How about I give YOU something for my birthday?

Today I turn 29 for the tenth time.

I woke to a lovely array of flowers and gropes from my gentleman friend, sweet text messages from his offspring, coughed-up hairballs from the pets, sweet  notes from you guys via Facebook, Twitter, and email, plus one big surprise . . .

The pre-order links for Eat, Play, Lust just went live!

Here's how Entangled Publishing describes the story:

Cami Pressman is a yoga instructor with a lifelong secret love of junk food. Not even an irresistible man can replace the mouthwatering wickedness of her favorite foods.

Until, that is, Paul Hammond signs up for her class. He’s a gourmet chef looking to score some fitness tips, and a date with Cami. Suddenly Cami’s lust for junk food isn’t the only thing making her tingle.

When this sinful chef and hot yoga teacher eat, play, and lust together, they just might bring their obsession to a new level.

 
The novella (a short little novel, not "a novel for chicks" as my brother concluded, though to be fair, it is sorta that) will officially release August 26, but you can pre-order it now for a whopping 99-cents. It's less than an iced tea at McDonalds, a pack of gum at the gas station, or a tube of generic KY Jelly at the Dollar Store.

Just go here to find it at Amazon for your Kindle or go here to Barnes & Noble if you're a Nook user, or tell me in the comments if you use some other sort of ebook format and I'll try to track down those links.

Yes, this novella is only available in electronic form. Sorry for those of you clinging fiercely to your paperbacks, but if it's any comfort, this 14,000-word story is short enough to read on your laptop without hurting your eyes (by comparison, my regular romantic comedy novels are about 85,000 words).

And speaking of my regular romantic comedy novels, how about we do a little giveaway? It's my birthday, after all, so gifts seem like a good idea no matter who's getting them.

Everyone who comments here in the next week will be entered to win his or her choice of a signed copy of Making Waves or Believe it or Not in paperback. If you tell me in your comment that you've pre-ordered Eat, Play, Lust, you get an extra entry. Tell me you've shared the pre-order link via Facebook, Twitter, or a strategically-placed tattoo on your choice of butt cheeks and you get an extra entry for each of those.

Um, the links. Not the butt cheeks, though if you have more than two of those, I'd really like to see a photo.

Thanks for celebrating with me, guys (both the birthday and the pre-order linkage).

Now line up over there to contribute to my birthday spanking.

Who's got your back when you get lost?

Yesterday, my gentleman friend and I set out for a hike. Our chosen quest promised beautiful wildflowers and mountain views on a moderately difficult 6.6 mile loop.

Both seasoned hikers, we packed plenty of water and snacks and studied the map and some directions from a hiking website. Things went well for the first couple miles. My gentleman friend (a freelance photographer on the side) paused often to snap pictures.

Maybe it was the frequent stops.

Maybe I was overly distracted by the views on our frequent stops.

I never tire of this view.

Whatever the reason, we took a wrong turn. Two mountain peaks marked the path along our journey, both about 5,500 feet in elevation. The one we intended to climb boasted well-marked trails, gradual ascents, and a lovely viewing platform at the top.

The other had long stretches with no trails and steep expanses of treacherously loose soil and gravel.

Guess which one we picked?

The climb up was difficult, but manageable. The climb down was downright dangerous. Then the real fun began.

"Where's the trail?" I panted as we stumbled down the side of a cliff.

"It should be over there." He paused. "I think."

I frowned. "Is that the tree where we stopped for a snack?"

"No, that's down there."

Onward we staggered, our water supply dwindling and our sense of direction becoming more twisted. Even the dog looked nervous. The later it got, the more I fretted.

I'm a worrier by nature, and it took a lot for me not to panic. My gentleman friend – admittedly as lost as I was – kept his cool. He led the way along dry creek beds aimed in the general direction we knew we should be headed. He pulled out his iPhone and used the compass to reorient us. He stayed calm even as I heard my own voice rising in fear. When I suggested we were veering too far from a plateau we'd pinpointed as a landmark, he didn't pooh-pooh my proposal go bushwhacking through the forest in hopes of discovering a clearing.

Eventually, we found our way back to the trail. We were a little battered and scraped up, and our water supply was perilously low. But we were safe. More importantly, we were still relatively jolly, never once bitching at each other or turning surly.

It called to mind my novella that's scheduled for release August 26 (though pre-order links are slated to go up this week, so watch for it here).

I wrote Eat, Play, Lust in the early summer of 2012 during what was arguably one of the lowest points in my writing career. The novel I'd written as the third in my romantic comedy contract with Sourcebooks was deemed excellent, but "not the right next book for your career." My editor and I were struggling to see eye-to-eye on what the right next book would be, and I'll admit it – I was on the brink of throwing in the towel. I was frustrated, disheartened, and ready to be done with the whole thing.

