Check out my new hole

I knew I'd picked the right place when I walked in and saw this sign on the wall:

For nearly 20 years, I've contemplated piercing the upper part of my ear. I've had my lobes pierced since I was 10, but a cartilage piercing in the upper ear is a bit more complicated. It was one of those things I always figured I'd get around to doing when I had something special to commemorate – maybe an anniversary, or perhaps I'd have it done while traveling in some exotic locale.

OK, so divorce isn't exactly what I had in mind. It still seemed like a good excuse, so I marched into the nearest piercing studio on Saturday afternoon and handed my credit card to a woman with so many holes in her face she could double as a sieve.

Some of you are aware of my acute needle phobia. It's true that I'm terrified to the point of hysteria of IVs and blood draws, and I'm not overly fond of vaccinations, but there's something different about piercing. Don't ask me to explain the distinction, because then I'd have to think about it and I'll be forced to acknowledge that my phobia has more to do with some sort of weird vascular hangup than with an actual fear of sharp, pointy things, and then I will have typed the word "vascular" and I'll have thrown up a little in my mouth.

Regardless of the reason, I wasn't afraid of the piercing. Good thing, since it kinda hurt. Here's a look at the process and the end result:

I'm rather fond of it. It's still a bit tender and I'm a little terrified of catching it on my hairbrush. Overall though, I'm pleased with this small gesture to commemorate a major life event.

When it comes right down to it, most of my treasured possessions have some sort of tie like this. Nearly every painting or piece of artwork in my home is something I picked up while traveling.

Open my jewelry box and you won't find a lot of flashy, expensive stuff. What you will find is the inexpensive necklace I bought myself to commemorate my first big manuscript rejection. The delicate little pearl earrings I'm wearing in the photo above were a gift from two of my beta readers when I left the company we all worked for and took a job that would allow me more free time for writing.

Do you tend to collect sentimental objects or experiences to mark major life events? Please share!

I'll be busy shopping for sports cars. Isn't that the next step in the divorce process after body mutilation?

Let's talk about money...or let other people do it

Yesterday's post about doing things for love or money generated some fascinating discussion about finances, passion, prostitution, and the potential ogling of my new young tenant (for the record, he's a sweet, slightly naive young man to whom I could have easily given birth. Definitely NOT going there!)

A lot of authors shy away from talking about money in public forums. I'll admit it, I'm one of them.

I vowed at the start that I wouldn't discuss my advance, royalties, earn-out, or any other specific financial details. It's just not something I wish to share, but that doesn't mean I don't admire the hell out of authors who choose to. They're the ones who help keep the rest of us firmly grounded and remind us we probably shouldn't begin drafting a scathing resignation letter to the boss the day book deal comes through.

There's a statistic I've seen thrown around again and again that I'm too lazy to go out and confirm right now: Less than 10% of published authors are able to make a living solely on their careers as authors. The vast majority maintain a day job. I remember being stunned by that when I first read it. The more I learned the facts, the better I understood.

One of the best explanations I've seen on this subject was written by New York Times bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries. If you haven't read The Big Misunderstanding about Money and want to know more about the financial side of writing, I encourage you to check it out.

Another amazing (and more recent) article on the subject comes from author Lynn Viehl. She vowed several years ago that if she had a book hit the top 20 on the New York Times mass market bestseller list, she'd share every scrap of information including her advance and royalties. She made good on her promise with an article titled The Reality of a Times Bestseller. If you want the nitty-gritty details (including a look at her actual royalty statement) it's an incredibly enlightening article.

Finally, there was a post just last week from romantic comedy goddess Lani Diane Rich (writing as Lucy March). She's a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who's published nine delightful novels all with "big six" New York publishing houses, and I adore her so much I want to pick her up by the ears and squeeze her.

But I'm leery about the restraining order, so instead I'll share a link to her ballsy, beautiful blog post about how she recently took a part-time job working retail in a mall. It's not packed with numbers and specific financial details like the other two, but it's a fascinating glimpse into the realities of author ego and the fact that most of us are not rolling in piles of cash tossed at us by our nude cabana boys.

So there you have it. While I won't share my financial details, I'll happily share them for other authors. Nice of me, huh?

For those of you still in the early stages of your writing career, do you entertain the "quit your day job" fantasies of authordom? For those at a different stage in your careers (or those who aren't writers at all) have you stumbled upon anything that's shaken your preconceived ideas about authors' financial lives? Please share!

Oh, and if you do happen to have those nude cabana boys who throw money, please share them as well. It's only fair.

