Why I don't trust technology that doesn't use AA batteries

I recently decided it would be technologically responsible to upgrade my iPhone 4 to an iPhone 5 to provide expanded access to professional applications and greater processing speeds conducive to more streamlined business transactions.

That's a lie.

I actually dropped my iPhone in a brewery parking lot and smashed the glass. Even after we bought a cheap repair kit from China and my gentleman friend spent the whole day replacing the touch screen, the damn thing never worked right. I figured my agent was getting tired of having conversations in which I sounded like I was speaking into a coffee can, so I ponied up the cash to get an iPhone 5.

Which is how I ended up with Siri. I'm not terribly tech-savvy, but I was dimly aware that Siri is some magical creature who lives in my iPhone and takes orders from me. Since I don't like to read instructions, that's as far as I got with learning how to use this new feature on my phone.

"Siri," I said to my phone on the way home from the store. "Where's the dog park?"

Silence.

My gentleman friend looked at me. "I think you have to push that button."

"Oh." I tried again. "Siri, where's the dog park?"

Siri beeped twice, then began to speak. "Okay, let's take a look," she announced. "Georgia Bulldogs, Missisippi State Bulldogs, UNC Asheville Bulldogs, Yale Bulldogs, Drake Bulldogs–"

"What is she doing?" called my gentleman friend's 7-year-old daughter from the backseat.

"Smoking crack?" I speculated. "Say no to drugs, kids."

I tried again, thinking perhaps another question was in order. "Siri," I began. "Where's Dairy Queen?"

Siri beeped helpfully. "Okay, let's take a look. Georgia Bulldogs, Missisippi State Bulldogs, UNC Asheville Bulldogs, Yale Bulldogs, Drake Bulldogs–"

"Siri really likes bulldogs," observed my gentleman friend.

I looked over at him, noticed for the hundredth time how hot he is, and decided I should ask Siri her opinion of him.

Siri beeped again. "Would you like me to search the web for Greg Fingers?"

My gentleman friend – whose first name is not Greg, nor is his last name Fingers – looked alarmed.

"Who is Greg Fingers?" asked the 7-year-old.

"Apparently, that's your daddy's new name," I told her.

We arrived home and began preparing dinner, while the kids perched at the counter and offered to help. There wasn't much for them to do that didn't involve sharp knives or boiling sauces, so they asked to play with Siri instead.

"Sure, why not?" I mused. "Just be careful."

The 7-year-old considered her question carefully. "Siri," she began. "Are you a boy or a girl?"

Beep-beep! "I'm not sure we have time for this."

The 7-year-old furrowed her brow and tried again. "What color are your panties?"

Siri beeped. "Would you like me to search the web for, 'what color are your panties?'"

"No!" yelled my gentleman friend, and snatched the phone away. He handed it to the 11-year-old, who was growing tired of Siri at this point. "Siri, why are you such an idiot?"

Beep-beep. "I would rather you didn't."

We all considered that response. The kids proceeded to ask Siri a variety of useful questions, ranging from her hair color to the location of the Xbox controller. She provided equally useful responses, ranging from the location of our nearest Home Depot to the proper cooking temperature for pork.

Finally, the 11-year-old rattled off a monologue that made little sense to us or to Siri. She repeated it back in her helpful, robot-like monotone:

"Searching the web for, 'Siri Siri I just farted Siri hey Siri hey Siri and my annoying you Siri you sure are annoying me Siri ha ha yes yes yes versus being serious thing ha ha d-penicillamine we were not just talking about you Siri yeah. We are talking about another person get enough of it okay on google images.'"

We all stared at the phone, not sure where to go from there. "How about we give Siri a rest for tonight?"

I nodded. "Whatever you say, Greg Fingers."

I didn't bother with Siri again for a few more days, and had almost forgotten about her until I was running late to an event and couldn't remember the exact location. "Siri," I called as I held her button with one hand and drove with the other. "Find me the Cascade Culinary Institute?"

Beep-beep! "I found a couple of places selling caskets fairly close to you."

And that, my friends, is how I gave up on technology.

Does anyone else have any better Siri experiences? Please share!

I'll be in the corner with Siri seeing if I have any luck talking dirty to her.

Stupid, lazy author hasn't had a book out for how long? What the @#%$ has she been doing?

If you've been reading this blog awhile, you're already familiar with the story of my very long road to publication. For those new to this space (or for those who stumbled here by accident after googling monkey sex or garage porn), you can go here here to read the post I wrote more than three years ago.

Suffice it to say, getting to the point where I have actual books for sale in bookstores was a long journey involving canceled book deals, a few tears, copious curse words, and countless glasses of cheap wine.

Which is why I've become more than a little reluctant to post new book deals until things are absolutely, positively certain. Even then, I'm hesitant. More than once, I've opened a box of advance reading copies of one of my romantic comedies and looked around for the swarm of SWAT team members charging up my driveway to seize them from me.

"Sorry, ma'am," a gun-wielding man in full body armor will say as he wrestles the box from my arms. "There's been a mistake, and you aren't really going to have a book published."

And then with one hand I will rip the AK-47 from his grip, while I use the other hand to unbutton my blouse as I purr, "Surely there must be something we can to do–"

Wait, where was I?

