Determination

This blog would be better with pictures, but I can't figure out my new camera and how to get the pix from the camera to the computer so you'll just have to deal with your imaginations. We're writers. We should have good imaginations. :)

I have 2 dogs (insert pix of cute doggie faces, one brown dog, one black dog). We'll call them Jaws and Hell Hound. They are around 75-80 pounds. Kinda large. Jaws had to have surgery this week. Found out about it on my birthday (happy birthday to me, more money to hand over to the vet). Now, we can't leave Jaws by herself as she has separation anxiety (hence the name Jaws. Perhaps what she did to our old house will show up in another blog. If you've ever been to the old place you might have noticed her handiwork, or should I say mouthwork???). Therefore, if HH has to go to the vet for a day treatment, then The Hubster has to work from home to comfort poor Jaws.

Hell Hound has never given us this problem. Of course we've never left him by himself anyplace but at the vet. Which he didn't like. Which should have clued us in, but name me a dog that does like the vet.

HH gets locked in the bedroom on the day Jaws spends at the vet. He is quiet when we leave, no barking, clawing or other noisy doggie behaviors. I'm happy.

But not for long.

The surgery goes well, we pick up a rather confused and very thirsty Jaws and run home. We are greeted by HH. Hmm. HH is supposed to be in the bedroom.

(insert pix of shredded bedroom door)

Yep. Hell Hound used his claws to dig the carpet back from the door. When all he encountered was cement foundation, did he stop? Nope. Determination.

After leaving little runny piles of potent odor causing substances scattered throughout the bedroom carpet, he attacked the door. Despite being larger, wooden and firmly fastened in its frame, the door stood no chance. Must've taken him all day to use his claws to detach the lower half of the hollow core door. Once this was accomplished, he was able to burst through the rest of the door.

So the top half of the door was still shut, but the bottom half was lying open. In case you're concerned about HH, he was fine, not a scratch. No animals were harmed in the making of this story. Amazing amount of determination in that dog.

As writers we have to be like Hell Hound. We have to be determined. We have to want to break down the proverbial doors of the publishing world and get our manuscripts out there. We have to know that there is something on the other side of the door we want and we will do anything to get to it. Or almost anything. It's not always easy. It might take all day, or all year or several years, but if we work long enough and hard enough, it will happen.

So don't give up. Borrow Hell Hound's determination and get the job done.

The writing job that is. I'm not advocating breaking any real doors. Your hubster won't like having to hang a replacement. :)

Day Job Versus Dream Career...

For many of us new writers, writing full time is a luxury we don't have. So what happens when our day job or family obligations rob us of the few precious hours we have to write? Or even worse...once we find the time to write, job or family stress invades our thoughts, preventing the creative juices from flowing freely.

In times like these, I take inspiration from anywhere I can get it. One source I have used more times than I can remember is a column written by science fiction author Robert J. Sawyer at www.sfwriter.com

He writes a terrific article on the Six Rules of Getting Published, and how out of 100 people, only a few follow all of the rules. Knowing that I am already following five rules and working on the sixth, keeps me plugging along in the face of everyday adversity.

If you're having trouble staying motivated, go to the above website, scroll down to the bottom and select How to Write then Heinlein's Rules.

So how many of the rules are you following?

Karilyn and the flat tire

Growing up my dad owned an auto salvage with his dad and brother. I used to spend summer days out there learning all sorts of things. Mainly my twin cousin and I would take the Green Machine - a Pinto minus the hatchback, the hood and the doors - and drive it up and down the rows in between wrecked cars. Our fathers, who were supposed to be watching our 12-year-old selves, thought this would be a safe activity, considering we couldn't really damage the GM and the rest of the cars were already wrecked. The GM didn't go very fast and supposedly taught us how to drive (if you ever saw Cousin drive, you'd think twice about this assessment).

Little did they know what we did with it.

At the time, Dukes of Hazzard was a really big show. Not the cheesy movie either, but the real Mccoy, with Bo and Luke Duke. Hoo-wee. Gotta go get my fan. Okay, I'm back. Anyhoo, since the Dukes could leap into a traveling car, Cousin and I figured we could too. So one of us would hop behind the wheel of the GM, gun the puny engine until it whined in protest and the other one would run as fast as her legs could carry her and leap, mostly gracefully, into the car. The driver would then tell the other how fast she could run.

Lots of good old-fashioned fun.

Despite all the fun, Dad did insist I learn something. God forbid that his girl go through life without knowing something about cars. So he'd spend hours showing me how engines work, what a drive shaft was, how to make car repairs. And yes, until I got my little Saturn I used to do a good number of car repairs, all under the watchful eye of Dad.

So the other night my friend and I were out and about and hopped in my shiny red Saturn to mosey home when the steering went out. I backed out of my spot, heard this clicking noise and the car started to veer to the right.

Great. More money that needed to be spent b/c it looked and felt like the steering was completely out.

Friend and I drove home and the whole time the car's veering to the right. When I got home, I looked under the car, convinced something had to be hanging off of it. Nothing was. So, I thought, gee, maybe it will spontaneously fix itself overnight b/c I really can't afford a steering problem. It could happen.

When I hopped in the car the next morning and backed it out, more noise sounded, so loud I think it woke up the few neighbors that weren't awake. I pulled it around to the front of the house and figured I should look under the hood.

Embarrassingly enough I couldn't get the hood opened. So now my hands are covered in dirt but luckily I'm at home where there's soap and water, no problem. But it's obvious the car won't make it to the dealership b/c said dealership is like 15 miles from my house. So I think, hey Firestone is down the street, only 3 miles, no problem. I hop back in the car, that is now making so much noise that the radio can't drown it out, and start driving. Noise, unbelievingly, gets worse. I panic. Keep driving car though. Stop at traffic light. Kind Lady rolls down her window and starts hollering, hey lady, you have a flat.

**mentally hits self in head several times** Tells Kind Lady thanks and pulls off road into Sonic parking lot.

Now I can put into use all those skills Dad taught me more years ago than I'm going to mention. I hop out of the car, pop the trunk (yes, unlike the hood I can get the trunk open), pull out the spare and jack and drag it up to the tire. The tire is smoking, nice white smoke and smells like it's been set on fire. The wrench is on the jack and I cut my finger open getting it un-attached.

The wrench won't open so each time I twirl it around, little metal pieces of my hubcaps come off. Blood is dripping all over and grease is coating my hands. Now, you might not realize this, but I'm a wee bit OCD and all I see is dirt. Like the character in Macbeth - out, out damn spot. I start to hyperventillate b/c there is dirt on my hand and in my cut and I'm in my nice Scooby scrubs and they're going to get dirty and there is no place to wash my hands - did I mention all the dirt?? - and it's way before 8 so no place is open and who do I call around here and why the hell won't the lug nuts unscrew - what is wrong with them?? - and there is DIRT and I can't touch anything b/c of the dirt and I'm going to have to call my hubby b/c of the dirt b/c I can't change the tire with all the dirt.

So much for Dad's lessons.

The hubster leaves work at my panic dirt-filled call and comes and changes the tire b/c dirt doesn't bother him and the lug nuts come out for him.

I feel like a dumb blonde. I know how to change a flat. I used to change tires with Dad all the time. And there I sat completely immobilized by dirt.

But I did get the tire fixed by Discount Tires who had me on my way in 15 minutes. Great place if you've never used them. They even let me clean my hands using their special soap. It took 5 washings but the hands are clean now. Skinless, but clean. :)

Ever had a flat?

life sans adversity is like a book sans conflict

OMG, that alpaca commercial is on AGAIN! what is the deal? does anyone else ever see that on TV?

that's not what this blog is about, but i find that commercial completely jarring.

real blog starts now.

for the past, i don't know, YEAR, i've been wondering how much adversity i must overcome before i "pass" the test. now maybe it really isn't a test. maybe it's karma, maybe it's bad luck, maybe i'm too snarky and this is punishment, maybe it's just something i as a human am not privy to because this "test" is preparing me for something later in my life, or even my afterlife, but for heaven's sake! there are days when i'm like, dang it, can i really pick myself up - AGAIN? and AGAIN? and AGAIN?

the answer is always yes, but i still ask myself that same question - every time. now i know i'm not the only one facing adversity. i know there are people out there going through more difficult things than me. but i'm a writer; i live in my own world a lot of the time.

despite the adversity, here i am - still. still getting drop-kicked in the e-mail and/or mailbox, but i keep trying. i love to write. i want to have a baby. i want the career, the man, EVERYTHING - just like my heroines. so, i'll just keep trying. even if some days it seems so damn hard. even when it seems so much easier for other people. even if other writers get published with stories that include petticoats, fanny packs, and leather deck shoes.

it's obvious i'm supposed to learn something specific while on this journey. well, i know the adversity is worth it. i've learned i'm tough enough to handle it. so what else am i overlooking?

