Why I let strangers grope my gobstoppers

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

I paid her for it.

At least, my insurance company did.

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

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

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

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

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

"I do my part," he agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re done,” she announced abruptly.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Do they need some special ed?”

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

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

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

There's nothing buzzing in my pants

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

Here's one of the reasons:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I figured wrong.

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

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

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

Well, one of them.

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

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

Open wide and take it one bite at a time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One bite at a time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My crazy three years since "the call"

There's been a lot of behind-the-scenes author stuff happening these last few weeks. Most of it I can't talk about just yet, but suffice it to say, I'm lucky beyond belief to have the world's savviest, smartest, most dedicated, determined, and supportive agent on the planet.

A quick round of applause for Michelle Wolfson of Wolfson Literary, please?

It dawned on me the other night when I was exchanging emails with Michelle at nearly 1 a.m. her time (did I mention the dedicated part?) that it's been almost exactly three years since I got the call that Michelle had landed me a three-book deal with Sourcebooks for my romantic comedies.

It got me thinking about what's changed in my life and in the publishing industry since that time.

I've released two books and one active-fiction title. Making Waves hit shelves in August 2011, and was nominated for RT Book Reviews contemporary romance of the year. The Chicago Tribune made me all swoony when they wrote, "Fenske's wildly inventive plot & wonderfully quirky characters provide the perfect literary antidote to any romance reader's summer reading doldrums.” And if that weren't delightful enough, Believe it or Not came out in March 2012 to reviews like this one from Publishers Weekly: "Sexually charged dialogue & steamy make-out scenes will keep readers turning pages.” Meanwhile, Michelle landed me another deal with Coliloquy, which publishes active-fiction titles like my story, Getting Dumped (sorta like a grownup version of choose-your-own-adventure). And all those books are just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what's kept me busy these last three years. Which leads me to my next point...

Being a published author involves a lot less book writing than you'd think. When I look back on the last three years, I've written two full manuscripts and two partials from scratch (none of which you've seen, but we'll cover that in another paragraph). That might seem like a lot, but compared with my former ability to churn out a completed manuscript in 3-4 months, it's pretty slow. So what have I been doing with my time? The answer isn't as x-rated as you might imagine. Promotion. A lot of it. At one point I was writing daily blog posts here, weekly posts for my day job, weekly posts for The Debutante Ball, and as many as seven posts a week for blogs the Sourcebooks publicist lined up during my release months. It hurts my brain to think about that. Then there was Facebook and Twitter and interviews for magazine and newspaper articles. I also spent a lot of time on editorial revisions, ranging from smaller copy edits to completely gutting and rewriting books from scratch. There was also travel – for book signings and conferences and speaking engagements. There's also the aforementioned day job, plus the fact that I do sometimes have a personal life. I'm flabbergasted I ever found time to poop, much less write new books.

Those new books I mentioned – the ones you've never seen? Yeah. About that. I was talking recently with a friend whose debut novel came out the same year mine did. Hers was wildly successful, winning oodles of awards and bestseller honors. But since then, she's struggled to write a book her publisher considers "the right next book." She's not alone, and this is something I wish I'd understood back when I thought a book deal meant the end of publication angst. If anything, it gets tougher. Editors and marketing folks use your previous reviews and sales records to determine "the right next book" for your career. Sometimes, it isn't the one you've just written. I learned that the hard way when the book I crafted as the third in my romantic comedy contract was praised as a wonderful, funny, well written story – but not "the right next book." Some of it was about tone, some was about perceived changes in the market, and some of it was just baffling editorspeak I can't possibly understand, but must respect and defer to if I want to succeed in this industry. I went back to the drawing board and wrote an entirely new book intended to be the third in my romantic comedy contract. And now we wait. And wait. Did I mention the waiting doesn't get easier? 

What the @#$% happened to the publishing industry? I'm dumbfounded by how quickly the industry has changed in recent years. It wasn't long ago aspiring authors would carefully craft query letters, lick their stamps, then lick their wounds when form rejection letters appeared in the mailbox from these mysterious, terrifying creatures known as agents. These days, agents banter on Twitter about Pop Tarts and queries with everyone from bestselling authors to those who've never finished a manuscript. Social media has leveled the playing field and removed a lot of fear for authors, and that's a good thing. Another dramatic change is the perception of indy publishing, small press, and self-publishing. I'll admit it – three years ago, I secretly saw those publishing avenues as the domain of writers who weren't quite good enough to land traditional book deals with larger publishing houses. But these days, mid-list and mega-bestselling authors are jumping ship with traditional publishers and going the indy or self-pub route. Does that mean it's the best choice for everyone? Nope, definitely not. But the fact that authors now have choices like these – and that they're regarded as legitimate career moves, rather than last resorts – is empowering and exciting.

