At least she didn't find the skeletons in there

I'm scheduled to spend the next three days in Portland attending a conference for the day job.

It's the first time I'm revisiting the setting of Believe it or Not since the book's release, so that's exciting.

It's also an occasion that requires me to dress like a grown-up, which isn't nearly as exciting.

Saturday night, I asked my gentleman friend's six-year-old to assist me in choosing outfits for my business trip. She had a fine time perusing the contents of my large walk-in closet before selecting the following ensemble for me to wear to a Sunday evening awards banquet:

Note the matching red shoes and perhaps slightly less matching purple bra (paired with matching purple panties, so I'll give her that one).

I'm charmed by the attention to detail and the colorful nature of the ensemble. I'm also a little perplexed to discover these things in my closet in the first place.

I acquired the skirt while on vacation in Fiji six years ago. To the best of my recollection, I haven't worn it since that summer. The top is a more recent purchase, though it hasn't emerged from the closet since last spring (partly due to the fact that unless I safety-pin the neckline, I show more cleavage than a half-price hooker).

I've cleaned my closet numerous times in the last year alone, hauling boxes and bags full of clothing to Goodwill. I always thought I was being pretty ruthless.

But it took someone else – a six-year-old, no less – wandering through my wardrobe to make me realize I'd actually missed quite a lot.

I can't think of a more perfect metaphor for why all writers need good critique partners. No matter what the age, background, or skill level of the person reading your work, he or she will always catch things you missed. Always. You can choose to disagree with the observations or ignore the feedback, but if nothing else, the input will give you a fresh look at your prose.

Or wardrobe, as the case may be. I'm half tempted to pack the outfit, just to make me smile over the next few days.

Have you ever discovered something in your closet or your writing that surprised or disturbed you? Please share!

Oh, and speaking of the Portland conference, I suspect I may be a little tied up with day job stuff for the next few days. That means posting to the blog may be a challenge, so I'm going to go ahead and extend last Friday's contest a few more days. That gives you through noon PST on Tuesday, March 20 to enter the contest by coming up with another idea for a contest.

I swear, that made sense at the time.

The power of critique partner feedback (plus an excerpt from Believe it or Not!)

Yesterday's blog post about the value of gaining a fresh perspective on your manuscript or your life prompted a lot of great comments, including this one from Suz Korb:

I don't have my work critiqued any more. Every time I did, the "problems" that readers would pick out were subjective. What kind of "problems" get picked out from your stories? Are they definitely "problems?" I'm curious, because maybe I'm missing out and should be using critique partners.

A lot of writers want critique partners to offer a checklist of factual errors and plot issues that can easily be quantified and solved. While that would be lovely, the truth is that you also want those subjective "just my opinion" tidbits. In fact, those are some of the most valuable things you can gain from the critique process.

Why?

If you're writing with the goal of publication, it's safe to assume you hope to have readers someday. It's also safe to assume those readers will have varying backgrounds, sensitivities, and life experiences. While it's impossible to predict the reaction of every potential reader, you want a pretty good idea if something you've written is going to annoy, irritate, offend, confuse, or bore someone.

I have three regular critique partners and three beta readers. Unsurprisingly, they're six very different human beings.

My upcoming March release, Believe it or Not, contains a scene I wrote with the goal of showing a connection between my hero and heroine while also showing a lack of connection with their respective dates.

I loved the scene just the way I wrote it. So did most of my critique partners and beta readers.

But there was one voice of dissent. One critique partner found Drew and Violet condescending and rude. The whole scene rubbed her the wrong way.

I'll confess, the feedback annoyed me at first. My other readers hadn't responded that way. They were perfectly amused, and laughed in all the right places.

But that's the crux of the issue – the idea that there's a "right" or "wrong" way to read a scene.

If I were writing only for myself, I could give an indignant sniff and insist my critique partner is a moron who just doesn't get it.

But I'm writing for public consumption, and if one out of six readers gets a bad vibe from a scene, I have to consider the likelihood she won't be the only one.

So I edited. I tweaked. I massaged. I noodled.

And in the end, the scene left a much better impression on my critique partner. Does this mean she was "right" and I was "wrong?" Nope.

Does it mean my other readers were "wrong" for liking it the way it was to start? Again, nope.

But at least now, I can feel assured that the scene is less likely to irritate readers with the same sensibilities as that critique partner. And let's face it – when you're writing for commercial publication, it's important to annoy as few people as possible.

So now that I've talked it up so much, I'm going to include the scene here. Believe it or Not won't be released until March, and I'm not entirely sure my editor would be pleased to have me posting excerpts. Don't tell, OK? But if you want to, you can pre-order the book on Amazon or Barnes & Noble or Powell's Books.

Here's the scene:

Drew was focusing very hard on trying to remember his date’s name. Did it rhyme with a fruit? No, that was the girl he’d gone out with last week.

It started with a G, he was pretty sure about that. Gilligan?

It didn’t matter at the moment, since she hadn’t paused for breath in over an hour.

“…and so then we broke up, but we had like five more months on our lease, and he couldn’t find another place to live and I was like, ‘Dude, I’m not leaving, this place is like four blocks from where I work,’ so I told him he could crash on the couch as long as he stopped borrowing my underwear, and so…”

Drew frowned. Maybe her name didn’t start with a G. It definitely sounded Middle Eastern. Or maybe it rhymed with a spice. Or was it something that sounded like a cleaning product?

“…so, you know, I like totally threw him out when he climbed into my bed when he was drunk, but he was all, ‘Babe, it’s totally not my fault,’ and I was like…”

Drew swirled the cherry Coke in his glass and tried hard to remember her name. He could almost picture it on the slip of paper at the bar with her name and number scrawled in bubbly writing. How many of those scraps had he collected since his divorce? Too many to count. Too many to remember names.

God, you’re a jerk, his brain told him.

Rhonda? No, that wasn’t it. Persimmon? Bambi? Dammit. It was much too late to ask, since they’d been on this abysmal date for more than an hour now, and he’d been the one to invite her out anyway.

What a dumb idea.

But it had been his habit in the years since his divorce. Call up one of the dozens of girls who’d slipped him their number at the bar—a disturbingly frequent occurrence, in Drew’s opinion. They’d meet for drinks at the Portland City Grill, and if the conversation sucked, at least the food was fabulous and there was always the beautiful view of the city.

He looked out the window and wondered if Violet had ever been here. Would she enjoy the view of the river or seize the opportunity to recite statistics about water pollution and Portland’s freakishly high number of bridges? He wasn’t sure he’d mind either way.

Stop thinking about Violet.

Bad idea on so many levels. He sure as hell didn’t need another high-strung woman in his life. Not even if she had amazing eyes and beautiful hair and breasts that—

“Are you listening to me?”

Drew snapped back to attention. “What? Yes. Definitely.”

“Because it seems like you’re just looking out the window.”

