How squeezing my thighs, tightening my buns, and getting sweaty makes me a better author

Like everyone else on the planet, I made a new year's resolution that involved exercise. The fact that I made the resolution while devouring a platter of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts and guzzling my fourth glass of red wine means I'm a bit fuzzy on the details of my plan, but that hasn't stopped me from pursuing it.

Here's the thing I've learned about exercise in nearly 40 years on this planet: I suck at it.

Yoga on a standup paddleboard with my dog.
Three forms of fitness in one (plus it was book
research for Eat, Play, Lust.)

Don't get me wrong, I'm a fairly active person. I walk my dog every day, and I love hiking, biking, snowshoeing, and standup paddleboarding as forms of entertainment. I tend to lose interest when something seems like exercise instead of entertainment.

But with a wedding and a 40th birthday on the horizon this year, now seems like a good time to get more serious about fitness.

My current plan looks like something devised by a gym teacher with severe ADD.

Monday is the yoga class I've attended religiously for almost six years. It is the only thing in my exercise routine I am remotely good at.

Tuesday I tell myself I'll ride the stationary bike in my office before dinner. Then I get hungry and decide that if I'm extra-vigorous in chopping vegetables and tenderizing chicken, that counts as a form of physical fitness.

Wednesday is my Barre class, a female-focused mix of pilates, ballet, and weight lifting that's a helluva lot harder than it looks. It holds my attention because the instructor says things like, "Feel that deep in your booty!" or "Everyone grab your balls now!" and I get an extra ab workout by trying (and failing) to stifle my laughter.

Thursday is my Zumba class, which I love because I get to pretend I have mad-sexy stripper moves until I catch sight of myself in the mirror and realize I look like a drunk homeless person caught in a lawn sprinkler.

Bending my elbow counts as exercise, right?

Friday through Sunday I make an effort to drag my gentleman friend snowshoeing or hiking two or three times. We generally make it out of the house once, but I'm pretty sure we get fitness credit for finding alternate ways to work up a sweat.

That's my routine in a nutshell. Besides appealing to my short attention span, there's something about it that resonates with my author self.

The yoga forces me to slow the hell down, breathe, focus, and strengthen my core. It reminds me of those times I find myself anchored to my desk by writer's block and a deadline, convinced I can't possibly spare 30 minutes to walk the dog. The second I leash the beast and set foot outside, the fog in my head clears and I untangle the plot knot I spent all morning chewing at.

The flexibility I allow myself on Tuesdays reminds me that I function best when I don't try to force things. If I have energy to burn, I peddle. If I'm hungry, I make food. As an author, I've learned that if a scene isn't flowing, it's OK to turn my attention to a different scene, or to use my time editing previous chapters or doing research.

Wednesday's Barre class reminds me of the value of laughter, and that sometimes the simplest phrases and tiniest sprinklings of emotion can be the most powerful.

Thursday's Zumba class reminds me to be humble. After nearly a year of doing it, I am, without question, the least coordinated student in class. My classmates sometimes glance at me as though uncertain if they're witnessing a seizure that warrants medical attention. At times I become so baffled by the dance steps that I settle for jumping up and down and waving my arms to keep my heart-rate elevated. But I do it with a smile on my face, and I keep coming back because I know it's good for me to do something so far outside my comfort zone. It reminds me as an author to push myself beyond my perceived limits, and not to hold myself back because I'm afraid of looking like an idiot.

Sometimes, I get the best results by embracing my inner idiot.

Are you with me in setting goals related to writing or fitness this year? How's it going for you? Please share in the comments!

Oh, and if you'd like to learn from my moments of idiocy as a writer, it's not too late to sign up for the South Coast Writers' Conference in Gold Beach, Oregon February 14-15 where I'll be teaching two 90-minute workshops titled, "The top mistakes new authors make (and how to avoid them!)"

Here's the summary (and here's a link to learn more and to register):

The top mistakes new authors make (and how to avoid them!) by Tawna Fenske
It's easy to screw up when you’re getting started as an author. Just ask Tawna Fenske—she’s done it plenty! She's also learned a few things from years of judging contests, critiquing manuscripts, building a career in marketing & PR, and stumbling a few times in her own journey as a published author of romantic comedy. From writing craft to social media, learn the top landmines for newbie writers—and how you can leap gracefully over them.

The downside of nookie in the woods

There aren’t many hiking days left before the ground is covered in crotch-deep snow. That – and a desire to see some fall foliage – prompted Pythagoras and me to hit the trail on Saturday.

