This time with copy edits. I’m working on IN HIS BED my novella in the ITALIAN STALLIONS antho (I’m still not used to that title). I had every intention of having them back to my editor by now, even with the heavy inserts, but it is not to be. I’ll overnight them tomorrow. There has been too much going on here at home. My oldest son is sick and has decided he needs to be over here infecting us. Oh, and I have to make him soup and grilled-cheese on demand. My youngest son woke up really ill this morning and wants to lay all over me like he was a two-year old again, and my youngest daughter and her fiancé have been spending way too much time over here just because they feel like it. Okay, that isn’t altogether true. They have been working on their wedding plans, but they eat everything, and don’t clean up very well after themselves.

But the bottom line is: No one seems to get the fact I need to WORK! Even my damn cat won’t leave me alone!! Frankly I’m confused by this. This has never, ever been an issue between me and my kids. I think they’re all regressing right now. Thank god the hubster still gets it. So, as I type this, my youngest son is coughing and moaning as if he had open heart surgery without the good drugs. Sigh. He wants NyQuil. I’m going to give him a double dose so I can get some peace and quiet.

What do you do when the family just wants you, and you have a gazillion other things to do, like your job?

Stir Krazy, K* would like to know…

…but, I just found out my brat of a friend Sylvia Day tagged me. Hah! see if I stop by her blog again any time soon!

Anyhoo, it’s a tell us 7 random facts about yourself tag. Not too difficult.

1. I love animals. All animals except bugs, which are not really animals they are insects, and I only dislike two types of insects: flies and roaches. I think snakes are really cool creatures. (Amy are you squealing yet?)

2. I had a six foot iguana named Mondo who had the run of the house. Muwhahahahaa. He was potty trained too.

3. I hate to fly. Even on Xanex chased with a double/triple/quadruple Bloody Mary. I hate to fly. I also dislike driving with my husband who feels it is his duty each time he gets into his car to attempt to break the sound barrier. I refuse to drive with any of my children. They learned to drive from their father. ‘Nough said.

4. I can’t sing. Okay, correction, I can sing but it is an atrocious, pathetic sound. I am tone deaf and cannot carry a tune to save my life. There is no hope for me. Ever.

5. In my next life I want to come back as Stevie Nicks. Go figure.

6. I am not vindictive. But, once bitten, you are dead to me. There is no resurrection. Ever. Unless you’re one of my kids.

7. I love good wine and dark chocolate.

So, as the story goes I have to tag 7 goils? I have to think about this one. I think everyone has been tagged!

So tell us one random fact about yourself that no one else knows!

K*

and it’s rainy. I love this weather! Snuggled in my fleecy PJ’s, and warm fuzzy slippers, I spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon on the phone with a GF. I drank a pot of coffee, ate a really scrumptious cheese strudel thingy, and just smiled and laughed all the while we gabbed. It was a really good gab. I really like it when good things happen to people I care about. And contrary to popular belief there are a lot of really good things happening to some really well-deserving people out there. It makes me happy and restores my faith in human nature. Don’t get me wrong, there are some seriously twisted professionals out there who are derelict in their duty to their clients. There are some writers who are, well, demanding and shall we say, temperamental, who say and do things they really shouldn’t say or do. I’ve seen and heard a lot in my short time in this business. I have finally gotten to the point where nothing surprises me. Nothing.

I guess the bottom line is, we are all human, and as female versions of the species we tend to act emotionally first. A knee-jerk reaction is best kept to oneself. Otherwise you can really screw yourself. Remember when the shit hits the fan to take a big deep cleansing breath, and do not react. Take another deep breath and another until enough time has passed where you can see through the haze of your anger. Then, in a calm reasonable manner, respond.

It doesn’t matter which side of publishing you’re on, this is a good lesson to learn and make a habit of. Because at the end of the day: it is just business. Business relationships come and go. We can become complacent, relationships founder, or what worked yesterday may not work today. You may perceive a wrong when in fact you could not see past your own desires. You may have been wronged on purpose or inadvertently, but, always, be the bigger person. The tide is in a constant ebb and flow. Respond with professionalism, and common courtesy. Always.