“I was listening,” Drew insisted. “I was just enjoying the view.”

The girl gave him a skeptical look. Mindy? Sarah? Was there any way he could bluff his way through the rest of this date without knowing her name? He felt like peeling the sole off the bottom of his shoe and beating himself on the forehead until he passed out.

“Hey!” his date squealed. Drew looked up to see she was waving at someone over his shoulder.

“That guy over there,” she said. “He did my knee surgery last year, after I injured it in pole-dancing class.”

Drew picked up his drink and scanned the crowd, noticing how packed the place was for a Monday.

He froze with his glass halfway to his lips. Violet?

She saw him at the same moment, and the shock registered plainly on her face. Drew watched in horror as Violet’s companion followed the direction of her gaze right to their table.

“Hey!” called Drew’s date again, waving madly as she sloshed her drink across the table. “Hello, Dr. Abbott! You want to come and sit with us?”

Drew shook his head. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to sit with us. He’s on a date.”

Something in his heart twisted at the word date, and he looked at Violet again. She was smiling at the doctor, her beautiful eyes fixed on his face. Drew’s heart twisted again, so he looked back at his own date.

She slugged him in the shoulder. “I think I hurt my wrist bowling the other night. I want Dr. Abbott to take a look at it.”

Drew sighed, not sure whether to be annoyed with her or with himself for asking her out in the first place. Normally he wasn’t so easily annoyed, especially by a beautiful woman, but there was something different lately. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

It didn’t matter, since Violet and Dr. Abbott were making their way toward the table. Drew tried not to stare, not to notice the luscious sway of her hips, the way her hand fluttered up to smooth her hair behind her ear.

God, she’s beautiful.

“Wow, it’s really packed in here,” Violet said, clutching her little purse against her stomach. “You guys got lucky nabbing a window seat with these sofas.”

“I come here every Monday night,” Drew said. “Arriving early is the trick to getting good seats.”

He saw something flash across Violet’s face. Surprise? Irritation? He wasn’t sure. She recovered quickly though, and placed her hand on the annoyingly broad shoulder of the man beside her. “Drew, this is Chris Abbott, my mother’s orthopedic surgeon. Chris, this is Drew Watson. He owns the business next to Moonbeam’s shop.”

“Great to meet you,” said the surgeon, giving Drew’s hand a firm but friendly shake.

“It’s so great to see you again, Dr. Abbott,” piped up Drew’s date, scooting over to make room on the sofa beside her.

“You too,” said Dr. Abbott, no help at all with the name.

Violet looked at Drew, then at the girl, clearly awaiting an introduction. Drew opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He was completely, utterly blank.

Violet’s eyes held his for a moment, intense and gorgeous and utterly spellbinding. He was pretty sure if he had known his date’s name, he would have forgotten it right then.

God, those eyes.

“Drew, come sit over here by me so these two can have the other sofa to themselves,” his date chirped.

He tore his eyes from Violet’s and offered a weak smile. “Sure, good idea.”

He grabbed his drink and stood up, relieved to realize he’d somehow gotten away with failing to introduce her. He gestured to the vacant sofa in an invitation to Violet. She moved past him, her hair brushing against his shoulder as she slid by. Drew breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of lavender and vanilla. He felt his hand start to rise, intent on stroking her hair.

Are you out of your fucking mind?

He dropped his hand. “Tight quarters.”

She looked up quizzically, her big, violet eyes studying him with an unasked question. Drew lost his breath.

Then she cut her glance back at the other sofa and raised one eyebrow.

Shit. She’d noticed the skipped introduction. Drew raised one shoulder in a helpless shrug and moved around the table to sit beside his date.

Now she thinks you’re a cad.

Okay, maybe he was. Since his divorce, anyway. Funny how it had never bothered him before.

He watched Violet settle onto the sofa and cross her legs primly. She folded her hands over her knees and Drew tried not to stare at her long, perfect fingers and rounded nails, bright with clear polish. He wondered what those nails would feel like dragging down his back and then gave himself another mental kick.

“So how long have you two known each other?” Violet asked as she signaled a passing waitress.

“Oh, this is our third date,” chirped Drew’s seatmate.

Really?

Drew took another sip of his drink and wondered if it might be wise pretend to go to the restroom and slip out the back door. He could just avoid this whole uncomfortable scene—the nameless date, the awkward conversation, the sight of Violet with another guy.

Then Violet recrossed her legs, her skirt riding up a little above her knee. Drew sat back in his seat, suddenly interested in sticking around awhile longer.

To his right, Drew’s date had begun to chatter to Dr. Abbott about the pain in her wrist. Drew had to give Violet credit, she’d picked a nice guy. Most doctors he knew would have told the girl to book an appointment by now.

Something hit Drew in the foot. He looked down to see a fork lying beside his shoe. He glanced across the table at Violet, who shot him a look. They bent down to retrieve the fork at the same time.

Apparently, that was Violet’s plan.

“You don’t know your date’s name?” she hissed in his ear.

Her hair tickled his nose, and Drew fought the urge to drag her down on the carpet and grope her under the table.

Classy, dude. Really classy.

“Help me out,” he whispered back.

“Me?”

“I just need a clue.”

“No kidding.”

“Her name’s been on the tip of my tongue all night, but I can’t remember.”

“Maybe you should be more selective in how you use the tip of your tongue.”

He grinned. “Are you talking dirty to me under the table?”

“Merely pointing out that if you dated with your brain instead of your—” She bit her lip. “You wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Please help?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know… aren’t you the psychic here?”

She smacked him on the arm and sat back on the sofa. Drew sighed and sat back, too. Okay, so the “psychic” jab probably wasn’t smart. He was feeling desperate.

Drew looked over to see their dining companions were still chatting away like old friends. The waitress showed up at their table with glasses of water, and Violet ordered a complicated-sounding Chardonnay. The doctor ordered a gin martini, and Drew’s date requested something fruity and neon colored.

“Cherry Coke,” Drew said, lifting his empty glass.

Dr. Abbott raised an eyebrow. “Not a drinker, Drew?”

“On occasion. I just tend to prefer cherry Coke.”

“Hmmm,” said the doctor in a tone that suggested either disinterest or a belief that Drew had the maturity of a third grader.

Probably right, there.

As soon as the waitress had gone, Violet cleared her throat. “So what is it you do?” she asked Drew’s date.

Excellent, Drew thought, shooting her a grateful look. They can exchange business cards.

Violet took a sip of her water and folded her hands again.

“Oh, I’m a cocktail waitress.”

Drew sighed. No business cards.

“Actually,” the girl chirped, patting her left boob, “I came straight here from work and almost forgot to take off my name tag. Can you believe it?”

A name tag, Drew lamented quietly. So close.

“So Drew,” said Dr. Abbott. “What sort of business is it you own?

He looked at the guy and tried not to be pissed that the good doctor had scooted so close to Violet, he was practically in her lap. “A bar,” Drew said. “Voted ‘Best in Portland’ two years running.”

