13 mostly obscene words that make me giggle like I'm in Junior High 1. assclown Oh the mental images this conjures. You know how people paint faces on their hands and use them as puppets? Yes, go on, make the logical leap. Hah! Got you! 2. slapnuts I first saw this on Cora Zane's blog. As in, "my kids are driving me slapnuts." I love this. Not exactly sure what it means, though. I suspect it means she's going to nuts with the need to slap 'em. 3. fucktard I see this used by Karen Scott a lot, but I don't think she invented it. 4. bitchness This is a state of generally unsatisfactory affairs, including one's mood. I am not sure who coined it. Maybe I did, for all I know. 5. fucknuttery I see this on SBTB sometimes. I think Amy Winehouse managed to put it in a song, for which she gains my undying admiration. 6. dipshit This word kills me. When you actually think about the compound words and what they MEAN, it becomes ever so disgusting. 7. fuckwit I am afraid the FCC prohibits me from articulating the mental images that accompany this word. 8. slaptard This is just mean, but I'm kinda mean sometimes. I have been told this word has two meanings. In the first instance, it's a person who's so stupid you want to slap him. I prefer the second definition, which is the mentally challenged person who walks around slapping his own chest for no apparent reason. This usually indicates a high level of impairment and/or dysfunction so when you call a "normal" person this, it really stings. It also means you're going straight to hell, but if you're still reading this list, I think you're already heading that way, so no worries, eh? 9. hobag I'm at a loss. Why is she a bag? Does it mean she's old and a slut? Wow, talk about a double-whammy. But I guess, "You, madame, are both advanced in years and of low moral character!" lacks a certain oomph. 10. slutbucket I cannot say this aloud without laughing. Go on, try it. 11. asshat Hahaha, I learned this term as a VERB. In my misspent youth, I played PVP MMOGS (player versus player, massively multiplayer online games) and when you killed somebody, you would use an emote to SIT and put your ass on their faces atop their corpses. This was called asshat-ing them and was highly disrespectful of your fallen foe. However, we who PWND did not CARE about such things as dignity for we were l33t. The term then evolved to include those who perpetrated such villainous behavior. Yes, I am a recovering asshat. I know, I'm in a 12 step for it. 12. bugfuck Please someone explain this to me. Who actually fucks bugs? My cat eats them, and he humps pretty much anything, but bugs are just too small. 13. kumquat The jokes on this one just write themselves, don't they?

"I like your dark, FIREFLY kind of world."

This comment about Grimspace came from an agent I didn't sign with, and it got me thinking about how I wound up with the "world" I invented.

Then a reader emailed me, asking for more details about the book. She's a fan of girlie sci-fi that features fast-paced, edge-of-your seat action spiced with longing and angst. Well, good news for her, that's exactly what I've written.

So here's the thing. I didn't do what most writers do in terms of world-building. I didn't sketch out the galaxy and name the planets and decide what technology was available. Set up a story board and do reams of pre-work.

I sat down with a blank mind, and I wrote. I did everything wrong too, according to the textbooks. Just for starters, I wrote in present tense and in first person. Jax isn't a kinder, gentler heroine either; at the beginning, she's a chilly, self-involved bitch who cares for nothing as much as saving her own ass. (Don't worry, she grows throughout the book.) But if everyone else is following the rules and you break them in the right way, does that make your book fresh?

Hell if I know.

Anyway, I revealed information about the world as I went along, but of course, I was limited to what Jax would know. And if she didn't know, I didn't. It was just that simple.

The end result is a world that combines the feel of Joss Whedon's FIREFLY with the world set forth in PITCH BLACK. I didn't set out writing with those in mind, but when someone else spotted the influence, I couldn't dispute it. My universe is stark and currently in turmoil, populated by humans and aliens, striving to coexist.

I also spun the idea of the Corporate environment growing to an insane scale. Imagine a company so big, so many branches, so many employees, so much money and power, that over time, it replaced the government. Sound crazy? Give Microsoft a few hundred years. :)

Another wrinkle I put into things is communication. Since I eschewed faster than light travel in lieu of grimspace, this creates a question of "how do they communicate over long distances?" Well, they utilize bounce-relay satellites, and it's not instantaneous. It's like interplanetary email and it takes time. Unless you're within a certain range, there's no instant communication in my world. This creates unbelievable difficulties if you're waiting for word before making a decision. I also take current emerging technologies into consideration when defining what science looks likes. There are no warp drives or teleporters to be found, but you can certainly replace damaged body parts via hospital organ banks.

I could go on, but it's probably best to let you discover the rest yourself. Though you may see glimmers of FIREFLY and PITCH BLACK in this book, I've created something uniquely my own, and I hope you enjoy getting lost in the world Jax lives in next March.

Warning--this post will be long, rambling and contains anecdotes that cannot be verified. However, if you persevere, you may learn something. Then again, you might just be bored stupid. Read on at your own risk.

I suspect a few people out there, hearing about my sale to Ace, are probably like, damn, I've been trying so long, and shit just happened so fast for her. Whore.

What ya'll don't realize is how long I've been doing this. So to put it all in perspective I'm going to tell you my (writing) life story. When I was in first grade, we had something called Career Day at school. We got to pick out what we wanted to do; they had cards with job descriptions on them. I picked out "freelance writer" because it was the only thing to do with stories. My teacher said, rather condescendingly, "That's not a real job, honey. Why don't you pick something else?" That should have prepared me for the row I had to hoe over the years. What can I say, I'm a slow learner.

Well, I never did pick anything else. When I was nine, I wrote my first "book." It was a Scooby Doo style story called "The Mystery of the Golden Doubloon." I won a contest at my school and went to a state-wide competition called The Young Authors Conference, where I met Shel Silverstein. He read to us from Where the Sidewalk Ends. That was the thrill of my young life.