You, Me and Aunt Louis

My life revolves around writing, family and the military. If I'm not writing or hanging out with the family, I'm handing out cold sandwiches and taking notes for my sporkncork blog down at the USO. I love my Sunday job mostly because it provides me with so much material but also because it's a nice thing to do.

I'm full of stories and embarrassing moments from my 4-6 hour Sunday shifts. This past weekend I had the chance to try on one of those ginormous backpacks those guys have to lug around. I fell on my ass. It's a pretty funny story and even my Mom was in tears when I shared my latest fiasco with her.

I'm telling my aunt - who may no longer be my aunt because she's divorced and no longer married to the family, but I still love her - about me and Air Force guy and I tell her that I told him (he said, that she said, that I said...) that if he ever picked up a novel and recognized himself it was purely coincidental and there was no need to call a lawyer.

Aunt: I didn't know you write!
Me: You proofed my baseball story.
Aunt: I thought that was school project.

Side note: I'm not in school, when I was I was never asked to turn in a full manuscript for a grade and my aunt is border line c-r-a-z-y.

She says she has a friend who has a sister that is a published author. Oh, no. Here we go again.

Aunt: Do you want me to have her call you?
Me: No, really it's fine.
Aunt: She's a romance author. She could help get you in the door.
Me: HUGE GIANT SIGH

I tell my aunt that would be great because I don't have the heart to explain that this author, that we all know because she is also a member of DARA, is probably really busy staying in the business of being published and probably doesn't want to talk to someone she has met in passing so she can help get her in the door.

What is wrong with people? Bless their hearts, I know they are only trying to help. If only it was that easy.

My infomercial monologue will read like this:

You too can be a successful best selling author! It's so easy and my program will tell you exactly what you need to do to get in the door. I'll share with you all the inside secrets that agents and publishing houses DON'T want you to know. blah. blah. blah.

The secret? "Just meet a published author and BAM! You're published. Foot in the door. Over night success. How FREAKING easy is that?" In really small letters I'll add: 'Sorry no refunds' and 'the results exhibited in the infomercial were not typical'.

What. Ever.

Seriously.

Groupies or stalkers?

As some of you may know, I got to meet my Favorite Author last weekend! Way cool. In the interest of not naming names, I'm going to create a blog with no first names. Or try to.

Anyway, FA is a wonderful person for those of you who know who I'm talking about. She's really friendly and bubbly and she rebuilt a 1964 and 1/2 mustang from scratch. In between being a best selling author and globe hopping for all these events that come with being a best selling author. You've gotta admire a woman who can rebuild a car.

My money bought me a visit to the author's reception Saturday night and then out to dinner with FA. Sunday included getting to sit at her table at the literary event. Nine of us won this privilege.

Needless to say I was a bit excited. I got all fancied up and drove to the hotel where we're to meet. I'm one of the last to arrive so everyone has been sitting around chatting and getting to know each other. When I arrive, all names are thrown at me, as if I can remember names, and I smile and try to look like I really want to be best friends with them all. Two women describe themselves as FA's stalkers. OOOkkkkaaaayyyy. I look around for the cops, but none are to be found.

Then FA shows up and we all pile into a van. Think of opening a sardine can, to be rather cliche. I scrunched against the wall, but I'm two seats down from FA so who really cares. The lady sitting next to me is one of the self-admitted stalkers and the entire time we're squashed together she is talking to FA about FA's life. FA is chatting away with her, obviously not as freaked out about this as I am. The entire time this lady, let's call her stalker lady, SL, sits next to FA and has to be the dominent in the conversation. So if you ask FA a question you can tell she's not a happy camper b/c now FA is paying some attention to someone other than SL. SL doesn't like that.

However, get SL away from FA and she's really nice. Just one of those people that has to have all the attention on her and she draws that attention by making herself sound more important by knowing all this info about FA. Interesting pychology study.

The other "stalker" was more as I'd describe myself. Fairly normal, but a huge fan. The difference between us is that she goes to all these FA author events. But the other lady was freaking ME out and I'm not even a famous author.

Oh well. FA is wonderful, love her books and she's just as nice in person as she seems in her books.

But she had apparently had enough too b/c during the tea she stuck SL across the table from her.

So, are people like me who go to these things groupies or stalkers? What's your opinion?

things that make you go hmm ...

and i'm not talking about the 90s song from c+c music factory.

some of these "sights" i saw on our cruise. some i think could really facilitate some dialogue among us. so, i'll be interested to hear your thoughts on ...

leather doesn't make it any better.

flapping running shorts is like a low-cut shirt on a woman - hopefully nothing slips out.
when mosquitoes are bad, you don't care about fashion. maybe the above 2 guys were trying to scare mosquitoes with reverse psychology?
meet my next hero. al paca.
from my hometown newspaper. i don't think i could even dream up a scene like this.

please vote for your favorite.

i got 99 problems and PEACH is no. 1

tip(s) of the day: if you’re going somewhere close to the equator, take bug spray. and always, always take bug spray when you go into the jungle. any jungle. even if you are wearing long sleeves. even if you tight-roll your jeans like 1991. even if a guy named hey-seuss offers you his bug spray. take. your. own.

well, no jerky mishaps like angie, but i did gather plenty of bloggable stuff during our cruise. there were lots of “characters” on the ship. in fact, biscuit started a simple naming system in which to identify these characters—all male characters, by the way. i will save this jewel for another blog.

since this was a “love” cruise, i lovingly decided to leave my laptop at home. this decision made my eye twitch for most of the cruise and leaving it at home in the barb room was almost as sad as leaving my two young sons (my dogs) at their lavish canine resort. nonetheless, i was excited to read a new book. i really enjoyed the first book in this series; you guys probably remember me questioning the white jumpsuit thing, but aside from that, i loved the story. well, the second book … not so much. the author obviously did a lot of research and i learned lots of new things, which I always appreciate—but, because there was so much “research,” i felt like the story suffered. the dialogue was just not up to the caliber as the research and because of that, the whole story seemed off-balance.

then there was the issue i always have issues with: the characters’ fashion.

disclaimer(s): blogger is not a fashionista. blogger is simply opinionated and confused based on the author’s fashion choices for her characters based on the current date and time in which we live—2008.

… O. M. G. biscuit and i would be sitting there in our cabin—yes, on a love cruise and not on the lido deck playing shuffleboard, but him watching the UK vs. Alabama game on TV and me reading this book—and i’d read biscuit the outfit causing confusion and he’d shrug his shoulders and say, “i don’t even know what that is.”

let me back the bus up for a minute. while on this cruise, i saw things i’d never seen before. “characters” that made me stop, analyze, and reflect. characters that wore the things i have serious issues with. let me break this down even further—girls, i saw leather deck shoes in person!!!! in real-time. even when i poked biscuit on the arm and said, “oh my gah, look, LDS,” and he said, “huh?” and i clarified, “leather deck shoes,” and he was like, again, “i don’t even know what that is,” and i was like, “LOAFERS. LEATHER LOAFERS. ON THE LIDO DECK! WHAT IS WRONG WITH FREAKING FLIP FLOPS!”

then he got it.

but back to the book. this author didn’t just dress the heroine in peach, she dressed ALL the female characters in peach. i kid you not. every outfit was peach—for every freaking female character. peach, peach, peach. even their nail polish was peach. first of all, i have nothing against peach. as in the fruit. but the color, as in the peach crayon found in a 64-count box of crayolas, nope. not working in 2008. when i go to stonebriar, i do not see lots of peach-colored attire on the racks. this story was set in a certain large U.S. city that is not located near a beach where one might potentially spot peach-colored attire. and the female characters were all in their early 30s. hello? at least there were no peach-colored sarongs or thongs.

now, it would have been different if the heroine or another female character wore a cute, peach-colored babydoll shirt or maybe a peach-colored sundress or even a peach-colored sweater from ann taylor. but no. we're talking blouses. what is a blouse anyway? that word sounds suspicious to me. i call them shirts. short-sleeve shirts, long-sleeve shirts, sweatshirts. some are dressy shirts, some are T-shirts. some are tank tops. blouse is like using the word caftan instead of a lounge chair or chignon instead of bun.

there was one exception to peach … when the hero was wearing navy slacks (when i say “slacks” out loud it sounds as if i have a crouton lodged in my larynx) AND a navy SILK T-shirt. yes, a SILK T-shirt. when i think of “T-shirts” i think of 100 percent cotton with screen-printed lettering on it, like one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.