“They have the most amazing male strippers on Friday and Saturday nights,” his date added. “Super hot.”

“Thank you,” Drew replied, feeling oddly proud.

“Male strippers,” Dr. Abbot repeated, looking bemused. “That’s… interesting.”

Violet cleared her throat and jumped in. “Chris and I were just talking on the way over here and he mentioned that he was named after Christopher Latham Sholes—the guy who invented the typewriter in 1867. Isn’t that interesting?”

Drew reached for the lifeline she’d thrown him—lame as it was—reminding himself to show his gratitude in some way that didn’t involve getting her naked.

“That is interesting,” Drew said. “And you’re named for the color of your eyes, right?”

Violet blinked at him. Drew lost his breath again.

“Should we order?” asked Drew’s date, frowning at the menu. “Happy hour is almost over.”

Drew slumped in his chair, defeated. He’d probably never know his date’s name. The only thing mildly cheering was the knowledge that Violet and her date had nothing better to talk about than who invented the typewriter.

Then again, it’s not like he was wowing her with scintillating conversation. Toilet paper? Juggling? The superiority of the term butt rock over glam rock?

Drew slumped deeper in his chair and took another sip of his drink. Maybe he could make it through the rest of the night calling his date “pumpkin” or “love chicken.”

The waitress appeared again, and Drew waited until the others had made their selections before placing his order, not bothering to consult the menu. Violet quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I always order the same thing,” Drew said as he handed his menu back to the waitress. “I come here a lot.”

“You mentioned that,” Violet said dryly. “My mother, on the other hand, did not.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Violet reached for her wineglass and took a sip, apparently drinking more cautiously than she had the previous night. He studied the way she held the glass, her exquisite fingers curved around the stem. He wondered if she’d learned the precise way to hold a piece of stemware or if it just came naturally.

As if sensing his eyes on her, Violet turned back to Drew. “So, do you have some sort of low-grade hearing loss?”

“What?”

“You were blasting the music so loud, the mice woke up and started running in their wheel to the beat of ‘Eye of the Tiger.’”

“Sorry about that. Moonbeam never seems to notice, but I’ll try to keep it down.”

“You weren’t kidding about the eighties music.”

Drew grinned. “We’re actually doing this whole eighties theme next week. We were trying to find the right song for Jamie’s routine.”

“Sounded like you found the right one. Either that, or you just wanted to play that stupid ‘867-5309’ song over and over and over—”

“‘Jenny,’” he said, lifting a glass to the most famous—albeit the only—hit Tommy Tutone had ever recorded.

“Hey!” squeaked Drew’s date. “That’s how I got my name. My mom totally loved that song, and my dad was like, ‘Whatever,’ so that’s what they named me, even though the song had been out for like five years by the time I was born.“

Drew stared for a few beats, certain he couldn’t possibly have gotten so lucky. “Jenny?” he asked. “That’s your name? Jenny?”

She scowled at him. “What the hell did you think it was?”

“Jenny, of course,” he backpedaled. “I knew it was Jenny. I just…” Drew picked up his drink and downed it in one gulp.

Jenny was glaring at him in earnest, and Drew wondered if she planned to throw her neon-pink drink in his face. He probably deserved it. Maybe he should save her the trouble and just pour it over his head and call it a night.

Across the table, Violet cleared her throat. “Didn’t that song come out in 1982?” She shot Drew a look that said exactly what she thought of him dating a woman barely over the legal drinking age.

Jenny turned toward Violet, her drink-tossing plans momentarily forgotten. “Something like that, why?”

“No reason,” Violet said. “Actually, 1982 was the year a brutal cold snap swept in from Canada and plunged temperatures in the Midwest to all-time record lows. Even Portland recorded a record low temperature for September, which was forty-one degrees Fahrenheit. Statistically speaking, a meteorological event like that—”

Drew sat back in his seat and let Violet carry the conversation away to safer, albeit weirder, territory. He was grateful. He was relieved.

He was also ridiculously, stupidly certain he was falling for her.

Idiot.

Why you need extra eyes

Prepping my home for sale has been as enjoyable as giving myself a wedgie with a piece of barbed wire.

The upside is that my house is now cleaner than it's been since I moved in six years ago. Closets have been organized, floors have been scrubbed, and the fur balls under the sofa have been surgically reattached to the cats.

The realtors have been great about pointing out little things that might annoy potential homebuyers – personal photos, desktop clutter, lingerie hanging from the ceiling fan – things I've grown so accustomed to seeing that I don't even notice they're there.

But the realtors missed something. It took one of the housemates to point it out the other morning as I scrambled around prepping for a showing.

"I'm surprised the realtors haven't said anything about the stairs," he said.

"What's wrong with the stairs?"

"Unless the potential buyers have the same first and last name as your ex husband, they might not appreciate having his name written in bright yellow letters on the bottom step."

And damned if he wasn't right. Obviously, I knew it was there. When the home was built six years ago, we opted for sort of a modern industrial look. The stair rails are done with custom-finished wood and wire cables, while the stairs themselves are tile with steel corner pieces.

Word of advice – you don't want to fall in my home unless you enjoy brain injury.

The steel caps on the edge of each stair came from a local supplier that thoughtfully marked the buyer's name on one of the pieces in the supply yard. For the first few months after the house was finished, it was a running joke. After that, I remember asking my then-husband if the words could be removed. He told me he'd tried and failed, so I pretty much stopped noticing the name was there.

When I told this to my housemate, he laughed. "Ten bucks says we can get it off in thirty seconds with nail polish remover and steel wool."

"Thirty seconds sounds a little fast for getting off, and doesn't the steel wool hurt?"

He wisely ignored me and went to retrieve the steel wool from under the sink. I headed upstairs and came back down with a bottle of nail polish remover.

Two minutes later, all traces of the name were gone.

"This is why every writer needs good critique partners," I told him.

He frowned. "To scrub their ex-husbands' names off their stairs?"

"No. To help them fix the things they've stopped noticing or decided aren't fixable."

"Right," he said. "With steel wool and dirty jokes."

Hey, whatever works. It's true that the greatest value a critique partner or beta reader brings to the table is the benefit of a fresh pair of eyes. Even if that person isn't a grammar expert or a writing whiz, he or she can still offer a new perspective. I can't tell you how many times one of my critique partners has picked up on an error more glaringly obvious than a bright yellow name on a staircase, and I've found myself dumbfounded. How did I not notice that?

Easy. There's a sort of blindness that sets in when you're too close to something, whether it's a manuscript, a relationship, or anything else in your life.

If you're a writer, have you ever had a critique partner point out something so ridiculously obvious you couldn't believe your own ignorance? For non-writers, tell me about a "captain obvious" moment elsewhere in your life!

I'll be spending some quality alone-time with the steel wool and nail polish remover.

Who has the right to say you suck?

