Sweet Savage Thighs

one lump, or two?

2010-04-26T10:05:00.001-07:00

Wow, it's been a long time between updates. I'd like to say we've been busy, but really....we're just lazy. Well, we've actually been busy, but we could've stopped by once in a while.

All apologies, darlings.

In any case, I'm stopping by today to wish Christine a belated happy birthday. Last Thursday was her actual birthday, and we did some minor celebrating that day, but the majority of our revelry was on Saturday. When we had tea.

Since we're not in England that probably sounds weird. But Christine and I both enjoy the pomp and formality of an English afternoon tea. For some reason the idea of sitting down to tiny cucumber sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and a pot of Earl Grey (well, Christine prefers English Breakfast, but whatever) makes us both giddy with nerdy delight.

One of the reasons I adore this is because it gives me an excuse to cook. I enjoy cooking when there's an occasion, though I can often get a little carried away. But this time Christine was right there overachieving with me. We planned a menu that was a little extreme, to say the least:

mini quiches
cream scones with Double Devon cream and raspberry jam
cucumber, roast beef, and ham sandwiches
meat pies
creamed mushrooms on chive butter toast (recipe courteous of Smitten Kitchen)
fresh strawberries & grapes
petit fours with buttercream and chocolate ganache
cream puffs - both regular and chocolate dipped
tea and champagne

The only thing we didn't actually make from scratch were the cream puffs, because there are limits to even my culinary ambition. And some of the preparations were made ahead of time (the petit fours were made the night before, as was the rabbit mushroom stew that I used for the meat pies), but we were hustling on Saturday morning to pull it all together. But pull it together we did.

And to complete the tea like ambiance, we plugged in Christine's favorite DVD: the BBC miniseries version of Pride & Prejudice. The six hour version with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, and Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth Bennett (don't ever suggest to Christine that she should watch the Keira Knightley version, or if you do, stand back to avoid the blast).

It was a delightful afternoon.

March Mania

2010-03-09T10:10:00.000-08:00

There we sit, two highly educated, highly articulate, cultured women of great taste and refinement, shouting at the television:

“What the hell do you mean, tripping? That wasn’t a trip, that was a Greg Louganis impersonation!”

“Did you see that move? Holy shit…I want to have his babies.”

“Kerry FUCKING Frasier.”

“Oh yes! Oh, come on, Helmer, go go go….YES! God, I love that kid.”

Ah, to be a hockey fan.

It’s actually my fault, this whole atmosphere of hockey mania that takes over our house this time of year. Having grown up in Michigan, I’ve been a hockey fan – more specifically a Detroit Red Wings fan – for years. Christine had always been interested in learning more about it, but had never really had the opportunity to get into it, until we became roommates.

When that happened, she got swept along in the tide of playoff hockey, and the Red Wings Stanley Cup win in 2008. Mostly because I’m selfish with the remote, but she also really dug it. In fact, in some ways it would appear that she digs it more than I do. She watches more regular season games, follows the stats pretty closely, and hangs on nearly every single drop of the puck. Me? I’ve been around long enough to realize that sweating every puck drop is a good way to give yourself an ulcer, so I save my energies for March. March is when the drive to the playoffs begins in earnest. March is when teams vying for those last few spots kick it up a notch, and the ones at the top of the board fight to hold onto their position.

March is when it all starts to happen. And in our house, it’s when the shouting begins. Really, when you think about it, it’s kind of cute. At least, that’s what we’ve chosen to believe.

Still alive!

2010-02-24T12:51:00.000-08:00

What can I say? We’re lazy bitches around here.

I have not forgotten about this blog, though it may certainly seem like it. I just find myself with very few things to say that don’t sound exactly like the last thing I said here. I mean, how many times can I talk about doggedly churning out my 5 daily pages, or the odd conversation about plot or character that I have with Christine or with my boyfriend? I think that stuff gets old pretty fast, and while I want this blog to be primarily about my life as a writer, it’s obvious that I need to come up with other stuff to talk about. Because right now? My life as a writer is pretty boring.

(Christine’s life is a bit more exciting in that regard, but she’s pretty sure y’all will find it boring, too. Different writer, same problem.)

So I’ll be trying to find a way to make this blog more of a daily part of my life from now on. I do have a few ideas percolating for posts. Some of them are book related (My Favorite Lines in My Favorite Books), some of them are life related (Why 6:00 AM Yoga Is Saving My Life), and some are sports related (The Shootout - NHL Experiment Gone Wrong, or Definitive Evidence of Evil on Earth?).

And I'm sure I'll get to those soon. Really, I promise!

Blog for Choice Day 2010 - Why I am Pro Choice

2010-01-22T13:53:00.000-08:00

I don't usually get political....and this is not political. Why I am pro choice has nothing to do with politics, and everything, EVERYTHING to do with the fundamental right I believe all women have - to control not only their own bodies, but their own destinies.

If I must have a political stance on abortion, it's this: what I do with my body is none of the govenment's business. What the college student in Iowa, the young mother in Indiana, the professor in New York, the rape victim in Florida...what they do is none of the government's business either.

But recognizing that there are those who think it is, that there are those who seek to take away the fragile autonomy that we have over our bodies, our lives, our futures...that is our business.

Use your voice. Or lose your choice.

She's alive!

2010-01-15T17:58:00.000-08:00

We both are, actually - just incredibly, insanely busy.

Me, I'm busy with my job, which since our fiscal year ends a full three months behind the calendar year, gets a little crazy right about now. The last couple of weeks have been chock full of my regular work duties, special projects requiring me to work some overtime, and last minute "oh my gosh this has to happen now!" emergencies.

Oh, and I'm also trying to work on my manuscript every night. Twenty-five pages a week is my goal every week, and there are nights when I don't close the laptop until close to midnight. I'm staying on track, but some nights it's a close thing.

Christine is on deadline. She's due to turn her current manuscript in to her editor on Monday and yesterday she realized she's writing the wrong book. When you look at the outline, realize you're on plot point #12 and nothing has actually happened yet, well, that's not a good thing. Today she told me she pretty much scrapped everything and started over. With three days to go.

I guess she thought she didn't have enough challenges.

So that's what's going on around here. How are y'all?

a letter to my nephew

2009-12-22T16:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Kid,

As I write this, your mother has been in the hospital for ten hours. Ten hours, and nothing. What’s with you?

Look, I know it’s warm and cozy in there, and technically you’ve still got three weeks left on your lease. But your little nature provided airbag (amniotic sac) is gone now, and that’s kind of the point of no return. You don’t want to get an infection, do you? Of course you don’t. You’re a good boy, and I know you want to do the right thing. So come on out, already.

It’s not so bad out here, really. Sure it’s noisy, and bright, and you’ll have to wear clothes (and that’s a drag, really), but there’s a lot of good stuff too. Your mom is really anxious to meet you, and so is your dad. They’ve been waiting a long time for you. Someone who’s been waiting even longer is your Grandma - she’s crazy about you already, and I bet if you play your cards right, she’ll spoil you rotten.

I want to meet you too, of course, and I can teach you all kinds of neat stuff. How to play baseball, all about hockey (you WILL be a Red Wings fan, of course), and most useful of all, how to REALLY get on your mom’s nerves. I’ve been doing it for a long time, and I know all the tricks. Anytime you want to get one over on her, you just call Auntie Hannah and we’ll get it done.

If you come out you’ll get to meet King, too. He’s your doggie, and he’s very sweet. When you’re old enough he’ll snuggle up on your bed with you, even though Mom will tell him not to.

Best of all, Kid? Everybody – I mean EVERYBODY, from the nurses to the doctors to Mom & Dad, Grandma & Grandpa and all their friends – are going to be at your beck and call for the foreseeable future. They’ll do everything for you, day or night – you won’t have to lift a finger. Which let me tell you, is a pretty sweet deal.

So come on out, okay Kid? We’re ready to meet you.

ode to exercise

2009-12-17T16:01:00.000-08:00

Since the middle of November I’ve been having some problems with my knees. First it was the left, then the right one, then I pulled/strained/just plain fucked up something in my right calf so walking was painful. Then once that was under control my left knee started up again…I swear, I turned thirty-six and my body somehow got the memo to start falling apart.

It’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been feeling at or around one hundred percent healthy, so it’s only been the last couple of weeks that I’ve been able to return to my normal gym routine. And it makes me so happy to be able to exercise again I could cry.

Seriously. I love the muscle quivers that follow a heavy weightlifting workout, the flushed cheeks and dripping sweat that accompany me on my morning run. Heavy breathing, pounding pulse, the taste of salt on my lips…it’s a drug, and I’m addicted.

But I was not always an exerciser, oh no. Most of my twenties were spent in studious avoidance of any sort of physical exertion, and still, I do enjoy a good sloth (defined as being as inert as possible for as long as possible, with the goal of accomplishing absolutely nothing at all) from time to time. But everything just seems to run so much more smoothly if I manage to make it to the gym at least three (five is ideal) times a week. I sleep better, eat better, I’m more alert during the day, my skin is clearer…life is just easier if I can get an hour on the elliptical or a session with the kettlebell in the morning.

Christine thinks this makes me a mutant, and looks at me with fear and trepidation when I announce that I ran five miles that morning. As though this affliction is communicable, and might take hold in her (she’s a little paranoid that way). And I freely admit that not everyone feels this way. Even people who get up and do it every day might not love it.

But I do. I love it. And as long as my body holds out, I shall never leave it.

tis the season

2009-12-14T15:04:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s the 14th of December and I’m finished with my Christmas shopping.

The reason I know I’m finished is because I’m out of money.

I’m very happy with the gifts I was able to get for my loved ones this year. I still have three packages to ship to my long distance family and friends, but everything for the local loved ones is wrapped and under the tree already. Which leaves me with a lovely sense of accomplishment, and no further excuses for putting off my manuscript.

I started this project out with a big bang, but my attention has been wavering since just before Thanksgiving. I traveled to visit my sister the week before Turkey Day, and it’s been difficult to get back on my five to ten pages a day track. But I have a nice chunk of time ahead of me (I’m on vacation from Christmas Eve until January 4th) and very little in the way of obligations, save a party on New Year’s Eve, to get in my way. My boyfriend will be spending the holidays with me, but he’s really great about not only entertaining himself so I can work, but reminding me that I said I wanted to work.

Sometimes I need to be reminded.

It’ll be good to both get back to work and have a nice stretch of time to spend with my fella. Living two hours away from each other tends to take its toll, even though we do a great deal of traveling to make sure we see each other regularly, and we’re both looking forward to several uninterrupted days to spend together. The sum total of our plans is to maybe, possibly, meet some friends for dinner one night.

I can get behind that kind of holiday.

confessions of an addict

2009-12-01T04:00:00.000-08:00

I find myself a little at odds with myself this holiday season. You see, one of the things I do every year, one of my holiday traditions, if you will, is bake. Peanut brittle, hard candy, church windows, party mix, fudge (several flavors) wreath cookies, chewy chocolate ginger cookies...all these things I bake.

I started doing it back when I was in college, and just after college, when I was too broke to buy the gifts I wanted to for my friends. I'd give a tin of goodies instead, and it was always such a hit that even after I had the means to shop for gifts I kept doing it. (I like when people ooh and ahh over something I've made. I'm just narcissistic enough to get off on it.)

Anyway, last year I did my usual round of baking - which means every available second between my birthday, which is in mid-November, and Christmas was spent in the kitchen. But last year, for the first time, I found myself resenting the hell out of it.

