Today is just as wacky, I’m afraid. The stuff in the news isn’t a lot more blog worthy than yesterday. (Although it IS cool to find out that the First Lady is a descendent of a slave and a white man. America rocks.) But the stuff on my desk… well, there is a blog-in-the-making right here in the pile of crap on my desk.

I don’t know why this article has been printed out and is sitting here. I share my computer with my kids. I suspect them. But the photo and the headline are so disgusting, I’m going to share both of them with you.

Headline: Spider Builds Life-Sized Decoys.
Picture:

See what I mean? Gross.

As a child, our summer cottage (I know that sounds glamorous, but it wasn’t, trust me—no one wanted to shower or sleep in it) was filled with mallard decoys. My uncles would put them on the lake during duck season and shoot the poor saps who fell for the dirty trick. But what the hell is a spider doing with a decoy? Despite the photo, I find I want to know.

This is what I found out. The answer wasn’t obvious. First, the scientists discovered that spiders with more crap (they call it ‘decorations,’ but please) in their webs get more predators. If so, I wondered to myself, what the hell are the spiders thinking? (And if you find yourself wondering what is going on in a spider’s brain, you should probably be an author, too, because you are just as deranged as I am.)

Maybe spider scientists are wacky, too. (And they must be. I mean, can you imagine meeting them at a dinner party. “Hi, my name is Lucinda, and yes, I write steamy romances. What’s that? You’re a spider scientist?” Lucinda nods politely and tries not the get creeped out. “Nice to meet you.” Lucinda runs for cover and wipes her arms free of imaginary spider legs.) Because they tried to figure out why spiders put extra crap in their web.

It turns out that spiders who put decoys in their web have a lower probability of getting eaten by wasps than do the same kind of spiders with plain webs. Why? The wasps get fooled by the decoy. While wasps try to eat the spider-shaped glob of mud (which, really, wouldn’t that taste better than a spider?), the actual spider runs for cover.

As for the spiders who put non-decoy decorations in their web and promptly get eaten? The scientists wave their hands (only two, not eight) and make some crap up. They don’t have any idea.

Which is fine by me. Because when they figure out the answer, I’ll have something new to blog about. And speaking of a decoy, maybe I could make a mud version of myself and park it in front of my computer. Then my kids wouldn’t print out these disgusting articles and leave them sitting where I have to look at them.

************
When I’m not getting revolted by things my kids leave on my desktop, I’m writing paranormal romances with kickass characters and non-stop plots. My newest release, SCARLET NIGHTS, comes out next month. I just received a huge box of books from Kensington. Leave a comment and I’ll pick a random winner on Saturday.

And then I flipped to this page. “7. Behave like an Eighteenth Century Rake.”

I LOVE this. I so want to behave like a Rake! Okay, here’s the definition (from page 25): A rake was a rich young man of he 18th century, who dissipated his youth and fortune on gambling, drinking, and above all, womanizing. (Okay, I’d man-ize, but still.) The author, Clare Bailey, then makes a complete list of what one would have to do to become a Rake. Being a horse lover, I particularly like step 4: Go for a ride in a fashionable park. (Yes, you will need horses and, if possible, a carriage. Alternatively, a convertible Ferrari or Aston Martin will do.) When I become a Rake, I’m taking the horses. I think a lovely set of matched bays would serve me very nicely. I wouldn’t know an Aston Martin if it bit me on the ass.

Step number 1 is pretty good too. Step 1: Come into an inheritance or endowment that generates an annual income of at least $400,00. That sounds easy.

But then we come to the final step, step 10. (See how easy it is to become a Rake? Ten easy steps!) The last one’s a doozy, though. Step 10: Repeat until ruined, syphilitic, sclerotic or killed in a duel. It wouldn’t be hard to kill me in a duel, at least if the duel was with swords or something. If it were hand grenades, I might have a chance. I can really pitch a ball.

But what the heck is ‘sclerotic’? Does it have anything to do with ‘erotic’? Wait here a minute while I look it up. Oh, here it is–sclerotic: adjective: of or relating to the sclera of the eyeball (“Sclerotic tissue”). So if you become a Rake, you get eyeball-ish? That doesn’t make sense. Wait here while I check out the other definitions. Ah. This might be it: adjective: relating to or having sclerosis; hardened (“A sclerotic patient”). That seems closer. Maybe if I look up ‘sclerosis.’ noun: any pathological hardening or thickening of tissue.

