I know it wasn’t me!  The show didn’t get started until wanna be Idol number 4, Allison, took the stage.  She was weird talking to Ryan in the red room but boy did she come alive on that stage.  My fave of the night.  Megan wasn’t bad. And Mishavonna wasn’t bad either. All of the others put me to sleep.  Well, except Norman.  I wish the guy would just get rid of the schtick, and serious up, coz he can sing.  But, until he can take himself seriously no one else will, and IMHO he doesn’t deserve to be the next American Idol.

You know who disappointed me the most tonight?  Adam.  I really had hoped he’d nail it, but his theatrical flare ruined it for me.  I dunno, maybe I’m being too picky.  But I’ll tell you what, and I don’t know what it’s going to take to get into these kids heads, but they need to play to their strengths!  Stop experimenting, go with got you there, and do it better each week!

Same thing applies to writing.  Gah! 

So, what do you ladies think? Did someone have to wake you up midshow? And raise of hands who is going to watch DWTS?????

Okay, I’m hitting the sack.  It’s been a very long day, and I have to be up and attem’ early.

Nite, all.

Karin*

Heeeeeeeeerrrrrzzzzzz, Jami!

One question authors are asked over and over again is, “Where do you get your ideas?”

My answer? “Hell if I know.” 

When Karin very kindly invited me to blog, I was of course excited and accepted immediately. “What do you want me to talk about?” I asked.

“Whatever you want,” she said, “just give away some books.” (Which I will – 2 posters will receive autographed copies of CAUGHT, the first book in the Gemini Men Series)  (who hoo!  And I, Karin, am giving away a signed copy of the infamous ITALIAN STALLIONS!)

That’s when the panic set in. I was right back to junior high and the first time we were told to write a 3 paragraph essay on the topic of our choice.

Really? No direction from the teacher? Not even a suggestion to nudge us in the right direction? Nope. Come up with a topic on your own. 

Hearing this story, it might surprise you that I became a novelist. Now, when I start a project, I have to come up with an idea that will carry me a lot farther than 3 paragraphs!

But with every book I face that same panic, no matter how many times I’ve done it. So I thought today I’d talk about how I move from that panicked place to an idea to a plot that will carry me through 100,000 words or so. 

Here’s a secret: even though I write romantic suspense, I rarely have any idea what the suspense plot is going to be when I start thinking about the book.  I am a totally character driven writer.  What comes naturally to me are the characters – the hero and heroine, what they’re like, and how they will bounce off each other and create heat and sparks.

And then I have to come up with what I like to call “The Evil.” As in, okay, we’ve got these characters, now who wants to kill them and why, and how do we get them to a point where the hero has to risk his life to save her in some amazingly heroic fashion?  This is always a process, aided by my writer friends, who help me come up with a core idea, and then help me build a story around it. 

My story for KEPT is a perfect example of this process. From the very beginning, I knew the exact dynamic I wanted to portray between my hero and heroine. Derek would be cool, controlled, nearly unemotional, and very, very serious. Alyssa, on the other hand, is perceived to be a wild and crazy party girl with all the depth of a rain puddle. But she would throw him for a complete loop, and she’d drag him kicking and screaming out of his emotional shell, while he discovered there was a lot more to her than appeared on the surface.

Okay, so that’s fine, but, umm… this is suspense. So someone needs to want my heroine dead.  So why? While I was stuck on this, I went out to lunch with my friend and fellow author Veronica Wolff. I explained my dilemma and she said two words:  “Blood diamonds.”  I thought about it, chewed on it, shied away from it. Then at another lunch, with several other authors, I brought it up again (giving V full credit, of course!). Eyes lit up. Ideas started flying. And by the end of that lunch, I knew the direction my book was taking. 

So I guess my point to all of this is that ideas don’t come from any one place, and they don’t even come from any one person .  If you’re stuck on a project, be it a book, an essay, a blog, even a difficult piece of correspondence, talk it over with someone. Even if you’re not chock full of fabulous ideas, chances are your friends are.

Thanks, Jami, and ladies and gents, feel free to ask Jami whatever you want!  Hah!  She’s an open book!   J  Just kidding.  But ask anyway.

Karin*

We’re coming down the home stretch!  You know the drill, ladies!

1. The mansion loomed eerily through the swirling mist, a sinister shadow against the backdrop of a storm darkened sky.

Destiny Ryder hunched over the steering wheel and stared through the car window in awe even as apprehension skittered down her spine.

“This is beyond insane,” she muttered as she put the car in gear and coasted through the beckoning wrought iron gates.

The crunch of tires on gravel was the only sound as she pulled up in front of the ghostly yet captivating manor and leaden legs carried her up the cracked marble steps leading to the scarred wooden doors.