It's about as lost as I've ever felt along my publishing journey.

My amazing agent – who always seems to know exactly what to say – talked me off the ledge.

"You need to take a break and write something fun," she said. "Something to remind you why you got into writing in the first place."

"Like porn?"

"Maybe not porn. How about a novella for the Flirt line at Entangled Publishing?" she suggested, explaining that she'd already talked with an editor about me. "It's only 10,000 to 15,000 words. You can do that."

Compared to my normal 80,000-90,000-word novels, it did sound manageable. Before I knew it, I was off and running with a story about a yoga instructor with secret cravings and a hot gourmet chef with a habit of putting his foot in his mouth. The story flowed easily, and I finished in record time. More importantly, I found myself in love with the writing process again.

In other words, it was exactly what I needed when I was lost.

After that, I got back on my horse and wrote a new book for my Sourcebooks contract (now titled Frisky Business, and slated for release May 2014). And the novella with Entangled led to a separate three-book deal with them, with full-length novels now scheduled for release November 2013, March 2014, and July 2014.

All of it can be traced back to that one simple move from my agent. Instead of getting annoyed with me or allowing me to flail or rage or panic when I felt lost, she channeled all those emotions into something productive.

Suffice it to say, I'm a big believer in surrounding yourself with the right people in times of trouble. It's paid off for me more than once.

As my gentleman friend and I stumbled back to the car yesterday afternoon, we rehashed our hiking adventure.

"Do you think it was some sort of relationship test?" I asked.

"How do you mean?"

"Like to see if we got snarky with each other or started blaming one another or stomping off in opposite directions."

He laughed. "How do you think we did?"

"Pretty damn well."

"We should probably make out to celebrate," he suggested. "And then go get french fries."

Got your own story of getting back on track after stumbling around lost? Did someone have your back, or did you find your own way? Please share!

And please let me know if you'd be willing to take a turn rubbing Bengay on my legs. I'm getting too old for this.

I got wet, spread my legs, and screamed like a banshee

When I'm not doing the author thing, I spend my time . . . wait, I'd better not finish that sentence.

Let me start again.

One of the ways I keep a roof over my head and get my introverted author butt out of the house is through my part-time day job as the PR & Communications Manager for my city's tourism bureau. Sometimes that involves straightforward tasks like writing blog posts or pitching stories to media outlets. Other times it involves going snowshoeing or taking journalists out to drink beer on the Bend Ale Trail.

One the my most memorable assignments turned out to be an odd combination of those things. It happened a few weeks ago when I accompanied a television crew on a whitewater raft trip, followed by a beer tasting.

"We'll  have you mic'd up through the flatwater, and we'll have cameras on us the whole time," explained the journalist asking to interview me about the role of rafting and beer in the tourism industry.

"Oh, of course," I said. "What 38-year-old woman doesn't want to have cameras and microphones present while she's fighting a bikini wedgie and plunging through class three rapids screaming her head off and wondering if her boob just slipped out of her top?"

There was a long pause. "So you'll do it?"

Naturally.

As it turned out, the whole adventure went fine. The required life vest relieved me of the burden of sucking in my stomach for the camera, and I managed to sound reasonably informed about the state of my city's tourism industry. Plus I got beer at the end. Oh, and I didn't die. All good things.

Three weeks later, the piece aired.

The crew did an excellent job with it (ignoring the part where they introduce me as "Tanya" instead of "Tawna"). But watching it was one of those moments I'm conspicuously aware of the odd juxtaposition of my day job life and my author life.

Am I really the only one who noticed I've got my legs spread wide in the first on-camera appearance, followed by a long sequence of me screaming?

Maybe not. When I posted the link on Twitter, a reader responded asking if our guide really says, "porno" at the 3:16 mark in the video. (Answer: Probably not, but I'm going to choose to believe he did, kinda like how I still believe in Santa and the Wine Fairy).

Another reader helpfully pointed out that one of the features of the rapid is called "the tongue," which would have made me much less fearful of falling in the river if I'd thought about it.

At any rate, here it is for your viewing pleasure. Feel free to snicker at the dirty innuendos that probably weren't intended.

I certainly did.

Another round of garage porn at the home improvement store

I recently noticed my tomatoes were looking a little wilty. Since I pride myself on keeping my tomatoes lush, full, and bouncy, I knew I needed to take action.

"We should get one of those oscillating sprinklers," said my gentleman friend.

"I like how oscillating sounds dirty when you say it," I told him.