So, I guess being a Rake might harden my tissue. I suppose my level of concern would be directly correlated with exactly which tissue got hardened.

I started blogging here and in myspace to introduce new readers to my books. And although I’ve been sidetracked about becoming a Rake (I still might try it–damn the sclerosis!), the introduction continues. I have eight books on the shelves right now with another coming out in November. All but one of them is a paranormal romance. You can order my newest book WHAT SHE WANTS on Amazon.

Today, I’m giving away an autographed copy is up for grabs to a random commenter. Leave a comment, and I’ll pick a winner on Friday.

And keep your eye on this blog and my blog at Myspace. The FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE book has many more interesting pages for me to blog about, and I have a stack of paranormal romances by many authors to give away. I just gave away a copy of BRANDED BY FIRE.

Best,
Lucinda

It’s item number 54. Make Spanish Fly.

No, it’s not buying many airline tickets for our Castillian friends. It involves bugs. Turns out the Spanish Fly is actually made from a bug. Funny thing about the Spanish Fly (Cantharis vesicatoria). It’s not a fly. It’s a beetle. You can see it here.

The other funny thing about the Spanish Fly–it’s not necessarily from Spain! It lives all over the Mediterranean and even in Russia.

Why is this important, you ask? It’s not like you logged in here today for some weird version of Animal Planet. It’s important for one simple reason. Step 1 of making this famous aphrodisiac is:
1. Catch your beetle. Look for and iridescent emerald green beetle commonly found on olive trees and honeysuckles.

This project is sounding like fun. I mean, forget the part where you actually have to catch bugs, you get to go the Mediterranean! (If you’d rather go to Russia, I am not going to pretend to understand.)

And what is step two, you ask. Nothing too difficult.
2. Kill and dry beetle.
Shouldn’t be much different than killing the spiders in my house. I get my SO to do it, generally. Of course, if I just catch a bunch of beetles and let them free in my home, they might follow the same pattern as the other bugs in my house. They may just find themselves dead and dried up in my windowsills. And I don’t have to be guilty of bugocide. On the plus side, they’re a very pretty green. They match my decor. On the down side, my guests might be put off by this. (Until I give them the finished product!)

And step 3?
3. Grind it in a pestal and mortar until you have a fine powder. It should be a yellowish or olive brown color and bitter to the taste.
Okay, wait a minute here. Going to the Mediterranean was one thing. Tasting dried squashed bugs is another. I know what you’re saying (the crazy ones among you, anyway). You’re saying: Lucinda, do you know how many bugs you’ve eaten in your lifetime? Hundreds. Thousands! What do you think is in red food dye? Squished ants. That’s what. But my answer to you is that eating smashed dried beetles from my windowsill is a different kettle of fish than licking pink frosting off of your… cake. (Did you like how I kept the food metaphor going there?)

But okay. A girl has to suffer for her craft. If I had a shot of tequila before I pulled out ye old mortar and pestle, maybe I could bring myself to take the tiniest tiniest taste of the smashed bug. The people on Survivor eat cockroaches, alive and whole.

Step four is the most difficult of all. In fact, if I’ve had said shot of Jose Cuervo, I don’t know if I could do it.

4. The beetle contains up to 5 percent cantharidin by weight, so you need to use less than 1.2g to avoid giving a fatal dose. If determined to risk poisoning and death, make a tincture by soaking a minuscule amount of powder in alcohol, then dilute this tincture repeatedly to achieve a concentration of around 1 part per million. Take 1 ml of this with plenty of fluids.

Wow. So I need like a scale and things. If I dredge up hazy memories of college chemistry classes, I can almost imagine doing this. Eww. It’s almost worst than imagining that I’m eating bugs. Me and chemistry. Not friends.

So I told my SO that I was going to do this. I told him all the details from the vacation to the Mediterranean to the bug smashing and eating. And he said, “You’re going to do this to make an aphrodisiac?”

“Yes. A Spanish Fly.”

“And you’re going back to chem lab for the final step?”

He gets this delicious crinkle in his forehead when he uses this tone with me. “I think I have to.”

Then he smiles. It’s so focused it’s a little frightening. “Lucinda,” he says. “If you put on that lab coat and those horn rimmed glasses of yours. And you put your hair up in that bun…”

“What?” I pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“That’s all the aphrodisiac I need.”

Now you know why he bought the book for me….