Around junior high, I wrote a seventy-page novella in my Garfield notebook. It was a fantasy thing about a young man on a quest, accompanied by an elf, a dwarf, and he meets a beautiful maiden who can turn into mist when it rains. I forget what else happened, and my mother made me throw it away because the dwarf swore too much. Curse you, parental censorship!

I continued writing scraps of this and that as I went on through school. In tenth grade, I wrote my first novel, yes, an actual novel. It was 150 pages, typed on an old typewriter. I wrote it for one of those Sweet Valley High type lines. I forget which one. It was awful: a small-town girl meets a mysterious boy who works as the Winnie the Pooh mascot at Sears. Turns out he's on the lam because he ran afoul of the mob, and despite having led a boring life, our heroine turns intrepid adventuress, saving the boy numerous times. I wrote a wonderful letter to the editor along the lines of "I love your books! I'm a teenage girl, so I am sure teenage girls will love my book too!!" I was heartbroken when they sent me a form letter, and I felt betrayed when I discovered teen books were written by OLD WOMEN. The horror! I stopped reading them in protest, but nobody ever asked me why. Huh.

My next attempt came when I was 19 and in college. I was studying English Lit, which mostly bored the crap out of me, but I thought it would teach me more about writing. I discovered romance novels about this time, Kay Hooper, Iris Johansen, and I ate them like Cracker Jacks. I thought, I can do this! How hard can it be?

Thus was born my deliciously bad Loveswept targeted romance novel. Our heroine, Skye, is a stripper / heiress. You see, she ran away from her father's oppressive tyrannical control to dance topless and make her own way in the world. Her father, being a Big Meanie, cannot allow her live her own life, so he hires former Black Ops Military man, Stone, to retrieve Skye. Skye and Stone, isn't it just too precious? Sparks fly immediately between these two. He is struck immediately by the need to possess her carnal innocence. Lots of melodrama ensues, and he eventually drags her back to her father's estate. More shenanigans, and then it's revealed that her father is a CRIMINAL. Long story short, Evildaddy goes to jail, Skye inherits what's left of his fortune, and Stone helps her set up a fund to save endangered wombats or some such thing. Isn't love grand? I called it Heaven and Earth. Because of their names. Get it?? Symbolism! Who says I'm not using my Lit degree. To my astonishment, Loveswept didn't buy it!!! I know, right?

Reeling from that rejection, I decided I wasn't meant to write contemps. By then, I had discovered historicals: Laura Kinsale, Kristin Hannah, Patricia Gaffney, Anita Mills...oh, swoon. Hey, this doesn't look so hard. I bet I could write one! Seeing a pattern yet?

So I wrote a dark, gritty historical romance I called Light a Candle. The hero was a tortured bastard son who inherited a title, when all he wanted was to be farmer and a poet. The heroine was a fabulously wealthy merchant's grand-daughter. Her father was a famous explorer, and they first meet when she's a girl, because the hero, Adam, comes to their townhouse to ask to examine some things in her father's collection. Her mother is mad and reclusive, so the hero feels sorry for the girl. They strike up an unlikely friendship that ends up ruining her reputation. I broke every rule with this book. I patterned it after Anita Mills's Autumn Rain but I didn't have the skill to pull it off entirely. I had the hero and heroine married to other people for a while but in love with each other. It was lovely in some ways, but horribly flawed. This book was the first "not bad" thing I wrote.

I was all of 21 years old. I bought a book with a listing of agents in it and started sending queries. Imagine my shock when I interested people at Jane Rotrosen Agency. They shopped it for me in NY. Yes, I was 21!! I received many compliments on my writing, but everyone felt the book was flawed. They asked me to send my second novel, so I wrote another one. This one had a heroine named Grania and a hero named Ravyn (yes, I was at the stage in my career where I thought it was Ultimate kewl to substitute a Y for other vowels at random. I'm just thankful I didn't catch Glottal Stop Fever along the way.)

Anyway, the hero came from a cursed bloodline, where he's doomed to marry a woman he hates, who will die in childbirth. He hires the heroine to catalogue his library. It was very prettily written, but the fine ladies at Jane Rotrosen told me it had two problems (a) it wasn't a romance because the heroine and hero don't spend enough time together and (b) it had no conflict. (They were right!) Being an inexperienced knobhead, I concluded the people at Jane Rotrosen didn't know what they were doing (because my book was GOOD, wasn't it?) I severed that relationship and sulked for a while.

After that, I had some babies and continued to write but I was afraid to show anyone anything. People were mean! And cranky. And terribly unfair. Thankfully, I got over this hypersensitive assclownishness.

My children were toddling when I finally sold my first book. It was "lit-ruh-chure." Boring, depressing, poetic, and it has a dreadfully sad ending. It sold like twenty copies, including people I know. I finally got my nerve back, though. And I had learned something: just don't give up, no matter what.

I sold two historical romances (though not that first flawed one). They received excellent reviews. Then the small publisher I wrote for went belly up and I never got paid. I felt like I'd been wasting my time.

Around then, I said "bollocks to romance, I'll write fantasy!" and I enrolled in the Online SFF Writing Workshop. So happened, Del Rey partnered with them that year. I won the Editor's Choice contest and wound up with a publishing contract with Del Rey Digital. That was my first experience writing on a deadline, and I am hella proud of Stone Maiden. I thought I had it made then. My editor loved me, and I expected a long and fruitful relationship. Then they let her go. My new editor barely knew my name, and thus my career ended before it began.

But I didn't give up. I decided to give contemporaries a try since the historical market seemed to have dried up, and I was mad about the whole fantasy thing. I finished Guide in September of 2005. I once again began to query this time, but I was determined to find an agent. No more peddling my own stuff.

The search went slowly, and it nearly drove me mad, but in May, I signed with an agent. It took her four months, but she eventually pitched Guide to nine major publishers for me. I received some lovely rejections, including "send me your next book!" but they were rejections just the same. This wasn't the one for NY.

