Lessons in romance writing, courtesy of a 7yo

“Do you want me to draw you a picture, write a poem, or write a story?”

This was the question posed to me by my gentleman friend’s seven-year-old daughter Saturday evening. Her dad and brother were on a quick run to the store, leaving me to glance around frantically at intervals in search of the responsible, supervising adult, only to realize that’s me.

Since we’d all spent our afternoon at an alpaca ranch, I had her draw an alpaca, followed by writing a poem about an alpaca. Then I suggested she write a story.

“What should I write a story about?” she asked.

I considered suggesting an alpaca, but decided we’d already beaten that theme to death. “I write stories for a living,” I told her. “You’d think I could come up with a good subject, but I’m drawing a blank.”

I half expected her to grab her pen and request instructions for drawing a blank, but she’s smarter than the average bear.

“What kind of stories do you write?” she asked.

I hesitated, deciding it was best to keep things simple instead of explaining the concept of romantic comedy and the fact that the last scene I wrote involved a passionate encounter with the characters covered in pureed beet.

“Well, I write romance novels,” I told her. “They’re pretty much like love stories.”

“Love stories,” she repeated, testing out the phrase.

“Sure,” I said. “Usually about a boy and a girl who love each other.”

I opted not to confuse the issue by explaining the current popularity of male/male romance or BDSM erotica—a responsibly adult decision, if I do say so myself.

“I’m going to write a love story,” she announced, and bent to the task with pen in hand. She wrote an introductory line, then looked up. “How did you and daddy meet?”

I weighed my words carefully, not sure how much to share. She’s heard snippets of the tale before, and we included both kids in the celebration two weeks ago when my gentleman friend and I commemorated the two-year anniversary of our first date.

But the details are a bit more complex. I imagined myself launching into the story. Well you see, you were a newborn when your parents moved here, and your dad got a job in the education department of a medical center where I served on the marketing team. But we really didn’t know each other at all—maybe just enough to say hello in the hallway—and we would have lost touch completely after we both moved on to other jobs. But your dad ended up working in an office where he became best friends with one of my close girlfriends, which is how I heard about your parents’ divorce and your dad’s eventual rebound to become the strong, confident, sexy guy he evolved into over the following few years. That’s why I called him for advice and moral support when I went through my own divorce several years later. Well, that, and the fact that I thought your daddy was hot, and I kinda wanted to make out with him.

I didn’t say any of that, of course.

“We both worked at the hospital,” I told her, aiming for simplicity. “A long, long, time ago.”

That was enough for her. She asked for help spelling a few words, including her father’s first name (which she recently discovered is not daddy).

At last, she presented me with the story:

It was lovely and simple and sweet, and a very good reminder to me of my own habit of over-thinking plot-lines for my romantic comedies. I’m not a plotter by nature, but recently had to craft a detailed synopsis for the editor handling a new book deal I haven’t formally announced yet.

When the editor presented me with constructive feedback on the synopsis, I laughed when I got to this line.

Tawna might be over-thinking this just a wee bit.

It’s a phrase I’ve considered having tattooed on my arm more than once, and a good reminder to me that sometimes less is more, particularly when it comes to love stories.

Luckily, the notes came at a point where it was easy for me to course-correct and head in a more simplified direction with the story. I’m now about two-thirds of the way through, and feeling good about things.

When my gentleman friend returned from the store, the seven-year-old presented him with the story, complete with a hand-drawn cover. “Do you like it?” she asked him.

He smiled at her, then at me. “Very much.”

Are you a fan of the KISS principle (Keep It Simple, Stupid) or do you struggle like I do with the habit of over-thinking things? Please share!

I’m going to go read that story again. There might be a line or two to help me out with this next scene.

The domineering male with spinach and dish soap

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

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

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

At least we hope so.

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

The irony?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Out!" he ordered. "Now!"

"But I need tea."

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

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

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

"You love it."

Very true.

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

Deservedly so.

On serendipity and drunken, barefoot dancing

Two of my best pals celebrated their third wedding anniversary yesterday.

I remember their wedding vividly, which is surprising since I spent much of the blessed event attempting to drink my own body weight in chardonnay.

It's staggering to look back on that day and consider how different my life was then. I was married and figured I'd stay that way forever. I'd never met the boys who would eventually be my housemates. I didn't have a book deal, and if memory serves, had just been rejected by Sourcebooks for Making Waves (the book they eventually acquired as part of my three-book deal for romantic comedies).

But what's most interesting to me now is to realize my gentleman friend was also at the wedding. We were seated at the same reception table, and had a brief conversation about the divorce he'd been going through that year. I remember feeling sympathetic, but smug in the knowledge that would never happen to me.

It's funny to look back now and realize the significance of that seemingly-insignificant conversation with a guy I barely knew. I'm fascinated by these random, frozen moments in time when I imagine some lingerie-clad fairy godmother swooping in to interrupt the discussion. "Pardon me," she'd say. "Three years from now the two of you will live together and will be hopelessly, deliriously in love with one another."

I'm certain I would have smacked her with a fly-swatter and snorted, "Bitch, get real."

As a romance author, I'm particularly drawn to these odd little moments of serendipity.

Flipping through my pal's wedding photos last summer, I stumbled upon a picture that seemed like nothing significant at first:

That's me in the blue and white dress dancing very, very badly.

But take a closer look at the picture:

That's my gentleman friend, long before he was anything but a random acquaintance taking photographs of drunken dancers at a wedding.

The pictures he took that night floated around on Facebook for awhile afterward, with none of us thinking twice about there being anything remotely significant about the moment captured on camera:

One of the photos my gentleman friend snapped that evening.

It's funny to look at the photos now and think about who I was in those moments – who he was – and how truly bizarre it is that we've ended up where we are right now. I can sit back pretending to be an outside observer and wonder, "how did those two people end up together?"