*********
None of my books feature Spanish Flys, but I do write for Kensington’s Aphrodisia line. For those of you who are new to my blogs, I write hot paranormal romances with kickass heroines and heroes who are worthy of them. I also use twisty plots and lots of magic. You can buy any of my eight books at Borders, B&N or Amazon. My ninth SCARLET NIGHTS comes out in November.

If you’d like a chance to win my June release WHAT SHE WANTS, leave a comment. I’ll pick a random winner next Friday.

Best,
Lucinda

So the saga continues…

Last Saturday, my SO gets out of bed, his hair all tousled, the muscles in his chest reflecting nicely in the morning sun. After his coffee he pulls on his ripped jeans and torn t-shirt with a huge cockroach on it. The warning bells go off in my mind.

“So,” I say, aiming for nonchalance. “You going to work on something?” I’m trying not to remember the time he went to fix the siding around the picture window and we ended up with a shards of glass all over my roses and a boarded up hole in the wall as we waited for Home Depot to deliver our new window.

“Yeah.” He scratches his head and sips his coffee. He still looks tired. “I’m going to change the oil in your car.”

I cheer up immediately. How much damage can a man do changing oil? Besides, my car is overdue. “Great,” I say. “Can I help?” Yeah right.

“Just keep the kids outta my hair.”

Hair that adorably tousled deserves to be child free. “Okay.”

He ambles out of the house, and I watch him (through the new picture window) as he grabs his stuff and climbs under the car. You know how sexy a man looks when he puts on ripped up jeans and climbs under a car? Very.

The kids do their thing and I do mine and I sort of forget about my end of the job–you know, the part about keeping the kids out of his hair.

The sudden yowl of a dying child fills the sunny morning. It’s followed closely by the sound of poodles slamming the door and howling like aliens have landed.

“Son of a bitch!” I hear. My SO.

I’m down the stairs almost as fast as the poodles can slam the door. What the hell happened? I’m imagining the car falling on the kids. I’m imagining the windshield falling out. I’m imagining the car pinning my husband underneath it, requiring my superhuman strength to save him. (Hey, it could happen.)

I find none of these things.

Instead, I find that my white car is covered in black oil. The drain pan is on the hood–upside down.

“Umm,” I say. I’m trying not to laugh. My car is ugly anyway. “What happened?”

The yowling fills the morning again. The death cry of a child.

I spin on my heals to follow the noise, but the poodles are on it, and I can’t hear a thing.

“Jesus Christ,” I say. (I know the whole thing about the Lord’s name, but death is in the air.)

But it isn’t the death of a child. It’s a cat. Actually, it’s two cats well on their way to making kittens.

“That wasn’t the kids, was it?” my SO asked. He’s standing next to me now, smelling deliciously of sun-soaked skin and old motor oil.

“Not our kids. It was the cats.”

“I thought they died,” he said. “Not the cats–the kids.”

“So you threw down the oil pan?”

He runs his hand through his hair, smearing oil on his forehead. The cats are done screwing now, and they’re looking at us from the other side of the picket fence. The poodles are off chasing a squirrel . “I did,” he said. “It was a reflex.”

“On the hood of the car?”

“I thought they were dying!”

“You were dyeing–my car!”

He looks at me and starts to laugh. He shakes his head. “Can’t you do anything about those cats?”

“I’m trying!” I said. I drag him toward the trap. “Look, it’s baited as we speak, just waiting for a hungry kitty.” We walk toward the front of the house. “I can’t help it if they hate Nine Lives.”

Before we turn the corner, we hear a metallic snapping sound, then, “Reoow!”

I think I know what the sound is, but it’s too much to hope for. The poodles are on it, roiling toward the noise with their joyous barking.

“You caught one!” my SO says. I’m too speechless to speak–I’ve been trying for weeks to catch the cats–and when he leans over to kiss me, speaking isn’t what I want to do.

“I caught something,” I said, grabbing the front of his jeans.

“Reoow!” the cat says. I know what it means,

“I think it worked up a hunger,” my SO says.

“I think you did, too,” I said, pointing at the car as I grab the cat trap and move it into the garage–away from the poodles and the neighborhood girls intent on freeing them.

Still he gives me that wicked grin. “I have to get as hungry as the cats before you can catch me.”

But I know as I look at the car and the poodles–and the kids relentlessly mesmerized by the Saturday morning cartoons–that I caught him years ago. And that I’m very lucky.

