Author: admin

Addiction or Preference?

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As a writer I must sheepishly confess – I don’t drink coffee.

I’ve tried coffee (several times) and hot bean water just doesn’t do it for me.

I want to love tea. I mean, I love the idea of tea but, honestly, I can take it or leave it.

I’ve smoked maybe 10 cigarettes in my life. I didn’t hate it but had no urge to continue. I’ve even (don’t tell my children) sampled a few recreational drugs in my lifetime. For me, they were all “meh.”

I used to tell people that I just don’t have an addictive personality. I know what addiction looks like in both relatively harmless (Life Savers pep-o-mints) and more harmful (alcohol) forms. My father was a chain smoker and my brother is an alcoholic.

I’ve witnessed what harm their addictions did to them. As my father lay dying he tried to sneak cigarettes even when he was tethered to an oxygen tank. I honestly don’t think he cared that he might blow himself (and us) to smithereens—he just wanted another smoke.

No Smoking

 

I’m on guard against forming addictions of my own. That’s probably why drugs and cigarettes never made it very high on my list of ‘must haves.’

Lucky for me, I never much liked the taste of alcohol. Beer? Ugh, bitter. Whiskey? Burns all the way down. Gin? Ick, like drinking stewed pine needles. Rum? Okay, that’s all sugar—mix it with some yummy fruit and stick an umbrella in it and I can handle 1 or 2 of those.

 

 

I didn’t find my addiction until I started chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer.

When going through chemotherapy, everything tasted like either metal or dirt. It was like sucking on dirty penny 24/7. If that wasn’t bad enough, my mouth filled with sores that made eating or drinking anything pure torture. I lost weight at an alarming rate. I remember sitting and crying while others ate; I was so miserable.

One day while desperately trying to find something that would cool the sores and hide the gross metallic taste that was always on my tongue, I tried a frozen coke.

One sip and Hallelujah, it was like the angels were singing.

That sweet, sweet Coca-Cola syrup tasted exactly as it should and masked the chemo mouth. There was no carbonation to mess with my troubled tummy, and the coolness of the frozen concoction soothed and numbed my mouth sores. I began to live for the sweet relief of my next frozen coke.

And I discovered my addiction.

My chemo ended over a year ago now and I still get a frozen Coke every day. Why? I’m not sure. Nostalgia? The memory of how good it made me feel when everything else felt terrible?

Smarter minds than mine can research this. I’ll just enjoy my cup of frozen bliss.

Practical Romance

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Valentine’s Day is a holiday seemingly tailor-made for romance novels. Love is in the air; hearts and flowers are everywhere—talk about a mood. But, after 30+ years of marriage, I must admit that Valentine’s Day hits a little differently. This year for the occasion I bought my hubby his favorite candy bar (Zero bar) and he gave me a card and cooked my favorite meal.

picture of Zero candy bar

Candy equals love

I’ve received flowers in the past but, honestly, what a waste of money! How long are those cut flowers going to last? Throw away $100? No, thank you. (My opinion may be jaded by being raised as a really poor person).

Vase with wilted flowers

Sad flowers are sad

My husband, a practical fellow (an engineer in the telecommunications industry), feels the same way. He’s brought home flowers a few times, but it was an experience neither of us could fully enjoy for the wastefulness of it. That doesn’t make us unromantic.

After all, romance is my jam – I write romance novels. Hubby doesn’t read them but that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive. When my first book, HOW TO TRAIN YOUR BARON, came out, he brought signed copies with him to his golf league and sold them to his friends for their wives. He made my first sale and proudly framed the $10 bill for me to keep. When book two, ABOUT AN EARL, came out, hubby was my biggest cheerleader. He always took a few signed books along on his business trips and passed out swag to promote my website. As he and I anxiously await the publication of book three, LAST LORD STANDING, he is out there once again reminding people to check out my website and Amazon page while handing out branded pens and magnets.