anyway, it’s not that big of a deal, but the fashion distracted me throughout the story. maybe the author wasn’t even aware that she was using the same color over and over and over and over, but I noticed. i know, i know, i pick up on anal things, but that’s what i do. writers are supposed to be detail-oriented.

let’s look at some acceptable ways to work peach into a story:

she was a lightweight and ordered a dekuyper peach tree schnapps, but when a hot guy walked in, she needed something stronger. like tequila. “hey, bartender, make it a peach margarita instead.”

after working out, jill stopped at the gym’s café and ordered a peach smoothie.

jeremy was clueless. what the hell had he been thinking, offering to cook dinner for natalie. that was easy. he hadn’t been thinking jack—he’d been staring at her body. damn, she had a body. the woman clearly spent a lot of time in the gym. fruit. yeah, he bet she liked healthy stuff, like fruit. strawberries, grapes, peaches. and probably something tropical like papaya or kiwi. maybe he could pull this off after all. jeremy slipped on his nike flip flops, grabbed his keys, and headed to whole foods.

melanie squeezed her eyes after her mother stepped out of her 1991 coupe deville. what in the hell is my mother wearing? a peach moo-moo with kitty cats? i gave her a generous gift card to talbots. why, mother? why? you're meeting my boyfriend for the first time today and now he'll assume this is what i will look like in 30 years! ugh.

my great-grandmother loved that movie, a league of their own. back in the day, she was a rockford peach.

kate turned up the volume on her ipod when prince came on. peach. awesome song. the next song that came on had her rocking out to the steve miller band … you’re the cutest thing that i ever did see, i really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree …

i rest my case.

next time you go to victoria’s secret, i challenge you to ask an associate to show you a bra or teddy (not a bear) in peach. if she whips one out of the drawer in zero to three seconds, i stand corrected on peach being a universally accepted, fashionable color in 2008. however, if the associate cocks her head and looks confused, FACE!

Tomfoolery

Isn't that word AWESOME! Props to Christie for using it and props to me for stealing it for my own blog post.

I tried to upload an adorable image of an english sheepdog with so much POOF you couldn't see his eyes. Bless his heart. Now I know how Trinity feels about the uploading picture thing.

Okay, so to continue Christie's line of thought from last week, I'm going to talk about sorta the same thing. How amazingly easy it is to pen a novel and get it published and be in LOVE with the entire process!! I mean who doesn't love waiting for months upon months for that 'We really liked your work but..." letter that shatters all your hopes. Are you perched on the edge of your chairs? Don't be...that was completely tongue in cheek and I don't want you to be disappointed in the long run.

Now, let me apologize upfront to my friend who probably won't appreciate being the subject of this discussion but she is a perfect illustration of what Christie was so delicately pointing out.

There are very few people who know I live the secret life of a tortured writer. In a nutshell, I agree with Trinity - it's just easier than having to explain (or in our case - DEFEND) what we are trying to accomplish. Smirks, snide remarks, and basic school yard bullying is just not worth it. But when I'm published, I'll be wearing that badge for all the world to see and God help whoever decides to open their mouth because I have 32 years of pent up anger just waiting to be released.

My friend went to see a multi-published best selling author, one whose books are ALWAYS made into major motion pictures, speak when he was here in town recently. The next day she explained to me how disappointed she was in him. What? Come again. MULTI-PUBLISHED. BEST SELLING. MOVIES. I see nothing to be disappointed in.

She explains that she got the feeling that he just wrote books to have them made into movies. I tried to explain the writing is a business. Oh, sure it can be a hobby, but the truly dedicated souls that slave night after night while their family is off in fairy dream land know, they know, it's one of the most competitive businesses probably in the world.

For most, we write because it is what we are made to do. I wrote my first short story in the third grade. We were asked to write a paper on what would happen if the sun suddenly decided not to shine. I turned in a five page story. FIVE PAGES and I was EIGHT. Why do I remember this? Because later I would realize that was when I knew what I was supposed to do and that was write.

I am sure there are authors who don't give a rats ass about what they are doing, they were somehow blessed with a natural ability to plot and form sentences that make marketable manuscripts, but I bet they are fewer than we think in the fiction world. This particular author might well be one of those few but who cares? When it all comes down, it is still a business.

You write because you can. You publish because you either have a great agent that pushes your work endlessly or when a tired editor happens to read your manuscript while drunk and you sign the contract before she sobers up. I'm kidding, but I think you understand our chances are slim, slim, slim. Luck has to play a huge part.

After you publish, you hope for a movie deal (insert snicker) but you don't wait for that because you are already pounding away on another manuscript that you hope keeps the publisher interested enough to give you some heavy marketing or you end up at a bookstore with only your fellow spanksters alternating autograph requests with sympathy shining in their eyes.

And guess what? You write that next book with the same damn dogged determination that I had when I penned that short story when I was eight. Not because you can, but because you have to. At least for me. It's like OCD. Gotta write. Gotta write. Gotta write.

Sometimes I'm so sick of it I quit. Stop writing for months but I always go back. Because I have a story to tell. Because Muse Bob won't stop nagging about how much time we are wasting reading and blogging and youtubing when we could be producing. And then you go to meetings and hear things like "Five thousand dollar" advance for first time authors and I want to throw my laptop off the roof. Do they know how much time I spent on this thing? Anyone done the math? Is that kind of pay even legal?

It shouldn't be about the money, but how can it not be in the long run? It's a business. I don't live in a village where other people pay my mortgage because I need to finish my manuscript. I'll take that advance but you can damn well bet I'm gonna make sure my next work is worth a hell of a lot more. And more after that.

We can't work two jobs forever, and that's exactly what writing is for me. A second job. I love it (and hate it) but I spend hours a day plotting and planning and penning words that float around in my head all day long.

It all boils down to this for me: don't make a judgement call against a successful author because he has the talent to turn books into movies because then you are judging me.

I have six, seven if you count the trash I wrote in high school, manuscripts. Some complete. Others still in progress. I have a book of poetry I began in middle school. I have a notebook that I literally use rubber bands to hold together full of ideas I may never use.

Yet...

I have never won a contest. I have never been offered a publishing deal. I don't have agents beating down my door throwing Range Rovers in my face begging to represent me.

Until you've walked the world seven times over in my shoes don't tell me what writing should be about. Sometimes I hate the words I've written. Hate the characters I've created but if someone wants to buy something I hate, then heck yeah, I'm gonna be all over it. In less than a heartbeat.

everyone can run

i was glued to the olympics this year. my heart went out to lolo jones when she clipped that last hurdle. i totally understood how she felt in that moment when she fought to get across the finish line. she'd spent four years of her life preparing for a race that lasted 10 seconds. four years. ten seconds. her dream was crushed - just like that.

as i watched track event after track event, the runners made it look so easy because come on, how hard is it to run? most of us can - it's really just a faster version of walking, so how hard is it really to do the 100 meter dash - right? could i run the 100 meter dash? sure. could i run it in less than 30 seconds and without injuring a hamstring? doubtful. the point is yes, i could run it, but it is not my expertise and no coach would ever recruit me to be on the olympic team.

the same concept can be applied to writing romance. we all hear the flack about the genre we love and how "anyone" can whip out one of those little harlequins. ok, those of us on the inside of the romance genre know that is just tomfoolery coming out of their mouths because harlequin is a complicated beast. and if harlequin is complicated then getting published by a NY publisher is a combination of astrophysics and advanced calculus.

publishing a book is NOT easy. anyone can write a book, but not everyone can publish one.

this is what has been on my mind lately. it disturbs me that people think once you have written a book it should be a piece of cake to get it published. we all know that is not true. and, IMO, trying to get published in romance is more difficult than any other type of genre or type of writing. it's tremendously subjective and we are competing with thousands and thousands of writers for one of a few limited spots with a publisher. people who don't read romance - people who have some "false image" of romance don't get what we're trying to accomplish here. people say to me, "well, can't you just try to publish an article in some magazine," or "have you ever heard of something called self-publishing?"

yes, i believe i could publish an article in a magazine - if i switched gears to feature writing. publishing in a magazine requires a different type of writing style, a different type of marketing approach, and i am not interested in doing that at this time. and self-publishing - one of my favorite women's fiction authors started out that way, but that doesn't mean it's right for me. in fact, in our genre we are basically told self-publishing is career suicide. and that's why we're trying to publish a book - because we want a career in romance writing. writing is like any other profession - there are different types of writing. but romance writing is not like any other type of writing. i know most people just don't understand this because they aren't as intimately involved with it as we are, but it bugs me when they just think it should be as easy as pushing that big red EASY button at staples.

maybe romance writers do live in their own universe, but i'm happy where i live and i'll continue to pursue publishing in romance. when people start trying to give me advice about how to publish "faster," i'll listen, but in my head i'll know the truth. that it's not easy to publish, just like it is not easy to run the 100 meter dash. especially when there are lots of hurdles a long the way.

if you can feel me on this, holler.

