The Gas Price Blues

Help us welcome guest author Patrick Royal.

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It's Sunday night. I just picked up grub for dinner and passed by the gas station. The price sign read $3.52 a gallon. I passed it and headed to the next one just down the road from it, which is usually lower. When I get there, the price sign reads $3.45. Quickly, I debate whether to stop right then or get it on my way to work in the morning. I procrastinated and decided to wait until morning.

In the morning, I get up, get dressed, pack my lunch, grab my laptop, and head out the door. I started the engine, pulled it into gear, and off I went. On my way through my neighborhood, I glanced at the gas gauge a few times. Stopping at the stop sign at the end of the neighborhood, I turned right and headed straight. When I got to the gas station, the price was still the same, $3.45 a gallon. In a split-second, I ended up procrastinating again, passing up the pumps, just heading into work.

The work day ended, and I'm on my way home. Glancing at the gas gauge, I realize that I'm on my way to running out. A few feet from the gas station, my engine shuts off, and I steer my van into the lot and up to a gas pump. Shew…made it. I smiled and told the attendant that I just ran out of gas a few feet from station but managed to coast to the pump. He chuckled. I hand him a twenty dollar bill and sat back waiting for him to finish pumping it.

I'm pretty happy with myself at this point. As I wait on the gas attendant, I look over at the digital numbers on the pump and the price reads $3.53 a gallon. Not only was the gas station's price higher from the night before, it's a cent higher than the first station I checked.

That's just my luck. Why does the gas companies have to play with the prices so much? Can't they leave it at one price and be happy with it? Why's it I can get gas for a certain price, and the next day it's lower? What's the reason for the hike or drop in prices from one day to the next? I think the oil companies like pissing us off. Why? Because they know we'll buy it because we need it.

Author Patrick Royal

Bio:

Patrick Royal is a family man. Born in Virginia, raised in Northwest Indiana, he and his wife Lynette have resided in Western Kentucky for ten years. An avid reader of Stephen King. He's inspired to use the gift God gave him to chill his readers. He's also the author of Novels "Jacob's Closet," Sleep Stalker, and Mind Shadows: Book 1: Shattered.

Blurb:

Shattered by Patrick Royal

The only thing that multi-published, award winning horror author, Tom Elliot, wanted was to move to the country for a change of scenery and relaxation, to a quiet part of southern Illinois. It seemed he'd picked out a wonderful spot, miles away from the closest neighbor and even further away from civilization.

Tom couldn't write to save his soul. Weird thoughts trampled through his head and left him wondering if he'd made a mistake moving from Chicago. Could it have been that he ripped himself from his element, like his best friend, Michael Gully, had predicted? That he couldn't answer yet.

Words came and flowed like wildfire, but at what price? Tom's imagination was getting the best of him and running rampant. The very characters that he created tormented him, driving him mad where he couldn't distinguish fiction from reality.

Excerpt:

A moan drifted from the next room and teased Tom's ear. Stopping to listen, he struggled to figure out what he'd heard. He stepped slowly into the living room. A woman stood with her back toward him.

His heart thudded fast.

The woman moaned. Her long-fitted skirt hugged her hips, and a pleated white shirt. On the floor by her feet lay droplets of blood.

Tom peeped around the woman's body and caught a glance of her face. "Lady, who are you? Why are you in my house?" he asked and widened his eyes.

Tom still faced the woman's back, and she wept a bit harder. "You should know why I'm here," she said in a soft but shaky voice. She turned around, faced him, and quickly threw her arms out in front of her. Blood trickled and dripped onto the floor from deep slits across both wrists. In her hand she held a yellow hair ribbon.

Tom's jaw dropped open and he stumbled back, widening his view. "Oh my God. Wha…?"

The woman stepped closer to him and held her arms out with her wounds still dripping blood. Her body projected forward, as if traveling in flash.

"You did this! You killed my daughter, and you made me what you see." She shoved her bloody wrists toward Tom.

"No, no. You've made a mistake," Tom screamed and backed away from her. He clung to the wall with his legs weakening and his hands trembling.

The woman stood and laughed hysterically.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut. "You're not real. You're not real," he screamed. Opening his eyes, the woman had disappeared, the room once again silent. Tom sank to his knees, sat on the floor, and leaned against the wall with a blank stare.

Not long after the sun rose high in the sky, Tom's nerves finally calmed. He called Michael, and it ended similar to the other times he called him for some well needed answers. His friend proved unable to offer any help. Hanging up, Tom sat at his desk more confused than ever. Am I losing my mind like Michael fears? He chuckled over his friend's reaction when he told him that he planned to take a small break from writing. He had to admit that it even sounded strange to hear himself say it. Maybe, he was losing it. He had never really been scared of anything. Michael was the one that had always been scared and had nightmares over things that bothered him. What bothered him now was that he loved where he lived, but he hated the idea of being so far away from Michael. He had grown used to driving over to his house and discussing life's little problems, and vice versa.

Buy Mind Shadows: Book 1: Shattered

We Want Your Business But…

So, the other day, a telemarketer called. I had purchased something and ended up with a “free three-month trial.” (Oooo…) Now they had a six-month special (only $4.95/month instead of $14.95) if I would give them my credit card number right now. The conversation went something like this:

Me: But I’m not sure if I want to subscribe for another six-months or not.

Telemarketer: If you don’t, you’ll be paying $14.95.

Me: Not if I don’t re-up after the three months is up. Besides which, I know what will happen. After the six months is up, you’ll start charging me the $14.95 unless I call you to cancel, which most likely won’t happen as I’ll forget about it until I see the next bill. Then I’ll be on the phone for hours trying to get a refund and it cancelled. Can I pay by check?

Telemarketer: Of course, you can pay by check. We will send you an invoice, but so you know, you will be charged a minimal fee of $2 for paying by check.

Me: What? You are going to charge me $2 for paying by check when you are soliciting my business? Seriously? I own my two businesses, and I don’t charge people for patronizing them, especially if I’m asking them to buy my products.

And this type of thing drives me nuts. We want your business but we are going to charge extra for that business if you wish to pay by check. What? I like paying by check. I’m not a fan of charging up my credit card. I know this has been going on for some time, but the principal of it irks me. When did it become okay for businesses to charge a customer for using checks to pay their bills?

For instance, take car insurance companies. They’ve been doing this for years. If you pay in increments, you are charged more. Okay, I get that. This is to encourage you to pay for an entire year upfront. However, why am I being charged a $2 processing fee if I pay by increments. Isn’t processing just part of business expenses? Heck, they even charge that if you use a credit card.

