Last week I mentioned I might cover the Harlequin Kerfluffle in this blog. And I thought about it, but at this point, everything has been covered. So, I’ll give you some links in case you haven’t seen them in order to bring you up to speed, and maybe when there are new developments, I’ll dive into the topic then. And trust me when I say, this Kerfluffle is FAR from over. Now, go here and here and here and get all the details you need to know.

This change of topic meant finding a new topic. Hmmmm….what shall we discuss. I know, how about romance? I sort of eavesdropped on a twitter conversation last week about what is romance and what is just romantic. I think it centered around Nicholas Sparks books not being considered romances. He is Mr. I-CANNOT-LET-MY-CHARACTERS-LIVE after all.  That doesn’t make for a lot of Happily Ever Afters.

As writers of romance novels, it’s our job to create romantic situations and make sure our characters say the most romantic things. That means we should be experts, right? Uh…sure.

I’ll include my disclaimer right now, I am no expert on what is romantic. But as a writer, I’ve put some thought into this question. What I’ve come up with is the following list.

1) Sweetness – I’m not sure how to explain this but I think everyone recognizes a sweet moment when they read one. It might be the hero teasing a blush from the heroine or the heroine brushing a lock of hair off the hero’s forehead. The best sweet moments are those that take one of the characters by surprise. A great way to show a change in perception and we all know showing is always better than telling.

2) Honesty – This isn’t just any kind of honesty, this is the big kind, emotional honesty. For me, there is nothing better than that big emotional confession when one character admits a fear or longing. Often expressed through frustration or anger, it’s pretty obvious the confession was neither planned or thought out, making it all the more honest of a reaction. Which moves us to the next item on the list.

3) Vulnerability – All of my favorite romantic moments include a character showing vulnerability. But what makes the scene romantic is the reaction of the other character. It’s the moment when the other person understands, consoles, pushes, or reassures the vulnerable one. If that reaction is wrong, it can ruin the entire story.

I’m sure there are many other elements that make something romantic, but Hellie is always professing things are good in threes. So I’m stopping here and turning it over to you.

What do you consider romantic? Do you try to create romantic moments when you’re writing? And what scenes have stuck with you over the years as the most romantic scenes ever? (And if you promise not to get all mushy, feel free to share your own real-life romantic moments. But I can’t promise not to get grumpy if it gets out of hand.)

Maybe I’m feeling nostalgic.  Maybe I’m frustrated I still haven’t seen GI Joe yet.  Or maybe I just couldn’t think of any new and fresh real life hotties.  Whatever the reason, I figured I could hit up some old standbys:  the hotties my pre-adolescent heart swooned over.  I had an older brother and he loved these guys.  I don’t think I ever minded watching, though.  My first crush?  Duke from GI Joe, followed closely by Lion-O from the Thundercats.  And, well, He-man?  I mean, check out those muscles.  What’s not to love?

In later years, I developed a crush on Fred Savage and then another on Zach Morris before finally devoting myself to the boys in my school.  Honestly, my schoolmates weren’t quite as hunky as these fellows or as adorable as Fred Savage or Zach Morris.  They didn’t turn out that bad, though, so maybe there was some potential I missed. 

So who made your adolescent (or pre-adolescent) heart flutter?   

I am mad, but not insane. Insanity is crawlin’ offa the couch while still feelin’ the effects a too much turkey/stuffin’/yams/greenbeans/pumpkin pie and whatever else yesterday’s orgy a’ food brought me way and goin’ shoppin’. (Wrote this before me MIL’s table left me…hungry. Sigh. That said…)

There ain’t a sale out there fine ‘nuff ta entice me inta a mall taday.

Though I admit, if’n I lived near Jane-o and the Mall of America… I might be tempted ta join her. But it wouldn’t be fer the shoppin’. It would be fer the sake a friendship and having fun.

What would lure you out into the wild jungle of the modern megamall, today? Or all days?

From all of the pirates to you…  Happy Thanksgiving everyone!  We’re thankful you’ve hung with us for another year.  Enjoy your feasting and have a safe and happy day!

I love, love, love Thanksgiving!

When I was a little girl, there is a specific Thanksgiving that I can remember very vividly. Not that all of my Thanksgivings are the greatest- after all Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday only to be rivaled with the ever awesome Independence day- but this one was odd, weird, strange, and funny enough, great.

