Writing in a bubble makes your hands sticky

I have a love/hate relationship with writers’ groups.

You could broaden that to say I have a love/hate relationship with any in-person human interaction that doesn’t involve naked groping. If more writers’ groups had orgies on their agendas, I’d attend every meeting.

I’m an introvert by nature, so I tend to avoid human interaction like porn stars avoid expired condoms. I wrote romance for many years before my agent commanded me lovingly advised me to join RomanceWriters of America (RWA). There may have been some kicking and screaming involved, and not the fun kind.

As it turned out, I was wrong in my assumption that in-person interaction with other writers would be a painful endeavor. I enjoy the camaraderie and knowledge I gain from the monthly gatherings, and I learn something new at each meeting. Sometimes it’s writing techniques or social media strategies, and other times it’s the latest industry gossip. My little brain soaks it up like a sponge (and not the kind you take your pants off to use).

Unfortunately, a large mountain range separates my city of residence from my closest RWA chapter. Making the seven-hour round-trip journey is tiring in summer months, but downright treacherous in winter months when ice turns the roads into cliffside ice skating rinks.

I haven’t made the trip for months, and could feel myself slinking slowly into my introvert cave and gathering large boulders to block the entrance. When an RWA chapter-mate contacted me last week to say her family was vacationing on my side of the mountains and asked if I’d like to get coffee, I had a mixed reaction. I adore this particular author and love both her industry knowledge and her risqué wit.

But did I really want to change out of my pajamas and leave the house?

I decided I did. When I left three hours later, I slammed my head in the car door repeatedly and asked myself, “why the hell don’t you do that more often?”

There’s something about chatting with other authors that rekindles my passion for writing. Even brief conversations leave me quivering with new knowledge and ideas that empower me for my own career.

While it’s true I interact with other writers in online communities and I adore those relationships like a stripper loves nipple tassels that don't chafe, they're not the same thing.

Let’s face it—most authors (myself included) sugarcoat what they post online about publishing decisions, industry interactions, and dollar figures. Authors who don’t want to burn bridges won’t post on Twitter to lament the challenges of working with a particular editor. You won't see many writers taking to Facebook to detail their sales numbers and royalty figures.

But when you meet in person, people are less censored. And when that happens, you get a genuine sharing of knowledge and information that doesn’t happen in online writer communities.

You also get a different sort of camaraderie than you see online. The butt-pats are real instead of virtual, and that right there is worth changing out of your pajamas.

Do you participate in online groups or in-person meetings for your chosen profession (writing or otherwise)? What sort of interaction do you prefer? Please share.

And let me know if you hear of any of those writers’ groups that get naked and grope each other. I’m asking for a friend.

On awesome gifts and writing goals

I don't want to boast, but it's possible I'm dating the most clever gift-giver on the planet.

I shared several months ago how my gentleman friend made a special scarf hanger to commemorate each book I release. I admire it every day while I write, and I look forward to adding many more scarves I can use for illicit purposes.

In late March, my gentleman friend and I celebrated what we jokingly refer to as the anniversary of our first date. It might be the oddest first date in history, since I'd requested the meet-up to seek his counsel as a divorce mentor. We'd originally planned a casual get-together at a coffee shop, but I was hired last-minute for a freelance article reviewing four fancy restaurants, and I dragged him along to the first one for the free meal. The meeting was a bizarre mix of tearful storytelling punctuated by over-attentive waiters bringing food while I secretly plotted to seduce my dinner companion.

But I digress.

When I woke on the one-year anniversary of this blessed occasion, here's what was nailed to the bedroom wall:

"It's a bucket board," he explained. "Sort of like a bucket list. We'll use the tags to write down things we want to do as a couple over the next year, and we mark off the ones we accomplish."

I may have swooned a bit, so it's a good thing I was still in bed. Over the last couple months, we've filled the tags with a variety of things. Some are small, like hikes we want to take. Others are bigger goals, like settling into a new home together. Either of us can write something on a tag if an idea strikes, and we mark the goals we've accomplished with little stickers.

I love the idea, not just because it's sweet and romantic, but because it's a good reminder of my need for goals. I've struggled a bit lately to carve out writing time for myself. Between author-related speaking engagements and blogging and interviews and contract negotiations and the day job and finding time to see my aforementioned gentleman friend on occasion, it can be a challenge to find time to actually write the books that made my schedule so nutty in the first place.

How did I used to do this? I asked myself recently. And I remembered one trick that was beautifully simple, yet effective.

Back when I was still pretty new to the fiction writing game, I used to pick a deadline for finishing a book. It was an arbitrary one, since no editors were breathing down my neck at that point, but I tried to make it both challenging and realistic. On my calendar, I'd write "85,000 words" on the day I wished to complete a first draft of the book with that number as my final word count. Then I'd figure out how many words I needed to write each day to accomplish that goal.

I marked every day on the calendar with what my word count should be by the time I switched off my computer for the night. Weekend days called for bigger jumps in my word count, and I made sure to budget time for days off and days when I just wasn't feelin' the love. If I missed my goal for a day or two, I knew I had to work hard to get back on track.