I hate to wreck the fantasy for those who believe debut romantic comedy authors spend their days rolling naked in piles of cash while cabana boys bring frozen grapes and fresh feather boas, but I should tell you I have a day job.

It’s a job I adore working part-time as the marketing & communications manager for my city’s tourism bureau, but it’s a day job nonetheless.

When I interviewed for the job a year ago, I took great pains to explain my author career. I figured if they had any reservations about hiring a risqué romance writer for a high-profile PR job, we all needed to figure that out up front.

As it turned out, this blog was one of the things that caught the CEO’s attention, and a post titled My hole got plugged so my jugs aren’t full was the first taste he had of my writing.

So everyone is well aware of my other life.

Shortly after the Chicago Tribune gave an unexpectedly glowing review of my book, I was in a meeting with the marketing director and the CEO. They had a few tweaks to some copy I’d written for a new program, and I jotted notes so I’d know what to change.

Suddenly, the CEO stopped talking. “I feel weird making changes to something written by a critically acclaimed, published author.”

You’re probably not supposed to laugh at your CEO, but I did.

When I stopped laughing, I shook my head. “Every writer at any level needs feedback from other people,” I told him. “And feedback is equally valid whether it’s coming from my editor in New York or my CEO in Oregon or the guy selling soup at the food cart on the corner.”

He probably thought I was kissing up, but it’s true.

And it’s something I think about every time I see writers doing that bizarre little dance over critiques. Can I criticize the work of an author who’s published when I don’t have a book deal yet? Should I join a critique group with authors who have less experience than I do?

Though everyone should make that decision for herself, here’s what I think: A book deal doesn’t make your own critiques more valid, nor does it mean you don’t need input from those without publishing contracts. Subjective, varied opinions are a crucial part of honing any piece of writing.

I work with three critique partners and three beta readers for every book I write. Of the three critique partners, one is multi-published, one has a debut novel coming out next year, and one isn’t published yet. None of my three beta readers is a writer.

But guess what? I value their input equally.

And there’s not a single fiber of my being that feels I’m somehow elevated above the feedback of someone who doesn’t happen to have a published book. On the contrary, the different perspectives and life experiences are precisely what I need from the critique process.

How do you feel about accepting writing feedback from people whose backgrounds are different from yours? Do you take criticism differently if it’s coming from an editor, a CEO, or the guy who drives your neighborhood garbage truck?

Please share!

I’ll be huddled in my office, waiting to hear if the CEO read this post.

Critique partner cage fight

I’m cycling through the final round critiques for LET IT BREATHE, and I’ve noticed something interesting.

More interesting than the fact that I used the word sorry 84 times and the word hand-job seven times, which is an imbalance I plan to rectify at once.

As I shared previously, I have two regular critique partners and three beta readers. I rounded things out this time by adding a third critique partner (my amazing agency sistah, Linda Grimes, who was worth every penny I didn’t pay her).

There’s a very deliberate balance in what each of these individuals brings to the table, and the idea of eliminating even one of them is like contemplating cutting off one of my nipples (assuming I had six nipples. Hey, I might. How do you know?)

One critique partner and one beta reader are particularly harsh when it comes to characterization. They have strong opinions, and aren’t afraid to share them. If my heroine is bitchy, they tell me. If my hero is wimpy, I hear about it.

These two come from vastly different backgrounds and often have different opinions, so when their critiques match up, I pay attention. That was the case with an early draft of MAKING WAVES, and the manuscript ended up much stronger as a result.

But what happens when they don’t agree?

That’s been the case with LET IT BREATHE. I suppose I could stage a cage fight between them, but I doubt they’d find that as satisfying as I would.

One of the two found my heroine too angry with the hero for past offenses and current difficulties

The other found her too understanding, too apologetic.

One adored a scene between the hero and the heroine’s cousin, describing it as her favorite in the whole book.

The other found it annoying and out-of-character for both of them.

In my earlier years as a writer, I might have found this frustrating. On some levels, I suppose I still do.

But in other ways, it’s thrilling. What better reminder that every reader’s experience is different, and that this whole business is so very, very subjective – with agents, with editors, with readers from all walks of life.

Since I’ve been at this for awhile now, I know to take a step back at this stage. Though I trust my instincts as a writer more now than I did a few years ago, it’s worth figuring out ways to smooth some of the edges.

The observation that my heroine is too understanding and apologetic is probably legit, given the number of times sorry appears in the manuscript. Can I tone that down a bit?

And can I find other ways to balance her sympathetic nature with her occasionally snarly urge to protect herself?

These are questions I’ll be asking myself as I go through a final round of revisions before handing this off to my agent

In the end, it’s true that you can’t please everyone. But it’s also true that if you plan to write for public consumption, you have to be willing to at least consider how readers from diverse backgrounds might be impacted by your story in different ways.

How do you find the balance between trusting yourself as a writer and making changes in response to feedback? What do you do when two readers disagree? Please share!

I have to go do something about that whole hand-job imbalance.

Thank you, sir, may I have another?

You know that scene in Animal House where Kevin Bacon has to grab his ankles while a cloaked sadist whacks him on the butt for a fraternity initiation?

Thank you, sir, may I have another? He grunts with every stroke of the paddle.

I can’t be the only author who thinks of it when feedback starts rolling in on a fresh-from-the-oven manuscript.

I’m at that stage now with LET IT BREATHE. I follow the same process each time, with critique partners nailing me from all sides before I polish and send the manuscript to the beta readers. After that, it goes to my agent, then my editor, and eventually off to copy editors.

Then there’s the stage I haven’t reached yet where readers and book reviewers start taking whacks at me. I swear my butt stings each time I see August 2011 on a calendar.

I have pretty thick skin, which is one reason I’ve built such a regimented critique process involving so many players. I want constructive criticism. It’s what I rely on to improve and grow as a writer.

But I’d be a lying sack of camel feces if I said it didn’t sting.

I’d also be lying if I told you I didn’t open a critique partner’s email Saturday night and wince at every splotch of red text on the page. My first instinct is to get defensive – clearly she misunderstood that scene or just didn’t "get" my heroine.

But even as those thoughts stew in the back of my mind, the first words I fire off in a reply email are always the same.

Thank you sooooooo much!

Then I follow up by saying what I found most helpful. I do this even as my backside stings from the paddle lashes and the snarly creature in the back of my brain pouts and sulks.

Several months ago, I judged a writing contest. Though judges were encouraged to write comments, I suspect the organizers didn’t expect the sea of ink I spewed onto some of the entries. I always balanced negative feedback with positive, but there was one entry in particular that took some hard hits. I debated whether to do it, but in the end, decided someone had to be straight with the writer about some big plot problems and issues with characterization.

I winced as I hit send, and then forgot about it until a month later when a contest organizer forwarded me a note from the writer. I braced myself for defensive anger.

What I got was thanks. Thanks for my time, my attention to detail, and my elaborate feedback.

