Dear Reader:

Stop telling me how to write my characters!

More specifically, how to describe them. Because I usually don't. In fact, in some stories, my characters don't even get names. This is not my fault. If they don't tell me what their names are, how can I tell you?

Sometimes, I have no real idea what they look like. Sometimes, I know perfectly what they look like, and I don't really want to know if my character is not what you envisioned when you read the story. (Well, a certain someone told me the main character in my latest WIP reminded her of Jude Law, until I finally got to his description, and then she was tossed out of the story on her ass, so, well, no. He's not Jude Law. Not even a little bit, and I will fix that my  friend, ASAP!)

But if you think my character has long flowing locks of curly black hair and I describe him as having a a shaved head, well, no, annoying person, I am not wrong about my character. A person, especially a guy, who grows hair to his waist is a fundamentally different person than one who shaves his head. Think about that. Long hair, for a guy, is a trophy, a rebellion, a statement that no one owns you or your choices to step out of that gender box. Shaved hair is a symbol of all things military, and conforming. Not really the same type of person, my friend. (Just for fun, think about that same dynamics in a girl, and what the hair to the waist and the shaved head mean, and maybe it will make more sense.)

Dear, dear reader, I am not an idiot. Neither are you, of course, but maybe, read the book again, and imagine what might have to change about a guy who shaves his head to get him to grow it out to his waist. There might even be a really good story in that change, but do think about it, okay?

Also, another reason I don't describe my characters is this:

 I watched this video, and OMG, I want to make a character that is this adorable, this sweet, and this happy. Well, until I break him , and then put him back together, that is, because, well, that's what I do. I mean, just watch the video. This kid just exudes joy all over the place. But if I commit to this particular configuration of physical characteristics in my head, what if I get it wrong in description? That's the time when I'll feel like I didn't succeed. (Like the Jude Law incident. Just...no. lol!)

So what do other writers do? I know some have very specific ideas of what their characters look like. Right down to having an actor/model/musician whatever representation to draw from in their descriptions. That just feels so...restricting to me. Are there any other writers like me out there who just, well, wing it? And what if, as a reader, that writer description isn't anything like what you imagine the characters to be? Do you just ignore the writer? (I do! lol!)

 Wow. I read this over and the use of the word 'well' is shameful. This, readers, is what editors do for me. But. I decided to leave them, and do a little contest. Spur of the moment. I'll give away a few copies of and old story, "Muses's Vacation" (because the sub in this story is one of my more adorable characters, I think) to three people who play editor and tell me how many times I over-used the word 'well' in this post :D

Blurb: Patrick is pretty new to the idea of having a Dom. When Leo gets trapped in that endless cycle of word-lock, and the inspiration just doesn't come for his writer Dom, Patrick decides discretion is better than taking his needs and frustration to Leo and asking for what he wants. Leo is not pleased to find his sub trying to satisfy his own desires, but even giving Pat what he needs doesn't break through the block, and Patrick knows drastic measures are in order. He has to drag Leo half way around the world before the writer realizes it's time to put his muse, and his sub, in their places.

Apartment Living

Please help us give L.J. LaBarthe a warm welcome.

When I first put fingers to keyboard for this post, I was going to rant about medical specialist waiting rooms. I feel I'm quite an aficionado of the waiting room, and so my rant was going to be about the bland decor, the muzak, the somnolent effect of the too-warm air-conditioning. And then I went outside of my apartment to put out my garbage and something happened to me that made me rethink my position on the waiting room rant.

I speak, dear friends, of the joys that are apartment block living.

I live in a small block of apartments. It's a great block, six apartments in total and our landlady is honestly the best landlady I have ever had. I've lived here ten years now, and I've had some wonderful times and some terrible, traumatic times here. I've also had some truly hilarious times, times that can only be summed up – and often are – by the phrase, "L.J., this would only happen to you!"

So, to return to the incident that decided me on changing the subject of my rant. As I said, I was outdoors, putting out my garbage. It was a Friday night, just after 10pm. I was, as most people who live in apartment blocks and go into communal areas, fully clothed. Okay, so maybe not in my silk evening gown and diamonds, but still. I was dressed. And this is important.

Anyway, as I had paused by my front door, one of my upstairs neighbours came bouncing down the stairs, also to put his garbage out. I made a face much like that of a stunned goldfish when he appeared, for lo, his state of dress was remarkably less than mine.

Never have I looked up at the sky so fast.

