Um... I'm a Guy

Please help us welcome author and cop James Greer.

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"I was pissed, but I got over it," she growled.

I write suspense novels. Sometimes there's a romantic quality, sometimes a sinister villain bent on mayhem. One theme knits them all together. The lead character is always a woman police officer.

You may ask yourself - I thought the first rule of writing was to stick with what you know.

I've heard that too. For the most part, I write about cop stuff. Actually being a police officer, of course, helps. Certainly, twenty-five plus years of meddling in others' misfortune (and being the occasional cause) has provided vivid characters, multiple WTF situations and not a few projectile-vomiting moments. Need a humorous dismemberment story to enliven a chapter? A castration attempt gone horribly wrong (that isn't redundant - trust me) or perhaps an illustration why drunk people should not manipulate loaded firearms? Got enough for all of us.

I have no overriding interest in focusing on policemen, beyond their utility in telling the story. I am a policeman. We tend to be Peter Pan-esque about things, your basic "growing old, not up." We've been sort of done to death as a genre, anyway. But, women.... Always interesting, never dull. More than enough variety to populate several novels.

Ask ten women why they became cops, what they get out of police work ("money" is too easy) and I get ten different answers. Most women are circumspect about the profession and their place in it. Some of them are painfully candid about what the whole lousy business has done to them and their relationships. Find a woman who trusts me enough to open not just her head but to permit occasional peaks into her heart and I'm totally in business. To a writer, she's the gold standard.

But for pete's sake.... It infuriates me when I ask a question like, well, would having a child change a woman's perspective on risk-taking and I get "(sniff, errrr) Would you ever ask a man that question?"

NO! I already know that answer and it's boring (generally, male risk takers...take risks). Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm asking because my main character IS A WOMAN! She's a SWAT sergeant, she's a mom, and a crazy SOB is holding her work partner at gunpoint. I'm thinking (go ahead, call me a sentimental fool) that she's given the subject of risk a wee bit of thought, weighed all of the ramifications of leaving behind a devastated husband and motherless child. Maybe she's imagined her dying moments, the unbearable sadness she might feel at abandoning her child. I'm thinking my readers would want us to explore this together.

Of course I don't get it. Much of the time, I don't get you. Um - guy! My friend's thoughtful response included, among other things, a discussion about what it means to accept responsibility, both as a mother and as a professional. As usual, I couldn't write fast enough to take it all in.

Describing male cops (and their lack of introspection, for the most part), I have my own experiences to fall back on. Ninety-five percent of my police friends are guys and we've carefully avoided ever betraying an emotional attachment to anything besides sports or drinking. Most of us are horribly predictable, anyway. Last week, for example, an especially attractive, especially well-endowed woman drove right through our car crash scene. Were we angry? Not really - a bit ashamed of ourselves that we forgave her so easily, that's all. But, I digress.

Huffing about questions that focus on a woman's perceptions sets up a substantial barrier, too, even if we eventually get down to business. The damn boundaries are a moving target? Fabulous. Now every question is loaded. "I got over it?" What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm a married man - when a woman says she got over it.... Really? REALLY? When? Is that why Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus sold a bazillion copies?

I'm looking for good lines, insight and the ultimate compliment - sales. If I admit I'm ignorant and I need help, do I seem vulnerable enough to let me off the hook, from time to time, because I think like a guy? I'm a little old for puppy dog eyes, and a little worldly to need another mother.

I ask questions because I don't have the answers. Now...got a minute?

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Bio:

James Greer is the author of the romantic suspense novel Out of Ideas and the short story with the same female protagonist A Parasol in a Hurricane. You can also more of his rants and thoughts at Bike Cop Blog.

Blurb:

Deputy Karen O'Neil is a California girl, shedding the abusive husband who'd ripped her from a sun-drenched, stimulating life as a San Diego cop to isolation in rural Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. Talented, attractive, and cut off from everything she wants, her rock-bottom self-esteem lunges at the mysterious airplane crash as though a life line, a chance to escape the doldrums of perceived failure in every other aspect of her life.

