The things I want to put in your mouth

There's a mental disorder that runs in my family.

It's a chronic, urgent, desperate need to feed people.

Admittedly, most mental health professionals don't recognize this as a disorder. I've never read about it in a medical journal or seen a parade organized to benefit victims of this syndrome. In all honesty, it's not terribly crippling.

I wasn't fully aware of it until I was working on edits for Getting Dumped, my new project with Coliloquy. My heroine, JJ, is constantly whipping up meals for her sister and the various men in her life.

I never thought much of it until my editor started raising questions: Why is she always feeding people? Why does she cook when no one else in her family does? Why doesn't she do it for a living? Can I have the recipe for those White Chocolate Apricot Balls?

I was a little taken aback, and not just because I'd lost that recipe. I hadn't actually noticed JJ's habit because...well, it just seemed normal to me.

Not that I'm the best judge of normal.

The timing of these edits coincided with the early months of dating my new gentleman friend. As is my habit whether I'm feeding myself or ten others, I threw together elaborate dinners every night.

At first, he seemed nervous. He didn't want me to go to so much trouble on his account, and though he loved the meals, he fretted about the time and money I was spending.

"Trust me," I assured him. "This is just what I do. If I'm not feeding you, I'll be feeding the housemates, packaging Tupperware meals for my girlfriends, or summoning the dog to eat maple orange chicken dusted with rosemary."

I'm not sure he totally believed me until he met my mom. Then my cousin. Then my grandmother.

And I'm pretty sure every one of us offered him food.

I blame it on genetics, though that's not the excuse I gave JJ in Getting Dumped. In her case, it's almost the opposite. She grew up in a family of people who didn't cook, but she happened to love food. Determined to be self-sufficient – and convinced she damn well deserved gourmet meals any time she wanted them – she became a ruthlessly proficient cook.

Because she loves cooking, she never wants to do it for a living. On that note, I can relate.

Do you have any quirky habits you weren't aware of until someone else pointed them out to you? Please share!

And let me know if you'll be stopping by tonight for lasagna. Say, 7ish? Bring wine. Lots of it.

Why I shouldn't be trusted to communicate this week

Yesterday, I sent a congratulatory note to a friend who landed an agent. I tried to type "yaaay!" but my phone decided I meant "yeast!"

So my friend either thinks I'm baking sourdough, or hoping to discuss infections. Either way, this is the sort of week I'm having.

Tuesday evening, I got a note from my real estate agent alerting me that a house I really, really like in a neighborhood I really, really love, just went up for sale at a price I might actually be able to afford without selling my nipples on the black market. I was still squealing with excitement when an email arrived from my literary agent (who, incidentally, shares a first name with my realtor. I know, right?)

She had some exciting news, too. News I decided to post to Twitter immediately, along with an Amazon link.

You see where this is going, don't you?

Yup, I tweeted the link to the house. After four-dozen replies from confused readers wondering why I wanted all 2,315 of my Twitter followers to see photos of a foreclosed home in Central Oregon, I figured out how to delete the tweet and post the right link.

Only it turns out I kinda wasn't supposed to post the link just yet because it's sorta still a secret. Sorta.

"Feel free to mention that it's up in broad strokes," came the note from my publisher, which sent me into giggles and fits. It's up? Broad strokes? Sometimes, I swear you guys are just feeding me the filthy jokes.

Oh, and here's what else I'm allowed to say: "Shh...still being tested, but guess what's up in the Amazon store?! Just a few days to launch and lots of details!"

So that's what I can tell you right now. In case you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, rest assured, this is the story of my life. I shared news about my new project with Coliloquy here, so that should give you another clue.

Stay tuned for more details next week. And feel free to share any embarrassing "you won't believe what I did" stories of your own. It'll make me feel better.

Oh, and if you get any texts, tweets, or email messages from me this week, I'd like to apologize in advance. For whatever.

The ugly thing I didn't buy

There are few things in the world I love more than thrift store shopping, and most of those things are best enjoyed naked.

I was fully clothed and shopping with a friend recently when we came across a special piece of merchandise:
"I can't tell you how often I've wished for a lamp that doubles as a cheese grater," I told my friend.

