I don't know my brother's name

My brother called yesterday at lunch.

“My boss read your book,” he reported. “Now he’s calling me Russ.”

I had to think about that for a minute. “What was he calling you before?”

I could hear the eye roll from 150 miles away. “My actual name? Aaron?!”

Right.

See, the thing is, I forget my brother’s name. It’s not that we aren’t close. On the contrary, we talk several times a week and I consider him one of my best pals.

But from the time we were very young, everyone in the family called each other by the names of the characters in National Lampoon’s Family Vacation. Though my parents will answer to Clark and Ellen and I perk up if someone yells Audrey, the name stuck most solidly for my brother.

There are times I forget his name isn’t Russ. My mom will tell me she talked to Aaron and I’ll say “who?” and she’ll make an exasperated noise and say, “your BROTHER?!” and I’ll feel like a dumbass.

Which is why I chose to thank him as Russ in the acknowledgements for Making Waves. To my credit, I gave his real name as well.

And in my defense, I’m not the only sibling who does this. To the best of my knowledge, my brother has called me nothing but Butthead since before either of us hit puberty.

There are times I forget that’s not my name.

Some of that may be a guy thing. Very few of my brother’s friends are called by their real names, but cheerfully respond to endearing monikers like Slimer or Aboo or Dirty.

Most memorably, my brother once spent an entire college term working on a project with a buddy he called Pecker. When Pecker failed to show on the day the project was due, my brother was dismayed to realize he didn’t know Pecker’s real name.

I still laugh picturing that professor grading a term paper submitted by Aaron Fenske and Pecker.

All that to say, I don’t feel too bad about my brother’s boss calling him Russ. Frankly, it’d be a lot easier for me if everyone called him that.

Wait, does that mean I have to start signing books as Audrey or Butthead? If that’s the case, what embarrassing nickname shall I use when signing the book for you?

A book birthday, a contest winner, and a lot of gratitude

Throughout the weekend, people sent photos of my book on the shelves at WalMarts around the nation.

This morning I've been getting messages from people letting me know Making Waves has downloaded to their Kindles.

It's been out for a couple weeks in Barnes & Noble and Powell's and Amazon, so I guess it's official – Making Waves has released.

If anyone had told me a year ago how chaotic life would be in the days surrounding the release of my debut novel, I might have called my agent and asked if we could trade the book contract for something more relaxing. Electrified nipple clamps, maybe.

That's not to say I'm not giddy and grateful and delighted beyond words.

But I'm also utterly exhausted.

And while it's fresh in my mind, I'll tell you a few things that are helping me keep my sanity right now. Maybe it'll be helpful to those of you with book releases on the horizon, or maybe it'll help someone facing any sort of crazy stressful schedule.

Forgive yourself
You know how I usually write my blog posts the night before and set them to go up at 2:30 a.m.? You can see from the time on this post that I missed the boat today. I hate that. I also hate staring at the big, glossy alumni magazine from my college with its lovely feature on great summer reads. Making Waves isn't on the list, not because they hate me, but because I neglected to tell them about it. I forgot.

You know what? It's not the end of the world. The late blog posts, the missed PR opportunities, the deadlines that have blown past no matter how many late nights and early mornings I've put in these past few weeks. My writing career won't be made or lost based on things like this, and I have to remind myself of that constantly.

My Making Waves pose on Paulina Lake.

Give yourself a break
I had planned to devote my weekend to tackling edits and blog posts and some of the promo tasks sent to me by the amazing publicist at Sourcebooks. Then a friend called. "We're thinking of taking the boat up to Paulina Lake for the afternoon. Want to come?"

The answer to that question should always be YES! Even when you're busy. Especially when you're busy. Your brain can only produce so much, and then it becomes a puddle of cereal mush at the bottom of the garbage disposal. You need mental health breaks. You need a change of scenery. You need to be in the company of friends and loved ones and beautiful things that make you happy and keep you refreshed.

Besides, how cool is this photo of my feet in a semi-sorta reenactment of my book cover?

Let other people help you
I'm not good at accepting help that's offered, and I'm really not good at asking for help in the first place, but I did both this past weekend, and I've gotta tell you – it feels amazing.

My dad spits cherry pits to pick a contest winner.

I love to cook. It's one of my favorite hobbies, but even hobbies can feel overwhelming when you're stressed. When a text message showed up yesterday afternoon that began, "I'm bringing dinner tonight," I literally bawled with gratitude.

And since I was on a roll with the help thing, I called my parents and asked if they'd be willing to go through all the entries in last week's blog contest and address the envelopes to everyone who earned a signed envelope. Not only did they jump right on that task, they offered to pick the winner who will receive the added bonus of a signed copy of Making Waves, along with an advance reading copy of Believe it or Not when it becomes available.

Their selection process involved writing all the entrants' names on a sheet of paper and spitting cherry pits at it. A brilliant solution, so congratulations to Ara Grigorian (who actually wrote a lovely review of Making Waves just last week). Send me your snail mail address and I'll hook you up with your prize).

Thanks so much to all of you who've read the blog, entered the contests, read the book, and posted glowing reviews on Amazon and Goodreads and all over the blogosphere. I am eternally grateful for all the support and kind words you've showered on me through this challenging and thrilling time in my life.

You rock so hard you make me seasick.