So we set out for the irrigation section a our local Lowe's. As we browsed, I encountered some of the loveliest garage porn I've seen in a long time (and in case you're new here, you can check out previous posts to familiarize yourself with the term).

But here's what I spotted in my quest for oscillation:

Sometimes you need a little extra help getting your hose in the right place. If you can protect plants while you do it, even better (though I'm admittedly alarmed about the spike).

If you need to hook up in an expedient fashion, the lady just needs a little metal to get her in the mood. Motley Crue or Iron Maiden?

In case you gents were feeling left out, there's a way to eschew foreplay with you as well. Apparently it involves clicking?

With all those speedy hookups, it's no surprise you might need this.

Protection is always a good idea when things are getting kinky.

I don't even know what to say to this, but is it wrong I got a little excited looking at it?

In the end, I got a simple sprinkler. Um, that's not to say I got a sprinkler in the end, or in any orifice at all.

How about I just wrap up this post now? And please share if you've seen any good garage porn lately.

Judging my love life by my footwear

I have a love/hate relationship with shoes. I'm vaguely ashamed to admit I have roughly 50 pairs of them, and that I enjoy admiring and acquiring them.

I just don't like wearing them.

My boss at the day job routinely alerts me when we have VIPs visiting the office. This isn't his way of asking me to shake hands or prepare a memo. It's his polite way of telling me, "put on your damn shoes."

Going shoeless in the winter months is a challenge in a city where snow and ice blanket the ground more than half the year, which is why I make extra efforts to be shoeless in the summer. The result is frequent mud-caked toes and the occasional pointed look from my gentleman friend asking, "you're not really getting into bed like that, are you?"

My relationship with shoes took an interesting turn around the time he and I began dating. As longtime blog readers know, I went through an unexpected divorce several years ago. Not long after that, my evil plan to seduce my chosen "divorce mentor" for a friends-with-benefits arrangement morphed into a delightfully surprising long-term relationship with my gentleman friend.

But we were talking about shoes.

Suffice it to say, I was a little glum at the start of this relationship-that-wasn't-supposed-to-be-a-relationship. Luckily, my chosen "divorce mentor" (now my gentleman friend) is exceptionally kindhearted. And intelligent. And empathetic. And a great listener.

He's also tall. Really tall.

And because I'm – well, not-so-tall – his hugs felt like the biggest, warmest, safest, most engulfing hugs imaginable. Instead of feeling fragile, I felt safe. Instead of feeling beaten-down, I felt supported.

And yeah, I also felt turned-on. But I digress.

As my fondness for those hugs grew, so did my sudden obsession with flats. When I do have to wear shoes (an unfortunate necessity when I want to leave the house) my short stature has always given me a fondness for shoes with heels. But when I began dating my gentleman friend, I also began acquiring flats at an alarming rate. Every thrift store trip ended with me toting a cute pair of ballet flats or low-heeled sandals to the register. We're not talking epic shopping sprees here, since my thrift store habits mean I pay an average of $1 to $5 a pair for shoes. Still, the act was significant.

Since I'm a writer prone to overanalyzing everything, I stopped to think about what prompted my sudden change in footwear preference. Many women dating tall men seize the excuse to wear skyscraper heels, but I did the opposite. It didn't take much introspection to realize I craved the feeling of being engulfed in the arms of someone bigger and stronger than me. It was a new and unexpected joy to yield to the pleasure of having someone else taking care of me.

Is that a sexist thing to suggest? Perhaps, but I won't feel bad about that. I see myself less as a damsel in distress and more as a woman who figured out what she needed at a low point in her life and found a way to get those needs met.

After hoeing the garden with my gentleman friend's 7yo
daughter. She's not the one with the tattoo.

For the record, I still wear flats now more than I did three years ago. I also have plenty of kick-ass stilettos and boots and sassy peep-toed heels for the other moods that might strike. Lucky for me, my gentleman friend doesn't seem to mind what sort of footwear I choose, as long as I occasionally remember to clean off the mud before crawling into bed.

What's your relationship like when it comes to footwear? Have you ever selected something based on how it will make you look or feel around someone else? Please share!

I'll be out hoeing the garden with my bare feet.

I just wanted to say hoeing in this blog post.

On e-publishing, indy presses, and the sliver of my brain that hasn't caught up yet

Early last week, I was tickled pink when RT Book Reviews (the same magazine that nominated Making Waves as a contender for 2011 Contemporary Romance of the Year) wrote about my upcoming novel with Entangled Publishing as one of their "most-anticipated upcoming releases across the genres."

You can check out that article and see what other books they're buzzing about here.