Now, I applaud him being comfortable in his own skin. All power to him. However, wandering around the communal areas of the apartment block, wearing naught but tighty whities and a t-shirt, with everything God gave you outlined by cotton fabric is, I think, taking it just a little bit too far. Especially as this isn't a nudist apartment block and the communal areas open out onto a fairly busy road.

This isn't the first out of the ordinary thing that I've experienced here. It is, perhaps, the only one involving exposed flesh, but in the aggregate, not even remotely peculiar. I love this apartment block – it gives me so many ideas for things to put in my books – as much as I get irritated at being kept awake so often! Which brings me to the next thing that is the bane of the apartment block resident. Noise late at night.

This same exposure friendly neighbour is also given to practising his guitar. Not a problem. Except that he decides it's going to happen at midnight or later and I tend to like my sleep. I feel like the crazy cat lady who bangs on the ceiling with a broom, squawking "SHUT UP!"

If it's not him, then it's his neighbours, who are a young couple and very lovely people. I was reading in bed one night a few months ago, something that's pretty regular for me, and I heard a strange sound above my head.

"What are they doing?" I asked my cat. The cat, alas, had no answer. So I strained to listen harder, and was utterly confused – it sounded as if my upstairs neighbours were sawing planks of wood. Who saws planks of wood at 11pm? Or, in fact, in their inner suburban apartment at all?

It wasn't until I heard the screams of passion, that I realised there was an entirely different kind of wood involved and suddenly decided that listening to my iPod would be a much better choice of soundtrack to my book.

My bedroom wall is a shared wall with next door's living room, and my ceiling is the floor of Confidently Exposing Himself To All And Sundry neighbour. I'd always thought these walls were pretty thick, but they aren't as thick as I thought they were. So, the Lumberjack Couple, every time that tell-tale sawing planks noise starts up, make me reach for my iPod. I sometimes wonder who else in the block can hear them, but it's not the sort of thing you bring up in the polite small talk with the rest of the neighbours. I don't have the courage, really, to say, "So, just wondering, can you hear our upstairs neighbours bonking at all hours? No? Just me then, righto." I'm blunt, but not that blunt!

Strangely enough, my living room wall is shared by a stair well and the communal laundry, wherein our landlady kindly provides us with a washing machine and dryer. This side of the apartment is much less noisy than my bedroom side. I sometimes wonder how that works, given that a washing machine isn't a very quiet appliance, and it's an industrial one designed for big loads and frequent use. Plus, the stairs are made of steel, so sometimes people going up and down them, depending on their shoes, sounds like a herd of galloping elephants. Still quieter than my bedroom!

I've had some scary experiences here, too. Several years ago, there was a gang war in the communal drive way, by the carport. I never got the full story, and I think I'm quite glad of that, but the upshot was that the police were called, our local version of CSI were here and it was, essentially, my own live action police drama in the front of the apartments.

Because I need to share these things, and it wasn't too late in the evening, I picked up my phone and called my friend Min and sat, whispering to her a running commentary of everything that was going on, while sitting in the dark. I peered through a crack in the door, because I didn't want to be seen, and Min laughed and laughed in between my statements of, "Oh my god, someone's running away from the cops!" and "Oh my god, CSI are here!"

Apartment living is never dull! But oh, sometimes I wish it was. If only because I really, really like my sleep.

Oh, and Dude Who Parks His Tractor In The Front Yard, I have one question for you. Just one.

That question is this. WHY?!

***

L. J. LaBarthe is a South Australian woman living in the city of Adelaide with her cat, Castiel, in an apartment block that provides endless entertainment. She writes to get the bunnies out of her head, and can be found at her website or her blog or her twitter @brbsiberia. Her latest release is the Christmas themed novella set in Darwin, Australia, called Long Road Back, and is available here at Dreamspinner Press. Her full length novel, No Quarter, about Archangels in love, will be available in the first quarter of 2012, also with Dreamspinner Press.

Excerpt:

Yoo Lee Shin had great hopes for his new life studying engineering in Australia, but nothing could have prepared him for the wonder of falling in love. His roommate’s brother, Craig, is beautiful, kind, and brave—and, very shortly after they meet, he’s deployed. As Christmas nears, can Shin keep hope for a happy ending bright enough to guide Craig to him on the long road back?