We’d been hiking a few miles when we came across a lovely and secluded spot along the water’s edge. I looked at Pythagoras, who was glistening handsomely with sweat. My bosoms were heaving from the exertion of the hike.

OK, so I had romance writing on the brain. Sue me.

I gazed out at a grassy patch between two forks in the creek. “That would be a nice spot to set a love scene in a book.”

Pythagoras turned and stared at me for a few beats. “No.”

I gave him my most innocent expression. “What?”

“The trail is just over there. You saw that whole family piling in the car at the trailhead. It’d be our luck they’d all come trooping along, picnic basket in hand, kids racing out in front—”

“I wasn’t propositioning you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“OK, fine,” I admitted. “I was propositioning you but—”

“There’s also the dog. You want her grabbing your underwear and running off into the woods?”

That actually seemed like a great scene for a romantic comedy, but perhaps not the best way to seduce my husband.

Fine, he had a point. Even so, I heaved a dramatic sigh. “OK, but you’re missing out.”

“On being arrested for indecent exposure? I’m all right with missing that.”
We threw sticks in the water for the dog for a few more minutes before we set out hiking again. We hadn’t gone more than 30 yards when we saw evidence that someone – presumably someone on horseback or afflicted with severe gastrointestinal issues – had passed by while we were debating the wisdom of getting frisky in the grass.
To my husband’s credit, he did not say I told you so.

Nor did he say it 15 minutes later when we passed a happy pack of hikers headed straight for our spot along the creek.
OK, OK…those romantic, outdoorsy trysts in romance novels and movies are seldom very realistic. There are fire ants and poison ivy, foul weather and fellow hikers.

Still, you can’t blame a girl for trying.

Do you roll your eyes when you watch a Hollywood love scene with a couple frolicking in a lagoon you’re certain would be filled with leeches in real life? Or do you suspend disbelief and just enjoy the fantasy?

Please share. I’ll be busy plotting my strategy for that snow-cave rendezvous I’ve been picturing in my mind.

A little rain must fall

For all the non-Oregonians reading, what do you think of when you picture my fair state?

Hats off to those who said “wine,” but I’m guessing at least half of you said “rain.”

(Feel free to insert your own Oregon joke here about how we don’t tan, we rust. Or maybe the one about how our state flower is mildew).

While it’s true spots like Portland and Eugene are supremely soggy, that’s not the case here in the high desert of Central Oregon where it seldom rains. Though Pythagoras and I both grew up in rainy parts of the state, we’ve been on the dry side for 13 years.

That’s just long enough to alter our perception of rain to the point that we briefly considered canceling our hike when we woke Saturday morning to see drizzly conditions. Then we remembered real Oregonians have gills. We scoff at umbrellas. We don’t consider it a true hike unless there’s mud, dammit.

So we set out for a hike around Tumalo Falls. By the time we returned to the car, it looked like we’d both spent the last few hours standing fully clothed beneath the falls.
I posted that picture on Twitter with some silly comment about it looking like I peed my pants in reverse. I didn’t think much of it until an online pal wrote that she was sorry the rain ruined my hike.

That struck me as funny.

Maybe it’s the fact that if Oregonians let rain ruin things, we’d have very little bliss in our lives.

Or maybe it’s that the rain kind of made the hike.

I left my jacket at home, so Pythagoras chivalrously loaned me his. The dog – unaccustomed to soggy soil – kept spinning out and making us laugh. And the smell of the high desert when it rains is the closest thing I can think of to heaven.

I guess I never considered the rain might be a negative.

Admittedly, I’ve always been an optimist. I probably couldn’t have endured such a bumpy journey to publication if that weren’t the case.

Even so, it can be tough to keep a positive attitude when you’re in the trenches gathering rejections or struggling with a book that won’t cooperate. You have it in your mind how things should go, and any deviation from that can send you into a tailspin.

But sometimes what seems like a setback can turn out to be the best thing. There’s no doubt I was crushed years ago when Harlequin/Silhouette canceled the Bombshell line a month before my debut was scheduled for publication, but I look back now and breathe a sigh of relief. That’s not the sort of book I wanted to write in the long-term, but it took a major shakeup to prompt me to realize I should take a different path.

While you probably won’t always feel like dancing for joy when the downpour hits, there’s almost always something to be gained from it.

Are you an optimist, or do setbacks tend to hit you pretty hard? Can you recall anything that’s happened to you that seemed heartbreaking at the time, but turned out to be the best thing for you?

Please share in the comments. I’m still trying to get the rainwater out of my underwear.

One person's pleasure is another person's crotch pain

Pythagoras is shopping for a new bike seat.