Just like in any family, you have your traditions. Where you go. Who cooks what food. Who gets the rifle out first and suggests target shooting. *shrugs* How loud the TV gets turned up when the football game is on. Who gets the last beer. I mean, those things are just rooted deep in tradition. In my family, when I was a child, we went to my grandpa’s house and he made all the food except for the stuff my Aunt made grandpa nicknamed the green shit, which pistachio pudding is mixed with whipped cream and crushed pineapple.

My mother’s parent’s house was in the middle of our small town, down a road aptly named Short street which was paved later on and made for an excellent scooter and skateboard hill. At the top of the hill, the Rowlands lived in their little white house and down around the corner at the bottom of the hill was my grandparent’s little original house built sometime in the early turn of the century. It was surrounded by trees and out buildings and lots of grassland. We spent all afternoons there after school. We spent countless hours there in the summer. Going to my grandparents wasn’t the exciting thing it should’ve been, but when you’re young you take stuff for granted.

I’m dressed for cold weather and outside playing. My two cousins were older, and just about as mean as me. There was always trouble brewing when the three of us put our heads together. But what was this… There was a BOY sitting on my grandpa’s porch.

Things of that nature had to be investigated. First with the cousins.

I rolled my pre-teen eyes. “Who got to bring their BOYFRIEND to Thanksgiving?”

“No one,” My cousin Jennifer, the eldest, told me. “Uncle said he is our cousin and we’re SUPPOSED to be NICE.”

I looked to Shelly and crinkled my nose. “No way. Boys aren’t allowed into the family.”

Shelly shrugged her shoulders, “I’m going to talk him into doing something bad so he will know not to mess with me.”

“Like what? You can’t talk him into jumping into the pond. Uncle is not going to let him out of his sight for that long.”

Shelly grinned and I knew then it was going to be ugly. “Watch me.”

She took off running and Jennifer took off after her. I lagged behind. How did we end up with another cousin? He was older than me and looked bored and way out of place.

“Hi.” He said when I walked up and Shelly was wearing her this-means-war look.

“Hey.” How does one properly address a newcomer into our devious fold? I had thoughts of running him over with the three-wheeler.

Jennifer gave me a sly look. “We were just telling him about our Thanksgiving fireworks tradition. You know, the bottle rockets?”

My cousins once convinced me that if you held a bottle rocket by the stick and light it that it would fly from your hands. No one told me you had to let go when it started to go off.

“Uh-huh.”

“How we tie them together and throw them at one another.” Shelly piped in. The kid’s eyes grew big and I smiled.

“Yeah, I love that tradition. It’s better than the target shooting practice at one another. It’s hard to run in the woods and not fall into hunter traps. You remember how last year I hung upside downs for six hours and missed Thanksgiving dinner.”

The doom and gloom cousins snickered.

The kid was petrified.

We all three looked at each other with the same thought, good. This was our territory. He was going to have to fight for his right to hang with us.

Jen pushed away from the porch and my mama stuck her head out of the front door. “Y’all don’t go far because dinner is gonna be served in just a few minutes and I’m not yelling all over hell’s creation for you guys.”

All three of us rolled our eyes but the kid mumbled a weak, “we’ll stay close”.

Yeah, right.

“Christina Lynn…”

I tossed her a look over my shoulder, “Yes, mama.”

I looked back in front of me and thought to myself again, “yeah right”.

My cousins went running for their house. They always had a stash of something useful for troublemaking. I lagged behind with the kid.

“So, what is your name?”

I kept my eyes in front of me, watching my cousins tear up their house in search of the bottle rockets. The kid trailed behind me some as we made our way down the hill to the road.

“Mathew.”

“Do you go by Mathew or should I call you something else?”

He gave me a curious look, “What do you mean?”

I gave him a look, “I have to know what to call you when I dial 911.” And I walked away from him, leaving him in the road.

Jen bounced outside with Shelly hot on her heels. “We’ve got them!”

I reached forward for my bunch and Shelly tied off a handful for Mathew. Jen produced her handy dandy lighter as she tied six bottle rockets together. “Now, you have to do it like this. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt or anything. I am the oldest, therefore all younger cousins are my responsibility.”