I was way frustruated by this point. I can write, can't I? I'm getting better every time. Why aren't I selling?

Some of the joy went out of writing too. I started to feel like, "What's the point? Nobody but me will ever read this."

To counteract that feeling of futility, I went with it. I said to myself, "Okay, if nobody but me will ever read it, then I'll write for ME." I sat down at the keyboard with an utterly blank mind, no plot, no idea, no characters, and just began to WRITE. It was...magical. I wrote and wrote and wrote.

The end result was Grimspace, the book Ace bought.

I had to switch agents to make that happen, and I'm glad I did. See, when I finished Grimspace, I knew it was "the book" for me. I just had to find an agent who knew it too. That's the moral of this story. Believe in yourself. Find someone else who believes in you. And you can do this.

And if you think this was quick for me... well. No, not from inside. But I wanted it so badly that I just never stopped trying. You shouldn't either, if this is what you want to do. No matter what my first grade teacher said, this is a real job. And it's what I do.

(After seeing so many other people have fun with this, I wanted to play. If you don't know how this works, you Google your name, plus needs, and take the first results you come up with. If this looks fun and you wanna do it, consider yourself tagged.)

a spanking. (Okay, maybe a little.)

some Revlon's Cherries in the Snow, the ho's lipstick of choice. (Wow, how did you know???)

your help! (It's true, I do. Won't you think of the children?)

rehab. (Now that's a bald-faced lie.)

a stylist. (Probably. I'll get one before I have my official author photo taken.)

a geography lesson. (Again, how did you know?? This is not my strong suit.)

a friend. (I guess I could use a few more, but not if you expect me to babysit your kids as part of the deal.)

somebody. (This is a little too open-ended...)

to chill. (Not until after I finish this first draft. I'm in production mode, not slacking mode.)


How was that last one for an awesome segue? In other news, Wanderlust has a theme song. I'm playing Beck's Lost Cause nonstop while I write.

I've been working steadily on Wanderlust, which is my working title for Sirantha Jax #2. I've finally gotten all the back in the groove, and I had a really wild dream last night that proves it.

See, I dreamed of David Boreanaz. Well, in my dream, I registered him as Angel, even though he wasn't dressed as Angel. He was hugging me, and we kept kissing and kissing (no it wasn't that type of dream, sorry) because it wasn't lust, it was desperation and impending loss. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn't me either. You know how you can be other people in dreams? I wasn't quite sure who I was while I was dreaming either. He kept burying his face in my neck and telling me he'd come back. I didn't believe him. All I knew was that I loved him and I didn't think I'd see him again. At that point he dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring, obviously a cheap piece of costume jewelry, and he shoved it on my finger. He said, "I'll replace it, I promise."

And then he strode off through the throng while I watched him go, convinced he was going to his death. We were underground somewhere on a desert world, very Mad Max. Everything was built from scavenged parts, etc and it was grungy, dirty. It's clear I have to use this scene somewhere in Wanderlust, just not sure where yet.

When I woke up, I was crying. That's when I realized: that was March and Jax. I'm dreaming from her POV. Woohoo! I'm totally in her head again.

David Boreanaz as March...omg. Swoon. I'd never thought of who he looks like, but my subsconscious knew. It's perfect. Damn, what a dream, talk about emotionally wrenching. On the bright side, I'm all set to get going on my word count today.

There's so much I want to say about this movie, but holy crap, if I were to report all the twists, turns, surprises and exciting shit that went on, I'd ruin the whole film for ya'll. So suffice it say, this movie rocks.

There's more Captain Jack Sparrow, and he's Jack-ier than ever. The end will knock your socks off, I'll wager. I call this the best of the three, and an astonishingly adept conclusion to the trilogy. Go see it. You'll love it, seriously.

Sirantha Jax #2

6,150 / 90,000 (6.8%)

Progress goes well; I'm so in the groove on this.

My goal is 3K a day for 30 days, no days off, no rest for the wicked, and voila! I have my first draft.

My work is done today, so we're off to see Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End. Have a great weekend, ya'll.

13 Things that are sitting on my desk 1. A fax machine 2. Printer 3. Speakers 4. My monitor 5. Scented candles 6. A crystal angel my daughter bought me in Tequisquiapan 7. A star my son made me for mother's day 8. An antique perfume bottle my husband bought me because he loves me 9. My address book 10. My welcome packet to RWA 11. A pink headband 12. My raspberry "chocolate" LG cell phone 13. An antique ring box that holds my wedding rings There's more crap because I need to clean my desk, but that's where I'm stopping.

Labels: Thursday 13

Are you ready?

I've joined the ranks of the luminaries who write for Ace, such as LKH and Patricia Briggs. Today we finalized a two-book deal with Anne Sowards, who will edit my books. I hear she's an amazing editor, and I'm thrilled.

Ace was the first choice for my agent and me, and we did it! Laura, to quote Dionne, "is a right rainmaker." That's the gospel truth. I signed with her at the end of March. Not even two months later, I have a deal with a major NY publisher, and FALLING (which will likely be retitled before it goes to press) hits the stores in March. It feels like a huge coup getting a book published in NY in under a year! Sirantha Jax #2, currently just a gleam in my eye, comes out September '08.

Ace has me on the fast track, and suddenly I need to think about editorial notes and cover art. Cover art! I have deadlines. I'll be on Publisher's Marketplace soon, but you heard it here first. Go on and yell about it. Goodness knows I am.

Labels: the squee heard round the world

Since I got all deep yesterday, I have to be shallow today to keep the universe in zen balance. Here's the latest addition to my handbag collection. Cece mentioned on one of my Thursday 13's that she wanted a camo bag with some girlie touches. Shortly thereafter, I stumbled across this one. Serendipity! I think it's the cuteness, and the best part(s) about it: a built in change purse, my Ibook fits inside it, and it has compartments for my cell phone and a drink on either side. Plus the strap is exactly the right length. Win!

