When technology sucks giant salamanders

So today is the last day you can vote to choose the title of my August debut (and get a chance to win a signed advance reading copy).

Unlike me, you probably haven’t been neurotically checking the poll every 10 minutes, so you may not have noticed the poll mysteriously vanished on Tuesday.

I figured it would reappear upon restart. When that didn’t work, I went to blogpolls.com, the site where I’d gotten the poll to start with.

Dead.

I checked agent Janet Reid’s blog, since I know she uses the same service for polls.

Uh-oh. Hers were gone, too.

It was obvious what had happened. A large herd of Chinese Giant Salamanders broke into the offices at blogpolls.com, and despite the staff's best efforts to fend them off with fire extinguishers and toilet plungers, the salamanders took control of the company's computer system to erect a site devoted to salamander porn.

Or maybe blogpolls.com just had server problems.

At any rate, I see my poll is back up this morning. That means you still have a chance to vote if you haven't already. Don't forget to leave a comment, since that's your entry to win a signed advance reading copy.

In the meantime, watch out for those salamanders.

Why you shouldn't go to work asleep

The neighbor’s cat was hit by a car the other night, prompting me to lock the cat door and inform my three feline housemates they’ve been grounded.

They didn’t take the news well, and spent the whole night yowling and attempting to chew through the window.

Suffice it to say, I didn’t sleep.

There’s something about sleep deprivation that makes the creativity center in my brain shrivel like man-giblets in ice water. It’s challenging when I need to be “on” for novel writing, but since yesterday was one of the three days a week I work as the marketing/PR manager for the city’s tourism bureau, I thought I could make do with a half-functioning brain.

I thought wrong.

Just before lunch, I put up a Facebook post promoting the city's upcoming First Friday Art Hop. At the last second, I edited the event title down to a simplified “Art Hop” to avoid using the word "Friday" twice.

Then I went to lunch and forgot about it.

Upon my return, I found the office manager laughing so hard she could barely stand.

My boss peered up at me from behind her desk. “Did you put up the post about Fart Hop?”

There’s really no right answer to that question.

Sure enough, I discovered I had posted the following message for all 2,000+ Facebook friends to enjoy:

Who else is looking forward to FArt Hop in downtown Bend on Friday? Looks like a great lineup!

The post generated a plethora of colorful comments and several phone calls to the office. I got a congratulatory text message from someone whose number I didn’t even recognize, and the executive director for the Downtown Business Association emailed me a proposed agenda for Fart Hop (the highlights of which included a chili cheese fry eating contest and a mandatory underwear change).

It’s a good thing everyone has a sense of humor about this stuff. I suppose in some companies it could be a firing offense. In this one, we laughed ourselves silly imagining promotional items and ad campaigns tied to the Fart Hop.

I’m still not sure what I’m going to do about the cats and their house arrest, but I do know I shouldn't go to work sleep deprived again. Late yesterday afternoon while responding to an email about our city’s nomination as one of the dog friendliest towns in the nation, I caught myself typing the phrase “doggie style.”

I noticed that one before I hit send.

What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done as a result of sleep deprivation? Please tell me I’m not the only one who pulls stuff like this.

And please tell me where the hell I left my pen. And my sandwich. And my pants.

Making yourself feel good

Since I made my tough announcement last week, I’ve had a lot of kind messages from friends and strangers.

Are you OK? Are you taking care of yourself?

At first, this seemed like an intensely personal question. Then I realized most people have a different definition of “taking care of yourself” than I do.

At any rate, the answer is yes. I’m aware that all isn’t right with my world, so I’ve been taking extra steps to give myself reasons to smile.

Getting dressed

There are perks to walking around unclothed all day, not the least of which is not having to unbutton your pants when you’ve eaten too much ice cream. But when I’m feeling glum, lounging around in filthy yoga pants makes me feel like a slob. A glum slob. It’s amazing how much it can lift my mood to put on a cute outfit (complete with matching bra and underwear) and slather on a little makeup. Shallow? Perhaps. But it saves me a lot of awkward moments with the UPS man.

Fresh flowers

I started this habit several years ago when I was working from home and noticed how often I make the circuit between my desk and the kitchen. Then I noticed how much more I enjoyed the trip when I saw a vase of fresh flowers on the table each time I passed. I started buying inexpensive little bundles of them in the winter, or in summer months, picking my own from the yard. It’s such a simple thing – $1.29 for a bunch of daffodils from Trader Joes – but having fresh flowers in my life does wonders to perk me up.

Laughter

I have my go-to websites that are guaranteed to make me laugh in 30 seconds or less. Damnyouautocorrect is my favorite, but Allie Brosh’s Hyperbole and a Half is a close second. Cracking myself up is the single best favor I can do for myself, so I try to do it often.