The truth is, it stressed me out. Like, big time. The only thing I remember about last year's holiday season is that I spent most of it in the kitchen and I was seriously pissed off almost all the time. I also remember that my roommate and my boyfriend both said things like, "Are you sure you're okay?" and "Maybe you should take a break" a lot. As I recall, I did a lot of snarling at these questions.

So this year, I decided the baking would have to go the way of the dinosaurs. Oh, I'm not stopping entirely, of course. Like any addict, I have to have some kind of fix. So I'm limiting myself to two items. I will make the peanut brittle, because the recipe was handed down by my grandfather, and making it at Christmas is a family tradition. And I will make the chewy chocolate ginger cookies, because they make people moan in ecstasy. And making people moan in ecstasy, well, that's part of the addiction.

I'm feeling much calmer about the holidays this year, which is a good thing. But I've found about six new recipes on the internet that I want to try, and that can't be good.

Haunted By the Holiday Spirit

2009-11-29T15:59:00.000-08:00

It's the end of the Thanksgiving weekend. The leftovers are stowed in the fridge, the Christmas tree is up and decorated and safely out of reach of wagging dog tails, the house is relatively clean, and I'm about as tired as a blonde joke. Seriously, it's going to be an early bedtime tonight.

Before I turn in, though, I just wanted to take a minute to give thanks here, publicly, for some of the many things for which I'm grateful. So here goes, in no particular order:

Friends, family, and pets
The best job in the universe
The best readers in the universe
My favorite sports team finally won a game after 3 losses (Let's go Red Wings!!!)
My mother's stuffing recipe could makes angels weep in jealousy, and I get credit every year for recreating it at thanksgiving dinner
We found the perfect tree in about three and a half minutes at the tree lot, and the people there installed it on the stand for us
I've finalized my travel arrangements to head back East to visit my family over the holidays
Ghirardelli dark chocolate peppermint bark
Champagne, and those darling monks who invented it
Cappuccino, and etc. (see above)
The sky is scheduled to stay clear and sunny for at least another three or four days
My dog loves me, even though he thinks I'm the most boring human on the face of the earth
My horse is no longer trying to kill me on a regular basis

See? That's a good bit to be thankful for, and that's just the list that came up off the top of my head. Now, if I can just keep that all in mind as I gear up to finish a book and get all of my Christmas shopping done, maybe I'll be able to stay sane into 2010!

Fingers crossed.

it's never too early for family drama

2009-11-12T04:00:00.000-08:00

I’m typing this at four o’clock in the morning, and I am awake and mobile at this insane hour to catch an early flight to Houston. It’s my first trip back there since my move west a year and a half ago. I’m going to have dinner with some friends, catch up with an old colleague over lunch, and visit the shops I miss most. I’m also going to be attending not one but two baby showers, celebrating my sister’s birthday (yesterday), celebrating MY birthday (Monday), and doing some mother/daughter/sister bonding.

It’s a lot to cram into five days.

But it’ll be fine. I’ve gotten to a point with my family where I am able to just be who I am, let them be who they are, and not get my knickers in a twist (too much) about any of it. It didn’t used to be that way; spending time with my family, with my mother especially, has been historically difficult. Don’t get me wrong – I love my mother. But we have, in the grand tradition of mothers and daughters the world over, butted heads. A lot.

Mostly because we share a lot of personality traits. We’re both stubborn, we’re both in possession of explosive tempers, and we’re both convinced that we’re right and the rest of the world is full of shit. The trouble is, the way we view the world and our priorities have always been vastly different. The result has been a mother/daughter relationship that has been at times rocky, acrimonious, and during the summer of 1994 (what my mother calls the Summer from Hell), downright hostile.

But something changed in the last few years. Maybe it was because I’ve grown more comfortable and secure in who I am as a person, so I’m less inclined to take offense when someone questions me. Maybe it’s because I finally realized that no matter how misguided she seems to be to me, her words and actions come from love, and a genuine desire to see me happy (just because she has no idea what makes me happy doesn’t negate the good intentions). Maybe it’s because she went through a bout of colon cancer last year, and I realized that I only have one mother. And no matter how crazy I think she is, or how out of touch or annoying I find the things she does, she’s still my mother and I want her around for a long time.

Whatever it was, spending time with Mom is a lot easier these days. Comments or questions that used to piss me off now mostly amuse me. If I do get irritated or frustrated, I’ve learned to step back for a second, remind myself that her opinions or needs don’t have to have an effect on my choices, and it’s fine. Plus my sister is there, and we can meet in the kitchen for a midnight beer (water for her) and kvetch about our crazy mom.

I’m looking forward to it.

To Shop or Not to Shop

2009-11-09T14:42:00.000-08:00

Seeing as how I have a book to copy edit this week, I figured that this must be the perfect time for a blog post!

There's quite a lot going on at the moment, really. Aside from the obvious (the book I have to copy edit and the book I have to write), it's hockey season once again (Yay!), my horse and I have entered therapy together (it's a long story), and the holiday season is creeping inexorably closer.

I love the holiday season. I love spending time with my family (even if I have to fly to Tennessee to do it), I love holiday decorations, the smell of pine trees, the sparkle of tinsel. I love holiday baking (though I'm not, interestingly enough, all that eager to eat sweet things...I just like to make them), the scent of roasting turkeys, the tastes of hot cider and warm cocoa. But most of all, I love holiday shopping.

Not the kind of shopping that involves driving to a mall and elbowing my way through teeming crowds of people who manage to take all the joy out of the season with their frantic and single-minded focus on getting the best deals for every item of their lists. That kind of shopping gives me hives and makes me consider if it would really be so bad to live the rest of my life as a hermetic shut-in. I love online shopping. My mouse is my friend. And I love catalog shopping, something that the retailers of this world have long since figured out and decided to exploit to the nth degree. Every day now, the mail contains at least 2 or 3 (sometimes 5 or 6) glossy-paged pamphlets from those persistent purveyors of taunting temptation (hee hee...I love excessive alliteration sometimes).

The catalogs work on me with a sort of hypnotic power. One look, and I get sucked in for hours, flipping slowly past artfully posed photographs of things no one ever actually needs but that I find myself suddenly coveting in a way that I'm certain the Old Testament would have included on those stone tablets if there had been just a bit more forward thinking. And somehow, I always end up finding 2 things that I must have for every 1 item that might make a suitable gift for someone on my list. I'm telling you, I'm weak.

Today, I'm up against a clothing company, the National Geographic store, and Bas Blu--the most fabulous bookseller on the face of the earth.

I'm such a goner.

Worse yet, so is my credit card!

election day

2009-11-02T10:18:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is election day, and I find myself annoyed.

Normally, I love election day. Call me a sentimental, patriotic fool, but I enjoy participating in the democratic process. Going into the booth, punching the little button…I love it. I believe it’s not only my right as an American citizen, but my responsibility, and I never miss an election day.

But now that I live in Washington state…well, I’m just not as enthusiastic about it. Oh, I still care about participating, but the process? Kind of sucks. You see, Washington does everything by mail in ballot, which means about three weeks before election day I get my ballot in the mail. I fill it out using a blue or black pen, seal it in two envelopes, sign one of the envelopes so they can verify my signature. Then I have the choice of mailing it in, dropping it off at the 24/7 drop box located near the election office downtown, or dropping it off on election day at one of several drop locations.

I hate it.

I understand that this method is preferable to a lot of people. Most of the folks I work with find it less disruptive to be able to mail it in or drop it off at their convenience. And apparently long lines at the polls were a problem around here. And of course it saves the county money (or city, or state, or whoever foots the bills for such things), because they have to employ fewer election workers to run and monitor the voting. So I get it. I just hate it.

I want to get in my car, drive to the polls, and do my duty. Putting it in the mail feels…well, not special at all. It feels like paying my electric bill, and that doesn’t make me feel all patriotic and righteous. I much preferred the way they ran things in Texas, with early voting available in most precincts, and an absentee ballot was always an option if you couldn’t – or didn’t want to - go stand in line.

Election day should be special, dammit. Being able to participate in our government, in the in the democratic process, should never be taken for granted or just assumed. So tomorrow, on election day, I will be taking my ballot to the elementary school near my office and handing in my ballot. It’s the closest I can come to punching the button in the booth.

the deepest cut

2009-10-27T12:10:00.000-07:00

If you go to the bio page on my website and look at my photo, you will see that I have long hair. It’s good hair, healthy and strong, and there’s a lot of it, so it looks pretty good long. But it’s basically looked the same for half a dozen years now, and I’m bored with it. So this Saturday, I have an appointment to get it whacked off, and I’m a little nervous.

It’s not like I’ve never had short hair before, it's just been a while. It’s was pixie short right out of college, which didn’t suit my face at all, and in college it was been slightly-longer-than-chin-length short, which did suit my face. That’s what I’m going for this time. But you know, I find myself hesitating, for a couple of reasons.

First: I am not twenty anymore, and my face shape has changed a little bit. Not drastically – it’s not like my jawline is hanging down around my collarbone or anything – but the angles and planes that defined my face in my youth are a little softer now, a little more rounded. And sometimes when I hold my hair up to approximate the length I’m thinking of…well, I’m just not sure. I don’t want this hairstyle to make me look OLDER, for God’s sake, and I’m afraid it will.

So that’s the main reason. Another reason, which isn’t really a reason but more of a point to ponder is…my boyfriend hates the idea.

I know, I know – it’s my hair, and I can do with it what I want. And he is fully aware that any attempt to control my decisions in this area would result in some unfriendly conversation, so he doesn’t go there, and he’s not that guy anyway. But I can tell when I talk about it that he’s not thrilled with the idea. He says things like, “I will support you in this decision,” as though I’m talking about joining the Peace Corps and building roads in Botswana for two years instead of getting a new do.

I think part of it is that he can’t picture me without long hair. We’ve been dating just over a year, and the only picture he’s seen of me with it short is my old passport photo. Which, even without the bad pixie-do is a bad picture. He likes my hair, likes stroking or playing with it, and the idea of it not being there anymore bothers him.

I also think he has the idea that a lot of guys (and girls) have, which is long hair = female = sexy. And there’s something to that, but I don’t think it’s a hard and fast rule. We have a friend who used to have lovely long blond hair that she now wears in a tight little cap that feathers toward her face. She looks absolutely darling, and in some ways even more sexy as her look is more edgy this way. But of course, if I ask my guy if he thinks she looks nice he agrees that she does, then ads, “but her long hair was really pretty”.

In any case, I’m getting my hair cut. It might be a huge mistake, in which case I’ll just hate the way I look for six months while it grows out and my guy will say “I told you so” a lot. Which won’t be pleasant, but it won’t last forever. After all, it’s just hair – not two years in Botswana.

scattered

2009-10-19T07:41:00.000-07:00

I sat down to blog this morning, then realized I had no idea what i wanted to talk about.

I could talk about my current work in progress, which is clicking right along. Page count is increasing, the mojo is cooking, and I really like how this story is emerging. But other than that, there isn't much to say about it.

I could talk about my weekend, which I spent with my guy. We saw a movie, had dinner with friends, and fell asleep in front of the television, curled up together in his big manly recliner. But as wonderful as that was for me, I'm not sure it qualifies as interesting to you.

I could talk about the upcoming holiday season, and how it's barely the middle of October and already the calendar is filling up. Work parties, various events with friends, family. Christine will be going back to see her family, which means I'll be left with both dogs on my own. It's only fair - I leave my dog with Christine on a fairly regular basis when I travel north to see my fella, and her Levi is a sweet dog. But he's a lot more work than my twelve year old lazy hound dog. But that isn't very interesting either.