On both sides of the publishing fence this business is very small. Act the fool, you are the fool. Authors behaving badly is ugly. Agents and editors behaving badly to me is uglier. Why? They are the supposed professionals. They are the ones who are supposed to know better.

So, while I had not intended for this to be a public service announcement, I’m just sayin’.

Now, I am off to make another pot of coffee and snuggle up in front of the roaring fire and pounce on the first of two sets of copy edits.

K*

So y’all know registration is open for National, right? Go to www.RWANational.org and reg. I know a lot of people are complaining about the fee and hotel rate this year, but frankly, I think it’s the best couple of grand (combined expenses) a girl can spend on her career. Find someone to share a room with, and before anyone complains about the room rates, don’t. San Francisco is expensive, and ya get what you pay for, and I for one am very happy I won’t be melting in Dallas. That Dallas heat and humidity was atrocious. Kudos to those of you who live in it. You can have it. But then, I’m very spoiled by California weather. Other than Nor Cal you’ll only get better weather in San Diego, which by the way is hosting the 2011 conference? Can’t wait!

So back to San Francisco in July. Can’t beat it. Lots to do, fabo food, and so very diverse. Chinatown, North Beach, Union Square, the wharf areas, the painted ladies, the museums, Sausalito and Tiburon across the Golden Gate. The entire city will be in bloom. I mean it is a huge global vacation destination for a reason, and not to beat up on Dallas again, hey, I love Texas as much as the next non-Texan, but ladies, Dallas doesn’t come close to the city by the bay. You will not find better food, okay, maybe in Manhattan, as far as the Italian goes, but North Beach is damn good, or better scenery anywhere. Chinatown is a must, and the seafood? Tops, although, I’m partial to Chesapeake Bay seafood myself, out here on the west coast we have a different ocean fare. Good, but different then what I grew up on.

For those of you coming in early or staying a few days later, you really need to check out the wine country to the north, and/or Carmel and Monterey to the south, which also grows some vera fine vine. In my opinion, you can’t beat San Francisco as a venue for RWA National, with perhaps the exception of Manhattan.

So, go register!!!

Let’s see a raise of hands. Who’s going?

K*

over at Murder She Writes today, swing on by.

Ciao,

K*

It’s AI time!

And how perfect is it that it coincides with the end of my crazy 3 month writing jag? I already love Angela from Chicago, and the blondie from Oregon.
Alexis scared me. Really scared me. She pissed my MIL off big time. I got the call, and it was not pretty. I love it when she gets all riled up and swears like a sailor.
So the guy who wrote and sang the stalker song to Paula? Very scary. I was glad Simon insisted the bouncers cart his weird ass away. The dude with the Genie costume? Wow. I wonder what his waxing appointment cost him. There were others. Oh, oh, oh! How could I forget Princess Leah? O.M.G! Who knew there were clip on ear buns!

Okay, so I was not disappointed tonight. I thought while the show was rife with the freaks there were some diamonds in the rough plucked from the mud.

But, what I am constantly amazed by how many of these people who actually believed they had what it takes to get to the big show but who have zero in the talent pool. I know many, okay, a lot are just trying to get on national television, but some of them who really suck are genuinely devastated when they get the British boot in the arse. How does that happen? Who are the people encouraging them and telling them they’re good? I’m all for telling my kids and friends to reach for the stars and don’t let anyone tell you can’t achieve your dreams, but here’s the real world: I’d love to be a rock and roll star. The forty-something version of Stevie Nicks. But, the sad fact is, I can not carry a tune if the lives of my children depended on it. No matter how much training I have. I. Can. Not. Sing. Period.

Sigh. But I can do karaoke! Heh, apparently so can my friend Jami Alden. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.

So, who’s in for the AI long haul this season, and do you have any faves from tonight? Cele? I know you’re watching and you too, Edie. Thoughts?