National Transportation Safety Board investigator Adam Phlatt has his own issues. His career is going nowhere. His love life smolders in ruin after he horribly misplayed his heart, something he swears he'll avoid forever.The accident investigation is a no brainer, a simple case of too much airplane and not enough pilot. The easy inquiry over, he plans his return to Chicago and the safety of his own loneliness, yet he somehow entangles himself with Deputy O'Neil's complex personality.

Karen refuses to let go of the case, or of Adam. When she discovers the pilot's life is a lie, it's a whole new ball game. Thrust from one perplexing clue to the next, they tumble headlong onto a group of criminals, intent on protecting a lucrative shadow business with violence, if necessary.

Karen and Adam face an impossible confrontation, even as hope triumphs over experience, and they fall in love. Their first intimate encounter as lovers is interrupted by the disappearance of a friend under sinister circumstances.

A killer targets Karen, and Adam must regain what he once was--a man tough enough to save the woman he loves.

Her attention focused on a smoking hole containing the remains of a wrecked airplane and its equally wrecked pilot, will Karen O'Neil notice salvation walking up behind her?

Buy now.

Boom Chicka Wow... Ew!

A few weeks ago, my husband Charlie picked up a Roku box. This is a device you connect to your TV that gives you access to online TV programming (some free, some not). It's a cool device. It's very techy. It suits my husband to a T. Personally, I didn't see the need, but, eh, whatever.

Like any man with a new toy, he insisted that I take a look at it with him...right before we were going to sleep. (sigh) LOL I was tired. I wasn't really interested. I just wanted to go to sleep, but I didn't.

Instead, he starts flipping through the channels as I lay there yearning for sleep. (He's excited, and I don't want to rain on his parade.) There are easily a hundred "stations." Many "stations" contains several channels within it. It's almost overwhelming there is so much choice. Most likely, this will one day be how you watch TV.

So, we are flipping through the stations and run across porn. (Of course, what would access to the Internet be without porn?) It is free. I haven't watched porn in 20 years, and then I only saw one movie for about 15 minutes, or less. And, as you could probably guess, it doesn't do much for me. LOL But, since it had been such a long time, I stupidly told Charlie, "Sure, let's check it out. Perhaps it's not as bad as I remember it to be."

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

It's worse. It's so far beyond worse than I remember that I am shocked that I didn't remember just how bad it was. Or maybe not. Maybe I had, after 20 years, managed to wipe the images from my mind. I hope it doesn't take another 20 this time around.

Now, mind you, I am not a prude. I publish erotica. I don't have any issues with sex whatsoever, except that I think the US is too uptight about it, but that's another post. I don't have problems with people having sex because they feel like it. They don't have to be married. As long as both are consenting adults, alive, and human (as in not animal--ETs are a different story, although I imagine that would be weird. Not that I've ever encountered one, but I'm just saying.), I really don't care one way or the other.

Then why do I have an issue with porn? They are consenting adults (at least the ones I saw). They are human and alive. So what's my problem? Hm...

Perhaps it's the total lack of lust involved. Or maybe it's the no-hair-anywhere syndrome. (That, in and of itself, disgusts me. I like hair. It's supposed to be there.) Or maybe it's that the sex goes on and on and on and on and on, and it's all faked excitement. Or it could be that the man, to keep going, has to beat his dick on the woman to get it hard again. Or that, in order to make the woman wet, the guy will spit in her. Spit in her. (Ew! Ew! Ew!) As Charlie so eloquently put it: "It's just bodily fluids, Marci."

Yeah, well, uh, well, hm... (g) That may be true, but, um, yeah. Let's just say it doesn't do it for me...at all!

I looked at Charlie and asked, "How can anyone find this remotely titillating?"

"Marce, it's to get off quick. You've read too many romance novels."

"Hm... Yeah, I don't think that's the only reason. It just doesn't do it for me. No wonder it's been 20 years."

And now I must wipe the images from my mind once again. (sigh)

Any suggestions?

Everything is ok….I’m a professional.

***Welcome author, Bri Clark, with us today. Grab your coffee, sit back, read, relax and enjoy a few great chuckles.***

Have you ever written a blog post, cracked a joke, shared a status update and received a message later that “they” were offend?

Yeah me too! I hate they.

