Why I spit in my grandma's memory

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

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

I did this yesterday by spitting.

Yesterday's sacred spit
at Tumalo Falls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandma Lucy died the same week I finished that book.

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

So Grandma Lucy – I spit in your honor.

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

Nice shot.

Grandma Lucy and my dad upholding the family tradition.

Defending pink wine and bodice rippers

The other night, I went to a dinner party with a 2004 Jardiniére Rosé Willamette Valley Pinot Noir.

That’s a complicated way of saying I brought a bottle of pink wine. A damn good wine, but pink nonetheless.

There’s a stereotype associated with pink wines, and it’s not a good one. People think of the sickly-sweet rotgut sold in gallon jugs as “white zinfandel” and think pink=cheap. Unless you’re a starving college student, cheap is not a good thing in wine.

I was recently at Firesteed doing research for LET IT BREATHE, and the tasting room associate lamented this as he poured their fabulous 2008 Pinot Noir Rosé.

A most excellent Rosé.

“Wine critics love it, but the public is reluctant,” he explained. “People see pink and turn up their noses.”

It’s not hard for me to draw a parallel between that and the romance genre.

I’ll proudly tell anyone from my grandma to the paperboy that I write romance. Though most are supportive, I’d be delusional if I said I didn’t see the occasional sneer. It’s a look that suggests I’m either a sexual deviant, an inferior writer, or some combination of the two.

My instinct is to stammer something about how I write quirky romantic comedies that are way different from the stereotypical bodice rippers with Fabio on the cover.

And then I get mad at myself, because so damn what if I wrote bodice rippers? Is there something wrong with that?

Statistically speaking, the romance genre generated $1.37 billion in sales in 2008, and remained the largest share of the consumer market at 13.5 percent (thanks RWA for those stats).

And yet, as the creators of Smart Bitches, Trashy Books noted in their hysterical book BEYOND HEAVING BOSOMS, “romance is easily the most well-hidden literary habit in America. Millions of dollars are spent on romance novels, yet few will admit to reading them.”

I’m not sure what’s behind that. Is it the desire to be seen as intellectual who would never read escapist tripe? Is it the fear of being branded a sexual deviant along with the author?

Or is it something else?

As the recipient of a degree in English Lit, I am qualified not only to serve Happy Meals, but to point out that romance is part of nearly every great work of literature. The Illiad, Hamlet, Don Quixote, Anna Karenina…frankly, you’d have a shorter list if you just tallied up the books without romance (and then skipped them entirely, because really, who wants to read anything without nookie in it?)

While most modern romance novels probably won’t find their way into the literary canon anytime soon, that doesn’t make them any less worthy of respect and admiration. The romance genre is popular, it’s enjoyable, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of – for readers or for writers.

So on that note, I lift my glass of pink wine in a toast to everyone who loves romance. Cheers to all of you – the sexual deviants, the good and bad writers, and anyone who just craves a damn good love story.

The ecstasy of being wrong (thanks, Ms. Crusie!)

You probably think my highest point this past February was the call from my agent saying Sourcebooks was offering us a three-book deal for my romantic comedies.

You’d be mostly right, but that wasn’t the only swoon-worthy news I got that week.

Bestselling author Jennifer Crusie – the queen of romantic comedy, my total freakin’ IDOL – held a contest on her blog a couple days before my book deal came through. Her publisher, St. Martin’s Press, wanted reader quotes to share with booksellers about her upcoming release. They decided to give away 35 uncorrected manuscripts of MAYBE THIS TIME, (a book that hits shelves August 31).


The way it played out in my fantasy is that Jennifer Crusie invited me to lunch, and over a lovely spinach salad, asked if I’d take a peek at her new book. Then we hugged and braided each other’s hair and spent an hour complimenting each other’s writing skills.

OK, that wasn’t how it happened, though skill was involved. I had to type my name really fast in the entry form.

But suffice it to say, I got the book. I was stoked.

And I was nervous.

You see, I adore Jennifer Crusie’s writing with the same childish passion I once had for potato bugs. But I also knew what the book was about. (click here for a blurb)

There are two things I don’t typically like in romance novels – children and paranormal elements.

This book has both. I was terrified I wouldn’t like it.

But I set aside my prejudices and read. And read. And read. And read.

And you know what? I really did adore it. The characters were quirky and fun. The love story left me panting. The ghost story – the paranormal part I was worried about – kept me on the edge of my seat. Even the kids were entertaining.

In the end, I sent my gushing reader quotes to the folks at St. Martin’s and built a tasteful shrine placed the book alongside all the other Crusie titles on my bookshelf.

It was a good reminder to me that it pays to keep an open mind as a reader. Every time I find myself saying, “I don’t like books with THAT in them,” I try to find a book with THAT to see if I’m wrong. Sometimes I’m not, but many times I’m forced to eat my words.