“You going to get that oil off my car?” I ask.

“It can wait.” This time, he grabs my jeans.

******************
On a serious note, the feral cat problem on Long Island–and across the country– is a bad one. People dump unneutered and unspayed cats into the neighborhood, and they have babies. There is nothing to do with the cats after I catch them. The animal shelters won’t take them because they can’t place them in homes. Thankfully, NY has a no-kill policy. (I wish my poodles knew that.) I can’t pawn them off on any of my friends, because these cats act like wild animals.

According to the animal welfare people, the responsible thing to do is this: Catch the cat. Bring it to a vet who’ll spay or neuter it for cost (the capturer’s cost). They mark its ear, and the capturer is supposed to release it where they’ve caught it. I’ve done this twice so far, and I have five more cats in my sights. (Which is expensive, but I can’t stand the thought of homeless kittens.)

While I suppose releasing the cats where you caught them might be better than euthanasia, it upset mes. I began this crusade on the day I traveled the 1.2 miles from my home to the school and saw three dead cats in the road. Releasing the cats where I catch them didn’t seem like a good idea–except to the poodles.

Luckily, Suffolk County is fairly forward thinking. It was the first (and maybe only) country to ban BPEs in kids bottles, for instance. A local group has set up a non profit dedicated to raising enough money to buy a piece of property that will ultimately be a cat house. (And not in the erotic romance sense.) The house will come with a staff vet to spay, neuter and doctor the feline residents. Any local person can bring the feral cat they catch to the cat house, and it can live out its life in safety. Without poodles and cars.

To raise some funds, they’re having a book sale. If you have any new or gently used books you’d like to donate, you can mail them to:

Volunteers for Animal Welfare
15 Mastic Road
Sound Beach NY 11789

They’d like the books by May 3rd. You will receive a receipt so you can write it off your taxes.

And maybe next spring, when my SO does the 2,000 mile oil change, my white car won’t get dyed.

Not that I’m really complaining… (grins)

Leave a catty comment and I’ll pick a random winner next weekend. The winner will receive a signed copy of PURE SEX.

EDITED TO ADD:

Amazon is censoring any book with so-called adult content. This includes racy romances, like mine. Follow the link to read more about it.

Amazon Rank

I hate the word bosoms. In my mind, it conjures up a pair of matronly breasts that haven’t seen any airtime in too damned long. My critique partner tosses the word into a manuscript occasionally. I know she does it just to see if I’m paying attention. It’s a technique that works.

I’m also going to admit to a bias against anything labeled as “women’s studies.” It’s not that I’m against studying women, but my personal preference is to study women from an evolutionary perspective in say an anthropology or biology setting. (The egg is much larger than the sperm that impregnates it. Ever wonder what the social implication of that is?) Evolutionary biology has a theory that women’s studies lacks, at least in my opinion.

So we’ve got a book with bosoms in the title and the label “women’s studies/humor” on the back. Do you think I would have ever bought this myself? I’m thinking… not so much.

It gets worse. Even setting aside my dislike of the word ‘bosoms’ and the field of women’s studies, I was worried about the book. Non-fiction hurts my head. The world is serious enough to be filling it with more facts. And did the romance genre really need an exploration and explanation?

It did.

Remember Marty Stouffer and Wild America? In this book, Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan are like Marty, only instead of walking through herds of moose, they’re walking through gaggles of history’s heroes and heroines. They watch, they study, and they explain.

Like the experts they are, Sarah and Candy identify the various romance-novel species. Some species of heroes are extinct (the rapist hero, for example) while others are merely endangered. (Do you think we should set aside some private cyberspace as a habitat for the endangered Too-Stupid-To-Live heroine, or might she just impale herself on some bitmapped fence and die, anyway?) Others (the Plain Jane, the Doormat) are alive and well, thriving in the ecosystem so changed from that of the 1970′s. This book will tell you where to spot the extinct, the dwindling and the thriving. It will also explain why we love them, or in the case of the rapist hero, why we loved them.

Like Marty in a forest full of birds, Sarah and Candy easily identify those characters we most like to see (the paragon we want to shake up, the less-than-perfect heroine that drives us nuts, the alpha heroine, the smart-mouthed cynic). Look, there’s the blue bosomed paragon in that book on your left!

