Turkey day

Got to love Thanksgiving, the day when gorging oneself is not only acceptable, it's expected. Usually the guilt doesn't kick in with me until the next day, but this year family members got into a long discussion about health and dieting, while the remains of dessert were still on the table screaming, fatties! Oh, but it was good. What's a food lover to do? I used to go through phases when the goal of being thin took over my life, and became an obsession. This could last months, nearly a year at times. And then one day, a change comes over. It's usually as simple as a question. Remind me again, why I'm not eating Bismarks, or chocolate chip cookies, or whatever, and the goal vanishes as suddenly as pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. The voice arrives like one of those little devils on the shoulders, and this voice tells me I must, now make up for all those mo

A good love story

You never know where you're going to find a good love story. Hubby was flipping through the channels and we ended up watching Rocky. Yes, The Rocky, 1976 movie of studly Sylvester Stallone as Rocky Baboa. I clearly remember people talking about the sequals, wondering how long they could go and all that, but until last night I'd never watched the movie. What a surpise to find such a great love story in a movie I assumed was only about an underdog boxer. I mean, who wouldn't want to be Adrian, in that dumpy apartment with all that muscle, attached to an imperfect but honest guy who sees beyond her meek, shy exterior, and loves her for who she is. My favorite scene is when stands up to her brother and tells him off. After, she is perfectly composed when she asks Rocky, "Do you want a roommate?" and he says "Absolutely." I guess I'm a hopeless romantic. I love the idea that right person can help us to be our best selves.

The Vanishing Condom Incident

Can I use the word condom in the title of a romance? It's a romantic comedy, steamy but not erotic, and I'm seriously considering calling it The Vanishing Condom Incident. Previous titles were Good Clean Sex, The Motorcycle Salesman, and Talk Me Into It. I've also considered calling it Talk Me Out Of It. If this seems a bit contradictory it's because there are several characters going in different directions, into and out of relationships thay may or may not be right for them. Below is the page that gave me the idea for my latest title.
(Ann is wearing a jacket that Steele, the motorcylce salesman) loaned her before taking her for a test ride.)

 Steele explained a few things, like where to put her hands and how to lean with the bike, before Ann got on. Once he started the engine she held tight to the handles on the sides of the seat, and closed her eyes. When she finally managed to open her eyes she saw that they were driving through a picturesque countryside, past old farmhouses, green pastures, horses, cows, barns that had fallen into disrepair, and an old rusted tractor. Just as she started to relax, the bike took a sharp turn and started up a steep hill. Ann feared she’d fall right off the back and land on the pavement.

The bike came to a stop at the top of the hill, in a small park. Ann took off the helmet. Steele set hers and his on the bike. The park was well maintained and very quiet. A cool breeze whispered through the trees. “It’s pretty up here.”

“The view is amazing,” said Steele.

To Ann’s surprise, he took her hand, and led her to the edge of the hill, so they could enjoy a spectacular view of the valley below; squares of farmland as beautiful as any painting.

“I had no idea this park was here,” said Ann. She felt a little odd about him holding her hand. It seemed fast since they weren’t even on a date and he was officially still working.

“I used to bring dates up here when I was teenager,” said Steele.

It was not hard to imagine; back seat with a pretty girl, hormones on overdrive, windows steaming up…Ann was feeling a bit warm herself. It was only the sun of course, though the air was still cool. The hand that wasn’t being held felt cold. Ann put it into the jacket pocket. She felt a hole in the lining, heard the crinkle of plastic, and pulled out what she thought was a candy wrapper.

 It was a condom. Extra large. Extra sensitive. Ann felt her face heat up another ten degrees.

“That wasn’t in my pocket?”

“Well, it sure wasn’t in mine.”

Steele took the condom off her palm. “I thought I lost this.”

He looked distressed.

“I know they’re a bit expensive, but there are plenty more at the store.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is no ordinary condom. If I had found this the night---well, let’s just say my whole life would be different right now.”

“What did she give you?”

His left eyebrow raised a notch. “A son. What were you thinking?”

“I work in a pharmacy. I know of all kinds of things she could have given you.”

October

October is my favorite writing month of the year. The busyness of summer is over, there's no sunshine to distract me and no major holidays that require shopping, not unless you count buying Halloween candy, and that's not time consuming. I throw all the best chocolate into the cart, far more than I know I'll need for trick or treaters, and that's it, I'm done. So I won't be writing much here, or checking Facebook as often, because the stories are flowing, and I want to get as much done as possible before life gets busy again.

To Write or Promote--That is the question.

I've been deep into my next story, and feeling guilty for not doing more to promote BBB. What is more important for my career plan, doing guest blogs or getting another title published? It's the writer's chicken and egg question. (And that whole thing just blows my mind.) If I write it they will come, right? (No sexual pun intended.) I am a big fan of Field of Dreams. Build a baseball field in the middle of Iowa and people will just wake up one morning, get in their cars and drive straight to the cornfield to watch the ghosts of Baseball's past play ball. Yeah, uh-huh, right.