Sex, Sealing the Deal and Closure

In this day and age modern women don’t have sex and immediately fall in love, right? Okay, I will allow that there are some boiling-rabbits-on-the-stove women still around that associate sex with L-O-V-E, but come on. The generation of today’s youth could give a hippie commune a run for its money.

‘Debbie Does Dallas’ was once a just porn flick I heard about in high school. Turns out Debbie, Ryder, Kendra – and any other name you can think of – not only does Dallas, but then moves on to Ft. Worth and when them pickens are lean…let’s not go there.

Sex in the City says it all. Women are strong. Financially stable. Self confident. And the word SLUT just doesn’t have the same connotation that it once carried. Unless you live in a small town, and like Miranda Lambert says: “everybody dies famous in a small town,” so you have to earn a rep somehow.

Here’s the deal. I’m reading through a work in progress and I’m struggling to write anything. Just staring at the blinking cursor and wishing like hell my enter key was missing and my shift button was stuck – because it would give me something to do. I’m reading a love scene. Wait, is that old fashioned? EEEK!!! I mean SEX, sex scene. And it occurs to me that perhaps this is why I pull my hair out, screech and moan when it comes to writing the end of a manuscript.

I know I’m not making sense but just hang in there a second. In the world of romance novels, once a woman has sex with a man she is either destined to be one of three things:

1. The horribly killed off ex-wife
2. The incredibly bitter ex-wife, girlfriend, etc…etc…
3. The heroine

It occurs to me as I’m moving my eyes over the text I have written that perhaps that’s why I am so incredibly horrid when it comes to closing a book. Because in my tiny little brain when the sex is happening – that’s it.

They’re together.

Sure, you can throw in some twists and turns, stage the HUGE BLACK moment when they are ripped apart – but guess what? They get back together. Because that’s how it works in novels of the romantic nature.

Sex. Fight. Confess Love. The End.

And sometimes you get an epilogue that shows the reader how splendidly happy they are five years down the road with devishly handsome twin boys and a house with a white picket fence.

I feel so cynical. Like I’m taking something away from the hours we are slaves to the keyboard clicking out those intricate plots and character flaws. But I’m not trying to be. Just sharing a conflict that is becoming increasingly difficult for me to overcome.

I’ve been aware of it for a while, talked about it at some of our meetings but I don’t know what to do about it. I discovered tonight that it takes away from the emotional attachment I feel toward my characters. Oh great, they went and did it. FUBAR’d the whole shebang with the having of the sex.

Perhaps I’ll just go back to the days of “Insert Sex Scene Here” and move along knowing that they had sealed the deal but convincing myself that since I hadn’t really written the scene – it hadn’t actually happened.

Right. And Debbie decided she liked Dallas and didn’t have the energy to take on Fort Sill.

Sorry. I can’t keep the military references out…it’s an annoying new habit. Along with the thumbs up thing.

Where's Bigfoot when you need him?

Remember the movie ‘Predator’ with Arnold S.? He was chased through the jungle and swamps by an alien hell-bent on annihilating him or becoming his new best friend. One or the other.

That was me last week. Except I wasn’t being pursued by a 7 foot tall invisible alien. I was being hunted by a herd of 4 foot tall 11 year olds. Hunted might be too strong a word, except in my nightmares where they're chasing me through the woods looking for guidance and GoldFish Crackers.

We were at CAMP. One of the most hated words in the English language. Hated by me at least. I am not a camper. I’ve wanted to be a lot of things. Vanna White mostly. But I’ve never, ever wanted to be a camper.

Anyway, that’s what we did. The whole class at the kiddo’s school packed up and headed off to ‘Happy Cheerful Fun Camp’. We packed and packed and packed. Because even though we had to pay A LOT for camp they didn’t actually provide anything in the cabins. No towels, no sheets, no pillows, no paper towels, no refrigerator, no life size blow up George Clooney doll. If you wanted any of that stuff then you had to pack it yourself. When hubby saw the loaded down SUV he said, “How long will you be gone? A month? Did you leave any paper towels or toilet paper for me?” I don’t think that was actual panic in his voice, I’m sure it was concern for mine and the kiddo’s wellbeing.

After driving several hours to ‘Happy Freakin' Fun Camp’ we arrive and get to unload all the crap wedged into the SUV. The other moms and I drag the gallons of sunscreen and bug spray down the hill to our circa 1940’s cabin. Everything must be brought in and put somewhere. 20 sleeping bags, 25 duffle bags, several tote bags etc. Apparently none of us travel light.

When we first saw our tiny cabin the teacher said, “Look, you have a view of the lake.”
I don’t know what she was talking about because the windows facing the lake were 6 feet above our heads. We’d have to pole vault onto the ceiling fans to see anything out of those bug-caked windows. And the other windows were blocked by 16 bunk beds. View? Don’t think so.

The chaperones had to climb a LADDER to get to our sleeping loft. All of our stuff had to be hauled up and down the ‘Ladder of Death.’ The bathroom was on the first level so if you needed to go in the middle of the night, the process involved putting on flip-flops (the floor was filthy) and climbing down an 8 foot ladder in the dark while holding a flashlight. There were 8 rungs down to the floor. I tried to count them off: One…two…three…slip,thud, thud, thud, slam. Well, I made it down.

The schedule given to us by the camp counselors showed that 10:00 pm was ‘Lights Out.’ This sounded good to me. And if they hadn’t kept us out until 9:45 making the kids do some intricate clapping exercises then we might have made it to bed by 10:00.
Unless our kids grow up and join the circus or work with trained seals, I don’t know how that much clapping is going to help.

We had 20 people and 4 showers. Lights didn’t go ‘out’ until midnight, and that was after a lot of crying and whining ….some of the kids were upset too.

Some of the moms had really involved hair and beauty regimens that could NOT be skipped. At first I thought that was a waste of time but then I realized, if Bigfoot broke into the cabin, he’d take the primped and coiffed moms and leave the rest of us behind.

Although, by the third day we were all so exhausted from the freakishly happy clapping and overly cheerful counselors, that I would have thrown myself at Bigfoot’s mercy and begged him to drag me off into the woods, if I could just get some sleep. I guess he had the week off because there wasn’t one sighting of the big lazy lug.

We spent days and days (Well, 3 days, which felt like a month) applying buckets of sunscreen and enduring clouds of bug spray. FYI bug spray does not taste as good as you might think. There was a truck load of tears, lost contacts, hurt feelings, and several injuries.

On the last day, I was so tired I couldn’t even eat lunch so I just tried to get as much caffeine and sugar down to make the drive home. To sanctuary. And clean showers.

But something amazing happened as we drove out of the parking lot of “Happy @#$%^ Camp”. I had a renewal of energy. I felt positively giddy! I hadn’t been that happy since we made our great escape from Canada. I wanted to sing songs and share my euphoria, but since the other moms looked they were about to club me over the head I kept it to myself. Mostly.

P.S. The kids had a great time and everyone made it back safely.

The Monkey Dog Strikes Back

We have these two dogs that live with us. The first dog came here about four years ago. I was innocently dropping books off at the library one day and when I came home the kiddo had talked her dad into going to the SPCA to ‘look’ at the dogs. So we all piled into the SUV and headed to the shelter.

We’d been having this ‘get a dog – don’t get a dog’ discussion for quite a while. Hubby and I were in the camp of ‘don’t get a dog.’ (The previous dog had died of old age a couple of years earlier and we weren’t ready to take care of another one.)

At the shelter the kiddo picks out a little Chihuahua type dog and we take it into the ‘Get Acquainted Room’ to, you know, get acquainted. The little dog runs around the room once, comes straight over to me and I’m thinking ‘Oh how sweet! He likes me.’ and in the next instant the thing hikes his leg and pees on my purse. Little creep.

Out he goes and we start the process of looking in all the cages again. In one cage is the strangest looking dog I’ve ever seen. Its legs are 3 inches long and its body is about 2 feet long. It has the head of a wolf with huge Dorito chip ears. One of the dog’s eyes is ice blue and the other one is marbled blue and brown. Its coat is a mottled gray, black and brown and the tail is long and shaggy. It was the saddest looking dog ever. I’m a sucker for big sad eyes and I thought that if we didn’t adopt that dog nobody else would. (And he didn’t pee on my purse. That’s always a good sign.)