The writer had nothing to gain from sending that note. Judges are anonymous, as are the contest entries. We could have sat naked together in the steam room at the gym and never recognized one another.

But that note made my week. Not only that, it made me a lot more likely to give thorough feedback the next time I judge a contest.

It’s easy for writers to get caught up in their own angst about feedback on our babies, but we have to remember the person offering it is putting herself out there, too. It’s nice to know your input has merit. It's nice to know your efforts mean something to someone.

Do you try to thank people for their feedback even if it’s not what you want to hear? Is it tough to type thank you even as your butt stings from the lashes? Please share.

I have to get ready for the next round of spanking.

Great writer gifts day 1: The love mug

I’m feeling festive this week. It's possible I'm confusing “festive” and “revoltingly stuffed with turkey and mashed potatoes,” but why split hairs? I want to spread some holiday cheer.

Each day this week, I’ll share a gift idea for the writer in your life. If the writer in your life happens to be you, score! You may get a few items to add to your holiday wish list. Otherwise, consider being generous with a critique partner or other writing pal.

Let’s get started.

I never sit down at my writing desk without a beverage of some sort. Surprisingly, the beverage is not always served in Riedel stemware. I’m a bit of a tea fiend, and spend the early part of each day sipping anything from Oolong to Earl Grey.

This is my favorite everyday mug:
Nothing fancy, but perfectly functional. I bought it for myself at the Dollar Store a few years ago, and though I love it for its size and shape, it doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy and loved.

The mug that makes me feel warm and fuzzy and loved is this one:
Critique partner Linda Brundage bought it for me shortly after we both began chasing the elusive publication dragon. This was before either of us had an agent or a book deal or really much chance of publishing the drivel we churned out back then.

In case you can’t read it, the mug says, “Choose an author as you would a friend.” – Wentworth Dillon.

I love the sentiment behind both the quote and the gift. No matter what kind of writing obstacles I encounter—from rejection to brain-block to a cat on my keyboard—the mug is a reminder that I’m not alone in this.

I don’t use it every day. It’s partly that I don’t want to break it, and partly that I like to save it for days when I need a little pick-me-up in my routine.

You can find plenty of author-themed mugs right here at cafepress.com, but spending a lot of money on a mug with a clever saying isn’t a requirement. A regular Dollar Store mug can be a writer’s favorite treasure when gifted in a spirit of love and camaraderie.

Do you have a favorite writing mug? Has a critique partner ever given you a present you adore? Please share. My kettle is boiling. Hey, that’s an excellent euphemism. See how well the mug works?

People who help me not suck: The value of critique partners & beta readers

Let me tell you about my flaws as a writer.

I should mention this is not the ideal way to begin a job interview.

Nevertheless, here are my major shortcomings:

• My failure to plot ahead means I sometimes back myself into corners.
• I lose track of details like the color of a character’s shirt or the day on which a scene takes place.
• My fashion sense leaves something to be desired.
• I am an insensitive bitch.

Fortunately, I know my failings. Even more fortunately, I have two amazing critique partners and three fabulous beta readers chosen precisely because they make up for what I lack.

Allow me to introduce them:

Critique partner Cynthia Reese has published four books with Harlequin Superromance, and is an infinitely better plotter than I am. Because of this, she can catch me before I veer too far off track, and brainstorm with me until I figure out where I’m headed. As a multi-published romance writer, she knows the “rules” of the genre much better than I do, and has a strong sense of overall story structure.

Critique partner Linda Brundage is also a much savvier plotter than I am, so between my two critique partners, my biggest weakness is covered. Because Linda doesn’t read or write romance, I can count on her to nudge me outside that box. She's got a flair for scene-setting and description, and is also my most sensitive, emotionally driven reader.

Beta reader Larie Borden an insensitive bitch like me. It makes her a good reader not just because I count on her for the harshest feedback, but because if she agrees with Linda that a character is a jerk, I know I’ve got some serious rehabbing to do. She’s not a writer, but a voracious reader with a keen eye for detail and a strong sense of what she likes. As an added bonus, she’s a savvy fashionista who outfits my characters so they don’t look like they got dressed in an unlit thrift store.

Beta reader Bridget McGinn is a former marketing colleague and the most voracious romance reader in the bunch. She’s been reading the genre her whole life, so she has strong opinions about what works and what doesn’t. Besides being wildly smart, she’s got a sensitive streak like Linda. That means I can count on her to be my second gut-check after I’ve fixed whatever rubbed Linda the wrong way on the first round.

Beta reader Minta Powelson is another former marketing colleague, and she gets the manuscript after I’ve made everyone else's changes. She’s my reader with the keenest eye for grammatical details, punctuation, and consistency, so I trust her for the final polish when I’m so tired of a manuscript I want to hurl it out a window. If a character had a pink bandana on page 64 but a yellow one on page 297, I can count on her to notice.

I do venture beyond these five readers – for example, when I need a male perspective, a fresh set of eyes, or specific expertise – but this is my core posse. It’s no accident their strengths are my weaknesses. I consider this one of the most valuable things I gain from these critiquing relationships.

Incidentally, I met four of the five readers through different jobs I’ve held in the last 10 years. The fifth (Cynthia) I’ve never met in person, though we’ve critiqued together for 6+ years since we met in an online writers’ forum.

So there you have it – the people who keep me from sucking. What do you look for in critique partners and beta readers? What weaknesses do you need help overcoming? Please share.

And don’t forget to thank all the people who make you the best writer you can be. I’ve got some phone calls to make now.

P.S. See that little survey box at the top right of the page? I'm conducting some highly-scientific, very valuable research about kissing. OK, it's not very scientific or valuable. Still, would you mind taking a second to click? Thanks!

Kind words that fuel the fire

Yesterday was a good day.

I was still basking in the glow of the “fan letter” I posted on the blog when I headed off for work (yes, I started a new job – part-time so I can stay focused on writing).

Mid-way through the workday, the boss threw me a last-minute project that called for some fast creative copywriting. I did it, sent the file, and was eating leftover lasagna at my desk when the boss walked in beaming and holding the printout.

“This is why we hired you.”

Such a simple statement – only six words – but it totally made my week.

I’m going to go way out on the limb of total obviousness and say that humans need positive feedback to keep ticking.

Author Cynthia Reese and I have worked together as critique partners for 6+ years, and one thing we’ve always cited as a reason we work well together is that we both have hides of Teflon. We don’t get our feelings hurt, and we don’t flinch over negative feedback. We don’t need to be coddled with compliments or have criticisms sugar-coated in any way.

And yet when I get a critique back from her, I still feel warm and glowy each time I see those three little letters – LOL – inserted in random spots to indicate where something I wrote made her laugh out loud.

I don’t care if she follows it up with six pages of notes describing the precise method I should use to dig a hole in my backyard and beat myself over the head with the shovel until I fall in – those three little letters are enough to keep my spirits high.