Last week, after a brief visit to Detroit, he mentioned that someone was interested in my books, but they had a question he didn’t know how to answer. The question was “closed door or open door?” My poor hubby had no idea what that meant. I told him I write open-door romance and then had to explain it.

Shocked face

You mean s-e-x?

Guys. OMG. The look on his face. Poor baby had no idea. After a few minutes, as his practical mind digested this new information, he asked me if the books sold in stores were allowed to be open-door. Yes, I assured him, they can be open-door with fully choreographed sex scenes. “You mean they’re right out in the open on the shelves?”

Green door

Behind the Green Door

Um, yes? Where else would they be? It was like he thought there was a sooper-sekrit champagne room in the back where these books were sold. It’s a good thing I love him.

If you’d like a little more romance in your life, read a romance novel. Start with my ‘What Happens in the Ballroom’ series to discover the drama behind the dancing.

Book covers for What Happens in the Ballroom book series

What Happens in the Ballroom

 

Let’s Get Creative

/ admin

I love being a writer.

Writing allows me to be creative in a way that requires very little in the way of supplies. Sure, I have a laptop with a good internet connection, but I can write with nothing more than pen and paper. Writing is also a solitary endeavor. I don’t have to form a team or coax others into joining in to make it productive. When I feel social, I engage with other writers in workshops or at write-ins. Writing is the best of both worlds for an introvert.

Like many other creative people, I enjoy being creative in more than one way. As a child, I recall my birthday and Christmas wish lists always included craft supplies. My creativity started innocently enough with tissue paper flowers. I suspect that was primarily because tissue paper was cheap but, no matter, I made hundreds upon hundreds of paper flowers.

When I tired of flowers I hit my candle-making phase. I made so many candles that my father insisted I try to sell them door to door (it was a more innocent time). I enjoyed the creating (especially after I learned how to add scent to them) but not so much the marketing.

Jewelry came next and I strung beads for a year or two before my creativity took a back seat to high school (and boys). Once I had my own apartment and my own kitchen, cooking and baking became my new passion.

Many, many, years of experience in the kitchen have taught me that I ENJOY baking but I’m better at cooking. Baking requires more precision; you can’t abuse your leavening agent by throwing whatever sounds good at the moment into the mix. I once considered baking as a profession (or at least a side gig) but I was an inconsistent decorator. You want 24 frosted cupcakes to look EXACTLY alike? You’ll get 18 identical ones, 4 wonky ones, and 2 that look like they should be featured on an episode of Nailed It!

Unlike writing, where I can utilize cut/paste or find/replace, baking is unforgiving.

Cooking, much like writing, allows for more slap-dash additions and improvisation. You want spices—I have spices. I make a turkey/sausage/sweet potato gumbo that will make your mouth do a happy dance. And then sometimes I serve chewy rice.

[While I make several substitutions based on my family’s palate – the original recipe for spicy turkey sweet potato gumbo can be found HERE.]

While I’m still writing and hope to be for quite some time, my newest creative urge requires a sewing machine. Never mind that I’ve never owned one, I took Home Economics back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Of course, now we have to move because I’m going to need a craft room.

How do you funnel creative urges into action?

Interrobang Anecdotes

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We all have one. Some of us have more than one.

That one story. The anecdote that defines us. A wild tale of daring, danger, or doody. A story that earns its interrobang. You know, that weird exclamation point question mark hybrid that writers everywhere have been trying to make a thing since the 1960s.

An interrobang story captivates your audience, entertains them, and then leaves them with questions. Listeners’ exclamations will be pointed. Like, “Holy Shit!” or “Oh, my God!” Your audience will ask questions like, “how did you do that?” or “what the hell?”

Interrobang stories are told at family parties, to strangers in pubs, and often whenever you run into someone you went to school with. Whether or not you run into them with your car may be part of your interrobang story.

An interrobang story must be true, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been embellished over time. The seed of truth must always be the backbone of the story. Humor is often a mandatory component as well. Because drama + laughter = INTERESTING STORY!?