That question is at the core of every single romance novel I've read or written. It's one of the most intriguing questions I can imagine, and one of the reasons I love writing the sort of stories I get to write.

Can you think of any serendipitous moments in your life? Any conversations or images frozen in your mind that turned out to be more meaningful than you realized at the time? Please share!

And please take a moment to offer a heartfelt HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to my wonderful pals. Now where's the rest of that chardonnay?

A kiss is just a kiss. Or is it?

So there I was, typing away at the day job, when a handsome stranger dashed through the door and swept me up in a passionate embrace.

OK, it didn't happen quite like that.

In reality, a local tour operator who was pleased with my write-up of his business stopped by with a thank you note and a bottle of wine. He's a charismatic older gentleman known for his chivalrous flair, so I was charmed when he grasped my hand and planted a chaste kiss across my knuckles.

I should state for the record that I don't generally encourage people to place their lips upon me in a professional setting. This was one of those rare instances where the circumstances, participants, and silliness of the situation made a kiss . . . well, not really a kiss.

As a romance writer, I'm fascinated by the subtle nuances surrounding the smooch. Years ago, I wrote a scene in which a potential love interest kissed the heroine on the forehead. A critique partner suggested the gesture seemed patronizing.

It was something that hadn't occurred to me until then.

In reality, I'd meant for the kiss to serve as a sweet, "stay safe, honey" gesture. But my critique partner was absolutely right that the tone I'd set for their relationship up to that point gave the kiss a more condescending vibe than I'd intended.

I've written forehead and cheek kisses in plenty of other stories, and I'm always mindful of the context. A slow, breathy brush of the lips across a flushed cheekbone is a very different thing than a sloppy cheek smooch from a guy who calls you "babe" and follows it up with a punch in the arm.

I toyed with the kissing context conundrum a bit in Making Waves (which, incidentally, is part of  Kindle Big Deals 99-cent sale through June 24, so snag it cheap for you or a friend if you haven't already!)

In the scene where Alex and Juli first meet, they decide to pose as a married couple and fake their way into a beach-bar Newlywed Game with the hope of winning $1,000. Juli devises a system in which their first answer must begin with the letter "A" or involve the number "1," while the second question would require a response centered around "B" or "2."

That leaves them stuck with the letter "C" on the third question when Alex is forced to guess Juli's favorite place to be kissed. He rules out several wildly-inappropriate body parts starting with "C" before finally settling on "collarbone" – a guess that turns out to be true.

I'm with Juli on this one. There is something wildly sexy about a trail of soft, breathy kisses planted in that tantalizing zone below the throat and above the cleavage.

But I also realize it wouldn't make most people's lists of the top three places to be kissed. So much of it is based on context – who's doing the kissing, and how does the person approach the task at hand?


If the chemistry strong enough between two characters, there aren't many body parts that wouldn't be sexy to kiss.

What are your thoughts on the subject? Are some kiss-zones naturally sexier than others, or is it all about context? Do you have any pet peeves when it comes to kissing in novels? Please share!

I'm going to summon my gentleman friend to test my kiss theory. It's time he became intimately acquainted with my armpit.

On kissing and the hardest parts

Normally, I like to choose blog contest winners at random. The process usually involves a bewildered housemate or pet, and contains an element of surprise for everyone (particularly if the aforementioned housemate or pet ingests one of the little slips of paper on which I've written contestants' names, and we must wait for it to pass through the digestive tract to determine a winner).

I decided to do things a little differently for this week's contest. Readers were asked to share things that make them feel "fluttery" for a chance to win a signed copy of my soon-to-be-released romantic comedy, Believe it or Not.

I was so touched by Julie Glover's entry, that I'm going to just award the prize to her. Here's what she wrote:

Julie Glover wrote...

I'm not at my fluttierest at the moment, having been diagnosed with mononucleosis (the "kissing disease" which means I can't kiss for a while! Ugh). But here's the list from the sick patient's perspective:
* My adolescent son comes in every day to ask if I'm feeling better and gives me a hug. Flutter.
* My sister sent me a box of chicken soup mixes purchased from Soups Online. Flutter.
* My husband does double duty as hard worker by day and Superdad by night, then crawls into bed to be my much-needed body heater. Double flutter.
* I love my current WIP. When I give others the elevator pitch, it piques interest. Yeah, me. Will flutter when published and opening my own boatload box of books.

Thanks for sharing yours, Tawna. Congrats on the book. Looking forward to reading it!

Besides the fact that her list was touchingly sweet and I feel bad for anyone who's sick, I'm most sympathetic to the fact that she can't kiss for awhile.  

CAN'T KISS FOR AWHILE!

The thought of that makes me cry a little.

You could walk into my house and remove every bottle of wine from my wine rack and every book from my bookshelves and every sex toy from the basket under the bed before rounding up all my pets and taking them to live at a boarding kennel for the week and it STILL wouldn't equal the horror of not being able to to kiss.

Admittedly, I've gotten spoiled by the pleasure of routinely kissing someone who's ridiculously, toe-curlingly good at it, but still. Kissing is one of life's greatest pleasures, hands down. Or hands up, depending on your preference.

The funny thing is that I struggle a bit when I write kissing scenes. Believe it or Not contains a love scene that spans nearly 20 pages if you count foreplay and smooching (and why wouldn't you count those? They're the best parts!) I love to write scenes that involve breathless groping, frantic tearing of clothing, and all the climactic moments that come next (pun intended, of course).

But if you've read my love scenes, you know that while they're very detailed, I avoid being explicit. You'll never catch me using flowery terms for genitalia or clinical words for bodily functions. Though I go to great lengths to give an elaborate blow-by-blow (snicker), I prefer to leave specifics to the reader's imagination.

Frankly, I think it's hotter that way.