What did you just call me?

Yesterday was my grandmother’s 80th birthday. As I scrolled through my phone to find her number so I could call and congratulate her on turning 24, I didn’t look under “G” for grandma or “D” for Donna.

I looked under “H” for Hot Lips.

I can’t say for certain when I began calling her that, but I remember it had something to do with wanting her to feel fun and sassy after her divorce from my grandfather.

The nickname has stuck so powerfully in my mind that I forget most people don’t refer to their grandmothers as Hot Lips. I can’t imagine addressing a piece of mail to her that didn’t include that label (nor can I imagine her mailman’s disappointment if I ever did).

I’ve had a lot of nicknames in my life. For much of my childhood, my father called me Buzzard Snot, or simply “Buzz.”

I pretended to be annoyed, but secretly loved it. It said a lot about the dynamic of our relationship and my father’s unique sense of humor.

In my adult years, I’ve been Tawnanananana, TF, Tawnita, and my personal favorite, TnA. Each of those makes me think fond thoughts about the person who dubbed me that, and I’ve been known to sign email messages with the appropriate (or inappropriate) moniker.

In my third contracted romantic comedy, my main character is named Riesling. Her family owns a vineyard, and the name comes from a variety of grape that produces wines ranging from extremely sweet to bitingly dry.

A bit like the character.

The only person who calls her by her full name is her ex-husband, and he does it to tease and annoy her. To most people, she’s Reese, Reesey, Peanut Butter Cup, or Hot Tits.

You can blame her grandma for that last one.

Each of those nicknames says something about the person who calls her that and the relationship they have with Reese. It was a fun dynamic to explore, and one of those subtle ways to “show” characterization instead of “telling.”

Do you have a nickname you’re willing to share? Do you tend to use nicknames in your writing? If so, do they serve a purpose in characterization, or are they just for fun? Please share!

And let me know which name you’d like me to use if we ever meet up at a book signing. I'll be practicing the "Buzzard Snot" signature, just in case.

Snarfing my way through the South

The thing I love best about traveling is the chance to stuff my face with new and interesting food.

I’m in the middle of a week-long trip exploring Georgia, Florida, and Washington DC with various writing pals while pestering them to introduce me to their favorite regional cuisine. They’ve all been willing, and to the best of my knowledge, haven’t tried to poison me yet.

Some of the culinary highlights so far:

• She-crab soup and jicama slaw at the Boor’s Head Tavern in Savannah, Ga. This was my first Georgia meal, enjoyed in the company of the lovely and talented Elizbeth Flora Ross. As if that weren’t fabulous enough, I paired it with a delicious Captain’s Porter from Moon River Brewing Company in Savannah. I think I left drool marks on the table.
• I’d be filthy rich (as opposed to just filthy) if I had a nickel for each time critique partner Cynthia Reese has gushed about low country boil in the 6+ years we’ve been working together. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try, so I swooned when we got to order it at The Crab Shack on Tybee Island, Ga. low country boil is a mix of corn, potatoes, shrimp, and sausage, served with a whole lot of Old Bay Seasoning and butter. Ours included the addition of crab legs, mussels, and crawfish. Words can’t adequately describe how much I loved this meal. I would have taken off all my clothes and rolled in it, but didn’t want to miss getting even one morsel in my mouth. Here are the photos:
  

• 

  The aftermath of the low country boil.

  
  
• Not to be outdone, the delightful and hilarious Harley May took me out for Cuban sandwiches upon my arrival in Florida. I’d never heard of Cuban sandwiches before, and they blew me away with their beautiful simplicity. Made with ham, roasted pork, Swiss cheese, pickles, and mustard on Cuban bread, this was a perfectly scrumptious sandwich I might even be able to replicate at home someday if I could figure out how on earth to make that amazing bread.

This little culinary tour has me thinking about when my Italian brother-in-law visited the U.S. several years ago. When he asked us to introduce him to typical American food, we were stumped. Is there such a thing? Or does it vary so widely from region to region that it’s impossible to nail down?

We eventually concentrated our foodie overview on highlights from the Pacific Northwest. We stuffed him with grilled salmon, razor clams, Oregon bay shrimp, and lots of fresh local produce. In the end though, I think his favorite meal was the big lumberjack breakfast at Camp 18.

What sort of cuisine defines your region? Or let’s cut to the chase here – what will you feed me if I come visit you?

Does "pervert" sound the same with a Southern accent?

If you're reading this with your morning coffee in hand, there’s a good chance I’m on a plane.

Actually, there’s a better chance I’m sleeping on the floor of the Chicago airport (the result of some wacky overnight flights and long layovers). Don’t kick me if you walk by.

This little trip started out simply enough. With tons of frequent flyer miles and a fairly flexible schedule, I decided to journey to south Georgia to meet up with longtime critique partner Cynthia Reese. We've swapped manuscripts, moral support, and recipes for 6+ years. It's about time we met in person.

Things snowballed from there. When I realized several other writer pals resided in the same region, I cobbled together a series of three-legged flights and long layovers that allow me to meet up with Harley May and Elizabeth Flora Ross (both of whom I know from Twitter) and my hilarious agency sistah Linda Grimes. I'm now undertaking a week-long trip with stops in three different states.