Right, I'm nervous about announcing book deals. Which is why I refrained from saying much about these two deals until the announcements appeared in Publishers Marketplace last week:

So that means I have one short novella coming out this August, followed by a three-book series of full novels launching this November (with two more coming sometime around next March and July).

But wait – there's more!

Remember how I had a three-book deal for romantic comedies with Sourcebooks? And remember how Making Waves and Believe it or Not hit shelves when they were supposed to, but the third book kinda vanished? There's a long, grueling, tear-wrenching backstory that involves divorce, romance, editorial differences, a changing marketplace, ninjas, peanut butter, and nipple clamps. I might have made some of that up.

But all that aside, the third book is not only finished, it's slated for publication in May 2014. It doesn't have a title yet, and the cover artists are still working on what it'll look like, but here's what it's about:

Marley Cartman wants a guy with a tiny one.

Bank account, that is.

She’s had her fill of overbearing rich guys, from her dad to her ex-fiancée to the wealthy guys she rubs shoulders with working as a professional fund-raiser. When Marley takes a new job handling donor relations for a wildlife sanctuary in Central Oregon, she vows to make some changes in her personal life, too. She’s only dating blue-collar men with modest paychecks and a little dirt under their fingernails.

That sure as hell doesn’t describe William Barclay, the quirky board chairman who supervises Marley’s position. But Will’s not your typical millionaire, either, with his duct-taped shoes, his assortment of outcast canine companions, and his fondness for shaking up stuffy board meetings with wacky jokes.

Will has issues of his own, namely his ex-wife and his sister. He had no idea the two women were playing clap-the-cupcakes on the side, but he’s over it now, and they’re all friends. Mostly. But he’s had his fill of women pretending to be something they’re not, which is why Marley Cartman rubs Will the wrong way. Is she simply a people-pleasure in sharp suits, or something a little more scheming?

As Will and Marley butt heads over grumpy badgers and phallic artifacts, they discover they have more in common than they imagined. And sometimes, the opposite of what you think you want is exactly what you need.

So there's that. If you're keeping track, that means in the next 13 months, I'll be releasing one novella and FOUR full-length novels. But wait – there's more!

Because my agent figured I wasn't quite busy enough, she asked if I could fit in one more project. So I'm currently at work on a standalone project for Coliloquy that's part of my existing family of Getting Dumped romantic capers. I'm hesitant to say too much (see aforementioned paragraphs about acute paranoia) but we're aiming to have that release sometime in the early fall of 2013).

So, yeah. I've been busy. And happy. And busy. And happy. And horny. And busy. And–

Are these weird writer things, or just weird things?

If there's one thing I've learned about writers, it's that we're all a little eccentric. This is probably true of many professions. I'm sure firefighters and teachers and nipple clamp testers have unique quirks of their own.

The quirks often have nothing at all to do with the profession, though I'd argue they probably equip the individual for success in his or her field. Over the last week, I decided to keep track of the things I said or thought or did and then scrunched up my forehead and thought, "was that weird?"

Then I tossed out the ones that are illegal in several states and came up with the following:

• I hate shopping carts. I've reached the end of my grocery shopping mission when I exceed the limit of what I can carry in my arms or my reusable shopping bag. Not only do I hate using a shopping cart myself, but I can't stand encountering them in stores, and will deliberately avoid an aisle that's packed with them. It's not a germ issue, I swear. It's that they inhibit my ability to maneuver. Like if I were attacked on the grocery store aisle, I need to be able to whip out my ninja moves and escape. Ninjas don't use shopping carts.
• Let's say I need to reheat my tea or defrost a frozen chicken breast. I can't just set the microwave for two minutes. It has to be something like 2:04 or 1:57. Round numbers are not acceptable.
• If I see a penny on the sidewalk, I absolutely must pick it up. I have been known to halt my car at a stop sign, spot a penny in the crosswalk, and get out of the vehicle to claim it. If I don't do this, it will bother me for hours afterward, and my superstitious nature will convince me something awful is going to happen. Once I've acquired the penny, I must drop it down the front of my shirt to secure it in my bra. Inevitably, I forget I've done this and earn myself a strange look from my gentleman friend when I disrobe and reveal a filthy penny stuck to my boob.
• I can't stand to have anyone touch the palm of my left hand. The right hand is just fine.
• If I'm working at a computer, I must have a glass of ice water beside me at all times. The water level must remain above the halfway point, and the ice must make up approximately 50% of the volume. If either of these elements dips below acceptable levels, I must get up from my desk and refill. I've experimented with using different sized glasses, but the rule remains in place regardless of my chosen beverage receptacle.

Rereading that list, I guess some of them sound a little OCD. Huh. Now I need you to tell me your little eccentricities so I don't feel bad. Share them in the comments, and I'll pick a winner on Monday, May 27 to receive a signed copy of Believe it or Not (my romantic comedy packed with plenty of its own eccentricities).

So tell me – what little quirks do you have?

An illicit peek at what’s on my nightstand

There’s a conversation I’ve had several times since I became a published author, and it goes something like this:

New writer: I was wondering if you could give me some advice?

Me: Lock the dog out of the room before bumping uglies with your significant other.

New writer: No, I mean advice for becoming a published author.