Unlike Marty, who pussyfooted (a pun, perhaps) around mating rituals, Sarah and Candy have no fear of the topic. Ever wondered about the Hero’s Wang of Mighty Loving and the heroine’s Magic Hoo Hoo? What are their glorious properties? Where can they be sighted? Wonder no longer. Sarah and Candy explain their functions and locations with perfect clarity. Abracadabra.

I wouldn’t want you to think that all of their conclusions come from observing the Hero and Heroine in their natural habitat, oh, no. Sarah and Candy conducted interviews, many many interviews. No one was safe. Nora Roberts? She was grilled. Lisa Kleypas? Ditto. John DeSalvo, Kate Duffy, Raelene Gorlinsky, Kalen Hughes? Interviewed. They also referred to the existing natural histories. Did you know that Linda Barlow and Jayne Ann Krentz together wrote a book about the hidden codes of romance? I didn’t either, but Sarah and Candy did. Anyone pursuing a master’s degree in women’s studies could do worse than starting with this book.

But this book isn’t for graduate students (at least, not primarily). If anyone ever asked you why you read romance—in that tone of voice—this book is for you. If anyone ever told you that romance is crap because it’s nothing but porn for girls—and you wished you’d done something other than fling your Coke in their face—this book’s for you. If you ever wanted to design and color your own cheesy romance cover, this book’s for you.

But there’s one reason why, as an author, this book will be a keeper for me. I’ll probably even keep it on my desk rather than on the shelf, where I’d have to stand up and get it. That reason is: the chapter entitled “Good Sex, Please!” Whether the sex is literal (as in erotic romance) or figurative (the vampire bite, the werewolf claw), this chapter will help authors keep their heads straight when writing those tricky scenes. Who’s POV should a scene be in? It turns out, there’s an answer to that.

This is a book for romance readers, romance authors, and anyone who has ever wondered what it is about romance books that they like so damned much. Maybe it’s a book for people who think romance is a waste of time, too, but you, the romance fan, will probably have to buy the book for them. You won’t be sorry.

Romance authors and readers catch a lot of crap for their passions (pun so intended). Beyond Heaving Bosoms is a balm to soothe the burning itch of that crap. Straight up, if I hadn’t bought Beyond Heaving Bosoms, it would have been my loss, big time. I am one cheap bastard, so I’m really lucky I won it. This book is so damned good, all my writer girlfriends are getting it for birthdays and holidays. (Damn, there goes that surprise.)

Amazon starts shipping Beyond Heaving Bosoms on April 14th. If you like the sound of this book, leave a comment. I’ll pick a random winner, put them on the pre-order list, and they’ll receive a copy right around tax day, direct from Amazon. I’ll pick a winner next Sunday.

Because Beyond Heaving Bosoms celebrates the romance novel, even the steamy romance novel, this giveaway wouldn’t be complete without putting an erotic romance up for grabs. Next Sunday I’ll pick a second winner to receive a copy of my steamiest book, The Supplicant. And don’t forget to check out all the other great books by Aphrodisia authors.

My addiction is not normal. It’s not martinis or cigarettes. Not even crack. It’s WoW. World of Warcraft.

It’s not new. The game, I mean. My addiction is. At least to this game. See, when I saw the box and the demo, I forbade it from my house. I knew. I knew what would happen to me, and it’s not pretty. But it sneaked in when I thought I was strong enough to handle just one hit. I wasn’t.

I am a gamer addict.

Addictions are well known to have a genetic component. Mine is no different. I got it from my Dad.

When I was a kid, my parents bought my sister and me the TI version of PacMan. It was called MunchMan. (Maybe that’s why I write such steamy scenes in my books?) I would play and get a high score. My dad would see that. He’d play until he beat my score. Then I’d play until I beat his score. This went on for months. And then one day I sat down and flipped the entire set of screens not once, not twice, but three times. I had the highest score anyone could imagine.

My dad stayed up until four in the morning trying to beat that score. He couldn’t. I think he tried a few more times, but he never beat it. When I was in college, I gave him a Nintendo with Sonic Hedgehog. It nearly caused his second wife to divorce him.

And then came Tetris. I played it on the Mac. When I was supposed to be working. I played it like a crack addict smokes her pipe. I had the highest score of anyone I knew. I knew a bunch of graduate students who played. My score blew them away. I went to a wedding and the bride and groom put me at a table with a bunch of graduate students from MIT. One guy there was called The Fong Unit. His friends were in awe of his massive (um) score (again, um). When he asked what my score was, he couldn’t believe it. I’d beaten him by hundreds of thousands.