New bedding

Being in bed makes me happy even when there’s nothing risqué happening there. Being in bed with pretty sheets and a cozy down comforter makes me even happier. I have a knack for finding good deals on bedding, and I can mix and match and add different pieces for a whole new look. This past weekend, I scored a great deal on some high thread count sheets in a bright grass green. Paired with a blue and white duvet cover I already owned and some aqua pillowcases, the whole ensemble looks bright and springy. I keep wandering upstairs to admire it, and the only thing that could improve my mood more would be discovering a hot, shirtless man lying there doing my taxes.

What do you do to take care of yourself? Er, we’re going with the common definition here, not the pervert one. Please share!

Why titles matter...and don't matter

In case you missed it Friday, Sourcebooks asked for YOUR opinion on the title of my August debut. There's still time to vote, and if you leave a comment, you could win a signed advance copy of the book.

Watching votes and comments roll in has been fascinating, and has me thinking a lot about sea slugs.

OK, I'm not thinking about sea slugs. Well, I am thinking about them, but I'm also thinking about book titles.

When I first started trying to write fiction, a wise person told me this: "Don't get too attached to the title you give it – most publishers change them anyway."

But I also recognized that an abysmal title leaves a bad first impression with decision makers – the editors, agents, or potential readers deciding whether to read your story or use it as a coaster.

That was never more obvious to me than when I judged a writing contest last fall. Of the six partial manuscripts in my batch, two had such lousy titles that I considered temporarily blinding myself with pepper spray so I'd be excused from reading them.

As it turned out, one of them was lousy. But the other was surprisingly good, and I ended up giving it some of the highest marks.

At the same time, I don't pretend to be an all-knowing title goddess who gets to hand down judgment on what makes a good title. The first book I ever sold was an action/adventure/romance targeted at Harlequin-Silhouette's now defunct Bombshell line (and by "defunct" I mean "canceled a month before my @#$% book hit the shelves," not that I'm bitter).

The book they bought featured a ski patroller heroine who gets sent to a resort in Chile to deal with the area's abundance of accidents that may not be so accidental after all. The title I gave the book was SHADOWS IN THE SNOW.

I thought it wasn't half bad, but in my first conversation with the editor who bought it, she waved it off dismissively. "We'll change the title, of course."

Which they did, to AVALANCHE. In hindsight, I totally get why that was the stronger title. Had the book been released, it might have even sold a couple copies.

The title issue came up again when Sourcebooks was first considering the book that's now scheduled as my August 2011 debut. At the time, we were calling the book WALKING THE PLANK. I still adore that title, and the book made it all the way to the editorial board under that name. Then, the editor came back with grim news.

Several people had voiced concern that WALKING THE PLANK was too closely tied to the grimmer aspects of real, modern piracy. It was a legitimate worry right then, since the piracy situation Somalia had taken some rather terrifying turns (though one could argue that pirates in the news could be a good thing for a novel that parodies traditional pirate romances).

Still, it was a no go. We were sent back to the drawing board and asked to re-tool the book's marketing hook to focus more on the corporate revenge aspect of the story. After all, the story's plot really boils down to a bunch of folks doing something wacky in the wake of job loss. Plenty of people can relate.

We kicked around dozens of titles, reworked a few aspects of the story, and rewrote proposed marketing copy. The book's new title? MAI TAI MUTINY.

I just cringed when I typed that, because really, it's terrible. The editorial board agreed it was terrible, and I suspect several of them fled the room gagging. Sourcebooks didn't buy it, and that was that.

Or was it?

In the end, they did buy the book. It happened almost a year later when my amazing agent sent them a new romantic comedy I'd written and they ended up offering a three-book deal that included the new book, one I hadn't yet written, and the book we were jokingly calling "unpirate."

A rather lengthy titling exercise produced over 30 potential titles for "unpirate," and one was selected last February. If you're a regular blog reader, you already know what that was, since it's what we've called the book for a year now.

But things change – market conditions, news headlines, what the competitors are doing, the position of uranus (snicker). And because Sourcebooks is committed to making sure we have the very best title for this book, we're reassessing. Personally, I think it's pretty cool they're letting you, the potential readers, make the call.

How much thought do you put into titles when you're making book buying decisions? How about when you're writing? Please share!

And don't forget to vote. There are still a couple days left, and you could win a signed, advance copy!

Pick my title, win the book. Pretty cool, huh?

Every book I’ve ever written has a secret title.

In my mind, the three romantic comedies in my contract will always be Piratebitch, Psychicbitch, and Winebitch.

Fortunately, my mind isn’t making the important decisions around here.

There’s a lot of high-level strategy behind book titles that I don’t pretend to grasp. Lucky for me, the folks at Sourcebooks are keeping an eye on the market and taking steps to make certain we have the best title possible for my debut novel.