There's something different about writing kissing scenes though. I always struggle with the balance between details (What's he doing with his tongue? How is she tilting her head? Where are his hands?) and the feelings tied to the action. I'm not sure why it's easier for me to find that balance once clothes start flying off. Perhaps it's the line between sweetness and passion, or maybe it's just that kissing can be a lot more intimate than actual penetration when it comes right down to it (snicker).

What do you look for in kissing scenes, whether reading or writing them? Do you have a preference in the level of detail provided? And most importantly, do you share my firm belief that it would be preferable to remove all the skin from your thigh with a carrot peeler and rub the wound with sea salt than go more than a few days without kissing? Please share!

And congratulations to Julie Glover! Send your snail mail address to me at tawnafenske at yahoo dot com, and I'll hook you up with a signed copy of Believe it or Not to read on your sickbed.

Thanks to everyone who played the fluttery game!

Why you shouldn't date a romance author

This time of year, I find myself making awkward conversation at a lot of events and dinner parties. Some are required for my career in marketing/PR, and some are the result of people knowing they can lure me to any public outing with the promise of free wine and a shrimp puff.

It’s only possible to discuss shrimp puffs with strangers for so long before conversations shift to the inevitable: “What do you do?”

Note: your response to this question should contain some element of career information and not details of what you ordered at your last Pure Romance party and how you put it to use.

If I’m looking to escape the conversation, I throw out a line about managing communications for my city’s tourism bureau. But if I know I’m going to be there awhile, I’ll mention my gig as a romance author.

That’s where the questions begin.

Some are industry related: Is it hard to get published? How did you get an agent? How many books have you written? Where can I find them?

Some make me giggle: How do you research your love scenes? Do you let your parents read them? Do you ever plan to write a REAL book?

Lately – perhaps because I’ve been dragging him to speaking engagements and dinner functions – a number have been directed at my gentleman friend: What’s it like to date a romance author? Do you worry you’ll end up in one of her scenes? Can she really put her ankles behind her head?

He takes it all in stride, which I appreciate. A mutual friend once described him as, “the least self-conscious person I’ve ever met,” which should probably be a requirement for anyone dating an author with a fondness for genital euphemisms.

Still, I feel like I’m walking a funny line. I invite the prying questions with the very nature of what I write and how I’ve chosen to put myself in the public arena. But when he accepted my dinner invitation eight months ago, I doubt he pictured himself in front of an audience of 65 library fundraisers responding to the question, “how does she get inspiration for her love scenes?”

(For the record, he handled it brilliantly, and didn’t bat an eyelash when they thrust the mike in his face. Also for the record, he’d find the phrase “thrust the mike in his face” as funny as I just did.)

How conscious do you have to be of the way your chosen occupation impacts the people around you? Does your job ever make for awkward dinner party conversations? Please share!

Oh, and to answer the aforementioned questions in random order, yes, no, all over the place, I’m not sure, yes, hard work, carefully, no, yes, interesting.

The not-hot boys who make me want to get naked

I was drinking wine with a girlfriend the other night when a Tom Petty song started playing.

"Ohmygod," she panted, setting her wine down so hard it sloshed on the table. "I love him."

"It's a good song," I agreed tepidly.

"No, I mean I really love him. The song, the voice, the man – I really want to throw my panties when I hear Tom Petty."

Since I was in her line of fire, I scooted back a little. Then I considered her words more carefully.

Oh, Lyle...

"I feel the same way about Lyle Lovett," I confessed.

"Yeah?"

"I hear him sing The Ballad of the Snow Leopard and the Tanquery Cowboy and I feel warm and tingly in my swimsuit areas."

She stared at me. "That's the weirdest sentence I've ever heard anyone utter."

It's true though. I can admit Lyle Lovett isn't conventionally attractive, and neither is Tom Petty. Yet both men spark the same reaction in two reasonably sane women. I've had similar conversations with other pals who feel urgently smitten with people who fall pretty far outside the stereotype of traditional human beauty. One friend is madly in love with actor Steve Buscemi, while another swoons over Ernest Hemmingway and a third desperately wishes to get naked with singer Bruce Cockburn (it's pronounced "co-burn," perverts).

It's an interesting phenomenon, but my Tom Petty loving friend had a quick explanation. "They're the boys who speak to your soul."

That made sense to me even after the wine wore off. There's this intangible, magical chemistry that draws one person to another, and it often defies easy explanation. I've read sloppily written romance novels where the author tries to convince the the reader two people are meant to be together simply because they find each other attractive and feel the urge to ride the baloney pony together.

Certainly that's part of creating a compelling romance, but it's not all there is to it. Capturing the inexplicable, magnetic thing that pulls one person toward another is a whole lot tougher for an author to do. It's not easy to show one person speaking to the soul of another, but it's something I strive for in any love story I write.

Do you have any inexplicable crushes on a famous person who doesn't fit the traditional mold of attractiveness? Can you name examples in books or movies of great outside-the-box chemistry? Please share!

I need a moment or two alone with Lyle.

What authors do in bed

You’ll be pleased to know I didn’t flub my keynote speech at the Lake County Library’s 30^th annual Endowment Dinner. I even got a few laughs, some of them for things I actually intended to be funny.

The real treat of the weekend was my stay at Summer Lake Hot Springs. The library folks were kind enough to set us up in a wonderful little cabin just a few hundred feet from the warm rock pools I’ve been dying to soak in for years.

The cabin itself was cozy and charming and very, very rustic. The first thing I did when I walked in after a long road trip was look for a place to wash my hands.

The ancient taps groaned and coughed up a few tablespoons of mineral-saturated water. I wandered back out to the kitchen and picked up an antique looking tea kettle, pausing to consider whether I was supposed to use it or just admire the decoration.

My gentleman friend walked in and dropped our bags on the bed. The springs squealed in protest and the entire bed shifted twelve inches to the right.