The system was surprisingly effective for me, and it's something I plan to start doing again immediately.

How do you keep track of your goals, either as a writer or for your life in general? Please share!

I have to go write something new on the bucket board. This one might call for a color illustration.

Peeing in front of spouses, agents and readers

After nearly 13 years, the exact wording of my marriage vows is fuzzy in my mind. However, I’m fairly certain they didn’t contain the phrase, “I shall not pee in front of you.”

Nevertheless, it’s been a marital law that stood the test of time long after rules about drinking out of milk cartons and not going to bed angry have fallen by the wayside.

Modesty isn’t the issue. It has more to do with a desire not to kill the romance with bodily functions best performed behind the privacy of a closed door.

It’s something that crossed my mind yesterday when I commented on Twitter that I was slashing a scene from LET IT BREATHE. The scene wasn’t terrible, but it slowed the pace and just wasn’t as strong as I thought it could be.

A few Twitter followers suggested I add a deleted scenes section to my website. It’s not a bad idea, and I don’t judge authors who do it any more than I judge pals who piddle bravely before their spouses.

But I’m refraining from both, for pretty much the same reasons. The way people perceive my writing is important to me, and I’m guarded about what I’ll throw out there for public consumption. While I have critique partners I’ll allow to view the “warts and all” versions of my writing, I’m not willing to put that out there for my agent, editor, or even blog readers to see.

I know that might seem strange considering how often I share embarrassing stories about my inept behavior, but there’s a line there for me. I’m confident my tales of hurking in my underwear or licking the floor at the doctor’s office or waxing off my eyebrow represent my writing skills well.

Maybe not my social skills, but the writing is something I'm proud of.

When it comes to offering up writing to my agent, editor, or just about anyone else whose opinion I treasure, I want to keep the romance alive. While I'm sure everyone is aware I occasionally produce crap, that doesn't mean I want them to see it.

Er, metaphorically speaking.

Do you have strict rules about who’s allowed to see your “warts and all” writing? Is there a certain level of polish you require before putting something out there? Please share.

And, um…please don’t feel you need to share your bathroom habits. Really, I'm OK without knowing that.

How hard is it?

Yesterday I had the whole day set aside for implementing my editor’s revision notes.

It pretty much guaranteed that every time I got up to refill my water glass, I’d be distracted by something around the house that needed tidying.

I am by no means a neat freak. Truth be told, I’m a disgusting slob. I am, however, capable of hanging up my coat when I remove it. Pythagoras, on the other hand, has a different habit.

Here’s photographic evidence:
Seriously, how hard is it to open a closet door and grab a clothes hanger?

When I questioned him about it, he argued that he takes his jacket on and off at least five times a day in the winter, so doors and hangars are too time-consuming to contend with.

Before I get too smug about how much tidier I am than my husband, let’s take two steps back from that scene, shall we?
Yes, the wine I bought last week sits just ten easy steps from the closet where a lovely and capable wine rack waits to cradle my purchases. I could point out that some of the wines are whites intended for consumption in the next week, which would therefore relegate them to the fridge instead of the wine closet, but you don’t see me putting them there, either.

What’s my problem?

If I’m being honest, I’ll admit I do this with manuscripts sometimes. Last night while editing MAKING WAVES, I stumbled over a scene I’ve never been in love with. Though my editor hasn’t asked me to change anything about it, nor have my critique partners or agent, it’s just never felt perfect to me.

But have I done anything about it? No. Not yet, anyway.

How hard would it be? I'm working my way through edits right now, so this is my opportunity to make the change.

In my defense, there's always this fear in writing that you’ll start tugging at threads and pretty soon the entire garment will come unraveled and you’ll be standing there in your underwear.

In romance writing, that’s not always a bad thing.

I’ll admit I skipped the scene last night, but I’ve resolved not to move forward with the fun edits – the ones I’m enjoying so much it shouldn’t be legal – until I’ve done something to make myself happy with that scene.

Do you have niggling things in your life or your manuscript that aren’t terribly hard to fix, but you just don’t get around to it? Please share.

I should probably go put the wine away now. Well, I’ll keep out a couple bottles. I might need one for this scene.

Dead plants aren't always dead

When I left town last Wednesday for the Emerald City Writers’ Conference, I wrote detailed note for the pet-sitter. I covered everything from the dogs’ exercise habits to the location of the frozen blood worms for the eel.

But one thing I neglected to request is that someone – anyone – water the basil on my desk.

This is what I found when I returned on Monday:
I took one look at it and knew it was a goner. The leaves were crispy, and the stems drooped like braless D-cups.

Still, I had some water left in my Nalgene bottle from the drive, so I halfheartedly dumped it in knowing full well I’d be throwing the thing in the garbage and holding a basil funeral the next day.

But when I woke up in the morning, here’s what greeted me on my desk:
Less than 24 hours had passed, and the basil was magically resurrected. Well, it's not perfect. The leaves are still a little limp in some spots, and it could use a good pruning.

But I’m glad I didn’t toss it in the trash.

