Ann Aguirre

I’m wrapping the contest up today because I can.

Hilcia (#22), you win! Tell me what book you want via email along with your full name and address. I’ll send it right away.

Otherwise, I’m over here today.

It’s been about a month since the cuba trip, give or take a week. Sorry for the delay, but Ann had important news to share and then I had a deluge of weirdness hit, so I had to wipe the excess off before writing again (weirdness does not, I found, stain when you wash properly in warm water with plenty of soap. Make what you will of that comment).

Ah, Cuba. I did not get a window seat, so I can’t describe the view of the island from above, but from later observations I must conclude that it included beaches, a lot of greenery and water in some relation to each other. Continued observations also failed to spot Halle Berry in an orange swimsuit or any black sailed pirate ships- much to my disappointment.

Our arrival was relatively prompt, humid and hot. The coldest part of the airport was the immigration station, where an officer of the Cuban government said all of two words (”look here”) while shuffling the passport, entry form and a camera with which they record your arrival with a lovely mugshot that makes DMV licence photos seem like artistic portraits. The atmosphere of fun in the sun’s amplified by the automatic weapon bearing soldiers stationed throughout the airport.

Once out of the airport, though, the atmosphere lightened considerably. Not the humidity or heat, mind you, but at least we no longer felt like James McAvoy in Last King of Scotland: people walked and talked and shopped and rode their bikes, like people are wont to do. The one thing we noticed (we could not NOT notice, considering everyone and their mother would point this out during the next couple of days) was the number of cars from the 40s and 50s driving around. Less noticed by most, the architecture was gorgeous, even in the neighbourhoods where it was not kept up. Very european mediterranean, columns and ironwork everywhere on tree lined streets. A bit like New Orleans in a smaller scale, hard to describe.

Not sure what it says about me that I was more excited about the architecture than the beaches. Hmm.

So. Piled into a bus, drove to the hotel: a newer development, it was a lovely place like you’d find in pretty much any beach resort. Big bed, huge living room… okay, I admit it, I do love being pampered in trips like this even if I hate the actual ‘getting there’ part of travel. After an hour bus ride following a two hour plane flight sandwhiched into a four hour airport visit, though, I felt that I deserved it, dammit. What can I say? I am a child of the eighties. I even had a Michael Jackson… er, but I digress. And I really don’t think any of us wants to go there.

So, we had an hour before dinner. Showered, changed, went for a seafood with seafood dinner, combined with seafood. Then back on the bus and out to the Tropicana Cabaret in Havana. And this is when the weirdness really started drizzling again. It was like stepping into an “I Love Lucy” episode in technicolor, with costuming and songs from the heyday of the island, almost fifty years ago. It was, I admit, gorgeous… but strange to watch live.

Point of note: that was where I first tried a Mojito, prepared properly with mint and thick, sweet sugar syrup. Syrup that lulls your palate into a sense of complacency so the rum can sneak in the back way to your brain and have its way with it. It’s the Jack Sparrow of drinks: fruity, a little odd and so bloody appealing that you have to catch the sequel and then the third for the road.

The next day, woke up with a hangover. So we had breakfast at 7 AM, back on the bus with bags by 8:30 to tour the city and on to the first stop of the day at the central plaza to admire an ironwork, forty foot tall depiction of Che Guevara’s face. I think the tour guide was saying… something… but in all honesty, the woman almost put me to sleep with the monotone monologue on dates, times and the glorious revolution. More noteworthy’s the fact that they chose that morning to take us on a tour of a rum distillery. It’s pure marketing genius to take two busloads of hungover, hot, thirsty people and stick them in a hot, cramped space with nothing but rum to drink. I think everyone walked out of there with three or four bottles of rum and a couple of boxes of cigars (because, as another guide informed us, Cuba is all about ‘cigars, rum and women. And we don’t let you take our women’).