The whole thing fascinates me. If you'd told me a year ago I'd be traveling 3,000 miles to hang out with four women I'd never met in my life – three of whom I'd never even heard of at that point – I would have assumed you'd been drinking too much Chianti.

After I asked you to pour me some, I would have considered how wise my agent may be in her suggestion that I hurl myself into the pool of social media.

She is wise – having this blog and spending time on Twitter has been an amazing opportunity for a no-name, debut author like me to build a little momentum for my book release.

But more importantly, it's given me the chance to make some really amazing friendships. Real friendships, the kind worth flying clear across the country for with the slight risk my "friends" might turn out to be 300-pound serial killers with a fondness for collecting dead authors' lingerie to sell on eBay.

Assuming I survive and get to keep my underwear, I'm going to think of this trip every time I hear an author scoff at the value of social media like Facebook and blogging and Twitter. Those pursuits take time, no doubt about it. But the rewards are worth it in ways you probably can't begin to imagine.

On that note, it's likely my blogging will be sporadic next week. I'll do my best to post a photo or an amusing little anecdote if I have time and an internet connection, but I make no promises.

In the meantime, you can follow my journey on Twitter under the hashtag #southerntweetup. You can also stop by The Debutante Ball today to hear my take on all the buzz surrounding the release of The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown (one of the other four authors making up this year's Deb class).

Oh, and if any of you are at the Chicago airport between 4:30 and 8 a.m. Friday morning, will you wake me up in time for my next flight?

Happily ever after…or something like that

I am not big fan of television. There’s a TV in my home, but the closest I can come to operating it is staring at the remote like a monkey doing algebra.

Despite this, I must confess that I watch The Bachelor.

Not only that, I’ve watched The Bachelorette.

It started innocently enough a couple years ago. A girlfriend invited me over to share a bottle of wine while her husband was scratching himself in a bar watching Monday Night Football. Soon I was hanging out on her sofa every Monday evening.

While we sucked down Chianti, we got sucked into a show that – let's be honest – kind of sucks.

Or does it?

In case you’ve never watched, the format is simple: one eligible bachelor or bachelorette is presented with a pool of 25-30 potential marriage candidates. One by one, the suitors are eliminated after a series of dates and challenges. In the end, the bachelor or bachelorette chooses a mate and the happy couple enjoys wedded bliss for all of eternity.

Theoretically, anyway.

Out of 14 seasons of The Bachelor and six of The Bachelorette, there’s only been one actual marriage between the final couple. Not great odds.

And yet…we want to believe it can work.

Or maybe we just want to play drinking games that involve taking a slug of Sangiovese each time someone utters the phrase soulmates, falling for you, or amazing connection.

I’m hesitant to draw a parallel between cheesy reality TV and the romance genre, but I can’t pretend there isn’t one. We’ve all heard statistics about how 40-50% of all marriages end in divorce. We know relationships are messy and difficult and likely to involve as much time spent picking up your spouse’s socks as making love in a field of daffodils while sparrows sing “Endless Love.”

Still, we want to believe the fairy tale. In the happily ever after. In the idea that two people can meet and fall in love and sustain their passion even after ABC halts the flow of all-expense-paid dates.

Or maybe we just appreciate the entertainment value of watching people make asses of themselves in the name of love. There's no shame in that.

Do you have any guilty pleasures when it comes to love, lust, and cheesy entertainment? What keeps you tuning in or turning pages? Please share.

I’ll be over here filling out my application to be the next Bachelorette. They take married chicks, right?

Even “bah-humbug” sounds dirty if you say it right

I hate Christmas.

I shouldn’t say that (mostly because it’s not true, but also because I’m afraid you’ll burn down my house).

What I hate is all the “stuff’ surrounding the holiday. I don’t like receiving gifts, since I have everything I need and would rather people give to charity.

I don’t like buying gifts, either – the shopping, the stress over what to buy, the wrapping, the shipping. I’m exhausted by the need to crank out creative holiday cards or get my Christmas tree up on time. Each year when December approaches, I want to hide under my bed and pick off elves with a shotgun.

Here’s the irony, though – I’m my own worst enemy when it comes to Christmas. None of my loved ones are putting me in a headlock and demanding gifts. The police have not come to arrest me for failing to have a wreath on the door.

These are all expectations I’ve set for myself, and it’s a vicious cycle I repeat as a writer.

In my early years, I’d set goals I couldn’t possibly control – I will get a book deal this year. I will get an agent. I will write a manuscript so hysterically wonderful that a dashing male editor will arrive at my house wearing nothing but boxer briefs and holding a tray of cookies and a book contract.

Even now that I have the book deal and the agent (though sadly, not the cookies) I still make myself crazy with expectations. I will write funny blog posts every day. I will make my debut novel successful. I will write a follow-up book so hilarious my editor will rupture a kidney laughing.

I will drop dead from exhaustion if I don’t learn to knock it the hell off.

I’m trying, I really am. I'm opting not to do the holiday card this year, and I’m refusing to beat myself up over the fact that there’s no brightly festooned dead tree in my house or that I haven’t watched any Christmas specials on TV. Pythagoras and I stopped exchanging gifts years ago, so that helps.

I know I need to get better at it on all fronts. That means setting writing goals I can control and cutting myself some slack if I fail to meet them.