Word of mouth sells books, or so I've read about a million times. But you have to lead the mouths to the story before they can start yakking right? (No offense dear readers, I'm sure you don't yak.) I read The Tipping Point, a few years back and found it fascinating. It starts with a few people thinking something is cool, nerdy shoes for example, and then a few more people decide the same thing, and then something miraculous happens, and it becomes a major trend. (Okay there is more to this, as 'what's his name' did write a whole book on the subject.) I enjoyed the book. When his next book came out I picked it up at the bookstore, read a few pages, and wasn't wowed. I left it on the shelf. My daughter read an essay in school written by the book's author. She said he was whining about all the reasons his second book didn't succeed. He blamed everything except THE WRITING.

So, the moral is: If I write it WELL they will come. Unless of course, they've never heard of me or my story, in which case I should be out there PROMOTING. Sigh.

I know, no one ever said this was going to be easy.

Well Behaved Woman Never Make History---as published on Sizzlin Hot Reviews

Marilyn Monroe was just beginning her film career, in the early fifties, when nude photos of her were ‘leaked’ (anyone else envisioning a man with a wet spot on his trousers?) These photos ended up in the first edition of Playboy magazine. This should have been the kiss of death for an actress during a time period when women were usually depicted with a smile on their face, a broom in their hands, an apron on over their prim cotton dress, and a pair of simple black pumps on their feet (ever done housework in heels? What’s that--- only when you’re in the French Maid costume? Yeah, I thought so.)

Seriously, I believe that what saved Marilyn’s career was not the changing times (remember, the photos turned up in the first Playboy) but was due to her reaction to the photos. She did not hide her face in shame. None of that ‘fallen woman’ crap for her. Marilyn took ownership for what she’d done. No excuses just yep, that’s me. (It kind of reminds me of Hugh Grant on late night television sheepishly admitting that yes he was guilty of lewd acts in a car with a streetwalker. Confession is good for the soul, and apparently, the ratings as well.)  

 More recently there have been several attempts by others to follow in Marilyn’s footsteps. However, nude photos aren’t enough anymore. These days it takes a sex tape (leaked of course) for the semi somebody’s to become, well, reality stars. Isn’t that everyone’s dream? For Paris Hilton, it wasn’t enough. (Seen her face on a tabloid lately? Me neither.) While researching this deep, thought provoking, article, I looked up Kim Kardashian. I even forced myself to watch the first ‘free’ minute of her sex tape. OMG! Enough said. (If you know my real name please don’t tell my mother about this. Or my kids.)

Anyway, the point of all this is…oh wait, was I supposed to have a point? Let’s see, I started with the title, Well Behaved Women never make history, because of, oh yeah, because of Betty Walker, the heroine in my novella, Betty Being Bad. Betty wears a nightshirt with this motto on it. Her lover (a bad boy himself) assures her that she doesn't have to worry about being well behaved.

           

         

Recycled Blog---This one appeared at Book in it Reviews

For me the best part of writing is getting the chance to be someone else for awhile. It’s like acting but without the paparazzi. And believe me you wouldn’t want to see my beach body plastered on the front of a tabloid while you’re standing in line at the grocery store (not unless you need some diet incentive.) The cool thing is I get to be both the man and the woman in my stories. Does this make me bi-sexual? Shhh…don't tell my husband.

No really, I enjoy being the hero. For years I was afraid to write from the male point of view because I thought I’d get it all wrong. Now I realize that men are just like us, but with penises. Okay, not really, but there are similarities. Such as, they like their penises and so do we. And isn’t romance really just a matter of how we get the key to fit into the lock? I always put the key in upside down first and then I have to turn it over. Maybe it’s good that I’m female. Then again, I guess that’s better than putting the key in the wrong door. Uh, honey?

Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing Betty Being Bad. I got to be Betty Walker, sexy, independent, antique store owner, and her reformed bad boy lover Carson Wells.  Now I have to admit, I’ve never been in prison. I couldn't steal a crumb without being overcome by severe guilt spasms, which reminds me, I really should pay back Plaid Pantry for the three penny candies I hid in my sock when I was six. Even so, it wasn’t hard for me to imagine being locked up. In a way we are all prisoners of our own fears, shames, and desires. To exist in polite society (put down the cell phone and ask yourself, is there really such a thing anymore?) we have to rein in and edit everything we say (unless our first name happens to be Snooki.)

            Seriously, when Carson is released, so am I. When he corners Betty in her store and insists on making good on the fantasies they shared in the prison visitation room, I’m right there with him, feeling his pent up desires, emotions, and that oh so powerful need for release. And then I get to be Betty too, on the receiving end of all that lust. Whew, is it getting hot in here?

            This is why it’s best to write erotica when alone, with the blinds closed. The ‘acting out being your characters’ thing can get a bit awkward to explain if you’re caught. Oh, is my face red? I hadn’t noticed. (If you’re over forty five you get to blame hot flashes.) It’s also why I prefer romance over other genres, horror for example. I don't want my hubby coming home to find me sharpening the kitchen knife with an evil gleam in my eye. I’m sure he too, would rather find me red faced and panting. And if he’s imagining me looking like Angelina Jolie, and I’m picturing Brad Pitt, so what? At least they’re married.

            So, close the blinds, turn on the fan, and visit Betty and Carson at Red Sage Publishing.