There’s something called the “sandwich method” that’s common for writers doing critiques or judging contests. The idea is that you offer negative feedback “sandwiched” between two pieces of positive feedback, making the negative a whole lot easier to take.

I’m a big fan.

I’m not suggesting it should be done in a contrived way, or that you should offer anything insincere or meaningless. “I really like the way you capitalized the first word of each sentence,” will probably not achieve the desired result.

I’m also not suggesting you should limit it only to the writing world.

But even a small shred of something genuine and positive can be enough to buoy someone’s spirits. Newbie or New York Times bestseller, writer or non-writer, everyone needs to hear something nice about themselves. It’s easy to forget how much fuel a few simple words can offer, but they’re the things we store in our subconscious and drag out to keep us going out when setbacks threaten to crush us.

Do compliments make you warm and glowy? Do you try to offer them regularly to writing pals or loved ones, or is it tougher for you to do? Please share.

And hey – that’s a really nice shirt you’re wearing. Brings out the color in your eyes.

A word (or 584) on critiquing relationships

In addition to showing great enthusiasm for discussions of butt hair and garage porn, readers commenting on this blog ask a lot of questions about critique partners and beta readers.

What’s the difference? How do you find them? When do you need them? Is it normal to trade sexual favors for critiques, or did that dude just totally scam me?

I probably won’t answer everything in a single post (except the last one – perfectly normal). But I’ll give you the best overview I can in 584 words or less.

What the @#$% are you talking about?
Everyone uses the terms differently, but to me, a critique partner is a fellow writer with whom you exchange manuscript critiques and brainstorming. As writers, they’re capable of saying not just “this sucks” but “this sucks, and here’s how you might fix it.” Beta readers are just that – readers skilled at catching mistakes and giving you a gut check on how real readers might respond to your book. The three betas I’ve worked with since the dawn of time are exceptionally skilled at spotting specific issues – grammar, inconsistencies, and instances where my characters act like asshats.

How do I find them?
You could try standing on a street corner holding a cardboard sign, but I don’t recommend it. One of the best online resources for finding critique partners and beta readers is the forum at Absolute Write devoted to this purpose.

Another great option is trolling online discussion forums for your specific genre. I met longtime critique partner Cynthia Reese in the eHarlequin discussion forums when we were both newbie writers learning the ropes. Check out blogs and chat loops for your genre to find other authors in your shoes (which is a little gross, so spray some Lysol before putting your feet back in them).

Organized writing groups are another good resource. At my first meeting of Rose City Romance Writers, someone offered to connect me with critique partners. Sisters in Crime (SINC) offers an online group for new authors called The Guppies.

As for beta readers, all three of mine are former co-workers. It’s a perk of 10+ years working in marketing & corporate communications that I’ve connected with smart, savvy folks who like words, but you can find good betas in many places. Belong to a book club? Mine it for betas. Got a co-worker with his nose in a book on lunch breaks? Maybe he’d like to help an aspiring author.

How does it work?
There are no hard and fast rules about critiquing relationships, except to avoid being a jerk. While Cynthia Reese likes to feed me one chapter at a time and review my comments before writing the next chapter, critique partner Linda Brundage and I both prefer to finish the entire novel before swapping. There’s a fairly even trade of critiques, though slower writers can end up doing more critiques for faster ones.

Since beta readers aren’t getting the same benefit from the relationship, I make sure to let mine know how much I appreciate them. My appreciation usually has a cork protruding from the top, but a heartfelt thank you note will also suffice.

So that’s my quick-and-dirty overview. If you already have critiquing relationships, how did you find them? If you’re new to this, what questions do you have?

Oh, and feel free to use the comments section to connect with potential critique partners. Just try to avoid the whole sex-for-critiques arrangement, OK? Authorities tend to frown on that.

I would do anything for love(but I won't do that)

I have two confessions.

The first is that my refrigerator smells like something crawled inside, threw up, contracted a severe foot fungus, developed gangrene, and then died.

The second is that I refuse to do anything about it.

Oh sure, I removed a carton of takeout Thai that’s been in there since March, and I might’ve sniffed a few iffy perishables (and proceeded to eat them).

But the fact is, I hate cleaning the refrigerator. It’s one of the chores – along with mopping floors and mowing the lawn – I will avoid at all costs.

I might feel guilty about this if it weren’t for the fact that Pythagoras has a similar list of chores he refuses to perform. His list includes folding laundry and scrubbing tubs or toilets.

The funny thing is, we’ve never discussed this in 12+ years of marriage. He’s never openly declared, “I will let the clean clothes accumulate in the laundry room until I’m forced to dress myself beside the dryer each morning while standing shoulder-deep in a pile of socks and underwear.”

Nor have I confessed to him that I will wait until one of us actually loses consciousness in front of the refrigerator before I stoop to removing shelves and scrubbing bins to find the source of that god-awful smell.

It’s just an unspoken rule that the spouse who doesn’t abhor the chore will eventually tackle it for the one who does.

This fact – plus a shared love of ‘80s butt-rock – is why we’re a good match.

It’s also the reason I surround myself with writing and publishing professionals who compensate for my weaknesses.

Plotting is not my strength. My idea of plotting a book is declaring that I’d like to write about a heroine who owns a vineyard and then some stuff happens.

Fortunately, critique partner Cynthia Reese is a fabulously talented plotter. She’s always willing to help me brainstorm when I’ve backed my characters into a corner and removing their clothes won’t get them out this time.

Lest you think it’s a one-way relationship, I bring something to the table as well. I amuse her with fart jokes and point out when her scenes might benefit from the inclusion of one.

I will also freely admit I'm incapable of reading instructions and contracts. When I saw the first copy of my three-book contract with Sourcebooks, Inc, I made it through the first twelve words before succumbing to the overwhelming urge to polish my toenails.

Luckily, I have my amazing agent, Michelle Wolfson. She not only read the contract in its entirety, but fought hard for changes that benefited me (well, I assume they benefited me – it’s possible I just signed a contract to sell my liver on the black market).

Do you surround yourself with people who have strengths you don’t? Do you help tackle chores someone else abhors when you don’t mind doing them yourself?

Please share in the comments. I’ll be donning my gas mask in preparation for retrieving the milk from the fridge.

3 critique partner myths

With just a few days and a few thousand words to go before I finish the first draft of LET IT BREATHE, I’m starting to look ahead.

No, I don’t mean the wine I plan to celebrate with (Van Duzer’s 2007 Estate Pinot Noir, in case you’re wondering).

I mean the stage where I hand it off to critique partners and beta readers and give them the opportunity to devise creative new ways to say, “what the @#$% were you thinking?”

In all seriousness, I couldn’t do this without these guys. I’ve worked with the same two critique partners and three beta readers since the early years of my writing journey, and we’ve fine-tuned the process a lot.