It made me think of a conversation that’s been taking place in the discussion forums for writers in Lani Diane Rich’s online revision class. Many are discovering they need to hack out entire scenes and rewrite fresh ones to make their stories stronger.

A newer author recently asked whether she should scrap the dead scenes altogether or keep them somehow. Several of us who’ve been there before suggested she save everything in an old draft while creating a new one to incorporate changes.

That’s always been my preferred method. Many times I’ve written a scene and realized later it just wasn’t right. Though the temptation is great to just hit the delete key, I never do it – not permanently anyway.

I’m a fan of creating a new version of a manuscript every time I open it to make changes. I use the date in the file name for each new version, giving myself the option of going back to those earlier versions in case I wake up one morning shrieking, “Noooo! Give me back my scene with the hubcap and the chocolate frosting!”

I’m not saying there aren’t times when those old scenes really do need to land in the trash pile and stay there. I’m just suggesting it’s smart to give yourself the option to go back and salvage or simply learn from them when you return for another look someday.

Are you trigger happy on the delete key when it comes to edits, or do you save old drafts in hopes of making them new again someday? Please share in the comments.

Either that, or come on over for dinner. I’ll be making a lovely caprese salad with my resurrected basil.

Wait, what did she say?

I love to eavesdrop.

Since I’ve never met a writer who didn’t love to eavesdrop, this is akin to telling you I’m rather fond of Chianti.

My favorite conversations to overhear are the ones that take awhile to figure out. I’m thinking of the one that occurred in a romantic oceanfront restaurant where Pythagoras and I dined on a recent trip to the Oregon Coast. We were seated so we could both watch the ocean, but Pythag had his back to the adjacent table.

That’s where the good conversation was happening, and it went something like this:

Older woman: He’s having a really hard time getting it up.

Younger woman: I think it’s just not long enough.

Older woman: Maybe if it were tighter—

Younger woman: No, I think he just needs it to be blowing a different way.

Pythagoras – who couldn’t see where the women were looking – was wide-eyed by this point. I actually could see what they were discussing, but I was still laughing so hard I nearly choked on my dinner roll.

“They’re talking about that guy flying his kite on the beach,” Pythag finally guessed.

“Probably,” I admitted. “But wait ‘til it ends up in one of my books.”

Are you an eavesdropper? What’s the most interesting conversation you’ve overheard? Please share in the comments.

And watch what you say around anyone with a notebook and an evil gleam in her eye.

Hell in a desk basket

The other day, I reached for my lip balm.

It’s in a little basket on my desk beside the computer, and I know right where the lip balm sits without looking.

Well, I thought I did.

Apparently, a lip balm and a glue stick bear such a striking resemblance to each other.

Annoyed with myself, I decided it was time to clean the desk basket. I originally put it there to hold items I considered necessary for my workday, so here’s a list of some of those necessary items:

1. Two tubes of hand cream, one tube of foot cream, one tube of body cream
2. A lapel pin depicting an Oregon Pink Shrimp
3. A packet of all-purpose plant food
4. A miniature Slinky
5. Toenail clippers
6. Four small rocks
7. One glue stick
8. Refills for an automatic pencil I do not own
9. One packet of Sen-Sens
10. A fake rubber worm
11. Five hair elastics
12. A spoon
13. A tape measure
14. Two spools of dental floss
15. Seven lipsticks, four lip balms, and two tubes of lip gloss
16. Two small plastic lizards
17. An assortment of paperclips, safety pins, and pocket change

In case you think I’m making this up, here’s photographic evidence:

My mom has a catch-all drawer in the kitchen she calls “the hell drawer,” so it seems I have a “hell basket.”

I have no idea how half this stuff ended up in there or why I thought it was integral to my work.

Do you have a basket or a drawer that’s become the dumping ground for hodgepodge in your life? What is the strangest item currently in it?

Please share in the comments. I’ll be busy staging a battle between the worm and the lizards.

Weird things we do for our books

Non-writers tend to have a narrow idea of what authors do all day.

I was reminded it of this recently when I told someone I’m a romance author and she scrunched up her nose at me. “So you just sit there and write all day, every day?”

Not quite.

Very little of what I find myself doing lately is actual writing. Though there are weeks where I’m knuckled down cranking out thousands of words on a manuscript, that hasn’t been the case lately.

Here are a few things on my author to-do list in the last few days:

1. Shop for (and purchase) a pirate costume.
2. Fill out Guinness World Record™ paperwork to participate in the Portland Pirate Festival and help reclaim the title for “largest gathering of pirates.”
3. Spend 20 minutes on the phone with Willamette Valley Vineyards talking my way onto the waiting list for or the 20th Annual Oregon Grape Stomp Competition.
4. Spend 40 minutes figuring out what the hell a grape stomper does.
5. Pester local librarians to learn what gift bag items might prompt them to remember an author and purchase her books.
6. Purchase 50 organza baggies and 160 chocolate gold coins, then ponder the best way to assemble pirate booty bags for a “librarian speed dating” event.

I must admit, none of those tasks was in my mind eight years ago when I sat down to write my first novel.