Do you share my habit of making yourself nuts with unrealistic expectations? Please share.

I will be sitting under the mistletoe sipping a glass of eggnog and waiting to have my stocking stuffed.

Great writer gifts day 1: The love mug

I’m feeling festive this week. It's possible I'm confusing “festive” and “revoltingly stuffed with turkey and mashed potatoes,” but why split hairs? I want to spread some holiday cheer.

Each day this week, I’ll share a gift idea for the writer in your life. If the writer in your life happens to be you, score! You may get a few items to add to your holiday wish list. Otherwise, consider being generous with a critique partner or other writing pal.

Let’s get started.

I never sit down at my writing desk without a beverage of some sort. Surprisingly, the beverage is not always served in Riedel stemware. I’m a bit of a tea fiend, and spend the early part of each day sipping anything from Oolong to Earl Grey.

This is my favorite everyday mug:
Nothing fancy, but perfectly functional. I bought it for myself at the Dollar Store a few years ago, and though I love it for its size and shape, it doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy and loved.

The mug that makes me feel warm and fuzzy and loved is this one:
Critique partner Linda Brundage bought it for me shortly after we both began chasing the elusive publication dragon. This was before either of us had an agent or a book deal or really much chance of publishing the drivel we churned out back then.

In case you can’t read it, the mug says, “Choose an author as you would a friend.” – Wentworth Dillon.

I love the sentiment behind both the quote and the gift. No matter what kind of writing obstacles I encounter—from rejection to brain-block to a cat on my keyboard—the mug is a reminder that I’m not alone in this.

I don’t use it every day. It’s partly that I don’t want to break it, and partly that I like to save it for days when I need a little pick-me-up in my routine.

You can find plenty of author-themed mugs right here at cafepress.com, but spending a lot of money on a mug with a clever saying isn’t a requirement. A regular Dollar Store mug can be a writer’s favorite treasure when gifted in a spirit of love and camaraderie.

Do you have a favorite writing mug? Has a critique partner ever given you a present you adore? Please share. My kettle is boiling. Hey, that’s an excellent euphemism. See how well the mug works?

On socks, spatulas, and family traditions

Right about now, many Americans are preparing themselves for a Thanksgiving day filled with turkey and stuffing and football.

My family is dreaming of socks.

It’s a tradition in the Fenske clan. Each year, we rise before the sun does the morning after Thanksgiving and head to our local Fred Meyer retailer for their annual half-price sock sale.

It doesn’t matter if you need socks. It doesn’t matter that the sock selection is really no different a 5 a.m. as it is at 8 a.m. This is tradition, and it must be strictly observed.

The first year Pythagoras joined my family for Thanksgiving, he was perplexed.

“You already have plenty of socks,” he pointed out.

“That’s not the point. It’s tradition. Like pumpkin pie or turkey or having Hot Lips hit you with a spatula for cheating at Pictionary.”

“What happens to someone who breaks a tradition?”

There was an audible gasp as everyone in the family turned to stare. No one had ever considered this concept. Not even Hot Lips, who was reaching for her spatula at the mere thought.

Of course, Pythagoras has his own set of unusual family traditions. When we go to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving, we open Christmas presents. Yes, Christmas presents. Because much of his family spends Christmas in Germany, Thanksgiving is the only time we’re all assembled in one place and feeling festive. I actually look forward to it, since it trims out a lot of gift-buying stress in December.

Lest you think established tradition eliminates all hope of new traditions forming, I can assure you that’s not the case. We’ll be forming a new one this year as my long-divorced grandparents (Hot Lips and The Old Bastard) are forced to dine under the same roof. We will be frisking them at the door for weapons.

Do you have any unique traditions in your family? Anything that seemed normal growing up, but you realized with the addition of outsiders was not something all families did? Please share.

And please keep your hands off my socks. Touch the the pair I want, and I can assure you there will be bloodshed.

A word about word choices & cash for teeth

The first time I recall obsessing over word choice was a letter to the Tooth Fairy.

I was seven or eight or whatever age you are when you lose the last of your baby teeth and the last of your belief that a winged creature will sneak into your room and swap your blood-flecked molar for a few quarters.

I remember sitting at my desk with my Hello Kitty pencil as I grappled with the message I wanted to convey. I knew my parents were the Tooth Fairy. I also knew they’d been mumbling that money was tight. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but figured I shouldn’t strain the family coffers by expecting a handout.

On the other hand, I wanted those quarters.

I can’t recall the precise wording of my note, except that I needed to choose between using the word “anyway” or “anyhow” in a sentence suggesting the Tooth Fairy didn’t have to leave me money.

“Anyway” was casual and breezy, and carried a genuine sense of ambivalence about the cash.

“Anyhow” had a forlorn tone, a hint of self-sacrifice. Was that what I wanted to express? Or did it sound melodramatic and manipulative?

I don’t actually remember what I decided. Neither does my mom, who dug through all her old boxes in search of Tooth Fairy notes. She didn’t find the one I just described, though she did unearth this gem:

While I won’t claim I was a child prodigy of an author, I’m surprised to look back now and realize I grasped something pretty important in my anyhow/anyway debate – word choice does matter.