Me: Oh. Sure, I’d say read.

New writer: Read?

Me: Read everything you can get your hands on. Read inside your genre, outside your genre, in your bed, or out of your comfort zone. Read fiction, nonfiction, magazines, medical journals, cereal boxes, and fortune cookies.

New writer: Yeah, well—I’m not really much of a reader, and I really don’t have that kind of time…

At which point I will either politely excuse myself from the conversation, or beat the person’s head against the bar. It depends on how full my wineglass is.

Suffice it to say, I’m a fervent believer in reading as the cornerstone to improving your skills as a writer. There truly is no better way to study the craft and learn what works and what doesn’t when it comes to putting words on a page.

I thought about this the other day when I was asked in an interview what books I’m currently reading, and I caught myself giving a censored answer. Not because I’m ashamed to be reading porn (I’ll happily admit that) but because I read so many books simultaneously, it sounds a little absurd.

I’m not afraid of sounding absurd here, so behold, I give you the current rundown of what I’m reading and why I’m reading it.

Title: Caught up in Us

Author: Lauren Blakely

Genre: Romance

Why I picked it: My agent recommended it.

What I love about it: This is a fun, fluffy, flirty, sexy romance that flows well, offers solid writing and interesting, likeable characters. Is it a little predictable? Of course! But sometimes that’s exactly why I choose a romance novel. I want my happily-ever-after, and I want some good sexin’ along the way. This has both, and it served as a terrific reminder of what I love about the romance genre.

Title: Blood Will Tell: A Medical Explanation for the Tyranny of King Henry VIII

Author: Kyra Cornelius Kramer

Genre: Historical nonfiction

Why I picked it: A friend recommended it.

What I love about it: I adore when a book sheds new light on a subject I thought I already knew pretty well. I’ve read plenty of books about England’s King Henry VIII, the Boleyn sisters, and the Tudor dynasty, but this book made me rethink a lot of things I thought I already knew. The author explores the possibility that Henry may have suffered from a medical condition that caused him to do crazy shit like behead friends and wives, and also made it difficult for him to sire children. The author’s expertise in medical anthropology is fascinating, but what I really loved is how entertaining and approachable she makes the material. I got so engrossed reading it on the elliptical machine, that I ended up doing a two hour workout. Even if I hated the book (which I obviously didn’t) I have to feel grateful for the excuse to eat bacon and have an extra glass of wine that night.

Title: Where’d You Go, Bernadette?

Author: Maria Semple

Genre: General fiction

Why I picked it: The book club I’ve belonged to for 14 years chose it as our April selection.

What I love about it: This charmingly funny story is told via the mixed media of humorous FBI documents, emails, letters, and narration from several characters trying to piece together what happened to a quirky wife/mother/architect who vanished. The characters are offbeat and unique, the writing is tight and hilarious, and the vividly-described Seattle setting had me laughing out loud at all the idiosyncrasies of my native Pacific Northwest. Just when I thought I’d pegged a character a certain way, the author would reveal another side to him/her that kept me breathlessly turning pages. And laughing. Lotsa laughing with this one.

Title: Stepmonster: A New Look at Why Real Stepmothers Think, Feel, and Act the Way We Do

Author: Wednesday Martin, PhD

Genre: Self help

Why I picked it: I spent the first 36 years of my life steadfastly, devoutly childless-by-choice, only to find myself in a relationship with the single father of two amazing kids. That was two years ago, and while my gentleman friend’s offspring are adorable, smart, funny, well-behaved, and lovable, the fact remains that I’m on very unfamiliar turf being around kids at all, let alone functioning in a semi-sorta stepparent role.  When something makes me uncertain or uncomfortable, I research the hell out of it. That’s sorta my thing, and it’s how I ended up with about a dozen stepmother-themed self-help books on my nightstand. This one was my favorite.

What I love about it: Many of the books I picked up had a doom-and-gloom approach, sharing commiserative stories about unsupportive men and bratty kids, or spouting statistics about how few women would get involved with single dads if they had it to do over again. I’m pretty far from that scenario, and just wanted more understanding of the human dynamics and what’s at the root of them. This book offered oodles of case studies, a good dose of psychology, and a healthy helping of validation that most of the things I’d been thinking and feeling are normal. Well, in this realm, anyway.

Title: No One’s the Bitch: A Ten Step Plan for the Mother and Stepmother Relationship

Authors: Jennifer Newcomb Marine and Carol Marine

Genre: Self help

Why I picked it: A fellow author who’s been on the same divorce/dating a single dad track as me recommended this book at the same time I suggested Stepmonster to her. If you’re involved with a single father, odds are good you’ll need some sort of relationship with the mother of his offspring. While things have gone just fine for me in this area, I’m always looking for ways to gain more understanding and improve my own coping techniques.

What I love about it: This book is co-written by a duo of women married to the same man. Er, that didn’t come out right. The ex-wife and new wife share their experiences from the different perspectives of the mom and the stepmom – each "the other woman" in her own way. Though I’m only a few chapters in, I’m enjoying the she said/she said interplay and the quizzes and worksheets that force readers to confront their own snarky issues and secret evil thoughts. Not that I have any of those.