The same thing happens with the bank. I like getting my checks returned, but I can’t get them anymore. I can get copies of my checks back for $2/month fee. So, it went from that being part of my statement to having to pay to have copies all on one or two sheets of paper returned? Are they or are they not my checks? I mean, didn’t I have to buy them? I’m okay with buying them, not so much with paying to have them returned to me. And the banks are pushing to go paperless with statements--to save the environment… like they really care. It’s about saving the money from printing and mailing those statements. You can print them yourself, of course, but if you don’t, they only keep three years online. Statute of limitations is seven years. Of course, you can get the older statements… for a fee. (Most likely $2, but, hey, when you need them, only $10/statement.)

How much can we screw you without you leaving us? Apparently, quite a bit, as all of them do the exact same thing. When something is required either by law or just to live (not that you can’t live without a bank account, but it sure makes life a lot harder), choices are slim and their “we want your business but” is legal highway robbery. All right, so $2 isn’t highway robbery, but it adds up quickly and, in my opinion, shitty.

Of course, I can live without the subscription, so, yeah, the answer is no.

I HATE my computer!!!

Please help us welcome Nicole Morgan. Oh, do I know this feeling!

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Okay, not really. I actually love my computer. It was an affordable option at a time when I really needed a laptop. And it's been really very good to me over the past year and a half. It's not the computer itself. It's the work that needs to be done on the computer on a daily basis. I mean how many hours is a woman supposed to be able to sit in front of a computer all day long before it becomes inevitable that she will go completely BSC (aka bat sh*t crazy)?

I'm sure many authors out there will agree that it's hard to manage the multitude of tasks that we have in this day and age of publishing in the 21st Century. Between general promoting, interacting with our fellow authors and hopping all over the net to both spread the word about our books, but also help our colleagues, there are times when I run out of enough hours in the day to even write.

Ahh...but, of course I start off every day with a "master plan" to be super productive the first couple of hours so I can spend the rest of day offline and doing nothing but what I love the most, writing. *sigh* That would be so nice. Still, no matter how many times I start every day with this resolve of turning off the little internet option on my laptop it never happens.

Now, I could ask you all to share with me your tips on how to better manage my time, get more accomplished and be the best that I can be, but I won't. See, this is a mini-rant. I'm a frustrated woman at the end of my rope who just wants one of you to please, for the love of all that is good and righteous in the world to please, please invent a machine that stops all time so I can catch up and *POOF* I'll say, "look at all I got done today!"

*Sigh* If only... If only...

Okay, back to work I go, but I would just like to say that out of all the ways I would like my butt to hurt, having it sore from sitting too much was not what I had in mind. Grrr...

Nicole Morgan aka BSC Author ;)

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Blurb:

Jace Walker served his country for ten years in the Army. Years of combat and war left him with invisible wounds which bring him to the lowest point in his life. In a moment of crisis, he meets his angel.

After years of being an attentive and loyal wife, Alexis Foster catches her husband's infidelity. Her life changes as she gets divorced and becomes a single parent.

Years pass and Jace finds his angel once again. Only this time she's no longer married. He vows to do anything in his power to sweep her off her feet and make the angel he remembered from all those years before become his. Despite her insecurities, the two find an attraction stronger than either of them anticipated.

Will he entice her into letting down her walls? Or will she entice him into finding a true and unrelenting love?

eBook purchase link:

• Bookstrand

Paperback purchase links:

• Amazon
• Barnes & Noble

Erotia Does Not Equal Porn

Help us welcome Livia Ellis, author of Memoirs of a Gigolo.

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I received an email from someone who downloaded Memoirs of a Gigolo during the promotional give away on Amazon. I think is best addressed right here. Three of my choice favorite quotes, not taken out of context, and preserving all anonymity: "If you want to write porn then write porn - don't try to pretend anyone would read the story and not just skip to the good parts... There's a big difference between a romance novel and one that people want just for the dirty bits... Real writers would never write porn..." For the last one, does anyone have Anne Rice's number for me?

Erotica is to ballet what Porn is to pole-dancing. Erotica is the sultry dark eyed international man of mystery (maybe it is a cliche, but there's a reason he's a popular guy) who gives a smart savvy woman exactly what she wants and in abundance. Porn is gopher-like Ron Jeremy huffing and puffing his way to an aneurysm on the back of some probably not so bright girl young enough to be his granddaughter. Eeeewwwww. Erotica is sexy. Porn is just sex.

I've read my fair share of erotica by choice and as a means to help a couple of my writer friends who write erotica. Well written erotica, like any well written work, has a story that people want to read. Yes, there is sex and hopefully in abundance, but it's part of the story. It's woven into a tapestry that conveys a whole experience. Porn is just screwing. Granted I've seen some porn where, bless him, the director has gone back to his film school roots and is trying to create something more meaningful than just people boning. But it's still porn. The "story" is secondary to the humping and moaning. Actually without the humping and the moaning there would be no story. Remove the sexual element from a work of erotica and you still have a well crafted story.

Crafting an erotic story, is as time consuming and detail driven a task as writing any other work. The end product has more to do with the ability of the writer rather than the subject. It's like saying the painting was lousy not because the painter doesn't know how to blend color or interpret a shadow on the canvas, but that the model was chubby or the fruit was rotten. To imply or even out right state that the writer who chooses to focus her time and effort in one genre rather than another is somehow less able than other writers is insulting.

I imagine I can sum it up as would any good pole dancer who spent years training as a classical ballerina: it's not as easy as it looks. You think writing good quality erotica is all about the in-out? The gauntlet has been thrown down. Show me what you got!

Blurb:

Oliver Adair enjoys a life of women (sometimes men), travel, and sex. Unfortunately these things cost money - something he doesn't have a lot of. When he's offered an opportunity to get paid for doing what he loves, he happily signs on to become a male escort. But first, he has to pass the interview process. The madam of the agency has one of her girls put him to the test. Oliver quickly discovers that in this world, not only is being a mans man a la James Bond still desirable, but expected. By embracing his masculine sexuality, he makes a name for himself in the world of escorts.

Bio: Livia is an American writer living in Dublin desperately trying to figure out the ever changing world of publishing and writing. Her current release, Memoirs of a Gigolo, is available on Amazon. For more about Livia and her books, please visit her website.

Oh Nos! Girlie bits! Run!

Today it's time for a rant from me. I don't rant much, and almost never about actual writing issues, but today....