While I won’t claim to be an expert, I can tell you I cringe each time I see someone state a “fact” about the critiquing relationship that goes against what I’ve experienced. Though we’ve all got our own systems, there are some ideas that seem like a load of aardvark poo to me:

MYTH #1: You should only heed advice from a critique partner who’s published. When I started critiquing with my two current partners over six years ago, none of us had a book deal. Though two of the three now do, I can honestly say it doesn’t make a bit of difference.

One misconception about the critiquing relationship is that suggestions are either “right” or “wrong,” and a published author has more “right” ones. Not true. Good critique partners tell you how your story impacts them and how they – as writers – might improve things. It doesn’t mean you have to take their advice. Plenty of times I ignore it, or use it as a springboard to generate an idea of my own. Other times, I’ll make a mental note of something one critique partner stumbled over. If a beta reader has the same reaction later, I’ll take a closer look.

The idea here is to gather feedback from people with different life experiences and perspectives. A good critique partner doesn’t need a book deal, she just needs a brain. And maybe some good Riedel wine glasses.

MYTH #2: I must have critique partners who write in my genre. I agree with this in part. Cynthia Reese (critique partner #1) writes romance, so she knows the ins and outs of the genre. But Linda Brundage (critique partner #2) writes literary fiction, and could probably count on one hand the number of romance novels she’s read.

This is a good mix for me. I rely on Cynthia to remind me of the “rules,” and Linda to encourage me to break them. Cynthia makes sure my story has enough conflict, and Linda points out when I’ve confused “conflict” with “being a bitch.” Cynthia keeps an eye on my characters' budding romance, and Linda questions whether my hero could really get my heroine’s bra off that fast.

The balance of the two perspectives is invaluable. As an added romance safety net, one of my three beta readers is a lifelong devotee of the romance genre. If I miss the boat, she beats me until I get back on it.

MYTH #3: I need a critique partner in my town so we can have coffee and pillow fights when we swap manuscripts. Once upon a time, I traded hard copy manuscripts with a critique partner. This ended after I had the brilliant idea to critique Linda’s manuscript on a boat in the middle of a lake on a windy afternoon.

These days, everything is electronic. Each critique partner or beta reader gets the manuscript in a Word doc, re-titles it using her initials, and plugs comments directly into the manuscript using a different color of text. It’s easy to spot them and simple to delete or ignore. Though critiques are often followed by lengthy email exchanges and phone calls, there’s no need to meet. In fact, Cynthia Reese and I have never met in person – not once in six years. But I’d sooner cut off my left nipple than do without her perspective.

So there you have it. The three biggest myths (in my humble opinion) about working with critique partners. Do you have any to add? Do disagree with any of my points? How does your system work?

Or if you’re new to the world of critique partners and beta readers, do you have questions for those who’ve run the gauntlet before?

Please discuss in the comments.

I’ll be over here gazing lovingly at that bottle of Pinot. Just a few more days, and it will be mine.

Friendship without pillow fights in your underwear

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of an in-person meeting with talented writers Debra Schubert and Kristina Martin.

Three months ago, I didn’t know either of them existed.

When my agent urged me to join Twitter earlier this year, I read enough books and articles to recognize Twitter as a necessary networking tool for a debut author.

But what I didn’t know is how quickly I’d form friendships that didn’t involve putting anyone in a headlock and demanding they buy my novel.

There were no headlocks last Friday evening. No pillow fights in our underwear, either (I think we’re saving that for next time). It was just a fun chance to connect with two terrific women – one who flew 2,900 miles to get there – for great food, wine, and laughter.

Debra (@dlschubert), me (@tawnafenske),
and Kristina (@quickmissive)

I’ve swapped 140-character notes with them for only a few months, and we’ve already filled each other’s wine glasses and admired each other’s lipstick. And though it was a blast, it reminded me that meeting in-person isn’t a requirement to forging lasting connections in writing communities.

Michelle Wolfson has been my agent for over two years. She’s propped me up after rejections, squealed with me over our shared successes, and coached me through a phone call with an editor in which I was fairly certain I’d either cry, puke, or accidentally spew dirty jokes.

But I’ve never actually met Michelle. Not in person, anyway.

And it’s been six years since I first connected with critique partner Cynthia Reese when we were both unpublished authors on the Harlequin message boards. We’ve worked together through book deals and failures, through good manuscripts and bad ones, through bleak times where we both said, “Screw it, I’m quitting writing to become a lap dancer.”

(OK – maybe that was just me).

And though we’ve shed real tears for each other through both personal crises and writing ones, we’ve never met in person.

I thought of this the other day when I heard an author lamenting the difficulty of finding someone local to critique with. It reminded me how lucky we all are that we have the ability to connect with other writing professionals using only a few mouse-clicks. Lurking online, you can find critique partners and beta readers, build support systems with other authors, even stalk interact professionally with agents.

I can say with absolute certainty you can forge amazing connections even if you never actually meet any of these people in-person.

OK, there is one advantage to the in-person meetings. Check out what Kristina brought me after reading this post I wrote last week:

A backhoe of my very own, courtesy of Kristina! Just like the real thing. Pretty much.

Yeah. My friends kind of rock. How about you? Have you forged any great online relationships with other professionals in the writing world? Tell me in the comments, my fine friends!

Handling critiques with grace, skill & minimal bloodshed

I'm spending the next couple days at my parents' house (which, tragically, is smack-dab in the middle of Oregon wine country). My apologies in advance if I don't respond promptly to tweets or blog comments.

Yesterday, I had a 2.5 hour drive over here to mull the feedback I just received from one of my critique partners, Cynthia Reese. She's the one I rely on most in the early stages of a manuscript when I find myself staring in bewilderment at my screen muttering, "now what?"

As usual, she gave me plenty to chew on with her commentary on the first few chapters of LET IT BREATHE. We've been critiquing each other's work for five or six years now, long before either of us had a book deal or reached the grim realization that an author's "I have arrived" moment is not the day an editor calls with a contract.

There's an art to critiquing someone else's work, but there's perhaps a greater art to handling critiques without tears, bloodshed, or the unnecessary loss of other bodily fluids. Whether you're digesting feedback from you agent, critique partner, or the exotic dancer you picked up at the bar last night, here are a few easy steps to facing it without police intervention:

Step 1: Say thank you. This can be hard when all you want to do is take a tire iron to the skull of whoever suggested your hero is a weenie, but this person has just done you a big favor. Whether or not you agree with the input, you just received the invaluable gift of an outside perspective on your writing. Say thank you and mean it. Better yet, pick one or two observations the person made and share why they were valuable. Critiquing can be as thankless as the writing itself, and the person giving you feedback deserves to know what you appreciate most.

Step 2: Be pissed off quietly. No matter how glowing the feedback or how thick your skin, there will always be something in a critique that makes you want to moan, "she just didn't get it!" This is a dangerous thing. Your gut says you must defend your masterpiece, while common sense suggests that if you just mull the feedback for a day or two, you might discover you're the one who just didn't get it.