Out of the factory, and to a walking tour of the city’s center. Drank Mojitos near the hotel where Hemingway used to sit and drink and get inspired, had lunch in a converted house with an open air central patio. We wandered the stalls full of knickknacks, curios, souvenirs, t-shirts, ashtrays, glasses and all those things that someone, sometime, decided tourists love and tourists everywhere buy because it’s expected of them. We saw an old man smoking a hand-rolled cigar the size of his forearm and I watched my brother-in-law argue for forty five minutes with a kid that wanted to draw his caricature and chased him around town. And then we piled back into the bus for yet another two hour drive to the beach town where we’d be spending the rest of our stay.

We stopped on the way for Piña Coladas, made fresh as we watched. We also had a new tour guide who filled us in on the details of life in the island: she was funny, animated and seemed genuinely glad to be there (unlike our previous guide, who seemed eager to be rid of us. Not that I blame her, mind you, seeing how rowdy and obnoxious some of the people were… but anyway…). Without going so far into detail that this might turn into a political commentary, I’ll just say that life is difficult and so full of bureaucracy that it makes dealing with almost any non-Cuban government agency seem easy by comparison.

That evening, we arrived at the hotel. The lobby was gorgeous, plants and fountains all over the place. The rooms were less so, old paint and air conditioner leaks all over the place. Varadero was a popular resort town in the fifties, and it showed its age: tourism income from Havana has not made its way along the coast. It was no worse than some other place I’ve stayed in, though, and much better than some of the places I used to spend weekends in when in high school (that’s a story for another time). Once again hot, sweaty and tired, as was proving to be the motif for the trip, we retired to our rooms before dinner. There was no single restaurant big enough to handle all of us, so we were split among three shifts and three restaurants for dinner that night: seafood for my brother, sister and I along with the brother in law, future sister in law and toddler niece. A german couple dining near us had a toddler son whom my niece immediately charmed by babbling at him for a good five minutes. Arrangements for their future marriage are pending, awaiting my brother in law’s acceptance that his little girl’s a flirt. Oh, how I am going to laugh in ten years.

Which serves him right, considering how he’s going to laugh at me in two or three years, considering that my daughter’s an even bigger flirt.

It was after dinner, when we’d retired, that I experienced the surreal experience of Cuban television, when I finally turned it on to Matt Damon slouching in a chair speaking Russian.

Okay, that’s misleading. A little. I had apparently stumbled across the Russian version of Comedy Central (either that or Russian people are a hell of a lot happier than you’d think from watching the news) and the comedian in question just happened to look a lot like a slightly younger Mr. Damon. Since I don’t speak Russian, I could not tell you why he was slouched on the chair with someone moaning off-stage, or why it was so hilarious for the audience. Since my other choices were a couple of local stations extolling the beauty of China’s political system, special coverage of Cuban teams in the Olympics and Disney channel (which in itself is more than a little bizarre, when you think about it), I settled on Discovery Channel in Spanish.

And promptly passed out.

The last day, and pictures (I hope), soon.

First in the People I Admire series

Let me give a little background here. I first came into contact with her indirectly… someone recommended one of her books with nothing less than a fangirl squee on Smart Bitches. That was Requiem for the Devil. So I bought it and read it. I was so blown away, I had no words. (I’ve since been by wowed by everything she writes. She’s an auto-buy for me.)

Then I began to see her comment, rarely, on SB. She was the best kind of author-poster. Ms. Smith-Ready only showed up when she had something substantial to say. So I was totally impressed with her by the time I sold my first book to NY, which was Grimspace. With great trepidation, I asked her for a blurb. To my delight, she agreed to read. That began an email friendship that delighted me. She’s even wittier and more fun than she seems on the internet (but I’m getting ahead of myself.)