I guess, this is about reading, more than writing, really. I'm talking about genre snobbery. What is that, you ask? Just this: the outcry that goes up should a writer introduce lovers into a m/m book, no matter how small the part they play, where one or more partner doesn't have a penis. I mean...what is that about? Seriously, look around you. Go visit all those so called 'gay ghettos' and imagine what it would really be like if there was not a single hetero couple around anywhere.

It's unrealistic, people.

Yes, I will concede it is possible (not likely, or remotely accurate, but maybe, in a stretch, plausible) that gay guys might tend to form friendship circles in which everyone is gay.

But come on. Really? No girls allowed? What century do we even live in? I'll give you two examples off the top of my head...no, three, in which the women in the books are as important or more than the men, no matter what kind f relationship any of them are in:

Partnership in Blood, by Ariel Tachna. I love so many characters in this series, and two of my very favorite are Angelique, a vampire with some really definite ideas of where her men fit into her life, and Adel, a wizard who embarks on a huge self-learning curve when she realizes she's falling for another woman. There is nothing weak or lacking in these women and the relationships they have are as compelling as any of the gay matches in the books.

And Ms. Tachna doesn't hold back on the love scenes, either. If you ask me, Angelique's love scenes are some of the best ones in the books. Her relationship with David is a rocky one, and the sex between them is a reflection of their growth as people and as a couple. And it's beautiful. The books would not be the same without them. As for Adel, she's prickly and impatient and a dictator and her first partnership with Jude is beyond rocky. It's a landslide disaster. Again, no holding back on the sex, on the anger, or the force both Jude and Adele bring to the bed. A hard contrast to the tender love scenes between Adele and her later partner Pascale. The contrast is important. the relationships are important to the story line, and the characters involved? All amazing creations with incredible depth. And look! They don't all have dicks. Because in life, I know it's crazy, but not everyone has a gay-for-you dick. Go figure. (Adele happens to have a gay-for -you-pussy, when she meets Pascale, and more power to her, I say, though there is much more to her than just that.)

The Dark World series by Lex Valentin, specifically Unbreak Me. If that woman isn't strong and resilient and deserving of a love story, no one, anywhere is. And Lex manages to make all her female characters fun, funny, tough and more than able to hold their own against the men in their lives, whether it be standing up to the villians, partnering their Significant Others or kicking sense into their gay brothers/friends/whoever, these women are worth reading about.

Mercedes Lackey and her Harold Mage universe: There ares some very, very tough women in that 'verse. Some of them sleep together, some of them sleep with men, sometimes their love lives never get talked about. Always, the women are integral parts of the fabric of the stories and of the male characters, lives, no matter what role they take on for the males.

Lets face it, folks, we live our lives in a world where male and female interact. If all you write about are the men and their gayness, you're not only segmenting them off from a whole half of the world that matters, but you're doing a disservice to them. You're making them into creatures who live for one thing: love and sex, in the best possible vision of it. Sex, if you get down to brass tacks.

Gay men might, indeed, be gay. That isn't all they are, and damnit, if you refuse to mention that they know girls, love their sisters, fight with their mothers and get annoyed at their bestie girl-friends, maybe even have *gasp!andshock!* have slept with a couple of the fairer sex, I might just refuse to read your books. et's just get over it and be real and treat the guys we're writing about like actual men with actual rounded and full lives, shall we? hmm?

What books have you read that had women in them as part and parcel to the gay guys featured? If you're one of those readers who just cant stand the mention of girrlie bits in your gay romance, why is that? Help me understand.

Stressed Out!

You know what? I usually try not to rant. I really do. But today? Y'all just have to deal with it, because here's the list:

laundry to fold (5 loads) and four more to wash. Has no one ever heard of nudist colonies?

Replace the bathroom tap so the water comes out at more than a trickle. If I can find the plumbing wrench. And if I can actually figure out how to do it.

Paint the girl's bedroom, which she had been promised would happen last Christmas...

Christmas tree to put up. Should be an enjoyable family activity. For crazy people, or the happy get along gang, maybe. Not for any normal family I've ever met.

House to decorate. Same as above.

Replace the front on the kitchen drawer someone slammed so hard (likely in a fit of rage. Possibly me) that it came off.

35K story to edit. I'm so seriously sick of this story I used to love it makes me want to cry.

And speaking of crying, a website to figure out why it's gone haywire, because the suckage that is a pathetic 0-4 hits a day my stats tell me I'm getting sure aren't sucking up much bandwidth! But my web host doesn't seem to care and I even offered to pay someone to help me with this and she gave me a pointer or two and pretty much told me to do it myself. Seriously. You people have no idea how much technology reaches down my throat and tries to strangle me with my own entrails. It hates me that much. I'm not exaggerating.

And instead of doing any of that fun stuff, I get to spend the weekend in the company of the most aggressively controlling and selfish person in my life. And help put up her Christmas tree. Huzzah.

Who wants to be me for a day or two? I'll trade ya! Do you clean fish guts for a living? Or hotel toilets where the rooms are to let by the hour? I'll do that. Muck raking? I could use the exercise, and probably the stress relief. Anything, just please someone make this all go away, just for a day.

Oh, and to top it off, I started reading First Watch by Peter...somebody. Sir, I'm so sorry I forget your last name. Let me just say, in the mood I'm in, I had to put the book down because of the potential for Dire Things seemingly about to happen to the protag, and I just couldn't stand it. I'll get back to it when I'm feeling a little more bullet proof and a little less like the proverbial ticking time bomb of hormonal insanity. Sorry. (Incidentally, that's good writing, if I actually care what's happening to the fictional guy so much I can't read the bad stuff unless I psyche myself up for it. Just sayin').

So yeah. Merry Christmas, everyone. I'll wander on back when I remember the whole love and joy part, promise. Look for me in mid February or so...

What do all of you do to get past this shit? There must be a trick I'm missing, because I'm a little....ranty.

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?

So, You Really Want Me 2 Follow You?

Please help us welcome author Lynn Crain.

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When I sat down at my computer today, trying to think exactly what I wanted to vent about, I had to give myself some boundaries. See, there is so much in my life to vent about, a major move to a foreign country, a husband who is so attentive he's driving me crazy, a new puppy who we call piranha boy because of his puppy teeth but so many of you would see those things as living the fairy tale that I decided to do one that should be nearer and dearer to our author hearts. But I get ahead of myself here as introductions are definitely in order.