I stared in horror for a minute. “Did we break the bed?”

He surveyed it. “Not yet.”

“I can already hear them buzzing at the library fundraiser,” I muttered. “‘We brought in a romance author, and wouldn’t you know it, she broke the bed.’”

“Aren’t you speaking on stereotypes about romance authors and the romance genre?” he pointed out.

“Exactly!” I shrieked, feeling a little panicky. “And you know if they’d brought in a sci-fi author, he wouldn’t have broken the bed.”

“No, he’d just make it into a fort.”

I considered that for a moment. “What would a historical author do?”

“Take down the curtains and use them to make a canopy for the bed,” he said without hesitating.

“Crime fiction?”

“Corpse under the bed.”

“Young adult author?”

“Replace the comforter with a Justin Bieber bedspread and put a telephone shaped like lips on the nightstand.”

I stared at him for a minute. “You’re good.” I looked back at our suitcases weighing down the end of the mattress. “At least that’s what I’ll have to tell them at the library if they ask why we broke the bed.”

Got anything to add about what authors from different genres might do to the bed? Please share!

And for the record, the bed was perfectly fine when we checked out. I swear.

Does the shoe fit you now?

I love to get a jump on things, and not just in the filthy sense of the phrase.

Though snow won’t fly for at least a month in Central Oregon, I spent yesterday driving to the middle of nowhere for a good deal on a set of snow tires. It was a three-hour round trip through cattle country, with directions that included phrases like, “head west past Beaver Street, turn right on Cum Flat, and go 13 miles until the pavement ends.”

(I swear I that’s what I heard – I even asked the woman to repeat “Cum Flat” three times before I gave up and wrote it down. Turns out “Combs Flat” sounds different with a western twang).

There’s something about that sort of road trip that puts me in the mood to listen to country music. It’s not my normal fare, but since I went to college in Montana, I was required by law to listen to it and even have a few songs on my iPod.

The stories appeal to my author sensibilities. If you can listen to Rascal Flats sing Ellsworth and not sob like a baby over Grandma’s descent into dementia and unwavering love for Grandpa, you are dead inside.

I rolled down my windows and sang at the top of my lungs with Pam Tillis and Trisha Yearwood, and I swear only two or three cows covered their ears with their hooves. But when Suzy Boggus started singing Cinderella, I shut up and listened to the lyrics.

It starts with one girlfriend reminiscing about the other’s fairy tale wedding, then cycles through the realities of their happily ever after – kids, jobs, disillusionment, aging, lost dreams – all the fun stuff country music is made of.

It was the chorus that really caught my ear:

Hey, Cinderella, what's the story all about?
I’ve got a funny feeling we missed a page or two somehow
Oh, Cinderella, maybe you could help us out
Does the shoe fit you now?

There’s something ironic about a romance author divorcing the year her debut novel hits shelves. I’m doing ridiculously great now, so you can skip the butt pats (though you’re welcome to give me a flirty little pinch if the urge strikes). I can say with 110% certainty that things happen for a reason, and I’m in a damn good place now.

Still, my happily ever after doesn’t look much like I imagined, nor does it look much like the ones I write. Or does it?

I doubt I’m giving away any shocking spoilers by telling you that Alex and Juli sail off into the sunset together at the end of Making Waves. But then what?

As a romance author, I’m forced to end the story there, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining what might happen next. Maybe Alex waits five years into their marriage before confessing he’d like Juli to spank him with Cookie’s pancake turner on a nightly basis.

Maybe Juli’s OK with that.

Or maybe Juli gets drunk one night with Malcom the literary pirate and neither of them can remember later how she ended up with paper cuts on her thighs.

Given what I know about real-life happily ever afters, those things could happen. Does it make the ending of the novel any less poignant? Does it taint the tenderness of the happily ever after to know it might not look exactly the way you picture it when you’re surrounded by candlelight and the heady scent of squished roses?

I don’t think so, but I’d like to hear your thoughts. Do you ever consider what comes after the happily ever after in love stories? Why or why not? Please share!

Oh, and just so I’m not the only one with that song stuck in my head all day, here you go:

3 tips to set the mood for romance

You know how sometimes, you just aren’t in the mood for romance?

Yeah, me neither.

But I’ll admit there have been moments I’m not in the right zone to write love scenes. Since that’s a big part of what I do as a romance author – and since deadlines often force me to get in the mood RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT! – it can be a challenge to produce the desired results under less-than-ideal circumstances.

So what’s a struggling romance author to do?

Provoke your senses

We read it all the time in women’s magazines – the key to stimulating the libido is stimulating the senses. It’s not much different when it comes to prepping for love scenes. Is there a fragrance that tends to put you in the right mindset? I keep an array of candles in my office and try to pick the scent that’s likely to get me in the right mode for a certain scene. Ditto that for scented lotions and perfumes. Music? Check. I make iTunes playlists that tend to trigger certain moods.

Even what I’m wearing can have an impact on my writerly mojo. I’ll be the first to admit I’ve found myself churning out ho-hum dialogue and looked down to realize I’m dressed like a colorblind, homeless yoga instructor. That’s usually enough to send me marching upstairs to don something with a little more sex appeal. That doesn’t mean I sit here writing in stilettos and a sequined bustier, but if you’d wandered into my office yesterday afternoon, you would have found me in a short skirt and cute top. Hey, whatever works.

Learn your triggers

A lot of people believe romance authors work in a perpetual state of sexual arousal. OK, sometimes that’s true. But I’ve discovered there’s not necessarily a direct correlation between my mood and the tone of the scene. Many of my sexiest love scenes have been written when I’m in a more melancholy frame of mind. If there’s a thunderstorm outside, even better.

While I don’t necessarily need to be in a flirty mood to produce a playful love scene, I’ve learned never to attempt one when I’m angry. There’s something decidedly unsexy about two naked people bitching at each other as a form of foreplay.