So I guess I don't have much to talk about. Thanks for listening!

Back from Beyond

2009-10-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

Hannah and I had a mah-velous time this past weekend at the Emerald City Writers' Conference, and I even managed to get my speech done before we arrived in Seattle. Not all that much before, but hey, before is before! In point of fact, I finished it in the front seat of the car while Hannah drove, and by the time I closed the laptop, I had five hours to spare!

Once we arrived at the conference hotel and settled into our room, we finished putting together the kick-ass basket we donated to the raffle. Trust me, it was tough to give that thing away--Perrier Jouet champagne, 2 champagne flutes, 500 grams of Leonidas chocolates (which make Godiva look like four-year-old Hersheys), a Sweet Savage Thighs logo mug, delicious bath products from Lavanila, a Kate Spade wallet, and matching sterling silver Tiffany necklace and earrings. We cried a little when the raffle committee took it away.

After that was done, I spent the next few hours with my knees knocking while I waited to make my first public speech since my senior year of high school. Let me just say that high school was a long, loooooonnnnnng time ago. But I managed to deliver the welcoming dinner address without abject humiliation, so that was a win. And to celebrate, we went to the bar and spent a few hours savoring some of the best lemon drops of my experience and some really wonderful company. We met several wonderful writers from as far away as Oklahoma, did an awful lot of laughing, and got to bask in the presence of the always wonderful and enormously witty Cherry Adair.

Saturday and Sunday, we attended workshops and lunches, went out for a fabulous dinner in the Queen Anne area of Seattle, and finally said our goodbyes with every intention of returning to the conference again next year. It is really just that good!

Oh, and before we left, I won an awesome raffle basket (inspiring serious envy in Hannah, despite my promises to share), which was just brilliant, since I can't remember the last time I won anything.

All in all, it was a truly stellar weekend. I have enjoyed every single one of the ECWC weekends I've attended, and I encourage everyone who is able to invest the time and money in this fabulous event!

And today, a guest!

2009-10-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

Christine and I had a wonderful - and for me, highly productive! - time at the conference last weekend. She's going to tell you all about that tomorrow, I think. But in the meantime, today I have a special guest. My friend Jenna Ives is a wonderful writer, and she's written a little tale that features something that I have a bit of an affection for: bondage. I asked her if she'd talk about it a bit for your enjoyment. So, enjoy!

The Initiation Of Isabella
By Jenna Ives

My sexy new bondage novella, The Initiation Of Isabella, is part of Samhain Publishing’s “Binding Ties” anthology, written especially for those of you who love your romance with a little, um, restraint.

The Initiation of Isabella is a classic case of mistaken identity, which lets my heroine experience some of her wildest sexual fantasies. Here's the premise: Isabella Tallin is trying to join the Sigma Iomega Nu sorority, and thinks she's waiting at the corner of Elm and Main for her mysterious initiation rite to begin. But she can't believe that the rite involves a gorgeous guy in a hot red convertible and being bound, gagged, and blindfolded…or does it? Logan Sommers, meanwhile, can’t believe that the innocent-looking girl waiting for him on the street corner is his mysterious client -- the sexually jaded woman who’s paid his company, Fantasies Fulfilled, to indulge four of her most outrageous fantasies. But the pickup instructions were clear, so he whisks her away for a wickedly sensual night of bondage, punishment, ménage and more! In the end, Isabella finds herself happily initiated by a far different organization than the one she expected. You can read an excerpt of the story at my website www.jennaives.com.

The gorgeous covers for the three different stories in this anthology each center on one particular bondage element, and mine is the blindfold. A blindfold is a powerful sex toy, because without one’s sense of sight, a person finds their other senses become more heightened, in order to compensate. In this case, Isabella can’t see, only feel what’s happening to her, and her heightened sense of touch lets her more powerfully experience all the delicious things my hero Logan is doing to her naked body. Without sight, the mind is free to conjure up all sorts of yummy sexual possibilities, and we all know that the brain is the biggest sex organ we have! Plus, being blindfolded lets Isabella concentrate not on Logan, but exclusively on his sexual stimuli -- his lips, fingers, tongue, erotic toys, etc -- making her reactions much more honest and personal. And powerful. In this story, she gets to experience four outrageous sexual fantasies that include handcuffs, chains, inventive restraints and a clever whip, but the last fantasy -- being pleasured by three men at the same time -- ensures that she’s in for the most incredible night of her life!

I hope you’ll check out The Initiation of Isabella at http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/the-initiation-of-isabella so you can experience Isabella’s pleasure vicariously 

And to celebrate the release of Samhain’s Binding Ties anthology, I’m giving away a sexy Bondage Kit! You can enter by sending an e-mail to: http:// bindingties-subscribe@yahoogroups.com before October 29.

How about you? Ever use a blindfold to help spice up your sex life? Did you enjoy it? Do tell!

the trouble with cons...

2009-10-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned a few days ago, Christine and I are headed for Seattle later today to attend the Emerald City RWA annual conference. We’ll both be signing at the book fair tomorrow (info and location here) and Christine is actually giving a speech tonight at dinner (now ask me if Ms. Procrastination has written it yet).

I have sort of love/hate thing with conferences. I love them, because I always come away from them with a renewed sense of purpose. Even if the workshops aren’t really relevant to me or my writing, there’s something invigorating and inspiring about being around a bunch of people with goals and aspirations that mirror yours. Added to that, there are always good prizes for the raffle, I get to meet new authors, and drink in the hotel bar.

That’s the love part. The hate part comes in when I realize, usually about three or four hours into the first day, that really? I’m not actually a social person.

Oh, I don’t mean that I hide in the shower or anything like that, or run shrieking in horror if someone talks to me. No, I just mean that when it comes right down to it, I’m not a joiner. And at a con, that can make for some frustrating times.

It’s especially frustrating at an RWA event, because everyone is so supportive and open and generous. You want to talk about that paranormal where your hero is a Congressman campaigning to round up all the were-creatures in cages and your heroine a were-giraffe fashion model by day, assassin by night who is hell bent on taking him out?** You can find someone to hash that out with you at an RWA event. And smaller cons, like this one, are especially rich that way. I have never met a person I didn’t like at one of these events, which begs the question….why do I have such a hard time socializing with them?

One reason? I go to these things with Christine, so everything I need is right there in one person. She’s drinking buddy, confidant, critique partner and biggest fan all rolled into one. It sort of makes it hard to get motivated to seek out other people, and I think if you asked her she’d say the same thing about me.

Some day we’re going to have to split up and do some conference attending on our own, just to see how it works. But that’s for another time, because this weekend I'm totally doing it with her. If for no other reason than to see her give this speech – that she hasn’t written yet.

**I have floated this idea to Christine several times, and she refuses to see the genius of it. Think of it: a tale that reveals the reason why runway fashion models are super tall and super skinny – they’re were-giraffes! Genius!!

we pause for this brief message....

2009-10-07T09:23:00.000-07:00

Christine and I are both gearing up for a conference this weekend - the Emerald City Romance Writer's is having their annual shindig near Seattle, and we're both going to be there. We've gone to this conference a few times before, and we both really like it. It's small, but very well attended, and now that we live only a few hours drive away, I think we'll both make it a permanent fixture on our schedules.

And I promise, we'll be talking more about that. But today I wanted to share this clip from The Daily Show. Why? Because I agree with everything Jon Stewart is saying, and I don't mind tell you all just that.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

The Gay After Tomorrow

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show
Full Episodes

Political Humor

Ron Paul Interview

Christmas is coming...

2009-09-29T11:29:00.000-07:00

Holy moley, where did September go? It's almost October, and we're starting to gear up for the holiday season in my house. Thanksgiving, as we'll be having guests and both Christine and I like to be prepared well in advance for such events, and of course, Christmas. And before everyone jumps on my back about planning for Christmas this early, I should explain that the reason we’re talking about it now is because neither of us want a repeat of last year. Last year was crazy, which was all my fault.

Every year at Christmas I do what amounts to an epic amount of baking. I make hard candy, peanut brittle, fudge, cookies, church windows, party mix, spiced nuts, and a couple of other things I can’t quite recall right now. There’s a master list somewhere, I’ll have to dig it up. Or rather, I would have to dig it up if I was going to do that again this year. I have decided, much to the relief of both my roommate and my boyfriend, that I will not.

See, I don’t do all this baking just for me. There’s a list of about thirty people who are the recipients of my efforts, and the list keeps growing every year. I started doing this when I was too poor to buy gifts for everyone, and it was such a hit that I kept it going. But with that big a list of goodies, and over thirty people to hand them out to…well, things can get pretty crazy, pretty fast.

Last year I baked nearly non-stop from mid-November up to Christmas. I had boxes filled with goodies that had to be taken to the post office for weeks. And I don’t remember much of that six weeks – it’s a blur of sugar and extracts and piles of pots and pans in the sink. It was miserable for me, miserable for Christine, and while my boyfriend much enjoyed the fruits of my labors, he didn’t much like how crazy it was making me.

So this year, in an effort to enjoy the holiday season more, I am limiting myself to three recipes. I will make peanut brittle, because it was my grandfather’s recipe and a family tradition to make at Christmas; I will do the chewy chocolate ginger cookies, because they freakin’ ROCK; and I’m not sure of the third. Maybe the party mix, maybe the church windows. Either way, once the third is decided, that’s it – no more.

This way I get to satisfy my need for Christmas baking, but I’ll still get to enjoy the season. Maybe we can even get a tree this year. I'll sleep in on the weekends, and enjoy the holiday specials on TV. Hell, I’ll just be happy to remember the month of December!

and now here's something we hope you'll really like

2009-09-23T20:33:00.000-07:00

Neither Christine or I have much to say right now. Me because I'm battling a killer case of writer's block, her because she's on narcotic painkillers (dental work, you know).

So in lieu of our writing talents, we give you a picture of her dog, Levi.

I snapped this with my cell phone when he was draped across my lap (which accounts for the crazy zombie eyes), all hundred furry pounds of him. He's a belly rub slut, and has taken to crawling into a lap when he wants some rubbin'.

He's also taken to dragging my good shoes outside. But he's still cute, don't you think?

Too many choices!!

2009-09-18T04:00:00.000-07:00

My younger sister is expecting her first child in January, an event which has caused a great deal of excitement in my family. Mainly in my mother, who has been subtly hinting that she would like to become a grandmother for at least fifteen years, not so subtly hinting for ten, and outright begging for the last five. She is beside herself with excitement, and I credit my sister’s pregnancy for helping my mom get past her recent bout with colon cancer. Not that the baby gave her “something to live for” or anything dramatic like that; my mother has plenty to live for, and knows it. But it did give her something to look forward to, and to focus on, while she was dealing with her disease.

For myself, I’m not quite as ecstatic as Mom, but I’m excited. My sister’s wanted children for a few years, and seeing her joy makes me really happy. I’m looking forward to being Auntie Hannah, and let’s face it, shopping for baby clothes and baby toys is just fun!

To that end, I’m getting ready to give my first gift to my nephew – a baby quilt. No, I’m not making it myself. My craftiness runs to counted cross stitch and mending the occasional hem; quilting is beyond my ken. But I have a co-worker, Bonnie, who is an avid quilter. Bonnie has made quilts for a lot of the folks around the office, so she’s putting one together for me. I’m charged with picking out the fabric and the pattern, and she’ll do the rest. Sounds like a cake walk, right? Wrong.