So we have that dog for a while and he’s a sweet dog. He’s got a few health issues and he’s gained some weight and he never really was a lapdog anyway. The kiddo has decided we need a lapdog. A dog we can hold and carry around in a purse. And hey, who doesn’t need a dog they can put in a purse and carry around? Apparently, purse dogs aren’t just for crazy people anymore.

We load up in the SUV again and head to the dog place. This time we see this rat like monkey looking dog thing. Uh oh. Another weird looking dog that needs a home. It’s small. Tiny really. So it meets the purse requirement. And it’s lively. It’ll play and chase toys which our other dog won’t do at all.

It was a little difficult in the beginning because dog no. 1 (We’ll call him Comet.) wasn’t thrilled with a new addition to the family. He was happy with the way things were and didn’t see the need to bring some rat/dog thing into the house.

But Comet doesn’t get to vote and evidently we’re suckers for rat-dogs. The only problem is this dog is not a dog at all. It’s a puppy! Comet was 2 years old when we got him. He has never done anything more than lie around and roll over to have his belly scratched.

The puppy has more energy than a case of Red Bull. She chews. On everything. The wood trim. The coffee table. My COMPUTER cord. :(

Thank goodness she’s cute. That’s the only thing that has saved her life on several occasions. (Just kidding. Sort of.)

We’ve had the puppy (We’ll call her Clara.) for about 4 months and we’re working on several issues with her. House breaking issues, chewing on everything issues and the waking me up in the middle of the night issues. She seems to have some sort of weird internal clock that goes off at 2:00 am and suddenly it’s ‘playtime.’

Last week she went to the vet and got spayed. The poor little thing looked traumatized when we brought her home. She had this look on her face that said, “You will NOT believe what happened to me today!”

But she got over that quickly and was back to terrorizing Comet by latching onto his jowls and making him drag her around. She had a couple of stitches from the surgery and was due to get those removed yesterday. So I let the dogs go outside then loaded Clara up for the trip to the vet.

We’re about a ½ mile down the street and Clara’s in the back of the SUV jumping on the seat then in the floorboard over and over. Next she’s standing on her back legs and clawing the heck out of the console, wanting in the front. I’m driving and can’t pick her up so I’m ignoring her pleas. Suddenly, a terrible smell crawls out from the back area and almost knocks me out. Oh no! Please let her just have gas. She’s frantic to get into the front and I know why. She’s made the rest of the car uninhabitable. Uuuugh. At the next red light I twist around, look behind my seat, and sure enough. She’s left an unwanted present on the floorboard. Yuck.

Dogs may be a man’s best friend, but this ‘friendship’ may kill me.

Anyone want to buy a slightly used SUV? How about a rat/monkey/dog?

here's some positive media attention-FACE!

what man wouldn't adore a small-town girl

who can bait her own hook and catch a winner like this?

i love it. ammo shots instead of glamour shots!

bikers for palin.

good-looking hero. hot, smart, trailblazing, assertive, multitasking heroine.

and, palin's got a degree in journalism, which means she's got dang good grammar skills.

WOMEN REPRESENT

this is NOT an official endorsement of The Spanksters. the comments listed above reflect the opinion of the author only.

Gasp, wheeze, gasp....Is that an inhaler in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?

If you read my blog about escaping from Canada then you know that we were vacationing in Montana. I think it’s called Big Sky Country. Or maybe that’s another state, I’m not sure. But it is very beautiful.

We saw tons of wildlife. Mountain goats, rams, moose, grizzly bears, chipmunks, ground squirrels and some sort of animal that looks similar to a beaver but I can’t remember it’s name.

And even though Montana is beautiful, the accommodations in the National park were less comfortable than how I would imagine a prison cell to be.

The overhead light sported a bulb in the 3 watt range and had the dim, dingy yellow cast one would expect in an insane asylum built at the turn of the century. It was designed to turn the merely insane into the criminally insane.

If you’ve ever stretched out on a sidewalk then you know what the beds felt like. And they were covered with sheets in the luxurious thread count range of 30 or 40. If the wind and sun hadn’t already exfoliated the top 3 layers of your skin off, the sheets certainly would.

The shower was smaller than an average coffin on end and had two water temps. Freezing and boiling. Take your pick because you can’t have both.

I nearly died the first day we were there. Hubby wanted to hike up the side of a mountain. A very STEEP mountain. The path was about 20 inches wide with a sheer drop. I’m not a hiker and have never dreamed of being one. But anyway, up the side of the mountain we all go. I’m gasping and wheezing, sucking on my inhaler every few steps. I have a walking stick, which sounds helpful, except that it’s one of those expandable/retractable kind and it keeps trying to retract into its 2 foot length.

Hubby, who is ever so helpful, keeps reminding us to ‘make noise so that the Grizzly bears will be scared off.’ I’m beginning to wonder if we’re scaring them off or just making it easier for them to locate their lunch.

Hubby also keeps pointing out how beautiful everything is, the flowers, the waterfalls, the trees.

Hubby -- “Look! See that waterfall over there? And that one 5 feet to left of that one and the one 3 feet to the left of that one? And that one right above us and that one over there? Aren’t they beautiful?”

Me -- gasp, wheeze, “Uh—uhhhh.”

Hubby -- “Hey, look! There’s another one! And see those 3 over there?!”

Me -- gasp, wheeze, gasp.

Hubby -- “Did you see that waterfall down there?!”

Me -- gasp, “Uh—uhhh,” gasp.

I can barely breathe. There’s no air up in those mountains. My vision is turning black from the lack of oxygen. I’m sure that my body is starting to shut down from oxygen deprivation and my darling hubby is going on and on about the waterfalls. If I had enough breath left to actually speak I’d say, “Yes! I see the *^$# waterfall! You can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting a freakin’ beautiful waterfall!!!!!”

We FINALLY get to the top. Although it’s not really the top because the trail is closed off part way up due to avalanches. (Thank goodness.) So we get as far up as we can and sit down on some rocks to eat the snacks we’d brought. (FYI: There’s no Starbuck’s up there. Anywhere.)

And the ground squirrels around there are BRAVE! Not afraid of humans (or partially dead humans in my case) at all. They run right up to anyone with food. I nearly had to wrestle my cheese puffs away from one of the little buggers.

And as we’re sitting there and hubby is euphoric with the scenery and the wildlife and the *&^%* waterfalls, I realized something.

We have to walk ALL THE WAY BACK DOWN that stupid MOUNTAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Is that a new hat or is a lizard on your head?

Lately I’ve been fascinated with these self-help books on being positive and how to get the best out of your life. I’ve read several different ones and all of them are really upbeat and the most basic premise is that a person’s attitude dictates their life and how they perceive everything. They are very inspiring.

Makes sense, right?

Basically if you expect the worst you’ll probably get it, and if you expect the best you might get it, and if you don’t then be happy with what you do get and the shut the hell up with the complaining. I’m paraphrasing, of course. (And there’s probably a good reason why I don’t write inspirationals.)

So, I like these ideas and I actually do believe a lot of it. I want to be positive and have that outlook.

For instance, last week my husband was driving home from work and a small rock hit his windshield taking a chip out of the glass. By the next morning it had cracked 15 inches across the windshield and by that evening it was pretty much across the whole thing. We had to get a guy to come out and replace the windshield and it cost $250. Ouch.

Possible Response 1: Damn! That’s $250 I could have spent on Pomegranate Margaritas or food for the needy or Pomegranate Margaritas for myself.

But see how that has a negative attitude?

Possible Response 2: That’s just the way it goes. No one was hurt, the guy who fixed the windshield came right to our house and there was little inconvenience.


Another example. I was headed for a nice walk the other morning. When I opened the door something fell and hit me on the head. I looked down and a lizard was sprawled across my welcome mat with a dazed look on his tiny face. After a lot of jumping around, ripping off my hat, and throwing it in a shrub, I realized it wasn’t that bad. I wasn’t actually hurt, just freaked out. A few weeks ago a similar thing happened to my mother-in-law except what fell off her door was a baby rattlesnake. Mine was only a lizard so I was much luckier.

I guess those positive thoughts are working.

THE GREAT CANADIAN ESCAPE

So we’re in Montana on vacation and it’s going well and then hubby says ‘Hey, let’s go to Canada!” and since I’m working on having a new positive attitude, I stupidly reply “Sure! Let’s go!”

We get to the checkpoint and it’s in the middle of nowhere. It’s only a seasonal checkpoint so it’s not even open all the time. I get the envelope where I’ve stashed hubby’s passport and the birth certificates for the rest of us. I’m also working on being more organized so I’m quite proud of myself for having it all neatly arranged in an envelope.