Only I’m a professional offender. And there is nothing that raises my hackles more than someone becoming offended and making a fuss about it in a public format. Especially if I hadn’t planned it.

Wait?! You can actually plan to offend someone?

Yes…yes you can. Remember I’m a professional.

How does one become a professional offender? Well it’s not like there are any workshops or college courses that I’m aware of. So I can only share how I honed my art. Raised by my grandparents in the south, I was hanging out at the church functions, women’s clubs and VFW halls from infancy. In these establishments gossips, scandal, and offense are as plentiful as sweet tea and twangy accents.

And since I was with the older matriarchs of society I learned the subtle “Bless your heart method.” This is where your intended victim doesn’t even realize they’ve been offended until well after the job had been executed. The Bless Your Heart method is a true art. In order to properly use it the professional offender either has to have a plan

plotted and wait for the chance. Or is so confident and witty that they can use it at a moment’s notice.

I can do both.

In fact, it’s almost like a natural reaction to use the Bless Your Heart Method. Over the years, I’ve become so good at it I don’t even have to use the phrase. But tend to just for kicks.

For me personally there are key elements that provoke my internal offense system.

· Anyone messing with my children. From schoolteacher, principal, peer, or clergy. Yes I have Bless Your Hearted a Sunday school teacher before. Crazy, southern mother here.

· Sluts as a whole. If I could overcome so can you.

· Anyone disrespecting any military service individual, spouse or child. Or the services as a whole. Army brat here!

· Ninny hammers that persecute someone because of their religion. Mormon here!

· Anyone using the term bastard instead of in its proper use. Bastard here!

For these reasons and many more, I will not join PTA or volunteer at any things my children are doing. Someone somewhere will piss me off and once the system is ignited, it does not detour.

Now I’ll try to create for you an example of The Bless Your Heart method in action.

Imagine a group of

women is hanging out after school waiting for their children at the bus stop. The newest mother in the neighborhood, Gina, is approaching. Over the last few weeks, she comes to the bus stop dressed in extremely immodest clothing. Clothing that would make the dancers in a rap video blush immodest. Lately she’s been complaining that her significant other doesn’t trust her. And of course I’m one of the mothers in the group. Now watch.

“Hey what’s youse doing?” Gina says, popping her bubble gum then using her acrylic nail to scrape it off her lip. Bri and the other mom, Lisa, share a look.

“Just waiting for the bus,” Bri replies. Lisa’s eyes bulge as Gina pulls her tube top up over her gravity-attracted bosom.

“Well youse remember how I told you that Don went through my text messages.” Gina doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well the bastard activated the family map tracker on my iPhone. I’ve never done anything to make him not trust me. All I ever do is eat, sleep, shop, and pick up his kids at the bus stop. I mean yea, I hang out at the sports bar but they only open the dance floor up on Friday and Saturdays. It’s sports not a club.” She rolls her eyes and tries to dig something out of her three-inch nails.

Bri’s always wondered how any woman keeps her nails that long, wipe themselves, and manages cleanliness. Lisa is once again bug eyed from Gina’s comments. It’s a common facial expression for her around Gina.

Bri shakes her head and catches Gina’s eye. She can feel the thickness of her southern accent actually coating her throat from what she’s about to say. “Bless your heart, you poor dear.” Lisa now turns her frogeyes on Bri. “I can’t imagine how you put up with so much.” Gina nods her head and tries to look innocent, forcing her bottom lip in a pout. “I

mean, you really don’t do anything at all, do ya. And I bet he buys those clothes for you just to add to his case,” Bri finishes. Gina quits nodding her head and replays Bri’s words. Lisa’s eyes go normal; she covers her mouth and turns her back. The bus comes with their children, ending all conversation. Gina never comes back to the bus stop in a tube top.

That’s just one example. And it’s so much sweeter when you really experience it. Anyways, the rant I needed to get out. If I’m going to offend you believe me I’ll know it. You just won’t…until later.

So tell me, dear readers, do you have any particular methods for getting your point across?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scent of a Witch

Maeve da Paer has lived her life free from the restrictions of the world of sorcery and the Board of Witchery hidden behind the combined protection of her grandparents powerful clan magic—and a lie. Although her life has not been worry free, it is when all that desperation and grief cause her to cast her most powerful spell ever…a spell that will end the pain before it begins on the powerful All Hallows Eve.