She laughed. "Let's rub it and see if a genie comes out."

"I'm not touching anything that comes out of that lamp unless I get rubber gloves and a tetanus shot."

"I'm wondering about the drugs you'd need to take to make you look at this and think, 'that belongs in my living room.'" She poked a finger through the front. "Maybe that's it – they used this lamp as a place to stash drugs."

I peered at the price tag, a little dumbfounded. "$35? Are you kidding me?"

"That seems reasonable. It is art, after all."

I suppose so, now that I think about it. I can (and did) look at that lamp and laugh, but someone, somewhere, thought it was beautiful. Or at least a desirable component of one's household decor.

This is what people mean when they tell you feedback from editors, agents, and readers is largely subjective. One person's ugly lamp is another person's glorious treasure. One editor might tell you romantic comedy is dead, and the other might call your agent gushing that they've been desperate to find a hot new romantic comedy author.

That's pretty much how things unfolded when we landed this three-book deal two years ago, and I'm grateful for it every day.

Got an ugly lamp story of your own? Either a real ugly lamp, or something metaphorical wherein one person's trash was another person's treasure? Please share!

Is it wrong that I kinda regret not buying that lamp? I wonder if it's still there...

Who makes you howl?

With a wide array of housemates, significant others, and random strangers cycling in and out of my house like perverts through a brothel, my dog is rarely alone these days.

Bindi sees this as the biggest plus of our current living arrangement.

Each household member plays an important role in Bindi's life. I'm the steadfast provider of dog kibble, regular walks, and trips to the vet. One housemate is her supplier for table scraps and lazy afternoons on the sofa watching ninja movies. My gentleman friend can be counted on to throw her ball until one of them collapses from exhaustion.

Then there's the housemate who isn't much of a dog person. He doesn't dislike dogs, and will even drag her out for the occasional run or hike. But their bonding has been a little more tepid.

Or so I thought.

Several weeks ago, he sent me a text message:

Bindi & I had a howlin' contest this morning.

Intrigued, I clicked the attached 24-second video. (Warning: there's a curse-word in this video. If you're offended by curse-words, I suggest you not click. I also suggest you not read this blog or my books. Why the hell are you here, anyway?)


Now here's the funny thing – I've owned Bindi for more than two years. We've gone for countless hikes, endured lengthy road trips, and snuggled for endless hours. Never once have I heard my dog howl. I didn't even know she could howl.

I asked my housemate about it later when all the other household occupants were present. No one else had heard Bindi howl, either, but the howl-inducing housemate just shrugged it off.

"It's sort of our thing," he said. "She only does it when no one else is home."

I'm fascinated by this. Not only by my dog's behavior, but by the notion of one creature triggering another to do something he or she doesn't do for anyone else.

For once, I'm not being filthy.

I was thinking about this in the context of the rewrite I just submitted for my third contracted romantic comedy. One element of my marching orders from the editor involved tightening the bond between my hero and heroine. What is it that makes their relationship unique? What are the little inside jokes only the two of them share? What separates her from every girl he's ever dated or him from her ex-husband?

I can't tell you the answers to those questions without giving away some plot twists, but rest assured, I figured it out.

Are there things you share only with one special friend or significant other? I'm not talking about playing Spear the Donut. I'm thinking more along the lines of little things you catch yourself doing around a certain person who's the only person in the world to see you behaving that way. Please share!

And please take a moment to enjoy this second video my housemate shot just to prove the first one wasn't a fluke. Aroooooooooooooo!

When love stories and hair removal go hand-in-hand

I was blessed with naturally full, voluminous eyebrows.

This is a polite way of saying that if I didn't wax them, there's a good chance I'd have a stylish monobrow. I've tried tending them myself, but rarely with positive results. I once waxed off the entire middle of one eyebrow and then tried to draw it back with eyeliner. 

Green eyeliner.

A detail I didn't catch until I got to work and a co-worker asked if I'd been drinking.

So you see, it's in everyone's best interest if I pay someone else to groom me. Since I'm a cheapskate, the someone else generally ends up being a student at my local beauty college.