In a Writer's Mind

Not to sound too much like a needy, whiny ingrate in need of therapy, but my kids don't understand me. They have no idea why I'm so tired by the end of the day, since I "don't anything all day" while they're at school. I try to explain what I do all day, but about four words in, their eyes glaze over and they stop paying attention--these are the same children who beg me to come to school on Career Day to talk to their class about life as a writer (well, the younger child does; the older one cringes at the thought of my even acknowledging my relation to her, much less having me talk about writing romance books!). If you're a mom (or a dad), you can probably relate to this (even if you don't write romance). I don't know about your schedule, but mine looks something like this:

6:50: Crap, the alarm went off again! Try to make retain some nuggets from the dream that might turn itself into a good story. Get up, stagger downstairs to make breakfast and lunch for Grumpy Child #1. Convince GC#1 that yes, she has to go to school, no, I can't drive her, and yes, she has to let me give her a hug goodbye (in the privacy of my kitchen away from sight of anyone that might see) and that she has to also say goodbye to her father and sister. In between staggering and hugging, provide fashion advice when asked, but duck when she dislikes what I say.

7:15: Somehow manage to say goodbye to Grumpy Child #1 and good morning to Slightly Less Grumpy Child #2. Make breakfast and lunch for SLGC#2, convince her that yes, she has to go to school, no, she can't watch TV or play on the iPad until she's dressed, packed and ready for school. Get dressed while de-itchifying SLGC #2's clothes, convincing her that yes, these are the same clothes she was dying to have me buy at the store and fix her hair after she declares she hates it. Fantasize about "perfect life" of story characters.

8:00: Walk SLGC#2 to the bus, with the dog. Hug and kiss child, while trying not to feel badly that the dog gets a bigger farewell than I do. Plan revenge scene for next book.

8:07: Meet dog's boyfriend for a walk around the lake. Watch as dog's boyfriend tries to stick my dog's head in his mouth and pray it doesn't swallow. Race around lake in attempt to keep up with dog's boyfriend's owner, whose legs are much longer than mine. Refuse to climb hills. Hope the adrenaline will translate into really good writing.

9:15-3:00: Attempt to do multiple errands (while dodging endless construction and following detours created by city planners on crack), Bat Mitzvah planning, school volunteering, Temple volunteering, laundry, housecleaning. Oh, and find time to write. Preferably the sex scenes that are impossible to do with the children around. Market books, write blogs, respond to others' blogs so that they'll read mine. Realize that about half of what needs to get done today will not actually get done today. Add to tomorrow's list (which won't get done either).

3:00: Grumpy Child #1 returns from school, transformed into Moody Child #1. Attempt to keep up with mood swings while listening to her day, feeding her a snack and getting her organized for homework. Realize this is why I don't write YA.

3:20: Slightly Less Grumpy Child #2 returns from school. Not really transformed. Oy. But very hyper. Attempt to follow her around the house without getting motion sick while feeding her a snack, listening to her day and convincing her that homework must get done before TV, iPad or anything else.

4:00-7:00 (on most days): Shuttle any number of children to after school activities, while making sure those who are at home (if any) do homework. Try, unsuccessfully, to get left-at-home child to walk the dog (only to be told they have homework to do). Sigh as phone rings and talk to people who, by all that is holy, should know better than to call during these three hours of chaos. Hang up on telemarketers who have managed to avoid the Do Not Call List. Attempt to make dinner, amid calls of "Ew, I don't want that!"

7:00-9:30: Eat dinner while trying to maintain enough brain power to follow and engage in conversations with children and husband. Try not to explode when kids ask why I'm so tired. Deep breathing exercises during requests to stay up late, watch TV, not shower or skip remainder of homework, music practice or Bat Mitzvah practice (Lamaze comes in handy here).

9:30-11:00: Try to stay awake long enough to talk to husband, watch TV and find some semblance of self before crashing into bed and repeating the process the next day.

Someday, my children are going to find someone to marry and have kids of their own. I'm going to show them this schedule and ask what THEY do all day! And then I'm going to write a book and dedicate it to them, my inspiration. ;)

Blurb

The last thing Valerie needs, after escaping an abusive marriage to an alcoholic and rebuilding her life, is a broody, secretive, standoffish man. But that's exactly what she gets when she becomes a makeup artist on the set of a hit sitcom and draws the attention of the series' star.

John Samuels hides a terrible past--a life of abuse and neglect. A successful acting career and the affection and support of cast, crew and friends, does nothing to convince him that he is anything other than an unlovable monster.

Will he learn that the life he's been living has been built on a lie or will he be doomed to repeat the sins of his father?

Excerpt:

The square, plastic bottle crashed to the floor, the white cap skittered under a cabinet, and bisque-colored foundation splattered across the tile floor, where it made a Rorschach pattern within the large white squares. With a groan and a roll of her eyes, Valerie searched under the makeup table, found the errant cap, replaced it on the bottle, and returned the foundation to the tray. She grabbed a damp rag and wiped up the mess.