Fionn Hughes, an immortal tracker, former heir to a powerful clan of time warlocks is on a mission to restore his honor—instead he finds Maeve da Paer. Following the scent of Gardenias and Honey Suckle, he discovers the last Scent Witch. It’s only after she almost takes off his ear that something more stirs, eventually changing his mission from one of duty to one of need.

What will Fionn do when he finds out Maeve plans to cancel out her own existence? Will he be strong enough to stop her?

CLICK TO BUY

Bri Clark The Belle of Boise Blog

Belle Consulting

Christmas BEFORE Halloween? Seriously?

Has this world gone insane? It's bad enough when people have to deal with the holiday rush from the day after Thanksgiving until midnight Christmas Eve, but I began seeing decorations last week alongside the Halloween stuff! The TV stations are already running holiday commercials such as Christmas lay-a-way at Walmart and K-Mart

I don’t want to see anything even remotely related to Christmas until maybe mid-November. Sure, I’ve always been known as a Mrs. Scrooge in the sense that I just don’t like the holiday, but I’m getting better about it. Mellowing out. Since moving into this new house, we were able to have room for a real tree and to put up decorations. I enjoyed last year’s Christmas for the first time since I was a kid.

But for crying out loud, retailers need to let shoppers get over the candy-induced hangover of Halloween before slapping them in the face with Christmas lay-a-way ads and more.

My biggest peeves with Christmas boils down to three things.

A) Christmas should be about caring for one another and not having to buy or make a damn present for everyone from your significant other to Aunt Gertrude’s gerbil.
B) People turn into jackasses during the holiday season. It irks me to no end. Why? Refer to point A.
C) And lastly, I hate, hate, hate going out into the herd of jackasses. Why? Refer to point B.

Granted not everyone turns into raving lunatics, but it sure seems like most do. And talk about rude! Christmas time makes food stamp and SSI day at Walmart look like a church picnic.

As a result, most of my Christmas shopping is done online. And I make a lot of my gifts too. This year, however, there will be lots of goodie boxes full of fudge—chocolate, pb, cherry, spiced, mint, banana, etc.—cookies, fudgie cakes and melt-in-mouth holiday treats. With all the writing and deadlines I’ve had this year, no crocheted hats, blankets, etc. will be wrapped up. (sigh) I’ve missed that because it helps calm me when I’m stressed.

Anyway, I don’t want to see commercials about a sale on green-and-red Christmas cookies at Kroger’s because by the time I’d fight my way through the riots there’d be nothing left ‘cept some colored sugar crystals. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about a sale on dolls that poop their pants in Technicolor brilliance at Walmart. With this economy no one can afford to buy much anyway. It’s all some folks can do to keep food on the table and gas in their vehicles, yanno?

Besides, if someone wants such a doll, I can loan ‘em my grandson after he’s ate too many fruit snacks. BOOM! Now *that’s* a brilliant, Technicolor diapie.

Oh, here’s another thing that irks me about too-soon Christmas displays and ads: wrapping paper. What’s the point of even buying the damn stuff? If you even breathe on a sheet of it there’s a gaping hole staring back at you—and you pay upwards of $8 to $10 a roll for the good stuff! The catch? Less paper because it’s the stuff that actually wraps something.

“Here, honey. Take this brown shipping paper and crayons and doodle Christmas stuff. Mommy needs some wrapping paper.”

Gah.

No, keep the Christmas stuff out of my sight unto mid-November. Oh, and here’s a suggestion I should stuff in every store’s suggestion box: don’t start playing Bing Crosby’s White Christmas until after Thanksgiving. Hearing it while I’m buying last-minute Halloween candy creates nervous ticks that are often irreversible.

On another note, visit me over at Ramblings of A Chaotic Mind. Here’s the link http://bit.ly/rOJK6T and make sure you scroll all the way to the bottom so you don't miss the entire post.