Friday afternoon, I found myself being tended by a sweet young pupil who couldn't have been more than 19 or 20. Since she'd never used hard wax before, her teacher coached her on the process while I snickered like a middle-schooler over instructions like, "make sure it's nice and hard before you start tugging on it."

When that was over, I complimented the student on both her waxing skills and the lovely french braid in her hair.

She beamed at me. "I did it myself. I could do one for you, if you like."

There are few things I enjoy more than having someone fuss with my hair, so I agreed and we headed to another room where she got to work brushing and braiding. Feeling the need to make small talk now that she was no longer smearing hot wax near my eyeballs, the student began to chatter.

"So do you have a husband or boyfriend or anything?" she inquired.

I hesitated for a moment before answering. "I'm dating someone, yes, but the word boyfriend sort of annoys me, so I tend to refer to him as my gentleman friend, unless I'm drinking with close girlfriends, in which case I opt for something more risque like–"

I stopped myself, realizing a simple yes would have sufficed.

She anchored a bobby pin in place and continued her line of questioning. "So you guys have probably been together a long time, huh?"

I tried not to laugh at the unasked question, which was something like, Geez, lady, isn't 37 kind of old to be dating?

"We've been seeing each other for about nine months," I began, "but we actually worked together five or six years ago, though we hardly knew each other at all then, and probably would have lost all contact when we both moved on to other jobs, except that he became best friends with one of my girlfriends and then he went through a divorce a few years ago, so when I went through something similar last spring, I contacted him out of the blue to be my mentor and–"

I stopped myself again, realizing I'd missed another opportunity to stick with the simple answer.

But the student seemed unfazed. "Do you ever think he's the one?"

I couldn't keep from laughing this time, though I'm not entirely sure why. Was it the sweet simplicity of the question? The strange personal nature of it? The fact that this is what a 19-year-old's version of a love story boils down to? The fact that she likely asked it because I'd told her I'm a romance author, and isn't that what romance authors write about?

In the end, I opted for the simple answer. "Of course."

That seemed to satisfy her, and I managed to steer the conversation from my personal life to hers.

It gave me plenty to think about though. In my experience, love stories are seldom very simple. Thank God, or all my books would be five pages long.

I'm in the early stages of a brand new book, which means the questions are swirling in my head. What are her issues? What are his? How did she she develop her hangup about money in relationships, and how will his status as a millionaire cause problems? Does she like to be tied up in bed, and if so, will she be turned off when he can't find a silk scarf and settles for anchoring her to the bedpost with her dog's leash?

These are all things I'll be mulling over the course of the next few months, which is something I find quite exciting. Starting from "boy meets girl" and finding ways to complicate things from there is one of the most thrilling parts of writing romance.

Do you find yourself drawn to the complex details of romantic relationships? Are you intrigued by strangers' love stories? Please share!

Oh, and if you have any tips for learning to french braid my own hair, I'd sure love to know how to do this.

Everything you ever wanted to know (and aren't afraid to ask)

In recent months, I've gotten lots of email from strangers.Sadly, many of them aren't offering discount pharmaceuticals or free internet porn.

They're asking for advice. From me.

Let's all pause and shudder together over how terrifying that is. Then let's spend a moment thinking about how our group shudder was a little like an orgy.

Where was I?

Advice. Right. Strangers have been contacting me via email, Twitter, Facebook, and in one terrifying instance, rabid courier pigeon, to seek advice on writing, querying, publishing, critiquing, and providing oral stimulation without messing up your lipstick.

I might have made up that last one.

I try to answer the questions as competently and patiently as I can, but it takes a big chunk of time. Time I should be spending on things like edits and blog posts and plotting my next book and googling for naked pictures of George Clooney.

Whenever possible, I refer people to existing articles and web links. If someone asks how to query, I tell them to call in sick to work, log on to agent Janet Reid's Query Shark, and read every single post in her archives before even considering querying. If someone's struggling to find beta readers or critique partners, I refer them to The Water Cooler at Absolute Write or suggest getting involved with their local chapter of Romance Writers of America or Mystery Writers of America or whatever group happens to represent their genre.