Canadian Border Patrol Guy comes over to the car and wants to know what we’re doing and where we’re going.

Hubby “We’re going to the (whatever) Park to do some hiking.”
BP guy “How long are you staying?”
Hubby “A couple of hours.”
BP looks at documents then looks at us “Are these photocopies of the birth certificates?”
Me “Yes.”
BP “Where are the originals?”
Me “At home.”BP “Why didn’t you bring them?”
Me “Because I didn’t want to lose the originals.”
BP using a snarly voice “Then don’t come to Canada.”
Me saying nothing but thinking: (But didn’t you see how neatly organized they were?)
BP “This passport isn’t even valid.”
Hubby “What do you mean?”
BP still using very mean voice “You didn’t sign it.”
Right now I’m thinking let’s just turn around and go back. We don’t need to see Canada anyway.
BP hands invalid crap back to us and says to drive on across the border into Canada.
Hubby and I are both a little shaken and nervous at this point and he asks BP “Will we have any trouble getting back across?”
BP sounding arrogant “Not since I let you through. But if you went to another checkpoint, you might.”
Oooooookaaaaay.
I’m not feeling cheerful about any of this right now but we drive slowly through and into Canada. Which I used to think of as Big Beautiful Friendly Canada but not so much at this point.

Kid in the backseat, “Is this Canada? Are we in Canada yet? How much further to Canada?”

We drive for about 10 minutes and I say, “I don’t really feel good about this.”
Hubby, “Yeah, that guy was pretty rude.” (I’m paraphrasing, but this was the gist of what he said.)

Kid in backseat, “Are we in Canada yet?”

We drive another 5 minutes and I’m trying to enjoy the amazing scenery, but it’s not really working for me.
Me, “I still don’t feel very good about this.”
Hubby, “Me neither.”
Kid in the backseat, “La la la. Where are we now? What did that sign say? Are we in Canada? Is this Canada? It looks exactly like the place we just left? Why did we come here?”

We drive another 15 minutes or so and I’m close to hyperventilating. I don’t want to be stuck in Canada. I don’t want to have to learn Canadian! You have to put the ‘eh’ in everything you say and I don’t know how long I can keep that up, eh?

But I start practicing. “How much longer, eh? Do you think we should go back, eh?”

Hubby, who is a very laid back and easy going guy, actually sounds nervous. “Yeah, let’s go back.” If he’s worried then it is definitely time to worry.

We get to the entrance to some park and there’s a little booth where you have to pay to go in. Hubby stops the car and we look at the signs. Their written in English and French, but I’m freaking out about never getting out of Canada, so that I don’t know what the signs said.

Hubby, “Do you really want to go in there? Are do you want to go back?”

Me, “Ithinkweshouldgoback.I’veseenenoughofCanada.” My new positive outlook has deserted me. I envision myself and my family living deep in the Canadian forest as hermits, pursued by the Mounties and a herd of angry moose.

From the backseat, “Aren’t we going in?”

Hubby turns the car around and heads back the way we came.

I’m barely breathing. I just know we’ll never see the US again. How are we going to get home? It’ll be just like those movies where the people have to wait until dark and run through a river and climb a huge fence to get across. And since we’re in Canada we’ll probably have to fight a bear and ride a moose. Or something like that.

But I’m really trying to keep it together at this point and not completely freak out. Deep breaths. It’ll all be fine.

Backseat, “Why are we turning around? Aren’t we doing something? Why did we even come here?”

Me, “Shutup! We have to sneak back across the border!”

Backseat. Silent.

We get back to the checkpoint and get in line on the US lane.

Finally, we get up to the US Border Patrol guy.

BP guy, “Put it in park and turn it off!”

I’m not freaking out. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. Really, I’m not freaking out.

Hubby hands the BP all of our invalid ID crap and we wait. And wait. I’m sure the guy is placing us onto some sort of watch list on the internet.

He comes back and hands the stuff to Hubby.

BP, “How long were you in Canada?”

Hubby, “About 45 minutes.”

BP – eyebrows shoot up above mirrored sunglasses, “What did you do in Canada?”

Hubby, “We just went to the overlook and took some pictures.”

BP, “Okay. Do you have anything to declare? Do you have any meat?”

Hubby and I look at each other. We didn’t buy anything in Canada. But I’m not real cool in these sorts of situations. I have sort of an issue with guilt.

Me – blurting out. “We have some beef jerky.”

Hubby gives me ‘the please shut up look’ and turns back to the border patrol officer. “We bought it at Wal-Mart in Kalispell, MT.”

BP guy, “Beef is fine. Do you have any bison, venison, lamb?”

I’m wracking my brain. Do we have anything like that? Hubby looks at me again, probably expecting me to blurt something else out.

Hubby, “No. We don’t have anything else.”

BP, “Do you have any fruit?”

Hubby and I look at each other again.

Hubby, “No. We don’t have any fruit.”

BP, “Okay. Go on through.”

I hold my breath until the car is started and we drive back into the US. Yay!!!!!

We get about a half mile down the road.

Me, “OMG! We have raisins!”

Hubby just looks at me and keeps driving.

Okay, so I’m not good in pressure situations like that. You won’t ever see me robbing a Falafel stand or knocking over a 7-11. I may write about crimes but that’s as far as it goes. I’m no good at actually committing them.

So we did make it all the way back to Texas without any other mishaps. I don’t know if we’re on a watch list now with a big piece of beef jerky next to our pictures or not but it’ll be a very, very, (probably never) long time before we go back to Canada. Eh?

Hello? Is there anyone there?

I know it's not my night to post but my writing is at a standstill and writing here is WAY easier than trying to write the devastating scene that will rip my hero and heroine apart. At this point I think heroine might be ready to put a gun to her head and that's just not good - for either of us.

So I just wanted to say what's up and that I miss y'all. Poor Daisy. I'm just sayin'.

I hope you guys are enjoying your summer so far...and that your writing is way much better off than my own...ain't that good English?

Miss you!!!


-Chellie

Daisy ....

Two days later, Gabe’s head was still reeling from the crazy magic carpet ride Daisy had him on. She was the hottest woman he’d ever met and from the moment she’d walked into that bar and asked for his help, his world had been thrown into a blender and set on puree.

“Ouch.” Daisy’s voice cut through the tranquility of the morning and Gabe glanced over his shoulder at her. He knew better than to laugh but he couldn’t stop the grin. She slapped at her arms. “Stupid bugs.” Slap. “Why do they like me,” slap “and leave you alone?” Slap.

“Put on some more bug spray and let’s get moving. It’s already hot enough to boil coffee out here. If we don’t get on the trail now, it’ll be siesta time and we’ll be stuck.”

No reply from Daisy, except for an indecipherable mumble and the erratic squirting of bug spray. Juan, the guide they’d hired was giving orders to his employees about packing up the tents and supplies and loading everything onto the burros. Two more days of hiking in the sweatbox of the South American jungle and they’d be able meet up with the men who were keeping Daisy’s sister captive.

One night in the jungle and all of Gabe’s well-honed, and as of late, unused battle skills came to the forefront. There was no way Daisy could have known about his background of Special Ops training, so he could only guess that she had some kind of Catwoman instincts in choosing him.

He glanced in her direction again and shook his head. Her hair was up in a pony tail, she didn’t have on a drop of makeup, and she was irritated as heck. But damn she made his blood race.

If they weren’t on this crazy trip to save her sister, he’d take her back to the hotel that they’d checked out of the day before and they would stay there for at least a week. Maybe longer. He was pretty damn sure it was going to take a long time to get Daisy Stone out of his blood.

An enormous roar shattered the chilly morning air.

Daisy ...

"That I think you aren't clear on our destination."

"Huh?" Gabe said, his hand lazily on her thigh.

Daisy climbed off his lap and settled into the seat beside him. Puffy white clouds the only scenery out the window. "We aren't going to Columbia, as in Columbia University in New York. We're going to Colombia, as in South America."

Gabe scratched his head. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"Well, you can't pronounce it 'Columbia' when we get here. I need you to pretend you're Colombian. So you have to say it like 'Co-lome-bee-uh'."

"Anything else I need to know? I mean do I need to slick my hair back and smoke a cigar too?"

Daisy nibbled on her bottom lip. "Actually, that's a good idea."

"Look, babe, I think you need to tell me more about what we're up against. I don't like feeling unprepared. I'm a fireman. And firemen are always prepared."

Daisy took a deep breath then sighed. "OK. It's like this ..."

Daisy ...

It wasn’t until they were halfway to nowhereville that Gabe realized maybe he might have made a teensy little mistake.