I'm no expert, but here are three tips I can offer when it comes to wise word use:

Watch for unnecessary words. I was aghast the first time someone pointed out how often I used “that” without needing to. Sentences often flow better without it. I knew that he wanted to hump my leg sounds clunkier than I knew he wanted to hump my leg. Search your manuscript and see if you’re a “that” abuser.

Wage an adverb war. I’m not one of those adverb Nazis who insists on eliminating any word that ends in “ly,” but I do keep tabs on my usage. If I find a lot of adverbs creeping into my writing, it generally means I’m getting lazy and “telling” instead of “showing.” Remember when we talked about that?

Learn when to obsess and when to knock it the hell off. Sometimes I catch myself fretting over every little word in a manuscript. I refer to this as "time to drink." Be cautious and deliberate in your word use, but learn when to shut off your internal editor and just let words flow. You can always go back and fix things later, but if you can’t find the right word in the moment, there’s no shame in substituting LKJLKJ (my personal favorite).

Do you have any words to live by when it comes to word choices in writing? Please share.

Oh, and for the record, the Tooth Fairy left the money. The bitch knows how to put out.*

* My mom is going to wash my mouth out with soap for that, but it was totally worth it.

My hole got plugged so my jugs aren't full

Before we get started on this fine Monday morning, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who offered blog organization tips in response to Friday's post.

I asked Joelle Anthony, author of RESTORING HARMONY, to choose one lucky commenter to receive the autographed copy of her book. After a complicated selection process that involved calculating the square root of pi and sacrificing several small mammals, Joelle chose blog commenter ~ M (also known as Mary Alongi). Congratulations, Mary! Email me with your address and I'll get the book to you ASAP!

Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

I traveled to Salem, OR this past weekend to take part in the 20th Annual Grape Stomp Competition at Willamette Valley Vineyards.

Participants compete in pairs with the "stomper" using bare feet to crush grapes, and the "swabber" using a dipstick-like device to keep the drain clear and the juice flowing into the milk jugs.

I stomped. My dad swabbed.

We sucked.

Something went awry with our drain tube, and despite my dad's best efforts, we couldn't get it clear. On top of that, the teenager I asked to take video of the five-minute event manged to record exactly one second of footage of me stepping out of the barrel.

But this is exactly what I wanted. A learning experience.

Though it's possible I'd do this event even if I didn't have an ulterior motive, I do have one. The third book in my contract, LET IT BREATHE, takes place in the Oregon wine industry. Though it won't be released until August 2012, it's never to early to look for interesting promotional opportunities.

I don't know yet if the 2012 Grape Stomp might be a good place for a book signing, or if my time might be better spent lighting my hair on fire and screaming "buy my book!" as I fling grape pulp at the competitors.

But I do know how the event works now. I know that next time, I'll watch the earlier heats to see which barrels have trouble draining. I know I'll spend more time finding someone to take video. I know I'll poke holes in the bottom of the other competitors' jugs so all their juice drains out I'll wear my hair up next time so it stays out of my face.

It's a bit like writing, no? Even if some of your earliest efforts are abysmal failures in terms of publication or feedback, they aren't wasted efforts. You learn from those efforts, and those lessons will serve you well with future books.

What are some learning experiences you've had so far in your writing? Please share.

And speaking of sharing, here are some of the lovely photos my mother took on Saturday. Enjoy!

A plethora of grapes await stomping.

Dad scopes out the barrels before the competition.

A little pre-competition beverage.

Sizing up the competition before the whistle blows.

Stomping...

More stomping...

Wow, this stomping is lasting on a long time.

Yay, team! Oh, wait – we sucked.

My grape stomping machines.

Getting cleaned up afterward.

Standing in line to get our juice strained and measured.

Hanging with my parents!

Why I love being a trophy wife

On Friday night, I had a hot date with a guy who’s not my husband.

He’s a handsome, sophisticated, dashing older gentleman, and we enjoyed a fine evening of gourmet food and wine.

The fact that he’s my dad doesn’t make it any less scandalous. On the contrary, I saw several sets of raised eyebrows.

You see, my dad is a retired teacher who spent 30 years at the same school. Pretty much anywhere he goes in Salem, Oregon, there's a chance he'll run into a former student, parent, or colleague.

Since my mom prefers her wine to include the word “cooler,” it’s one of those things my dad and I enjoy together. We enjoy it best of all at the Celebration Oregon, an annual event that includes wines from 50+ wineries and food from 15 chefs.

Taking wine notes.

We’ve been attending for years, and without fail, we always run into someone who knows my dad.

On Saturday night, it was a perky 20-something pouring for one of the wineries.

“Mr. Fenske!” she called. “Hi, Mr. Fenske! Remember me?”

As always, there was a long pause. I could see the wheels turning in my dad’s head. I could see him trying hard to place her – maybe in the back of the classroom in 1999? No, no, maybe third seat from the front the last semester of 1997– did she have braces then?

“It’s Jane,” she announced. “You were my English and Social Studies teacher. I thought you were the best!”

As my dad continued to study her and wait for recognition to dawn, I watched the girl steal a look at me. That’s when I saw the wheels start to turn in her head:

Wait – that’s not his wife. I know that’s not his wife, he had a picture on his desk. Is she the mistress? Oh, man. Maybe I’m not supposed to see this. Or maybe his wife died and he got a younger one. Wow, that’s so sad, but good for him. I mean, a guy deserves to be happy, right?