Title: The Best Man

Author: Kristan Higgins

Genre: Romantic comedy

Why I picked it: Kristan Higgins is on my auto-buy list anytime she releases a new book. I adore everything she writes, and this was no exception.

What I love about it: I love studying the work of the grand dames of the romantic comedy genre, and Kristan Higgins is one of the masters. She strikes precisely the right balance of funny and poignant, and her characters are always charming and unique. I read this one on the beach during a recent trip to Hawaii, and it promptly became one of my all-time favorites among Kristan’s books. Her brand of rom-com leans more toward bittersweet and less toward the wacky realm where mine tend to fall, which is another thing I love—studying the different approaches to comedy. Or you can forget all my overanalyzing crap and just enjoy the book, because it really is awesome.

So that’s the roundup of what’s on my nightstand right now. Er, among other things. How about you? Please share!

Comparison is the thief of joy

Every now and then, someone will ask how long it takes me to write a book. It's one of the few questions I hate answering, ranking right up there with, "does this skirt make my butt look big?" and "did you drink all that wine?"

(For the record, I do not bristle at the question that annoys the crap out of most romance authors, which is, "how do you research your sex scenes?")


One reason I'm not a reason I'm not a fan of inquiries about the speed of my writing is that it can vary wildly. Once upon a time, I could write a full-length, 85,000-word novel in about three months with a couple extra weeks tacked on for critique partner feedback and revisions. That was before the pressure of promotional responsibilities, conflicting editorial demands, and life-changes like divorce and young kids in the house. Those things slowed my pace considerably, turning novel-writing into something chopped up into random spurts over a 12 or 16-month period. Sometimes longer.

I'd reached a point where I assumed that slower pace of fits and starts was the new normal for me, so when my agent landed me a new contract in March and asked how long I needed to write a shorter 55,000-word novel, I asked for roughly five months. I'd just gotten started when she came back and said, "could you do it in six weeks?"

Like an idiot, I replied, "Um, sure?"

This coincided with my longtime critique partner accepting a similarly insane deadline, so we agreed to help one another with moral support, speedy feedback, and the occasional encouraging butt-pat.

The biggest challenge was not that butt-patting is difficult when you live 2,638 miles apart. It's that it took me awhile to recall how differently we approach writing. She writes best in quick bursts of 1,000 words on her lunch hour or 2,500 words after her daughter has gone to bed, then sends me scenes to critique.

For the first week or so, I'd grimace when I saw a text message from her declaring she'd written another 1,300 words while waiting for a doctor's appointment. You suck, I'd tell myself. The only words you wrote were Facebook posts about about your boobs falling out of your dress and how much you admire your gentleman friend's butt.

For the record, he does have a great butt.

I'd head home from the day job pledging to write 2,000 words after dinner, only to find myself cleaning the keyboard with a Q-tip while my computer screen remained blank. Some author you are, I'd mutter to myself.

It took me a good week to pull my head out of my butt and remember how I write best. Long, productive stretches of 5,000 to 10,000 words in a day, followed by three or four days of doing nothing   drinking wine   groping my gentleman friend   serious contemplation regarding the direction of the story. That is a more natural pace for me, and it's served me well in the past.

As it turns out, it works fine for a crazy deadline, too. I'm on track to finish the whole book in roughly five weeks, thanks mostly to excellent wine   the ease of writing blowjob scenes  several good days of super-productive writing.

After one such day, I made the mistake of posting my daily word count on Facebook and Twitter. I was pleased with my spurt of 9,000 words in 8 hours, and felt like sharing.

I regretted it almost instantly when I saw other writers lamenting their own daily production. I couldn't do that many words in a week, someone shared. I only wrote 500 words today, someone tweeted with a frowny-face.

By sheer coincidence, a non-author friend posted the following quote in her Facebook feed that same day:

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

It's attributed to Theodore Roosevelt, and the instant I saw it, I wished Facebook had a stronger option than, "like" (which is not to be confused with my usual wish that Facebook offered a "lust" option. See aforementioned comment about my gentleman friend's butt).

It is a great reminder to all of us, whether you're a writer or a teacher or a firefighter or a nipple-clamp tester. Your skills, your talents, your accomplishments, are your own. Someone else's skills, talents, and accomplishments do not diminish or detract from yours. Keep your eyes on your own test paper and your head in your own game.

Is this something that comes naturally for you, or do you find yourself playing comparison roulette pretty regularly? How do you feel about that? Please share!

Oh, and to answer those earlier questions, of course not, yes, and very, very thoroughly. You're welcome.

Lessons in romance writing, courtesy of a 7yo

“Do you want me to draw you a picture, write a poem, or write a story?”

This was the question posed to me by my gentleman friend’s seven-year-old daughter Saturday evening. Her dad and brother were on a quick run to the store, leaving me to glance around frantically at intervals in search of the responsible, supervising adult, only to realize that’s me.

Since we’d all spent our afternoon at an alpaca ranch, I had her draw an alpaca, followed by writing a poem about an alpaca. Then I suggested she write a story.

“What should I write a story about?” she asked.

I considered suggesting an alpaca, but decided we’d already beaten that theme to death. “I write stories for a living,” I told her. “You’d think I could come up with a good subject, but I’m drawing a blank.”