Is this my life? If you're a regular reader of this blog, you already know my personal life has undergone some pretty major changes in the three years since my book deal. Back when I got the call from my agent, I had been happily married and happily childless-by-choice for more than twelve years, and I assumed I'd stay that way forever. But life threw me some serious curveballs that first year, and the divorce I never saw coming put a funny kink in my year as a debut author (and not the fun kind of kink). But things have a way of working out in the long run. The longtime acquaintance I tapped to be my "divorce mentor" turned out to be the most amazing, compassionate, considerate, sexy, fun, talented, kind person I've ever met. And his two kids have become a source of joy and laughter and daily amazement for me in ways I never could have expected. Is this the life I thought I'd have three years ago when I shrieked into my agent's ear over the phone line? Hell no. But it most ways, it's better.

So that's my roundup of what's changed in the last three years. What's yours? Please share!

The domineering male with spinach and dish soap

My longstanding critique partner writes heroes who are chauvinistic, knuckle-dragging jerks.

I can say that, since I write heroines who are unlikable, unsympathetic bitches.

We've critiqued each other's work for close to a decade, long before either of us had a book contract or a clue how to spot our own idiotic habits. We've gotten good at rehabbing each other's work so our editors aren't subjected to the ass-hat behaviors of our characters' earlier selves. By the time readers see the finished product, her heroes and my heroines have been transformed from douche-nozzles into quirky, imperfect-but-likable individuals.

At least we hope so.

I woke this morning to an email from my critique partner with the first ten pages of her new manuscript and a request that I identify instances of domineering jerkitude before she goes too far with the story.

The irony?

In her effort to avoid creating a pushy pig, she'd gone too far the other way, crafting a man who urgently needed to grow a pair of love spuds.

The whole thing got me thinking about spinach and dish soap.

When I first began spending time with my gentleman friend, I invited him to dinner. He listened politely as I recited the planned menu – hazelnut-crusted halibut, steamed red potatoes, homemade bread.

"I'll make sauteed spinach," he said. "You have olive oil, right?"

I was taken aback. I love to cook, and I do it often for friends and family. When I invite people to dinner, most reply by asking, "what can I bring?"

Usually, I demur. "Don't worry about it," I insist. "Just bring your smiling self."

If it's a good friend, I might suggest a bottle of wine or a loaf of bread. But most of the time, I give in to my need to prove I have everything handled and my reluctance to issue orders. It's easier to tell people to arrive empty-handed than to feel like I'm handing out assignments.

Which is why my gentleman friend's offer of sauteed spinach caught me off-guard. He was assessing my needs and finding a way to contribute without requiring me to assign him something. I'll make sauteed spinach may have been a simple statement, but to me, it was akin to him saying, I will look for ways to be useful to you without waiting around for orders. He wasn't asking me what he could bring – he was telling me.

Pushy? Presumptuous? Maybe a tiny bit. But also the most successful form of foreplay imaginable.

It could have been a fluke, but it wasn't. A few months later as we bustled around the kitchen cleaning up after a meal, he watched me squirt dish soap from a plastic bottle.

"Why don't you use that built-in soap dispenser next to the sink?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I wish I could. It hasn't really worked right for years."

He grabbed me by the hips, pushed me aside, and crawled under my sink. "I think I see the problem," he called from the depths of the cupboard. "Got a screwdriver?"

I stood there dumbfounded for a minute. OK, maybe I was checking out his ass. And maybe I was also contemplating making an inappropriate screwdriver joke.

But I was also pondering how sexy it was to have a man who didn't just yell from the couch, "you need any help out there?" He anticipated the likelihood of me saying, "that's OK, I've got it," and bypassed my half-assed refusal by doing the job cheerfully and without making me ask for it.

And yeah, he pushed me around in my own kitchen. A little domineering, but holy-mother-of-hell, it was sexy.

There's a fine line when it comes to writing alpha males in romance or any other genre. On one side of it, you have the chest-thumping caveman taking charge because he's certain the silly little woman can't do anything for herself. On the other side, you have a guy who sees a genuine need and takes charge of fulfilling it without waiting around to be asked or listening to half-hearted refusals. It's a tough balance for a writer trying to create an alpha male who doesn't come off as a guy two steps from clubbing a woman over the head and dragging her by the hair toward his den. The trick, perhaps, is in showing your reader an intuitive helpmate, as opposed to a controlling misogynist.