“What platform?” he asked. His friends craned to hear. Maybe I was playing on a slower machine.

“SE-30,” I said. It was a fast machine, even for geeks at MIT.

The geeks fell at my feet in worship. Of course, maybe it was the champagne at the wedding, now that I think of it.

And then came WoW. I might never leave.

World of Warcraft is worse than MuchMan and Tetris, at least in a addict’s sense. It’s not a game so much as it’s a world. You make a character. You fight bad guys (or good guys if you decide to be a bad guy). You meet up with your friends. Everyone looks sexy. Everyone has nice pets and big (um) swords. The fantasy writer in me loves it. (I wonder if I can write off the time I spend there. Note to self: ask accountant.) Pretty colors. Quests. Drama. Yum.

But here’s the killer. My SO is better than me at the damned game. He’s a Night Elf Hunter with a pet. Her name is Polly. There’s almost no monster he can’t kill.

Me? I’m a Night Elf Druid. I can shift shape (yey!) between tiger, whale (or manatee, but that is so not sexy–of course, neither is a whale, now that I think of it. Maybe it’s a dolphin. Yeah. It’s a dolphin). No matter what I do, he’s a level or sometimes two higher than me. (It turns out that arrows are better for killing than all my magic spells.)

But the names of the Druid’s spell! Moonfire! Starfire! Wrath! Fairie Fire! So cool! “I will slay you with my Wrath!” I say, in elf form. And I do.

Only I die. A lot. Unless I’m with a bunch of sexy rogues. Or warriors. Or hunters. Even the priests are okay. At least they can bring me back from the dead.

So if you see a Night Elf named Esminet in the Ashenvale area, say hi. Or blow me a kiss. (I named her after my heroine from Moon Shadow. I wanted to name her Esmenet, which was my heroine’s actual name, but it was taken. I hope that means someone else named their character after the heroine in my book!)

Okay. I gotta go. I know it’s late and I’ve already played for four hours tonight, but I’ve got just this one last quest. Then I’ll stop. I promise.

******

So for today’s giveaway, I’ve got a copy of SHE. (I love this book!) I also have a copy of THE SUPPLICANT. Leave a comment and I’ll pick a random winner on Wednesday.

SWAK,
Lucinda

I bought Founding Faith for my mom, and The Algebraist for my new brother-in-law. He loves big fat science-fiction books. I bought him Down Home Zombie Blues last year. It might have been too girly for him. I didn’t make that mistake this year.

I bought my sister Nefertiti , which is about sisters. I haven’t read it. I hope the sisters are nice to each other. I also bought her one of my favorite books: The Secret History of the Pink Carnation. Readers only gave it three stars. Are they crazy? Loren Willig rocks.

I bought Star Wars Galactic Crisis for the little boy in my life. I also bought him a book about sharks, but I can’t remember its title. It had a photo of a vicious-looking set of teeth on the front cover. He loved it. For the little girl in my life, I picked out Merlin’s Dragon. Actually, she picked it out. We went to Borders and B&N just before the holidays, and she took a pen and notebook. At the end of the night, she had a long list of books she wanted. Great kid!

For the man in my life, I bought You Being Beautiful. I would have never picked it out for him, but he was with me on one of my shopping trips and he couldn’t put it down. He hasn’t picked it up now that it’s sitting on his own table though. Not sure what to make of that. He bought me Forbidden Knowledge Sex. I don’t know if he thought I’d need this to write my books, or if he was hoping to expand our horizons. Maybe both. (And just so you know, it was hard to deliver those last in my Andy Rooney voice).

If I’m going to keep up the Andy Rooney theme, I have to tell you the books I have on my desk. Here’s what you could find, in chronological order. The farther down the stack, the longer it’s been sitting here: The Write Ingredients (Lori Foster gathered a bunch of recipes from authors and put a book together. All the proceeds went to soldiers. I have a recipe for chocolate chip cookies in there), Witch Fire and The Mark of the Vampire Queen (both have beautiful covers, and I used coupons to buy them. They’re for giveaways). In a different stack, I have Predatory Game, Dead After Dark, Dream Chaser, and Dark Lover. I bought each of these for giveaways on my MySpace blog.