K*

Hey, everyone, how are you? I’m coming down the deadline stretch! Tomorrow JADED gets turned in and I can breathe for half a second! Yay! I have some news. I received my cover for MASTER OF SURRENDER and I love it!! I hope Justin will have it up very soon. I also got a peek at my German cover for GOOD GIRL GONE BAD. It has kind of an animated Sam Spade noirish feel to it. I’ll have Justin get that up as well. If I knew how to upload pics to this blog I’d show you right now! Whah!

Okay, one quickie note regarding the five First Line finalists (congrats again!) be sure to write a cover letter with all of your pertinent info to go with your ten pages. I mean when Hilary wants to buy all 5 she’ll need to contact you!

Ciao, bellas, we’ll chat when the world stops spinning!

K*

I’m very excited. I think Hilary is going to flip over these. I had to resort to a tie-breaker judge, the competition was that stiff. I always like going with a consensus instead of leaving the final round up to one judge. They did not disappoint!
Ladies your hard work and months of nail-biting and hair-pulling have not been in vain.

So here we go: The fabulous final five:

1. There was only one coherent thought in Francesca’s mind as she huddled on the closed toilet seat, twisting her hour old wedding band. She needed to get the hell out of there, and fast.
“Easy said, harder done,” she muttered, the sound of her own voice bolstering her flagging courage.
Walking out of the reception with her head held high, lace veil floating behind her was worth a try, but she doubted she’d make it as far as the manicured lawns, let alone the wrought iron front gates. Marcus Airedale wasn’t going to willingly let his new bride just waltz off his estate, with enough evidence to finally convict him of murder.
She managed a lopsided smile as she patted the USB flash drive tucked into her French lace bra. It was all there and short of him strip-searching her in front of their wedding guests, he’d never find it. Now all she had to do was get it out of the country without anyone else dying.
As the outer door opened letting in a blast of music and laughter with a waft of all too familiar scent, Francesca froze, one slim silver shoe dropping off her foot. She held her breath, watching the door handle slowly turn until it came up hard against the lock.
“Fran, how much longer are you planning on hiding for?” Carla asked through the solid door, concern tightening her voice.
Francesca knew that tone of voice and sighed in capitulation, wriggling her toes back into her shoe as she replied, “Just as long as it takes me to figure a way out of this mess.”

2. I stared at the nine men of my supposed dreams. Of my nightmares, more like, and theirs too judging by their stunned expressions as they stared back at me.
The show’s host said, “What’s wrong, Princess?”, the overdone innocence in his voice making it clear: this was no accident.
Horror and impotent fury spun through me, mingled with hatred of him for making me reveal the filthy trick the show had played on me.
“I’ve dated all of these guys,” I said, speaking with a calm I didn’t feel, not wanting to show him or the cameras how shaken I was. “And you knew that, Peter, since I listed them all on my application form, so–”
Peter said, “No, I suppose you really can’t be on a dating show with your exes” in a tone suggesting he’d never thought about it quite that way before and what a fascinating world view I had. Then he smiled and said, “Madeleine-Cora, gentlemen, we haven’t quite been honest with you. You’ve been given various explanations for why you’re here, but now it’s time for the truth: the ten of you will spend the next twenty-one nights on an island at a secret location. You will live together and fend for yourselves, building a shelter and scavenging for most of your food. There is a prize of a million dollars to the winner, and as the days go on we will explain what you need to do to win. Princess, gentlemen, the game is on.”

3. “Ever heard the phrase ‘out of the frying pan into the fire’?” Dan muttered as we stared at the huge black mirrored doors.
“You know, that’s what I love about you, always the optimist,” I said, trying to convince myself there was no reason for my reflection to look so nervous. Beyond the doors subterranean bass pounded, vibrating through my chest like a warning. A warning I had to ignore.
“We can still leave,” Dan said, sounding calm but looking grim.
“This will get me off the hook with Lord Marco,” I reminded him. And, frankly, repaying a debt to the oldest vampire in Seattle was the only reason good enough to get me to walk through these particular doors. Into Maelstrom – darkest of the city’s dark clubs – and, worse still, into a meeting with the vamp who owned the place.
Dan frowned, rubbing the fading scar on his right wrist. “It will get you off one hook.”
Like I needed the reminder that this favor wasn’t all I owed Lord Marco – after all, Dan and I had been fighting about my other debt for six weeks now. And the fact I owed blood to an Old One wasn’t exactly easy to forget.