If I were a nicer person, I’d step in every time this happens and clear the whole thing up by introducing myself as Mr. Fenske’s daughter.

But the fact is, I enjoy this. For all those times my dad went out of his way to embarrass me in middle school by calling me by my nickname in front of my classmates (Buzzard Snot, if you must know) this is payback.

Eventually, we wandered off with our wineglasses in hand. I was already scanning the crowd for the next former student. Just for fun, I reached up with my napkin to dab some barbecue sauce from my dad’s chin.

I’m a considerate sort of trophy wife.

Did you have parents who liked to embarrass you? Has the tide shifted now that you’re older, or are they still yelling across public places to ask if you need to use the bathroom? Please share in the comments.

I’ll be deciding whether my mom has something coming in return for all those early curfews.

Is he my dad, or is he my sugar daddy?

A birthday gift from Hot Lips

For much of my adult life, I've felt uncomfortable receiving presents.

(If you've already gone out and purchased the hippopotamus I asked for, don't worry – I'll still accept it).

Most of the time, I don't feel right accepting gifts. I already have the most amazing family on the planet, an incredible husband, a great house, and a really nice bra collection. I'd rather have people just donate their money to charity.

Sometimes though, a loved one will surprise me with something that makes me laugh so hard I totally get over myself and my aversion to gifts.

Case in point, here's the birthday card I received from my 80-year-old grandmother, the woman I've affectionately called Hot Lips for as long as I can remember:


And the inside of the card...

In case you can't read it, Hot Lips is asking me to take her with me to see the male strippers. Seriously, is she the coolest grandma in the world or what?

Then there's the gift. This is intended to hang next to my front door, something that will happen just as soon as I convince Pythagoras I wasn't requesting birthday nookie when I said, "can you please nail this?"

Suffice it to say, I've been giggling all morning.

What are some of your favorite birthday gifts? Did you ever get something so clever or so bizarre that you just have to share? Please do in the comments!

I'll be supervising the hammering.

Um, wait...

Should I pick up my undies for you?

Sunday evening, we had friends over for dinner.

I didn’t tidy the kitchen. I didn’t spend hours cooking. I didn’t even check between the sofa cushions for underwear.

We’ve known these two couples for 12 years, so I no longer feel the need to pretend I’m a respectable housekeeper who doesn’t allow the dogs to lick the plates after meals.

I thought about this midway through dinner when it occurred to me I hadn’t even made sure there was toilet paper in the guest bath.

Part of me felt bad about that.

And part of me felt grateful to have friends who are comfortable enough in my home to march out of the bathroom muttering, “Tawna, you disgusting slob, where’s your butt buffer?”

It’s something that’s been on my mind a lot lately with this blog, too. I’ve been delighted to see a recent uptick in brand new visitors journeying over from other blogs with enviously high traffic. Agent Janet Reid has kindly linked to me a couple times on her blog, and Lucy March (a.k.a. New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lani Diane Rich) has generously included a link to my blog in the sidebar of hers.

Each time someone new shows up, I have a moment of panic. Did I post something entertaining today? Was I funny enough to keep them coming back?

Then I feel like a jerk, because shouldn’t I care just as much about being funny and entertaining for those of you who’ve been showing up all along?

This is me being neurotic, I suppose. Deep down, I know I care every bit as much for old friends as I do new ones. It’s just a different dynamic. I’ve already had the chance to make a first impression on blog visitors who’ve been coming around awhile. You know about my dirty jokes and my dirty house, and you keep showing up anyway.

For that, I am insanely grateful.

And the new visitors? Well, all I can do is what I’ve been doing, and hope that’s enough to keep you showing up, too. If not, hey – I’m just glad you stopped by.

Those of you who have blogs of your own – do you do this, too? Do you get nervous when new visitors arrive? Do you re-read your own posts thinking, “crap, I wish she’d dropped by on a day I wasn’t posting pictures of how I eat bananas with my feet?”

I’d love to hear from you in the comments – both old friends and new. All of you make me do happy dances in my underwear.

Underwear I’ll try not to leave in the sofa cushions if you happen to stop by.

Why I spit in my grandma's memory

So today is Memorial Day here in the U.S.

It’s a time for remembering military personnel lost in the line of duty, or for some, just remembering friends and family who’ve passed away.

I did this yesterday by spitting.

Yesterday's sacred spit
at Tumalo Falls.

Grandma Lucy – the woman in whose memory I performed this sacred act – would have approved.

Lucy was the queen of peculiar behavior. She met my grandfather at a garage where he worked as a mechanic and informed him that if he could rebuild a disassembled car in a week, she’d marry him.

He did, so she did, and they were married for more than 50 years.

And you thought my wedding was odd. At least I knew the guy.

One of Grandma Lucy’s habits was spitting over the edge of any bridge she crossed. It became something of a family custom, with my father, my brother and I upholding the tradition on bridges and scenic overlooks around the world.

So when Pythagoras and I went for a hike at Tumalo Falls yesterday, it seemed fitting to hock a loogie in honor of my grandmother.

Back in 2006, I wrote a humorous mystery set in the funeral industry. It’s the book that ultimately landed me my wonderful agent, and though it didn’t sell, it’s still one of my favorites. When I started that book, I wondered if I’d still feel like writing humorous scenes about funerals and cremations and death if someone close to me passed away.