And while there’s nothing in my three-book contract with Sourcebooks that requires me to don an eyepatch or squash grapes with my bare feet, these are the sort of things many debut authors find themselves doing to support their books.

Unless you are a big-name author, there’s a good chance you’ll need to play a significant role in marketing your own books. I’ve watched lots of authors print bookmarks and schedule book signings, but those who combine those efforts with a little outside-the-box thinking are the ones I tend to notice.

I don’t know yet if the annual Portland Pirate Festival will be a good place to hold signings for MAKING WAVES next year, or if any of the contacts I’m making at Oregon wineries will prove useful when the time comes to market LET IT BREATHE.

That’s what I’m hoping to learn these next few weeks.

Oh, and lest you think I’m being completely random, there is a pirate theme to MAKING WAVES, while LET IT BREATHE is set in the Oregon wine industry.

I know that measuring ROI (return-on-investment) will be nearly impossible at this stage, but I’m committed to doing everything I can to get out there and make contacts, to make a name for myself and my books.

If that name includes the word “weird,” all the better. That is a part of my marketing plan, after all.

Will it pay off? Hopefully.

If nothing else, I now have a pirate costume to wear grocery shopping.

Do you have any outside-the-box ideas for marketing your books when the time comes? What’s the most interesting thing you’ve seen another author do for promotion? Please share in the comments.

I’ll be busy throwing grapes on my kitchen floor and practicing my stomping technique.

Why I'm stroking my husband's...leg

Yesterday, my husband shaved his legs.

No, he didn’t follow up by donning my best negligee and asking me to call him Katie. Believe it or not, there’s a fairly manly reason for it.

If you’re new to this blog, you should know Pythagoras is obsessive about exercise. He starts to twitch if he doesn’t run every day. When he tells me he’s going for a “quick bike ride,” he means he’ll be riding 90 miles straight up the side of a mountain.

This is actually the reason for the leg shaving. It’s a trademark of competitive cyclists. Watch the Tour de France or any high-level cycling event and you won’t see a leg hair anywhere.

Reasons for this vary. Some say it’s for aerodynamics. Others claim it makes road rash easier to treat after crashes. Another theory is that it facilitates post-ride leg massage.

But let’s face it – if it were an issue of aerodynamics or wound cleaning, wouldn’t they shave their arms as well? And while Pythagoras might wish for daily post-ride leg massage, the odds I’ll be providing this are about the same as the odds he’ll learn to rub my shoulders without copping a feel.

Which leaves you with the real reason cyclists shave their legs – because cyclists shave their legs.

Simple enough.

Cyclists have always shaved their legs, so cyclists continue to shave their legs because that’s what they do. It’s how they pick each other out of a lineup.

I thought about this last week when I attended the monthly meeting of the Mid-Willamette Valley Romance Writers of America and realized I am largely ignorant about the habits of romance writers. I didn’t join the group until after I landed my book deal in February, and I’m still trying to learn the ropes.

Is there a secret handshake? A hairstyle I should adopt? A special way I’m supposed to pat my colleagues on the butt at the end of each meeting?

I’m only half joking here, because I really don’t know. While everything I’ve written over the last eight years has had elements of romance, it wasn’t until this book deal came along that I really thought of myself as a romance author. I’m still not sure what that means, so I mostly feel like the weird kid in the back of the room worrying someone will notice she’s not wearing the right socks.

If you’re a romance author, can you clue me in? Are there any habits I should be aware of or secrets I should know? If you don’t write romance, what are the trademarks of authors in your genre? Can I spot a paranormal author by the antennae sprouting from her forehead or a thriller writer by her muscle shirt and big tattoos? Please share in the comments.

I’ll be waiting with my razor at ready, just in case there’s a rule requiring me to shave my pinkie toes.

Why there’s purple underwear drying on my porch

I died last night.

Wait – I mean I dyed last night.

If you’re female and you’re in possession of boobies, you’re aware that white bras get dingy fast. Even before the elastic is shot and the underwire is stabbing you between the ribs, white bras can take on the hue of a dishrag that’s been tied to the ankle of a mule for three days.

If you’re the sort of person who doesn’t care about such things, I envy you. Really, I do.

Alas, I’ve been neurotic about my undergarments for as long as I’ve been wearing them. Not only must they be pretty and presentable, but bras and underwear must match. Always. You know that moment when you’re changing from one bra to another, and for the briefest moment, you’re wearing red panties and a black bra?

I hate that moment. I hate it more than fingernails on a chalkboard.

My friend Larie believes this is a form of mental illness, and she’s probably right. Nevertheless, I recently reached a point where – despite my most gentle laundering efforts – several beloved white unmentionables had turned an unfortunate shade of pale gray.

This was not acceptable.

I went out and bought a packet of purple dye, rounded up the assortment of grayish underthings, and got to work.

Pythagoras found me on the front porch using a kitchen spoon to stir a bucket of hot purple water.

“Do I want to know what you’re doing?” he asked.

“Probably not,” I admitted, “but I’m hoping you’ll appreciate the end result.”