Find a fluffer

Raise your hand if you know the term “fluffer.” For those of you less familiar with the pornographic arts, a fluffer is a hired member of an adult film crew whose job it is to sexually arouse the male performers prior to filming.

I’ll pause for a moment so you can go scrub your brain with sandpaper (or for those of you intrigued by the idea, so you can go google the phrase “fluffer job opportunities.”)

In all seriousness, there’s a lot to be said for this concept. Is there a scene in your favorite book or movie that leaves you feeling warm and tingly? Take advantage of that when you need it. Is there a person in your life who produces the same result with flirty words or a smoldering look? Put yourself in that person’s proximity when the need arises. Find a source you know consistently leaves you squirming, and keep that source handy for when you need to flip the switch.

With a little imagination, you can extend most of these tips to apply to just about any sort of scene you might need to write. Bottom line, it’s worth knowing what sort of mood you need to have to create the tone you’re aiming for. Once you’ve nailed that down, figure out what it takes to get yourself there.

How do you set the mood for specific types of writing? Please share!

And please let me know what you learn about those fluffer job openings. Hypothetically, of course.

Another thing I didn't get right on the first try

On Friday I got a handful of Advance Reading Copies (ARCs) for Making Waves.

Once I stopped dancing around squealing and kissing the cover, I realized I had a job to do. I needed to sign my first copy.

This is for the blog contest we held in March where readers helped pick a title. My editor, Deb Werksman, selected blog reader Allie Sanders to receive a signed ARC of the book. Though we never actually specified who’d be doing the signing, I suspected it was me.

I sat down at my desk and stared at the book long and hard.

Once I finished giggling over “long and hard,” I went to my bookshelf and inspected the signed ones lurking there. I had no idea where I was supposed to sign my own book, but a quick survey of my collection suggested the title page was a good place to start.

A smart author would have taken a moment to practice what she wanted to write and assess the allotted space.

I spent ten minutes hunting for my penis pen.

Then I summoned one of my twenty-something male housemates.

“Can I get you to take a picture of something for me?” I asked.

He looked uncertain, but took the camera like a trooper. “What’s that on your pen?”

“Exactly what you think it is.” I held it up for him to inspect.

“Do all romance authors get those?”

“Yes. They hand them out in romance author school, along with our feather boas and slutty stilettos.”

We both looked down at my feet. I was wearing leopard-print Dansko clogs.

“The slutty stilettos are at the drycleaners,” I assured him.

“OK.”

I sat down at my desk and picked up the pen. “I just need a photo of me signing my first book. It seems like one of those milestone moments I should capture.”

“Do you want to move that big pile of papers or the dental floss or that silver thing that looks like you bought it at that special party you just hosted?”

“It’s a neck massager.”

“Sure.”

So I moved the neck massager and the rest of the clutter and my housemate picked up the camera again.

I grabbed my pen and hesitated. “I’m not sure what to write.”

“Aren’t you a writer?”

“That’s pretty much how it works.”

In the end, I got the book signed and got a few pictures in the process. None of it is perfect. My writing is a little cramped and squiggly, and the photo makes me look inebriated.

But hey, it’s a starting point. There’s always room for improvement, which is pretty much like writing itself.

"Getting hitched" sounds dirty if you say it right

Last week, a friend informed me she needed to get up at 4 a.m. for a wedding.

“What the hell kind of wedding happens at 4 a.m.?” I demanded. “Tell me you at least get to wear pajamas.”

“I’m wearing a tiara,” she said. “It’s a party for the royal wedding. William and Kate?”

I frowned. “Is that the couple that got drunk at your Memorial Day party and tried to light farts over the barbecue?”

She stared at me like I had lizards coming out of my eye sockets – which, come to think of it, would be pretty cool.

Apparently, I was the only person on the planet unaware that Prince William was marrying Kate Middleton in the British royal wedding. Over the course of the next few days, my friend attempted to educate me about this momentous occasion. As the date drew closer, speculation grew.

Would Kate wear a tiara or a veil? What would the dress look like?

Much to my disgust, I found myself actually caring.

What is it that makes people so nutty about weddings? By “people,” I suppose I mean “women,” though I do know a guy – a perfectly straight guy – who was researching recipes for scones and clotted cream to serve last Friday morning.

I’ll admit it, I wanted one. Not badly enough to get up at 4 a.m., but close.

Still, it wasn't the scones giving everyone wedding fever last week. It was the pomp and circumstance, the hopefulness of it all, the promise of happily ever after. Who wouldn’t feel at least a little warm and tingly about that?

It wasn’t very long ago that a marriage proposal was a requirement by the end of most romance novels. Certainly the first one I wrote 8+ years ago had a betrothal, along with a lot of other abysmal clichés I’d prefer to forget.

Now that I’ve got three books scheduled for publication, there’s nothing in my contract requiring anyone to get down on one knee by the end of the story (OK, who wants to take the dirty joke on that one – Matthew? Sarah W? Malin? Linda G?)

Even so, two of my three upcoming romantic comedies include a proposal by the end. Interestingly enough, I didn’t have a clue with any of those three books whether there would or wouldn’t be an impending marriage. I was as surprised as the heroine when the hero popped the question.

Even when there’s no official proposal, it’s often implied in romance novels. Most readers assume the heroine doesn’t high-five the hero at the conclusion and say, “it’s been great knowing you, but I think I’d prefer something powered by AA batteries.”

What? It was for The Debutante
Ball. I needed it.

OK, show of hands – who watched the royal wedding? Who will admit to smiling a little at the sight of the dress? For those who read romance novels, do you have a preference whether the book does or doesn’t end in a proposal? Please share!

I have a phone call to make. I just remembered I need to get my damn tiara back. I want to wear it tomorrow night while I sit on the sofa in my pajamas drinking wine and reading smut.