Apparently, his nose is pressing uncomfortably against his man nuggets (I’ll pause for a moment while you laugh as hard as I did at the fact that “nose” is the technical term for the front of a bike seat. Done? Let’s continue).

For those who don’t know, my husband is a fitness junkie. A competitive cyclist who recently branched into triathlons, his idea of “a quick bike ride” is 90 miles up the side of a mountain.

The seat on his tri-bike looks a bit like a medieval torture device. This is the one he currently trains on:

Looks painful, no?

So when he said he wanted a more comfortable one, I was picturing the banana seat from the Schwinn I had as a kid.

When he showed me the new seat he has in mind, I choked on my wine.

“That’s your idea of comfortable?” I demanded.

“It’ll shift the pressure to my sit-bones in the aero position,” he explained. “A lot of urologists recommend this type of saddle.”

“Didn’t they use something like that to torture Mel Gibson in Braveheart?”

He ignored me and went back to his online search for bike seats (or “saddles” as I’ve been told I should call them).

Obviously, the nomenclature of cycling isn’t the only thing I fail to grasp. I honestly don’t get how any of those seats can be deemed “comfortable,” but I suppose it’s all in the eye of the nut holder.

I’ve seen the way Pythagoras looks at me after I’ve spent twelve straight hours at my computer performing a complex ritual of blogging, tweeting, and writing several chapters of a manuscript.

“I’d kill myself if I had to do your job,” he told me once.

Hey, at least I don’t have a nose in my crotch, but I do see his point. What seems like torture to one person is another person’s idea of fun.

Do you have people in your life who see your pursuit of writing as the equivalent of sticking bamboo up your nostrils and soaking your face in grapefruit juice? Is there anyone close to you who enjoys something you cringe just watching? Please share in the comments.

I have to go confirm with my husband’s doctor that his new bike seat won’t render him useless to me.

If only...

On Saturday, Pythagoras competed in his first Olympic-distance triathlon with surprisingly little drama.

There were no Swedish supermodels throwing confetti and bikini tops as he crossed the finish line, but there was also no need for him to crawl weakly to the end while peeing down his leg and insisting his name is Rebecca.

He finished fifth in his age group, which qualifies him for Nationals should we wish to journey to Tuscaloosa, Alabama in September.

But despite his solid finish, Pythagoras was trotting down the if only path mere seconds after he’d crossed the finish line.

If only he hadn’t been sick all week…
If only he’d slept better the previous night…
If only he’d eaten a different breakfast…

I finally had to demand he stop lest he reach the conclusion that he would have won the whole race if only his pre-competition ritual had included a hand job from Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Annoying though his if only game may be, I’ve gotta admit I’ve been doing it too – particularly with this book.

If only I’d started writing in mid-March…
If only I hadn’t given myself so many days off…
If only I’d gotten up earlier this morning…

And I have to stop myself and say then what, idiot?

Sure, I’d be done by now. Usually I take about three months to finish a book, and this one will come in a little over three-and-a-half by the time I type “the end” in the next few days.

Is that really the end of the world?

Probably not. This is the third book in my contract and it isn’t even due on my editor’s desk until February. February, but I’m beating myself up now for dawdling.

In truth, the biggest reason for the delay is that I’ve had the chance to spend some extra quality time with Pythagoras these last six weeks. Unsurprisingly, I’ve grabbed that chance like I'd grab a firm butt cheek.

Do you play the if only game? Do you have an effective way of stopping yourself that doesn’t involve medieval torture devices? Please share, I could use better strategies.

I would like to sneak in just one more if only, if I may.

If only that beyotch beside me hadn’t stuck her hand out, I’d have a lovely photo of Pythagoras crossing the finish line in Saturday’s race.

The fine art of undressing

Lately, Pythagoras has spent a lot of time practicing taking his clothes off.

No, he’s not training to be a stripper. He is training for his first triathlon, and I’m amazed to discover there’s an art to shucking wet, sweaty clothing in public places.

An Olympic-distance triathlon starts with a 1.5 km (1500-yard) open-water swim, followed by a 40 km (24.1-mile) bike ride, finished with a 10 km (6.2 mile) run. Each stage requires different gear, and since races are won and lost by a couple seconds, how you strip is important.

Yesterday afternoon, he finally got the wetsuit he'll wear for the swimming leg on Saturday.

He promptly stripped in my office and tried it on. I promptly forgot the scene I was writing and stopped to enjoy the view.

“I need to practice taking it off now,” he said.

“Great!” I agreed, powering off the computer.

“What if I filled up the bathtub, got in with the wetsuit on, and then jumped out and practiced taking it off fast?”