Do you do it for love or for money?

Life's been a bit chaotic lately, as you might have guessed. One result of the divorce and my intent to hold on to this house without resorting to prostitution is that I've rented a room to a 20-year-old college kid.

It's not as inconvenient as you might imagine. The house is quite large, and most of the time I don't even know my young tenant is here. He stays in his room listening to music and doing whatever it is young males do behind closed doors.

I'd rather not dwell on that.

The other night, I wanted pork chops. Since I love to cook and it's not any tougher to prep a dinner for two people than for one, I invited my young tenant to join me. He seemed downright giddy at the prospect of a home-cooked meal, and chattered amicably with me as I prepared pork chops braised with shallots in a honey balsamic reduction, rosemary garlic mashed potatoes, and roasted asparagus.

Once he stopped being perplexed at the lack of a frozen pizza on the table, he dug right in.

"This is amazing," he gushed between bites. "Why didn't you become a chef?"

It was such a funny, typically 20-year-old question that I almost laughed.

"Because I like to cook," I told him. "If I had to do it for a job, I might not like it anymore."

It was such a foreign concept to him that he stopped chewing and stared at me. "You mean you want a job you don't like?"

"Not exactly. It's just that loving to do something doesn't necessarily mean it's a good career choice."

I refrained from adding that if I set out to pick a career based on what I love most, the prostitution thing might not be such a bad idea after all.

It did get me thinking though. Not about prostitution, but the fine line between loving to do something and making a living at it. In a roundabout way, I've been writing for my supper my whole adult life. The bulk of my career has been in marketing and public relations, so the writing portion of it taps a different part of my mind than romantic comedy does.

Still, there have been times when the day job sucks the creative writing center of my brain to the point that it resembles a deflated udder. To say that makes it tough to come home and crank out chapters in a novel is a bigger understatement than if I told you I have a mild fondness for being groped.

My urge to protect my creative energy is the main reason I avoid accepting freelance writing projects on the side unless I'm bribed with large amounts of free food and cash. I know my well can run dry, so I'd prefer to save the water for a sexy bubble bath rather than a load of laundry.

I didn't say any of this to my young tenant, of course. By then he'd grown bored with the conversation and was busy texting someone with one hand as he shoveled up the last of the mashed potatoes with the other.

"You're a very good cook," he said politely.

"Thank you," I replied. "You're not going to eat the asparagus?"

He frowned. "It's green."

"I can't argue with that."

How do you find the balance between having a job you love and one that pays the bills? If you're a writer, do you ever reach a saturation point where you fear you might kill your own desire to do it?

Speaking of doing it . . . oh, never mind. Writing is pretty much like prostitution anyway, right?

3 writing contest landmines to avoid

Let me state for the record that I don’t hate writing contests.

Is that like starting a conversation with, “no offense, but—” which pretty much ensures whatever you say next is going to piss someone off?

Well, I don’t. Hate contests, that is. It’s possible what I have to say about them is going to piss someone off, and I do apologize for that.

I’ve been playing the fiction writing game for almost nine years, and I’ve been around writing contests a lot. I’ve judged, I’ve entered, and I’ve offered moral support to contest loving pals by drinking large quantities of wine on their behalf.

While writing contests can offer excellent things like the promise of feedback and the hope of a career jumpstart from a win, there are a few contest landmines you’d be wise to watch for:

Becoming a contest whore

Entering a contest is a bit like drinking a glass of Chianti – it’s tough to stop at just one. I’ve watched countless writers start with a tentative toe-dip in the contest pool and end up ripping off their clothes to dive headfirst into a drunken, chlorine-infused orgy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but there’s a high risk that entering contests can become your entire focus — instead of, oh, say FINISHING A BOOK.

There’s an art to getting a contest entry just right. You make sure the synopsis is properly formatted and those first few chapters have perfect pacing. Many contest fans get it down to a science and rack up contest placements like girl scout badges. But the risk here is that you lose (or never fully develop) the ability to carry a story past those first 100 pages. If you do decide to enter contests, don’t lose sight of your ultimate goal — writing the best book possible, not just the best contest entry.

Judgefail

I’ll admit I’ve judged more contests than I’ve entered, which probably makes me a judgmental bitch. My one experience entering a fiction writing contest happened in 2005. I won’t name the contest, except to say that it was a well-regarded one in my genre. I submitted my entry and stalked my mailman until he got a restraining order against me waited patiently for the results. While I waited, I got THE CALL from Harlequin/Silhouette saying they’d like to buy the book for their Bombshell line of action/adventure novels. Suffice it to say, I was thrilled. I forgot about the contest until the results arrived in the mail — incidentally, the same week my advance check showed up.