First, I had to pick the pattern. Bonnie had shown me a few of the finished baby quilts she’d done, and I picked a circle pattern that I thought was great because it was a departure from the traditional square pattern you usually see. Then I gave her some direction on the fabric, which I wanted to match my sister’s nursery colors of chocolate brown and Tiffany blue. We picked out some fabrics, and I figured I was done.

Nope. Bonnie put the pieces together and brought it to me for approval. I hated it – the colors that looked so great in the swatches were hideous put together in the pattern, and lucky for me Bonnie agreed. So back to the drawing board. And in the meantime, my sister changed her nursery decorating plans, so the brown and blue went out the window. Now there is a world of colors and patterns for me to choose from….and it’s too much!

Do I go with pastels? Primary colors? What fabric pattern? Should I stick with the circles or go with squares? An animal theme, or maybe cowboy? Aliens or spacemen? Prints or solids? I'm not kidding when I say my head spins with all the possibilities and the decisions I have to make.

I might just buy the kid a drum kit instead.

Carrie Fisher is my new hero

2009-09-16T07:36:00.000-07:00

This morning I was looking at my Twitter page, catching up on all the goings on that I missed while I was asleep, and saw that one of my good friends had twittered: "Carrie Fisher should get mad more often" and he included a link to a blogpost in which Carrie responds, somewhat vehemently, to an anonymous comment she stumbled across on the web in which someone stated that she used to be hot, but now looks like Elton John.

Now, you have to wade through Carrie's sometimes confusing stream of consciousness writing style, but it's completely worth it. The widely held notion that a woman in her 50s should look exactly like she did in her 20s is, in my opinion, one of the things that defines the society we live in as "fucked up, yo".

I've struggled with my weight through most of my life, sure that what I weighed would define me as a person. The number on the scale would tell me if I was a good person or not, if I was worthy of love, if I could enjoy my lunch that day. This warped idea was reinforced every day by magazines, television shows, and society at large.

And it's bullshit. The number on the scale? It's just a number. It doesn't have a damn thing to do with my worth as a person, or as a woman. It's taken me too many years to realize that, wasted years. I wasn't enjoying life, I wasn't having fun - I was too busy worrying about the amount of dressing on my salad, or the fact that I didn't make it to the gym that day, to have any fun.

I don't do that to myself anymore. I go to the gym now because it makes me feel good. I watch what I eat because I have a family history of heart disease. But I enjoy my food, and I enjoy my life. And, like Carrie, if anyone has anything to say about that? They can blow me.

The Burden of Imagination

2009-09-10T18:51:00.000-07:00

People are always asking, once they hear that I am a writer, how I get my ideas; the honest answer is that I really have no clue. Most of them come to me during the hour or so that it takes me to fall asleep after the lights are off and before I slip out of consciousness, but I have a hard time tracking the process of how it all happens. The ideas just seem to appear, either in the form of "What would happen if a certain type of person ended up in this situation?" Or sometimes, "I think that these characteristics would make for a really interesting person. Now what kind of trouble can I cause for her?" Or him. From there, but mind just spins like a wheel-running hamster on meth.

What all my ideas seem to have in common is their near pathological persistence. They stick in my mind like burrs smeared with Krazy-Glue, refusing to be dismissed no matter what bits of logic I use against them. It doesn't matter to the idea currently percolating in my mind, for instance, that I just got back edits for the latest book in the Others series and have only about 3 more weeks to turn them around. The New Idea wants to be written, damn it, and to hell with contractual obligations, scheduling conflicts, and my need to do silly things like earn enough to pay my bills.

As a professional writer, I have an obligation to stick to the agreements I've already made and ignore the new idea until my edits are in, of course, but exerting that kind of discipline is never easy. In this case, I think it's going to be particularly tough. Which is one of the many, many, many reasons why proofreaders are so darned important. Otherwise, there's every chance that my heroine might call out the wrong name in the heat of passion.

That could be embarrassing.

Why Rejection is a Good Thing, or, Those Bitches Will Pay One Day!

2009-09-03T13:17:00.000-07:00

In my email last night I had a response from the big NY publisher I’d sent my most recent manuscript to. It was a rejection, though probably the nicest rejection I’ve ever gotten. A sort of “really like your voice and your writing, not so hot on the story” thing.

I made Christine read the email first, which she begged me not to make her do. But she is a good and loyal friend, so while I guzzled half a glass of pinot grigio for courage, she did. And I think she was as sad as I was when she gave me the news.

Except that I’m not really that sad. Oh, I’m certainly disappointed – a rejection wasn’t what I was hoping for, after all. I was hoping for a multi-book contract that would allow me to walk into work and quit on the spot, but that’s not the point. The point is that rejection is sometimes a good thing.

How, you ask, can that possibly be good? I’ll tell you.

First, the story I sent in? It’s not my best work. I knew it wasn’t my best work when I sent it in (even though both Christine and I think it’s better than half the stuff out there). And though I did rewrite large sections of it to tighten the story and strengthen the characters, I simply wasn’t willing to put in the weeks and possibly months it would have taken me to really revamp things properly. I started writing this story in the fall of 2007, and it’s really been the only project on my plate since then. Frankly, I was sick of looking at it, and wanted it gone.

And really? I think my fatigue and apathy for it showed. So it deserved a rejection.

The other reason rejection is good? It strengthens me – eventually. It’s a multi step process:

Step One: mope for about twenty minutes, during which time I’ve been known to wail and cry out to the heavens: “When will it be MY turn?!”

Step Two: When sanity returns, I take a good look at the rejection, and what exactly the editor was saying – in this case she said she liked the voice and writing, but the story was a bit weak. Hmm…okay, that’s something I can work with.

Step Three: Talk to Christine. She is my compass, my sounding board for all things author related, so I dump everything on her - all my fears and worries and anxieties about my work, my career, etc. And she, bless her generous soul, tells me what she sees as the problem with the manuscript, what she thinks I need to do to get it back on track, and anything else she thinks I need to hear. She tells me the truth, even when I don’t really want to hear it. And after I’ve digested all that, rehashed anything I was unclear on, maybe had a little time to mull things over, I’m ready to move on.

Step Four: Go back to work. I take all the things Christine and I talked about, all the good points from the editor, all the things I know in my gut need to be fixed, and I go to work on them.

They say the best revenge is living well. My best revenge is writing well. I am a good writer, and I will eventually sell to New York. And when that day comes, I’ll think fondly of all the editors who rejected me, making me better and stronger in the process. And I’ll smile, and think, “I told you bitches you were going to pay one day.”

Ooftah!

2009-08-31T22:00:00.000-07:00

I'm back from my cruise to Alaska, which also means that I've finished the latest manuscript and turned it into my editor. Why do these seemingly unrelated things coincide in my world? Because unlike people who plan ahead, I ended up spending the first 2-1/2 days of my long-planned vacation locked in my stateroom working furiously to finish the book. Now, personally I think that sounds a lot worse than it was, since working on board the ship meant that I had access to 24-hr room service, all of my meals were prepared and served for me, and someone came in and cleaned my room twice per day. Frankly, it beat trying to finish up at home!

But now that the book is done and vacation is over, the world seems to be coming at me at approximately 397 miles per hour. Today I faced one of my longest and most intense phobias and dragged myself to the dentist (it's been embarrassingly long since my last visit) only to find out that one of the bridges installed when I was a teenager (it turned out I had no adult teeth under three of my baby molars) needs to be replaced. And I need a filling. And 2 of the wisdom teeth that my orthodontist told me I wouldn't ever get because I lacked the buds to make them grow, did indeed grow and now need to be removed. So I'm looking at about 2 months worth of steady dental work--in other words, my worst nightmare. But at least this dentist is willing to drug me into insensibility in order to keep me from screaming and running at the sight of anything made from surgical steel.

That, however, is not all that I've got going on. Oh, no. There's more. In addition to the dental torture, I'm jumping right into a proposal for a new series of books that I'm quite excited about. They'll be a complete departure from what I've been doing until now and I can't wait to branch out a bit. That needs to be finished in the next 4-6 weeks. At which point, I will begin rewriting the next of the e-books originally written for the Fantasy Fix series and finishing that just after the new year.

You might say I have a thing or two on my plate. I say, ooftah!

block

2009-08-26T07:16:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's been a while nice I've posted. It's been longer since Christine posted, but since she was on deadline and is now on a cruise ship in Alaska, she's forgiven.

I have to tell you, it's been a bit of a struggle finding my groove with this blog. I don't want it to be strictly a writing blog - nobody wants to hear day after day how I write, or research, or edit, or any of the other really boring details that make up the process of writing a book. Or maybe you do, I don't know. But I can tell you I don't want to write about that every day! I live it, writing it down seems like the height of narcissism.

Not that I object to narcissism, really. Anyone who knows me will vouch for that. It's just that if I'm going to indulge in that, I'd rather it be interesting.

In any case, trying to find things to write about here has proved more difficult than I anticipated. I guess you could say I have writer's block, at least when it comes to the blog. And while I hope that clears up for me soon, I'll be honest - I'd much rather be blocked here than elsewhere!

Food, glorious food!

2009-08-17T11:18:00.001-07:00

I’ve been obsessed with food my entire life, sometimes in less than healthy ways. But in the last year or two, really since moving to the very foodie Pacific Northwest, I’ve really gotten into it in the best possible way. Good food, fresh food, eating and making it, and I’m always looking for an occasion where I can do both. Which brings me to this weekend. It was the first anniversary of my first date with my boyfriend Dave, and both of us wanted to do something at least a little special to recognize our first year together. So I got to cook!

The idea was to do a picnic. There’s a small college campus across the street from Dave’s apartment, and we were going to spread a blanket out on the grass and lay back in the sun and feed each other and be schmaltzy and romantic. So I decided to make stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta, beef carpaccio and asparagus wrapped in prosciutto. Oh, and chocolate dipped strawberries for desert.

I did say I was obsessed, right?

One of my current food obsessions, besides mushrooms, is blue cheese. Like mushrooms, it’s something I refused to touch as a child but have recently discovered I love, so I decided to combine them. Last week I was eating out and had a salad with blue cheese and candied walnuts with maple dressing, and the combination of the sweet and pungent was so good, I decided I wanted to do something similar with the mushrooms. So here’s what I did:

Took half an onion, lovingly chopped by my fella (who tells me his hands still smell like onions two days later), and tossed them in a pan with a generous pat of butter to cook. I wanted the onions to caramelize, to give me the sweetness to balance out the strength of the blue cheese. But I was impatient – we were REALLY hungry by the time we got around to cooking – so I poured in some maple syrup to help things along. Then I put in the chopped mushroom stems (also lovingly chopped by Dave), and let everything get all yummy together. Then I threw in the blue cheese so everything got all soft and gooey.

When the cheese was all melted I took the pan off the heat and let it sit for a bit while I worked on assembling the asparagus and the carpaccio, then Dave spooned it into the waiting mushroom caps (which had been sautéed in butter earlier). Then we dragged everything into the living room (we were so hungry by then, and it was so late, that the outdoor picnic was moved by unanimous vote to the living room floor), and ate.

Oh. My God, y’all. It was SO good. The blue cheese completely overpowered the onion and maple syrup, but it was hard to care. The bruschetta, which I’d made with some amazing little cherry tomatoes and some heirlooms I’d found in a local market (along with garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and fresh chopped basil) was equally awe inspiring. I said to hell with cholesterol and grilled the bread rounds in the pan with olive oil, and the flavor was amazing. I don’t care at all that my arteries were hardening audibly.