4. Lissa, Princess of Horvald, waited for Death. She stood, still and silent in the dank chill of the Great Hall, determined to meet her fate without cowering in fear. But fear hovered, beating against her mind like moth wings, relentless and inescapable.
Her father, the self-proclaimed King of Horvald was gone, swallowed up in the vicious cycle of victory and defeat. Now there was no protection for her, no way of avoiding the steady creep of defeat as it seeped through the walls and curled under the doors, like a foul, poisoned miasma.
He wanted her, this Warlord called Death.
He’d killed her father and now demanded she appear before him to beg for mercy.
But she would not beg. Nor would she come at his call, like a whipped dog. If that meant her life was forfeit, then so be it.
A crash in the outer hall momentarily pierced her defiance, sending a cold finger of terror up her spine. She had no illusions about how this Warlord would use then kill her, but couldn’t stop a dark, skittering panic flood her body when she realized his touch, full of hatred and violence, would be the last touch from a man she would ever feel.

5. “Ah, baby, that’s it…just a little…um, yeah…” he urged, his low ragged moan changing to a satisfied growl. Sweat droplets beaded around his receding, yet still dark hairline, and if he opened his eyes to look at her on top of him he would think she was enjoying herself as well–she’d slid her lips into a sexy smile to hide her revulsion.
Crumpled satin sheets clung in damp patches around her knees; her muscles quivered like a lioness ready to pounce, but she cautioned herself to wait, knowing the outcome of this planned encounter even if he didn’t. To temper her impatience she brought to mind the refrain from “Another One Bites the Dust,” letting it run through her head in a slow easy beat.
“You like it when I do this?” she asked, and increased her rhythm in time to music only she heard; faster, harder, squeezing him with her inner muscles, bringing him to the edge, denying him.
He grabbed her hips with his bony, surprisingly strong hands, trying to buck his way deeper inside, and her resistance changed the sex into a struggle for dominance. How fitting that this time she wielded the power, and he would lose.
His determined dance for domination ended moments later when he lost control; his body stiffened, then pumped wildly beneath her. The force of his orgasm subsided, but with the need to keep him distracted, she used her breasts to full advantage, massaging them against his age-sunken chest.
Still humming to herself, she slipped her hand beneath the pillow, her fingers searching, then closing over what she sought. With experience born of practice, she used her palm and drove the six-inch long antique cloisonné hatpin deep into his ear; and as his body jerked again, this time in a death spasm, she said softly, “Goodbye, Mr. Senator.”
And another one bites the dust.

K*

Seriously, there are five judges who instead of culling this week, are, as I type hard at work deciding which five entries are their faves. The five entries with the most votes will make up the final five that go to St.Martins’ editor Hilary Teeman.
I should have all of the judges results back by three o’ clock pacific time tomorrow. So stand by, and good luck to everyone!

Karin*

My judge this last round went beyond the call of duty. And for that I am very thankfull. Thank you Round 12 judge for your time and insight!
So here is what she had to say:

I had a really hard time coming up with five to cull. Even the culled ones are good enough to be published.

To cull five, I had to think beyond what was publishable. Instead, I concentrated on the difficulties of getting published in such a large, glutted market where the writers are getting better and better. Books have to stand out no matter what the genre. Books that would have been published five years ago are being rejected simply because someone else came up with a fresher, more original way of hooking the reader. So I don’t see these five entries as failures—they are not. With a little more work, by digging a little deeper, these writers can make their work stand out. They already have all the tools.