My name's Lynn Crain and I write hot, sexy romances for the over eighteen crowd. Right now I'm living in Vienna, Austria with my husband of thirty some years who is following his dream to work internationally. Notice, I said his dream but that's another story and a whole other rant. None of our children or our pets came with us for various reasons: the oldest has his own family, the youngest is in college and the animals couldn't successfully travel the ocean so they are stuck at home with said kids. This is why we have piranha boy, a Parson Russell Terrier the breeder named Harry Potter that turns fourteen weeks old today. Because of this move and the tribulations it brought me I haven't had a book published in a while but that's going to change real soon as I expect to have about ten or so within the next coming year. The first one is a re-issue of a story called, A Lover for Rachel, and it's got one hot cover. It's schedule to be released between November 27 to December 3rd, 2011.

Now back to the meat of this blog ~ I don't know about you but I do daily research on the internet for various projects. Now those who know me well would say that I'm just cruising about looking for the best time possible but really I'm not. Part of that time is spent looking for like minded individuals who I can share blog space with, toss out a comment on twitter and generally share good news and happenings. To be honest, that's how I found this wonderful gem of a blog and I've recommended it to a lot of people and plan to do so even more. Networking is how many books are sold and it's a very important aspect to one's writing career.

It's taken me years to develop this tack on just who I want to follow be it on twitter, a blog or sharing a link on another's website. Too many places and you'll over-saturate those you want to admire you and your work, too little and they will never know your name. I have heard there are many ways to do this. Only follow those who are like minded ~ what does that mean? Only re-tweet those things that will bring you more followers ~ no, really, what does that mean? Never follow those whose background pictures you like ~ why not? Come on now, it's a really cute setup! Some people have even gone so far to tell me that I must maintain a professional attitude one-hundred percent of the time ~ how fun is that?

One is supposed to have fun in their career and if you can't what is the point? Live, love, laugh ~ that's my philosophy and I'm sticking to it. Therefore, when I peruse the net looking for new followers and those I can follow, new places to blog or just new people to hang out yet, I expect the kind courteous response that I would give them. But in the last few months, I've hit a stumbling block or two or maybe it's fifteen as right now I'm so irritated, I could bust a gut.

It's been my habit to follow a few new faces on twitter weekly and to add a blog or two to my list of ones to follow if they're lucky. I choose my victims - er - friends through a careful search and by looking at their tweets or blogs and websites to make sure they are people I want to be around. Doesn't everyone? First, I have to feel I have a genuine connection to them and then I have to want to give my time to them as it is a precious commodity to me as well as to them.

I take great joy in finding new authors and people to follow. It amazing me that there are others out there that think in a somewhat similar mode as I do. I want to be with those people, I want to see what they are saying, learn about what they are reading and I want to share my goals, aspirations, listening and reading habits with them. After all, we may share a common bond and never know it unless we can connect somewhere. The internet is a perfect way to connect to like minds, to those who are in the same struggles, are writing the same genres or reading the same authors. It truly is a reach-out-and-touch-someone moment when you find another like mind on the internet. You can share writing snippets, trade blogs posts and links, talk family, kids, marketing and a host of other important topics.

Imagine my surprise when recently I've run into validation services for everything imaginable. Are you kidding? The one true way to turn off readers, followers, bloggers, reviewers and whoever I haven't named, is to say you don't trust them right off the bat. Sure, I can understand if they have come from a questionable IP address or they have a questionable name as some do but to send the person an email, a tweet, a comment with a link and say, "Hey, if you want to follow me via twitter, my blog, my website or whatever, you have to pass this test! Aren't you happy to do it?"

Sorry, I'm not happy to do it and got carried away there. Frankly, I don't have time for validation services. I can understand the ones where you have a quick email back that says you're a real person but to send someone to an outside vendor and make them answer all sorts of questions about themselves and why they want to follow you, well, you've made an enemy for life and you can be word will get around. After all, I'm writing this blog, aren't I? If I am, there are others out there not venting about their not liking validation services.

Now, if you were a Nora Roberts-type person, I can understand it...after all, you have thousands upon thousands of followers and probably don't need me anyway. If you are just starting out, honey, I would rethink your stradegy as there is no quicker way to piss someone off than to tout your sense of importance. Yes, you are important but some am I...and it makes me wonder...just why am I wasting my time on you again? Those people who you are trying to validate are asking themselves the same questions and trust me, if they can't justify following you in whatever manner they've tried, they just won't answer you back. If you send them something asking why, they will ignore you. Who knows what they're saying to their friends? Are they giving you a good name or a bad one?

As for me, I'll continue to slog through the people who follow me wherever and ban those who are truly bad. I don't know about you but I can spot them a mile away...after all...just how many of them can be on twitter or blog for over a year and not know how to add a picture? Not many. Trust me.

Lynn Crain bio:

I'm a writer of sexy romance. I live in the hot southwest where I weave my tales for various publishers in the sci-fi, fantasy and paranormal genres. I have one husband, two sons, one daughter-in-law, two grandkids, two dogs, three cats and I've gotten rid of the snakes. I love hearing from all of you at lynncrain@cox.net. UPDATE: Wait - if you've read any of this blog recently you'll see that obviously, I'm not in the beautiful southwest right now. I'm on the adventure of a lifetime in Vienna, Austria. An adventure with issues...yup...that's me!

You can find her on her blog at www.awriterinvienna.blogspot.com on any given day as she tells you about her adventures abroad.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

It's been one of those weeks. Who am I kidding? This started about two weeks ago, although I didn't suspect those next two weeks would basically be in the toilet. Oh, there've been some summits that have kept me sane, but the nadirs... Yeah, they've been pretty good. It could be worse, of course.

So, it started with quarterly reports. I wanted to complete them a week ago Monday, and I have this fabulous accounting program that cuts the time down by nearly two weeks. It's just that I have a knack for finding all of the bugs in this program. It seems every time I use it, I break it. (It's a gift, truly.) This time, I accidentally put in a date when importing some data that made the program crash. (See, I told you I'm good.) They knew about this bug, but no one in the history of the program had found it until...me. (g) I had to send my database to the programmers to fix. Luckily, they work fast. However, this, and a few other things, put me back a day.

I suppose this should have been an omen of sorts for these next two weeks. It wasn't. I mean, I'm used to screwing up the program. (g) It was par for the course, and all was well until Saturday night.

That night Lily came down with a really nasty cold and a fever so high she burned to the touch. This was particularly scary as Lily has had seizures. For two days, sleep did not exist.

It's been up and down from there on out with too many troughs and not enough summits that it's almost funny.