Our internet acquaintance moved into the real world at Dallas RWA. I met her at the literacy signing, and found she was sweet and gorgeous in person. She’s so slim and smart and has the best hair ever. When I was growing up, I wanted a crop of curls like she has so badly that I endured numerous bad perms trying to get them before realizing my hair just won’t do that, no matter how I torture it. The best thing about her, though, is the way she cares about things. She’s passionate about causes, not just selling books, and I really admire that. She cares about animal rights. She cares about independent artists and bookstores.

We took things to the next level by rooming together at RT. I hadn’t expected I’d ever get to know her that well, but it was wonderful. She’s an ideal roommate, and it was so cool whispering to each other in the dark, just like a slumber party for grownups. I don’t make friends easily — I’m not sure why — so getting to know her was a big deal for me. I was never one of the cool kids. I was brainy and obnoxious and overly blessed with sarcasm at a young age. I don’t have the personal charisma of Lauren Dane or Megan Hart. This is a way I can show people I admire how much they mean to me.

To this day, even though my raw hero worship for Ms. Smith-Ready has matured into a healthy friendship, I still look forward to each email she sends me. Once she made me snort a Coke Zero with the cleverness of her repartee. So in conclusion, she’s a person I respect and admire greatly. I am honored to count her among my friends.

If you haven’t read her books yet, what’s WRONG with you? But here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll give you a chance to rectify this situation. If you want to try a Jeri Smith-Ready, post in comments. You can pick any book from her backlist. Winner posted this time next week.

So which one do you want? (They’re all awesome) Do a little research and let me know! I’ll add that The Reawakened would be a pre-order and you’ll get in November when it releases.

I must offer like treatment to pie!

You Are Pumpkin Pie

You’re the perfect combo of uniqueness and quality. You’re able to relate to many types of people with many different tastes. But you’re by no means generic or ordinary. In fact, you’re one of the most original people around. Those who like you are looking for something (or someone) special. You tend confuse people when they first meet you. But you’re not as complicated as you seem. Even though you have a lot of spice and flavor to you, you’re never overpowering. You are a calm and comforting force in people’s lives.

I love their heated, slightly antagonistic attraction. This is Kyra and Reyes, from the first paranormal romance by Ava Gray. Here’s my favorite snip for the day. Enjoy.

“You think I want to go out in search of snatch.” Statement, not a question.

She tried to make a joke of it. “Wasn’t that a Larry Flynt show?”

He sighed then. “I obviously phrased the question wrong, if that’s what you extrapolated from it. I asked if we could take the night off. Together. You and me.”

His words hit her like a closed fist in the temple, and she felt dizzy, breathless. “I don’t understand. I have no idea what you want from me.”

“You know exactly what I want.”

“You already had it,” she protested. “Damn, Rey. I’m not Chinese food… men don’t come back in two hours, hungry for more.”

Don’t you just wish you knew what he says in response? It’s sooooooooooo good. But you have to buy the book to find out. Mwahahahaha!

I’m over here, of course, as it’s Wednesday. If you want to know my mental state, go read.

It’s Sunday at 6pm. The troupes are assembled. We’re all sitting at the kitchen table with pencils, papers, books, and …dice. What can it all mean?

Well, I’m running the last installment of a DnD adventure for my family. We started as wee little hero wannabes at level 1. Now we’re mighty slayers at… level 3. Hit points have gone up. Our ranger can shoot things on purpose. The bard has two spells now. The thief can now remove a few traps instead of blowing them up every time. Life is good.

CAST OF CHARACTERS
Thor, the surly dwarven cleric — played by Andres
Alfie, the elven bard — played by Alek
Brace, the human ranger — played by Andrea
Seren, the half-elven thief — played by Ann

When we last left our heroes, they had found an unfortunate, deceased adventurer, and Alfie was reading his journal, taking note of all the frightening beasties yet to come. What follows is a reenacted (rewritten) account of their adventure.

You come upon a chest. What do you do?

“I open it!” says Alfie.

The thief looks interested. “Really? You’re just going to flick it open. Well, it’s your funeral.”

“Maybe you should have Seren check it out,” suggests Thor.