So yesterday in the car on the way to dinner, I told my husband about another handbag I want, which may or may not be the straw pineapple featured on this blog earlier, and he said with confusion, "Aren't you pretty well set for bags right now?"

I arched a brow at him. "But honey, I love bags like some women do shoes." He couldn't argue that, just sort of nodded and sighed. And then I announced, "I need a special purse closet."

He nodded again. "I'll call the carpenter."

How awesome is he?! It should be noted, we already have a number of projects we want done in the house, not just my purse closet. All the closets need to be redone with more shelving put in, so they're more space efficient. Andres also wants some bookshelves built in the dining room as we've overflowed the ones in the foyer now. I suspect we really need a house with an actual library. When I mention this (and a pool! why not go all the way, when you're asking for stuff?), he says, "Give me time."

Again, how awesome is he? If I lived in a house that had a library and a pool on premises, I would be the happiest woman in the world. I'm already pretty close, given how he tolerates my weird mood swings, my tendency to become a hermit when I'm writing, and all the assorted bullshit I do on a regular basis. He even watched How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days with me on Friday night! Sadly I could not persuade him to watch Legally Blonde with me last night. In other news, the girl taught me how to use the TiVo. Woot! Now we can watch Legally Blonde anytime we want (which is actually more often than you might think).

What's next for the bag lady?

Yes, I want all three.

Today I'm guest blogging over at It's Not Chick Porn. The topic is agents and how to get one, and I think it's a pretty helpful article, if you have any interest in such things. Even if you don't, it's worth your time to stop by and comment because saying hi gets you a contest entry.

I'm giving away a $40 Amazon Gift Certificate, plus a copy of The Average Girl's Guide to Getting Laid to the grand prize winner. Two other lucky souls will walk away with their own copies of Guide as well, so definitely stop by. Winners will be announced Wednesday morning.

Okay, the subtitle probably doesn't mean what you think it means. I've been thinking quite a bit this weekend about feminine interpersonal dynamics. Karen posted a link to a letter by Joss Whedon, responding to what happened to Dua Khalil, who was brutally murdered at the end of April in an "honor-killing." Her crime? Falling in love with a Sunni Muslim boy. If that wasn't bad enough, when she was dragged from her home by her family members and stoned in the street, instead of helping her, people in the front row recorded it on their camera phones. I have no words for my loathing.

Dionne asked the following questions: "Why would anyone want to gleefully hurt us in such a way? Why do we tear into each other ourselves?"

I thought she meant figuratively, and I responded:

Studies on feminine interpersonal dynamics seem to indicate that women learn passive-aggressive behavior patterns in early childhood. A strong, confident woman who handles her business in a "masculine" way, that is to say directly and perhaps even confrontationally, is often ostracized by her peers. Women are taught it isn't ladylike to behave in such a way, so they subvert their hostility into catty behaviors that lead to festering jealousies. A group of women, trying to accomplish a project jointly, will likely encounter more petty resentments than a mixed group of male / female colleagues. Furthermore, I would posit that women, as whole, tend to be more uncertain about their own accomplishments, more likely to compare themselves to their female coworkers, than their male colleagues, thus a woman might be more likely to feel threatened by someone else's success.

To my astonishment, some anonymous person appeared to make a link between what I said and this:

"Within the comments there was post about the passive-agressiveness of the female gender. I really didn't think belonged here. I was like WTF. But it really made me think because that study and the quoting of it is also about part of the cultural bias. Because it's a repeat of what I see in the original Daily Mail headline. Women bring it on themselves. See they are passive-agressive and can't work together."

How the hell do you get from "women learn passive-aggressive behaviors early on" and "they deserve to be stoned to death! they can't work together!" I'm gobsmacked at the specious logic involved in such a leap. Perhaps I shouldn't have answered the question on this thread in particular, but I don't agree with the conclusions drawn. This anonymous poster goes on to say that working with women can be a nightmare, but it comes down to the individuals involved, not the gender. I think it's naive to say that gender plays no role in group behavior.

Would you ever find a group straight men sitting around with a Jenny Crusie book, trying to decide just how fat the heroine was in Bet Me? Unlikely. I'm sure you've all been part of a circle where everyone was talking about someone who wasn't there. Maybe the woman's having marital trouble, got a bad haircut, whatever, but instead of telling her what's on the table for discussion (her!) when she walks in the door, everyone pins on a bright smile and changes the subject.

It's bullshit to say there's no trouble in feminine interpersonal dynamics. There's such a dichotomy -- women are damned if they do and damned if they don't. If they behave "properly" with subverted hostilities and cattiness and backstabbing, then they're "typical" women. If they handle their business like men, aggressive, confrontational, open, they often get called bitches, butch, dykes, etc.

I'd love to see a happy medium where women can be strong, confident and direct without sacrificing any perception of femininity. We're not there yet, but I think we will be soon. Traditional gender roles are currently in flux, and there's no telling what the future holds. I just cannot accept that what I said is tantamount to saying women deserve to be stoned because they occasionally bicker and gossip. I brought it here because I didn't want to dishonor Dua's memory on a thread devoted to her by arguing. Feel free to give me your thoughts on the subject as well. I can handle hearing I'm wrong, if you disagree.

Labels: SBD

...if you knew your husband was going to die, and there wasn't a single thing you could do to change the outcome?

That's the question posed in the Sandra Bullock movie Premonition. I saw it tonight, and holy crap, talk about having your heart ripped out and stomped. This movie is a tearjerker. Seriously, first thing I did after watching that was hug my husband like a hundred times.

What would you do, though? If you knew beforehand. Imagine knowing you were going to lose the man you've loved for lo these many years, the man whose smile still makes your heart skip, who brings you flowers unexpectedly, or brings home burritos so you don't have to cook. How would you spend those last days and moments with him before watching him drive away forever?