The asparagus and prosciutto was good, but then I'm a sucker for prosciutto and anything. The carpaccio didn't turn out like I wanted - way too bland - so we decided to set that aside and pan sear the meat for breakfast the next morning (was better that way). I was worried the mushrooms and bruschetta and asparagus wouldn't be enough...but trust me, it was. We were both in a serious food coma after we got done, and there were plenty of leftovers to join the beef at breakfast.

Next time I make the mushrooms I’ll probably let the onion cook a lot longer to get the caramelizing I wanted, and I’d probably mix some seasoned breadcrumbs in with the blue cheese to give it a little more texture. And I think instead of putting the blue cheese in the hot pan, I’ll crumble it in a dish and then throw the hot onion mix into it there, so the cheese retains some of its structure. I won’t change anything about the bruschetta, except make more of it.

It was the perfect anniversary. Except next time, I’ll start cooking earlier. And wear looser pants.

feast or famine

2009-08-12T04:00:00.000-07:00

For the last six months I haven’t had one good story idea. Not one. To be fair, I’d just finished polishing a manuscript for submission (the editor at the Big NY House to which I sent it has now had it for 49 days, not that I’m counting) and was gearing up to do a lot of promoting for the July release of Secrets Volume 27, so I did have other things occupying my mind.

But an artist doesn’t quit painting just because he finished the one he was working on. He picks up his brushes and starts anew with a blank canvas, and a writer must do the same. The problem was, my whole mind was a blank canvas, and trying to pull an original idea out of it just not working. There is nothing more frustrating to a writer (at least to this writer) then not knowing what to write.

Then lo, lightning struck. A story idea I’ve been kicking around for a very long time finally slid into place, and after four years (yes, four years!) of not knowing where to go with it or how to make it work I suddenly knew exactly what to do. And the floodgates opened.

And not just for that story. When that little thing, whatever it is, clicked open in my head and let in the juju, it invited unrelated juju to the party as well. So now, in addition to that project, I have four others jockeying for position in my head. Two that are related to the current one, and two that are completely separate. And every single one of them wants to be written right fucking now.

(Incidentally, I used to hear writers talk about how the people in their stories would harass them, or nag them, or not let them do what they wanted to do with the story, as if these were actual people instead of made up characters. And I used to think, “Jeez, you must be nutso – they’re made up people! They can’t nag you, or make you write the story their way, because they don’t exist!” Yeah, I was completely wrong about that. I imagine that this is a little like what multiple personality disorder must be like, except the people in my head don’t actually push me out of the way. They just nag and harass and refuse to let me write the story the way I want to write it.)

Having all that going on is great! It’s fantastic, knowing that when I’m done with this project there are four more ready to go. It gives me a sense of security, and relief that I won’'t have to face that blank canvas again (at least for a while), but the problem is that I can’t write more than one book at a time. Oh, I can think about more than one, but I won’t be able to start writing any of the other stories in my head until the one I’m currently working on is finished.

But that doesn’t mean the people in those stories are satisfied to wait until I’m ready to talk to them – quite the contrary. They want to be heard, they want their story told, and they’re not shy about letting me know. The notebook I keep in my purse is getting crowded with my little scribbles about characterization, plot, research…so much so that when I go back later to look at them I’m having a hard time telling which notes are for which book. So I’m going to Office Max today to get four notebooks to carry around – one for each story.

I’m going to have to start carrying the big purse.

anti-gravity and feelin' good

2009-08-07T04:00:00.000-07:00

Every Tuesday and Thursday I take an exercise class on my lunch hour - my company houses a gym in our office facility, so this is quite convenient. The class is called Triple G - Guns, Guts and Glutes. So you can surmise that we do a lot of arm exercises, a lot of ab exercises, and a lot of ass exercises (it was briefly called Triple A, for Arms, Abs and Ass, but the powers that be were worried someone might take offense. Yeah, I don't get it either).

Anyway, every Tuesday and Thursday I’m in the Triple G class sweating my curling, crunching, lunging self half to death. Really, I sweat more during this class then when I go horseback riding - hell, I sweat more than the horse! And in every class I do two things: 1) vow to catch our perky blond instructor in the parking lot unawares and show her just how much stronger this class has made me, and 2) I feel myself up.

I didn't set OUT to molest myself, you understand - it just sort of happened. See, during the crunching porting of class we're supposed to put our fingertips behind our ears, with elbows out, and crunch. Standard crunch position, right? Well, no matter how hard I try not to, I always end up yanking on my neck in that configuration. Which is not good, so rather than grab the back of my head I crunch with my hands down. And since the crunches are rendered less effective if one is reaching while crunching (and if I'm going to put myself through this hell I want the damn effect), I fold my hands across my upper chest to keep them from inadvertently adding momentum.

So there I am one day, hands folded across my chest, crunching away, and I noticed something - my boobs feel really...full. Like, awesomely full. I'm wearing a sports bra, of course, because gravity is wreaking enough havoc on the girls - I don't need to add to it by bouncing around like some kind of hippie. But instead of squishing everything flat, as most sports bras do, this bra seems to squish everything from the side. And this combined with the crunching motion – the muscles in my upper chest and abs tightening as I curl up - is doing something that all my other sports bras have never done; giving me both superior support and superior cleavage.

I just have to tell y'all...that makes me so happy. I hardly even notice the crunching anymore, I’m so busy marveling at how fantastic my boobs feel in this bra. They feel tight and firm and YOUNG and not at all like they feel when I’m lying on my back without this bra on (did I mention gravity is not kind?). And every once in a while I sneak a peek down at them while crunching away, because they look as awesome as they feel.

Yeah, it’s a little weird. But hey, nobody else is appreciating them in this state, so I might as well!

Have I Mentioned I'm a Mutant?

2009-08-05T12:40:00.001-07:00

Yes, I have finally crawled out from under the rock where I was forced to hide during our recent heatwave. As Hannah mentioned, I don't do well in the heat. Which I think was her diplomatic way of saying that I become a whining, fire-breathing, tantrum-throwing dragon-sloth hybrid life form. But thankfully, once the heat drops below about 83, the evil spell is broken and I can regain my humanity. At least for a while.

During the height of the heatwave, I even deserted my beloved pillow-top bed for the inexpensive extra-firm mattress in the guest room just so that I could sleep in the A/C. So you can imagine my relief when the temperatures dropped to the point when I could go back to my own beloved bed. The problem is that for the first couple of nights there, I slept really poorly. I can't figure out why, but there you go. And the end result was me feeling almost like I was getting sick yesterday--headache, nausea, fatigue, muscle aches, etc. In the end it was Hannah who finally insisted that maybe I should break down and take a Tylenol PM at bed time last night, just to ensure a good night's sleep.

Actually, because she knows me so well, Hannah insisted I take 1/2 of a Tylenol PM. She knows that if I take a whole pill, I will sleep for about a day and a half; and if, for some insane reason, I take an entire dose, I'll practically slip into a coma. I just don't process medications very efficiently, you might say.

So Hannah very sweetly divided a pill for me and left in on my nightstand. When I was ready for sleep, I took my allotted amount and turned off the light. An hour later, I was still wide awake--or so I thought--and I made the decision that I must need to take the other half-pill. Clearly, I was already hallucinating.

The dogs managed to drag me out of bed at around 8:30 with their usually evil tactics--Merlin stood next to my bed and shook his head over and over to make his metal tags rattle, while Levi burrowed his head under my blanket and licked my toes incessantly. I made it as far as the living room sofa where I promptly passed out again. Fast forward to 12:00 PM when I opened my eyes, saw the time, and literally forced myself into a sitting position, bracing my arms next to me to prevent my still sleepy body from tumbling right back down again.

I need to leave for my riding lesson in another 10 or 15 minutes. I think I might stop at the coffee shop on the way to the barn for something caffeinated. You know, so I don't drop off in the saddle.

Cause I'm a mutant.

We're havin' a heat wave...

2009-07-29T06:56:00.000-07:00

I've been nagging Christine for days to write a post, but she's flat out refused. Normally she's much more receptive to my nagging, but we've been going through a bit of a heat wave here and Christine doesn't deal well with the heat.

Normally it doesn't bother me. I just arrange the fan so it blows right on my face, strip down to the barest minimum of clothes and turn on some old sitcom reruns. But even I've been laid low by this - it was 105 yesterday at 5:00pm, and today is predicted to be even hotter. At least my day job is heavily air conditioned - I think this is the only time Christine's been jealous of my having a job other than writing.

It's supposed to get better by the weekend - down to 92 on Saturday! - so hopefully things will get back to normal around here soon. Christine can emerge from the cave we've turned the guest bedroom into (that's the room where the portable a/c unit is set up) and we can take the dogs to the park again.

Until then, I'm going back to the guest room.

romance what?

2009-07-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

Coming home from RWA on Sunday was a bit of an adventure. Canceled flights and credit card snafus made the day much more dramatic than it had to be, and I was never so happy to see my driveway at the end of it. But there were a few amusing moments thrown in among the crap.

On my last flight of the day, the 5:10 from Atlanta to Portland, I was seated in the front exit row on the aisle. Just so you know, this is like the Holy Grail of airplane seating for me (well, actually the Holy Grail would be first class, but in my current financial situation, that Grail is out of reach). I have all the leg room I need, no one is going to climb over me to get to the bathroom - it's perfect.

Or rather, it would be perfect, if it hadn't been for my seat mate. A very tall, very big man was crammed into the middle seat. Not big as in obese, you understand...just big. He was literally jammed into that seat, looking very uncomfortable, but he was cheerful as anything. During the flight attendant's little speech to those of us in the exit row about what to do if we crash (this is how the door opens, the slide comes out of here, etc.), I muttered something about how this plane better not crash because I'd had a hard enough day already, and he turned to me.

"Have you had a hard day?"

"I've had a shit day," I replied.

"Oh, I'm sorry. But you have beautiful brown eyes." (Let me point out that he was looking not at my eyes, but at the v neck on my t-shirt - his height gave him a bird's eye view of my tits).

"Thank you," I replied, not really giving a shit if he was staring at my tits, and turned back to my book.

"Were you part of that mix up in Houston?" he asked, ignoring my I Don't Want To Talk signal.

"No," I replied, barely looking up from my book. "I was in DC, and my flight there was canceled due to mechanical problems."

"Oh. What were you doing in DC?"

"I was at a conference."

"What kind of a conference?"

(I would also like to point out that at this point, any other person would have found a way to politely say "Fuck off, Sluggo, I'm reading", but I kept talking. Social conditioning can be a real burden sometimes.)

"A romance writer's conference," I replied, thinking Fuck off, Sluggo, I'm reading!

He frowned. "Romance fighters?"

"No, romance writers."

His frown intensified. "Romance riders?"

Exasperated, I held up my book. "Romance WRITERS."

"Oh, romance writers!" He chuckled. "Are you a romance writer?"

"Yes, I am." Seriously, fuck off. I turned back to my book.

He nudged me with his elbow, still looking at my tits. "I bet you're real romantic."

At this point I believe the Fuck Off that wouldn't come out of my mouth must have been visible in my eyes - either that orr he just realized that his oh so clever line wasn't working. Either way he patted my arm and said, "I'll let you read."

And he turned his attention back to our flight attendent, Fred, who I'm pretty sure had Turrets Syndrome.

But that's another story.

and away we go!

2009-07-09T04:00:00.000-07:00

Today I am packing. Why am I packing? Because in advance of next week's RWA National Convention (which I am attending, and will be signing copies of Secrets 27 - if you're there, come say hi!), I have decided to do something that in all of my thirty something years I have never, ever done.

I am taking the man I'm dating home to meet my parents.