She looked at the shooting schedule and smiled as she ran her fingers down the smooth laminated page. Only three weeks into this job, she loved working as assistant make-up artist on "Oddballs," a Top-10 weekly TV sitcom. She double-checked her kit for the supplies she'd need that day. So engrossed in her work, she didn't notice her boss' purple-spiked head in the door of the make-up trailer, or the ever-present smell of hair gel that hovered around her, until Michelle called her name.

"Hey, Valerie, a bunch of us are going out after work. Wanna come?"

Flashes from her past competed with images from the present at the sudden voice and Valerie stiffened. She shook her head to clear the jumble of images.

"Where are you going?" She wiped the remains of the foundation on the short cotton apron over her turquoise shirt and faded denim jeans. Eyes closed, she inhaled. The thick weave of rough fabric scraped her fingers and anchored her in the present, despite her body's momentary lapse.

"Tico's for some drinks. There's about eight of us going. It'll be fun and you can meet some of the crew."

Valerie's hands shook and knocked into the plastic bottles on the tray. They clinked together as the tubes slid into the scissors and destroyed their recent orderliness. She kept her face down, eyes averted, as her cheeks heated and her palms became sweaty. She had dreaded this moment. If they'd been going anywhere but a bar, she'd have joined them, but she couldn't bring herself to go there. So, she had to perform a delicate bal-acing act. Somehow, she had to refuse this invitation, but leave open the possibility for others. Despite their different personal styles, she and Michelle had formed an instant bond. The last thing she wanted was to hurt their new friendship.

"I can't tonight. Thanks for asking though. Maybe another time." She took a deep breath and pasted on a smile.

"Hot date?" Michelle raised a perfectly plucked black eyebrow and grinned. Valerie grinned back. "Just with my laundry."

"You're turning me down for laundry? Come on, you can do that tomorrow."

Valerie shook her head. "I really can't tonight, Michelle. Next time."

Michelle muttered under her breath as she left. Valerie sighed as the door banged shut and left her alone with her memories.

* * * *

That night, after all the scenes had been shot, Valerie waited for everyone to leave. She didn't want to answer questions or receive pity.

She arranged and rearranged drawers and tools. The trailer contained three stations, each with its own make-up chair. A long table ran down one wall, with plenty of drawers for storage space. Well-lit mirrors hung above the table. Un-able to find anything else to do, and convinced by the silence that everyone had to have left, she took out her keys to lock up. She jumped as a knock sounded at the door, the trailer rattled, and a head peeked in.

"Valerie?"

"Oh, hi, John." She expelled a deep breath and willed her heart to slow its frantic beat. "Do you need something?"

"No." He entered and stood by the door. John Samuels played the lead. At almost six-foot three, he dwarfed the trailer and had to tip his head to fit. He folded his muscular arms across his chest and spread his feet apart. "Michelle told me you were not joining us tonight. I thought I would see if I could change your mind."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "She is persistent."

"You noticed." John's dark eyes twinkled. His mouth widened with a ghost of a smile. Valerie tried not to gasp.

He reminded her of a rugged cowboy--broad-shouldered, with a prominent brow, dark piercing eyes, high cheekbones, and a cleft chin. When he smiled, even a slight trace of one, his eyes looked like liquid velvet and his dimples twinkled like stars in the night sky. A five-o'clock shadow covered his cheeks. Her fingers itched to brush against their rough texture, to tease his mouth into a full-blown grin.

"So, what can I say to make you join us?"

As he leaned against the wall in well-fitting jeans and a T-shirt that left nothing to the imagination, Valerie's mind said, "Sleep with me." Heat crept up her neck, over her cheeks, and continued to the roots of her hair. A thin sheen of sweat dampened the space between her breasts. She felt the sudden urge to fan herself, like a damsel in distress in an old B-movie. Instead, she ignored her traitorous thoughts. Her balled fist pressed into her tight stomach.

"Tonight, not even chocolate will change my mind."

She didn't exactly lie. She had no intention of going to the bar, or of sleeping with him, no matter how her thoughts might try to sabotage her good intentions. She'd been fooled by surface finery before, and it had almost killed her. She wouldn't let it happen again.

"I will remember that," he promised. "But next time you will not get off so easy." His eyes bored into hers for a moment, and then he turned on his heel and left.

* * * *

True to his word, John arrived the following day pre-pared for battle. With a cursory knock on the door, he dangled a bag of M&Ms inside the trailer, but snatched it back be-fore she could grab them. "We are going out for pizza. I will pick you up in ten minutes." Before she could answer, he walked out.