I frowned. “Not my first choice, but as long as I get to watch.”

I can help zip up,
but not take off.

I do not, however, get to assist. That’s the rule in competition. Athletes must wriggle out of their sopping wetsuits – necessary for buoyancy and warmth in a frigid river – and strip down to the damp cycling shorts underneath. Then they cram their bare feet into the cycling shoes they’ve pre-clipped to their pedals, and away they go.

It’s a complicated endeavor, but not a whole lot trickier than getting the characters naked in a novel.

I spent last night making some tweaks to the final love scene in LET IT BREATHE, paying special attention to how the characters undressed.

Removing shirts and undergarments can be sexy.

Removing socks and work boots, not so much.

The way the clothes come off says a lot about the characters and the scene they’re in. The final love scene in MAKING WAVES is playful and fun, while the one in BELIEVE IT OR NOT involves some irreparable damage to a silk blouse.

This scene in LET IT BREATHE is an odd mix of both, and I’ve gotta admit, I devoted ten minutes last night to fine-tuning the way the hero removes the heroine's bra.

What sort of undressing do you prefer as a reader? As a writer? Do you like to know about each article of clothing as it’s cast aside, or would you rather skip those details? Do you want to see buttons flying across the room, or is slow seduction more your style?

For this scene, I know what I need. I’m about 99% there now.

For the triathlon, though – well, Pythagoras is on his own.

Too bad. That wetsuit is kind of hot.

Downward dog never looked so good

As I hit the home stretch in this manuscript and my brain loses the ability to tell time, I keep missing my regular yoga class and ending up in a more intense one.

It’s one of those classes – the kind where the instructor has to stop frequently to mop sweat off the floor, and I have to stop frequently to see if she’s kidding when she suggests I stand on one leg and put an ankle behind my head.

But there’s a key advantage to this class – it draws a lot of men.

A lot of shirtless men.

A lot of shirtless men with toned bodies who – if I’m very lucky – might park their yoga mat in front of mine and provide enough visual stimulation to distract me from the fact that I’m contorting myself into positions a Barbie doll couldn’t manage without removing a limb.

I was pleased to have one of these shirtless specimens in front of me yesterday, and I’ve gotta say – I’d never miss another class if someone could assure me he’d always be there.

Since he showed up late when we were all face down contemplating our spleen chakras, I didn’t see his face. All I could see for the entire hour of class was that dark, rumpled hair, those muscular legs, that broad expanse of naked back.

I silently thanked the instructor every time she ordered us into crescent lunge because I got to watch those shoulders flex.

I said some additional silent thank yous I couldn’t see his face.

I know that might seem odd, but it’s something I consider each time I write a love interest in one of my novels.

One reason I love reading so much more than movies or television is that I get to use my imagination to decide what people look like. I usually get a starting point like hair and eye color, but it’s up to me to fill in the blanks.

And I do love filling in those blanks.

It’s something I’m aware of in my own writing as well. How much physical description should I provide about my characters? How much should I leave to the imagination?

I’ll admit I’ve straddled the fence on this. The hero in LET IT BREATHE – the third book in my contract – has brown hair and eyes, with broad shoulders, great hands, and a mysterious tattoo.

Beyond that, I’m not providing a ton of detail.

This differs from the second book in my contract – BELIEVE IT OR NOT – in which the hero bears a strong resemblance to John Cusack.

Which do you prefer as a reader? As a writer? Do you like knowing exactly what a character looks like, or do you prefer having it left to the imagination?

Please share in the comments.

Oh, in case you’re wondering, I did see hot yoga guy’s face at the end of class. I was disappointed. Not that he was unattractive – that wasn’t the case at all – but just because he looked nothing like what I’d imagined.

He’s still welcome to park his yoga mat in front of me anytime. I’ll even save the spot.

Found: one nasty pair of underwear (plus a few good stories)

Yesterday afternoon, Pythagoras and I ventured out for an eight-mile hike on one of the trails snaking through the Deschutes National Forest.

The weather was lovely, the dog was wagging her tail, and I was lamenting the fact that I didn’t have a tail of my own to wag.

We had only gone half a mile when I spotted something tangled in the twigs beside the trail. I stopped in my tracks and stared at it. This is what I saw:

“Hey, Pythagoras,” I called. “Need some new underwear?”

He glanced at the tattered tighty-whities on the side of the trail and kept on hiking. “Thanks, I’m good.”

We continued hiking in silence for a few minutes. Pythagoras was the first to speak. “You’re still thinking about the underwear, aren’t you?”

“Of course. How do you think they got there?”