I managed to finish quarterly reports and send them all out a week ago Tuesday, nearly a week in advance. That was a first. Yay me! But Wednesday saw me cleaning the biohazard of a front shower as Mom and Jan, a family friend I haven't seen for 7 years, were coming to stay with us on Friday. If I didn't clean it, Mom would, and I'd be embarrassed to let anyone use it.

Mind you, sleep had still eluded me even though Lily's cold had improved to just a cough. With each successive day, I was growing more exhausted and grumpier. They were scheduled to arrive Friday. They did, but not until midnight. Mom had a key, but couldn't get it to work so she called me. I was sleeping, and despite being exhausted, I pulled my ass out of bed and sat up for another hour. I could sleep in in the morning, right?

Hahahahaha

Um, no. Lily was so excited that Grandma was here, she was up, which meant I was up because she had to come into our bedroom first and wake me. (I love her, but sometimes... ;))

My Saturday plans were shot to hell because Jan wanted to go to Malibu and spend the day on the beach. Lucky for him, we had a beautiful day. Besides seeing them, this was one of the bright spots of the past two weeks. I played with Lily, and we built a sand castle. Of course, I ended the day with a migraine. O.o

Note: From here down, my original blog post was eaten by Google mail. This is why the original post was only partially uploaded by Valerie. (Thank you, Valerie!) Because I wrote it on my iPhone, I do not have a copy, so I am having to rewrite this section. Somehow, I don't think it will be quite the same, but it's what I've got. End Note

Things managed to be okay until Monday night. Around 11 pm, I wandered into the bedroom to grab my night clothes and shower. I opened the underwear drawer and...what was that? Something scurried across my skivvies. Oh, my God, it was a baby cockroach. Seriously?

(sigh)

A cockroach had taken up residence in my underwear drawer. A black cloud quickly formed around me. Although few words slipped through my lips, a virulent stream of obscenities swirled in my mind. The drawer came out, and I took it outside where I searched for the little fucker (Never found it, but it's not in there anymore.), sterilized the drawer after getting all of the cockroach turds out of the back (yes, I know. I know. It was disgusting. Even now, my mouth turns down in a moue of distaste, and I shudder.), and threw all of the underwear into the wash.

That done, I peered into the dresser for no particular reason and saw another baby hiding in a groove. Crap! Now the entire dresser had to be torn apart, the cockroach killed, and the cause of the infestation discovered. )They liked my sock drawer, too, but stayed out of the others. Thank all of the powers that be!)

The cause? One of the dresser feet was wet from a shower leak. Yay! Something else. How exciting! (Insert more swear words here.) However, I was taking a shower despite all of that and going to bed.

But, wait! I don't have any clean underwear. (Head to wall) Since I wasn't going to continue wearing my dirty underwear and I wouldn't turn it inside out, it was commando. While I don't mind going commando on occasion, I want the choice. That night, I had no choice, and this just added to my ire.

And then, the final straw came yesterday when my laptop turned off for no apparent reason. It was plugged in, it should have been working, but it just turned off. Frantic, I called my husband Charlie the computer god. Of course, there's nothing he could do from work. So, I tried plugging it in again and turning it on. Voilà, we were in business again for the time being. A few hours later, it died again and wouldn't turn back on.

Charlie came home and pulled out one of the spare laptops we have lying around. One that someone gave him because it was broken, but he magically fixed it. (I have long since stopped trying to figure out how he does that. Truly, he's a magician.) They no longer wanted it and gave it to him. (This does happen on occasion. It's an occupational hazard of being an IT professional.) It's four years old, but runs. I'm happy and love my husband. (g)

Although we'd decided it was just a bad battery, he'd decided to transfer my data to the "new" laptop anyway. I'd be without my laptop that evening. As I'd planned on working after Lily went to bed, this was not good. But I could give up a few hours if it meant having a newer laptop, right? Except, there was an issue with my old laptop's disk, and the data wouldn't transfer properly. And because he has to go to work, I could be without a laptop for several days.

HAHAHAHAHAHA (breath) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (breath) HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I am blessed. Truly, I am. (The only reason I am able to amend this post is because I am able to use the "new" laptop.) I know this, but, oh... if one more thing happens, I might need a straight jacket.

Um... I'm a Guy

Please help us welcome author and cop James Greer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"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?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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.

Zip It...Zip It Good!

Some days, I wish I could zip another person's mouth, or, at the very least, remind them of the old adage If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all? Well, most people don't live by that, even if they should. I know I don't at times. I know I rant here and say some unkind things about people in general, although rarely one person in particular. So, I do try to be nice (it's a struggle some days), or if I am going to say something not so nice, I'll save it for the bedroom with Charlie where I know it won't go anywhere. Even still, things will slip out at times, but I am getting better at biting my tongue.

However, I am ever amazed at how people seemed to think I care about their opinion, especially when it disagrees with mine. (g) I mean, really, do they honestly think that they can change my mind by insulting me?

For instance, I know a few people whose political viewpoints are diametrically opposed to mine in many ways, yet they insist on talking to me about them. Why? Even if I try to meet them in the middle (and I don't always, because, well, they are wrong after all (grin)), they won't budge. It's their way or the highway.

Eh. That's fine. I feel the same. I'll just listen to them blather on while I search for my escape route. (grin)

People have opinions on everything. Frequently, those opinions diverge from mine. So, um, I spend a lot of time silent. (grin) Something you learned about me today: if I'm not trying to add anything to a conversation, it probably means I don't agree with you. (grin) Aren't you lucky I've held my tongue?

And doesn't it drive you nuts when someone argues with you? It's like running into a brick wall. I've had people spend more than an hour trying to convince me I am wrong, that I must agree with them, that I can't possibly mean what I said.

O.o

No matter how much I try to end the conversation politely, they won't stop. It's like diarrhea of the mouth. If they want to do that, do it somewhere else. I'm so not into it. And arguing with me will only make me more set in my ways, because I'm ornery that way. (grin) I don't like to be told what to do. (grin)

This did happen recently. It pissed me off, but I bit my tongue and bore it. Should it happen again, I'm not sure how polite I will be as I've been there already. Although I had lots of unkind thoughts running through my head, mixed with a good dollop of sarcasm. (grin)

Just because they disagree with me does not make them right. Maybe for them, but not for me.

But it reminded me that I can be just as obnoxious if I'm not careful. I'll certainly be more careful in the future...or not, if you've already irritated me, I may not listen to the angel on my shoulder. (grin)

Satellite, Bills, and Dumb Customer Service

Help us welcome Shaunna Wolf today. Who hasn't wanted to reach out and strangle someone? (g)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I started out writing this about the twisted hand of fate, well, then I had to deal with a truly amazing satellite technician. So I thought I would share. We have all had to deal with flipping idiots on the other end of the phone or chat window, feel free to insert other f word for flipping. Please do.