To ensure we have the title that’s most compelling to the most readers, Sourcebooks wants your input.

See that spiffy poll below? Which of the two titles would make YOU pick up the book and squeal with joy as you run for the cash register? (You can also squeal as you download it to your e-reader. Squealing is an integral part of any book buying experience).

In case you’re new here, this is what the book is about:
When his sleazy boss kicks him to the curb and steals his pension, Alex heads to the Caribbean with a crew of corporate castoffs to intercept an illegal diamond shipment in the most dysfunctional pirate mission in history. Things heat up when Juli – who’s supposed to be dumping her dead uncle’s ashes at sea – mistakenly stows away on their boat.

After you vote, leave a comment about why you chose the title you did. We’ll draw a name from the comments on March 31 and one lucky reader will get a signed Advance Reading Copy of the book.

Pretty cool, huh? Now here are your two choices:



Don’t forget to leave a comment about why you voted the way you did. That’s your entry to win an Advance Reading Copy of the book.

Now go forth and make history!

The things we do behind closed doors

Lately, I’ve been studying women’s chins.

It’s not a new fetish (though I’m always working to develop those). I’ve been making note of some of the ways gravity and aging are unkind to human skin.

This is where the chin fetish comes in. Some women develop a bit of a wattle with age, and while I look forward to this as a place to store loose change, I’d like to delay the onset if I could.

So I did a bit of googling and found a simple exercise that likely has no effect on chin definition, but I’m going to keep doing it for another reason.

Ready?

Stand in front of the mirror. Stick out your tongue. Attempt to touch your tongue to your nose. Repeat until you are laughing so hard at yourself that you realize you don’t really give a crap if you have the most hideous turkey neck on the planet.

I found myself in this state a few months ago when I started doing the tongue-to-nose touch whenever I visited the ladies room at the day job. As I stood there in front of the mirror, I had that fleeting thought I’ve had many times before.

What if this is a two-way mirror? What if someone’s watching me do this?

The idea made me giggle even harder than the exercise itself (which probably just adds to the laugh lines, though I’ve already decided are my best feature. OK, second best feature).

Remember the movie Ghost? Patrick Swayze dies, but hangs around in a ghostlike state spending a disturbing amount of time spying on his girlfriend. In the movie, she’s always perfectly posed and beautifully mournful in the apartment all alone.

In a Saturday Night Live skit based on the movie, actress Victoria Jackson showed the more likely scenario. The girlfriend sits around the house belching, farting, singing off-key, and using a discarded toenail clipping to pick her teeth.

Disgusting, but also reality. If you don’t think you’re being watched, why the hell not?

For now, I’ve given up the tongue-to-chin touching exercise. It’s not that I really fear a two-way mirror in the bathroom (though if there is one, I hope someone enjoyed watching me fish my iPhone out of the toilet).

It’s just that I’ve grown rather fond of chin wattles after studying them all this time. Lately, I’ve been overwhelmed by the urge to reach over and pet them.

Wait. Maybe this really is a fetish.

What’s the silliest thing you’ve caught yourself doing when you think no one’s watching? Please share!

Butt pats and blog love

I often write blog posts the night before and set them to go live at 2:30 a.m.

I went to bed after writing the lousiest blog post I’ll ever write and lay there fretting.

Was it OK to share so much? How would people react?

I woke in a panic a few hours later and grabbed my iPhone. I get an email every time someone comments here, and though the post had only been up an hour, I was nervous.

And then I was overwhelmed. By kindness and compassion and humor and love from people I’ve never met in my life.

I’ll admit it, I bawled. My mom emailed to say she’d gone through an entire box of Kleenex reading the comments.

My brother called that evening. “You’re like a cult with all those people saying nice shit about you,” he said. “If it means your books will make a lot of money, how much do I get if you die?”

Thank you for that. For making my mom cry and my brother plot my untimely demise.

Your support and wisdom and laughter and friendship gave me more strength in a single day than I could get from a lifetime of steroid use (and without the unfortunate growth of facial hair and testicles).

When I began confiding in people about my crumbling marriage, I think you all held a secret meeting. Never mind that most of my friends and family and online pals have never met each other. I’m certain a major planning session took place.

“OK, so who’s offering her helpful encouragement?” someone yelled.

“I am. How about butt pats and wine drinking?”

“Over here. Anyone doing tough love?”

“Check. Male bashing?”

“Got it. Who’s going to make her laugh?”

“I'm on it. How about feeding her so she consumes more than red wine and asparagus spears?”

And on and on, until all my needs were met by an entire army of loved ones.

Well, not all my needs (though author pal Jeffe Kennedy gave it a damn good try with vivid tales of my new millionaire husband, Xavier, and the sensual tricks he learned in Thailand).