I want to be wrong. I’ve found a lot of great books that way, from Stephenie Meyer’s TWILIGHT to Diana Gabaldon’s OUTLANDER, and now Jennifer Crusie’s MAYBE THIS TIME – all books I was pleasantly surprised to discover I loved.

Am I the only one who does this? Is there something you think you don’t like in books, on your dinner plate, or in life in general? Do you ever try to prove yourself wrong? Please share in the comments.

Oh, and if you’re interested, I got the OK from St. Martin’s to post a more thorough review of the book a little closer to the release date. Stay tuned this August for more details.

And be prepared to have your socks knocked off by MAYBE THIS TIME.

In which I maturely do not say "hump" despite mentioning camels

Yesterday, the FedEx man brought my new iPhone.

I’ve never owned such a miraculous device before, and I sat for an hour gazing at it in wonder.

I showed it to Pythagoras when he got home. “See how shiny?”

“It is,” he agreed. “Do you plan to turn it on?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Does that require candlelight and soft music, or will I need to rub it?”

I’m only half kidding, because the fact is, I hate reading directions. Maps, too, are a mystery to me.

This is a key area where I differ from my husband, who would cheerfully consult a map to navigate his way from our kitchen to the bathroom.

When we were in Morocco a few years ago, our guidebook suggested that Marrakesh’s souks – the large, open-air markets – were a great place to get lost.

A souk in Marrakesh

To me, this sounded like an adventure.

To my husband, it sounded like a good reason to buy three maps and stay up half the night plotting our course.

As is usually the case in a solid marriage like ours, we spent the next few days bitching at each other compromising our varied approaches. I got to meander aimlessly, stumbling down hidden corridors discovering new sights and sounds and smells.

Pythagoras got to ensure we found our way back to our hotel instead of accepting the rug vendor’s invitation to share a bed with him and his four wives.

I keep thinking of this as I stumble my way through LET IT BREATHE, the third book in my contract with Sourcebooks. Every time I open the document on my computer, it’s like meandering down those spice-scented corridors in Marrakesh.

I start typing, and suddenly – hey look, there’s a camel!

I get to ride a camel into the Sahara at sunset.

(OK, technically, it’s an alpaca in my story, but it did appear rather unexpectedly in the manuscript one morning).

I know this approach would drive plenty of authors batty. Well-organized plotters like my critique partner, Cynthia Reese, would not take kindly to livestock of any sort showing up in their stories without an invitation.

And you know what? That’s OK. I don’t begrudge my husband’s need for a map or other authors' desire for a little more structure to their writing. We all have different ways of getting where we’re going. My method works great for me, just like a structured approach might work great for you.

And speaking of working, we did get my iPhone to function. We achieved it through calculated teamwork approach that involved me punching a lot of random buttons and Pythagoras frowning at the device and asking, “what the hell did you do to it?”

See? Compromise. It’s a beautiful thing.

Pythagoras figures out my new iPhone with some help from Bindi the Australian Kelpie.

Assume the position: on writing and yoga poses

Yesterday I returned to yoga class after a 10-month absence.

I secretly hoped it would be like riding a bike. Well, not exactly like riding a bike. I didn’t want my butt to hurt.

But I did hope everything would come rushing back – the poses, the breathing, the vocabulary, the flexibility.

After all, I had a steep learning curve when I first started. I fondly remember my initial attempt at “crow pose.”

For those unfamiliar, this is what it looks like when done correctly:

Crow Pose - Bakasana

© Barry Stone

Obviously that’s not me in the photo, because as I mentioned, it’s being done correctly.

The first time I tried it, I balanced precariously with my knees on my elbows, hovered for two seconds, and tipped forward. My head hit the floor with a THUD. Everyone in class turned to stare.

Not very zenlike.

Determined to get it right, I went home and practiced in front of Pythagoras. In addition to a degree in exercise physiology, my husband possesses infinitely more athletic prowess than I do. I demonstrated the pose for him. This time, I held it for three seconds before my head hit the floor.

Pythagoras nodded wisely. “Maybe you should wear a helmet to class.”

I’m nothing if not determined, so I practiced and practiced, enduring several mild concussions and a one-week period where I thought my name was Eduardo.

The day I finally got it, I squealed with joy.

And promptly fell on my head.

So you’ll understand the terror I felt yesterday when, 15 minutes into class, the instructor ordered us to assume the pose.

It was a bit like the times I’ve taken breaks from writing fiction. On several occasions – operating under the misguided belief that I shouldn’t waste time writing something new until I heard back from a prospective agent or editor – I simply stopped writing.

Sure, my day-jobs have typically involved writing in one form or another. But there’s a big difference between crafting a press release and creating characters and plot arcs out of thin air.