Getting lucky, doggie style

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes you've gotta strip for copy editors

I just hit another big milestone in the countdown to release day for MAKING WAVES. I got my copy edits from the production team at Sourcebooks.

For those unfamiliar with the process, copy edits happen after you’ve already gone a round or two on the big-picture stuff with your primary editor. Though I’ve heard of copy editors slashing paragraphs and changing words with ruthless abandon, that wasn’t the case here. It was mostly stylistic stuff, changing “OK” to “okay” and switching “8” to “eight.”

But there was one comment that made me giggle.

You’ve heard me mention the Strip Battleship scene in MAKING WAVES, right? It’s precisely what it sounds like, with a lot of rapid-fire dialogue as the characters fling clothing, ogle one another, and shout letters and numbers to guess the position of each other's boats.

In the middle of the scene, the copy editor wrote this:
I thought about writing a smartass comment back about how there is an easy way to check by grabbing a Battleship game board and playing a round.

But fortunately for the copy editor, I already took care of it.

Pythagoras and I invented Strip Battleship eight or nine years ago it a quiet hotel room in Jamaica. We didn’t actually own the game ourselves, so when I decided to write the scene for MAKING WAVES several years later, I went out and bought one.

“Are we playing for real?” Pythagoras asked when I dropped it on the bed in front of him.

“I have to make sure the scene is accurate, don’t I?”

He eyed the pad of paper in my hand. “You’re taking notes?”

“You should be grateful I’m not taking pictures.”

That didn’t appease him much, but he got to work setting his ships up anyway.

“B9,” I called.

“Miss. C6.”

“Miss. E2.”

“Hit.” He frowned. “Did you cheat?”

“I have to. It says so in the book. Now give me your shirt.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Wait a minute. You’ve already written the scene?”

“Of course,” I said, offering him my sweetest smile. “I just need to get the numbers down.”

“So you already know you’re going to win?”

I shrugged, not seeing any problem with this. “You want to just take off all your clothes now?”

He wasn’t a fan of that idea, nor was he a very big fan of his predestined defeat. “So there’s no chance at all I’m going to win?”

“Define win. It’s kind of subjective in Strip Battleship, isn’t it?”

In the end, I got my notes. I also got his shirt. And his shoes. And his…well, I’ll stop there. You’ll have to read the book.

Suffice it to say, I can assure the copy editor with 110% certainty the scene is accurate.

Happily ever after…or something like that

I am not big fan of television. There’s a TV in my home, but the closest I can come to operating it is staring at the remote like a monkey doing algebra.

Despite this, I must confess that I watch The Bachelor.

Not only that, I’ve watched The Bachelorette.

It started innocently enough a couple years ago. A girlfriend invited me over to share a bottle of wine while her husband was scratching himself in a bar watching Monday Night Football. Soon I was hanging out on her sofa every Monday evening.

While we sucked down Chianti, we got sucked into a show that – let's be honest – kind of sucks.

Or does it?

In case you’ve never watched, the format is simple: one eligible bachelor or bachelorette is presented with a pool of 25-30 potential marriage candidates. One by one, the suitors are eliminated after a series of dates and challenges. In the end, the bachelor or bachelorette chooses a mate and the happy couple enjoys wedded bliss for all of eternity.

Theoretically, anyway.

Out of 14 seasons of The Bachelor and six of The Bachelorette, there’s only been one actual marriage between the final couple. Not great odds.

And yet…we want to believe it can work.

Or maybe we just want to play drinking games that involve taking a slug of Sangiovese each time someone utters the phrase soulmates, falling for you, or amazing connection.

I’m hesitant to draw a parallel between cheesy reality TV and the romance genre, but I can’t pretend there isn’t one. We’ve all heard statistics about how 40-50% of all marriages end in divorce. We know relationships are messy and difficult and likely to involve as much time spent picking up your spouse’s socks as making love in a field of daffodils while sparrows sing “Endless Love.”

Still, we want to believe the fairy tale. In the happily ever after. In the idea that two people can meet and fall in love and sustain their passion even after ABC halts the flow of all-expense-paid dates.

Or maybe we just appreciate the entertainment value of watching people make asses of themselves in the name of love. There's no shame in that.

Do you have any guilty pleasures when it comes to love, lust, and cheesy entertainment? What keeps you tuning in or turning pages? Please share.

I’ll be over here filling out my application to be the next Bachelorette. They take married chicks, right?

This one's for the boys

I’ve noticed something a bit unexpected in the ten months I’ve been blogging.

Some of you do not have girl parts.

Not that I’m inspecting my blog readers’ genitalia, but I can’t help but conclude from the regular appearance of masculine names in the comment trail that there are male readers showing up on a pretty regular basis.

Geoffrey Cubbage, Matthew Rush, Patrick Alan, Matthew AT Banning, Mark Simpson, Douglas Morrison, Nate Wilson, Dr. Goose, Shain Brown, Ricky Bush, Simon Larter, Jason Fleming...probably a few more I’m forgetting, and maybe some who never comment.

I’m fascinated by this.

I make no secret of the fact that I write romance, and in case anyone stumbled over here mistaking it for a discussion on power tools, the blog is pink.

I think that’s one reason I’m so impressed with the guys who keep showing up – you’re obviously secure in your masculinity. Maybe you like the risqué humor or the occasional dose of writing-related advice, or maybe you routinely get drunk and google “pet me” at two in the morning.

I doubt it will shock anyone to know I started this blog with the intention of building a platform and selling books. Not that I’ll fume next August if readers of any gender fail to produce a receipt showing you’ve purchased MAKING WAVES, but I’m hopeful a few of you will end up buying my debut novel.

And this is where I find myself wondering about the boys. Romance isn’t a genre that draws tons of male readers.