My interrobang story is that I was once detained at the Louvre because they thought I had a bomb in my backpack. At this point, my audience already has questions & concerns. I’m a romance author from the Midwest. I don’t do bombs.

This all happened in 1986, generally considered a more innocent era. But, between the time I planned the trip to Europe and the time I got to Paris, the US bombed Libya. Threats and accusations were flying around Europe over who helped the US and who didn’t. Paris had armed gendarmes posted at every landmark.

My travel buddy (US military) was now confined to base, so I went to Paris alone with my trusty wind-up Big Ben alarm clock in my backpack. There were no cell phones back then and the really nice $$ watch I purchased in Germany stopped working—so my Big Ben was all I had.

If you’ve never owned a Big Ben alarm clock, let me tell you, those suckers are LOUD. Big Ben does not mess around with waking you up out of a dead sleep. Unfortunately, they also “tick” loudly. Loud enough, it turns out, to be heard through the fabric of my backpack.

I was in the Louvre less than two minutes before gendarmes surrounded me. These weren’t mall rent-a-cops. These dudes had machine guns and tactical gear.

You know, in high school when you’re encouraged to take a second language? Yeah, I didn’t do that. I especially didn’t speak freaking FRENCH.

They herded me to a security office where I was, through grunts, pointing, and frowns, instructed to surrender my backpack. I did not know why I’d been detained or what they could want with my backpack.

When an English-speaking officer was finally found, only then did I learn they thought my Big Ben was a ticking bomb! I had surrendered my backpack to the bomb squad. My passport was in that bag, along with my clean underwear. They were going to blow it to smithereens.

I did something I’m not proud of then. I started sobbing. Yup, innocent white girl tears all down my cheeks. I ugly cried snot running down my face blubbered. I thought I was going to be arrested.

But, no, cooler heads prevailed. The French realized I was just another American idiot. My backpack, along with my passport and underwear were returned to me. They kept the clock.

You have an interrobang story; you know you do. Share it as a comment.

Au revoir!

Bullwinkle J. Moose Reads the TAROT

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I have an author friend with a creative muse named “Boris.” When brainstorming together we often invoke the WWBD question. She is a talented author and a good friend, so the existence of Boris is an accepted given in our interactions.

 

 

What she doesn’t know (shh, don’t tell her) is that every time she mentions Boris, all I can picture is this:

 

 

 

An image I don’t find conducive to creative writing. Not even a little bit.

 

I’d love to have a writing muse. Imagine sitting at your keyboard banging away at the keys and having a wise, free-spirited, ethereal “artiste” whispering story ideas into your ear. Plot holes would be filled, word choices sorted, and your story would flow like a happy little Bob Ross river from your fingertips to the best-seller lists. I want one of those.

Do you find the muse or does the muse find you? While pondering this very question, I decided since Boris was busy musing my friend, I’d settle for Bullwinkle J. Moose. In my mind, WWBD quickly became, “What Would Bullwinkle Do?”

Recalling that I had one of those bendy-rubbery figures of Bullwinkle somewhere in my box of old memories, lost dreams, and sentimental tchotchke, I desperately sought him out. If nothing else, I’d sit him by my keyboard just in case he’d taken up a second career as a muse. When I finally found him, his wiry arms were wrapped around a deck of tarot cards that I forgot I owned.

WWBD indeed? I sat both items by my keyboard and stared into Bullwinkle’s crookedly painted on eyes for inspiration. Nothing. Not one to give up so easily I pried the tarot deck from his hands (hooves?) and gave them a good shuffle. Of course I felt ridiculous, I hadn’t touched those cards since my old existentialism phase.

Swallowing down my embarrassment along with a gulp of cheap wine (Moscato) I laid out a straight three-card spread. I got The World, The Hermit, and the Ten of Pentacles. I had no idea what the cards were supposed to mean. After another gulp of wine (wine, I have decided, is the fuel for mooses and muses), I fired up my Google machine and sought out answers.

There’s a dancing figure on my World card and it turns out it is dancing to the rhythm of life. As a former belly-dancer, I feel connected to this card already. The World card symbolizes a moment of nirvana when “self” and “other” become one linking you will all humanity, environment, and the animal kingdom.