All this effort to turn something old into something with a little more pizzazz – it’s a bit like what writers do every day.

Though I like to think my romantic comedies are quirky and unique, I’m pretty much just telling the same story every romance author tells – boy meets girl, they encounter some obstacles, they fall in love, and live happily ever after. Having my characters play strip-Battleship on a dysfunctional pirate ship doesn’t change the fact that the story itself has been told before.

I’m OK with that. There’s a lot of pressure on authors these days to come up with something “high concept,” something new and special that’s never been done before. But there really are no new stories. There are just unique ways of telling the old ones. Mastering the ability to do that is a big part of honing your craft as a writer.

Do you do anything special to transform your dingy gray story ideas into sassy purple panties? Or if you aren’t a writer, do you know where I might be able to get help for my hang-up with the matching underwear?

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the purple underthings turned out lovely. There are a few funny spots where the elastic turned a different shade than the rest of the fabric, but the overall effect is quite fetching.

I emerged from the closet this morning to find Pythagoras trying to use X-ray vision to see through my clothes.

“Are you wearing the purple stuff?” he asked.

I gave him a coy smile. “A lady never tells.”

“Right. So are you wearing the purple stuff?”

I am the mistress of discipline & moldy toast

Attempting to be a full-time writer requires a fair amount of discipline, and I don’t mean that in the fun handcuffs-and-blackcurrant-jelly way.

I need routine. This is usually how mine goes:

Wake around 6:15, write a blog post, shower, dress, feed pets, prepare and consume a breakfast consisting of two poached eggs, one piece of toast, and one hashbrown patty. Then I spend some time responding to email and making the rounds to other blogs before opening my manuscript and diving in.

You’ll understand then, why my entire day of writing was jeopardized recently when I woke to find no bread.

I knew I still had half a loaf of pumpernickel. Where was it?

I soon had my answer. The bread was in the garbage can, with several spots of mold revealing the reason Pythagoras had unceremoniously dumped it.

I began to panic.

Without toast, how would I sop up my eggs? And without toast, wouldn’t I be starving right when I hit my stride with the morning writing? Instead of dashing off witty dialogue at 10 a.m., I would be forced to flee to the kitchen and eat pie crust straight from the freezer.

I had no choice.

I carefully pulled the bread from the trash, wiping off a few bits of carrot peel and the nozzle from an empty tube of bike tire glue. I used my fingernail to flick away some of the bigger spots of mold before popping a piece of in the toaster.

When Pythagoras returned from his morning run, he found me in my usual spot on the front porch with a newspaper and a breakfast plate in front of me.

He stared at me a moment. “What are you eating?”

“Same thing I always eat,” I replied.

“Right. Um, where’d you get the bread?”

“Garbage. Hey, did you see this article about the parking fees downtown?”

He stared at me for a few more moments, then shook his head and wandered in the house. “Remind me not to kiss you until you’ve gargled with bleach.”

Personally, I don’t see the big deal. The bread was in a bag, and I did toast it. Generally speaking, I think most Americans are too uptight about expiration dates and food preparation. Pythagoras claims he has a more refined palate while I have the gut of a billy goat, but guess which of us can eat unidentifiable street vendor food in third world countries and never get sick? Hint: it’s not him.

But I digress.

Since the toast incident, I’ve stockpiled my freezer with three loaves of my favorite bread, and I’ll be keeping close tabs on it. This is serious business. My whole day of writing depends on it.

Do you have routines when it comes to your writing? Are you prone to rash behavior if something threatens your routine? Please share in the comments.

I’ll be over here trying to figure out where Pythagoras stashed the blackcurrant jelly. What? It’s for the toast.

How sex, bike rides & writing are the same

A friend of mine suffers from low libido.

(If you’re new to this blog, you’re nodding smugly and saying to yourself, “sure, sure – a friend. Right.” If you already know me, I’m sorry you choked on your coffee just then).

Eager to make her husband understand her feelings, my friend offered him the following analogy:

You know how you feel about going for a bike ride, honey? It always sounds like more effort than it’s worth, and you have to change clothes and get all sweaty and it just sounds a lot easier to sit on the couch instead. Of course, once we actually go for the bike ride, you usually end up enjoying it, and thinking “why don’t we do that more often?"

That’s pretty much how she sees sex.

I laughed for a good week when she told me that, and then asked her to write all my future novels because really, I can’t top that.

I can relate though. Not to the sex part, and not even to the bike ride (though I don’t generally do both at once – the seat is just too small).

There have been several times in recent weeks where I’ve found myself looking at writing that way. I know I like it. I know it’ll feel good once I get going, and even better at the end.

But the thought of trudging into the other room, stripping off my clothes, and exerting all that effort just sounds so cumbersome at times.

It isn’t always like that, and certainly there are moments where I’m hurling myself at the computer in an urgent frenzy, murmuring words of passion as I stroke the keyboard with desperate yearning.

But there are moments I think there’s a fortune to be made in the author’s equivalent of Viagra.