Whatever home entertainment selection you have it costs $$$, big $$$, unless you just use Netflix or have a small channel package. We have the top package with our satellite provider with three movie channel packages. One we get for free as a customer loyalty gift for a year. So you do the math on what I pay for service. Is it too much to ask for service in return?

Six years ago when we had the dish installed, I loved their service. The guys came out the day after we moved into the house and got everything set up. I wish I had changed the way the people before us had the thing set up, but that is a different story. Having come from town and cable and all its hidden costs, the dish seemed like a gift from the gods.

Flash forward to this provider becoming more and more popular. We had a problem with the dish being blocked by a willow tree--I never expected the thing to be more than a large bush--I live in hot-as-hell- Texas after all--you know that commercial for the fancy water where everything is melting? Well that's about like it is here. Anyway, I had not used the dish mover option, so they came out to move the dish. (Note: this was in the winter so it wasn't blasting hot, the hot was for the tree, not the dish.)

The guy had tobacco juice running down his beard and smelled like he had not taken a bath in a month. I wanted to offer him use of my shower and deodorant, but then I would have had to sandblast my shower afterwards. The dish got moved, he checked that we had a signal, and he left. Thank god for air-freshener. That night: no signal. We go out and discover that he left the cables just flapping in the wind, and they had come undone from the one leading into the house. I had to anchor the cable to the eves as well.

Six months later enter the chat tech from the land of "I am so stupid it is a wonder my head doesn't implode from the 1.5 brain cells I have bouncing around in there trying to find each other." Make that 2 chat techs a level 1 and a level 2. Twiddledee and Twiddledum anyone?

Note: they send you the chat text in an e-mail. I have edited to remove info like account pin etc., but this is basically how it went.

Ivan: How can I help you today?

Shawn: I am having a problem with my remote. The RF signal for TV 2 is not working right, we have to stand right in front of the receiver for it to work. The infrared part is working fine, it turns the TV on and off and controls the volume etc. but it is like it doesn't have any range. We have replaced the batteries, I tried two different brand new sets and it didn't make a difference. I also used the online troubleshooting guide and tried the steps listed there, nothing worked. If I stand right in front of the receiver it will work sometimes.

Ivan: OK, we will fix this for you today. Can I have your phone number please?

Shawn: I give him the phone number and then he asks for the account pin and billing address. I give him all that info.

Ivan: Ok, we will fix this for you today. Can you please describe to me fully the problem you are experiencing?

REALLY?

Shawn: I cut and paste the stuff I put in earlier.

Ivan: Ok, we will fix this for you today. (Again: really?) So I understand you are having a problem with your remote. Can you please tell me when did you last replace the batteries?

OMG. Really? Are you kidding me? Did I not just tell this guy twice that I had replaced the batteries twice?

Shawn: I replaced the batteries, twice. I also did all the online troubleshooting steps. It is still not working right.

Ivan: (who is now in my mind Ivan-the-Stupid) Ok, we need to address your remote that is why it is not working.

Really? That is the second thing the online troubleshooting asks you to do.

Shawn: I've done that already. It didn't help.

Ivan: Ok, not to worry, we well fix this for you today. Can you please go to the system info screen and give me the number in the white box in the middle of the screen, it starts with R00.

Shawn: The remote is not working correctly, I can't get to that screen, and the TV is now stuck on the weather channel.

Ivan: The system info button is on the left side of the remote.

Are you kidding me???

Shawn: I know where the button is. The remote is not working. That's why I called. I cannot get to the screen--or anywhere else for that matter. The receiver is on the weather channel, and I can't get it to let me change the channels!

Ivan: (you guessed it) Ok not to worry we . . . . I will look up the info I need on your account. Can I have your phone number, and the billing address, then I will need your security pin?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh--I fell like that credit card ad where the guy keeps saying hello my name is Peggy.

Shawn: I repeat all the info I already gave him, then he says just a minute. He comes back in about three minutes.

Ivan: Good news, I have found the problem. You have voluntarily disconnected your services due to past due bills; this is why your remote will not turn on your receiver. (He then goes into how much it will cost to reconnect my service once I have paid the past due bills.)

I am feeling the burning edges of murderous rage creeping up past my eyeballs. I want to reach through the screen and throttle this guy. I want to beat him with the non-working remote.

Shawn: Say what? We have not disconnected our service, and we are not behind on our bill. We have never even had a late payment--THE DISH IS ON--WE HAVE SERVICE! IT IS THE REMOTE THAT IS NOT WORKING, NOT OUR SERVICE.

Ivan: Please check your caps lock key, I think you must have hit it. I am looking at your account, and it says your service was disconnected in 2004, voluntarily when you got behind on your bill.

WTF? OMG? I now have a headache. Does this guy not know it is 2011? Does he really think I waited from 2004 to 2011 to call and pretend I was having a problem? What about the installation in 2005? What about the dish move in 2010, what about the new remotes we have ordered over the past 6 years?

Shawn: We didn't even have your service in 2004. I am about to cancel my service right now and switch to your competitor. Please get someone who knows what they are talking about.

Ivan: I will get you a service tech 2, but I need some info before I send you to him. (And you guessed it--we go around about the R00 number, and he asks for all the account id info again.)

Another tech comes on the chat window.

Mike3: I understand you think you are having a problem with your receiver?

Ahhhhhhhh, I think my hair is on fire my head is so hot.

Shawn: I don't THINK I have a problem with my receiver, I know that I DO NOT have a problem with my receiver. I am having a problem with the remote. (I paste in the stuff from the top about the problem)

Mike3: I need the R00 number to make sure we have the right account, because I am showing you have a delinquent account.

Shawn: Ok, look. I do not have a delinquent account. Period. I didn't have your service in 2004 or even live here then. The problem is with the remote. I have said that. And since the remote is not working right, I can't get to the R00 number. I have given you our name and address. Is the name the same on the account you are looking at?

Mike3: Let me check the name on the account.

I wait a few moments then he comes back to the chat window.

Mike3: We will fix your remote problem today. Please walk up to your TV 2 and the receiver. Push the system info button and then the sat button and then record. (He's telling me how to address the remote on a remote that does not work.)

Shawn: Did you find the right account info?

Mike3: Have you followed my instructions to fix your remote?

OM freaking G! I scream fuck fuck fuck several times, so often and loud that my daughter comes out of the office just to be sure I am not going to explode all over the living room and leave a mess she will have to clean up afterwards.