Valerie shrugged as she finished her work. The new Val-eerie never allowed other people to make decisions for her, but she'd practically handed John a permission slip. And, he had M&M's. How could she refuse?

Ten minutes later, he returned, ushered her out the door and down the steps. Although he didn't touch her, she could imagine the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, and feel the gentle puff of his breath against her hair. The angle of his body steered her toward the others in the parking lot as if he had taken her by the hand and dragged her with him. An invisible electric charge pulled her. Or maybe it was his Dial-soap scent. That scent--soap and man--made her stomach flip flop. Her uncontrollable reaction to him disturbed her, especially since he appeared unaffected.

He remained silent, strode toward their meeting place, and studied his surroundings as if he expected someone to pop out of the shadows and yell, "Boo!"

Then she saw the brown bag of M&Ms sticking out of his white shirt pocket. Before he could stop her, she reached around and grabbed them, opened the bag and popped three in her mouth.

"Hey, those are mine!" He reached for the bag, but not fast enough to retrieve them.

"Not anymore." As she danced away from him, she stuck another handful in her mouth.

He brought his hand up to his heart, as if she had wounded him deeply, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away. Valerie had all she could do not to burst out laughing.

"You did not have to take them, you know. I was plan-nine to give them to you later." He pouted and his dark hair fell across his brow, but not before Valerie saw a flash of a smile turn the corners of his mouth up.

"Oh really? When?"

"After dinner, of course. I would not want to spoil your appetite."

As if that were possible. Valerie laughed again and John grunted, a deep hoarse sound that climbed from the pit of his stomach and thrust its way out his mouth.

"What's so funny?" Lara, from editing, asked as they joined the group of friends clustered outside the lot. All other conversation stopped as everyone waited for the answer.

John looked at Valerie and his ghost of a smile disappeared. He remained silent and backed up a pace, as if need-in to put distance between them now that there were others around. Lara rolled her eyes and walked on ahead as Valerie bent over and massaged the stitch in her side. She watched his feet walk away from her, listened to the crunch of gravel be-Neath his shoes as the warm, funny man disappeared.

"What, no laundry tonight?" taunted Michelle when Val-eerie looked up. She smirked and headed down the street with the rest of them as she stared at the broad expanse of John's back up ahead and wondered about John's sudden coldness. The connection she'd started to feel between them disappeared. He walked a pace or two in front of her, his back stiff, his arms held at his sides. With a shrug, she joined in the conversation around her and put John's odd behavior out of her mind.

Three blocks later, they approached a dark, noisy pub. Valerie's stomach clenched as the door opened and the smell of beer floated outside. Spots floated in front of her eyes and for a moment, she thought she would faint. Her throat con-stricter and she paused as she clamped her mouth shut against the bile that rose in her throat. She leaned against the cool brick wall and willed herself to breathe, even as the rough surface dug into her back. Her gaze darted down the crowded street, but before she had the chance to flee, John towered behind her.

"Don't back out on me now," he whispered. "I already gave you the M&Ms." His warm breath blew against her shoulder and she took a jagged breath.

She turned, grateful for the distraction, and stared at his massive chest. Rock-hard muscles confronted her beneath his black T-shirt and for a moment, the clink of glasses on the bar and the grainy smell of beer faded away. All she could see was his immense body; all she could smell was his fresh, soapy scent; all she could feel was his solid chest in her imagination. Imagination wasn't enough.

She lifted a trembling hand to touch him and he backed up just out of her reach. Blue eyes met gray and held for a moment. She swallowed, the gulp audible, and the spell broke. The sights, sounds, and smells rushed back to her. She ran her tongue across her lips, tasted the waxy flavor of her lipstick, and closed her eyes as she swayed.

John frowned and placed himself between her and the crowd at the bar. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him nod to one or two people who smiled in recognition, but he remained at her side. Together, they walked across the sticky floor and past the loud band up front to their table in the back. He pulled out her chair and sat next to her, and she released a pent-up breath. She felt safe with him close to her. It's not a bar, she told herself. It's a restaurant that happens to serve drinks. She'd be fine.

John turned to her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He clasped his large hands together and looked into her eyes. He held her gaze and as she stared into his thunder-head-colored eyes, she relaxed. "So, how do you like things so far, Valerie?"

"Here?"

"Well, I actually meant at work, but here too."

Valerie blushed as she tried to focus on his words. "Oh, well, I love working on the show. I was a huge fan before I got the job, so it's amazing to be a part of it now." I sound like a babbling idiot.

