd love to hear them. Post ‘em in the Guestbook, maybe?

Posted by Barbara Delinsky at 04:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

That’s what I get from Chelsea. For those of you who don’t know, Chelsea is my cat. We adopted her fifteen years ago, just when my book, The Passions of Chelsea Kane, was making its debut, hence her name. She’s a diluted calico, various shades of gray and white and pale apricot, and though she didn’t come with papers, she is the most precious thing that currently lives with my husband and me.

Many of you know her from the old days, when I used to post photos of her on my website, and you’ve asked about her, hence this blog. She’s fine and well, thank you for asking. She moves a little slower now than she used to, and has a health problem here and there, but she’s aging beautifully.

Chelsea was our very first pet. My husband wasn’t wild about animals, and I felt I was already taking care of plenty of them, in the shape of my three sons. But I had always wanted a cat – I still have the stuffed cats from my childhood, one of which looks exactly like Chelsea – and there was this frightened little ten-week-old creature, wanting a home. It took my husband a solid month before Chelsea was napping against his leg, but it’s been uphill ever since.

I can’t begin to explain what Chelsea gives us. Being a cat, she is independent. She’s also relatively self-sufficient, though I do have a faithful cat sitter who visits her each day when we’re out of town. She can be needy, sleeping tucked against me at night or leading us to the bathroom sink three, four, five times a day to hold a glass of fresh water for her to drink. She loves being brushed, though she grooms herself quite nicely, thank you.

And she purrs. She is calm. She is constant. She lets us know she’s aware of us and appreciative of our being there. She loves us – loves us whether we say the wrong thing to each other, make a bad decision regarding our kids, or mess up at work. She loves us whether we have a bad hair day or gain ten pounds or smell of Caesar salad garlic – and yes, she senses when we’re sick and stays close by.

Naturally, I've written cats into several of my books. There was Guinevere, in Coast Road, Victoria in An Accidental Woman, and Veronica in Family Tree. All have a wisdom beyond their years, as does, I swear, my Chelsea.

I know all the cute little sayings, like “Dogs have masters, cats have staff,” but, if that’s so, I’m privileged to be in her employ.

Posted by Barbara Delinsky at 01:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I had the honor of speaking recently at a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society, but my own speech was only one of several that evening; one of those others was truly the highlight for me. This fellow speaker was a local dad whose daughter was diagnosed with cancer at the age of nineteen – and the theme of his speech was opportunity, as in taking an unwelcome, even shocking bump in life and turning it into an opportunity to learn, to share, and to give. He told of crying with his daughter when they learned she had leukemia, of suffering with her through treatment, of worrying to this day. But he also told of coming together as a family, of meeting new friends, and of discovering a strength in his daughter that he hadn’t known existed.

This dad articulated beautifully what I’ve often felt about having had breast cancer. For me, this disease presented an opportunity to grow, to show what I was made of, to dare to survive and dare to try new things. If I hadn’t had breast cancer, I never would have written a character like Katherine Evans into a book like Coast Road, and certainly never would have put together a book like Uplift.

While I was collecting submissions for Uplift: Secrets from the Sisterhood of Breast Cancer Survivors, I received a handful of letters from women who’d been diagnosed with breast cancer and saw absolutely nothing good in it. On the surface, that’s true. The diagnosis of any disease is difficult; it is frightening, and creates hardship and heartache, upsetting our lives in ways we hadn’t planned. Moreover, often we have little choice about treatment. But we do have a choice about the attitude we take toward it and the way that attitude affects our overall lives.

What does it mean to be a survivor? I’ve often discussed this with friends, and not only in regard to illness, but to divorce, the death of a loved one, the loss of a job – any major setback to life’s plans. A victim lets the setback define his existence. A survivor takes it as an opportunity to head in a new direction.

Posted by Barbara Delinsky at 02:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)