Staring out the small window of the private jet – how Daisy managed that he didn’t even want to know – into the midnight sky, Gabe went from ‘Hell ya’ to
‘What the f –’ in about two point five nanoseconds.

Because really, did he need to get laid that bad? A quick glance at the tanned feminine leg pressing against his jean clad thigh answered that quickly enough. And sure he’d done some pretty outrageous things to get a woman into his bed. But Columbia? What the fuck was that?

What he knew about the country was pretty much what any average person might know. Drugs. Yeah, that about covered it. In his bitty little man mind he couldn’t quite figure out exactly what a yacht would be doing anywhere in the vicinity but hey, he didn’t own one so maybe it was a haven for people that liked adventure on the high seas.

Right. And he liked to wrestle gators in his free time.

Little Miss Knock ‘Em Dead was hiding something and damned if his sixth sense wasn’t screaming at him to turn tail and head home. Oh, wasn’t hindsight twenty twenty?

A cool hand settled on top of his and he turned to look down at the beauty sitting beside him.

“You okay?” The husky tone of her voice sent damn near every one of his doubts into hiding.

“You tell me.” He slid his thumb across the back of her hand in the smallest of caresses.

She shook her head in denial, he supposed, but she didn’t quite conceal the fear lingering in her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Cut the crap, Daisy,” he said. When she flinched he realized his tone might have been a little harsh but he didn’t back down. “I’m here and it’s not like I can walk away at this point, so give it to me. Straight.”

Daisy crawled over the seat and straddled his hips with those killer legs and it took him a second or two to realize exactly what he said and why she chose to misinterpret those words. He wanted to resent the fact she was trying to turn the tables on him but he just wasn’t that strong.

“Daisy … ” He tried to find reason but there was just something about a beautiful woman straddling him that made forming a coherent thought a little difficult.

She leaned closer, her breasts pressing against his chest. “Please don’t hate me …” Her lips brushed against his ear as she spoke and chills tingled down his spine.

“I could never hate you.”

“Even if I told you …”

A Dollop of Daisy

Daisy looked at Gabe. What would she do if he said no?

"Your sister?" His brows slammed together as he stared at her. "What the hell is your sister doing in Columbia?"

"Her yacht flipped and she's in the hospital." Just like Elise to leave the cleaning of messes to her. What would happen to the jewels if Daisy didn't hightail it to Columbia?

"It has nothing to do with drugs?"

"Of course not!" Unless you considered the jewels belonged to the regional drug lord, or whatever he was called down there. "She and her husband were vacationing when a storm," of bullets, "tipped their yacht over and passing fisherman pulled them out. At least that's what the person" i.e. Elise who placed an urgent call from the hospital, "who called me said. Now are you coming or not?"

"Why do you want me again?"

"Because I need you. I don't have anyone else."

She really should have bid higher on him at the auction, taken him as hers, but then she realized she'd left her wallet at home and the place insisted on cold hard cash upfront. No checks or credit cards. As if it were the 50's.

Daisy needed him to go with her. Needed him to help her save the jewels. Elise would be okay, but they needed to get those precious stones her sister risked her life for out of the country.

From what she'd heard, Gabe was the perfect person to help. Plus he was easy on the eyes.

Nothing like a little danger to spark a one-night stand.

Gabe sighed. "Alright. I'm in."

A Dollop of Daisy cont.

A proposition? From Daisy Stone?

Oh hell, yeah! He couldn’t wait to hear how this played out. With any luck, there was a bed involved somewhere in this unexpected proposition.

Gabe leaned against the pitted edge of the wood bar, careful to keep his expression shuttered. The last thing he needed was to frighten Daisy by letting her see the raw hunger generated in his blood from her words alone.

Her gaze strayed away from his, frown lines setting up residence between those gorgeous blue eyes.

Whoa. What was this? Was Daisy Stone going serious on him?

The urge to touch her, to smooth away her worries was strong. He wanted to hold her, feel her bare skin against his, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate all the ways he wanted to get naked with her. Not right now, anyway.

Her gaze darted around the hazy bar. He didn’t know if she was looking for someone or just avoiding looking at him.

“Care for a drink?” He motioned the bartender over, ready to order her some kind of fruity girl drink.

Those crystal blues settled on him and he got a surge of pleasure from having captured her attention.

She glanced at the bartender. “Tequila. Straight up.”

Okaaaaay. So Daisy needed something with more punch than a Pina Colada to sip on.

A glass filled with amber liquid slid across the bar and Daisy lifted it in the air. She tossed Jose Cuervo’s finest back with a soft bounce of cinnamon curls. The glass dangled from her slender fingers before she set it back on the bar with the gentleness of a mother caressing her baby’s head.

Gabe knew his eyebrows were trying to connect with his hairline, but seeing the crack in Daisy Stone’s armor was a new experience for him.

“I need your help, Gabe.” She took a deep breath, which did amazing things to the front of that red halter. His mouth went dry and his brain lost the majority of its blood supply. “And as you might have guessed by now ... I’m desperate.”

What? Gabe sent out a directive ordering his body to return the blood back to his brain because – holy hell – Daisy Stone needed his help. And she was desperate.

Either this was the luckiest damn day of his life or he’d died and gone straight to his version of heaven.

Gabe took a moment to consider his reply. There were several possibilities but they all came down to the same thing. He reached out, tucking her small hand in his. “I’m in.”

“But I haven’t told you what I need yet.”

“Doesn’t matter.” There was no hesitation. Whatever Daisy needed, he wanted to give to her.

“But if you’ll let me explain – ”

He stepped in close to her, holding her gaze with a steady look. “Like I said. It doesn’t matter. You can count on me.”

Daisy slid off the barstool, her body a hairsbreadth from his. Her scent and heat wrapped around him, more intoxicating than the beer he’d drunk.

“Then let’s go to your house.”

Oh yeah. It was definitely his lucky day. He threw some bills on the bar and started for the door with Daisy in tow beside him.

She tugged on his hand. “Why don’t I follow you in my car? We’ll get your stuff then head straight to the airport. I’m already packed.”

Gabe slammed on the brakes, turning to stare at Daisy in the dim light of the bar. He was pretty sure he’d heard her wrong because she’d used words like ‘airport’ and ‘packed.’ “You wanna explain that?”

Another gap rocked her armor and for a scary moment he thought she might cry, but she got it back in control, her spine stiffening. “Just forget it. I’ll get someone else.”

“Hold up. I’m not turning tail. I just need a few details. Like, where are we jetting off to? And why?”

“Cartegena. In Columbia. It's my sister ...” Daisy broke off, struggling to regain control.

Well, hell.

A Dollop of Daisy, cont.

... that you're either selling something ... or giving it away for free.

Daisy perched herself on the bar stool next to him, and Gabe couldn't help but notice as her short jean skirt slid up her thighs. Her legs were long, toned and lightly tanned, just the way he liked them. He imagined how they would feel wrapped around his body.

"Nothing is ever free, fireman, even if it is given away." She swiveled toward him and crossed her legs. The red halter clung to her curves like plastic wrap and a single diamond tear drop nestled in her cleavage.

Damn she was hot.

"Did you enjoy your date, Gabe?" The hint of amusement in her voice made him cringe. She took a long pull on her beer, those crystal blue eyes locked on his the whole time.

"Yeah, I forgot to thank you for offering me up on a silver platter to the cougar den." Gabe tipped his beer in her direction. "I think you owe me now." He placed his hand on her knee and idly swept his fingers along her outer thigh. Two could play at this game. She caught his hand up in hers, effectively halting his advance.

"What are you doing here, Daisy?" He drawled.

A slow, inviting smile came to her lips. "I have a proposition for you, fireman."

A Dollop of Daisy, cont.

... but honestly, I just picked up these new shitkickers today at Rural King. I bet you're totally sweating them, right?" She ran her tongue around her glossy lips, causing him to grip the side of the bar. "In fact," she said, sliding her hand over the varnished wood until her delicate fingers slipped over top of his, "I bet, right now, you're imagining me wearing nothing but these red boots."

Gabe just grinned because he had no idea what in the hell she just said. Except for the wearing nothing but red boots part. He chuckled then straightened his posture. "Well, you know what they say about women who wear red boots."

Daisy rubbed her lips together. "No. Tell me."

Gabe slid his eyes down her body until he got to her red boots. "Well," he started, taking a step closer to her, "red boots mean ...

Round Robin - A Dollop of Daisy

Daisy Stone was one hell of a woman. Every inch of her demanded attention – from the tips of her expensive stilettos to the top of her cinnamon colored hair – and more than one was willing to give in to the urge to splurge. Every set of male eyes in the room were focused on her and even a few of the female eyes followed her graceful gait as she crossed the crowded bar.

Toward him.

