Why you shouldn't ask me to describe my own book

Several weeks ago, the good folks at Coliloquy asked me to submit a description for my novella they're releasing October 8. You may recall, Coliloquy is the publisher known for interactive fiction, which in the case of my Getting Dumped series, is sorta like a grown-up version of choose-your own adventure.

You would think the author of the series should be uniquely qualified to write a description of the latest release. You would think is the key part of that phrase, because I am abysmally bad at this. Blame it on the fact that I'm currently scrambling to keep up with scheduled releases at three different publishing houses (four novels and two novellas slated for release in a 12 month period, thankyouverymuch) or blame it on the fact that I suck at writing blurbs for my own books.

I'm inclined to think it's the latter.

In any case, this is what I turned in a few weeks ago:

Eager for a break following the drama GETTING DUMPED (which previous readers will remember fondly and new readers won’t miss), JJ and Lori head to Seattle for a fashion trade show. Their plans for a weekend of cocktails and sisterly bonding takes an unexpected turn when Lori discovers her panties missing from their hotel room. Determined to get to the bottom of it, the sisters set out to track down the thief with the help of some familiar friends and some wacky new acquaintances.

Not good. Not the worst thing I've ever written, but hardly what I want out there as the primary marketing copy for my next release.

Lucky for me, the Coliloquy team includes plenty of marketing-savvy folks who can string sentences together better than I can. On Friday afternoon, they sent me the following revised version of my blurb:

The Great Panty Caper 
JJ Shultz is torn between two hot men. So what’s a girl to do? Prolong the decision and escape to Seattle, of course! Especially when sister Lori invites her to a fashion trade show. 

But their plans for a weekend of cocktails and sisterly bonding go south when Lori’s panties disappear from their hotel room. It’s not just any pair of unmentionables – it’s Lori’s only prototype for a new product she’s almost ready to reveal. 

Determined to find Lori’s treasured trunks, the sisters set out to track down the thief, with the help of some friends at home, a few quirky new acquaintances, and a cat that can’t keep himself from shedding all over the evidence. 

What’s Cool from Coliloquy 
In The Great Panty Caper, Lori’s considering a weekend fling and you get to decide just how far she goes with tall, dark, and handsome. Dinner and flirting, or more? It’s up to you! In the meantime, JJ needs a little help figuring out which of her boyfriends to call for some sleuthing tips. Can she resist the urge to phone her hot English man? Or will the all-American hunk fulfill her needs?

The whole thing made me dance with joy, because it's so much better than what I'd written. It also made it clear they totally GET what this story is about and how to market it.

It got me thinking about whether authors are sometimes too close to their own stories to write good blurbs. Is that the case, or like I said – do I just suck at it?

Either way, here are a couple more examples of what I originally wrote for a couple of my stories, followed by the version the publisher developed:

For Eat, Play, Lust (my new novella with Entangled)

My version

Cami Pressman is a yoga instructor with a secret. It’s not a prison record or gang tattoo—it’s worse, at least in Cami’s opinion. 

Her lust for junk food puts her at odds with her health nut mother, not to mention her own goal to never again be the overweight girl she was in college. Still, Cami can’t shake her craving for sinful, mouthwatering wickedness in the form of…well, tater tots. Hey, a girl’s gotta have vices. 

When Cami meets Paul Hammond, her lust for junk food isn’t the only thing making her tingle. Paul is a gourmet chef with a crush on Cami and a bad case of foot-in-mouth disease. He’s looking to score some fitness tips, and maybe a date with his hot instructor. But is there any hope for something serious between a goofball with a golden skillet and a girl with a serious case of junk food lust? 

Or is serious the last thing they need?

Their version

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.

For Believe it or Not  (my last romantic comedy with Sourcebooks) 

My version: 

It’s your typical “reluctant fake psychic” meets “jaded owner of a male strip club” love story. With a twist.

Violet McGinn doesn’t believe in psychic powers. That’s one thing she has in common with Drew Watson, the infuriatingly hot owner of the bar next door to Miss Moonbeam’s psychic studio. There’s just one problem – Miss Moonbeam is Violet’s mother. And for the next few weeks, Violet must fill mom’s shoes at the psychic studio.

Drew can’t figure out who’s nuttier – Miss Moonbeam, or her gorgeous daughter trying desperately to live the normal, straight-laced life mom never gave her. The one thing he knows for sure is that he doesn’t need another type-A female meddling with his life, career, or heart. So why can’t he get her out of his head?

Before Drew and Violet know what hit them, they discover that while normal may be nice, weird can be wonderful. Even worse, there just might be something to this psychic crap after all…

Their version: 

Do you believe in...accounting? 
Numbers never lie, so Violet McGinn found safe haven in the most boring profession she could find. Until her renowned psychic mother lands in the hospital and Violet has to run her business. Now you can have your taxes filed and your aura read, in one convenient location. 

Do you believe in...music? 
Drew Watson is the jaded owner of the local hot spot next door, and doesn't need a single thing except a good crowd to dance to what he's spinning on Saturday night. 