It helps to think of the bike ride (OK, I’d rather think of the sex, but I’m trying to be PC here). I sweet-talk myself into doing it, secure in the knowledge that I’ll have a good time once I get going. I’ve loved it before, I’ve loved it the majority of the time, and if I just push myself past the “I don’t wanna” stage, it won’t be long before I'm saying, “oh yeah, baby!”

Do any of you deal with this? I’m not talking about your sex lives (though I guess you can share that if you want to). I’m talking about writing, or really any task that requires an exercise in self-motivation. What tricks do you use to prompt yourself to get naked and sweaty (metaphorically speaking)?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve piqued my own curiosity. I’ve gotta go see if there’s some way to pull off that naked bike ride thing with a laptop on the handlebars.

What writers put in their mouths(please share!)

I’ve always been teased about eating like a bird. It’s basically true if you figure birds eat constantly and consume half their body weight in a day.

I never eat much in one sitting, which is probably where the teasing comes from. But I’m incapable of sitting down to write without stuffing my face while I type.

Here are my favorite staples:

Ice water, tea, and wine. I drink water all day long, probably gallons of it. In the morning, I also sip hot tea. By evening, it’s a glass of whichever wine accompanied dinner. With that much liquid intake, I'm slowly wearing a trail between my office and the bathroom.

Sen Sens. For those who don’t know what these are, here’s a link. They are an acquired taste, and tough to find – I order big boxes of them online. Friends who don’t share my fondness say they taste like a mix of black licorice and soap. I adore them. My consumption escalates under stress, so Pythagoras knows to steer clear if he comes home to find me with a black tongue.

Fruit and veggies. I know the chocoholics among you (hi, Patty!) will gasp in horror, but given the choice between a chocolate bar and a couple carrot sticks, I’d take the carrots any day. It’s not a health-nut thing, that’s just what I prefer. Dried fruit like mangoes and bananas are tasty without being messy, and a little pile of frozen peas makes for great for nibbling when I’m editing.

Nuts & popcorn: I love raw, unsalted almonds and roasted pumpkin seeds, but my true passion is air-popped popcorn. A friend gave me my air popper as a gift 10 years ago, and it is my second favorite appliance in the house. I make a big bowl of popcorn almost every afternoon around 3:00 and devour it with just a little spritz of butter.

So how about you? How do you fuel your mind and body when you’re writing? Please share in the comments, I’m always looking for new snacks!

Oh, and just a heads-up that tomorrow we’ll be playing another round of What the @#$% is that? Want an early start? The first person to correctly identify the book referenced in my T-shirt below will get two extra entries in tomorrow’s game. If you aren't the first commenter, you can still earn one entry by telling me YOUR favorite book from childhood.

Bon appetit!

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

Yesterday, the FedEx man brought my new iPhone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A souk in Marrakesh

To me, this sounded like an adventure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See? Compromise. It’s a beautiful thing.

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

Assume the position: on writing and yoga poses

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

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

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

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

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

Crow Pose - Bakasana

© Barry Stone

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

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

Not very zenlike.

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

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

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

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

And promptly fell on my head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’ll save that for next time.

To tell or not to tell? Er, what was the question?

Yesterday, I got my hair trimmed.

I went to the same hairdresser who gave me the purple stripe ten weeks ago to commemorate my three-book deal.

She’s trimmed my hair every ten weeks for the last decade, which means we have one of those relationships that falls somewhere between “friend” and “I’m embarrassed to admit I still don’t remember your husband’s name.”

After the preliminary chit-chat about my hair, we settled in for the usual questioning that occurs between two people who see each other five times a year.

“So where can I buy your books now?” she asked, scissors neatly snipping my split-ends.

“Well, you’ll be able to buy them anywhere,” I replied. “Barnes & Noble, or probably most of the indy bookstores in town, but not until August 2011.”

She frowned at me in the mirror. “But you got a book deal, right?”

“Right.”

“And I can’t get the books until this summer?”

“Er, next summer, actually,” I admitted, keeping one eye on the scissors poised dangerously above my left ear. “August 2011. It’s a pretty slow process.”

As she continued to snip, I explained once more how everything in publishing moves at the speed of a slug on Valium.

The thing is, she knows this. She’s watched me struggle for eight years, so she’s aware that the path between “I wrote a book!” and “I have a book deal!” can be a long and treacherous one.

But I don’t blame her a bit for not remembering the details or for not being an expert on publishing. Hell, sometimes I wish I could forget.

And sometimes, I wish I’d never told her I’m a writer. Not until the day I was able to walk in and announce, “I have a book deal, I must have a purple stripe!”

I know I’ve said we’re ALL real authors – everyone who’s ever attempted to craft a book. And while I believe that with every fiber of my being, deciding whether to tell anyone is another matter.

Do you tell your close friends and family? I think so – you’re going to need their support.

But what about the casual acquaintances you see a few times a year? Your mechanic? Your babysitter? Your hairdresser?

I don’t know about you, but I spend a long time in that chair every ten weeks, and discussing how to get cat puke out of carpet can only carry the conversation so far.