“Well, I guess I could.”

Meanwhile, the ranger pokes the chest with an arrow. Nothing happens.

Seren checks out the chest and finds a trap. There’s a vial in the lock, which will probably do bad things to the party if it’s broken. She fiddles with it for a good five minutes and manages to get the liquid out of the lock intact.

The bard grabs the potion and says, “Hey, it’s a potion of Gaseous Form.” He chortles over that for a good five minutes. Except it doesn’t make you fart, it turns you into a ghost. He, of course, drinks it promptly, and spends the rest of the adventure scouting and doing silly ghost tricks.

Their dungeon crawl is punctuated with shouts of, “Look, I’m sticking my finger through my eye! Look, I can push my arm through my belly.”

The ranger, thief, and cleric ignore him as best they can, handling undead and other vicious, scary beasts. They also find a few magic items, some gems, and gold. By the time they’re done, they’ve solved the mystery of Bone Hill, barbecued a bunch of zombies in a rat pit (don’t ask) and purified the dark altar at the heart of the underground complex.

(And that’s what I did on Sunday night. It’s more fun than it sounds.)

I’ve drawn two lucky winners.

Yan (#13) and Ilona (#21), email me!

I need your full names and addresses in order to send your prize. I think you’re going to enjoy this book as much as I did. Thanks for playing, everyone!

Hey, everyone.

If you didn’t know, I turned in Doubleblind to my editor this week. So here’s my gift to you. I’ve posted the first chapter on my website, as I usually do. Go check it out.

And have a great weekend!

The Squee

I’m not even a huge paranormal reader, but the romance between Tayla and Eidolon hit all the right notes for me. What an amazing book! I’ve never read anything so delicious in my life. The writing … lovely, powerful, evocative and edgy. The characters? Strong, compelling and memorable. The plot? Tight as a drum, break-neck pace.

It’s also chock full of interesting secondary characters, who don’t seem like sequel bait so much as an important part of the protagonists’ lives. Ms. Ione also manages something very difficult; she does a compelling job with the world-building, giving us just enough to let us understand what’s going on, but there’s never an info dump. I’d say this is one of the most original paranormal romances I’ve read all year. If you’re not familiar with the concept, it’s about the demonic underworld, centered around a hospital that takes care of otherworldly injuries. Genius! Her execution of this creative premise is nothing short of genius.

I picked this book up after I finished my draft of Doubleblind and I devoured it in one sitting. The passion between to the two leads is explosive, and the sex is set-fire-to-the-pages hot. Ms. Ione has also set up some of the best tension I’ve ever seen between two leads. You know how sometimes in romances, the reason the hero and heroine don’t get together seems a bit manufactured, full of dime-store angst? In this book, there’s a serious Romeo and Juliet vibe. If I’d emailed her a list of my criteria before she wrote this book (and I didn’t), telling her what I want in a paranormal romance, she couldn’t have written a novel more perfectly suited to my tastes.

For me, this book was an A+. If you like dark, gritty, edgy, intensely emotional and erotic romances with a rocket ship full of genuine conflict and angst, you don’t want to miss this book. I’m now a total fangirl (and that doesn’t happen too often). I can’t wait for the next installment. (Aside to Ms. Ione: I’m willing to barter any arc of mine for a sneak peek. I have Doubleblind… I also have Blue Diablo ready to go. Patricia Briggs called it, “…gritty, steamy and altogether wonderful urban fantasy. Outstanding and delicious.” Maybe we can make a deal? Email me, okay?!)

Anyway… moving on…

The Contest

You knew this was coming. Whenever I love a book this much, I give away copies of it. So that’s it. I’m buying two of these and mailing them to random winners. So get in comments and show Ms. Ione some love. Tell me how awesome she is and why you want to read this book. That’s right; I want shameless sucking up and heavy-handed flattery. Winners posted on Tuesday, Sept 9. You have until Monday at 11:59 p.m. to get your name in here.