I might also refer them to blog posts I've written about certain subjects, because as I mentioned yesterday, I'm very lazy.

Still, I'm thinking I should get smarter about this. What if I assembled a collection of the most common questions I'm asked, and created a document or a page on my website offering up all the best links, tidbits of advice, and general suggestions? An FAQ of sorts, only with more penis jokes. Then when I get one of those messages, I could offer up the great big list of answers.

What do you guys think? If I do decide to assemble something like that, what would you like to see me address? Have there been any posts I've written here that you think should be included in a writer FAQ? Please share your thoughts!

Oh, and in the spirit of sharing, I wanted to pass along two of the best writer links I've seen in recent months. The first is a post written by my agency sistah, Kiersten White, offering a collection of  Do This, Don't Do That tips for new authors. The second is an amazing post by author Chuck Wendig suggesting 25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing Right F**king Now. Both offer much smarter advice than I could ever give you, and I encourage writers at all career stages to check them out.

So what do you think of my questions? You've already forgotten them now, right? I probably should have put them at the bottom of this post instead of a couple paragraphs above. See, this is why you shouldn't ask me for advice.

Except that I can use copy/paste, so all hope isn't lost. Here you go again:

What do you guys think? If I do decide to assemble something like that, what would you most like to see me address? Have there been any posts I've written here that you think should be included in a writer FAQ? Please let me know what you think!

I’d lie down to write this post if I could

I’m one of the laziest people I know.

I’m not ashamed to admit this, and have found it to be an asset more than a liability. A former boss once insisted I’m not lazy, but ruthlessly efficient and clever at finding ways to minimize the work involved in any task.

That probably does sound better, but it still boils down to laziness. The same boss also suggested I call myself “frugal” instead of “cheap,” which reminds me I should probably buy that guy a beer sometime. A cheap one.

I was reminded of both my laziness and my frugality the other day when I spotted a pair of $12 suede Coach sneakers at my favorite thrift store. While I didn’t necessarily need sneakers, I was smitten with the price and the designer label.

When I got them home, I lined them up with all my other shoes. I own 54 pairs, which is probably another blog-worthy personality fault. Guess what all my shoes have in common?

They slip on. The new sneakers are my only pair of shoes with laces. That’s right — I’m too lazy to actually lace up a pair of shoes.

I haven’t decided yet if I’ll keep the sneakers or sell them on eBay. Oh, who am I kidding? Selling them on eBay sounds like work.

It did make me stop and analyze other ways I’ve arranged my life to accommodate my own laziness. Among them:

• I refuse to have a hairstyle that requires me to blow dry, curl, fluff, tease, spray, or do anything besides wash it a couple times a week and maybe brush it once a day if I feel ambitious. This was my chief concern when my hairdresser talked me into a new ‘do last week.
• I refuse to exercise. I can talk myself into hiking regularly because that’s just walking and walking isn’t hard. I’ll sometimes convince myself to do yoga because that’s just rolling around on the floor in my pajamas. But I’d rather pull all the toes off my left foot with pliers than lift weights or run on a treadmill.
• I won’t buy clothing that requires ironing. In the rare event that an article of my clothing appears wrinkled, I’ve been known to donate it to charity to avoid ironing it. If I put something on and really, really want to wear it but it’s too wrinkly, I will attempt to iron it while it’s on my body. It’s a special realm of “hot & steamy.”

Are there areas of your life where you tend to be lazy, or are you more of a go-getter? Please share!

And let me know if you enjoy ironing. Or brushing a stranger’s hair. Or tying someone else’s sneakers. Or…

The things you learn from butt bruises

On New Year’s Eve, I went ice skating with my gentleman friend and his two offspring. It was the kids' first time gliding over a frozen surface with blades on their feet and a desperate urge to avoid brain damage.

We all escaped major injury, though there were a few bumps and bruises and a possible case of butt frostbite. (I may have lied about the butt frostbite. It’s an excellent way to solicit warm, soothing butt caresses).

When it was all over and everyone was settled down with steaming mugs of cocoa, my gentleman friend checked with the two youngsters to see how they’d enjoyed the experience.

“We loved it!” they chorused. “But falling isn’t very fun.”