It occurs to me that maybe I should have done this once or twice before. Because the fact that I'm doing it now, when I have never ever done it before, has created an air of significance around the event. Especially for my mother.

My mother has been nagging me for fifteen years to give her grandbabies, although the nagging has abated considerably over the last couple of years. I think she'd finally given up hope that I would follow the example of my many cousins into marriage and motherhood, and I was happy to let her keep that impression since it made my life - and my relationship with Mom - much less complicated.

But now I'm bringing a man home. Across approximately fourteen states. On purpose. And the nagging, it has begun anew.

Thank goodness my boyfriend doesn't scare easy!

Step right up, win a prize!

2009-07-01T16:36:00.000-07:00

I can’t believe it’s July - where does the time go? And since it’s July, that means two things:

It will soon become so hot outside that I will no longer see Christine in the daylight. Like one of her vampires, she will avoid the sun and the heat it brings, staying in the coffin of the back bedroom with the air conditioning going full blast until nightfall, at which time she will emerge to feed and mingle and bitch about the heat.
It’s time for the July Contest!

I really wanted to do something special to celebrate the launch of Secrets 27, Untamed Pleasures, and my story in it, The Boy Next Door. I learned a lot about bondage while researching this story (oh, my life is SOOOO hard), and in doing so I've become something of an advocate for proper bondage rope - the good stuff, as it were. Oh sure, you can tie up your honey with any old Home Depot rope, but it’s just not as much fun (and frankly not as safe) as using rope that was created specifically for tying up a real person. It's a whole different, and if you ask me about it in person I’ll probably talk your ear off about it.

If you ask me about it in person while I'm drinking, you might get a lot more information than you bargained for.

But really, you should see for yourselves. Which is why my Boy Next Door Launch Contest is all about rope. And the prize is, if I do say so myself, a great one – a full TwistedMonk Curiosity Kit, which comes with everything you need to get started on that bedroom bondage fantasy – the right way.

Ain't That a Pip?

2009-06-30T15:14:00.000-07:00

I might be a writer these days, but I was a reader first and that's something that will never change. I have my favorite authors just like everyone else, and when I know that one of them has a new book coming out, I make it a point to dash out to the nearest bookstore to pick up my copy ASAP. Frankly, that's something I make more of a point of now, since I know what it's like to wait anxiously for my editor to call or email with the first week's sales numbers. I'm telling you, if I bit my nails, I'd have nothing left by now but bloody stumps to type with.

Anyway, that intro was a long-winded lead up to the fact that as soon as I saw that one of my favorite regency authors, Julia Quinn, had a new book releasing today, I wrote myself a big ol' note to remind me to run out to the Borders just down the street to get a copy. (And one for Hannah, since she'd likely break my fingers to get at my copy if I didn't provide her with one of her own.) I knew today was the shelf date from checking Amazon several times in the last week or so, and it wasn't likely I'd forget the date since it also happens to be the date of my latest release, the anthology Huntress, completed with three other St. Martin's authors.

Eagerly, I left Gretchen (my faithful car) in the parking lot and strode briskly through the front door to the new releases table. No Quinn. No Warren, either, for that matter. Puzzled, I frowned a bit but made my way back to the Romance section just in case the display staff simply had their priorities on upside down. What did I find? Nadda. No copies of What Happens in London, and coincidentally, no copies of Huntress either. WTF?

I understand when shipments get delayed. Believe me, I worked in retail for a lot of years, but I also know that publishers generally don't ship late. After all, the sooner the books hit the shelves, the more time they have to earn money and generate profits, so please tell me why a major retail store can't manage to shelve new releases from two major publishing houses on the day they're authorized to start selling? I admit to pure bafflement.

P.S. - I did manage to get my Quinn fix. At another store. Which also had several shiny new copies of Huntress gracing their shelves. But that doesn't let Borders off the hook. Trust me, I know how to carry a grudge.

up and coming

2009-06-25T07:09:00.000-07:00

There's a lot going on around my house these days. Christine and I are starting to finalize our plans to fly to Washington for the RWA National Convention early next month - arranging for the pet sitter, buying plane tickets, trying to figure out how much clothing I can fit into a carry on bag. And of course finalizing our workshop presentation.

Amid all that I'm also really gearing up for the release of Secrets 27! The first of several interviews I'm doing is up over at Romantic Crush Junkies and its sister site, Erotic Book Junkies. There's still time to enter the drawing for a free download from my backlist, just leave your email in a comment.

The other big news is the contest I'll be launching on July 1st. I'm giving away some beautiful bondage rope courtesy of TwistedMonk.com, and entering the contest is going to be quick and easy. Believe me, the prize is worth it, so check back soon for more details on that!

Sometimes it's a little mind boggling, everything that's going on. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

Hi, My Name Is Christine...

2009-06-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

...and I'm a Kate Spade addict.

(chorus: Hi, Christine!)

Don't ask me how it started. The first one was free. It was a birthday gift from Hannah, a beautiful little pink crocodile-style leather evening bag. I took one look at it, and my life changed forever. Now, I realize that it's common for a pusher to give the first taste for free. It's only after that, when you go back for the next score and the next, when you start to count the cost.

And my first cost? I think it might have been the black microfiber Sam tote on eBay. If I'm right, that second hit only totaled approximately $35, including shipping, but it didn't stop there. After that I found the official Kate Spade website (www.katespade.com) with the "SALE" section. That led to the Tarrytown Rudy in autumn green, the Baylor London in luggage, and the Cyril Continental wallet in ruby and amethyst. Then the London Sawyer in vachetta, and the Tarrytown Quinn in red. Most recently, it had gone down the path of the Tarrytown Shino in hibiscus.

I knew I had a problem, but I thought I had it under control. It's just Kate Spade, I thought. Just a hobby. I can handle it. I'm fine.

So today, when Hannah asked me to accompany her to Pioneer Place in Portland so she could run an errand, I never thought twice about it. Not until we reached the street level and there it was, right in front of me -- The Kate Spade Store. Just 10 minutes inside, and this was the result:

I admit it. I'm powerless against my addiction and only a higher power can lead me to sanity.

The thing is, I'm not sure I want to be sane.

single minded or obsessive?

2009-06-11T07:24:00.000-07:00

It has been suggested to me that I might be slightly obsessive. I don't actually come off that way in every day life, but after people hear this story...well, obsessive is the word most often used (personally I like "determined", but whatever). I call it the "God Doesn't Get To Win" story.

A few years back Christine and I were in New York for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. We'd never been and thought it will be really fun, so I'd flown up for a long weekend and we spent two days at Madison Square Garden taking in all the dog show madness, and it was great. One of the great things for me, though, was the food.

Okay, here's a little secret about me: I really love arena food. Nachos, popcorn, cotton candy, ice cream, etc., all the badly made, over salted over sugared stuff you get at any major sporting event is better to me than anything available at a five star restaurant (except maybe champagne). And Madison Square Garden had GREAT arena food - the nachos were just how I like them (no real cheese, just cheese colored sauce drowning really salty chips), and they had AMAZING peanut oil fries. Seriously, just ask Christine, they were the shit.

Anyway, as in any other sporting event you could either go to the concession stand for these delightful treats, or wait for one of the roving waiters to come your way. Mostly I'd go to the concession stand when I got the urge for a snack, but the rovers were peddling one thing I wanted - a Häagen-Dazs bar.

I'd been watching the ice cream peddlers make the rounds for a day and a half, and I'd decided I was going to have an ice cream bar towards the end of the night on day two. I'd been resisting the whole time, saving that creamy vanilla covered in chocolate delight for the grand finale of my two day arena food binge. But when I decided the time was right, suddenly none of the rovers were roving my way.

Time after time I'd watch them get one or two sections away, then go back in the other direction. Then they'd come from the other direction, get one section away....then go back! I was twitching in my seat, practically vibrating with irritation, and every time one of them veered off in another direction...well, let's just say I was getting annoyed.

Christine was fairly amused by all this, and after the fourth or fifth time this happened, she put a consoling hand on my arm and a chiding expression on her face. "Maybe," she said to me in a voice that almost managed to be serious, "God doesn't want you to have an ice cream bar."

Well, fuck that noise.

I sucked in some air, stood up, and through clenched teeth declared, "God doesn't get to win!" Then I chased the Häagen-Dazs lady down three sections over and got my ice cream bar.

It was the best ice cream bar I've ever had.

Seasonal Ineffective Disorder

2009-06-04T11:22:00.000-07:00

I have always acknowledged that I might possibly be somewhat...unusual. Specifically, it has long been my belief that a genetic anomaly accidentally bestowed upon me the DNA sequence of a homo sapiens designed to function at optimal levels during an Ice Age.

Seriously. I love winter. I love it. I love when the temperatures dip into the 30s (F, of course). I love snow. I even like winter rain. I'm happiest when ensconced on the sofa in sweats and fuzzy socks with a blanket over my legs, hot coffee in my hands, and a huge, furry dog sprawled across my lap. It is at those times, my friends, when I am in my perfect element. It's when the temperature begin to climb out of the 60s that my version of the blues kick in. As the heat rises, so does my grumpy factor, while my productivity plummets.

Take right now, for instance. At the moment, I should be pounding away at the latest novel in the Others series, a saucy little story of love, mountain lions, and murder. Instead, I am locked in the one air conditioned room of the house with two dogs, my laptop, and a vat of iced coffee, praying to the gods of weather that they please send a huge blast of arctic air swirling down from Canada. Fast.

I acknowledge that this attitude places me in the minority. Most people seem to yearn for summer, to worship the sun, to adore the chance to bask in the heat. Well, to each their own. Personally, as a fair-skinned redhead, I run screaming from sunlight, even after a generous application of SPF 45. Even in my own home, I'm almost outnumbered. Hannah and her dog love the warm weather. Until my puppy came home to live with us, it was definitely 2-to-1 around here. Now, at least the puppy gets me. Of course, he happens to be wearing a permanent thick and curly fur coat, but I'll take all the support I can get.

Anyway, the point is that it's barely past Memorial Day, and I'm already wishing it were time for Halloween. And given my current lack of productivity, I'm betting my editor is, too!

Nerves of paper

2009-05-28T10:32:00.000-07:00

It’s a strange process for me, print publishing. Having begun my career over at Ellora’s Cave in e-publishing, I’m used to the relatively quick turn around of that. From submission to publication can take as little as a few months, and print of course takes so much longer. I first submitted my short story “The Boy Next Door” (excerpt here) to Red Sage in the late summer of 2006, after pitching it to an editor at the RWA conference in Atlanta that July (Lord, the drama I went through with that – but that’s another story). I got the word that they wanted to publish it the following spring, in 2007, and later that year discovered it would appear in Secrets Volume 27. So it’s been nearly two years since anything really significant happened with the book, and now all of the sudden it’s coming out.

Which is really exciting, don’t get me wrong. I love this story, and I feel like it represents a turning point for me as a writer. I rewrote it at least twice before I submitted it, and once at the request of the editor looking at it. I sweated blood over this story, and the sense of accomplishment when it was finished and accepted for publication was incredible. And it was good, dammit. I'd worked damn hard to make it so, and I knew the finished product was something I could be proud of.

Which, now that it’s coming out, and now that the reviews are starting to come in, doesn’t mean I’m not nervous as hell. My stomach gets that “oh, we’re on a roller coaster!” feeling, my head gets a little buzzy, and I hold my breath.