Shawn: I've been through all the troubleshooting steps. I've replaced the batteries, I've tried to readdress the remote--IT DOESN'T WORK. We have equipment insurance. Did you find the correct account?

I am now more worried about them thinking I need to pay them 400 plus dollars on an account that is not mine or has nothing to do with me than my stupid remote not working.

Mike3: Since you cannot stand in front of your receiver to fix this we will have to send you a new remote, can I have your phone number and address please, and I will need your account pin for security purposes . . .

My new remote will arrive in 3 to 5 business days since it will be shipped 2 day blue express and they assured me that it was a pleasure dealing with me. Did I ever find out if they had the right account? I had to ask the guy three more times if they now had the right account. He simply said yes, no apology--nothing.

I think that by the time I get the new remote, I will have the competitor's system installed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Blurb:

Jezren Darksky left Earth behind for the lure of the stars, and to escape her life on the streets. Accepted into the renowned Night Bird Warrior's Guild she never expects to find the love of her life in the form of an alien man and then lose him. After chasing three fugitives across ten worlds, and nearly losing her life in the process, Jezren returns to the Guild Home world to mark her husband's death. Lonely and guilt-ridden, Jezren makes a discovery in the arms of another non-human man that will change her life forever.

Excerpt:

"You shouldn't have tried to touch my sword. If my hand hadn't been on it..." She poured another shot of whiskey and tossed it into the fire. The flames flared brightly, lapping up the alcohol in a quick burst.

He reached with a serpent's speed and caught her hand. "I didn't want to touch your sword..." He cleared his throat and grasped her hand tighter. "I have to touch you," he whispered.

Jezren made to pull her hand out of his. He touched his lips to the back of her hand. Very slowly, his tongue slid over her flesh, long, thin at the tip getting thicker near his lips. Like his lips, it was a lighter shade of blue than the rest of him and cat rough. Jezren sucked in a breath, quick, hard-she made a small attempt to take her hand away.

He continued to stare at her, his gaze locked with hers. His ice-blue eyes now looked tinged with purple. Whiskey fire burned through her insides and streaked into her loins when he wound his tongue around one of her fingers, not just once, but in two blue swirls. He slowly pulled it back into his mouth-sliding it off one finger before circling the next one.

Jezren shivered, sure her sudden desire would be soaking the chair seat soon. Using her free hand, she took a sip of the costly amber liquid in the small bottle. She'd already had too much, not so much she couldn't think for herself, but enough that he, with his seductive tongue, had won her will.

"Perhaps," she whispered, "I should know your name." He continued to wrap and unwrap his tongue around her fingers. He turned her arm and pushed her sleeve up so he could lick the inside of her arm.

"Names, what does a name really matter?" he asked without stopping his attention to her arm.

She gasped, aware of others in the room staring at them even though she'd closed her eyes, the heat growing between her legs hotter already than the fire in the hearth. When he stroked his nails down the now sensitive flesh of her arm, she sat up straight and stared directly at him. She reached to touch his braid-her fingers meeting with smooth strands of silkiness. He laughed in a soft way that sung on her nerves and made her squeeze her legs together in self-pleasure. She could no longer sit still.

Shifting positions, she pushed the bottle to the side and leaned toward him. "I have a room," she whispered.

Catching her by surprise, he pushed his mouth against hers. His tongue rasped across her lips, probing, but waiting for her permission. She parted her lips and let her tongue touch his. His mouth tasted sweet, overlain with the smooth touch of the whiskey. Only by pushing against his chest with her palm could she make herself move back from him.

A flash of laughter came to her, Din'arik's. Jezren had repeated an oft said thing among the humans at the academy-Din'arik resembled a demon-who knew what he might expect from a human woman or what his "thing" might be like. So many of the human women who came to the academy were such proper prudes. Among the students, there had been two groups-those who stayed with their own kind, and those who deliberately sought out other races for both friendship and partnership. Jezren had almost learned the hard way that not all races were compatible with each other-barbs being the least of it.

His musical laughter came again, and at last his deep voice, shaking, almost unsure. "Lady, you will enjoy me-I have been with human women before," he told her. His tongue went around her fingers again, promising pleasure in other places.

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Wish lists and Freedom

This is a rant. It is not going to be politically correct. It might even offend a few of you, so don't say I didn't warn you. (grin)

This is not really about politics, although it has become political, like so many other things. This is about stupidity. This is about the sad, litigious state of our nation. And I'm pretty tired of it.

This latest one carries some good and some bad, as you will see.

Today was Lily's first day of school. A few months ago, the school had posted teacher's "wish lists" for supplies that parents could purchase if they felt inclined or not. It was a wish list, not a "you must buy this" list. None of the teachers have ever made any parent feel like they were awful if they couldn't provide anything. It's understood, at least in our community, that some will be able to do it, and others won't. And I think all of us agree that the teachers shouldn't have to buy school supplies. (Where do our tax dollars go anyway? And that's another rant.)

Now, I do agree that it is wrong to require parents to pay for public education, to require parents to raise money for sports, music, the arts, etc, or the kids are penalized or threatened when the family just can't afford it. I also don't think we should have to buy school supplies like this, but I will shell out that $10-20 for them. (And, really, we pay taxes, so why are we being asked again? Where the hell did the money we paid in taxes go?) There is no question it is wrong, but going the other way is just as bad.

The other way? What other way? Well, because of a lawsuit, schools can't even tell the parents what they need and let the parents decide whether to raise the money, donate, or not. I'm not talking about for sports either. This is for anything.

That's right. Those wish lists (not a "required list") with things like erasers, Kleenex, pencils, crayons, and so on, had to be removed because it violated a court ruling. A teacher, or school, can't ask for volunteers because it violates this ruling. My father-in-law, a track coach, can't hand out the uniforms unless they are paid for by the student/student's family, but he can't tell the student or their family this. Now, if the parent asks to who to make the check out, he can tell them that. Nothing else.

So, um, so, um... WTF?

When I was in high school, pre-budgets woes--well, not really, there have ever been budget woes in CA schools as far as I can remember--if we wanted to wear the team swim suit, we had to buy it. It wasn't cheap either (usually about $60 for the girls and $15 for the boys. Oh, the inequity!). I don't think everyone wore one, but I honestly don't remember. Our parents weren't asked for school supplies; our schools were better; we had more kids per classroom; we had ESL students, but not separate classrooms or curriculum for them; there was no such thing as a teacher's aide; our teachers did music in the classroom as well as art; the kids were better behaved.