Oh, and lest you think my gentleman friend reserved the sensitive caveman bit for those early months of dating, I'm happy to report things haven't changed. I spent the last week battling a nasty cold, which meant he spent most of that time ordering me to take care of myself and rest. On Saturday, he caught me in the kitchen trying to do dishes.

"Go lie down and relax," he commanded. "I've got this."

I agreed, then turned and began rummaging in the cupboard for a mug.

"Out!" he ordered. "Now!"

"But I need tea."

"I'll make you some tea and then I'll do the dishes," he said. "Just go lie down."

Five minutes later, he brought me a steaming mug of tea, accompanied by a filthy joke about teabagging. 

"You're a pig," I told him.

"You love it."

Very true.

Here's to men who've learned the secret of blending a touch of pushy, domineering attitude with the spirit of a sensitive helpmate. They're the ones who get laid in romance novels.

Deservedly so.

Three things I've learned being a judgmental b*tch

I'm armpit deep in a pile of romance novels as a result of volunteering to judge this year's RITAs (the romance novel equivalent of the Academy Awards).

I won't pretend it's a hardship to spend every waking moment reading romance novels. That's pretty close to my description of a perfect job, right behind "adult product tester" and "wine quality assurance manager."

But still, it's time consuming. It's also a good reminder of a few things we writers sometimes forget in our dogged pursuit of agents, book contracts, and joyous reviews from readers who had spontaneous orgasms upon opening our latest masterpiece.


Here are a few things I'm hereby commanding myself to remember:

1. Amazing books get published every day, some that make me swoon over the quality of prose and storytelling while thinking, "I couldn't ever write like that." That's true, I couldn't. But it's also true no one could ever tell my stories the same way I could. And I couldn't tell your stories the same way you could. The great thing about books is that no two are exactly the same, and thank dawg for that.
2. Lousy books get published every day. It's true, and as much as we all like to imagine that only quality material rises to the top, that's not always the case. But this fact neither detracts from nor builds my own experience as a writer. Pointing out examples of lousy writing that gets published just makes us look petty and snobbish.
3. Every published novel I pick up to review for this contest has been rejected or ridiculed by someone at some point. Guaranteed. This business is subjective, and just because one agent, editor, or reader doesn't want what you're writing doesn't mean everyone will feel the same. 

That last point is significant whether you're a writer, an engineer, or a nipple-clamp salesman. Rejection is a fact of life, and there's always something we can take away from the experience. What's your takeaway?

I leave you with this gem I spotted on Facebook this morning. Amen, Mr. Maraboli. Amen.

Why you shouldn't play with your food

Two weeks ago, I bought four avocados with the best intentions.

Well, maybe not the best intentions, which would probably involve something sexy and illegal in 25 states. If you're aware of any illicit avocado activities, please share them so I can expand my repertoire.

But I digress.

I bought the avocados because they were on sale, and I love having them for salads and guacamole. But a busy work schedule got the best of me, and I wound up with a lone avocado going brown and flaccid on my kitchen counter. I knew it was too far gone to eat, so I was delighted when I stumbled across an article touting the beauty uses for avocado.

The article instructed me to mash the avocado with some honey and olive oil, rub it into my damp hair, and let it sit for 20-30 minutes before rinsing it out to reveal soft, lustrous tresses. I followed the preparation directions, then marched upstairs with my bowl to join my gentleman friend in the shower.

"What is that?" he asked, staring in horror at the bowl of brown goo.

"It's natural hair conditioner," I informed him.

"It smells like rotting guacamole."

"It's sorta that, too. But I'm pretty sure I picked out most of the mold."

"There was mold?"

I peered down at the bowl. "The article didn't say anything about mold. Maybe there's a fine line between 'overripe avocado' and 'rotten avocado.'

"I don't think it's such a fine line."

I shrugged and stepped to one end of the shower, leaving my gentleman friend to lather and rinse beneath the spray. I began to massage the goop into my hair, an arduous task considering the length of my hair and the fact that the avocado mess was really more of a chunky soup than a creamy paste.

I was just finishing the application when I looked up to see my gentleman friend staring.

"What?" I asked.

"It looks like someone had explosive diarrhea all over the shower."

I looked around me, then down at the shower floor. He had a point.

"So you're saying you don't find this sexy?" I asked. "You don't want me to have beautiful, luxurious hair for you?"

"Maybe not if you're going to smell like regurgitated salad."

"I'm pretty sure it'll rinse out."