But thankfully, I don’t have a lot of time to concentrate on being nervous. There’s too much to do! All the inactivity of the last two years has been transformed into a frenzy of scheduling book signings, guest blog spots, interviews and other promotional appearances. Ordering business cards, little give away gifts for book signings, and prepping for the workshop I’m co-presenting with Christine in July (jeez, we really need to work on that this weekend!).

So not a lot of time to focus on being nervous. But that roller coaster is there, in the background, just waiting for me to open my email and find a new review.

God is in the details

2009-05-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

One of the best and most interesting parts of my job as a writer - you know, besides the fame and fortune (insert eye roll here) is the fun of research.

It's important for me as an author that the elements of my books be believable. I don't need to come across as an expert in all things, but I hate it when an inconsistency or error in research pulls me out of a story, and I never want that to happen to any of my readers. God is in the details, after all, and over the years I've had to research handguns, the CIA, the parts of a sail boat, Mackinac Island, restaurants in Chicago, what a house on the Jersey shore would look like, Irish ruins, bondage rope, medical conditions, hotel management, musical instruments, gourmet cooking, and magic spells.

While fiction writers are, by definition of being a fiction writer, allowed to make things up, there are some things I'm not really comfortable inventing from scratch. For example, settings - unless you're creating an entirely imaginary universe such as you would in a science fiction or paranormal novel, made up places don't go over very well. There are exceptions, naturally, and I I know some authors who do it very well. Jennifer Crusie, for example, sets most of her books in Ohio, and as far as I know the towns that her stories are set in are not real.

But Jennifer is from Ohio, and she knows what a small town in that state would look like, so she does a very credible job of making everything fit together. I myself am originally from Michigan, and I've lived for long periods of time in other states, so I suppose I could do the same thing. But I think it's a better use of my creative juju to keep the setting real and concentrate on the story.

Along with places, things need to be researched, and my method of doing this is slightly unorthodox. Instead of researching handguns or sailing terms before my story is written, I do it after. Leaving holes in the story where the details will go and filling them in later keeps me from getting bogged down in the possibilities before I know exactly what information I need. I developed this method after I spent nearly a week digging up information on weapons and became so overwhelmed by all the varieties and variations available that I didn't get any writing done.

Of course, some things need to be researched very, very thoroughly. Every detail thought out, scrutinized. And sometimes, one does need first hand experience of something to properly tell the tale. This is, of course, my preferred method of research in all matters; unfortunately, my budget doesn't run to me visiting Irish castles. Fortunately, some research doesn't require travel or sailing lessons. Sometimes, all you need is a willing boyfriend, an empty house, and a Sunday afternoon.

Did I mention I love research?

What Did You Call Me?

2009-05-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

I am--according to my publisher, the quotes on my book covers, and the people who review my books--a "paranormal romantic suspense" writer. This is news to me. I see these words, and I want to ask, "Are you sure? I'm Christine Warren. Are you really talking about me when you say that?" Only the question kind of makes me sound like a lunatic, so I refrain from asking it out loud and blog about it instead.

In my own mind, I consider myself a writer. If asked for clarification, I'll call myself a romance writer; and if someone gets really annoyingly nit-picky about it, I might admit to writing mainly paranormal romance. But paranormal romantic suspense? I didn't even know that was a genre.

Seriously, is it a genre?

Writing it was never my intent, if we go with the assumption that it's an accurate description of my work, and I still don't see it. Not even in the books with the quotes about it right on the front. My intention is never to create a story that leaves readers in suspense. I don't purposely create mysteries. I don't think much about concealing the identity of my villains or the purpose of their diabolical plans. I just write. Honestly, if I had my way, I'd just write about what happens when a girl (who might just have a talent for more than filling out a bra) meets a guy (who might just show a whole new side of himself in stressful situations). That's the real story I'm telling, and to be honest, the conspiracies and murders and threats and attacks are just there to make the story last more than fifty pages and to force the girl and the guy to see something special in each other they might otherwise have missed. So does that make it paranormal romantic suspense? Beats me.

Oh, I'm not really complaining about the label (though I hope it doesn't scare away people who like more light-hearted stories, just as much as I hope that my comic situations and sense of the ridiculous don't disappoint people looking for tense, heart-pounding action). I'm just musing on whether or not it's entirely appropriate. Maybe it is.

But I also hope that it won't freak out too many people when I finally getting around to writing that regency romp I've been planning for the last couple of years. There isn't an Other or a mystery or a conspiracy in sight of that one! What will people say then?

That never happens!

2009-05-08T10:27:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend and I have this little game we play. Well, it’s not really a game, since we don’t keep score and there’s no winner. So maybe it’s more accurate to say my boyfriend and I have a thing we do, and we call it That Never Happens In A Romance Novel.

Here's how it started: a while back we were having sex, and things were hot and sweaty and progressing very nicely, when all of the sudden I got a hip cramp. Like, a big one, and it hurt a lot, so my chant of “ooh yes baby” turned into “ow, shit, get off me!”, and my hands, which had been clinging to his shoulders, suddenly pushed him away. Caught off guard, he went flying backwards – off the bed and into the nightstand.

So the sexy times had to stop for a bit – for me to stretch the cramp out of my hip, and for him to put everything back on the nightstand. And I remarked as I watched him put a new light bulb in the now slightly bent lamp, “You know, stuff like this never happens in a romance novel.”

So that’s how it started, and now it’s like a game – or rather, a thing – where we try to point out the million little things that happen in real life relationships that never or rarely seem to make it into a romance novel. For instance:

Instead of cuddling up and going right to sleep after sex, having to get up to pee lest you get a UTI – or sometimes because you just have to pee.
The need for a towel. Mind you, this is only necessary if condoms aren’t involved, and thankfully most romance novels portray characters practicing safe sex…but still, in real life, there are wet spots, people!
When the woman is on top and leans down to kiss her guy, and instead gets a mouth full of her own hair.
And speaking of hair, I have two words for you - fuck hair.
Lost orgasm – you know what I mean, when you’re on the right path and you think you’re almost there, it’s close enough you can almost reach out and grab it, and then….gone. And you try to, but you just can’t get it back.
Being too tired for sex.
Forgetting to shave your legs or underarms so you come to bed fuzzy and/or bristly – I swear, every woman has done this at least once.
Yeast infections!

And I’m sure there are a million more.

Now, as a writer and a reader, I certainly understand that some things are just a little too real - like farting. I really don't ever want to be reading a sex scene and run across something like this:

Suddenly, a sound rent the air, and Miriam was jolted out of her blissful haze. There was a grimace on Jeff's face, his cheeks growing ruddy with embarrassment, and she realized what had happened.

He avoided her gaze, never pausing in his thrusting, obviously hoping the gaff would go unnoticed. But a moment later, as a fetid stench filled the room, they both realized that would be impossible.

That, boys and girls, just ain't sexy. And while romance novel sex can be a lot of things - funny, sweet, loving, intense, dramatic, silly - it should always be sexy.

But I do like a certain amount of reality in my books – the ones I read and the ones I write. I like to see the characters as real people. I want them to have flaws, and quirks, to bicker and be unreasonable. That's what makes them real to me, and what makes the story interesting. You can have the greatest sex scene ever written, but I'm not interested in the people who are having it, it might as well be a copy of Penthouse Letters - after the scene is over, I'm not going to care much what happens.

So I always try to inject a little reality into the fictional relationships I craft - I think it adds dimension to the characters, and by extension the story. But I don’t think I’ll give any of my characters a yeast infection. That might be a bit too much reality, even for me.

~ Have something to add to the list of things That Never Happen In A Romance Novel? Leave a comment!~

Old Habits

2009-05-03T21:22:00.000-07:00

Last week was a busy one for me. I spent it playing Crazy Animal Lady, which is different from usual only in the amount of time dedicated to that particular pursuit. You see, rather than being a vocation or even avocation for me, CAL is actually more in the way of being a fact of my life--it's not what I do; it's who I am. And this past week, it morphed into an all-consuming passion as there was a week-long dog show located in my own backyard and attended by lots of people I know with lots of dogs I admire, so naturally I spent at least a bit of time there each day, either with my own dog or routing for other people's dogs. I even neglected by horse to do so, which meant that when I finally spent time with him on saturday, said horse felt compelled to express his disappointment with me by throwing a mild little tantrum when I first climbed on his back.

Anyway, I bring this all up because it happens to be my excuse du jour for having gotten absolutely no work done all week on my current project--the latest, all-new installment of my Others series of paranormal novels. I'm really, really good with excuses. In developing an endless stream of new ones, I exhibit extraordinary powers of imagination, creativity, fantasy, engineering, anal-retention, and occasionally even cleanliness. All of this has nothing to do with whether or not I enjoy my work. I love it! I have the best job in the world, but in my philosophy, even the best job can be made better by avoiding it for as long as humanly possible and doing other, more constructive, things instead. Like playing endless hands of Spider solitaire, giving myself exacting manicures, alphabetizing my DVD collection, catching up on laundry, or teaching myself how to do a professional grooming job on my dog. Then, in two months, when I realize that I only have four weeks left to write a novel, panic will set in and I will lock myself in a small room with no television, radio, windows, or company and pound out a book while emerging only occasionally for meals and fresh glasses of Diet Coke.

And that's when I will vow that next time, I'll start early, write every day, and have the next book done with time on my deadline to spare and maybe even time for a real live spell check before I turn it into my editor.

Then, I'll decide that grooming my dog is so last month, and I'll need to learn to shoe my own horse instead.

in the wee small hours

2009-04-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up at 4:25 am and couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind was spinning in all different directions. Balancing my checkbook: did I remember to record the electric bill I paid last week? My upcoming weekend: meeting my boyfriend’s mother, eek! The dog's heartworm medication: did I already give that to him this month? And so on.

4:25 is way too early to be awake. It’s what’s referred to in our house as “the crack of stupid”, as dawn was still a ways off (though the sky was starting to lighten - dawn comes pretty early here in the Pacific Northwest). And all the unproductive wandering my mind was doing was making it impossible to get back to sleep.

So in an effort to at least be semi-productive while lying there staring at the ceiling, I started thinking about the story I’ve been working on since October 2005.

In October 2005 I was sitting in a bar in San Francisco with Christine and our darling friend Shannon. It was our joint vacation, the only time the three of us would be able to get together for the year, as I was still living in Texas and they were both in New Jersey. We’d planned to go to New Orleans, but Hurricane Rita had just recently made visiting (and living in) New Orleans impossible, so at the last minute we changed course and headed to SF.

While Christine had visited the city before, I’d never been and neither had Shannon, so we were doing all sorts of touristy things (and other things, seeing as how we were there for Fleet Week, but that’s another story). So we’d traipsed up to Haight-Ashbury – just to say we had – and found this little bar. Traipsing is hard work, especially with all those hills down there, so we settled in with a round of cocktails. And I got to talking about this idea I had for a new book.

Paranormals aren’t my strong suit , but I had an idea to combine the basic elements of a paranormal with a contemporary romantic comedy, which is what I do best, into a story about a witch. A witch who has “issues” with her unique gifts, some rather unconventional ideas about how to best make use of them, and the trouble that ensues.

I remember scrounging for a pad of paper and a pen, bouncing ideas off both Christine and Shannon and incorporating their feedback into the notes I was making. I came out of that bar jazzed and raring to go.

And almost four years later I’m still not finished. Lest you think I’m a complete sloth I have started it. A few times, actually. But I always end up hating what I’ve done and tossing it to start over, and the result is that after four years I’ve got a handful of notes and nothing else.

But you know, that nearly two hours between 4:25 and my alarm going off at 6:10 might have jump started things. I’ll keep you posted.