Duh Syndrome Is My Friend

Not duh as in lacking intelligence or doing drugs. Oh, no. It’s the duh that happens when I’ve stared at a computer screen for a minimum of six hours a day, usually longer. The duh that occurs when I sit with my laptop too long and finish just one more blog, interview, edit, revision, or new chapter and never make it outside to stretch my legs.

There are many definite signs when Duh Syndrome is really bad, but here are a few off the top of my head.

*The hubby or one of the kids tells me something with me
looking him or her directly in the eyes, and I realize five minutes after they've left I have no freaking clue what he or she just said to me.

*I get up to go to the bathroom and forget where I’m going halfway to Wherever Land.

*My mother or oldest dau calls me on the cell and I zone out. “FAITH! Are you there? Did the call drop?” or “MOM! Did you go to sleep?” Gah.

*The hubby tells me about his workday and I find myself dozing off with my eyes open. And no, I’m not kidding! Eyes are open!

*The cat jumps on my lap and lies on my hands stretched across the keyboard and I keep typing! Buy hey, it’s great exercise. One, lift cat! Two, lift cat! Three, lift cat!

*Duh Syndrome is really bad when I look at the clock and realize it’s 2 PM and I’ve not had anything to eat or drink all day except for several cups of b-b-b-b-b-b-black c-c-c-c-c-coffee.

*Bizarre words unexpectedly pop out of my mouth when I’m talking. Example: “I’m tired. I’m going to go watch pudding before I go to sleep." Or I type something like that in an email to a pal and they reply with “WTF are you talking about?” Yeah, baby. Makes me feel intelligent!

This fuzzy state of mind often happens when I have a new release. Promotion adds to the amount of things I have to accomplish in a specific time period. It boggles my mind how many blogs and interviews I write and/or fill out during these blocks of time. Not to mention researching what sites and newsletters have the best bang for the buck when it comes to advertising--talk about time consuming!

Oh, let’s not forget research. Although many authors hate research and therefore keep their stories based on topics they’re familiar with, I’m a glutton for punishment. Combine that with my insatiable curiosity and I inadvertently create more work for myself. (Actually, I wrote an article this month on easy ways to research for new paranormal creature ideas HERE if you’d like to check it out.)

I get so wrapped up in research that I’m stunned at how much time passes when I finally come to my duh-veiled senses and realize I need a bathroom break, food, and m-m-m-m-more c-c-c-c-coffee. Actually, whenever I would go to night courses and study for exams, I would be drained like this, too.

Historical stuff and paranormal/mythological research is what sucks me in the most. The amount of information on both the web and in print format is phenomenal. I gotta read it all, I gotta know what this is and what that is and…and…

Ahem.

Sorry. Had a li’l melt down. I was wondering why I kept seeing sparks pop out of my ears.

Anyway, when I do get everything done and emailed/mailed, I always realize just how hungry I've become. Seriously, it's like I've worked for three days straight digging ditches with only bread and water to sustain me. In fact, I get so hungry the cat takes one look at me and runs like hell for the nearest exit, hitting mach 10 as his tail bursts into flames. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that mental work doesn’t burn calories because it does! I’m not talking about wanting junk food. Oh, no. Give me a damn prime rib and make it snappy. And if I've been really stressed, I want a glass of wine or maybe something stouter, and a meal that would make a king go, “Whoa, baby. I might not be able to eat it all, but I’m sure as hell gonna try.”

Later, sated and having had a good night’s sleep, I’m ready to tackle the next list of writing projects.

With all that said, I’ll hope you take a look at my newest release. It’s a full novel that sweepsthe reader from Columbus, Ohio to Key West--and it is available today in paperback! However, if you have an e-reader, you can get "RUBY" at most e-book distributors, but the links to several dif ones are posted below. This novel has transformed over the last eight years, so it’s very special to me.

Ruby, the White King and Marilyn Monroe is a paranormal romance that takes off full throttle as demonic motorcycles and their beautiful riders chase Ruby to the rocky shores of Key West for a battle of epic proportions.

Are they angels, demons, or something else entirely? Ruby must send them back to a hell unlike anything the world has ever imagined. But will she allow herself to love the White King who has found her again over one thousand years later?