No, he agreed. Falling isn’t very fun.

And yes, he probably could have caught them or spent the evening propping them up so their well-padded backsides never hit the ice.

“But sometimes, falling is how you learn best,” he said. “It’s the way you figure out how to balance and stop and get back up and get moving again.”

I’m not sure if the message resonated with the kids, who were engrossed in determining whether gummy bears float in cocoa.

But it sure made sense to me.

My road to publication was a bumpy one. There were harsh rejections from publishers and agents, a canceled book deal, an agent relationship that didn’t work out, and two long years during which my current agent probably wondered why the hell she signed an author whose manuscripts prompted editors to say, “she’s funny, but there’s no market for this.”

I’m not vain enough to suggest we got the last laugh with our three-book deal for romantic comedies, and I’m also not delusional enough to suggest I won’t fall on my butt a whole lot more in my writing career. 

But I’m infinitely grateful for those butt bruises. They’re how I’ve learned the most about writing and publishing and editing and querying and the surprising depths of my own resilience. 

They’re how I know that whether I become an international bestseller, or leave readers asking, “Tawna who?” I’m going to be just fine.

What have you learned from falling that you couldn’t have figured out by gliding along in perfect form? Please share!

And feel free to rub my butt in a soothing manner. It’s what friends do for each other.

On dog puke, candy canes, and my new life

At least once a week, I'm struck by how different my life is now than it was a year ago. I currently share my home with three grown men, five cats, and a dog.

It goes without saying the conversations taking place under this roof are a bit different than they were 12 months ago.

Like this one that occurred last night when my gentleman friend and I returned from grocery shopping to find the two 27-year-old housemates seated at the dining room table eating barbecue chicken:

HOUSEMATE 1: (to me) Your dog threw up.

HOUSEMATE 2: A lot. It was like something out of the exorcist. You wouldn't believe how much liquid came out of such a small animal.

ME: (scrambling to put down the groceries so I could inspect the dog. She was prancing around the kitchen with her tail wagging, in no apparent distress). Are you OK, baby? What's the matter? Is your tummy upset?

HOUSEMATE 1: It was a lot of puke. Like a lake.

HOUSEMATE 2: It took a whole roll of paper towels to clean it up.

ME: Was there blood in it? Has she been acting sick? Have you fed her anything unusual today?

In case you wondered what
broiled candy cane looks like.
No, I won't show you the puke.

HOUSEMATE 1: We made her eat a candy cane afterward. She had puke breath.

HOUSEMATE 2: Then we put a candy cane under the broiler to see if it would melt.

HOUSEMATE 1: It did.

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: (making an effort to be supportive) Was there anything in the puke or was it just liquid?

HOUSEMATE 1: Want to see a picture? It's on my camera upstairs.

HOUSEMATE 2: Wait, I've got one here on my phone.

ME: You both took pictures of the puke?

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: Is this why the snow shovel is on the porch? Did you try to shovel the puke?

HOUSEMATE 1: Check it out, look at this picture.

ME: Oh, geez. (To gentleman friend) Would you mind starting dinner? I think I need to write all this in a blog post right now and get it up fast.

GENTLEMAN FRIEND: You said "get it up fast."

HOUSEMATE 1: Knock on wood.

HOUSMATE 2: You said wood.

Yes, this is my life now.

I'm pretty damn happy about that.

Scenes from a smile-worthy holiday season

In the spirit of easing slowly back into the post-holiday rhythm, I'm declaring today, "Wordless Monday."

Well, mostly.

Here are a few things that made me smile this holiday season:

A poster on the wall of a local brewery.

My dog looking suitably disgusted after one of the housemates outfitted her in a Santa hat and Christmas collar.

A box of chocolates sent to the day job office by someone whose sense of humor I can appreciate.

My holiday mani/pedi, courtesy of my gentleman friend's six-year-old.

At night, the dog sleeps in her kennel. During the daytime, it's the cat's favorite nap spot. When the entire household slept in on New Year's morning, the pets were annoyed at having their routine disrupted.

So what's been making you smile this holiday season? Please share!

And happy New Year, everyone!