Shelly and I snickered and Jen shot us a look.

Jen lit her bunch, waited until the wick was low and tossed them all. They shot in different directions and when they started to fly back towards us, Mathew was the only one who hit the ground.

Mathew pushed himself off the ground and started to hand back his bottle rockets. “I think I’ll just watch.”

Shelly shoved them back, “No way. Are you chicken of a couple of harmless bottle rockets?”

“No!” Mathew shook his head. “No. I just don’t feel like shooting them off that’s all.”

“Liar.”

I shrugged my shoulder and took the lighter away from Jen. I’d learned a long time ago that if you wanted to deal with my cousins you had to play dirty. The kid was going to have to learn that too. I lit off my bunch and tossed them almost a second too late. One bottle rocket was on a short fuse and blew almost too quick for my own good.

I laughed.

“GIRLS!! Mathew! What are y’all out there doing?” You could hear my mama over four counties plain as day. She’d had enough practice yelling for me when I was out running around in the woods after dark. “You better not have the fireworks out! I’m going to beat you guys black and blue!”

Empty threats.

Mathew dropped his bottle rockets on the ground like he’d been caught stealing and started to walk away. “You three are crazy.”

Shelly started making clucking noises as she lit her bunch. “Chicken. Brock-Brock-Brock…Chicken.”

She tossed her bunch high into the air and they took off in every direction. Her laughter echoed off the trees surrounding the place.

Mathew started back up the hill and Shelly chased after him. “You’re not going to live this down, Chicken Boy.”

So the tradition was born that every family gathering we picked on and tortured my newly found boy cousin, Mathew. We had no mercy for him.

So Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I want to lay out exactly what I’m thankful this year. I have a lot of blessings in my life and I don’t give thanks enough for all that I have. I’m the most ungrateful brat in the world.

I am thankful for:

1. The ship, my online friends and all the support my shipmates give me when I ask for it and when they think I need it. And for Hells for putting up with me.
2. Small favors.
3. My support system to which if I didn’t have them, there wouldn’t be me as I exist now.
4. Friendships lost and found. Which truly make you believe in something greater and fate and all that jazz.
5. The undead monkey, Mattycakes, who is trying sometimes and not box trained (but he pees in Hells hammock so it’s okay).
6. And a whole slew of other things that I will reserve to talk about at another time.

Now, what are your traditions and do you have any funny stories about Thanksgiving form when you were a child? Or what’s one thing you’re grateful for this year that you didn’t have last year?

Because it’s Thanksgiving and because the new Twilight movie is raking money hand-over-fist, it only seems appropriate there was a song that summed up the deliciousness of both of these favorites. I wasn’t a fan of the first movie, though you’d never know it by how often it is played in my DVD player, but this one: I’m definitely a fan. I think Taylor is a complete fetus, but I am a huge champion of Jacob Black. And on the big screen, Taylor’s chest looks at least 22 years old. Anyhow, this is for Taylor. (I hope his girlfriend, Taylor, isn’t jealous of my songwriting abilities. I know how such a thing could possibly happen, but Taylor, I have no designs on your man!)

Okay, what are you thankful for this Thanksgiving? Have any of you seen the new Twilight? Team Edward or Team Jacob?

*Cap’n Hellie swings off a mast, tumbling to the deck, only to find Hal curled up in the corner, frantically breathing into a paper bag.* “What’s her problem?”

*Sin perches on a railing and watches as Marn tries unsuccessfully to calm her.* “She’s being thankful.”

*Hellie* “Is her life really that bad?”

*Sin* “Nah. She’s just out on submission. It’s hard to stay thankful.”

*Marn whips around* “Shh! Don’t remind her!”

*Hellie* “Ohh. Well. Nothing like a nice rejection letter to remind a pirate to stay thankful.”

***

As we all know, we’re approximately T-minus-76-hours from Thanksgiving Dinner. I love Thanksgiving Dinner. I love smashing as many family members as you can around a table, all the yelling and “Hey, that was the last roll!” and insults being flung around. Last year, there was even a fork almost stabbed into someone’s hand (my husband’s family takes the roll situation seriously. God forbid we ever run out).

And then comes the question. “What are you thankful for this year?”