Writing is such an all-consuming process that it’s nearly impossible to resist the urge to tell everyone who asks what you’re doing.

But it can feel like a little twist of the knife each time you encounter a well-meaning acquaintance you haven’t seen for months, and you’re forced to rehash your rejections. “Nope, not yet," you’ll say with forced cheer. “I know we had great feedback from that editor last fall, but it just didn’t happen.”

Deciding what to tell and to whom you tell it is a choice each writer must make at some point. As someone who’s been down that road, I can only say that I wish I’d spared myself some awkward cocktail party conversations.

How about you? Who knows you’re a writer? Who doesn’t? Do you exercise caution when details with people who wield sharp objects for a living, or is your hairdresser on a first name basis with your main character?

On crotch patches and dead novels

I made a difficult decision this morning.

It’s one that saddens me deeply.

Bidding farewell to a dear old friend is never easy, but we’d just reached a point where things couldn’t go on like this anymore.

I’m talking about my favorite pair of jeans. Red Engine, the low-rise Firebell style with boot-cut legs and a double-button closure.

It’s not that they don’t fit anymore. On the contrary, they fit like a glove.

Well, a glove with several substantial holes that leave me flashing my underwear at strangers.

Me and my poor, dead jeans.

I’ve had them professionally patched, but there are only so many patches a pair of jeans can handle before there’s not much denim left. Then you’re left waddling like a duck with chaffed inner thighs as you display inappropriate bits of flesh at the guy helping you try on summer sandals.

Feel free to supply your own theory about why it’s the crotch area that keeps blowing out.

As I’m retiring these jeans with the dignity they deserve, it got me thinking about old manuscripts.

Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my hard drive is the first novel I ever wrote. I haven’t looked at it for years, but I can tell you without fear of contradiction that it sucks.

A lot of authors will cannibalize old manuscripts, stripping out characters or scenes to use in other books with a better chance of seeing the light of day. It’s a smart thing to do.

I’ve written eight full manuscripts and six partials in the last eight years, and since my recent contract is for three books, you can do the math and figure I have a number of stories that may never see the light of day.

Some of them have terrific characters and clever bits of dialogue I wouldn’t mind borrowing for current stories.

But I just can’t.

There’s always that tiny voice in my brain saying, “what if?”

What if I become a runaway bestseller and someday look at that story with fresh eyes and the promise of a fat advance check? What if this book could be rehabbed into something new – something fresh and marketable and not suck-worthy?

So I can’t quite give up on those old books – can’t bring myself to strip out the good stuff and leave them for dead.

But I can ditch the jeans. I will retire them in a private ceremony attended only by close friends and family. There will be flowers and somber music, and maybe a team of hired mourners.

I will mention one bright spot in the whole thing. Guess what showed up in the mail yesterday? It’s the shirt I blogged about last week:

Jealous? To get your own, go here.

Bribery & manipulation: the keys to writing success

I am not a very focused writer.

If there’s ever a contest for the world’s most easily distracted author, I will be invited to…hey look – a butterfly.

To counter this, I rely upon the fact that I’m very good at manipulating myself.

(Stop snickering, that’s not what I meant. OK, it was what I meant, but it’s not the point of this blog).

Viewing a novel as one huge block with the ending as the sole light at the end of the tunnel is a surefire way to get discouraged and spend the day shopping for python-pattered clogs on Amazon.

But if I set smaller goals for myself with rewards for achieving them, I find I’m a whole lot more motivated.

Just yesterday, I spotted a site called Romance Yardsale. It was created by authors Bria Quinlan and M.G. Buehrlen to raise funds so they can attend the national convention of Romance Writers of America.

The object of my desire from romanceyardsale

As I skimmed the list of items, my eyes landed on one of the T-shirts.

“Want!” screamed Flaky Writer Tawna.

“You have to work for it,” replied obnoxiously smug Responsible Writer Tawna.

So I decided that if I finished chapter three in LET IT BREATHE by the end of the day, I would reward myself with that shirt.

This may not sound like much, considering I was already in the middle of the third chapter, but the first 50 pages of any novel are always the toughest for me. I’ve been noodling these early scenes for weeks now, and was quickly nearing the point of deleting everything and writing about turtles.

Finishing the first three chapters is a big deal for me, and I deserve to be rewarded for it.

And so I wrote. And edited. And you may be surprised to hear it, didn’t have a single glass of wine until I achieved my goal (which one could argue is counter-productive when writing a book set in the wine industry, but I wanted that shirt, dammit, and nothing was going to distract me).

I placed my order at 9:52 p.m. last night, and now I will spend the next week neurotically clicking “track package” until my shirt arrives.

Or at least I’ll allow myself to do that as a reward for finishing a paragraph or a page or whatever I set as my next little goal.

That’s the key, really – they don’t always have to be big goals or big rewards. Sometimes even tiny things can motivate me.

“I want to floss my teeth!” Flaky Writer Tawna will say in the middle of a bit of dialogue isn’t flowing the way I want it to.

“Finish this scene, and you can have your minty-fresh Glide,” Responsible Writer Tawna will counter.