I half expected her to grab her pen and request instructions for drawing a blank, but she’s smarter than the average bear.

“What kind of stories do you write?” she asked.

I hesitated, deciding it was best to keep things simple instead of explaining the concept of romantic comedy and the fact that the last scene I wrote involved a passionate encounter with the characters covered in pureed beet.

“Well, I write romance novels,” I told her. “They’re pretty much like love stories.”

“Love stories,” she repeated, testing out the phrase.

“Sure,” I said. “Usually about a boy and a girl who love each other.”

I opted not to confuse the issue by explaining the current popularity of male/male romance or BDSM erotica—a responsibly adult decision, if I do say so myself.

“I’m going to write a love story,” she announced, and bent to the task with pen in hand. She wrote an introductory line, then looked up. “How did you and daddy meet?”

I weighed my words carefully, not sure how much to share. She’s heard snippets of the tale before, and we included both kids in the celebration two weeks ago when my gentleman friend and I commemorated the two-year anniversary of our first date.

But the details are a bit more complex. I imagined myself launching into the story. Well you see, you were a newborn when your parents moved here, and your dad got a job in the education department of a medical center where I served on the marketing team. But we really didn’t know each other at all—maybe just enough to say hello in the hallway—and we would have lost touch completely after we both moved on to other jobs. But your dad ended up working in an office where he became best friends with one of my close girlfriends, which is how I heard about your parents’ divorce and your dad’s eventual rebound to become the strong, confident, sexy guy he evolved into over the following few years. That’s why I called him for advice and moral support when I went through my own divorce several years later. Well, that, and the fact that I thought your daddy was hot, and I kinda wanted to make out with him.

I didn’t say any of that, of course.

“We both worked at the hospital,” I told her, aiming for simplicity. “A long, long, time ago.”

That was enough for her. She asked for help spelling a few words, including her father’s first name (which she recently discovered is not daddy).

At last, she presented me with the story:

It was lovely and simple and sweet, and a very good reminder to me of my own habit of over-thinking plot-lines for my romantic comedies. I’m not a plotter by nature, but recently had to craft a detailed synopsis for the editor handling a new book deal I haven’t formally announced yet.

When the editor presented me with constructive feedback on the synopsis, I laughed when I got to this line.

Tawna might be over-thinking this just a wee bit.

It’s a phrase I’ve considered having tattooed on my arm more than once, and a good reminder to me that sometimes less is more, particularly when it comes to love stories.

Luckily, the notes came at a point where it was easy for me to course-correct and head in a more simplified direction with the story. I’m now about two-thirds of the way through, and feeling good about things.

When my gentleman friend returned from the store, the seven-year-old presented him with the story, complete with a hand-drawn cover. “Do you like it?” she asked him.

He smiled at her, then at me. “Very much.”

Are you a fan of the KISS principle (Keep It Simple, Stupid) or do you struggle like I do with the habit of over-thinking things? Please share!

I’m going to go read that story again. There might be a line or two to help me out with this next scene.

Need a favor? Here are 6 ways to boost your odds of hearing YES

Let me state, for the record, that I am ridiculously grateful I’ve sold a few books, and that readers have enjoyed them enough to seek me out and send me messages.

I might prefer it if they sent wine or photographs of half-naked men, but let’s not dwell.

The content of my email inbox has changed considerably in the 18 months since my first romantic comedy hit shelves. Luckily, I haven’t seen a decline in the number of messages requesting I purchase penile implants, low-cost Viagra, and Russian brides, but I have seen a distinct rise in requests that aren’t as much fun.

• Will you donate signed books?
• Will you judge our contest?
• Will you write a guest post on my blog?
• Will you critique my manuscript or query letter?
• Will you speak at this event?
• Will you tell me how to write a book and get it published?
• Will you introduce me to your agent?
• Will you do that swirly thing with the handcuffs and the strawberry jam?

While the last one is an automatic yes, the rest, sadly, are not. I wish they could be, just like I wish I could gather everyone up in a big group hug with complimentary butt pats.

But with my time stretched to the absolute breaking point (I’m currently on deadline to write an entire book in six weeks) and my finances keeping me squarely on the discount wine aisle, I find myself saying no a lot more than I ever have in my life.

It makes me sad, but it also makes me realize there are things people might not realize when making requests to authors or other business professionals. If you’re planning to hit someone up for a favor in the near future, here are six things to keep in mind: 

 

Free is a good price (but not for everyone)

My agent does a splendid job negotiating my publishing contracts to provide me with a decent stack of my own books for promotional giveaways and gifts to friends and family. Even so, my stash generally runs out quickly, which means I'm digging into my own wallet to purchase any additional books I need. It’s a weird feeling placing an order for a book you wrote, and even weirder knowing that even with an author discount, the cost + shipping ends up being pretty close to the retail price. While organizing receipts for taxes last week, I caught sight of what I paid for copies of my own books in 2012. The amount made me cringe, as did the receipts for postage and mailing supplies. I contribute to charity auctions and book giveaways as often as I can, but there’s a limit to my resources. Want an author to contribute a signed book to your auction or giveaway? Offer to chip in for postage, or spring for the cost of the book itself. The same rule applies if you're hitting up another retailer for goods or services.You’re a lot more likely to hear a yes (perhaps even a hellyesthankyousomuch) if you offer to cover the person's out-of-pocket costs.