1. During the course of his quest, Dair Curator had lost count of the number of women he’d slept with. He didn’t care if he’d gotten a reputation for being a womanizer. He only cared about correcting his mistake. Angels don’t make mistakes, especially ones that cause the death of a Mortal.
Looking out the apartment window at the red sun slipping beneath the rolling green hills, the twinges of homesickness threatened to grip his body again, like an addict gone too long without a fix. Even now, to ease the sensation of worms slithering all over him, he fought the urge to brush off imaginary creatures and pace. The longing for home a soul sickness, he had to control his body’s yearnings in order to survive in the Mortal World long enough to complete his mission.
“Why don’t ya come back to bed, so we can make it an even six times, Honey?”
He shot a glance at the bottle-dyed blonde who stretched like a contented cat on the queen size bed. Dair knew he’d given Gwendolyn just enough to leave her craving for more, but now the time had come to show her the letter. The letter reminded him he needed to regain control over his body’s wayward symptoms.

-My big problem here is emblematic of several entries: it seems familiar, as if I’ve read it before. This is mostly due to stock sentences that are shorthand for emotion or situations we’ve seen and read before. With a little more reaching for words and sentiments that aren’t predictable or clichéd (for instance, “bottle-dyed blonde” and “craving for more”) this would be a much better entry. Even the description didn’t add anything: red sun, green rolling hills. There is nothing to grab the reader’s imagination. I also did not feel an emotional connection to the Angel, and I think the use of language—even though it is perfectly acceptable language—is the reason why.

2. For someone with Kate Atkinson’s unique talent, finding England’s most infamous pirate had been easy. Catching him, however, was proving more challenging as Black Jack Snow darted like a cat between the bawdy houses, alehouses and hovels squatting along the south bank of the Thames.
“Curses,” muttered Aunt Winifred between bosom-heaving breaths, “we lost him.”
Kate could think of more appropriate words than “curses”, most of which she’d overheard earlier while waiting for Snow outside a particularly unsavory tavern, but she refrained from using them in her aunt’s presence. Instead, she rubbed the talisman clenched in her fist. The midnight blue sapphire felt smooth against her thumb and the gold band of the gentleman’s ring grew warm.
In a steady voice, she chanted the words her mother had taught her many years ago before her death.
“Through this ring which I hold,
Through these eyes which I see,
Show me the one I seek,
Show him to me.”
The ring burned, branding her skin, but Kate didn’t let it go. If she did, the connection linking object to owner would be severed and the only chance she had of finding the one man able to help her would be lost.
Like a mist consumed by morning sunshine, the way to Snow suddenly became clear and Kate moved on, signaling her aunt to follow.

-Again, this is perfectly good writing. It is certainly publishable. But there are so many writers who go the extra mile, who really stand out. I’d like to see this writer surprise us. Give us a particular that is not from a stock of the usual props. A sapphire is nice, but it’s been done. And again, there seems to be a lot of shorthand language: “the ring burned, branding her skin; “particularly unsavory tavern”. I know because I’ve probably written those exact words or words like them, when I wrote historical romances years ago. This was a very close call.

3. Remorse, the malicious shit, saddled up and rode Sierra Talbot’s heels like a haunted horse the day she blew back into the heart of Simon, Michigan.
A town she hadn’t seen or lived in for five years.
A town she hadn’t missed.
“Take a left here,” Carrie Swanson said, flapping her hand at an unmarked intersection lined with a decaying array of single-wides. “And then *tell me* I didn’t hear you right.”
“I wish I could,” Sierra said, wishing more with each passing mile this entire episode would turn out to be a bad dream. But the nerve-gnawing reality of her situation slammed into her one vicious pothole at a time as she crawled deeper into Simon’s dejected underbelly.
Sierra Talbot was back and headed for the wrong side of the tracks.
“You’re going to live in your grandfather’s old house?” Carrie said, a healthy dose of cynicism lacing her voice. “And you’re going to run his business?”