After every hiatus, there’s a moment of white-knuckle fear. Will I remember how to do this? Will I have to re-learn everything? Will everyone stare when my head hits the floor with a THUD?

And then, there’s that moment of elation. The instant I realize I haven’t forgotten anything at all.

That’s one valuable lesson I learned along my bumpy road to publication. Even if you take a break, you don’t forget the things you’ve already figured out. The skills you gain, the lessons you learn – you get to keep those.

I’m not suggesting you should take long breaks from writing. On the contrary, I’ve kicked myself each time I’ve done it. But if you do stray from your muse for a little while, rest assured you won’t start over from “see spot run.”

Oh, and you’ll be happy to hear I successfully assumed “crow pose” in class yesterday. I did not, however, manage to get my ankles behind my head.

We’ll save that for next time.

Things that sound dirty but aren't

It snowed on Saturday.

Not a lot, but enough to convince us that when the sun broke a few hours later, we’d better hit the hiking trail fast if we wanted to do so without the aid of snowshoes.

You might think being surrounded by fresh air and beautiful scenery would lead to a lot of meaningful pondering about my current manuscript.

This is me pondering meaningfully.

You’d be only partly right.

As is often the case, every phrase Pythagoras and I uttered managed to come out sounding dirty.

Think I’m kidding? Here are a few gems from our Saturday hike:

• “It’s too narrow to ride abreast” (me complaining about mountain bikers riding side-by-side on the trail).
• “They’re cavity nesters – that’s why the box is like that” (Pythagoras explaining the nesting habits of wood ducks and the homes built for them by Forest Service crews).
• “Get your nose out of that hole!” (me scolding the dog for chasing a ground squirrel)
• “I hope they’re planning to trim the bushes” (Pythagoras remarking on the overgrown foliage along the trail)
• Pythagoras: I’m worried the lava rock is really hard on her paws. Me: You said "hard-on."
• “Are you coming?”(me to a dawdling Pythagoras).

On the bright side, there is actually some element of this in my current manuscript, so all is not lost.

How about you? Did anything about your weekend leave you giggling like a middle schooler? Please share in the comments.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get off the internet and start working on the manuscript.

I said "get off."

US vs. THEM: on writer cliques and bra-snapping

I’ve never been one of the cool kids.

Not in middle school where I capped off the eighth grade by throwing up in my underwear, not in high school where I completed my Chemistry exams by writing poems about sodium hydroxide.

I vaguely recall a period in middle school where I cared about scaling the mountain of Guess jeans and hair-sprayed bangs to become one of THEM. The chosen ones. The cool clique.

That got exhausting, and I pretty much stopped caring after that.

The reason I bring this up is that I’ve seen a lot of chatter online about “cliques” in the Twitterverse and the writing community – these published authors who think they’re too sexy for their shirts, and the pre-published authors who secretly want to beat them with a can of Aquanet.

And I’ve gotta say, I don’t get it.

Maybe I’m missing something, and there really are hoards of published authors roaming the halls stuffing the pre-published authors into lockers and snapping their bras.

But more likely, you’ve got a bunch of authors with book deals and deadlines and editors breathing down their necks. Authors who are trying desperately to be accessible to fans and failing. Not failing, exactly, but just not reaching everyone.

I have 15 months to go before my debut novel hits shelves, and I certainly can’t claim to have any fans yet. But I can say that I desperately want to strike up personal relationships with everyone who reads this blog, and it breaks my heart that the best I can do most days is the dialogue in the comments trail and a few random Twitter exchanges.

I’m trying, but I’m failing, and I’m sure I’ll fail harder somewhere down the line.

I do understand the tendency to be star struck by certain authors. I have a special dance-of-joy I perform on the days Jennifer Crusie responds to a comment I’ve made on her blog. (Note to self: consider altering dance-of-joy so neighbor doesn’t think you’re having a seizure).

But on the days Ms. Crusie doesn’t respond, I don’t curse her name and burn her books. And I especially don’t think less of myself as a writer because she didn’t send me a personal note asking if we can get together to have martinis and brush each other’s hair (Note to Jennifer Crusie: I would totally brush your hair).

Our value as writers is not determined by how quickly we get an agent or a book deal, how sizeable our first advance check, or how quickly we climb to the top of the bestseller list.

And though I think it’s crucial to be friendly and accessible to fans and fellow authors, the value of an author can’t be judged by how kindly she treats others or how others view her.

What matters is how you perceive yourself and your writing – apart from all the clutter about cliques and US vs. THEM and thatbitchdidntsmileatmeinthehall.

How you value yourself is the only part you can control.

Whether you’re cool or not is irrelevant. Being cool with yourself – or with your own lack of coolness – that’s the only thing that counts.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a strange urge to tease my hair and rock out to Poison.