What the hell happened?

And I have digressed. This isn't about the state of the schools. This is about the inability to communicate. Last year, I remember Lily's school sending home this letter talking about how the school relies on every family to give the school $250/child attending that school to help it continue to do what it does. It didn't require it, but it did lay the guilt trip on pretty heavy.

It succeeded in pissing me off. (Guilt trips don't work well with me.) I donated what I could when I felt I could, and if I thought the program was worth donating too. Some programs I didn't agree with, so I didn't donate. And I didn't donate $250. We pay enough in property taxes as it is. It should be enough to cover the school. They'd also passed a tax that increased our property taxes to pay for the music and arts programs in our school. I voted against it. I would have supported it, but the measure did not protect the monies already slated toward these programs. Instead, we were just taxed more. You know what will happen to the monies that were originally set aside for these programs?

HAHAHAHAHA

What do you think happened to those funds? No one's telling, but I can guess.

Again, I digress.

It reminds me of the one time I took the witness stand. I was one of the few bystanders, possibly the only one, who was willing to testify against a pilot who buzzed the Santa Monica Pier. After spending hours waiting to do nothing, I understand, but as a citizen, it was my duty to do so. So, wasted time or not, it was worth it. The pilot was convicted, as he should have been.

Anyway, back to topic, the defense lawyer got the judge to agree that the witnesses called to the stand could not say anything that would indicate we thought we under a terrorist attack, compare it to 9/11, and so on. This might sway the jurors and unduly play on their sympathies.

Um, I can honestly say that when I stood on that beach and watched the jet's wings miss the tops of the lamps by less than 10 feet, miss the Ferris wheel by less than 20 feet, and come up over the end of the pier with maybe 6 feet to spare when it pulled up, I did wonder if we were being attacked.

Top it off with the fact that the plane had no markings on it, but there was no question it was a fighter jet, of course I wondered if this was a terrorist attack. I'm sure all of the screaming people that scattered on the pier thought so too. Yet the judge agreed with the defense lawyer. When I testified, I couldn't use any "inflammatory language" to "sway the jurors."

In short, I couldn't tell them what I was really thinking at the time. How is that justice? Not that I wasn't able to get around this. I alluded to 9/11 without actually saying it, but still? I had to do that to get my point across?

For me, this is similar. Require it? No. Allow the schools to put it out there and leave it up to the community to decide? Yes. Penalize those who can't? No. Reward those who do? No.

But when, and where, does this madness stop? There are so many limits to what we can say and do anymore you have to wonder how free we are.

Things that really should be four-letter words

Some things in life really should be four-letter words comprised mainly of consonants. That way, when I say them (internally or orally), they come out exactly how I feel about them. (grin) You would think that for someone who rants once a month, this would be easy. Oddly enough, at first, it was hard to pick them, but after a few came to mind, they rolled fast and furious. My inner bitch didn't fail me. (grin)

1. Nylons--these were the first torture devices that came to mind. I can't remember the last time I wore nylons. That's a good thing, because I'm sure I'd be spouting a lot of four-letter words if I still had to wear them. (g) And when they run, I'd just yell, "Nyln! Nyln! Nyln!" and run away. (Forgive me for the bad pun. I think I'm a bit sleep-deprived.)
2. Cockroaches--there are some people who like them (entomologist). These disgusting bugs have a purpose in the ecosystem...so they say. The only thing I've found them to be useful for is seeing how many four-letter words I can say in sequence if I encounter one. They should be known as crks or just, "Ahhh!"
3. Cleaning--some of you may love to clean, but I'm not a fan. I do it because it has to be done. However, while doing it, I'm thinking of everything else, anything else, that I could be doing. (g) If I had my druthers, I'd never have to say anything associated with this word. (g)
4. Stupid people--I already have words for them already. None of them are four-letter, but they do have the same effect. (grin) Matter of fact, I was rear-ended the other day at an all-way stop. Fortunately, he hit me going only a couple miles an hour. No car damage, no body damage. Lucky, but how do you hit someone while in a line like that? Only one answer: stupid. Too bad Darwin was sleeping. (Gah, I'm so evil sometimes!)
5. High heels--some of you love them, but me? I don't. I wear them rarely. Combine heels with nylons, and you have my own private hell. LOL A four-letter word? You bet.
6. Spam--Wait! That is already a four-letter word. Well-deserved too. (g)
7. Junk mail--My house is under siege from junk mail. I spend way too much time getting rid of this excess of unwanted paper. All those trees cut down for paper I don't want. Wouldn't it be nice if we could take that junk mail and just dump it on the companies who send it to us? In particular, the CEO's front yard. Oooo... We could TP their lawns with the shredded remains and turn the sprinklers on. (g) Perhaps it would take them as long to clean that up as it has me my house. (Mwahahahahaha)
8. Cellulite--It's ironic that this word, which conjures up visions of rippling flesh (and not the good kind), contains "lite." Perhaps you can help me come up with a word appropriate for this. I'd like to say I've learned to live with it, but, honestly, I don't have a lot of choice, unless I'm willing to give up chocolate. Hm... yeah, no.

I know I had more, but a very busy, tiring, fun weekend left my brain all mushy. I need your help to come up with a few more things that really should be four-letter words.

Autocorrect and autofill ins

I'm sorry for the lateness and the shortness of this post. We had a guest scheduled, and I'm not sure what happened to her. Something fell through the cracks (could have been my memory). Regardless, I just had to share a very brief story and a link for your entertainment, but be warned of the link. It's racy (g), and it can suck you in for hours. Oh, and you may laugh so hard you can't breathe. We need that sometimes. I need that sometimes.

First my story. A little rant, if you will. I went in to pay an author via PayPal. The check I'd sent was returned because I didn't have the current address (Google address book has been reverting to server and erasing some of my updated information. ARGH!), and the author chose PayPal instead. Works for me.

So, I pop in to PayPal and paste the email account to send the author money. The stupid autofill option drops down a menu of all of the other authors I've paid. I hit the tab, but the cursor didn't obey because the amount I put in ended up at the end of the email address. I thought I just deleted and moved on. But NNNOOOOO, somehow I hit the down arrow button, which then put in someone else's email address. I didn't realize this until the last screen after I'd made the payment. The payment sent, I did not have the option to cancel it.

SIGH

Autofill, you can be a PITA sometimes.

It will get straightened out, but I was highly annoyed.

On a lighter note, here is the site: Damn You Auto Correct. Go there only if you need a good laugh and don't any plans for a while. (g)