He shrugged. “Some dude was out mountain biking, had to take a dump, didn’t have anything to wipe with, so he took his underwear and—”

“Gross, never mind.”

“Well where do you think they came from?”

I thought about that for a second. “I think a couple was out hiking and she couldn’t stop staring at his back and at the muscles in his shoulders and thinking how she’d like to dig her nails into them, and he turned around and noticed how beautiful she looked with the sunlight in her hair, so they stumbled off into the bushes tearing each other's clothes off as they went, and in the throes of passion, didn’t notice the bear that ran up and grabbed his underwear.”

Pythagoras nodded and kept hiking. “That seems likely,” he agreed. “And this is why you’re the writer.”

I thought about that as we continued on down the trail. His mind had gone right to the practical – and I’ll admit it, most likely – scenario.

He’s a guy, and a fitness freak at that. If he says men in the wilderness will resort to such measures when faced with a lack of toilet paper, I’m inclined to believe him.

And while my overactive writer’s imagination is certainly part of what prompted my theory, I think you could more accurately say it’s a product of the type of stories I write – namely, romance.

Would a thriller writer have concocted a scenario involving a terrorist plot and an underwear bomb? Would a paranormal author have envisioned something that featured disintegrating werewolves with bad taste in underwear?

I’m curious about this. What was your first thought when you saw that picture? Tell me your theory, and then tell me what genre (if any) you write.

Oh, and if those are your underwear, go get those nasty things. And maybe wash them before you put them back on. I think my dog peed on them.

How sex, bike rides & writing are the same

A friend of mine suffers from low libido.

(If you’re new to this blog, you’re nodding smugly and saying to yourself, “sure, sure – a friend. Right.” If you already know me, I’m sorry you choked on your coffee just then).

Eager to make her husband understand her feelings, my friend offered him the following analogy:

You know how you feel about going for a bike ride, honey? It always sounds like more effort than it’s worth, and you have to change clothes and get all sweaty and it just sounds a lot easier to sit on the couch instead. Of course, once we actually go for the bike ride, you usually end up enjoying it, and thinking “why don’t we do that more often?"

That’s pretty much how she sees sex.

I laughed for a good week when she told me that, and then asked her to write all my future novels because really, I can’t top that.

I can relate though. Not to the sex part, and not even to the bike ride (though I don’t generally do both at once – the seat is just too small).

There have been several times in recent weeks where I’ve found myself looking at writing that way. I know I like it. I know it’ll feel good once I get going, and even better at the end.

But the thought of trudging into the other room, stripping off my clothes, and exerting all that effort just sounds so cumbersome at times.

It isn’t always like that, and certainly there are moments where I’m hurling myself at the computer in an urgent frenzy, murmuring words of passion as I stroke the keyboard with desperate yearning.

But there are moments I think there’s a fortune to be made in the author’s equivalent of Viagra.

It helps to think of the bike ride (OK, I’d rather think of the sex, but I’m trying to be PC here). I sweet-talk myself into doing it, secure in the knowledge that I’ll have a good time once I get going. I’ve loved it before, I’ve loved it the majority of the time, and if I just push myself past the “I don’t wanna” stage, it won’t be long before I'm saying, “oh yeah, baby!”

Do any of you deal with this? I’m not talking about your sex lives (though I guess you can share that if you want to). I’m talking about writing, or really any task that requires an exercise in self-motivation. What tricks do you use to prompt yourself to get naked and sweaty (metaphorically speaking)?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve piqued my own curiosity. I’ve gotta go see if there’s some way to pull off that naked bike ride thing with a laptop on the handlebars.

Assume the position: on writing and yoga poses

Yesterday I returned to yoga class after a 10-month absence.

I secretly hoped it would be like riding a bike. Well, not exactly like riding a bike. I didn’t want my butt to hurt.

But I did hope everything would come rushing back – the poses, the breathing, the vocabulary, the flexibility.

After all, I had a steep learning curve when I first started. I fondly remember my initial attempt at “crow pose.”

For those unfamiliar, this is what it looks like when done correctly:

Crow Pose - Bakasana

© Barry Stone

Obviously that’s not me in the photo, because as I mentioned, it’s being done correctly.

The first time I tried it, I balanced precariously with my knees on my elbows, hovered for two seconds, and tipped forward. My head hit the floor with a THUD. Everyone in class turned to stare.

Not very zenlike.

Determined to get it right, I went home and practiced in front of Pythagoras. In addition to a degree in exercise physiology, my husband possesses infinitely more athletic prowess than I do. I demonstrated the pose for him. This time, I held it for three seconds before my head hit the floor.