The judges were not impressed by me. One questioned my research (something I found laughable since, if anything, the book was over-researched). Another judge just didn’t fall in love with my heroine and also attempted to make a point-of-view correction that was just plain wrong. Overall, the results could best be described as lukewarm. My entry was not chosen for the final round where — ironically — it would have had the opportunity to be judged by an editor from Harlequin/Silhouette.

It behooves us all to remember that contest judges don’t know everything. I say that having been one, and knowing I’ll certainly be one again. Learning to trust yourself is one of the toughest things a new author can do, so be wary of anything with the potential to derail that learning process. Judges' comments can be useful, but they should also be taken with a grain of salt (preferably on the rim of a margarita glass).

Crushing your fragile ego

Constructive criticism is as vital to the writing process as heavy petting is to any good game of hide the salami. But there’s a time and a place for it.

A New York Times bestselling author once told me that during her early stages of any manuscript, she deliberately uses a beta reader who will do nothing but gush with praise. I laughed when she told me that, and then decided she’s the smartest person I know. She’s wise enough — and experienced enough — to realize exactly what she needs at different stages in her writing process.

I tend to prefer having trusted critique partners beat the holy living crap out of me pretty early in my drafts. Even so, I treasure their gems of positive feedback as a big part of what keeps me going. I know what I need and my author friend knows what she needs, and they aren’t the same thing.

Hurling yourself at the doors of the publishing industry is a brutal process, and it takes time to learn your own capacity for rejection and negative feedback. If there’s a chance that a savage beating from a contest judge will kill your desire to keep writing, don’t risk it. Check out books on writing craft. Join a critique group and ask them to go easy at first. While you shouldn’t shy away from constructive criticism, you also shouldn’t go chasing after it if you aren’t certain of your own ability to handle it at this stage in your process.

Are you a fan of writing contests? What sort of experiences have you had with them? Please share!

And rest assured that if you ever enter a contest I’m judging, I am a gentle lover who doles out ample praise with bits of heartfelt honesty. I also have soft hands.

Give me your best (or worst) pickup lines!

Yesterday’s post about horny honkers prompted some great comments, including the following from regular blog reader Claire Dawn:

At home in Barbados, guys used to make a sort of catcall (Seets) and say, "My friend..." and start their pick up lines from there. I always wondered if a single girl ever fell for a guy seetsing.

The comment got me thinking about pickup lines and how they vary from culture to culture.

When I was in my early 20s, I taught English in Venezuela. Most students were roughly the same age I was, and teachers were encouraged to make the lessons relevant to normal American life. Song lyrics, curse words, and popular slang were all fair game.

Hanging with my students in Venezuela circa 1997.

So were pickup lines.

I can’t remember how I got the idea for the lesson, but I do remember explaining the term “cheesy” and making sure the students understood that most pickup lines aren’t particularly effective. It turned into an excellent cultural exchange, with everyone trying to outdo each other using terrible pickup lines in multiple languages.

“Here’s a good one,” I explained to the class. “And by ‘good’ I mean ‘don’t say this unless you want to be slapped.’”

I had their attention.

“You can approach a woman in a bar and say, ‘Wow, that blouse is very becoming on you.’ Then you pause for effect and smile. ‘If I were on you, I’d be coming, too.’”

There was a long silence during which I realized I was going to have to add a new term to my students’ vocabulary.

But they were game, and the rest of the lesson went swimmingly.

I soon forgot about it, and that round of students went on to pass their exams and move on to other teachers who probably employed more appropriate methods of instruction. A few months later, I ran into one of my former students in the library.

“Hey, Julio!” I called. “I hear you’re doing great in level eight.”

“Yes, teacher. Thank you very much.”

“I like your new haircut. It looks very nice.”

“Thank you teacher,” he said, blushing a little. “That dress is very becoming on you.”

I beamed, completely oblivious. “Thank you, Julio.”

“Teacher, if I were on you—”

I didn’t give him the chance to finish, though I did offer him a solid pat on the back for his good memory. To this day, I live in fear of Julio roaming the Venezuelan countryside using that line on unsuspecting women in bars.

What’s the worst pickup line you’ve ever heard? On the flip side, can you think of a good one that might actually work? Please share!

Oh, and by the way – that shirt looks great on you.