 

Spell the person's name right

Not long ago, someone contacted my agent asking if Twana would be willing to judge a contest. I see the misspelling a lot, so I’m generally pretty understanding. Hell, I’ve been known to type my own name that way after a few glasses of wine. I replied directly to the requestor, politely explaining I was too swamped to judge, but wishing the best with the contest. I signed the email with the correct spelling of my name, along with my auto-generated signature line containing four (count ‘em, FOUR) instances of my name spelled correctly. My email address itself also gives the correct spelling, so I was surprised to receive a response moments later that began, “Thanks, Twana.” I resisted the urge to beat my head on the keyboard as I read the follow-up request for free signed books in lieu of my time judging.

I wish I could say this is an isolated incident, but it’s not. I understand I don’t have the most common name on the planet, and like most people with unusual names, I expect the occasional misspelling or typo. But if you’re asking a favor from someone, the least you can do is take a few minutes to google and make sure you're correctly spelling the person's name or business.

 

Know something about the person you’re contacting

Looking back over requests I’ve accepted in the last year, there’s something every single one has in common: the person making the request knew something about my books or about me personally. I don’t have children or any particular connection to a private school in Vermont, so that request for signed books to auction in a fund-raiser for the school's lacrosse team? Sorry, not my top priority. But the reader who knows I’m a sucker for animals and kicks off the donation request for a no-kill shelter by asking about my pets by name? Yep, that one gets a second look. I’m pretty easy to stalk, whether you’re scrounging for personal details here on the blog, my website, on Facebook, on Twitter, or by digging through my trash. Most authors are similarly stalkable, so take a moment to learn something about the person you’re approaching for a favor.

 

Flattery will get you everywhere

Number of requests I’ve accepted that begin, “dear author” and include a generic solicitation for free books, contest judging, publication advice, guest blogging, or a pair of panties from my laundry hamper: Zero.

Number of requests I’ve accepted that refer to me by name and describe damaged keyboards and/or nasal passages resulting from the requestor shooting a beverage out his/her nose while laughing at a scene in one of my books: A lot more than zero.

That’s not to say I’ll always say yes to someone who claims to have read one of my books, nor am I suggesting your ticket to a favor is tattooing a part of your body with a quotation from the Cheez Doodle scene in Making Waves. But if you’ve read and enjoyed something in one of my books, that’s a nice thing to mention when you hit me up for a favor. Same goes for literary agents, retailers, or other business professionals. It never hurts to compliment an agent's client before asking her to read your sample chapters, or to praise a specific dish on a restaurant menu before you hit up the manager to donate a gift certificate.

 

Have we met?

We don’t need to have a pillow fight in our underwear to have a personal connection (though I’ll wait right here if you want to grab your pillow). But if we’ve interacted in some capacity, that’s a good thing to highlight. Maybe we’ve commiserated on Twitter about our shared habit of spilling food down the front of our shirts. Maybe we’ve “liked” each other’s food photos on Facebook. Maybe we’ve met at a conference or at the gym or while peering through the keyhole of Daniel Craig’s hotel room. If we have a personal connection of any kind, remind me of it when you get in touch. 

What’s in it for me?

Agent Janet Reid had a brilliant blog post last year with this same title, and I encourage everyone to go read it if you’re thinking of hitting up any creative professional for a favor. To quote one of the most beautifully, snarkily direct parts of the post:

You want an agent at your conference? You want me to judge a contest? You want me to guest blog? You want me to critique pages? So do a lot of other people. You have to show me the value of saying yes.

I've had people tell me with a straight face (mostly ‘cause I think they actually believed it) that
--being on their blog would give me more visibility;
--attending their conference would help me get in touch with writers;
-- judging a contest would bring me potential clients.

None of those are actual benefits that accrue from those events (and my keyboard didn't survive the visibility one) nor are they things I want to accomplish.

I want to promote my clients.
I want to promote my agency and colleagues.
I want to contribute to causes I support.

Figure out how your request will help me do that, and when you email to ask the favor, spell out how it does any one of those three things and your chances of yes get better.

Now, clearly an author’s goals are different from an agent’s, just like creative professionals or the owners of retail shops have another set of ambitions. A good friend of mine owns a handbag boutique, and rarely does a day go by without someone dropping in to ask her to contribute merchandise or cash to a worthy cause. The ones that pique her interest are the folks who can use solid numbers and market research to show how being involved will result in an increase in traffic to her shop. Telling her she needs to contribute because it’s “the right thing to do for the community” will earn you a stern look and a list of the hundreds of other ways she gives back to the community every day.

So there you have it—six ways to sweeten the pot if you’re asking an author or other business professional for a favor. Got other tips to add? Please share in the comments!

And let me know when you need me to show you that handcuff trick with the strawberry jam. You might want to buy some extra washcloths.

Why I let strangers grope my gobstoppers

Several weeks ago, a woman with cold hands squeezed my naked sweater potatoes with a look of intense concentration.

I paid her for it.

At least, my insurance company did.

“I know you’re only 38,” my doctor said as she palpated my fun bags, “but since you have some family history of breast cancer, now would be a good time for you to schedule a baseline mammogram.”