Pythagoras nodded wisely. “Maybe you should wear a helmet to class.”

I’m nothing if not determined, so I practiced and practiced, enduring several mild concussions and a one-week period where I thought my name was Eduardo.

The day I finally got it, I squealed with joy.

And promptly fell on my head.

So you’ll understand the terror I felt yesterday when, 15 minutes into class, the instructor ordered us to assume the pose.

It was a bit like the times I’ve taken breaks from writing fiction. On several occasions – operating under the misguided belief that I shouldn’t waste time writing something new until I heard back from a prospective agent or editor – I simply stopped writing.

Sure, my day-jobs have typically involved writing in one form or another. But there’s a big difference between crafting a press release and creating characters and plot arcs out of thin air.

After every hiatus, there’s a moment of white-knuckle fear. Will I remember how to do this? Will I have to re-learn everything? Will everyone stare when my head hits the floor with a THUD?

And then, there’s that moment of elation. The instant I realize I haven’t forgotten anything at all.

That’s one valuable lesson I learned along my bumpy road to publication. Even if you take a break, you don’t forget the things you’ve already figured out. The skills you gain, the lessons you learn – you get to keep those.

I’m not suggesting you should take long breaks from writing. On the contrary, I’ve kicked myself each time I’ve done it. But if you do stray from your muse for a little while, rest assured you won’t start over from “see spot run.”

Oh, and you’ll be happy to hear I successfully assumed “crow pose” in class yesterday. I did not, however, manage to get my ankles behind my head.

We’ll save that for next time.

Things that sound dirty but aren't

It snowed on Saturday.

Not a lot, but enough to convince us that when the sun broke a few hours later, we’d better hit the hiking trail fast if we wanted to do so without the aid of snowshoes.

You might think being surrounded by fresh air and beautiful scenery would lead to a lot of meaningful pondering about my current manuscript.

This is me pondering meaningfully.

You’d be only partly right.

As is often the case, every phrase Pythagoras and I uttered managed to come out sounding dirty.

Think I’m kidding? Here are a few gems from our Saturday hike:

• “It’s too narrow to ride abreast” (me complaining about mountain bikers riding side-by-side on the trail).
• “They’re cavity nesters – that’s why the box is like that” (Pythagoras explaining the nesting habits of wood ducks and the homes built for them by Forest Service crews).
• “Get your nose out of that hole!” (me scolding the dog for chasing a ground squirrel)
• “I hope they’re planning to trim the bushes” (Pythagoras remarking on the overgrown foliage along the trail)
• Pythagoras: I’m worried the lava rock is really hard on her paws. Me: You said "hard-on."
• “Are you coming?”(me to a dawdling Pythagoras).

On the bright side, there is actually some element of this in my current manuscript, so all is not lost.

How about you? Did anything about your weekend leave you giggling like a middle schooler? Please share in the comments.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get off the internet and start working on the manuscript.

I said "get off."

On risk-taking and bikini skiing

So I didn’t tell the whole story in yesterday’s post about my husband’s Vixen toenails.

No, I’m not suggesting there was a matching manicure and he likes me to call him Sally.

I’m saying that on the day of his ski accident, there was drama beyond the potential threat to his life over purple toenail polish.

Pythagoras was injured in a ski jumping competition that was part of a larger event held each year at that ski hill. In addition to all the “real” ski contests, there is a longstanding tradition of a bikini ski competition.

A competition I was somehow persuaded to enter that day.

I should mention that I do not ski. Not downhill, anyway, and certainly not in attire more suited for a Caribbean beach.

I don’t mean that in the faux-modest way that implies I’ve taken years of lessons and honed my skills to mediocrity. I mean that on the day of the competition, I had been on skis precisely once.

But this was a time in my life when I was young and bold and, admittedly, a little broke.

Pythagoras was fully supportive, and the contest was an equal-opportunity affair with both men and women swishing their way down the slope for a chance at the $300 grand prize.

Well, the others were swishing.

For me, it was more of a snowplow. This was a black-diamond run, and my greatest desire was simply to remain upright and not lose any body parts to frostbite.

Somehow, I did that. I even had the foresight to cross my arms when passing the judges’ table and perform a little half-shiver, half shimmy maneuver that, miraculously, did not cause me to topple headfirst into a tree-well.

By the time I reached the bottom, I was so delighted with my own survival that claiming the $300 grand prize almost seemed like an afterthought.

I used the money to buy an ancient Volkswagen with no door handle and a non-working heater, and I’ve used the story time and again to remind myself to take more risks.