John smiled. "What may I order for you?" He flagged down a big-bosomed, tight-shirted waitress with bright orange fingernails. She walked over, pen and pad ready. Every-one ordered beers. Valerie ordered a diet soda.

"Not ready to let loose yet, huh, Valerie?" asked Miguel, one of the crew, with a soft chuckle. Valerie smiled, but her cheeks felt as if they would crack and she looked away. John caught her eye and smiled at her. His unexpected warmth re-assured her almost as much as an arm around her shoulders.

She sat back and listened to the conversation at the table. All around her were people from work--Harry, the first AD; Ken, from production; Lara, and Tony, from wardrobe. Tina and Jeremy, John's costars, had joined them as well. She crossed her fingers and joined in.

The waitress returned with their drinks and took their orders. Her ballpoint pen scratched across her pad as each person ordered a personal pizza, but changed the sauce, type of crust, and combination of toppings.

When the waitress turned to her, Valerie ordered a mushroom pie and a house salad.

The waitress paused, expectantly. As the silence continued, she raised an overly tweezed eyebrow.

"Is that it?"

"Yes," Valerie answered.

"Are you sure?"

Valerie furrowed her brow. "Of course." With a shake of her head, the waitress turned to John. She asked for his autograph and after he scrawled his name across a napkin, gave her his order, also simple but large--two personal pepperoni pizzas. During the course of the evening, John kept an eye on Valerie, made sure her drink never ran out, and that she par-tic pated in the conversation. When talk turned to something unfamiliar, he filled her in.

When they finally left, the muggy night air wrapped around Valerie like a cocoon and muffled the smells and sounds from inside. She stretched her spine and threw her shoulders back as she inhaled deeply for the first time all evening. John fell into step next to her and offered to walk her back to her car.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" she asked, as they crossed the street.

"No one should walk by themselves at night."

"Thanks, that's really nice of you." Although they walked next to each other, John left plenty of space between them. In spite of that, his size made her feel smaller than her five foot six frame. He didn't intimidate her, and she peered sideways at him as she considered her lack of fear. Maybe because of the physical distance he maintained around her--he couldn't hurt her if he were far away--or maybe his manners and the careful way he spoke put her at ease. Whatever the reason, she felt as comfortable walking with him as she would have with Michelle.

"Here's my car." She pointed to a blue Honda Civic parked under a lamp. "Thanks again for walking me out."

"See you tomorrow." He waited, hands deep in his pockets, feet spread apart, while she started the engine. He watched her wave and pull away. Something about her intrigued him--more than just her mysterious nerves or her simple pizza order, although those things contributed to it. She didn't behave like the typical LA actor crowd who usually surrounded him. Her vulnerability aroused his protective nature. Not that she'd asked for his protection. She'd never ask him to take care of her, no one would. But still...

Bio:

When I was a little girl and couldn't fall asleep, my mother would tell me to make up a story. Pretty soon, my head was filled with these stories and the characters that populated them. Each character had a specific personality, a list of likes and dislikes, and sometimes, even a specific accent or dialect. Even as an adult, I think about the characters and stories at night before I fall asleep, or in the car on my way to or from one of my daughters' numerous activities (hey, anything that will drown out their music is a good thing).

One day, I started writing them down (it was either that or checking into the local mental hospital--the computer was way less scary) and five years later, I've gotten two book contracts from Whiskey Creek Press. A Heart of Little Faith came out in June; Skin Deep is coming out in November.

In the real world, I'm the mother of two amazing daughters and wife of one of the smartest men I know. I enjoy spending time with my family and friends, reading, traveling and watching TV. In between chauffeuring my daughters to after-school activities that require an Excel spreadsheet to be kept straight, I serve on our Temple Board, train the dog we adopted from a local shelter, and cook dinners that fit the needs of four very different appetites. I also write freelance articles for magazines, newspapers, and edit newsletters.

When all of that gets overwhelming, I retreat to my computer, where I write stories that let me escape from reality. In my made-up world, the heroines are always smart, sassy and independent. The heroes are handsome and strong with just a touch of vulnerability. If I don't like a character, I can delete him or her; if something doesn't work, I can rewrite it. It's very satisfying to be in control of at least one part of my life. My inspiration comes from watching the people around me and fantasizing about how I'd do things differently.