Warning -- thinking about this hurts and may make you cry

Labels: sad chick flicks

I have a number of announcements today. Not the big announcement, though. For that, tune in next week.

I'm no longer doing reviews. If you hadn't noticed, I took down the button. Why? Well, a couple of reasons -- I want to devote my reading time to stuff I choose to read. Reading for review is weird because quite often if I hadn't promised a review, I'd just discard the book because it's bad or boring or whatever. In addition to that, my time is going to be at a premium, going forward. Lots of deadlines.

I signed a contract to write My Valentine. You knew that was in the works, but it's official now. I have a deadline, and it will release Feb 14, 2008. Good timing, huh?

I sold The Temptation of Teresa to Liquid Silver, though the name is changing to Seven Days. It will be part of a paranormal anthology called Boundless along with stories by Dionne Galace and Bonnie Dee. How cool is that?!

That's it for now. I'll have more news for you sometime next week (and it's killing me to keep it under wraps!). Trust me, it's big. Have a good weekend, ya'll.

As I read about the Triskelion trainwreck on various sites, especially Smart Bitches, who apparently have GONE TOO FAR, I am saddened. Authors pointing fingers, saying crazy shit they'll be sorry for later. That's when it occurs to me -- we're missing something special here in Romancelandia. We need a credo, a code of ethics to guide our behavior. Christians have this, right? And that's offered such comfort and guidance to so many lost souls that I was inspired. You see, I read all the sane, sensible things NR had to say.

Yes, bitches, I have solved all your moral and ethical dilemmas. Without further ado, I present to you... WWND?

Today's 13 will help you understand the credo of WWND? Feel free to steal my graphic and display it proudly on your site if you can get on board with Romancelandia's new religion. All you have to do, when you question the right way to respond, is stop and ask yourself...WWND? About to call someone a stank, cottage-cheese bellied whore on the Intarweb? WWND! Thinking of writing a long blog post about how your editor is a stupid cunt? WWND!

13 Things NR Would Never Do 1. Respond to criticism by saying, "I'm laughing all the way to the bank!" 2. Boast of her success in public, period. 3. Point at someone and say, "You should be ashamed!" because this person expressed an opinion. 4. Post sensitive personal information where it might be leaked. 5. Use said personal issues as an excuse for why the job isn't getting done. 6. Deliver a setdown that isn't actually a setdown. 7. Tell someone to "hang their head" over Internet nonsense. 8. Claim that 200 people she's never met are just like family to her. 9. Depart from professionalism where her writing is concerned. 10. Call people names who don't agree with her. 11. Stick with a publisher who isn't paying her. 12. Try to use pathos to soften people toward her point of view. 13. Blind herself to the facts.

Labels: Thursday 13

I know I promised some pictures, so I'm finally delivering a slideshow. I tried to keep the photos in the order in which they were taken. The first day, we checked into the hotel, went straight for the zoo, which is a driving safari. There are places you can get out and stretch your legs, but by and large, the animals are in charge. Super fun place to visit with the kids.

At the monkey house, I laughed until I cried because this one monkey had his hand all balled up in a fist, fixing to clock a duck in the head, but the duck jumped in the water at the last minute. Monkey chased Duck all over the place. I got a picture of it, I think. See if you can spot it.

Anyway, we covered as much as we could until the storm rolled in. We ate dinner there and then headed back to the hotel. Later, we went out between thunderstorms and walked around the zocalo. That's where I took the picture of the cathedral. We settled on the square outside a cafe and drank hot cocoa while snuggled up beneath the umbrella. Their macaroons were lovely. Made a dash back through the rain to the hotel and slept.

In the morning, we got up and I took a bunch of pictures at the hotel, starting with the one of my two darling children at the breakfast table. Then we went back to the zoo to see a few things we missed because of the storm, including wolves, lemurs and kangaroos. At the gift shops, I bought a really interesting painting. Then we went home.

And that's our most recent road trip. I hope you enjoy the sights! (Note, it's pretty long, but there's some neat stuff if you have the time.)

I was in emails with a couple of friends, asking for help when it occurred to me -- I have an untapped resource in my blog readers. My focus has shifted to Falling, but before I can write the sequel, I need a title. That's how I work. First the title, and then the story follows.

Here's the deal. I'd like to stick with one word that captures the essence of the book. (I know, tough one, isn't it?) An "F" word would be best, but only if it fits. I'll go with any single word title that sparks my imagination, however. If you aren't sure what Falling is about, you can find a blurb and excerpt here. It's an edgy sci-fi novel with romantic undertones, if that helps any.

What's in it for you? Well, if you come up with the title for the second book, I'll put your name on the dedication page and give you a cool $20 gift certificate from Amazon. Not bad for one word, huh? All right, my creative wonders of the world, put your suggestions in comments. Feel free to offer as many ideas as you want.

Just ask this monkey. He's been hanging around his tree all day, waiting for some exciting shit to happen, and he's still waiting.

I had a big old long whine rant on this subject ready to go, and then I reread it, and realized it stank of authentic authorial panic, so I sent it to Bam instead. She has now encouraged me / told me off (the lines often blur with her) and I feel a lot less like eating a pot pie and refusing to leave the house for a week.

So I'll just leave the title as the complete encapsulation of my current state. Waiting sucks.

Labels: SBD

Lainey tagged me, so here we go.

1. I have a heightened sense of smell...

2. ...and a black thumb.

3. Before I put on an item of clothing, I smell it. This is a habit picked up in college when I didn't do my laundry as often as I should have. I still do it because I love the smell of clean clothes. And y'know, it never hurts to be sure you're not about to put on something funky that wound up in the wardrobe by mistake. Note: this doesn't apply to undergarments. I trust those are clean if they're in my drawers; I'm not weird enough to sniff my own panties.