It would look better on my bedroom floor.

Honk if you're feeling horny...or obnoxious

In Oregon’s mountainous high desert, spring is a fickle bitch.

Last Wednesday I woke to an inch of snow on the ground. By afternoon it was so sunny I stripped off my sweater and went for a walk in short sleeves.

The walk got me feeling warm and smiley and pretty delighted with life in general. I was lost in a daydream involving a grassy hillside, a bottle of almond oil, and a guy with fabulous hands when suddenly…

HONK! HONK! HONK!

It wasn’t a flock of geese issuing a mating call. It was a mating call though.

I turned to see a dude grinning and pointing at me from behind the wheel of a two-tone muscle car. Just in case that failed to turn me on, he leaned out the open window and shouted something that was either, “nice ass” or “how do you feel about poststructuralist strategies toward the interpretation of New-Americal poetic dissidents?”

It was tough to tell over his thumpin’ bass.

Seriously, what the hell?

I get honked at a lot. It’s not that I’m so wildly attractive men can’t control their horns. More likely it’s that I often travel on foot and my long hair readily identifies me as female. I don’t kid myself that the horn honkers have higher standards than that.

The honking phenomenon fascinates me. Somehow, somewhere, this must have worked for some guy. A nubile female must have jumped at the sound of a car horn and promptly stripped off her clothing before diving into the passenger seat of a passing vehicle.

That’s the only reason I can think of why men continue to do this.

I used to work in an office that was only a mile from my house. Because I walked to work every day, I got honked at pretty regularly. On one particular morning it happened twice within a three block stretch. The sound of a blaring car horn at close range is pretty startling, so after the second time it happened, I was feeling pretty irritated.

When a third car horn sounded, I whirled around and flipped off the driver.

It was the CEO.

He was waving hello.

We never spoke of the incident, and I learned to control my impulses a bit better. OK, that’s a lie. But I did learn to look before making obscene gestures at passing motorists.

Can you offer a reasonable explanation for this honking phenomenon? Have you ever been guilty of it yourself? Is homicide considered justifiable if the horn honker startles me badly enough that my finger slips on the trigger of my sawed-off shotgun? Please share!

Alien boobs and frolicking in the flowers

I am not here.

The reason is because I'm here:
No, those aren't alien boobs. They're the Painted Hills on the fringe of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument in Oregon, and I'm taking an impromptu road trip to see them at the height of wildflower season.

But hey, I still blogged. Just not here. I'm over at The Debutante Ball today where we've been discussing family members reading our books. Stop by for a visit if you want to know how my parents handle reading some of the more risqué elements of my stories.

I'll return from frolicking in the flowers shortly. Until then, I encourage you all to fill your weekends with as much frolicking as possible.

The power of hasty grabbing

I went to Barnes and Noble yesterday. I was supposed to be buying something for the day job, but as is often the case when I’m allowed out in public, I got distracted.

I started out admiring all the Sourcebooks titles on the special display rack at the center of the store. Then I headed to the YA section (pausing en route to admire the sex books) and made certain agency sistah Kiersten White’s book was shelved front and center. Then I headed over to new releases and began picking up random books and reading first pages.

I’ll admit it – nothing grabbed me. That’s unfortunate, since I’m rather fond of being grabbed in public.

Eventually, my inner cheapskate led me to the clearance table where I spotted a familiar book. Johnathan Tropper’s How to Talk to a Widower delighted me several years ago when my book club read it, though I hadn’t seen my copy since I tipsily loaned it to someone whose name I’ve now forgotten.

I picked it up. I started reading. I forgot about the other books. I forgot about the ice cream melting in my car. I forgot about the very real possibility my dog would eat the sofa if I didn’t get home and walk her.

From the very first page, I was sucked in (feel free to insert the dirty joke here, since I already confessed to the fondness for public grabbing).

Before I knew it I was marching up to the cash register to purchase a book I ALREADY OWN.

That’s the power of a great opening paragraph.

And it’s something every writer needs to remember regardless of what stage you’re at in your career. When you’re querying agents or editors, you have a tiny number of words to catch someone’s attention. You might have the most magnificent novel on the planet, packed with swordfights and erotic sex and monkeys riding unicycles.

But if you don’t grab someone’s attention in the first few paragraphs, it doesn’t really matter. No one will read it.

It’s a lesson I sure as hell need to remember as I prepare to start putting words on the page for my next book. I’ll admit it, I’ve been known to start a book in the wrong place from time to time. The action lags or the sentences are too long or a joke falls flat as a flaccid beef baton.