Not eager to argue with someone gripping one of my meatloaves, I left my annual exam and phoned the radiology clinic. The scheduler asked so many questions about my dairy pillows, she knew them better than I did by the time she booked my appointment.

The night before my mammogram, I considered treating my lady balls to a special dinner or buying them some expensive lotion. Everything I’d heard about mammograms indicated my chesticles were in for an unpleasant experience, and I felt I owed them something nice.

My gentleman friend gamely offered to assist, adding that he'd also be happy to conduct the entire mammogram himself.

"You're such a helpful, selfless individual," I said.

"I do my part," he agreed.

The next morning, I walked into the clinic and spotted this sign over the front desk:

“I’m supposed to be here for a mammogram,” I told the receptionist. “But that PET thing sounds like more fun. Do I get to pick who pets me?”

She gave me a nervous smile and a bunch of paperwork to fill out. I sat there in the waiting room giving my pointer sisters a pep talk until a cute guy came out in blue scrubs and called my name. I followed him down the hall where he pointed me to a small dressing room.

“If you’re wearing any lotion or deodorant, you’ll want to clean it off,” he said.

“You’re not offering sponge baths?” I asked as he handed me a weird pink wraparound top.

He shook his head and pointed at a bowl of wet-wipes.

I sponged off my own  rib balloons and wriggled into the pink top, unclear why I couldn’t just walk to the mammogram room shirtless and save everyone the hassle. I had my answer seconds later when I found myself in a second waiting area accompanied by half-a-dozen other women wearing the same top and matching uneasy expressions.

“It’s like some kind of weird prison garb,” I said to one woman who looked up from her magazine as I entered. “Think we get to keep these shirts?”

“At least they warmed them up,” she said, and I agreed that was a nice touch.

Seconds later, a technician called my name and led me down the hall to where this contraption awaited my hush puppies:

“This is your first time?” the technician asked.

“Yes. Does that mean I get extra foreplay?”

She laughed and began a brief lecture on pressure and pain thresholds. I’m sure her precise wording was much more clinical than this, but what I heard was, “some women are delicate and sensitive, and some hussies like things rough, and if you’re one of the latter, you’ll do just fine.”

I’m sure those weren’t her exact words, but I relaxed anyway.

I relaxed further when I remembered the words of a friend who used to work in a mammography clinic. “Women with big boobs are usually easy, so you’ll do great.”

I appreciated the backhanded compliment, and reminded myself to look at all women with oversized love muffins and think easy from now on.

For the next five minutes, I engaged in a sort of bizarre dance with the technician calling out the moves. “Take two steps this way. Lift your arm. Turn to the right. I’m going to move your breast now.”

She maneuvered my beanbags into position, stepping away every now and then to tighten the vice grip before stepping back to rearrange my t-shirt meat on the metal plate.

“You’re done,” she announced abruptly.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it?”

“For some people, mammograms are very painful. For other people—” she shrugged, leaving me to fill in the blank as, insensitive bitches like you don’t feel a thing.

Which was true, and a great relief, but still.

“Do I at least get a lollypop?” I asked.

“You got squeezed. Isn’t that better?”

“Very true,” I agreed. “It’s an awesome day anytime someone cops a feel before 9 a.m.”

Three days later—lightning fast, in my opinion—I got a letter in the mail:

While the first line was a relief, it was the second that caught my eye. I handed the letter to my gentleman friend. “Apparently, my flesh bulbs aren’t very smart,” I said.

“What?”

“My hood ornaments,” I informed him. “They’re dense.”

“Do they need some special ed?”

All jokes aside, I googled “dense breasts” and was taken aback by what I read. According to areyoudense.org (I couldn’t make that up if I wanted to) some women’s flapjacks are made up mostly of fat, while others are comprised of more connective tissue. It’s impossible to tell by feel (though you’re welcome to give it a shot) and it’s not until you stick your paw patties in a mammogram machine that you have any idea what they’re made of.

The problem is that dense mushmelon tissue is white on a mammogram, which is the same color cancer appears. In other words, if your bikini biscuits are dense, you won't always spot cancer on a mammogram. Not only that, but cancer turns up five times more often in women with dense jahoobies than those with fattier milk fountains. Those of us with dense skin snacks are encouraged to get regular ultrasounds in addition to mammograms to avoid missing anything important.

Consider that your public service announcement for the week. Now go out there and grope your sweet rolls. Or someone else’s. It’s the right thing to do.

There's nothing buzzing in my pants

There are many good reasons I shouldn't be trusted with an iPhone, and not all of them center around my fondness for sending cleavage shots before double-checking the address of the intended recipient.

Here's one of the reasons:

It's the second time I've broken an iPhone screen (the first time, you may recall, I handed the phone to my gentleman friend's ex-wife to show her the broken glass at the precise moment he texted me something filthy to lighten the awkward mood).

So yeah. I broke another iPhone screen. It's no surprise, considering how frequently I drop the damn thing on concrete, but still. I'm two months shy of the renewal date when I'm eligible for a new phone, so I checked into how much it might cost to have a professional replace the glass. I paid $99 for the phone in the first place, and that's what I intend to pay for a new one in a couple months, so I couldn't justify paying the same just to fix the screen.