It turned out I was wrong on that count. Since I abhor using a hair dryer and prefer to go to my day job with damp hair, it wasn't until almost noon that I looked in a mirror and realized my hair was still wet. Upon closer inspection, I realized my hair wasn't actually wet. It was greasy. The sort of greasy you can only achieve if you dip your head in a bucket of motor oil and swirl it around for an hour.

I quickly slicked my hair into a bun and checked to be sure I didn't have any important meetings that afternoon.

"I've never seen you wear your hair like that," remarked one of my co-workers a few minutes later.

Anyone else remember the Robert Palmer girls?

Her tone was politely neutral, but I didn't get the sense she was impressed.

"Do I look kinda like one of the Robert Palmer girls?" I asked.

"Is that what you're going for?"

"Not really. I'm just wondering if I can pull this off as a hairstyle instead of a really big mistake."

She frowned. "Is someone eating guacamole?"

So that concluded my experiment with food items as beauty products. I won't rule out the possibility of future endeavors with cucumbers or maybe bananas, but they're not getting anywhere near my head.

3 tips for the multitasking writer

It's a national holiday here in the U.S., and in the spirit of taking a day off, I feel like re-running a blog post from a few years ago. It's one I revisited last week when I wanted to remind myself of my own strategies for jumping between multiple manuscripts. In case it's handy to my fellow writers – or to anyone struggling with multitasking – here are my top tips for bouncing between books.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Three tips for bouncing between books

I’ve seriously considered suing myself for whiplash. I might do it if I thought I had any money and wouldn’t look really stupid in a neck brace.

I have a three-book contract for my romantic comedies. When the contract was offered last February, I had already written the first two books.

I started writing the third a few months later, but had to slam on the brakes mid-summer – just a chapter shy of completion – to polish the first two before they were due on my editor’s desk.

I worked on book one, sent it off for critiques, polished book two, got the critiques back on book one, sent book two out for critiques, implemented critiques for book one, got critiques back on book two, implemented those changes, sent both documents off to my editor, and then stumbled blearily to my bed where I slept for a month.

I wish.

What I actually did was dive right back into book three. I was just hitting my groove again when my editor sent revision notes for book one.

As you might imagine, it made me a bit dizzy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled with my editor’s suggestions. It’s just the process of bouncing back and forth between books that’s making me feel like someone is slamming my head into a wall (which can actually be quite erotic if done right).

I know some authors can change gears effortlessly, but I’m not one of them. In case you share my struggle, here’s what’s making the process a bit easier on this round:

Mood music. As soon as I knew I’d be leaping into MAKING WAVES again, I made an iTunes playlist of all the music I listened to when I first wrote it. Then I thought about the elements my editor was asking me to add. More sex? A deeper sense of conflict for the hero? I perused iTunes for songs that had that tone, but still fit the mood of the story. It shifted me back into the right vibe, but the new additions got my brain thinking about what needed to change.

What’s that smell? The olfactory senses are powerful memory triggers, and I often use them for writing. When I originally wrote MAKING WAVES, I had a Pacifica Tuscan Blood Orange Soy Candle burning on my desk. Guess what I went out and bought when I knew I’d be jumping back into that book?

A font facelift. I write manuscripts in Courier, but my publisher requires Times New Roman for a final submission. Not a big deal for me or for them. But this is the first time I’m looking at MAKING WAVES in a different font. It’s like seeing a whole new story. Awkward words I glossed over on my 100th read-through suddenly leap out like perverts flashing me in a dark alley. I’m catching things I never have before, and that subtle shift has been a great way to wake up my tired eyes.

Have you had to bounce back and forth between stories before? Do you have any tricks for returning to the mindset of an old story or shaking it up when that’s required? Please share.

And please let me know if you think I could get anything on that whiplash lawsuit. Maybe a free massage?

I screw up so you don't have to

At the urging of my agent, I recently resurrected an old manuscript I wrote years ago for a line of women's action/adventure novels.

(Sidenote: If you don't know the story of my first ill-fated book deal, go here).

Before sending her the manuscript, I decided to do a thorough read-through to make any necessary updates while simultaneously seizing the opportunity to laugh at my younger writer self.

Though the writing was much more polished than I remembered, there were small things I opted to tweak throughout the story. Several minor characters were named for people who are no longer part of my life, so it seemed prudent to change those references to something more current.

In one such instance, I opted to change the name of a dog from "Herm" to "Bonzo."

A smart writer would use the advanced settings under Microsoft Word's "find" and "replace" feature and select "find whole words only" to avoid problems. It should look kinda like this:

The smart writer would then use "find next" after each change to ensure every edit is properly made.