Grandma Lucy died the same week I finished that book.

And I can say for certain that she would have wanted me to keep laughing. She had a knack for finding humor in the strangest places, and for making other people laugh – often without trying.

So Grandma Lucy – I spit in your honor.

And don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re up to today. Everyone says it’s raining, but I know better.

Nice shot.

Grandma Lucy and my dad upholding the family tradition.

Boobies & booties: My wild night with the girls

Last night was a wild and crazy evening with my girlfriends. There was a lot of drinking, some bare breasts, and even some upchucking.

A few years ago, a night out with these same ladies would have been precisely as risqué as I just made it sound.

But that wasn’t the case last night.

You see, one of the women recently had a baby, making her my only close friend to procreate. I know this seems odd, considering I’m 35 and the bulk of my friends are my age and married. But for whatever reason, most of my girlfriends have chosen to remain childless. This is my only friend to buck that trend, and since she moved to another state two years ago, it was my first time meeting the baby.

I was nervous.

Babies scare me a little. They cry and I want to cry, too, not knowing what they need. I’m terrified of that soft spot on top of their heads, and the idea that their little brains could be dented.

My friend – serene with the wisdom of new motherhood – offered sage advice. “Don’t poke her in the head.”

In addition to her new wisdom, my friend has now acquired the upper body strength of a prizefighter. I waited all evening for her to collapse from the sheer exhaustion of carrying a small human around the kitchen, but she never flinched.

Nor did she flinch when the baby suddenly did what babies do as we sat reminiscing about the night we got escorted away by concert security for clambering on-stage to dance with Loverboy.

The storytelling stopped as we watched our friend change a diaper with the efficiency she once reserved for polishing off a margarita and a platter of hot wings.

“You know,” remarked another childless friend, “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone poop that close to me before.”

It’s true, last night was not one of our former wild evenings on the town. But it was no less awe-inspiring.

There are times I feel pretty cool for getting to spend my days creating imaginary people, giving them names and physical features and character traits.

My friend just did that with a real person.

I may be able to drink her under the table now – blame it on the breastfeeding – but I’m pretty sure she now outranks me in cool points. By a long shot.

Friendship without pillow fights in your underwear

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of an in-person meeting with talented writers Debra Schubert and Kristina Martin.

Three months ago, I didn’t know either of them existed.

When my agent urged me to join Twitter earlier this year, I read enough books and articles to recognize Twitter as a necessary networking tool for a debut author.

But what I didn’t know is how quickly I’d form friendships that didn’t involve putting anyone in a headlock and demanding they buy my novel.

There were no headlocks last Friday evening. No pillow fights in our underwear, either (I think we’re saving that for next time). It was just a fun chance to connect with two terrific women – one who flew 2,900 miles to get there – for great food, wine, and laughter.

Debra (@dlschubert), me (@tawnafenske),
and Kristina (@quickmissive)

I’ve swapped 140-character notes with them for only a few months, and we’ve already filled each other’s wine glasses and admired each other’s lipstick. And though it was a blast, it reminded me that meeting in-person isn’t a requirement to forging lasting connections in writing communities.

Michelle Wolfson has been my agent for over two years. She’s propped me up after rejections, squealed with me over our shared successes, and coached me through a phone call with an editor in which I was fairly certain I’d either cry, puke, or accidentally spew dirty jokes.

But I’ve never actually met Michelle. Not in person, anyway.

And it’s been six years since I first connected with critique partner Cynthia Reese when we were both unpublished authors on the Harlequin message boards. We’ve worked together through book deals and failures, through good manuscripts and bad ones, through bleak times where we both said, “Screw it, I’m quitting writing to become a lap dancer.”

(OK – maybe that was just me).

And though we’ve shed real tears for each other through both personal crises and writing ones, we’ve never met in person.

I thought of this the other day when I heard an author lamenting the difficulty of finding someone local to critique with. It reminded me how lucky we all are that we have the ability to connect with other writing professionals using only a few mouse-clicks. Lurking online, you can find critique partners and beta readers, build support systems with other authors, even stalk interact professionally with agents.

I can say with absolute certainty you can forge amazing connections even if you never actually meet any of these people in-person.

OK, there is one advantage to the in-person meetings. Check out what Kristina brought me after reading this post I wrote last week:

A backhoe of my very own, courtesy of Kristina! Just like the real thing. Pretty much.

Yeah. My friends kind of rock. How about you? Have you forged any great online relationships with other professionals in the writing world? Tell me in the comments, my fine friends!

How my mom nurtured my dirty mind

I'm hanging out at my parents' house in Salem for a couple days to attend some Romance Writers of America functions and drink wine with engage professionally with fellow authors.

(Incidentally, how many non-Oregonians know Salem is our capital? Most assume it's Portland, including whoever decided this city should have no commercial airport or TV networks of its own. It has vineyards, though, so what else do you need?)

With Mother's Day coming up this Sunday and my mom hovering around offering to feed me every five minutes, I've been thinking about some of the ways she fostered my creativity.

My parents never bought me coloring books as a kid. This was partly because my lack of patience and artistic talent meant I viewed coloring books as something to be completed in under two minutes, but there were other reasons.