Do you believe in...love? 
The only thing Violet and Drew seem to have in common is that neither believes in that psychic hoo—hah. Except Drew seems to play exactly the right song at exactly the right time. And truth be told, it makes Violet's heart dance just a little ... 

Pretty different, huh? What do you think of the two versions? Am I the only person fascinated by the differences between how an author describes his/her work and how the publisher does it? Please share!

If I write what I know, I must know a lot of perverts

I was typing away last Monday night when I realized I needed to do some research.

"Hey, Honey?" I called to my gentleman friend.

"Yeah?" he hollered back from his station at the kitchen sink, where he was dutifully unstopping the garbage disposal.

"Can I borrow you a minute?"

"What for?"

"Well," I called, glancing back at the scene in my manuscript. "If I came up behind you braless and topless wearing high-heeled shoes, I need to know where my boobs would come into contact with your back. I'd also like you to describe the sensation."

There was a brief pause. Then he appeared in the office with  dishtowel slung over his shoulder and a big grin on his face. "I'm really glad you write romance and not science fiction."

I posted an abbreviated version of the conversation on Facebook, soliciting a few chuckles from readers. One person remarked that the research was only valid if my hero and heroine were precisely the same height as my gentleman friend and myself.

"There's a reason I've never written a particularly tall heroine," I replied.

Surprisingly, this was the first time it had dawned on me. Every heroine I've ever written has been a bit on the shrimpy side. I'm five-foot-three-and-a-half (don't you dare try to take away that half inch). My heroines have all ranged in height between five feet and five-five. Since there's a law that says you'll be thrown in prison if you write a hero who's under six feet tall, this works out fine with my six-one gentleman friend.

Clearly, I haven't strayed  far from the old adage to "write what you know."

I've been thinking about this a lot since the release of last week. One of the most common questions I'm getting from readers is whether standup paddle yoga is a real thing. I'm not sure why it never occurred to me that people would think I'd made up the sport, but I never considered that when I set out to write a heroine who teaches yoga on a standup paddleboard. It was just the quintessential activity to represent the uber-fit, uber-outdoorsy vibe in Bend, Oregon (the setting of the story, and not-so-coincidentally, the town where I've lived for 16 years and where I work part-time as the PR & Communications Manager for the tourism bureau).

So for those who are wondering, yes, it's real. And yes, I've done it. If you've never tried standup paddleboarding, it's actually much more stable than you think it would be. That photo there of me in wheel pose on the Deschutes River? That was only my second time on a paddleboard. It was my dog's first time, and she thought it was great fun to lick my face as the instructor (Kama, not to be confused with Eat, Play, Lust's heroine, Cami) offered suggestions for moving from one pose to another.

After that I probably went home and cooked either an elaborate gourmet meal, or tater tots. Or both. Also major elements of Eat, Play, Lust, in case you're wondering.

So, yeah, I guess I do tend to write what I know. For the record, I've never once fallen off a standup paddleboard. I suppose you could say I didn't fully research the scene in which Paul and Cami topple into the water together, but if it makes you feel any better, I can promise the other scenes were thoroughly researched.

Especially the one with the honey.

On Miley Cyrus, foam fingers, and why you maybe shouldn't buy my books

By now, you've surely heard of Miley Cyrus's booty-shaking, tongue-lolling, foam-finger-flicking performance at the Video Music Awards.

Yes, I watched it. Yes, I kinda wanted to grab her tongue and yank it the way I do with my dog when she won't stop licking my ankle under the desk while I write. Yes, I really hope she washed that foam finger afterward.

But as a woman who makes a living writing and marketing somewhat risque romantic comedy, here are a few things I'm pondering:

•  Why is every headline, every blog post, expressing horror and outrage over the performance of a 20-year-old woman while ignoring the 30-something man gyrating with her in a freakishly-tight suit and singing about the "Blurred Lines" between consensual and non-consensual sex?
• Why do people so often insist someone has a responsibility to be a role model to the children? Aren't parents the only ones who signed up for that duty?
• It may be true the young lady woke remorseful the next morning with the foam finger curled limply beside her and glitter stuck to the sheets like the herpes of the craft world. It's also possible she woke up smiling, spent a few minutes with her favorite battery-operated companion, and thought, "hot damn, everyone's buzzing about me now."

This last one is of particular interest to me, since it speaks to the marketing side of my brain (the part that's actually put a roof over my head for the last 15 years during periods I'm waiting nervously by the mailbox for my author royalty checks to show up).

A lot of you probably pal around with me on Facebook and Twitter. If you don't, you probably should, since I'm a lot more active there on a day-to-day basis than I am here with my weekly blogging.

On the surface, it might seem like my posts are a random hodge-podge of details about stealing batteries from my vibrator to use in my wireless mouse or asking my gentleman friend to let me rub my boobs on his back so I can accurately complete the scene I'm writing (both true stories, thankyouverymuch). Posts like that might seem silly, hyper-sexualized, or even downright embarrassing if you happened to give birth to me (hi, Mom!)