What's In A Name?

2009-04-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

What on earth or all the exoplanets made you call your blog about being romance novelists something as ridiculous as Sweet Savage Thighs?

Well, my friends, despite popular opinion there was indeed a method to this madness.

I was raised--and genetically predisposed--to become an avid reader. I started before I entered kindergarten (or maybe even before nursery school) and had made my way through The Lord of the Rings, the Encyclopedia Brown books, the entire Anne of Green Gables series (the original series), and Gone with the Wind by the time I entered fifth grade. Coincidentally, around that time my mother had a semi-serious illness that kept her from being very active for at least a couple of weeks, and one of her considerate friends brought her a bag of books in order to stave off boredom. Since my mom was a much slower (and pickier) reader than I was, I naturally decided to look through the selection in the bag to see if there might be anything that interested me. Pawing through the paperbacks, I came up with 2 volumes of a sort I'd never seen before: romance novels! One was an old Harlequin Presents title by Carole Mortimer, and the other was a historical set in medieval Scotland by an author I can no longer remember. Intrigued, I snagged the two books and began to read.

It was the beginning of the end.

Someday I may relate the entire story of my early days as an addict (Hello, my name is Christine, and I'm a romance-aholic...), but for now, suffice it to say that I have continued to gobble up romance novels from series contemporary to historical to paranormal and regency right up until this very day. Naturally, this involved spending lots and lots of time in bookstores, often with my dear high school friend.

Anyway, one evening after dinner, my friend and I were strolling through the aisle between the sci-fi/fantasy and romance sections of our neighborood big-box bookstore, and I was alternately looking back and forth at the shelves and perusing the books of both enjoyable genres. At the time, the American Western historical romance was a bit more prominent than it is today and several novels of that sub-genre had been faced out on the romance shelves. My eyes drifted over titles and cover art featuring passionate clinches, long and wind-swept hair styles (occasionally with the hero's and heroine's hair somehow swept by winds moving in opposite directions), loincloths, leather, and ruffled skirts. Then, without warning, I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" my friend demanded.

I blinked, looked at the shelf again, and shook my head. "Nothing, really. I just glanced over from the fantasy shelf, and I saw that book out of the corner of my eye."

I pointed to the novel in question, something with a title intended to help the reader identify it as one involving a young, blonde, innocent heroine who is kidnapped and falls in love with her strong, noble, vigorous, and tender Native American captor.

My friend shrugged. "What about it? It doesn't look funny to me."

"Oh, it's not, but I thought the title was Savage Thighs, and I thought, you know, that was getting right to the point."

So, from that moment on, Savage Thighs became my default fictional romance title of reference. After I told the story of it to Hannah, she agreed that it would make a grand blog title, especially enhanced with the addition of the "Sweet" in front.

This is not to suggest that I (nor Hannah, for that matter) find romance novels ridiculous or cliched or an object of comtempt. I LOVE romances. Heck, I make my living writing them! But one of the few rules in life that I try to never break is to always be able to poke fun at the things I love, including myself. It seems to me that whenever we begin to take a subject too seriously, we take all the joy out of whatever it was that used to make us so happy.

So for pete's sake, LAUGH! It's the second most important thing you can ever do in this world. The first, of course, being to LOVE.

Get over yourself, already

2009-04-21T04:00:00.000-07:00

One thing about being a romance writer always, always amuses me – the looks on people’s faces when they ask me what I do, and get that answer in response. Usually it’s a combination of “Shut up, you do not!” and “Really? That’s so cool!”. Then they want to know exactly what I write, where they can find my work, and how much money I make doing it.

Which is none of their business, but that hardly stops them from asking. (Hell, if I only asked about the stuff that is actually my business to know, I’d be known as “that quiet girl, Hannah”, instead of “that nosy bitch”).

Of all those questions, I find the “where can I buy your book?” is often the most difficult to answer. Not that I don’t know where to find my own books, I mean difficult in the “golly, do I want this person to read my work?” sense. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to have people express an interest in buying my work (yes, buy my books, I need the money!). And normally, I whip out a pen and write down all the titles and were exactly they can be found (I really need to have more business cards printed up). But when my boss at my day job – a lovely woman, but somewhat conservative – asks me where she can find my books? You know, the ones with the bondage and the handcuffs and the sex toys and the anal sex? Frankly, that’s a little awkward making!

Which really, I have to get over. I’m a writer, after all, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell people that. I’m proud of my work, and I should be willing to express that as well And there’s no reason to think I have to shield consenting adults from reading anything, whether I’ve written it or not. Though of course I’m not trying to shield them, I’m trying to shield me – from feeling awkward or uncomfortable or whatever one would feel when a boss or co-worker gets a glimpse of just what goes on in my mind.

But that’s limiting, you know? And since I’m trying to put myself out there more, it really doesn’t make sense not to tell a reader where they can find my stuff. Especially if they’re specifically asking for it! Of course, I can always tell them that my work is fairly explicit – a small warning of this kind is really just polite, I believe (I really don’t want someone to pick up “A Toy Story” expecting something with a talking cowboy doll) – and then they can make up their own mind about whether or not to give it a go.

So I’m just going to get over myself. Or more accurately, pretend I’ve gotten over myself. I’m sure I’ll still feel awkward and a little uncomfortable at the thought of my boss reading the sex on the dresser scene in “The Devil and Ms. Johnson”, or the handcuff scene in "Jane and the Sneaky Dom", but whatever. After all, I got over my mother reading those books, and if I can get over that? I can get over anything.

Ten Things About Hannah

2009-04-17T04:00:00.000-07:00

I hate writing bios. First, there's never enough room to write everything that bears mentioning - I am an incredibly complicated human being (as we all are) and my life and accomplishments cannot be summed up in three paragraphs. So my bios tend to be really long winded, and then of course I never believe that everyone actually sits down and reads the whole thing.

But I figure if you're here reading this, and you don't already know me, you might be a little curious about who I am. To that end, I'm doing a Ten Things About Me list. Oh, there's a traditional bio up on my website, which you're more than welcome to go check out - but I figure I can be a little less traditional on a blog. And just to make things fun, I'll tell you that there's nothing on this list that also appears on the bio.

I think the alphabet is arranged in the wrong order - "S" should come later, so should "Q"; the positioning of "H" is completely wrong and don't even get me started on "U"
I take horseback riding lessons (dressage)
I’m an excellent baker, but a mediocre cook
I spent my junior year of high school in Brazil as an exchange student, and can speak, read, and write Portuguese
In junior high I did my hair just like Jon BonJovi - mostly because I was too lazy to resurrect a dying perm
I love to laminate things - anything that can be sealed between two pieces of heated plastic is not safe around me
I can never keep a manicure looking good for more than 48 hours
I work out five days a week, and have learned to trick myself into thinking I like it
I like eating raw rhubarb
The only photograph in my house of me - that shows my face and was taken after the age of five - is of me with the Stanley Cup

Hannah's the Talker; I'm the Sulker

2009-04-14T21:39:00.000-07:00

The problem with weekends at the spa is that they wear off so darn quickly. While Hannah and I had a lovely experience in Seattle this past weekend, it's now Tuesday and it's back to the grindstone with me. I returned to find two envelopes staring at me: one containing the copyedited manuscript of Big, Bad Wolf (an expanded version of Missy and Graham's story, originally published as an e-book called Fur Factor) and the page proofs for "Devil's Bargain" (my contribution to the Huntress anthology, due out in July). Both need to be reviewed, revised and returned to my editors in New York. Preferably no later than three days ago. Plus, there's the new book (the seventh new Others novel) that needs to get underway, and the super-secret side project I keep trying to find time to work on in between everything else. So what am I doing this evening? Blogging, of course!

Actually, I'm doing what I often do in the evenings, which is balance my HP notebook on my lap in between trips between the sofa and the back door to let my ridiculous puppy in and out of the house. And chatting with Hannah (while she indulges her intractable addiction to The Golden Girls reruns). And trying to defend my place on the sofa from Hannah's encroaching hound. He's a total cushion thief. And me? I'm a softie. (Though if you go by that last post Hannah put it, I think the word "lush" would be the first description of me that comes to mind! No matter what she says, I swear I don't have a drinking problem. Unless you count occasionally sputtering latte onto my clothes because I've just been tackled by my insane puppy while trying to caffeinate myself at the local dog park).

I suppose I could try to tell you more about myself here, but really, in the interests of mystery, I think I'll let you pick things up as the blog goes along. Since I'm a writer, I should show, not tell, right? Plus, I'm really pretty lazy and don't find myself all that interesting (after all, I've known me for years) so listing a bunch of details about what I like and dislike and where I live and what I do for fun seems rather tedious. I'd like to think of this forum as a place where we can all get to know each other along the way.

So stay tuned. The chances are that when the details about Hannah and myself do come out, we'll find a way to make them interesting. And if all else fails, we're never above lying.

Where It Began

2009-04-11T19:00:00.000-07:00

As I write this inaugural post, our first ever here at Sweet Savage Thighs!, I’m sitting in a gorgeous hotel room in Seattle after a day of truly decadent pampering at the spa. I have a bottle of Prosecco, some pretty awesome room service (I love this spinach salad!), and my best friend to share it with.

“That’s lovely, Hannah,” I hear you all saying, “but what the heck is Sweet Savage Thighs!, and who the heck are you?”

First, introductions. I’m Hannah Murray, and if you glance to the right of these words you’ll see an entertaining little blurb about me. Done reading that? Okay, now for a little more detail. I’m in my thirties, never you mind exactly where, and I write contemporary romantic/erotic comedies. I say romantic/erotic because I consider all of my books to be romance novels at their core, so I don’t think the word “erotica” applies. But there’s always a splash of the erotic in my tales, so it bears mentioning (I’ll get more into all of that in a later post, I promise). I’m a sucker for happy endings and sexy cars, and I have a completely inexplicable addiction to reruns of The Golden Girls. Which doesn’t make me weird.

And my best friend, who is currently pouring herself a third glass of wine, is Christine Warren. She is, as I’m sure many of you know, the author of the Others Series, a paranormal world inhabited by shapeshifters and vampires and all sorts of not quite human creatures. You can take a peek over to the left for a brief snippet about her, and while I could expound on those words as only a best friend can, I’ll leave it to her to tell you more about who she is, what she writes, and how she got here when she’s not half in the bag. But I will tell you that she is also in her thirties, though she’s a few steps behind me (and never lets me forget it). In fact, her birthday is the reason we are currently big puddles of relaxed girl goo – this spa trip was her birthday wish.

Now, on to the important thing: what are we doing here? Well, it occurred to us a while back that we’re both highly verbose, fairly charming women who actually have a lot to say on a lot of different subjects. And from this yen to express ourselves to the world at large emerged Sweet Savage Thighs! (a nod to the bodice rippers of years past, we’ll explain more later). Romance novels in general and our own work in particular will, of course, be the main topic we choose to discuss in this space, and you can expect plenty of excerpts and other insider information. But we can and will talk about a lot of other stuff too – topics like current events, fashion, wine, food (we talk about food a lot), shoes (we talk about shoes even more than we talk about food!), pets, parents, family, etc., will I’m sure all make appearances here.

And now, since I would like to enjoy the rest of my spa-bliss and Christine is getting ahead of me (three glasses of wine to my one), I’ll bid you farewell for now. We’ll be back with more soon, but if you’re curious in the meantime you can check out our respective websites for more information (www.hannahmurray.net and www.christinewarren.net).

On behalf of Christine and myself, thanks for coming by to check us out, and we sincerely hope you stick around!