4. My favorite perfume is CK Escape.

5. I once dyed my hair pink on purpose.

6. I hate answering questions, particularly stupid ones, and yes, there is such a thing; I don't care what your teacher told you. There's a special circle in hell reserved for people who ask you something, don't listen to the answer, and then ask the question again five minutes later.

7. I camped out for Prince tickets in my misspent youth.

8. One thing I miss about the States is canned ravioli. No, I'm not kidding.

I'm not tagging anyone. If you wanna do it and you read this, feel free. Otherwise, I shall subject nobody else to this me-me-me meme

Labels: fuckin' memes

13 d'oh! moments (or the ways I prove I'm a dipshit, over and over again) 1. When I first got Gmail, I couldn't figure out why they advertised Spam so much. They were always offering me recipes, right? Maybe a year later, I realized those only popped up when I got into my Spam folder. 2. I wrote a long, heartfelt email to someone, thanking her for her time and effort on my behalf. And then she wrote back telling me she didn't know what I was talking about. I looked at the email address. Oh, right. I meant to click the one below her on the drop down. 3. In the same vein, I had multiple Firefox tabs open. In one tab, I was writing an email, answering a personal question from one of my best friends. It was, shall we say, intimate? In the other tab, I was writing a book review. The review wound up sent to my best friend and the TMI email went to a reviewer who doesn't know me from Adam. Say it with me: d'oh! I'm just glad I didn't email the whole list! 4. In college, I locked my keys in the car with the motor running. 5. Earlier that year, I was run over by my own car and no one was driving it. 6. When giving birth to my son, I said, "The sonogram showed him weighing nearly 10 pounds. I don't think he's gonna fit." Twenty hours of excruciating labor later, the doctors agreed. They performed a C-section. Don't you hate when people don't listen? 7. My son went for a llama ride while we were in Puebla. He wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl. I asked, "Es macho or sombra?" instead of "Es macho or embra?" So I asked the guide if Alek was riding a male or a shadow. Isn't it awesome? I can now embarrass myself in two languages. 8. It is not a good idea to leave a child alone with Silly Putty, even just to run to the mailbox. 9. I discovered that my adorable kittens chewed through the antenna on my husband's new Wii. (Don't worry, I bought him a PS3 for his b-day.) 10. Sex in public is not as exciting as it sounds, particularly when you're interrupted by a policeman. 11. Peanut M&Ms will fit up a four-year-old's nose, but you have to wait until they melt to get them out again. Mmmm, chocolate-y boogers. 12. Backing out of the drive without remembering to open the gate. Oops. 13. A routine shopping trip here became a "three-hour tour" after I got turned around. It took us ages to get home and I didn't have a cell phone on me.

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I've defenestrated the blogging schedule for good. At first, it was nice to have guidelines, but then I got tired of limits on what I can talk about on any given day. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a big fan of rules.

So where do we go from here? Wherever I feel like.

Today I'm addressing some general stuff. First, a few people said the blogroll buttons aren't working in IE. Upgrade to Firefox! It's an awesome browser and my buttons work. Seriously, I don't know enough about code to know how to fix it in IE. I could have my web designer look at it, I suppose, but I'm afraid she'd quit in a fit of rage when she sees what my amateur tinkering has done to her once perfectly functional template. I'll take the matter under advisement, however, and see if I can figure something out.

Second order of business, if you want linkage, just drop me an email or speak up in comments. I do read them and try to reply to everyone who stops by.

We're heading into rainy season again here. This means by afternoon, it's pouring buckets. This is oddly comforting because you can almost set your watch by the storms. Plus it's atmospheric for writing. Nothing like typing away while the thunder rumbles and rain streams down outside. It's harder to focus when it's warm and sunny and you want to wander around outside. Anyway, I'm gonna get back to it. See ya'll tomorrow.

I must give QB credit where it's due. She knows what she's talking about when she said all I have to do is mention Charles Dera and people will come. Just from her comment on my blog, I'm getting hits from tons of Charles Dera searches. Weirdly, my blog is on the third page when you Google Charles Dera.

Just so his fans don't go away mad, I present the following as a consolation prize. He's kinda hot, right? Funny, I had no idea who he was, but after QB mentioned him I did some searching. He's apparently like Fabio, only he's a really dirty boy. I guess he's making the jump into porn. I suppose it's not a far leap from letting people take pictures of your erect penis (which is a real monster by the way) to actually using said penis professionally.

That said, I'm afraid I don't really understand the fascination with cock. At least in a pictorial sense. When I look at a naked man, my first impression isn't, "Wow, hawt." Instead it's more like, snicker, giggle, chortle, look at that plucked chicken. I'm about to be sexist, so if you're easily offended, go make a sandwich. Just us now? Good.

I think naked men are funny looking. I really do. Now I like what their body parts can do for mine, don't get me wrong. It feels real nice, yep. But to look at? Not so much. I like pictures of shoulders, chests, manly backs, even asses, but as for wanting to peruse Penis Monthly to see what's out there, (oh, that one's crooked!), not so much. In fact, you can translate that to mean: I will never be interested in looking at dick-pix. Their dangly bits are just too absurd.

Oddly, I don't have the same response to naked women. Maybe that's a sign of my innate sapphic tendencies, but I find women's bodies graceful and lovely with their curves, their softness, and their hidden mysteries. That doesn't mean I'm ready to hump a woman just from seeing her picture, but seeing her naked doesn't set off junior high giggle fits either.

Uhm. Where was I going with this? I dunno. It's random Tuesday. That means this post probably didn't have a point, except, possibly: naked men are funny looking.

Labels: Random Tuesday

Have you noticed that when you start a home remodeling / redecorating project you go through these phases? First, you're all excited. You can see it in your mind's eye: how it will look, the way it will improve your life, you'll be better organized, your house will look nicer, it will eliminate clutter, be prettier, more efficient, or whatever the hell you told yourself in order to get the ball rolling. I call that Stage 1, or the Pipe Dream.