-This writer really did the stretching I missed in the preceding two entries, and I appreciate that. This writer took risks. There were some vivid descriptions that I really liked “slammed into her one vicious pothole at a time” and “decaying array of single-wides”. I could see the single-wides. The problem here is not originality, but confusing sentences. While I loved slamming into the pothole, the whole sentence did not scan: “But the nerve-gnawing reality of her situation slammed into her one vicious pothole at a time as she crawled deeper into Simon’s dejected underbelly.” This is a case of too much loaded into one sentence. Too many metaphors, touching on too many subjects, all of it written in a confusing manner. I forgot that Simon was not a person, but a town. So watch the confusing sentences, read them aloud to see if they scan and make sense. Ask yourself: what do I really want to convey?

4. Emma Morris looked out the back window of Zelda’s Magical Diner at the rows of tomato plants heavy with the red fruit, and something free and wild inside her unfurled. The lush garden mesmerized her, so different from the hardscrabble Texas ground she’d known until she was fifteen and her parents bundled her off to her aunt Zelda in Wisconsin.
This summer, ten years later, the abundance of plants wasn’t the only attraction. A man hunkered down to pick tomatoes, his back to her, the sun playing shadow and light across his skin. In her mind she pictured his eyes, the rich brown of the earth, gazing into hers as if he saw something precious.
Rubbing her goosebumpy arms, she heard the floor creak behind her and caught the scent of jasmine.
“Don’t you love the way Duncan’s T-shirt clings to him when he sweats?” Ling stopped alongside her and sighed like a sad summer breeze.
Emma froze, unable to answer Ling, unable to tear her gaze from Duncan, her instincts screaming at her to run. She gripped the windowsill, her nails digging into the wood, hanging on until the screams hushed to a whisper.
This was Duncan, she reminded herself, who climbed an apple tree last May to return a fallen baby robin to its nest.

-I liked this until the second to last paragraph. It really threw me for a loop. One minute they’re admiring Duncan’s back, and the next, Emma’s instincts are screaming for her to run. Why? It doesn’t make sense, particularly when followed by “This was Duncan”, the guy who took care of the baby robin. It jogged me out of the story, and I no longer understood what this woman was about. I thought I knew who she was, but suddenly, I didn’t. I suspect that this discrepancy is saved by the next sentence or two, but it still rang the wrong bells at the wrong time. It just feels out of order, somehow.

5. It seemed ironic that his own marriage should come undone at a house party whose sole purpose was to celebrate the promise of another.
From where he stood in his friend’s library, Marcus Elliot, the Duke of Westbrook, was able to stare out the library window and at the view beyond. A typical English garden laid spread out before him and, further in the background, the gentle hills tried vainly to beckon his gaze. A sense of lazy peacefulness seemed to permeate the scene, dotted here and there with those energetic few who had managed to leave their beds after last night’s festivities and were now slowly strolling the grounds.
Yet, as he stared so intently out the window and at the picturesque scene before him, Westbrook saw none of it. Not the glimpses of sunlight filtering through the leaves, nor the fluttering of the flower petals as a summer breeze kissed their smoothness. And certainly not the serenity of the couples wondering aimlessly along the many paths, the women of which contently twirling lacy parasols. Rather, the image in his mind’s eye was predominantly that of his wife and the turmoil rolling around in his soul a result of her softly spoken words from the night before.
I love you.
Just thinking about them made the words settle like lead in a gut that had not stopped churning since hearing her speak them.
Damn her, she had no right!

-This was another one I had to think about. There’s only a knife’s-edge of difference between these entries and the ones that are still alive. I thought this was more evocative than some others; I liked the garden, and could picture the people wending their way through. But ultimately, it took a while to get going. A little too much peacefulness and not enough tension quickly enough. But this is a judgment call; I might be wrong about this. So I needed more to cull it, and I found it in this sentence “And certainly not the serenity of the couples wondering (wandering) aimlessly along the many paths, the women of which (?) contently (contentedly) twirling lacy parasols. Editors don’t have time to fix things like that, which is reason enough for a rejection in this day of tottering piles of manuscripts and publishers screaming about the bottom line. Publishers are looking for reasons not to buy.

K*