Fortunately, I’ve gotten pretty good at catching myself before I show it to anyone. Years of writing snappy leads as a journalist fine-tuned my ability to do a decent job grabbing the eyes of ADD readers just like me.

Still, I have to work at it. We all do if we want someone to take that scary step that starts with picking up the book and ends with a reader upending her purse on the bookstore counter to paw through gum wrappers and penis pens to find exact change to purchase the book.

Not that I’ve done that.

Are you a picky reader when it comes to opening paragraphs? How long do you give a book to catch your attention? If you’re a writer, how do you make sure your opening paragraphs don’t just grab your reader, but reach out and give a friendly nipple tweak? Please share!

I’ll be skimming the Johnathan Tropper book for that scene where the narrator ends up without pants on a first date. Trust me, it’s worth buying the book twice just for that.

Get ME for free!

Thanks so much to author pal Jeffe Kennedy for the heads-up on this…

Over at the uber-fabulous Dear Author blog, they’ve posted a list of upcoming Sourcebooks titles for 2011.

I can’t decide which is cooler – the fact that I’m on the list (which means this whole “you have a book coming out in August” isn’t just a story my mom and agent invented to make me feel good about myself) or that Dear Author and Sourcebooks are giving away copies of a whole bunch of books on the list.

All you have to do is leave a comment saying which book you’re looking forward to the most. I won’t twist your arm or threaten to pee on you if you don’t name me.

OK, I might threaten those things, but I won’t really do them. Probably.

Seriously though, free books. How can you beat that? Go now. The contest ends at 8 p.m. CST on Friday, April 22 and winners will be announced on Saturday.

Hey, I wonder if I’m eligible to win?

How awkward humping can inspire your writing

The advantage of having a dog with extraordinarily high energy is that I have to drag my lazy writer butt out of the house to walk her each day or risk having her explode in a fit of pent-up frustration.

Dog guts are hell to get out of heater vents.

Long walks alone with my dog are a great way to let my brain chew quietly on a plot point or character issue, but there’s also an advantage to skipping the solitude in favor of a more social locale. The dog park is fabulous place for people watching.

For many authors, people watching is a key part of developing strong characters. Here are just a few of the interesting specimens I’ve met on my recent forays into off-leash areas.

• The TMI dog lady. If you’ve ever been to a dog park, you’ve met this person. You ask her where she got her leash and 20 minutes later, you’re halfway through a detailed story of her dog’s history with gingivitis. I’m pretty sure TMI dog lady actually lives at the dog park and spends her days prowling for someone eager to hear every intimate detail of her canine’s life. I’m also pretty sure I wear an invisible beacon identifying me to TMI dog lady as just that person.  
• The awkward humper. Though it’s generally the dog doing the humping, the level of shame the owner feels suggests he may as well be the one gyrating awkwardly atop hapless strangers. As the dog frolics about mounting anything that moves, the owner alternates between scolding the dog, apologizing to other dog owners, and nervously explaining to everyone that it’s a sign of dominance and not sexual frustration. Personally, I’m a big fan of both the awkward humper and his enthusiastic charge. Such single-minded devotion to an illicit pursuit is the mark of an excellent romance author.  
• The foot-in-mouth guy. This is a more rare specimen, which is one reason I love him so much. On a recent dog park visit, I saw a gentleman tossing a ball for his dog. Several other dogs joined in the fun, prompting the owner to give an impromptu talk about the desirability of rubber balls over tennis balls for fetching. “The texture on a tennis ball can wear down a dog’s teeth,” the man explained. The man beside him nodded in agreement. “I know! My dog will sit there all day trying to chew the fuzz off his balls.”  
• The poop ignorer. If you own a dog, you know it’s your responsibility to pick up when Fido does his duty. But there’s always one person who believes she’s been given a special exception. She stands there feigning intense interest in a rock while Fido hunches up and builds a log cabin. Everyone sees it. The poop ignorer certainly does, but instead of whipping out her little brown bag and doing her part to combat canine landmines, she continues on her merry way. Perhaps she has a severe poo allergy for which she wears a medical alert bracelet. I can truly think of no other explanation, but I do spend an awful lot of time hoping she steps in a pile on her way out.

Are you a people watcher when you’re writing? Where do you go to catch a glimpse of interesting individuals to inspire you? Please share!

And please let me know if you happen to be any of the aforementioned characters. If you’re the awkward humper, I’d like to buy you a drink.