And yet genre-straddling authors like Janet Evanovich – whose books are a fabulous meld of mystery and romance, and whose writing I’ve been flattered to have mine compared to – have a rather large male readership.

But Evanovich gets shelved under mystery, while my books will be over on the romance aisle where men don’t tend to venture unless they’re sneaking peeks at heaving bosoms on the covers.

I know I’m stereotyping a lot here, and if some of my male blog visitors happen to be established fans of the romance genre, I applaud you.

But I suspect that’s not the case for most of you, and if you do end up buying my book, it might be your introduction to the genre.

This made me nervous yesterday as I did a final read-through on my revisions for MAKING WAVES.

One of the things my editor requested was a bit more “heat” (a great hardship for me…ha! I said hardship.) MAKING WAVES is written in third person, and like many romances, alternates between the male and female point of view. There’s a particularly steamy shower scene that got steamier with revisions, and it happens to be written from the male point of view.

Concerned about male readers, I printed it out last night and shoved it in front of Pythagoras at dinner.

“Can you read this and make sure it sounds OK from a male perspective?”

He looked up from his spaghetti. “Do I have any other perspective?”

But he read diligently, purple pen in hand, not fazed at all by some of the more acrobatic maneuvers executed by the story’s hero.

In the end, his only concern was whether the hero was injured when he bumped into the showerhead.

“He’s fine,” I assured my spouse.

“I’m glad. He should get to enjoy the afterglow without needing stitches.”

So, potential male readers, you can rest assured the scene has approval from one of your own.

If you happen to be a guy, I’m curious what brings you here and whether you’ve read romantic comedy before.

And for the rest of you – authors of either gender, really – how much thought do you give to your readers’ genitals? Er, you know what I mean. Do you have a target demographic in mind, and if so, how do you think the opposite gender might read differently? Please share.

And then let’s gather together for one big gender-neutral group hug. No fair copping a feel, OK?

Getting glammed up for my romance career

I had a crappy morning last Sunday. Nothing soul-crushing or anything like that. Just one of those PMS-induced crying jags that left me looking like a severely beaten crack addict.

Always an excellent time to go out in public.

I wanted to cheer myself with some fancy moisturizer, so I wandered by the Clinique counter at Macy’s. The friendly clerk pounced at once.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering why someone who works at a cosmetic counter has to wear a lab coat. “Is this your only face cream with SPF in it?”

She cheerfully answered my questions while studying my puffy eyes and blotchy skin and probably wondering when I last washed my hair (something I’d admittedly been wondering myself).

“Tell me,” she said. “Have you ever tried wearing foundation?”

The implication was subtle, but it was there – darling, you look like hell.

At this point, I probably could have assured her that under normal circumstances, I look pretty presentable. Assuming I haven’t been doing the sobby PMS thing, I don’t ordinarily sport a shiny red nose and mascara rings under my eyes. While I don’t usually wear much makeup – a little mascara and some lipstick – it’s enough to keep me from frightening small children.

But saying all that would have led to a doubly awkward moment in which in which she felt compelled to console me for my sorrow while assuring me she wasn’t suggesting I looked like a homeless senior citizen.

It was easiest just to let her drag me to the makeup counter, seat me on a plush stool, and begin smearing my face with mineral powder. I was starting to enjoy myself when she asked what I do for a living.

“I’m a romance author,” I admitted, braced for one of the typical reactions I get from strangers – disdain, fascination, or the faint suspicion I’m a sexual deviant.

This woman was delighted. She had some very definite ideas about what my romance author career must be like. She whipped out a staggering array of cosmetic products, explaining to me what would look best on camera for my televised book tours and speaking engagements.

“When you meet Danielle Steele, you might want to consider doing something like this with eyeliner,” she said.

“OK,” I agreed, lacking the heart to tell her the odds of me meeting Danielle Steele are about the same as the odds I’ll ever be able to apply eyeliner without stabbing myself.

She covered me in eyeshadow and blush, eyeliner and lipgloss, even special concealer for my undereye circles. My face began to feel so weighted down I considered resting my head on the counter.

“I know it might seem like a lot if you’re not used to it,” she told me. “But it will look perfect on camera.”

She was absolutely right if I were auditioning for a role as a hooker in a TV drama.

I have to admit though, I like her glamorous notions of what a romance author’s life is like. Who am I to ruin the fantasy by telling her that instead of dashing between appearances on Oprah and Letterman, I spend most days sitting at my computer with unwashed hair and yoga pants? And who am I to admit that when I do sally forth from my writer cave, I generally look OK even without forty pounds of mascara?

But I didn’t say any of this. She was tremendously sweet and gave me tons of free samples and some pretty good makeup tips. I even bought an overpriced lipstick.

I also gave her my business card so she’d have all the details about my book releases. She studied the card for a long time, then looked at me.

“This is a really good picture of you.”

She sounded surprised about that.

It’s the same image I use everywhere, and while I’m wearing only a little mascara and lipstick, I don’t look half bad. Certainly better than I did when I’d walked up to her counter, and certainly no worse than I did wearing eight shades of eyeshadow.

But I thanked her politely and handed over my Visa.

By the time I walked out of the store, I was smiling again. Maybe it was the new lipstick or the pleasure of having someone fuss over me for an hour.

Or maybe it was the thought that while I’ll never be particularly glamorous, I’m pretty lucky to be happy with myself just the way I am.

Well, minus the wrinkles. But I hear Clinque has a really good cream for that.

What gets a tortoise hot?

On Friday, I got my editor's revision notes for MAKING WAVES.

To say I'm thrilled would be a ridiculous understatement. Though I normally give myself 24 hours to marinate on feedback, I was so eager to implement my editor's suggestions that I wrote half a scene on the palm of my hand with a ballpoint pen.