Then there's stage 2, or as I like to call it, the Collective Incompetence. So you have your grand scheme, but there's no way you're skilled enough to do all that labor by yourself. Some of it, you couldn't do even if you apprenticed to a master for seven years. What do you do? Find someone to handle it for you. You talk to people, ask questions, and eventually make up your mind who offers the best price / quality ratio. Why you even bother with this, I have no idea. You may as well hurl darts at the phone directory and hire whomever it lands on because you're just as likely to find a competent contractor that way as through your meticulous research.

Once money has changed hands, you have passed the point of no return. I fondly dub this stage 3, Holy Shit, my house exploded or alternately, The Time of the Ass Crack. This means people whose names you do not know or cannot remember will tromp in and out of your house, bringing this and that, leaving rubbish, trampling your shrubs and flowers and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Very little will be accomplished that first day (and perhaps for many days henceforth) except to test your patience and make you wish you had a time machine. You wouldn't do anything selfless with it, like save Abraham Lincoln. No, you'd just go back to the day before you entered stage 1 and write yourself a note that reads: Psst, the house is okay the way it is. Seriously.

Sometimes it looks like progress is being made, but then the contractor faeries come out at night and undo any work that may have been accomplished by accident the day before. Parts will go missing and delivery men will promise to contact "the warehouse" and have replacements sent out right away. This can be anywhere from three days to never. This part of the process is stage 4, also known as Waiting for Godot.

At this point, you get on the phone and start making ridiculous threats that you cannot carry out (unless you do actually have pull with the postal service and can see to it that they never receive another parcel as long as they live) unless they finish on your house. You stop being the cheerful host, offering ice water and free Cokes, and start letting your dog, who has a tendency to lick and hump the most unusual objects, run free on the worksite. This motivates the workers to enter stage 5, which is "This woman is crazy, let's wrap this job up!"

Work will proceed at a prodigious pace and you'll start to remember why you put yourself through this ordeal, back in the rosy glow of stage 1. Until they install everything backwards, in direct opposition to what you initially discussed, and then vanish in their trucks as if into the Bermuda Triangle. They don't return your calls.

Yes. It's time to break out the tequila.

Labels: SBD

This cover is smokin' hot!

I'm so lucky, rabbits come limping up to me all the time, like, "Psst, lady, can I rub up against you? They jacked my karma when they cut off my foot. I can't get a break lately."

I'm so lucky, people ask me to pick their lottery numbers. I'm so lucky, if I got hit by a car, David Beckham would be driving it. I'm so lucky, priests ask me to help them bless their rosaries.

I'm so lucky...

...because April Martinez did this cover too. Woohoo!

Your Alibi is coming in July from Liquid Silver Books. As we get closer to time, I'll put up excerpts.

PS - Here's a story that just cracked me up.

LONDON (Reuters) - An 81-year-old British grandmother branded by a judge as "the original neighbor from hell" had her jail term cut Wednesday but lost a bid for freedom because she wouldn't apologize for her actions.

Dorothy Evans, a widow from Wales, was jailed two weeks ago for harassment and breaching an Anti-Social Behavior Order after repeatedly shouting at her neighbors and hitting them with her walking stick.

Hah! Talk about an unrepentant criminal...

And that's it for Odd Friday. Have a great weekend, ya'll.

Labels: Odd Friday

13 things that surprised me this week 1. I apparently didn't want a male agent. I didn't consciously set out to exclude Y chromosome professionals, but I just didn't query any men. Why is that? Maybe I thought, deep down, they can't really "get" the romance genre, even if they rep it? I think I'm a female chauvinist! Oops. 2. Crazy people sometimes wind up in a powerful position. 3. Aforementioned crazy people have given signs of said ailment before, such as the Rooster Incident of 1996. 4. It's possible to waste a whole day, rubbernecking at an Internet Kerfluffle. 5. I have even less self-discipline than I thought I had (which was almost none). 6. My children have found an entirely new and inappropriate use for maple syrup. 7. A "writer" stalked a man, slept with him, and conducted a passionate one-way love affair with him, and then wrote letters to her husband about it. Instead of calling in the medical professionals, she published the results of her humiliation as a "literary experiment." 8. Guide got a B+ from Gwen at The Good, the Bad, and the Unread. 9. Tara Marie was pleasantly surprised as well. I don't know why, but I'm always happily startled when someone tells me they enjoyed my work, or hell, even when they buy it, for that matter. I'm like, "Me? Really? Cool!" I don't think I'll ever get over that. It's such an enormous compliment that someone would spend time and/or money on something I produced. 10. Megan Frampton said she bought my book. See #9 for why this delights and astonishes me. 11. RT didn't back up Laura Baumbach, a m/m author, when the Hyatt flexed its homophobic muscles. I guess it doesn't count as love if it's not breeder-based. 12. Smart Bitches has some imitators: The Book Bitches, started in November '05. Candy and Sarah started up in Jan '05, and I think they do it better. 13. No matter how stupid a position is, you can always find an Internet troll dumb enough to support it. Or maybe, an alternative -- you can always count on the crazylady to create ten sock puppets that appear to support whatever insanity she espouses.

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Okay, I have to weigh in. There's nowhere I can speak my mind as openly as my own blog, because who the hell is going to censor me? Have you guys been following the kerfluffle on Dear Author and Karen Scott's blog? Well, I'll try to summarize, just in case you missed it.

The day before the review for Ben's Wildflower went up, I got an email from a friend, saying, "Check out this book, it's the worst thing I've ever read!"

Dutifully, I checked it out. And yep, it was pretty bad, nearly as bad as Slave of the Goblin, which I reviewed for RRT. This seems to bear out the opinion that the quality of Ellora's Cave books has been suffering of late. In fact, it's been a while since I read a good one. I'm not saying all their books are bad, but there is a problem somewhere.