Where was I?

Right.

Friendship. Support. Kindness. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for giving me that in spades through your blog comments and private emails and tweets and Facebook messages and mental telepathy (though whoever that was with the image of the nipple clamps and the oatmeal, the restraining order is in the mail).

When blogging experts talk about the importance of building community, this is what they mean. I don’t get credit for that, you do.

Thank you.

Xavier and I are eternally grateful.

The lousiest blog post I’ll ever write

For a couple months now, there’s been an elephant in the room.

Twitter pals and blog followers have sent notes asking about it.

You haven’t mentioned Pythagoras for awhile. Is everything OK?

You’re traveling alone a lot…is something going on?

I’ve avoided talking about this because I wasn’t ready to and because I truly hoped things would turn out differently.

But it looks like that’s not going to happen. And I guess it’s time to share that my marriage of 13+ years has ended.

It sucks a lot to type that, and a lot more to acknowledge it. If you’d told me a year ago that this is where I’d be right now, I would have laughed so hard Chianti would have spewed from my nose.

I’m not laughing now, and honestly, it’s been tough trying to be funny lately.

But continuing to write – and to keep laughing in spite of everything – has also been therapeutic. Having you guys here every day to cheer me on and build me up and tell me I’ve made you laugh has kept me going on the days I just wanted to lie in bed spooning with the dog and drinking wine through a straw.

I’m not going to dwell on this, and I’m not going to answer questions about it. I also ask that you not resort to Pythagoras bashing in the comments. While I won’t pretend this is a mutual decision, I also won’t pretend there aren’t two sides to every story and that he doesn’t have legitimate gripes with me.

One of the most crucial lessons I learned through my bumpy path to publication is that things don’t always go the way you hope they will. That’s certainly true now, but it’s also true that we have to make the best of lousy situations and keep moving forward.

So that’s what I’m doing.

I thank you all for your support, and I promise I’ll be back to telling crude jokes again in no time.

Did you hear the one about the banana and the goat?

It's tax time: Can I get a stimulus package?

I’ve always enjoyed doing my taxes.

I know that’s like admitting I enjoy rubbing my chest with peanut butter and inviting the dog to lick it off, but it’s true. The tax part, not the dog thing.

Well, the tax thing used to be true.

When I sat down to do my taxes Saturday afternoon, it became clear things aren’t as simple as they were last year.

I’ve used Turbo Tax for about ten years, and I’ve always regarded it like a cross between a video game and a really weird Cosmo quiz.

Did you earn this income while an inmate at a penal institution?

I can’t tell you how much I want to check that box (and also how much I love the word penal).

But this year…well, things aren’t as simple.

While I’m thrilled to have income to report from my three-book deal, it complicates things. Ditto that for expenses like conferences, membership fees, and the costs involved with research. Do I get to write off wine tastings at vineyards I visited while learning about the wine industry for LET IT BREATHE? What about the wine I drank while writing the first love scene? Or the second one? Or...

As I cranked away at the computer over the weekend, my pets got in on the action. Matt the Cat crawled across my keyboard and Turbo Tax reported my tax bill had just been reduced by $200.

I tried to get him to do it again, but by then he was lying on a giant pile of receipts focusing on paperwork reduction. Every time he twitched his tail, another form hit the floor.

When the pile got big enough, Blue Cat moseyed along and offered his services as a paperweight.

The dog did her part by dragging her leash over and giving me the look that says, “are we going for a walk or am I going to have to chew your ear off while you sleep?

So we went to the dog park and I spent the time mulling whether this should be the year I throw all this paperwork in a box and either light it on fire or hand it off to someone who actually knows what they’re doing.

How do you handle taxes? Do you use a professional or hack it on your own? If you’re published or pursuing publication, do you have a system for writing-related write-offs? Please share!

The dog and I will be busy discussing whether we can deduct peanut butter as a business expense.

Getting lucky, doggie style

I'm still playing catch-up from my vacation, and I've been spreading myself around in ways that aren't nearly as filthy as that just sounded.

On Monday, I was thrilled to be part of the Coffee With a Canine blog. Actually, I think I was more of an afterthought. My dog, Bindi, was the real star, so I encourage you to stop by and check out her beautiful doggie smile.

I'm also over at The Debutante Ball today where we've been talking about luck all week. In my post, I talk about the phrase "getting lucky," and invite readers to share their own favorite euphemism for carnal relations.

We try to keep things PG-13 on that blog, but since we have no such restrictions here, I'm curious what you guys can offer up. Do you have a favorite expression for doing the deed? I'll confess, mine is "bumping uglies." I know I used it in at least two of my three contracted novels, and it never fails to make me giggle.

Please share yours! Writing the sort of stories I write, I can never have enough snicker-worthy euphemisms for building the beast with two backs.