Gabe Nafton assumed a negligent position resting against the bar, a frosty bottle of beer clinched in his hand. The casual pose was in direct contrast to the unsettling feeling of discomfort that stole over him when those crystal blue eyes locked on him.

He had met – for lack of a better word – Daisy a little over a month ago at an auction where he had been the item up for sale. Well to be fair, seven other single firemen had also been up for auction but something about the whole idea of being bartered to the highest bidder to find a date and help pay for department improvements just stuck in his craw. But he tried to be a good sport, really he did.

His attempts to schmooze some of the senior citizens at the event had seemed like a good idea until the bidding started. Those old biddies hadn’t stood a chance against the married cougars -er, housewives- attending the event.

Daisy, though he hadn’t known her name at the time, had stood near the back of the room with a smug smile on her face throwing out astronomical dollar amounts that were countered each and every frickin’ time. And maybe it was the smile or the way she looked standing there in her sophisticated black pants suit that hugged every sweet curve of her body, but Gabe had zeroed in on her and prayed a silent prayer she would be the one to save him.

Except she hadn’t. She let that dollar amount soar until finally it reached a point where everyone in the room had turned to her, holding their breath to see if she would counter yet again. Her smug smile had turned even smugger before she shook her head and mouthed an apology to him from across the room – leaving him to fall victim to the group of ladies he mentally dubbed ‘The Cougar’s Den’.

And rightfully so. A group of five past their prime women who had banded together like white on rice and bought and paid for a bona fide firefighter of the first caliber. It wasn’t enough that his buddies down at the station were still beating him over the head because he’d essentially been sold into bondage. That he’d actually had to suffer through the most excruciatingly painful night of his life with The Cougar’s Den still pissed him off.

Not to mention the fact when he’d searched for the mysterious woman with hair the color of cinnamon in the crowd all she had said to him was a flippant ‘Better luck next time, eh?’ before smiling a smile that caused his step to falter and sailing out of his life as quick as she came in.

A stop at the registration booth had given him her name but her image and that heavenly smile had haunted his dreams on more than one occasion. With a shake of his head to clear it, he watched her approach him hoping his eyes only showed mild curiosity and not the overwhelming hunger that would take way more than his cold beer to quench.

She stopped about a foot away from him and even through the musty odor that filled every bar he’d ever frequented – the subtle floral scent of her perfume teased his senses.

Gabe smiled. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She cocked her head and regarded him with teasing eyes. “Strangest thing. I was just asking myself that very same question..."

Shot Through The Heart

Okay. How many of us were in love with that? Feeling a little pathetic? It's okay. I feel that way every time NKOTB comes on my IPOD and I still get all giddy and stuff.

So the thing that sucks about adding an image to your blog post is that it totally throws me off. Cause how can I post a picture LIKE THAT and not say something about it?

Focus.

Okay, so I read a book a while back by an author that I sorta like. She has a series and it's really nasty dirty but I read it for the articles. Right. Anywhoo, in the one before this latest one she had one of the female secondary characters get shot. In the chest. At pretty much point blank range.

I'm no expert on gunshot wounds but I clearly remember thinking, "Holy crap! She killed her!" and I got all sad and stuff because surely she was dead.

Not so much.

The newest book in the series, which came out a few months ago (I'm really behind), has her in it. As the heroine. Alive.

At first I thought "Oh, great, she made it" and then I thought "How is that possible?". And the weirdest thing was the author didn't really address it. Just a couple of lines somewhere buried in the manuscript about how she had been shot but was just fine.

It ruined the whole book for me. I kept turning page after page just knowing she was going to explain the miraculous recovery but it never came. Now it is completely possible that maybe she explained it in the previous book but I have no recollection and it would be too much like work to dig it out and verify. The author should have given me more in this book. She should have told me how it impacted the hero to see her shot up and bleeding at his feet - because he was there when she was shot.

She should have consulted me before publishing so I could clear this up for her. Riiiight?

The point I'm trying to make is: shouldn't every book (that's part of a series) be written with the assumption that someone may pick it up that has never read any of your work before? AND with the understanding that some of your readers may suffer from debilitating disorders such as ADHD and require at least a couple of paragraphs dedicated to the rehashing of silly little things LIKE GUNSHOT WOUNDS TO THE CHEST AT POINT BLANK RANGE so everyone understands just exactly how you survive something like that?

I'm just saying. Throw this bitch a bone.

Size doesn't matter ...

Today at work we had a lunch talk on colon cancer given by an outside speaker. Referring to the staging of a tumor, she made the comment that its size doesn't matter, it's how far it penetrates.

She was, of course, referring to the tumor growing through the colon wall, not what my dirty, gutter-filled mind came up with.

Apparently I was the only one getting a chuckle out of it.

But it got me thinking on writing sex scenes and how some of us have problems with it. I'm not going into why we might have problems writing sex, as I'm no shrink. Nope, tonight I'm going to try to share some things I read somewhere (hey, it's late, excuse the lack of exact quotes) about how to write sex scenes.

It's just a carry-over of a conversation between the two getting it on (or off as the case may be). All sexual interaction between them should be a way of showing what is going on in their relationship. It should be a way of drawing the reader into the relationship, not just the sex. You can write shocking sex scenes, or behind the door ones, either way, what is going on needs to ring emotionally with your reader.

Make them have some conversation. Sprinkle sex in-between the conversation. Make the characters think something emotional besides what a good fuck he/she is.

That's my advice. What do you think? How do you write a sex scene?

Oh, one other piece of advice. Be sure to get the colonoscopy when you turn 50. That's all.

Good night. :)

Take me to Margaritaville!

So it’s summer. Time to slow down. Relax. Take a vacation. My DH loves to vacation. He’s always ready to go somewhere. Almost anywhere.

I on the other hand tend to relax better at home, where everything is familiar. The element of surprise pretty much just increases my stress level. I’ve never really thought of myself as a control freak but I do enjoy having control over my surroundings and all that entails. So it’s possible I may have a control issue or three.

DH seems to love everything about traveling, while I’m a stressed out wreck until we get wherever we’re going and settled in.

In the last few years, the DH has become enamored with vacations that involve hiking up and down mountains. I really don’t get this sort of phenomenon because #1 that’s not relaxing in my book and #2 there’s nothing at the top to do after you get there. It’s not like there’s ever a Nordstrom or even a Starbuck’s perched on the peak. And then you have to walk back down without getting lost in the wilderness or eaten by bears.

And what’s the whole hullabaloo about climbing Everest? We watched about 100 painful hours of a documentary on this group of people (all men with 1 woman) trying to get to the top of Mt. Everest. Those people are insane. It costs a boatload of money to even be accepted into a group to make the climb and the chances of survival are questionable. They have to spend months attempting to make the climb because at each camp it takes weeks for the human body to adjust to the altitude. BECAUSE WE AREN’T DESIGNED TO LIVE UP THAT HIGH.

In one of the episodes the leader told them that if they died on the climb he’d send a Sherpa up to move the body off the trail. Isn’t that heart warming? They can’t bring the body down because it’s too dangerous but they’ll kick it to the side so that everyone doesn’t have to step over it. That’s so sweet.

If I was that guys wife, I’d say ‘Don’t move him off the trail, just prop his frozen dead body up right in the middle of the path with a big sign that reads “I’M AN IDIOT. AND I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO MY WIFE. IF I HAD, I’D BE HOME RIGHT NOW SWIGGING A BUD LIGHT AND WATCHING THE LATEST HIJINX OF ‘THE GIRLS NEXT DOOR’ INSTEAD OF HAVING MY ASS FROZEN TO THE SIDE OF A STUPID MOUNTAIN!”

So anyway, back to relaxing. I’ll take a margarita on the swing in the backyard any day. Or a day of sitting in my office, writing

Arrrgh... I have research to do

I hate doing research. My most recent wip involves time travel and pirates, and this means I have some research to do. I seriously think I started with paranormals so I wouldn't have to do much research. I could just make up whatever world I wanted to.

As I've said before, I'm a panster. By the time I figure out what I want to write, I'm ready to start writing it. So now I'm in the middle of my second rough draft and still haven't done much research. My fear is that if I stop writing and start researching I'll lose my momentum.

Here's my plan. Finish rough draft number two, do research, then add details back in while layering.

I'll keep you posted on how that works out.

One thing I have come to realize, all genres require research. I'm even having to do research on the future for the time travel part of my story. Thank goodness I'm always getting emails from the Overlords at Think Geek.

Currently fellow spanksters are researching Navy Seals (sign me up for that one), marching bands and the dreaded ton of the Regency era.

There's always research to be done, so what's the best way to do it?

Any ideas?