The reviews went up first on Dear Author and then on Karen Scott. Both ladies gave the book a big fat "F". From there, the thread predictably became littered with people saying Jane and Karen should be ashamed for saying mean things about this book. To be honest, that whole schtick is kind of tired. I wouldn't even have posted about it if there hadn't been a new development.

Last night, someone purporting to be Kathryn Falk posted a long, rambling diatribe, taking readers to task for being honest about their opinions. The letter was barely coherent, poorly written, and blamed Karen for allegedly causing someone to consider suicide. You really have to read it to get the full impact. But basically, we're all fragile little girls who can't handle criticism because we are full of pure emotion and "emotion makes things happen". Huh?? Here's the full text.

Please let this be a joke. I can't imagine that a professional businesswoman, who has founded a magazine that is a cornerstone of the genre, could possibly be guilty of such egregious asshattery. I'm waiting for her to disavow writing any such thing. Someone had brass balls, though, in using her name.

At any rate, I'm sick and tired of people telling me I'm not allowed to have opinions, that I might hurt someone's feelings, or somehow inflict harm on their delicate psyches. For the last time, a book review is not a personal attack. Saying I don't like a book isn't the same as not liking an author. There are folks I like awfully well; I just didn't care for that particular story. It doesn't mean I won't like their next one.

Why be a professional dipshit? Can't we separate our feelings from our work? An author is not her product. I've been preaching this for years, but I was happy to learn that I truly believe this. My philosophy was tested when Guide got a "C" grade from both Dear Author and Mrs. Giggles. You know what? I'm just pleased they took the time to read and review. I've gotten some fan letters from people who loved it, and that's a nice feeling. Maybe there are also people who bought it and feel ripped off because it sucked so bad. I'm sorry if that's the case, and I hope they like my next book better.

This is some crazy water we're wading into. I think Wendy on Dear Author said it best:

"Authors are in a bad spot - there is no way in h*ll they can please every-single-reader-on-the-plant, which means they're stuck with writing the best book they can and hoping it "sticks" for some. That's about it."

Yep, exactly. So if you're one of the folks who thinks it's mean for a reader to have an opinion, think twice about taking someone else to task. If you charge in with "be nice!" guns blazing, defending your favorite author, you run the risk of making her look like a professional dipshit instead of a professional. If you're an author, then you double the likelihood. Nobody's opinion can be wrong, folks. It's just a matter of differing tastes.

The mind is a strange and wonderful thing.

Right now I'm plagued by cats. I have two that I love very much, but Sunday night, I had a dream that we adopted a third one. A poor little stray turned up outside our door and I couldn't resist it, so we took it in. The tiny thing was terrified and immediately scuttled off to hide. We didn't trouble ourselves over it, we assumed it would come out for food and water when it felt safe.

Only in the dream, it never did so, and we all just ...forgot about it. This isn't something I would really do in real life. I don't think. Or is my subconscious trying to tell me that I'm utterly self-absorbed? That I'd allow something small and helpless to be harmed, not through intentional malice, but through neglect? This disturbs me. When we found the little kitten, a few days later, hiding in a drawer, it was terribly malnourished and dehydrated. I was panicked by this in the dream and frantic to get the animal to a vet. I woke up nearly hysterical and asked my husband where the baby kitten was. Our cats are around seven months old and are not tiny kittens anymore by any stretch. He gave me a strange look and then I realized we don't have a third kitten, and I haven't nearly killed some poor helpless animal with my indifference.

I was still feeling the effects of this all day yesterday. I can't say why, except the sensation haunted me. Yesterday was Children's Day (like Mother's Day or Father's Day) here in Mexico, so we took the kids out for dinner, and then we bought them new bedroom furniture. It's very smart, all sorts of staggered storage -- you know the kind, where the bed, desk, and wardrobe are all combined in one space-saving piece? Anyhow. We'd met at Mundo E because my husband didn't want to drive all the way home in the rain to collect us, so we took separate cars. He asked if I wanted to call a cab so we could ride in the same car going home, but I wasn't keen on hiking four blocks in the rain to the taxi stand.

That meant my daughter and I drove home by ourselves. Typically, the guys beat us because my husband drives like Mario Andretti. This time, we got there first, and as we pulled up alongside the house to open the gate by hand (my remote is broken), a cat ran past. It looked just like one of ours and I got worried that he'd escaped somehow. My daughter immediately panicked. Fighting the effects of the bizarre dream, I went inside to check. Our two cats were sitting in the window watching for us, so it wasn't one of them.

We bought them from a vet just two blocks down. There were three of them. One had already been purchased, so we bought the last two kittens. They are mixed, all the pretty coloring of Siamese cats without the overbred temperament. So it occurred to me the cat I saw might be their brother. Perhaps someone in the neighborhood adopted him and he got loose?

Last night it poured buckets. I heard that poor lost kitty crying, loud and plaintive. He sounded terrified. I went out into the rain at least five times, looking for him. The local policeman who guards our block finally asked what I was searching for. When I said I heard a cat crying, he asked if it was one of mine. I had to say no, and I'm pretty sure he thought I was crazy at that point. Gringa loca roaming around in a thunderstorm.

Such impotence is heartbreaking. Now, in the sunshine, I don't hear the cat crying anymore. I want to believe it's because he found his way home, but I'm afraid he may have been run over or worse. Isn't that the worst feeling in the world? Knowing someone (or something) needs you, but you can't do anything about it? Sometimes you can sense those pivotal moments where you should have acted and didn't, where you might have made a difference if you'd taken a different path. Now I'll always wonder if I should have chased that poor cat around the corner instead of making sure our two were safe inside. Would I have caught him? Would he have trusted me or would he have run? I thought nothing could be worse than listening to him cry during the storm, not being able to find him, but not hearing is bad too. Because I don't know what happened and I never will. Is that the worst thing of all? Not knowing?

Labels: Random Tuesday