Step 3: Give yourself time to marinate. Even if you're revved up and ready to start hacking, wait. Take a day or more to mull the suggestions consider your best approach. You might be amazed at what your brain cooks up while you're busy swilling Chianti or walking the dog.

Step 4: Make the small changes first. Things like typos and awkward sentence structure are easy fixes, and they'll give you a sense of accomplishment while you prepare for the next step.

Step 5: Tackle the big changes last. These are the tough ones, and by the time you reach this point, the marinating you did in Step 3 and the confidence you gained from Step 4 will have you fully prepared for it. Maybe your ending is a hot mess, or your heroine bears a striking resemblance to Charles Manson. By the time you reach this stage, your brain will have switched from wanting to beat itself against the keyboard to thinking, "well, maybe this could work..."

One final word of advice: trust the person giving you feedback, but also trust yourself. This is one of those things that comes with experience, but it's a crucial lesson to learn. I've worked with the same two critique partners and three beta readers for many years, and would honorably surrender a glass of sub-par wine to any of them if they were really thirsty. Even so, there are times I'll read a critique and think, "are you smoking crack?"

That's one reason I make sure I get multiple viewpoints on my work. What rubs one person the wrong way might be peachy keen with the other four, and while I always hear feedback with an open mind, that doesn't mean I have to use it.

So how do you tackle critiques? Any tips or hints you can share? Please do so in the comments. I'll be over here swilling wine with my dad while my poor mother shakes her head and considers dumping us on the side of the highway.

Fake car sex & the realities of romance

I recently shared how Pythagoras is a good sport about plotting love scenes.

He’s been kind enough to extend his good sportsmanship to help my fellow authors in need.

A couple years ago, a writing pal crafted a love scene that took place in the front seat of a car. I critiqued the scene with some skepticism, knowing the author is six inches shorter than me and therefore inclined to assume two amorous adults can fit comfortably behind the wheel of a Honda.

We debated the issue for several rounds, each of us sharing more information than we’d volunteer to our mothers.

Finally, I offered to put the issue to the test.

“Pythagoras,” I called. “I need help with a scene.”

My husband eyed me suspiciously. “You’re not going to make me have fake sex with you on the bathroom counter again, are you?”

“Don’t be silly. This time we’re having fake car sex.”

He sighed, resigned to the fate assigned to him when he agreed to marry a romance author. “On it or in it?”

I led the way to the Mazda, which was parked in the driveway and appeared to be the approximate size and shape of the Honda my friend described in her scene.

“Actually,” Pythagoras objected, “the key differences between the Mazda and Honda for models made between 1997 and 2001 is that the slope of the windshield—“

“Just get in the car,” I told him, pretty sure readers wouldn’t nitpick.

Pythagoras heaved another sigh, settled into the drivers’ seat and looked at me. “Wouldn’t this work better if you were wearing a skirt instead of sweatpants?”

“We’re not really going to have car sex,” I pointed out. “We’re just helping Jane* write a scene.”

“Who?”

“You haven’t met her. Neither have I, technically, but – never mind. She’s an author.”

I ignored my husband’s pained expression and ducked into the car, promptly smacking my knee on the gearshift. I shifted my weight back and banged my head on the rearview mirror.

“When does this get romantic?” Pythagoras asked.

“Shut up and see if you can grab my boob from that angle.”

Pythagoras lifted his hand and stopped, his gaze fixed on a point over my shoulder. “Looks like the neighbors are barbecuing.”

He tilted the formerly boob-bound hand in a halfhearted wave. I craned my neck to study the happy family waving back, looking strangely unsurprised to see us arranged thusly.

I gave them a weak smile. “Should I go explain?”

“You know,” Pythagoras said, “sometimes it’s best if you don’t.”

So we spent another three minutes adjusting the seat position, fiddling with the tilt steering, and determining that it was, in fact, possible to maneuver in an amorous fashion in the drivers’ seat of a compact car.

Not that we were feeling particularly amorous at that point.

“My leg is asleep,” I complained as I peeled myself off my husband’s lap.

“You crushed my testicle.”

I nodded and surveyed the car. “Other than that, it was totally hot.”

He shook his head and waved at the neighbors again, probably wondering why some men are lucky enough to have sane wives.

I shut the car door marched back to the house, eager to report my findings to Jane.

She was pleased to hear it, and wrote a lovely scene that bore little resemblance to my experience.

Sometimes it’s best for romance not to reflect reality.

* Name has been changed to protect an author who probably wishes she didn’t know me.

The fine art of funny

Um, so I was kinda kidding in Monday’s blog post when I mentioned penis jokes. But apparently my humor missed the mark (or more likely, people who read my blog are perverts) because I’ve had several emails from people wanting to know when I’m going to get to the penis jokes.

Fine, Grandma – I”ll tell one in just a minute, OK?

First, I want to talk a bit about humor.

Since I write humorous fiction, a good portion of my writing time is devoted to trying to be funny. Sometimes it comes naturally, and sometimes . . . well, not so much. Other times I’m funny when I don’t mean to be.

This actually ties to my point yesterday about everything being subjective.

I work with an amazing group of women who serve as critique partners and beta readers for me. My critique partners, Linda Brundage and Cynthia Reese are both PHENOMENAL writers with whom I swap ideas, critiques, and general bitching. My three beta readers are all book nuts with eagle eyes and strong opinions they’re not afraid to share with me. To say I couldn’t do this without all of them would be a disgusting understatement.

Recently, all five women critiqued my newest manuscript, BELIEVE IT OR NOT. They all did a bang-up job catching plot holes and typos, but on top of all that, they were all more diligent than usual about flagging scenes that were funny.

As one of my beta readers put it, “I thought it might be helpful for you to see what made me laugh so you’d know if there were any long stretches without humor.”

I thought it was a terrific idea, and Lord knows I love to know what makes people chuckle.

But here’s the funny part – they were all amused by different things. One beta reader had a clear fondness for any jokes that were alcohol-inspired. One critique partner loved all the deadpan humor, while the other seemed to gravitate toward the more goofy stuff. Still another reader kept laughing at things I hadn’t realized were funny. The third beta reader – pervert that she is – giggled like a fiend over all the raunchy stuff.

It was a terrific reminder for me that not everyone has the same sense of humor, but if I do my job right, I can make sure there’s something in my books to tickle everyone’s funny bone.

OK, OK . . . keep your pants on, Grandma. Here’s your penis joke:

An old man and an old woman are sitting together at their nursing home.

“Bet I can tell how old you are,” says the old woman.

“No way,” says the old man.

“Sure,” she replies. “Pull down your pants.”

Intrigued, the old man complies. The woman studies him thoughtfully for a moment.

“You’re 89 years old,” she reports.

“Wow, how did you do that?” he asks, buttoning up his pants.

“You told me yesterday.”