Ain't That a Pip?

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

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...

...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?

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

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!