Under that stack, I have the winter issue of Romance Sells. My November release Running Wild is in it, and I’m hoping to use it to convince my conservative library to buy my book. I’m not holding my breath. And under that I have a copy of Hot Silk and Ultimate Weapon. My editor gave me those, and I’m not sure what to do with them. I’ll probably use them in a giveaway, even though they’re not paranormals.

I realize I’m rambling longer than Andy Rooney would have, but this exercise is surprisingly cathartic. I also have a stack of Romantic Time Magazines. Most aren’t opened. I don’t have time to read them. The latest issue of RWR is sitting here too. It has a lovely cover so it’s been serving as a coaster for my tea. I have several gardening catalogs here, each opened to the tomato pages. I closed my eyes and held my breath as I thumbed past the roses. I have no more room in my garden, but I wish I did.

What books are missing off my desk? Seems like an odd question given the stacks I’ve just read off to you, but my desk is huge. It has a huge pop-up shelve that used to house a typewriter but now holds an oversize pile of other book (which I might discuss in a different blog). But I wish George RR Martin’s newest book was sitting here. It’s the final (yeah, right) installment in the Fire and Ice series. I love them. If I preorder this book now, I’ll get it in October, which seems like a long time from now. I wonder if they’ll get it earlier in the UK? I also wish the Smart Bitches upcoming book was sitting here. Beyond Heaving Bosoms, it’s called. I don’t have to wait too long to get this one. I won an ARC of it and it should get here any day now.

And speaking of preorders that are a long way away, you can preorder my next book What She Wants from Amazon. I’m crowing about preorders now, before Kensington posts the cover. I’ve only seen the black and white version, and I can’t say I’m thrilled with it. In fact, it makes me want to run away and scream. Maybe I’ll pass it to the Smart Bitches to mock. When life hands you lemonade…

And finally to the giveaways! Yey! If you’d like a copy of Running Wild or The Supplicant, leave a comment. I’ll pick a random winner on Monday. Be sure and check back then to see if you’re a winner, or leave your e-mail in the message.

Barbie’s Christmas List! )

Barbie
c/o Mattel, Inc.
El Segundo, CA 90245

Santa Claus
North Pole, North Pole
December 23, 1996

Dear Santa:
Listen you ugly little troll, I’ve been helping you out every year, playing at being the perfect Christmas present, wearing skimpy bathing suits in frigid weather, and drowning in fake tea from one too many tea parties, and I hate to break it to ya Santa, but IT’S DEFINITELY PAYBACK TIME! There had better be some changes around here this Christmas, or I’m gonna call for a nationwide meltdown (and trust me, you won’t wanna be around to smell it). So, here’s my holiday wish list for 2008:

1. A nice, comfy pair of sweat pants and a frumpy, oversized sweatshirt. I’m sick of looking like a hooker. How much smaller are these bathing suits gonna get? Do you have any idea what it feels
like to have nylon and velcro crawling up your butt?

2. Real underwear that can be pulled on and off. Preferably white. What bonehead at Mattel decided to cheap out and MOLD imitation underwear to my skin?!? It looks like cellulite!

3. A REAL man…maybe GI Joe. Hell, I’d take Tickle-Me Elmo over that wimped-out excuse for a boytoy Ken. And what’s with that earring anyway? If I’m gonna have to suffer with him, at least make him (and me) anatomically correct.

4. Arms that actually bend so I can push the aforementioned Ken-wimp away once he is anatomically correct.

5. Breast reduction surgery. I don’t care whose arm you have to twist, get it done.

6. A jogbra. To wear until I get the surgery.

7. A new career. Pet doctor and school teacher just don’t cut it. How about a systems analyst? Or better yet, a public relations senior account exec!

8. A new, more new gen persona. Maybe “PMS Barbie”, complete with a miniature container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and a bag of chips; “Animal Rights Barbie”, with my very own paint gun, outfitted with a fake fur coat, bottle of spray on blood and handcuffs; or “Stop Smoking Barbie,” sporting a removable Nicotrol patch and equipped with several packs of gum.

9. No more McDonald’s endorsements. The grease is wrecking my vinyl.

10. Mattel stock options. It’s been 37 years–I think I deserve it.

Ok, Santa, that’s it. Considering my valuable contribution to society, I don’t think these requests are out of line. If you disagree, then you can find yourself a new bitch for next Christmas.

It’s that simple.

Yours truly,
Barbie

Well, I can tell you, I felt Barbie’s pain. I put the letter right back in the envelop and sent to Priority to the North Pole.