The Hermit card seems to taunt me. Writing is a solitary endeavor; maybe I’m meant to go it alone without a muse. The good news is that The Hermit is associated with wisdom & power. The Hermit must disconnect themselves from the noise created by others to seek the answers within.

The Ten of Pentacles is a busy card; there’s an old man in a colorful robe, dogs, a child, some other people (related?), a peek at a large building in the distance, and a clutter of ten pentacle stars. Something about this card bothers me. It’s chaotic and it’s meaning isn’t as straight-forward as the first two. Apparently, it is supposed to symbolize a life-long journey where everything turns out in the end even though the path was long and bumpy.

Now what? Bullwinkle, stupid smile never slipping, offers no guidance whatsoever. I open the document with my latest work in progress and stare at the blinking cursor. But then my mind starts to wander…damn it, it’s working.

I decide to make the hero of my story hermit-like. He hides from people avoiding all their noise and drama. He walks around at night where he’s sure to be alone with his thoughts. Suddenly I have him on a long, bumpy journey to his happily-ever-after with a heroine who side-steps and sways her way through the rhythm of her life. I’m calling it ABOUT AN EARL. Here’s the buy link if you’re interested:

Maybe Bullwinkle really is my muse. Please don’t mention it to Boris. If you study tarot, I’d appreciate another view on my cards. If you have a creative muse, I’d love to hear about it.

OH SHIT!

/ admin

No, I couldn’t come up with a better title for this post. Once you read it, you’ll know why.

I haven’t written in a while and that means both personally and professionally. 2019 introduced a series of unfortunate events into my life worthy of Lemony Snicket. If you’ll indulge my whinging for a moment or two, I’ll tell you why.

January 2019. Life is good. I’m working on edits for Book 2 of my series which I’m absolutely certain will be coming out in May. I’m looking into attending two writing conferences, Avon’s Kiss Con in Chicago and Book Lovers Con in New Orleans.

And then, one day my oldest son stops by for supper and announces that he’s getting a divorce and moving back home. Like a cheap GPS my brain goes into “recalculating” mode.

February 2019. My husband hasn’t been feeling well and I finally convince him to book a doctor’s appointment. It isn’t until the end of the month, after x-rays, CT scans, and multiple lab tests that we are (sort of) told that he has cancer. What I mean by that is that we saw a word we didn’t understand on the online results for one of his labs, googled it, and realized he had cancer.

March 2019. Without an “official” diagnosis my husband is referred to an oncologist who schedules another CT scan, an MRI, a stress test, and a PET scan. While sitting at home one night, shell-shocked and trying to pretend everything was normal in front of the children, my husband’s doctor called and asked him to report to the hospital the next day. He was going to be admitted.

April 2019. We finally have a diagnosis and it isn’t good. My husband has diffuse large B-cell lymphoma. The cancerous mass is wrapped around his descending aorta, invading the pleura of the lungs, and reaching back, finger-like, into his spine. There is a “hot spot” of cancer in one of his shoulder bones. His lungs are full of fluid and will need to be drained. He is stage IV. He spends almost 2 weeks inpatient and receives his first chemo treatment on a Saturday.

May 2019. My husband’s lungs have had to be drained six times just so he can breathe. The chemo exhausts him and the drugs give him insomnia. He’s crabby because his beautiful red hair is falling out. Half-way through the month my 93-year-old father in law falls at home, breaks four ribs and punctures his lung. Due to his dementia, the only person he behaves for is my husband. We rush to the hospital where my husband doesn’t dare leave him alone too long.

June 2019. My husband visits his father every day and comes home mentally and physically exhausted. We think his lungs need to be drained again. I get a random email telling me that I will no longer be working with my amazeballs editor at my publisher. Book two will not be coming out until 2020, a year and a half after book one. I have no idea if my editor left the company or if it was decided in a meeting that my book was absolute crap.

Not impressed with 2019 so far.