I can likewise be motivated by snacks, bathroom breaks, and of course, wine.

What are your tricks for motivating yourself as a writer? Do you set big goals or small ones? Do you bribe yourself with rewards?

Please share in the comments trail. I have to go click “track package” now.

Why use a sledgehammer when a Shop-vac will do?

We’re anticipating a weekend visit from my cousin, his wife, their two toddlers, and their teenage Bosnian exchange student.

Though Pythagoras and I are ignorant about children, we had a sneaking suspicion at least one of our guests might be inclined to grab fistfuls of pet fur from under the sofa and eat them.

My money was on my cousin.

No matter, we needed to clean. I spent yesterday changing the sheets in the guest bedrooms and tidying bathrooms. When Pythagoras came home, he surveyed the place.

“The floors should probably be cleaned,” he said.

It was a task I’ve been avoiding for, oh – a year.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. When we built this house 5 years ago, I chose to cover nearly all 2,300 feet of floor surface with a tile the vendor called “African Batu Gray” and I called “dirty concrete.” It looks the same whether it’s coated with three inches of dirt or immaculate enough to eat ice cream off the surface.

I love this tile.

But Pythagoras was right. It probably needed to be cleaned in case our guests – operating under the mistaken assumption that we don’t live like cave dwellers – might attempt to walk barefoot, resulting in a foot fungus not treatable in the western hemisphere.

“Tell you what,” Pythagoras said. “If you corral the pets in the bedroom, I’ll do all the vacuuming and mopping in the rest of the house.”

I stared at my husband for a few beats, wondering whether he’d been drinking, and if so, why he wasn’t sharing.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re going to clean every floor surface with the exception of the bedroom, which is where I’ll be hanging out surfing the Web and napping with the pets?”

Then I saw the unmistakable twinkle in his eye. “Oh,” I said. “You’re going to use the Shop-vac?”

My husband’s affair with the Shop-vac is legendary. If he spills a teaspoon of salt on the kitchen counter, he will retreat to the garage, lug in the hulking black appliance, select the proper hose and nozzle, outfit himself with a pair of earplugs, and fire it up.

“Wouldn’t a dishrag be easier?” I’ll shout over the roar of the machine.

Doesn’t matter, that’s not the point. The Shop-Vac is technically a power tool, and power tools are cool.

Last weekend, I caught him vacuuming the driveway with it. He’s used it to drain my aquarium several times, and once I found him vacuuming cat fur off our sheets.

“We have a washing machine,” I informed him.

Well, I tried to inform him. He couldn’t actually hear me over the roar of the motor.

I really can’t complain. I hate to clean, and if the Shop-Vac gives Pythagoras a reason to enjoy it, I’ll happily stand aside and let him drag it through the house while dragging his knuckles on the floor and occasionally scratching himself.

Though I’m a big believer in the notion, “why use a sledgehammer when a scalpel will do?” I can also respect the need to occasionally pull out the sledgehammer anyway. Whether you’re cleaning a house or editing a manuscript, there’s something infinitely more satisfying about revving the motor and powering through it with a vengeance.

Are there any areas in your life or your writing where you use a Shop-vac when a scalpel will do? You’ll have to write it in the comments. I can’t actually hear you right now, what with all the ringing in my ears.

The lovely Shop-vac, the centerpiece of our living room.

Note to self: write better notes to self

I was in the shower yesterday when an idea hit me like a pair of lard-filled pantyhose dropped from a skyscraper.

Since I wasn’t in the mood to run dripping and naked down the hall for a notepad, I did what most writers in my position would do.

I scrawled it on the glass shower door with a broken piece of soap.

That evening, I saw Pythagoras studying it. “What does ‘gma gw wd bsd msct’ mean?”

The funny thing is, I knew exactly what it meant. By then I had already written a draft of the scene and found the idea to be perfect for what I’d hoped to accomplish.

There are oodles of tools on the market to help writers arrange their thoughts in an orderly fashion. There are special notebooks and software programs and gadgets whose primary function is to make us feel inadequate for not being more organized.

To be honest, I don’t know many writers who are very organized. Most of us, it seems, live our lives surrounded by scraps of paper we’ll spend hours squinting at in hopes of determining whether we’re looking at a brilliant plot twist or a reminder to schedule a pap smear.

I felt better about this recently when I stumbled upon a blog entry by my idol, Jennifer Crusie in which she posted a photo of her office. If the grand dame of romantic comedy can write masterpieces in a workspace like that, there’s hope for the rest of us.

Pictured at right is my trusty palm pilot. Please note my highly complex system for separating shopping lists from general household errands and more complicated plot ideas.

OK, admittedly the color-coding was an accident. It’s less a system of organization and more a matter of which pen I grab when an idea strikes, but it looks nice, doesn’t it?

The thing is, it works for me. My flesh and my work surfaces may be covered with words that look like gibberish, but they all mean something to me. More often than not, the system works.

How about you? Is your workspace a mess? Are you surrounded by a confetti of notes to yourself? Or are you one of those disturbingly organized writers the rest of us secretly want to smack? Please share in the comments.