Blurb:
Reincarnated over the centuries. Stuck with a ditzy Marilyn Monroe lookalike. Falling for a rich albino guy. It’s just Ruby’s luck for Hell’s “real” angels to ride into this life and screw it all up.

A quote from author Maddie James:

Packed with action, each scene moving forward at a clip-clop pace, don’t blink your eyes once or miss a single paragraph of Ruby, the White King, and Marilyn Monroe. For if you do, you are sure to miss a piece of this literary puzzle!

One serendipitous meeting after another takes Ruby, her white king, and her quirky, hitchhiker friend Maureen on a frightening quest to get to Key West. With paranormal elements throughout, the sexual tension high, and the edge-of-the-seat factor not to be ignored, I could not stop reading until I reached the very end.—Maddie James, Romance Author www.maddiejames.net

You can read an excerpt at any of the following buy links:


TMP: http://bit.ly/oOhD3Y
ARe: http://bit.ly/rrlPTU
Kindle: http://amzn.to/rpvrA8
Bookstrand: http://bit.ly/rfTlsX

And here's the current paperback link but the book will appear at Amazon and BandN in a few days (scroll to bottom for print): http://bit.ly/oOhD3Y

Canadian, eh?

So it's well established, I think, that I was in New Orleans this past week. I was attending the first annual Gay Romantic Literature Retreat, and it was a blast. I fully intend to attend the next one, being held in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

My husband is trying to talk me into a different sort of vacation.

He wants sand, sun, beaches and heat. And lots of them. Now, I'm not much of a swimmer, and I don't like to sit in the sun, getting hot and sweaty while it bakes me. That just isn't my thing. I told him I'm not interested in a vacation where it's constantly 30C and I'm always sticky and sweaty. This, of course prompted him to look up the weather we would have in New Orleans while I was there and promptly laugh his ass off. It was sunny and hot the entire time, of course.

But that was different. It was New Orleans. My friends were there.

I'm guessing, though I haven't looked, that Albuquerque in October isn't going to be exactly gloves and toque weather...

But this aversion to hot weather leads me to wonder just how Canadian (with a Fin heritage, no less) I really am. As I sit here contemplating the walk to the bus stop through the cold, October Northern Ontario rain, I'm thinking i'm missing a gene somewhere. I don't like hot weather whenever i can get it, and I hate the snow.

How un-Canadian of me...

Just a few questions from a mind that’s a little left of center

***Today welcome author Rachel Cron to 4SW.***

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that said “Are you a believer or a fan of Jesus?” What does that even mean? My first thought was that it depended on which row you were sitting in and if you had a backstage pass or not. If you got backstage what would you say? “Sign my wing?”

What’s up with the Jersey Shore? When did vanity, ignorance and spray tan become cool? You can’t tell me that Snooki wrote that book!

Why is it called common sense? I think they called it that hoping it would catch on and become more common…Epic fail on that one! If you don’t believe me just come on down to Florida for season and watch the circus that ensues.

Why are people offended by the Oreo fudge creme’s commercial? I understand what “Shut the front door” is in place of…but they said “shut the front door” Are you seriously going to waste precious brain space on this issue? If so than I say…”Shut the front door!”

When did accountability become an option?

Why? Out of nowhere do I find a stray piece of glitter lying around or worse stuck to me? I always thought glitter was like ants or girls in the bathroom…you never just find one. It makes me wonder if I was fondled by a stripper or vampire when I was napping.

Why are people so angry with gay people for being gay? They should be angry at straight people…They are the ones who keep having gay babies!

And finally…Why are some people so easily offended? I can’t count the times I’ve said something and heard, “Well I never!” Maybe if they did they would be more open-minded about things. If I’m offended by something that’s my fault I pull up my big girl panties and I deal with it.

Visit Rachel and check out her books at the following links:

http://www.facebook.com/rachel.cron1
http://www.siren-bookstrand.com
http://rachelcronauthor.blogspot.com/
rachelcron@rocketmail.com

http://www.amazon.com/Warrior-Siren-Publishing-Classic-ebook/dp/B004VA9V3C/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1317608562&sr=8-2

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/punk-rox-warrior-rachel-cron/1102291086?ean=9781610345071&itm=1&usri=punk%2brox%2bwarrior