I can be reached at www.jenniferwilck.com or http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jennifer-Wilck/201342863240160. My blog (Fried Oreos) is jenniferwilck.wordpress.com and I contribute to Heroines With Hearts at heroineswithhearts.blogspot.com. My books can be purchased through Whiskey Creek Press www.whiskeycreekpress.com or via Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

The Too Big, The Too Little, and the "Aahh" Just Right

The other day, I ran across a link to a blog on Twitter about the average size of penises around the world. (I don't remember the blog nor the person who tweeted it, but I found the map again.) I had to check it out because, well, this could only be amusing, right? And it is. There are some places where I might avoid having intercourse with a native. Er, or, armed with this information, I would choose not to were I single. I am not, so I don't have to worry about making that decision. (g) That being said, this is rather enlightening and kind of funny.

Before you go off half-cocked (pun intended), remember when you are looking at the color chart it is in centimeters, not inches. Were it inches, I'd never visit some of those places without wearing a chastity belt, 'cause that thing isn't getting anywhere near me. (g)

Americans are closer to the smaller end of the spectrum. Lowering, but logical. I mean, we have a lot of immigrants from all over the world, right? (g) That's bound to bring the average size down...maybe. If it makes the men feel better, we can say that. Some claim dicks are shorter after circumcision. That is possible. (g)

The Asians (as in continent, including India) have the smallest. (South Korea "weighing" in at 3.8".) The largest? You can find that out for yourself. (g)

In case you missed it, here is the link again: http://www.targetmap.com/viewer.aspx?reportId=3073

When I first saw this compilation, I was a bit surprised. I don't know why. I mean, men are so fascinated with all things penis and a bit fixated on the size of their penises, that it's not that surprising there have been numerous studies conducted all over the world and someone then took the time to compile all of that information to create this map for our entertainment, er, edification. You have to wonder how many penises were measured to get what they considered enough to term "average." I could probably dig deeper to find out, but do I care that much? No.(g) If you do, please do the research and let us know. (g)

To be fair, some of the data is old, so it's possible the average sizes have changed (up or down). It also doesn't state whether this is at attention or flaccid. (If it's flaccid, God help those women in the 8" areas. Eep!) Or if measured during the summer or winter, as temperature certainly affects size.

Now, this got me to wondering if any studies had been done to find out about the average depth of a woman's pleasure palace. This would be a bit more difficult to do, as we are innies instead of outies, and I don't know very many women who'd agree to having a ruler stuck up there, myself included. (g) Not surprisingly, I couldn't find one, but I did find something else. What could it be? Hm... what else are men fascinated with? Women's breasts. (I have had men tell me that if they had breasts, they would play with them all day. O.o It's a good thing women have them then, isn't it. g) Apparently, American women fare better than their male counterparts when it comes to size. The average cup size is D. I, obviously, was skipped and am part of the group that keeps the US from having the largest breast size. (g)

For the entire "study" on breast size around the world, here's the link: http://www.geekologie.com/image.php?path=/2011/03/25/breast-map-full.jpg

I wonder how many women don't wear bras at all because they can't find any that fit. Now, that would be a useful study.

Now that I have armed you with this information, are there any countries you might consider visiting more or less? Or does it make a difference? If you do visit the country, will you be staring at the men's crotch wondering if their package is average?

I will refrain from asking you which "country" appeals to you the most, as that is private information. However, you can certainly decide which one would be the best "fit" for you without sharing. (g) I know I have. (g)

Addendum: Apparently, there are studies out there about the average depth of a woman's vagina, but there is none as not only do they vary from woman to woman, but also the size changes with experience and other factors. So, as is typical for women, it's much more complicated than measure a man's penis.

Thanksgiving with a Twist

by Valerie Mann

I'll admit it...I'm always looking for the funny and romantic in my day-to-day dealings, because I write romantic fiction and need fodder for Ms. Muse. I also edit erotic romance and let me tell you, some of the stuff I edit curls my hair, right along with my toes. I found out just how much I've learned about the erotic world we live in when I recently had to edumacate my niece on the difference between menage and polyamory relationships. I don't think she understood the distinction, nor did she truly care since she's expecting a proposal and a big, fat diamond very soon from a super-hunky former Marine. Sharing him with anyone else is so not on her radar. But I digress...
Today is Thanksgiving here in the United States. For you readers not of the US American persuasion, Thanksgiving is a holiday where we use history as an excuse for gluttony in its many forms...food, sports and shopping. Turkey being the main food ingredient, American football the sport ingredient and Best Buy (at least  for me) being the shopping ingredient. Add salt and pepper to taste. M-m-m good.
So...I'd like to bring some humor into our Thanksgiving tradition, putting an erotic twist on the translation. Hopefully, these pictures will give you a lift and keep the stress away. Or maybe this blog will help the turkey and stuffing put you into a cozy stupor for a much-needed rest before you hit the stores on Black Friday. 