And now to a more serious subject. Romance writer Jo Leigh is having a tough time. The love of her life died after a long battle with cancer. Her heart is aching and her bills are crazy. The romance community has pulled together to help both. To show love and support, a bunch of writers have given books, critiques and cool writing things up for auction. Editors are auctioning off critiques. If you’re a writer or a reader, you can find lots of great items up for bid. Check out the items up for bid.

And now for the giveaway… I have stackfuls of books waiting for good homes. My November release RUNNING WILD has just been chosen as PNR Reviewer “Top Pick” for November 2008. Yey! I’m giving away one copy of that. I’m also giving away a copy of THE SUPPLICANT. Both copies will be autographed. I’ll pick random winners on Friday. Just leave a comment if you’d like a chance to win.

Best,
Lucinda

1. Include Your Children When Baking Cookies
2. Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Experts Say
3. Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers
4. Drunks Get Nine Months in Violin Case
5. Iraqi Head Seeks Arms
6. Is There a Ring of Debris Around Uranus?
7. Would-be Women Priests Appeal to Pope
8. Panda Mating Fails; Veterinarian Takes Over
9. British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands
10. Teacher Strikes Idle Kids
11. Clinton Wins Budget; More Lies Ahead
12. Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told
13. Miners Refuse to Work After Death
14. Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant
15. Stolen Painting Found By Tree
16. Two Sisters Reunited After 18 Years in Checkout Line
17. War Dims Hope for Peace
18. If Strike Isn’t Settled Quickly, It May Last a While
19. Couple Slain; Police Suspect Homicide
20. Man Struck By Lightning Faces Battery Charge
21. New Study of Obesity Looks for Large Test Group
22. Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Space
23. Kids Make Nutritious Snacks
24. Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half
25. Typhoon Rips through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead

I mean, don’t you feel sorry for the high school dropouts in #23? And isn’t the tree in #15 clever?

Want to win a copy of my November release? I only have one copy left. Go ahead and find an ambiguous headline from the news. I bet there are some good political ones lurking just beneath the surface. Or make one up, I don’t care. Post it as a comment, and your might win a copy of my November release, RUNNING WILD!

November release

I know some people think a happy ending separates romance from women’s fiction, but what separates romance from literature?

No, it’s not subject matter. Anthropologists say that life can be distilled down to sex and food. So, romance writers and authors of literature cover both of those. Okay, maybe Aphrodisia authors cover more sex than food but…

It’s not writing style either. Okay, maybe not all of us write like John Updike, but we can wield a competent sentence. Even a fragment. Particularly if it’s an artistic fragment. Like these.

So what is it?

Let me show you…

Does this woman look like she writes romance? I think not. This is the summary of her accomplishments from Wikipedia:
“Her many awards include an NEA Fellowship and five PEN Syndicated Fiction Awards. She won a book award from the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association (PNBA) in 1991 for Floating in My Mother’s Palm. She has also written many reviews for The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and The Washington Post. For many years, she taught creative writing at Eastern Washington University. Her recent books include Stones from the River (1994), Intrusions (1995), Tearing the Silence: On Growing Up German in America (1998), The Vision of Emma Blau (2000), Hotel of the Saints: Stories (2001), Sacred Time (2004), and The Worst Thing I’ve Done (2007).”

She’s also one of my favorite authors.

Now, take a look at this face. Does it look like she writes literature? Or romance. You tell me.

Also, one of my favorite authors. Plus, she cracks me on on AuthorTalk. Can you imagine Ursula on AuthorTalk? Yeah, me neither.

Now take a look at this face… Literature or romance. Oh, this is so easy.

Yeah, you guessed it. Literature. She won the Booker Man for her book, The Gathering. Is it about food and sex? Yep. According to Wikipedia (I love Wikipedia!), “Her writing explores themes such as family relationships, love and sex, Ireland’s difficult past and its modern zeitgeist.” See? Sex and food. I particularly love BBQed zeitgeist, but I understand most people like it completely baked (unlike my post!)

Okay, I have one more face for you… This one is more difficult. Literature or romance.

Gorgeous. No doubt. AND she won the RITA for one of my favorite books. Beat that Anne and Ursula.

Okay, I want to show you one more picture. The question is a little different here. Which is Lucinda Betts in this photo?

So if you managed to read this whole piece, you deserve a prize. Leave a comment, and I’ll pick a winner or two to receive a blatantly-not-literature book by yours truly.