I think of it whenever I’m being a chicken about trying something new – writing my first manuscript, querying agents for the first time, trying a different style of writing – anything that’s a little bit terrifying.

I remind myself of the day I was brave enough (or insane enough) to strip off my clothes, strap sticks to my feet, and point them down a snowy slope.

If I can do that, what’s a little literary terror?

So what is the scariest thing you’ve done? What bold maneuvers are you planning in your future? Please share in the comments!

Getting ready for my bikini ski competition.

A bystander attempts to capture footage of me getting dressed afterward. Classy!

Pythagoras and the Vixen toenails

As I slowly get to know the characters in my new novel, I’m thinking about the small quirks that define people.

There are a million ideas bubbling in my brain, and a million decisions to make – does the heroine’s dad hate food that’s brown? Does the hero secretly read Glamour magazine?

These may seem like tiny details, but they’re a big part of developing characters, particularly in romantic comedy.

Fortunately, Pythagoras offers endless inspiration for the sort of quirks that can comprise a human male. I thought of this yesterday when he was searching for paperwork from a knee surgery he had years ago in Montana.

We had only been dating a short time, and Pythagoras was working as a ski school director while I put my newly-minted English degree to good use tending bar at the ski lodge.

One weekend, Pythagoras took a road trip to coach several teenage ski racers for a Junior Olympics qualifier. He called from the road that evening.

“I fell asleep with my socks off,” he informed me. “The girls thought it would be funny to paint my toenails.”

Knowing many men would be horrified to be decorated with a female cosmetic product, I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Wow,” I said. “What color are they?”

“Vixen,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s sparkly.”

As it turned out, Vixen was a rather disturbing shade of purple. As it also turned out, we couldn’t find nail polish remover in the boxes from our recent move. Since Pythagoras didn’t seem too concerned by the color of his toenails, we both forgot about it.

Pythagoras prepares to go to the hospital
with Vixen toenails

Then came the ski accident. Pythagoras was rushed to a tiny rural hospital where we waited for the doctor to inspect the damage.

“Oh,” said the doctor the instant he pulled off a sock. “Is this bruising, or—”

“No, it’s Vixen,” Pythagoras offered helpfully.

The doctor and nurse stared, probably trying to recall whether this was a jailable offense in Montana.

“He didn’t do it himself,” I stammered.

The nurse looked at me, then back at Pythagoras. “Who did this to you?” she whispered.

Pythagoras shrugged. “Some girl on the Junior Olympic team I coach. I was asleep.”

The doctor blinked at him. “You were sleeping? With a teenage girl who painted your toenails?”

At that point, I began to wonder if the hospital had a policy permitting medical staff to shoot patients if they deemed it appropriate. Not wanting to find out, I smiled brightly at the doctor.

“So about his knee—?”

Eventually, Pythagoras was sent to a larger hospital for surgery. Through it all, we never got around to removing the polish. The color eventually wore off, and Pythagoras’ knee soon healed.

But I’ve never forgotten the Vixen.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed wearing it. It was just that he was so blissfully immune to the rule that says men – especially men in Montana – should be horrified at having their toenails painted purple.

That security in his masculinity and general obliviousness to the “rules” is one of the things I love best about Pythagoras.

It’s also something I’m hoping to capture in the hero I’m writing for my new book.

What quirky traits do your characters or real-life loved ones have? Please share in the comment trail.

I’ll be waiting for my husband to fall asleep so I can test out my new eyeliner.

Brainstorming makes my butt sore

Five years ago, Pythagoras sat me down for the all-important talk.

“You’re turning 30 soon,” he informed me as though this might have escaped my attention. “What do you want for your birthday?”

I thought about it for a minute. A woman only turns 30 once, after all. This was my opportunity to request expensive jewelry, or maybe a vacation.

“I want a tandem bike,” I heard myself say.

Pythagoras stared at me. “A tandem bike?”

“Yes, a tandem bike. So we can ride together.”

I could see the wheels turning in his head. They weren’t turning fast enough for his liking.

You may recall from an earlier blog post that Pythagoras is a bit overzealous when it comes to exercise. In an average week, he cycles maybe 250 miles on his own. Last summer when I told him I wanted to visit my parents for a weekend, he was strangely delighted.

“Great idea,” he said. “You drive, I’ll bike.”

It’s 140 miles each way with narrow, winding roads and a 5000-foot mountain pass in the middle. Just a casual bike ride for Pythagoras.

So a tandem bike seemed like a good way to level the playing field. An opportunity for me to cycle with my husband without collapsing on the side of the road and being devoured by buzzards while he programs his cycling computer.