Now, I have a lot to be thankful for. I have a healthy family, job security, and a comfortable home. At the moment, there’s not much more I can ask for. And I am thankful for all that.

But at the same time, there’s this every-growing cloud of fear and rejection.  My agent sent out my manuscript in October. And we heard nothing for a full month. It’s good news, he told me. A full month without a pass is spectacular!

But even spectacular things come to an end, and the rejections started rolling in. It wasn’t a big shock. We all face it. I’ve faced rejection before and I’ll face it again. But man, it sucks. Every time I look at the emails again, I focus on these lines. These are the rejection lies. Some masochistic instinct makes me re-read them on a daily basis.

……………..

But this week, pirates, it’s Thanksgiving. Screw masochistic impulses to rub salt in wounds. Forget wallowing in the descending cloud of realizing that this may not be the book. This one may have to go under the bed, and then it’s going to be time to start over.

Back away from the knife block, ladies.

Oh, was I the only one? *stealthily sliding paring knife back into its slot*

So what do you do?  When all you want to do is throw down the pen, lower your forehead to the table, and let out low, guttural moaning noises.  When the thought of revising one more time makes your toes shrivel up in your special Thanksgiving socks.

No, really. I’m asking. What the hell do I do next?

I’ve been working on another project I was excited about, targeted for Harlequin Blaze. But Harlequin’s craptasitc debacle killed that enthusiasm.

I signed up for my Spring classes, including “Conflict in Romance” and “Putting the Thrill in your Thriller,” and that’s exciting.

But the only thing that really works is to look at how far I’ve come, take a few deep breaths from my paper bag, and tell myself that if I’ve improved this far, I’ll keep improving, and someday….somehow….I’ll be getting different letters. In the mean time, I’ve blacked out all the bad words in those rejection letter, and am now only reading the pretty words that are left:

………………..

They make me feel warm and fuzzy. Yes, I know, there’s a giant BUT coming (see the rejection nasty words above), but it’s Thanksgiving. I can just stare at the pretty, fuzzy words, and pretend the bad ones don’t exist.

So let’s hear it wenches! What are you thankful for this year? What milestones have you passed, goals have you met or benchmarks have you flown over? What are your accomplisments? This is your chance to brag! Forget the rejections. Black out those words. What pretty words are you left with?

So, I want to devote this week’s blog to unknown hotties, those hotties that haven’t found their day in the sun of overexposure.  *cough cough* RPattz *cough cough*

While I love me the usual hotties-*cough cough* RPattz *cough cough*-I kinda wanted to mix it up.

I watched Stardust recently and let me introduce you all to this fellow…

This is Charlie Cox, the lead in Stardust.  This picture doesn’t do him justice.  When he smiles, it’s all kinds of boyish charm, the kind that makes you want to forgive any tiny transgression.

In the same sort of fantasy movie vein, I really liked the guy who played Prince Caspian in the latest Narnia movie.  This…

is Ben Barnes. 

Personally, I think both of these guys should be getting some additional hottie air time.

So, who are your unexposed Hotties?  Anyone we should give some air time, someone we’ve neglected?

Come hang with us this week.  You can be sure we’ll talk about Turkey Day, the Twilight Saga, and Tryptophan.  I mean, it’s Thanksgiving week after all. 

So it was like any other Tuesday morning. I lolled in bed until almost 7 before hurrying into the shower, brushing my teeth, and dressing. I had breakfast nuked and set on the coffee table when I remembered I left my glass of Mountain Dew on my nightstand. I padded barefoot through the muted morning darkness and as I turned to walk back into the hallway, I saw it.

The black slithery line squiggled like lightning on my carpet and headed into the distinctive location of my bathroom.

I had a motherfucking snake in my motherfucking apartment.

I imagine to the average person, a snake the size of a bloated earthworm is no big deal, and to my herpetological-loving boyfriend, he’d probably argue whether it was actually a snake, being it was a whole 10-inches long and more anorexic than my pinkie finger; however, I would not be swayed. I was freaked the fuck out. 

I hate snakes, and by that, I don’t mean I hate them and then go to the zoo to look at them in the Reptile room. I mean I hate snakes. I don’t discuss them; I don’t look at pictures of them; I don’t draw them for Pictionary. I don’t google snakes. I don’t play with plush ones at the stores. If you thrust a rubber one in my face, I will strangle you with it. The basilisk in Harry Potter flips me out, and it’s computer generated. I’m not joking; I hate snakes.