One of my favorite parts of the letter was the request that I amp up the romance. It's something I'd been fretting about. Though MAKING WAVES has several blush-worthy love scenes and a lot of bawdy humor, I knew it wasn't as "hot" as the two books scheduled to follow. I wasn't certain which my editor preferred, but I got her message loud and clear on Friday. "Turn up the heat, please!"

Fortunately, "heat" is one of my favorite things to write. I feel like a kid in a candy shop, though sweaty flesh is much more fun to play with than gumdrops and peppermint sticks.

I know I have to temper my enthusiasm. I don't write erotica (though I've been tempted on occasion) so a little bit goes a long way when it comes to love scenes. It's a fine line between titillating a reader and making her want to scrub herself with a Brillo pad, and the line isn't in the same place for everyone.

Take tortoises, for example. When we were in Barbados a few years ago, we paid a visit to the Barbados Wildlife Refuge. It was impossible to walk without tripping over a pair of them in the throes of tortoise passion. Averting your eyes was useless, as the grunts of tortoise lovin' echoed in every corner of the park.

After my post about the monkeys a couple months ago, you're probably thinking I plan my vacations around the best places to see animals getting frisky. You're right. This is simply not true, though I will admit I'm fascinated by what passes for romance among the different species. Do the tortoises enjoy themselves, or is this just what they have to do to keep the species going? Are the lady tortoises feeling "hot," or would they rather be sunning themselves on a rock?

Tell me what you think. Behold, I give you the tortoise version of "heat." Make sure your sound is turned up so you don't miss the best part of this one minute and three seconds of pure tortoise ecstasy:

I'm not sure that's what my editor has in mind for MAKING WAVES, but it's something to consider in the grand scheme of romance writing. What works for tortoises may not work for monkeys, and what works for you may not work for me.

And now that I've conjured up all sorts of bestiality images, where'd I put that Brillo pad?

The downside of nookie in the woods

There aren’t many hiking days left before the ground is covered in crotch-deep snow. That – and a desire to see some fall foliage – prompted Pythagoras and me to hit the trail on Saturday.

We’d been hiking a few miles when we came across a lovely and secluded spot along the water’s edge. I looked at Pythagoras, who was glistening handsomely with sweat. My bosoms were heaving from the exertion of the hike.

OK, so I had romance writing on the brain. Sue me.

I gazed out at a grassy patch between two forks in the creek. “That would be a nice spot to set a love scene in a book.”

Pythagoras turned and stared at me for a few beats. “No.”

I gave him my most innocent expression. “What?”

“The trail is just over there. You saw that whole family piling in the car at the trailhead. It’d be our luck they’d all come trooping along, picnic basket in hand, kids racing out in front—”

“I wasn’t propositioning you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“OK, fine,” I admitted. “I was propositioning you but—”

“There’s also the dog. You want her grabbing your underwear and running off into the woods?”

That actually seemed like a great scene for a romantic comedy, but perhaps not the best way to seduce my husband.

Fine, he had a point. Even so, I heaved a dramatic sigh. “OK, but you’re missing out.”

“On being arrested for indecent exposure? I’m all right with missing that.”
We threw sticks in the water for the dog for a few more minutes before we set out hiking again. We hadn’t gone more than 30 yards when we saw evidence that someone – presumably someone on horseback or afflicted with severe gastrointestinal issues – had passed by while we were debating the wisdom of getting frisky in the grass.
To my husband’s credit, he did not say I told you so.

Nor did he say it 15 minutes later when we passed a happy pack of hikers headed straight for our spot along the creek.
OK, OK…those romantic, outdoorsy trysts in romance novels and movies are seldom very realistic. There are fire ants and poison ivy, foul weather and fellow hikers.

Still, you can’t blame a girl for trying.

Do you roll your eyes when you watch a Hollywood love scene with a couple frolicking in a lagoon you’re certain would be filled with leeches in real life? Or do you suspend disbelief and just enjoy the fantasy?

Please share. I’ll be busy plotting my strategy for that snow-cave rendezvous I’ve been picturing in my mind.

How to measure the smut?

I told you last Friday that the most common question at the “librarian speed dating” event focused on what each book was about.

Want to know the second most common question?

It was always accompanied by a slight shift in the chair, maybe a glance to one side or the other, even a blush in one case.

Then the librarian would clear her throat. “How steamy is your book?”

The first time someone asked, I choked on the grape I was eating. Then I quietly gave myself the Heimlich maneuver while the other two authors at my table used words like “closed door” and “discreet.”

When it was my turn, I shrugged. “My debut, MAKING WAVES, includes the word ‘vibrator’ 17 times.”

The number was on the tip of my tongue because I’d counted the previous week to amuse myself. It’s true, but it doesn’t paint the whole picture. The book contains a fair amount of bawdy humor, but the hero and heroine don’t consummate their relationship until fairly late in the story. Technically, the scene fades to black before the actual “moment” occurs (depending, I suppose, on how you and Bill Clinton define “moment.”)

That differs a bit from the second book in my contract, BELIEVE IT OR NOT. Though it may change if my editor requests it, the “moment” in that book lasts for nearly 20 pages and actually made me blush once on a read-through.

Both books are packed with a lot of risqué humor that might not resonate with all library patrons, and there’s a helluva lot of sexual tension in both. But steaminess? I’m not sure how to define that.

I did have to laugh when one of the librarians described an elderly patron returning to the library with a romance novel that had been recommended.

“This is the filthiest book I’ve ever read!” she declared as she thrust it at the librarian.

“Um,” said the librarian, fumbling for words.

“Where can I find more?”

How do you judge the steaminess quotient in a book? How do you measure the smut? Is it risqué language, sexual tension, the duration or graphic nature of actual love scenes, or something else entirely?

More importantly, does it matter?

In case it maters how many times the word “lust” is used, that would be 10 times for MAKING WAVES, 14 times in BELIEVE IT OR NOT, and 6 times in LET IT BREATHE.

Just thought you should know.