"I didn't want you to feel like you had to stay in the lines," my mom told me later. "I always gave you blank paper so you could be as creative as you wanted."

This did have its drawbacks, like the time my brother and I got in trouble for drawing dirty pictures (though even our mom admits they were creative ones).

When I was older and had to do an art project on THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN, my mom didn't bat an eyelash when I used modeling clay to create anatomically correct figures of Huck and Jim floating naked on a raft. And she was prepared to defend me to anyone who raised an eyebrow. "It's right there in the book," she agreed. "Not a stitch of clothes on."

These days, I rely on both my parents to proof my manuscripts when I need fresh eyes outside my pool of critique partners and beta readers. Considering the risque nature of some of my scenes, this isn't as awkward as you might think.

"There's a typo on page 112 in the third paragraph of the phone sex scene," my mom informed me on a recent read-through of a manuscript. "I think you meant 'thrust' instead of 'trust.'"

So how about you, dear readers? How did your mother foster your creativity as an author? Give her a shout-out in the comments.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to see if mom has a better word for "purple-headed warrior."

I don't know how you do it

I dearly love my cousin and his family, but I’ll confess – there were a couple times this weekend when I considered sticking my head in the oven.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with their two toddlers (ages 1 and 3). It’s just that Pythagoras and I have not been around small children…well, ever. We don’t know many people with kids, and we agreed very early in our marriage that we didn’t wish to procreate.

(As a side-note, ladies, if you’re looking for a thoughtful birthday gift for your husband, a vasectomy is not the right choice. Post-surgery, however, a pack of frozen peas will be met with great enthusiasm).

Ozzy with a look that means "gotta go."

Having two extra adults, two toddlers, and a teenager in the house for the weekend gave me a deeper admiration for the authors out there who do what they do with one or more children in the house. Agents, too, for that matter – or really any professional who juggles parenthood with a career that requires creativity.

My fabulous agency sistah Kiersten White frequently blogs about her wee ones, and our agent Michelle Wolfson often takes to Twitter to share tidbits about her own 1-year-old and 4-year-old.

After this weekend, all I can say is DEAR GOD, PEOPLE, HOW DO YOU DO IT?

The noises, the smells, the screaming, the messes, the blare of cartoons, the regimented nap schedules – and that’s just the adults.

Bindi and Matt snuggle prior to a wrestling
match that will require a referee

Seriously, I don’t know how authors with small kids can handle it. I sure as hell couldn’t, and I’m deeply grateful I’ll never have to.

Don’t get me wrong, my four-legged brood can be distracting. There’s Ozzy the slightly-incontinent old man dog whose hourly bathroom breaks can cut into my writing time. There’s Bindi the 1-year-old Australian Kelpie (i.e. herding dog on crack) who will spontaneously combust if I don’t get up and walk her. Even the cats make demands on my writing time, with Matt the Cat preferring to nap on my lap, and Blue Cat preferring to nap with his head on the power-strip (a situation that results in frequent, unexpected restarts).

Blue Cat naps on my power-strip.

But that’s nothing compared with what you parents of small children deal with. For that I raise a toast in your honor.

With a very, very strong drink.

What's in your fridge?

As I’ve mentioned before, I love to cook.

As I’ve also mentioned, I’m lazy.

But since I’m a bit of a food snob, I’m seldom satisfied with a dinner of Pop Tarts and root beer.

Fortunately, my good friend Larie shares these same three admirable traits, which often leads to conversations like this:

Me: Want to do dinner?

Her: Sure, what do you have?

Me: Half-a-pound of leftover taco meat, four tomatoes, and a beet. You?

Her: Leftover roast chicken and some Gorgonzola not too far past the expiration date.

Me: Lettuce?

Her: Uh-huh. You have wine?

Me: Do fish fart bubbles?

Her: Be here at 6:30.

The two of us will spend a few minutes clicking away on our favorite recipe websites, and will soon formulate a plan for homemade gourmet pizzas (one barbecue chicken, one taco) with a nice side salad of fresh greens, beets, Gorgonzola, and candied pecans.

Much better than sitting home alone eating leftover taco meat, plus our husbands enjoy getting together to talk about cars and scratch themselves.

Writing is a lot like that.

I don’t mean the scratching (though I won’t judge if that’s part of your writing routine). I mean the idea of creating something fresh and new out of the hodgepodge in several people’s refrigerators.

I was stumbling the other day trying to get a handle on a couple of the characters in my new manuscript. Right away, critique partner Cynthia Reese threw me the names of several actors she thought might fit the bill, giving me a much better mental picture of who these guys are.

One of the wine industry professionals I met last week told me about holding tastings in a barn, and it gave me a nugget of an idea for this scene I’m working on. Hot Lips (my grandma) said something funny on the phone the other day, and it sparked a thought about another character I’m writing.

Does that mean I’m packing my novel with descriptions of Owen Wilson, the layout of Illahe’s winery, or the joke Hot Lips made?

Nope, not at all. When I’m done chewing on them, the characters, places, and phrases bear little resemblance to their original inspiration.

Kinda like the pizzas. In either case, devouring someone else’s leftovers can be remarkably satisfying.

Do you repurpose things from other people’s kitchens or lives and make them into something deliciously new? Do share!

I’ll be over here nibbling on leftover pizza. Hmm…wonder what this could be tomorrow?