But don’t worry. Like all things that can scare me, I had a strategy planned, should the need ever arise of me having to deal with a snake in my domicile. I was going to call for someone to take the snake out of my house. It was going to be completely Samuel L. Jackson, jumping up and down on my couch, screaming into my phone, “Get this motherfucking snake out of my motherfucking apartment!” Then I was going to continue jumping up and down, screaming, until someone got it the hell out of my apartment. Simple, easy to remember.

Except I realized immediately—adrenaline rushing a pragmatic train of thought through my brain—I was going to have to deal with this problem. I knew immediately I wasn’t going to be able to just call someone to come get it. Waiting would cause me more problems. Like it disappearing again and not being found. A snake continuing to be in my house, unfound, would be an infinitely BIGGER problem.

I’d have to trap it. Then call and freak out at my landlord. He could take the snake away once it was contained in a place smaller than my apartment.

I brought out the biggest, tallest Tupperware container I had and shakily brought it back to the bathroom. I screeched at the snake, who cowered behind the door as if it thought I might not see it. Right. My hawk-like gaze zeroed on the little bastard. I screamed and tried to scoop. He kept wiggling. I kept screaming and shaking so hard you would have thought I was a whippet caught in a blizzard.

Finally I relocated the damned thing into its new plastic home and lidded it tightly, prancing back into the living room and setting it on the card table. Then I curled up on my couch and allowed myself the Dobby-esque nervous breakdown I so richly deserved. I called the landlord and freaked out on the answering machine. “There is a SNAKE in my apartment! I have trapped it, but I don’t know if there are more SNAKES!”

Then I called my boyfriend. When my knight-in-shining-armor returned my call, he asked what’s wrong. This was an auspicious beginning; he’d sensed the terror in my voice and immediately called me back. “There is a fucking snake in my house.” “A snake?”—I can actually hear him sucking in his cheeks to keep from laughing outright. “Are you laughing?” I ask in my deadly woman voice. “Noooo. Where is the snake now?” “I trapped it in a Tupperware bowl. With a lid.” The lid was very important. I was still doing my best whippet shiver, but now I was able to redirect my fear into anger that somebody did not understand how dangerous this 10-inch non-venomous snake was.

Okay, time for the Charles Dickens’ HEA: the snake rode with me to work so I could release it as far from my house as feasibly possible (landlord did not return immediate call and I wasn’t leaving it in the apartment–what if the snake was Houdini?); he was released into a nearby park around noon, the container thrown like I was trying out for shot put; and I haven’t seen the damned thing since. Best HEA of all.

I took a picture as proof in case my landlord thinks I’m just making up shit at this point. I feel like I call him every other week about something. Please note that the camera adds ten pounds. However, to me, ten inches is as good as a mile.

Now I only share this story and picture—other than I figure a lot of you would love to be marooned with Bo’sun and cut out of my will—because in creating characters, it’s important to give your character three things (three is always the magic number in fairy tales, I guess) they would never do. Then make them do them. If you had asked me a month ago what my plan was regarding snakes, it would be “call someone to get it out of my house.” Nowhere—and I mean nowhere—would the following procedures be on the list: “catch the snake” and “ride with it to work, passenger’s seat” and “release the live snake back into the wild.” What a joke.

It was when I was emailing with my friend Pam, who understands my phobia of snakes (she’s seen me walk on water to exit a swimming area where a snake had been spotted) gaped at me through email: “You trapped the snake? Really? OMG.” Same sort of email voice that would display the sort of awe for You cured cancer? Really? OMG. You know, as if I had wrangled a six-foot python rather an itty-bitty garter snake. (Same difference to me, you understand.) I also got brownie points for not bashing its head in. And I realized, Wow, I really had done something I would never, ever would have done in any other circumstances.

So if I, chicken shit extraordinaire, could corral a garter snake, then my own characters in novels could definitely do the shit they’d never dream of doing in real life. And I’m going to have to think hard because it really does need to be something that scares them to death.