What I didn’t realize five years ago is how many other benefits there would be to tandem bike ownership. Aside from equalizing our differing fitness levels, it also equalizes our marriage.

Pythagoras is not the most decisive man on the planet. Had we not won a wedding twelve years ago, I suspect he’d still be contemplating whether to propose. Every decision – from where to have lunch to which brand of motor oil to purchase – is a major thing for Pythagoras. That means I end up making most decisions in our household.

But not on the tandem.

“Which way, right or left?” he’ll demand as we approach a stop sign.

“You decide!” I sing from the rear of the bike.

“Well where are we going?”

“Don’t know – where are you taking me?”

But even that isn’t my favorite part of tandem bike ownership. No, my favorite part is what I fondly refer to as the bike ride brainstorm.

The bike ride brainstorm works like this: we hop on the tandem, start peddling, and start plotting.

I outline the basics of my story for Pythagoras, and because he’s not able to flee, he’s forced to give the ideas some consideration.

“What do you think?” I’ll shout to my captive audience. “I was going to have the ex-husband should be the winemaker, but would that be weird?”

And Pythagoras will mull it over, making a few suggestions as we chug our way up a hill.

After awhile, he’ll start to get into it. “What if you threw in a twist somewhere near the middle where—“

We’ve been at this for awhile now, so Pythagoras has learned not to be offended when I shoot down eight out of ten of his ideas.

He’s realized by now that I shoot down nine out of ten of my own.

By the time we return home from a 10 or 20-mile ride, we’ll both be sweaty and a little saddle sore from the uncomfortable bike seat. But I’ll also have some element of my story figured out. Maybe it’s just a character trait, or maybe it’s a sticky plot point, but I always come back with something besides an aching butt.

So as our weather turns nice, I find I’m looking forward to tandem bike season once more. I’ve got a new story to plot out, and a whole lot of miles to peddle.

Anyone know where I put my cycling shorts?

Peddling at your own pace

Pythagoras and I have slightly different exercise habits. The key differentiating factor is that he actually has exercise habits. I have a pair of running shoes that function solely as a place for the cat to rest his head while napping.

Don’t get me wrong, I keep reasonably fit. I do this through a complicated routine of trickery and self-manipulation (no, not that kind of self-manipulation, though that is a fine way to burn calories). I can trick myself into a daily five-mile hike as long as I believe I’m just walking the dogs. I can be eased into an hour-long yoga session by telling myself I’m just going to lie down on the cozy mat for a little nap.

I’m easily fooled like that.

Pythagoras, on the other hand, is insane. When he tells me he’s going out for a “short bike ride,” he means he’ll be peddling for 90 miles, half of it straight up the side of a mountain. If he takes to the treadmill after dinner, there’s a good chance I won’t see him again until morning.

When we first met, I was a little intimidated by his fitness regimen. Would he think I was a slug if I didn’t share his single-minded determination to set the world jump-rope record? Did he find slugs erotic?

By now we’ve found a happy balance. Sometimes I can even keep up with him – like the time we rode 60 miles on our tandem bike and I totally kicked his ass. OK, fine, it was three weeks after his surgery for a torn Achilles tendon, and he was admittedly still wearing a cast. Even so, I schooled him.

Though I’ve stopped fretting about the difference between my exercise habits and my husband’s, I am prone to occasional moments of panic when it comes to comparing my writing habits to those of other authors.

I’ve had the pleasure of working with the same two terrific critique partners since the early days of my foray into fiction. Not only do we have wildly different writing styles, but very different habits.

Sometimes I find myself wondering if I’d be a better writer if, like Cynthia Reese, I wrote in a linear fashion and handed off one chapter at a time for critique. Her plots are always much tighter than mine, so maybe that’s the ticket.

But while that works well for Cynthia, I’m just not that sort of writer. I might not know until chapter 17 who my bad guy is, which means my early chapters will likely undergo a full lobotomy before I type “the end.”

My other critique partner, Linda Brundage tends to write at a slower pace than I do. I know she sometimes frets about that, and I’m prone to the same anxiety for the opposite reason. Maybe if I slowed down I’d be able to write beautiful, dark, heart-wrenching prose like she does?

But heart-wrenching isn’t my thing. Crotch-spliting, that’s more my style. And I’m slowly beginning to accept that, and to accept the fact that there’s no “right” or “wrong” way to write. There are a million different methods, just like there are a million different writing styles. The important thing is to just do it, and to work hard at improving my craft along the way.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I'm going to go trick myself into snowshoeing. It helps if I carry a mai-tai and tell myself I’m shuffling through sand on a Jamaican beach.