If those are adjectives you've used to describe my posts, I'm begging you – PLEASE DO NOT BUY MY BOOKS. Seriously.

What I'm doing with those posts is signaling you about the tone of my books and novellas. I write risque romantic comedy packed with innuendo, sex, and a certain brand of humor not everyone finds amusing. If that's not your thing, no hard feelings. Seriously, we can still be friends. We can even have pillow fights in our underwear if you like, and I promise not to grab your butt if you don't want me to.

I'm just happy we've figured this out up front instead of after you've purchased one of my stories, gasped in horror on page five, and proceeded to write a scathing review on Amazon or Goodreads. Isn't it better if everyone knows in advance what to expect so you can decide for yourself if that's your cup of tea?

I don't know if that's what Miley Cyrus was doing with her VMA performance – signaling fans that she's going a more racy direction with her career. Hell, maybe she really was just a misguided 20-year-old doing something silly and regrettable. It happens.

It also just-so-happens that yesterday was release day for my new novella, Eat, Play, Lust. So you know up front what you're getting, this is a short novella – only 14,000 words, compared with my normal romantic comedies that come in around 85,000. That's why it's priced at only 99-cents.

It's also pretty risque. That's why I'm pleased most of the early reviews use terms like "food porn," or describe the story's dynamic like this (thanks, MsRomanticReads!):

This couple had fantastic (culinary) chemistry, and I especially loved the hilarious dialogue between them. From the nervous word diarrhea filled with double entendres to the food geekery. I would highly recommend this to anyone who is looking for a light, sexy and fun read that will leave you with a smile on your face and an ache in your belly, either because you’re hungry or because of laugh cramps. You’re guaranteed both.

If that's your cup of tea, by all means – please go drop 99-cents on Eat, Play, Lust. If it isn't, no worries.

Just don't come near me with any foam fingers, okay?

Lookie lookie! I'm sharing the cover for Eat, Play, Lust

Thanks so much to everyone who pre-ordered Eat, Play, Lust and offered birthday wishes in last week's post. My backside is still stinging pleasantly, so I appreciate those who stepped up to provide birthday spankings.

I threw all the entries into a hat, and then realized the hat was sweaty and gross, so I tossed them in a mixing bowl instead and drew a name. Then I had to wash the mixing bowl, because ew. Congratulations to Snarky Mom Reads (who earned herself a couple extra entries by tweeting and blogging and Facebooking and even posting a really cool early review of Eat, Play, Lust). Snarky Mom gets her choice between Making Waves or Believe it or Not.

Advance reading copies of Eat, Play, Lust have been circulating among reviewers, which always makes me nervous. I always swear I WILL NOT READ REVIEWS for any of my novels or novellas. Then I do it anyway, because I have no self-control (which, incidentally, is why I sometimes miss deadlines).

Luckily, the reviews popping up on Goodreads have been positive, which makes my heart swell bigger than a purple-headed yogurt slinger. I've had tons of people telling me they've pre-ordered the novella at Amazon or  Barnes and Noble, which is also pretty swell.

Wanna see the cover? I officially got permission to share, which makes me very happy, because you should always share things you love. Unless you happen to love herpes, in which case you should keep that to yourself.

So here's the cover:

Pretty cool, huh? In case you missed it last week, here's what the novella is about:

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.

A few interesting tidbits about this novella:

• I already shared the story of how this little novella was born from my agent's suggestion that I needed to rediscover the things that made me love writing. Part of that involved sitting down and thinking about other things I loved. On my list: gourmet cooking, yoga, sex, tater tots, innuendo, standup paddleboarding, kissing a man with facial hair, sunshine, and risqué humor. I smushed all those things together and voila! Eat, Play, Lust was born.
• I've had a few people ask the difference between a novel and a novella. My normal romantic comedy novels are about 85,000 words, but this little story is only 14,000. It has all the elements of a regular novel like fully developed characters, plot arc, conflict, and resolution, but it's super short (one of the few occasions that's an asset, rather than a disappointment). Think of it like an appetizer – if you've never read one of my books before, you might be more apt to commit to a little 99-cent taster that only requires a few hours to read. If you like it, you might take a shot at one of my full-length books.
• This book is dedicated in honor of my grandmother and my gentleman friend's mother, both of whom passed away after battling with Alzheimer's. (Sidenote: Fuck you, Alzheimer's). The story itself has nothing to do with Alzheimer's, but I'm donating a portion of the proceeds to the Fisher Center for Alzheimer's Research. Buy a copy for yourself, your friends, your loved ones, or your bikini waxer, and you're supporting a pretty good cause. Also, fuck you, Alzheimer's.

The novella is scheduled for release August 26, but you can pre-order at Amazon or  Barnes and Noble. Questions? Concerns? STD symptoms you'd like to discuss in hopes of getting a non-professional diagnosis? Please share!

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!