I think it’s conquering the thing that scares you the most (not that I’m going to become a snake charmer by any means, nor bring home a pet python) that gives you the most satisfaction. Like you really earned your HEA or reward. One of the most satisfying moments in Stranger Than Fiction is when Will Ferrell starts living his life. He does things he never thought he could do—but wanted to do, like play the guitar. So he went and bought a kick ass guitar and learned to play a song. Then he plays the song for the girl he’s in love with—again, something he never would do in ordinary circumstances (but because he was going to die soon, he did it)—the dorkiest version of “Whole Wide World”, eyes closed, totally vulnerable, and for his efforts, his love interest totally jumps him. (Huzzah for that kind of HEA.)

I didn’t get magnificent sex for my efforts; however, I did feel—once the shivers wore off—like Lara Croft. I felt like a Heroine. That’s why writers have to make their heroines do the things they’d never want to do, or they’ll never be true heroines.

So what do you do to make your heroines earn their heroine status? Or your heroes for that matter? Do you notice in novels when characters do the things they said they’d never do? What are your favorite examples from novels or authors who do this well?

I love words, crew. I adore the play of words. My father was a punster and I grew up reading the masters of words and puns. Like Isaac Asimov. And the magician of the impossible, Ray Bradbury. Aye, I grew up reading the classics of science fiction. But these men were more than writers, they loved words. Especially Asimov.

I love words. They are the basis of magic. Of the spells that created worlds like Middle Earth, Hogworts, Narnia, The Foundation… I love words! I grew up reading Edgar Allen Poe, who played with words and the sounds of words. I fell in love with poetry, with songs…

And I despise seeing words corrupted, or misused. I rant and rail at words being used to debase or belittle. Like real as you all know.

You’re not a real writer.

Oh, you write romance? That isn’t real literature.

When are you going to get a real job?

That isn’t a real religion.

ARGH!

OK. How about the word enough’ Another one of my pet peeves. I dislike words that are born with a nebulous limit. But they are used to dictate value…with a nebulous limit! Define exactly how much enough is, if you can!

Some words are simple poison. Enough is one of those. So is better. Better than what, exactly? And there is the perennial favorite, should. Always used by those telling us what we ‘should’ be doing with our life. I find the ‘shoulders’ often use ‘real’ a great deal. Or misuse real. And they nearly always believe we could be ‘better’ or do ‘better’.

Considering the bloodbath I instigated some months ago, tossing inner critics to the Kraken…ever notice how many of these words are favorites of the critical types?

I know there be ‘sweet’ words that drive others insane. Like the word ‘sweet’. I’m not one of those, I find the word works for me. But I know there are those overused words. I believe they fall in the ‘purple prose’ category. (Why did they choose purple to demonize these words? I like purple…)

Anyway!

There always be the simple malapropisms. Those can be fun, but they ain’t in my hate category. Nah, it be the misuse of words. Not to mention the hijacking of words. Why is bitch a bad word? Or witch? And all the ‘nasty’words, of course. All those words used to discuss genitalia, either gender. I do not understand why words are assigned values that are purely part of denigration. Why is it an insult to call a man a dick? Or a woman a cunt? I do not understand this, really.

Now, words change meanings as generations use them differently. (I can’t tell you all how many discussions I’ve had with my mother over the word ‘gay.’) I understand how words change according to the society…but I don’t like it. No, let me put that differently, it isn’t that I don’t like it…I don’t like seeing good words turned bad. Or simple plain words turned evil.

I do understand the difference between definition and connotation, but I don’t always like that there is a difference. I’m a dreamer, sue me. I’d like to see words returned to their origins, to their purity. Allow the usage to be ascertained by the surroundings. And strive to restore honor to much maligned words, condemn those that limit to their limits!

We are writers. We owe it to the world to use words correctly. To encourage the reader to open their mind and embrace the correct usage of words.  Tracing words to their origin often opens minds to how far meanings wander. I have a friend who went to school to study pedagogy which means, basically, the science and art of teaching But I bet that isn’t what most of you thought when you read it!

We all have pet peeves regarding how words are used. What are the ones that drive you crazy? And why? You have any words you are determined to redeem as a writer? Any stereotypes to see slain? Any you see misused that cause you to toss a book into a wall? Or any clever uses that make your heart sing? (I don’t want to be totally negative today!)