That is not, however, what I did.

I was feeling lazy, and I simply clicked "find" and "replace all."

The result? Delightful lines like these:

• Lori had already stripped down to her tBonzoal underwear and was nestled in her sleeping bag in front of the stove.
•  "I’m not filling my tBonzos with bourbon and slugging it back like water if that’s what you mean."
• Josh answered by sliding his hand downward, over the plane of my abdomen, past the flimsy barrier of elastic at the top of my tBonzoal leggings.
• With the little tBonzoometer on my zipper pull now showing temperatures around 30-degrees Fahrenheit, it didn’t take spectacular powers of deduction to realize a 65-degree temperature shift might have an impact on the dogs.  
• “Look, under the circumstances, there’s only one thing we can do for your hypotBonzoia,” I told him, already fumbling with the zippers and buckles holding him inside his soggy clothes. 

I wrote that manuscript long before I made the switch to romantic comedy. I've gotta admit,  I've never laughed so hard at anything else I've written.

Got any good stories of edits gone awry? Please share!

The dangers of bra shopping

When it comes to fitness, I have a no-jostling rule. I abhor being jostled, and would sooner chew off my own big toe than go for a brisk jog.

Hiking, yoga, snowshoeing, and standup paddleboarding are excellent forms of jostle-free exercise, and I do those activities as often as possible. But the closer I get to 40, the more apparent it is that I need more regular cardiovascular fitness and a routine that lends itself to an assembly of close girlfriends motivating each other to eschew that third glass of wine in favor of bouncing around in sweaty sneakers.

Which is how I found myself signing up to do Zumba. For those unfamiliar with Zumba, it's a Latin dance-based fitness routine centered around the notion that if you shake your butt and boobs hard enough, they will fall off and cause you to weigh less. I'm incapable of shaking anything with rhythm or style, but since I posses the aforementioned parts and enjoy moving them vigorously in certain situations, Zumba seemed like a good fit.

Unfortunately, my existing sports bras were not such a good fit. I bought them ten years ago before I was firmly entrenched in my no-jostling rule, and both bras bear the remnants of five years of kickboxing classes. They're badly stretched and sweat-stained, and one bears a large pink stain from an ill-fated post-workout cocktail hour.

So I decided to go shopping for sports bras. This is like saying, "I decided to remove my nipple with pliers." Very few sports bra manufacturers make their garments for women shaped like me. I require a small band size and stupidly large cup size, which means the typical pull-on style bras sized in small, medium or large are less effective than securing my boobs in place with scotch tape.

Shopping online is a gamble without the opportunity to try things on, so I decided to visit my local REI in hopes of finding something reasonably close. To my utter delight, I located several sports bras in the right size range. I scurried off to the dressing room like a squirrel with a wine-filled acorn and promptly tore off my shirt.

The first bra had straps that weren't sturdy enough, a fact I discovered when one of them snapped and hit me in the eye.

The next bra had my preferred back-hook, but still needed to be pulled on overhead. I managed to get it wedged around my shoulders, where it refused to budge. I tugged, pulled, grunted, and sweated more than I have in any fitness class as I tried to maneuver the garment either up or down. I was three seconds from yelling for help when the bra came off with a sudden boing! flinging me back against the dressing room wall as the bra flew over the top of the stall.

Finally, I found the sports bra that fit just right. I jumped up and down to be sure, performing a series of jumping jacks, followed by a few punches I remembered from kickboxing class.

I bounced around some more, attempting some of the boob-shaking moves from Zumba class to ensure the bra offered adequate support. I flung my arm to one side, smacking my hand against the dressing room wall.

That's when the door flew open. As I stared dumbfounded, a sales associate turned and looked at me. Our eyes met over the go-back rack, and I gave him a friendly wave.

"Hello," I said.

He blinked. "Hi."

"Guess I forgot to lock the door."

He nodded and dropped a hot pink sweatshirt on the floor. "Guess so."

"I'll just do that now," I said, pulling the door closed and latching the two locks I'd failed to notice upon entering the stall.

I extricated myself from the sports bra and put on my street clothes, wondering if the sales associate might qualify for post-traumatic stress disorder benefits under the corporate healthcare policy. When I emerged from the dressing room, he was nowhere to be seen. I imagined him cowering behind a rack of shoes rocking back and forth and humming to himself.

When I marched my purchases to the front counter, the clerk smiled. "Did you find everything you needed?"

I nodded and beamed. "Two bras, a pair of sandals, and a blog post. That'll do it."