See you at Best Buy! 

~A BDSM Thanksgiving Dinner~
Bondage style 

~GLBT Thanksgiving Romance ~
Tom Turkey crushes on Peter Pilgrim

~Sci-Fi  Thanksgiving Romance~
Alien Poultry

~A Rubenesque Thanksgiving Romance~

~Military Thanksgiving Romance~
(featuring Captain Tom Turkey )

~An Interracial Thanksgiving Romance~

Have a wonderful, Romantic Thanksgiving  Day, 
no matter how you choose to celebrate it!

Racing the Clock...& the Holiday!

This is my week to blog, but I have a big deadline looming in a few short days and I'm hosting Thanksgiving in my home for up to twelve people. The hubby is baking the turkey, but I have the rest of the dinner to plan/make and I still have to meet that deadline and clean the house.

One of the other 4SW might post this week, so please stop back.

Until next I snark, quip, or rant here, I leave you a cute cartoon and an easy contest for the avid reader.

I wish everyone who observes the U.S. Thanksgiving a beautiful holiday and many blessings!

Contest: http://faithbicknell.com/?p=130

When Cougars Attack: Acknowledging & Adapting to Limits

Hi all, please allow me to introduce myself before I get too far into this. I’m Becca Dale, and I write and edit steamy to erotic romance. My children (22 and almost 21) are aware Mom writes romance, but they are blissfully ignorant of the heat level as they have no interest in the genre, which is fine by me. I really don’t want them to know the things that flirt, bump, or grind through their mother’s mind. However, they seem to have no problem sharing things with me. Which brings me to today’s topic. I have read some pretty hot cougar romances and have even written one; however, a recent conversation with my son has brought a question to mind: are erotic authors creating fantasies that real women should be cautious in fulfilling?

I’m all for fun in whatever package it arrives. As long as it is consensual, go for it. However, at twenty-two my son, an attractive, dark-haired man with a preference for dress clothes over jeans, tends to attract older women. Now, by this I do not mean those five to fifteen years his senior, though he gets attention from them, as well. I mean double to triple his age. Last Saturday he was hit on by five different women ranging in age from mid forties to early eighties. I tried to tell him they just thought he was cute—like a son or grandson—until he shared the things they said.

Nope—no motherly or grandmotherly feelings there.

The poor kid was at a loss on how to react. He has always been taught to be respectful of his elders, but what should he say when someone his mother’s age offers to teach him things he has only imagined? Or a woman older than his nana asks if he’d like her to demonstrate how flexible she still is? He was downtown with several other young people, so not quite sure how he wound up talking to these women, but his friends’ explicit ribbing confirmed he had not imagined the situation after a few too many beers.

Despite how heartwarming it was to hear he had been polite and sweet and even a little flirty to save their feelings, images I did not want flooded my head and made me generally concerned for these women. What if he had taken them up on the deal? So here is a chart on how to address and adjust to very real issues for anyone engaging in a cougarish situation with a young man barely over the age of majority.

Age		Acknowledge	Adapt
40's		You do not want to be pregnant and afraid.	Buy condoms in bulk. Recovery time may be shorter than you remember.
50's		Massage Therapy is expensive.	Stretch well before playing.
60's		Your granddaughter may have dated the target.	Consider hunting in a different state or country - I hear Frenchmen are Fabulous!
70's		Your knees may not hold out.	Avoid Doggie Style.
80's		Certain positions could break a hip.	DO NOT - under any circumstances - allow the kitten to throw your legs over his shoulders.

Remember, Medicare is not designed to pay for sexual injuries, ladies, so approach kittens with caution. However, if you Acknowledge your potential limitations and Adapt accordingly, you should be fine. On a more personal note, if you succeed in seducing my son, I don’t want to know about it.

Born and raised in rural South Dakota, Becca Dale represents the girl next door personified. The open prairies and quiet, pine-covered hills of the Upper Midwest feed her creativity and keep her work grounded in reality while the stoic can-do attitude and twisted sarcasm of her family and friends provide endless inspiration. A farmer’s daughter, an engineer’s wife, and a high school teacher, she brings a hint of the common woman to her writing. Although her characters, especially the paranormal ones, sometimes reflect the ordinary on steroids, there remains a sense of reality.

As a multi-published author Becca strives to walk the line of romantic erotica—venturing into the wild while never forgetting that the main focus should always be love.  Her work has received top reviews world wide, and she loves to hear from fans and critics alike. Contact her on Facebook or Twitter or visit her blog at http://beccadale.blogspot.com