Boobies & booties: My wild night with the girls

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

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

But that wasn’t the case last night.

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

I was nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My friend just did that with a real person.

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

The curious case of the missing pants

“I can’t find my…”

These four words begin about 40% of the sentences uttered in this household.

I am not the one doing the uttering.

Pythagoras has always been absentminded, but a recent announcement gave me pause.

“I can’t find my pants,” he declared. “My favorite pants.”

“Um, OK,” I said, trying not to be alarmed about where my husband might have left his pants and how he arrived home without them. “When did you have them last?”

He thought about that a minute. “Maybe when we went to Greece. Or maybe a month after that, I’m not sure.”

I frowned at the calendar. “We went to Greece in June. You’ve been hunting for your pants this whole time?”

Apparently so. He turned the closet upside down looking for them. I searched the guest rooms, thinking maybe he’d overlooked them. We called my parents, thinking perhaps he’d left them there on a visit. We searched his workplace, thinking…um, actually, I’m not sure what we were thinking.

But the pants were gone. My overactive imagination ran wild. Had aliens abducted them? Had a badger eaten them? Had I somehow failed to notice a day my husband came home from work wearing only his shirt and shoes? The possibilities were endless.

We spent an entire day at the mall searching for a replacement. None were adequate. “These aren’t like the old pants,” he insisted.

“You do have three or four identical pairs though, right?”

He shook his head sadly. “The other ones were the best shade of gray.”

Fearful the grief might prompt him to go pantsless to brunch the next morning, I grabbed one of the identical pairs from the closet and hopped on the computer to see if I could find an online vendor selling them.

I searched for an hour, finally locating what I thought might be the right color, cut, and style. “Pythagoras,” I yelled. “Come look at these online and tell me if I should place an order.”

He wandered into the bedroom, looked at the picture on the screen, then looked at the pants in my lap.

“Where did you find my pants?”

I stared at him. “These are your missing pants?”

He nodded. “Where were they?”

I closed my eyes, realizing – not for the first time – there are reasons the female praying mantis bites off the male’s head after mating. “They were in Greece,” I told him. “I flew there this morning to get them.”

So my husband has his pants back. And at least for now, I have the assurance he did not leave them in the front seat of an ice cream truck driven by a transvestite stripper.

Because really, that was my next guess.

When life hands you lemons, add them to your vodka

Yesterday sucked donkeys.

There were a variety of reasons, but suffice it to say I found myself staring at the seven remote controls on the coffee table wondering which could fast-forward through my crappy morning.

But I write humor. On this blog, in my manuscript, in my tweets – I’m here to be funny. If I stopped making you laugh, you’d stop reading and I’d have to resort to telling knock-knock jokes to the cat and gauging his reaction by how enthusiastically he licked his butt.

The great thing about writing romantic comedy is that it’s easy for me to brand myself with tweets and blog posts that reflect the same humor I use in my books. I’ve talked to several authors who write more serious novels and find it tough to draw people in. I’m lucky to have cheap laughs as my lure.

So what happens if I’m not feeling funny?

Behold, I give you Tawna’s tips for writers (or anyone else) having a donkey-sucking day:

DO switch up the music you’re listening to. If you’re on the tenth replay of Pink Floyd’s “On the Turning Away,” it’s possible you’re contributing to your downward spiral. Switch to something you can dance to. Bonus points if you actually dance. Triple bonus points if you do it in your underwear.

DO interact with someone who makes you laugh. Turn to Twitter for a quick pick-me-up, or swap an email with an old pal.

DO interact with someone in-person. This is different than the last one because real face-to-face contact forces you to be animated and engaged. I work from home, so I have to get creative with this. It’s possible my vet wondered why I pleaded for a last-minute appointment yesterday, or why I hugged her when I left.

DO try to accomplish something. Even something small like doing the dishes or organizing a messy drawer will give you a sense of achievement to ensure the day wasn’t a total waste of lipstick.

DO take a walk. Fresh air does great things for your mind.

DO keep your troubles in perspective. Years ago, I worked in marketing for a large medical center. My computer crashed one afternoon, losing two weeks of work. When I griped about it to one of the nurses, he nodded supportively. “It’s been a bad day for me, too,” he agreed. “My patient died.” Suddenly, my woes didn’t seem so terrible.

DON'T wallow. It can be exhausting trying to pull yourself out of your rut, and the urge to lie down in the mud and smear it all over yourself can be overwhelming. Don’t do it. Get up, wipe off the slime, and get moving.

DON'T drink. I know, I know…I love wine as much as the next person. But alcohol is a depressant, and it’s like pouring kerosene on the flames when you’re already feeling down. Better solution? Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt straight from the carton.

How about you? What are your bad day pick-me-ups? Please share in the comments. I’ll be over here making damn sure today is better than yesterday.