A pal told me how cheap it is to find replacement kits on eBay and instructional videos on YouTube, and my gentleman friend generously volunteered to tackle the task. I ordered the kit online and presented it to him on Saturday.

He hoped it might be a 20-minute project he could finish quickly before a scheduled outing with a pal. An hour later, he was scowling at the disassembled phone.

"You have to take the entire thing apart before you even get to the screen," he said. "All these screws are tiny and they're in there so tight, I end up stripping them."

I nodded. "The only words I just heard were screws, tight, and stripping."

"You should have been here five minutes ago when the video instructed me to remove the vibrator."

The phone was still in pieces when we had to meet our friend, so I left the house without it. I wasn't expecting any urgent calls from my agent or editor, so I figured it was no big deal.

I figured wrong.

Not that anyone needed to reach me in an emergency, but I hadn't counted on how dependent I've become on my phone. I kept reaching into my bag to snap a photo or update my Facebook status or check email, and I'd have a moment of panic when I came up emtpy-handed.

After awhile, I got used to it. Within a few hours, I began to enjoy it. There's something liberating about being free from the urgent need to chronicle every brew pub I visit or every dirty thought flitting through my mind. There's a sort of relief in taking a break – even a forced one – from the technology that's taken over my life.

Which is not to say I'll intentionally smash my new iPhone screen just to earn myself a day off. But if it happens again (who am I kidding? When it happens again) at least I know I can survive quite nicely without the vibrating gadget constantly in my hand.

Well, one of them.

Have you ever taken a technology break? What are the pros and cons of taking time off from buzzy little gadgets? Please share!

And please give a round of applause to my gentleman friend for all his hard work. I should probably think of a generous way to reward him. Any ideas?

Open wide and take it one bite at a time

I skipped blogging the last couple weeks while I endured exhaustive literary exploration and journeyed to the far corners of the globe conducting tireless research for my next two novels.

In other words, I was in Kauai visiting my parents, hanging with my brother & his fiancée, and celebrating my gentleman friend's 40th birthday.

For the record, I am working on two books set on the lovely garden isle, and I did spend vacation time exchanging phone calls, emails, and text messages with my agent. Though I can't yet share the reasons for all the urgent correspondence, suffice it to say my plate is quite full at the moment. Not a bad problem for an author to have.

But of course, I'm not just an author. As we made the 3.5 hour drive home from the airport, traveling through a mountain blizzard following an all-night flight from Hawaii, I realized with dread that I had to report to the day job the following morning.

I adore being the Communications and Public Relations Manager for my city's tourism bureau, which frequently involves sipping beer with journalists on the Bend Ale Trail and spending afternoons snowshoeing or kayaking so I can blog about my adventures. I love what I do, both as an author and a part-time day jobber.

But as I sat there the next morning in my office, jet-lagged and exhausted with a sunburn that caused me to scratch myself inappropriately more often than normal, I stared at my overflowing email inbox and tried not to cry. Hundreds of unread messages glowed on the screen, their bold, black font like an evil email sneer. I scrolled down the page, hoping most of them were messages I could ignore about donuts in the break room week-old snow reports.

There were no donuts, stale or otherwise. And I was faced with the daunting task of tackling that overflowing inbox, along with the blinking light on my voicemail and the pile of mail lurking on a corner of my desk and a plethora of meetings on my calendar and my boss hovering in the doorway saying, "When you have a minute...."

The buzzing sensation in my brain was not unlike the one I've experienced as an author faced with an impossible deadline or a daunting set of revisions (though it's a different kind of buzzing than what's generated by the device beside my bed, which is where I seriously wished to be as I stared down my task list and wondered where the hell to start).

One of many lessons I'm forced to learn over and over as an author, a day jobber, and as someone hoping to maintain a home that doesn't appear as though a small nuclear weapon was detonated in my living room is the importance of tackling daunting tasks in small, manageable chunks. It's like that age-old question, "How do you eat an elepahant?"

One bite at a time.

And so, I dug in. Which is the way every success story starts, whether you're writing a book or shoveling dog doo in the backyard. I've learned the hard way that if I allow myself to dwell on the big picture – ohmygod, a WHOLE BOOK?! A task list longer than Ron Jeremy's beef bayonet? – I will expend more energy fretting than I would actually getting shit done.

In the case of the day job, that meant prioritizing the email inbox and tackling the time-sensitive tasks first, tending to media requests for photos and making sure all our social media channels were updated with engaging content. Fortified by that small sense of accomplishment (not to mention three cups of strong black tea) I moved on to the voicemail, then the less urgent email, pausing every now and then to pee and respond to requests from colleagues (occasionally at the same time).

Am I all caught up? I wish I could say yes, just like I wish I could say I spent last night writing the synopsis I promised my agent instead of rolling around naked. OK, that's a lie. I totally don't wish that last one.

Still, I've learned to be patient with myself, and to accept the fact that no sane person (or insane person, for that matter) can accomplish everything at once, regardless of the task. If you know someone who can, send him or her my way and I'll supply all necessary tea and AA batteries.

How do you approach daunting tasks and overflowing inboxes? Please share!

I'll be busy shaking Kauai sand out of my undies.