Or here's the little blurb about my book:

My agent and editor and I tweeted the link in all our giddy excitement, and I posted it to my Facebook page. We got lots of lovely comments and enthusiasm, including a comment from an astute reader who noticed the Download and Go notation above my category. "Will it be available in print, or just e-book?" she inquired.

I'll confess, I felt a tiny flicker of embarrassment when I replied that for the time being, my new three-book series with Entangled will be e-book only. Since I don't embarrass easily, it was enough to make me sit back and ask myself, "what the hell?"

It won't surprise you to know I ask that a lot.


What I realized is that a small sliver of my brain still operates with the assumptions I had about publishing four or five years ago. What that brain-sliver doesn't realize is how wildly the industry has changed in that time, and how many of my previous assumptions have either been rendered incorrect, or were never correct to start with. Like what? you ask.

Allow me to share.

MISGUIDED THOUGHT #1: Books published only in e-book format or by independent publishers = not good enough to be traditionally published

The first time I saw my book at WalMart.

It's a snobby thought to have, and I'll own up to having it more than once five or six years ago. It was always my goal to have printed books on the shelves at major bookstores and retailers across the country, and I'm glad I got to experience the thrill of walking into my local WalMart and squealing like a $10 hooker upon seeing my book on the shelves for the first time.

But things have changed, both in my own mind, and in the publishing industry. Plenty of awesome books are available in e-book only or published through smaller, independent presses. In the last two years, I've watched a number of mid-list authors with extremely strong writing careers make the switch from traditional publishing to these formats. It's essentially the reverse of what used to happen, where an author might opt for a smaller e-book only deal in hopes of eventually working her way toward a print deal. Why are they doing it? Well, that leads me to my next misguided thought.

MISGUIDED THOUGHT #2: Authors can't make any real money with e-publishers or independent presses
Once upon a time, romance authors in particular saw most of their sales from impulse buyers at WalMart or big-box bookstores. Oh, how times have changed. According to stats from RWA, Amazon.com and other e-commerce or e-book/audiobookretailers accounted for 54% of romance novel sales in 2012. By contrast, WalMart sold 13%, while Barnes & Noble got 11%. That's a pretty big shift from the days the complete opposite was true. According to RWA, "E-book sales of romance books have proportionally doubled in one year, from 22 percent in Q1 2011 to 44 percent in Q1 2012." You can bet that number will continue to climb as more and more people purchase e-readers. Speaking for myself, I can say without question I purchase more books on my Kindle (thanks to my heavy trigger-finger and the "buy with one click" option) than I ever used to buy in paperback. I still make impulse purchases, but I do it in my jammies with a glass of wine in hand.

What does all this mean for authors? Well, book sales = money. Higher book sales = more money. Authors are notoriously tight-lipped about the financial side of what they do, but many of us chatter privately to keep tabs on the industry. I can think of at least half-a-dozen author pals who've segued into indy publishing or e-book only deals in the last two years, and every single one of them is doing better financially than she was before. That's hard to ignore, especially for struggling mid-listers. As my agent has steered me toward book deals with Coliloquy and Entangled in the last year, this is the carrot she's dangled. I love carrots, and not just for their phallic shape.

MISGUIDED THOUGHT #3: Only the younger demographic owns e-readers I do a lot of chats with book clubs, and I was smacked squarely in the face by the ignorance of my own assumption in one of the very first Skype sessions with a group in the Midwest. The book club consisted of about a dozen women, all of whom were over 50. We'd been visiting maybe 30 minutes when I mentioned Getting Dumped, my interactive fiction title that allows for a sort of choose-your-own-adventure quality, thanks to e-book technology. The women were so excited about it, that I hated to burst their bubble by telling them it's only available in e-book format. "That's perfect!" they declared. "We can buy it right now." And every single one of them – including the woman who'd announced her age as 84 – whipped out her e-reader. Color me dumbfounded. I shouldn't have been, really. While younger readers may have an affinity for technology, older readers have the disposable income to afford it. Those with aging eyes like bumping up the type size with ease, and those who travel a lot love the convenience of packing hundreds of books in a device that fits easily in a purse and weighs only a few ounces. Are there still people who don't have e-readers? Absolutely, either because they can't afford the purchase or because they cling to the look and feel of a paperback book. I feel bad about that, and I can relate to wanting to stroke the pages and gaze lovingly at the cover of a paperback. But the more the market swings toward e-readers, the more I have to accept that I can reach the biggest audience that way.

So there you have it – three misguided thoughts I've been working to guide differently in recent years. How about you? Have your perceptions of publishing or e-readers changed in recent years? If so, how? Please share!

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!