Heart pounding, she raised a hand to knock but before she made contact with the door, it was wrenched open with such haste, she jumped back in fright.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Ryder.”

The Scottish accent was darkly sexy but Destiny wasn’t fooled.

After all, she had the smarts to know that voices never matched the face.

A strong, masculine hand grasped hers and pulled her unresistingly into the house where she finally got her first look at the owner of that voice.

The most gorgeous man she’d ever seen stood in front of her, his green eyes glinting with amusement.

2.  “I am the Keeper of Paradise, Purgatory and Hell.”
John Parker realized his tone was over-harsh when the shipping clerk backed away, stammering, at his response. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Well, not these days. He’d forgotten it brought out his temper.
His anger would have been hotter if he’d been let through unquestioned, though. The King’s goods needed ample protection.
The clerk had been damned either way.
Parker watched him sidle off until he disappeared into the thick mist. Turning to face the sea, he scuffed his boot against a wharf pole and reflected that no good deed goes unpunished.

3. Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back. The ironic thing, I didn’t believe in fate or karma before my brother left a message on my office’s answering machine that was the equivalent to Armageddon dropping a line just to say hey. Being the self- designated birdie-flipper of fate I had to know if listening to the message would be like Darth Vader—Phoenix, I am your brother.

After six years of silence, only one thing would have made Samuel call me. Earlier this week the family had been going through the family bible, and would I mind if they whiteout my name? But, no, instead of letting the call stay a mystery I helped fate change my course, and pushed that stupid button to listen to the message. At least to my credit, I braced myself to hear what my brother had to say.

“I really don’t want to leave this message, but I don’t think you would call me back.” He paused, and it felt like one of those moments that last a lifetime.

“Mom died last night.”

4. Megan Trent jerked out of a deep sleep at the sound of her clock radio turning on and off by itself in a rapid beat of white noise and eerie silence. She watched as the red display numbers flickered in and out with a frantic Morse code lightshow. Gasping in an ice-cold breath, goose bumps pimpling her skin, she knew he had come again in the deep, pre-dawn hours of the night.

Her lover.

Her dead husband’s ghost.

Like a Ouija board’s planchette, her thoughts stood uncertain and shaking between yes, I should and no, I shouldn’t. A decision made brought peace to her heart and her mind. Happy tears poured down her cheeks as she fell back against her pillow and gave in to temptation yet again.

Her eyes closed, tears frozen on her icy skin, as Aaron’s memorable scent of spicy musk aftershave filled the air, enveloping her and the sheets. Megan signed and arched her back as his familiar weight pressed her deep into the mattress.

5. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife.

With anticipation fizzing through his veins—as effervescent as the finest batch of imported champagne—he plowed through the sprinkler mist dampening the walkway and took the steep steps to her porch two at a time. The sheath strapped to his ankle pinched with each step. Trying to ignore the irritating sensation, he concentrated on the sprinkler mist cooling his face. The tactic had a secondary, even more welcome effect, it curbed the eagerness.

Upon reaching the cover of the porch he shook the moisture from his hair and paused to look around. She had a beautiful view up here on Fancher Heights, below—the lights of Wenatchee spread from east to west in a glittering cobweb of diamond dust.

Her neighbors were set well back, hidden behind lush borders of emerald arborvitaes. Secluded upon this bluff, estranged from her nearest neighbor by a leafy barricade of sound-deadening vegetation, the setting couldn’t have been more perfect. Nobody would hear her scream.

6.  “Zeus has summoned you.”

With a growl, Markus rolled over on the giant four poster bed and scowled at Octavious, who stood at the entrance to his chambers, arms crossed over his chest like the arrogant bastard he was. As usual, he wore a long blue velvet robe that trailed to the floor, and his white-blond hair fell straight to the middle of his waist, giving him the appearance of a serene and youthful Merlin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Markus snarled, closing his eyes again. “Zeus will have you by the throat if he catches you.”

“It was Zeus who sent me.”

Markus opened his eyes and rose up on one elbow. “Since when do you do what he asks you to do?”

Octavious moved to the table by the unlit hearth, built into the cave where Markus was imprisoned, and poured himself a glass of ambrosia wine. “It was more of a suggestion, really, but he had his hand around my throat at the time; so needless to say, I wasn’t in a position to argue.

7. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. Something above held him fast. His shirt was hooked on the undercarriage of a car.

He managed to get loose—tearing his new Rag & Bone combat shirt in the process—-and crawled out from under. Enveloped by the stench of motor oil, shaking and sick, Nick finally realized where he was: the two-car garage beneath the Aspen House.

The last thing he remembered was talking to a guy named Mars at the “Soul Mate” wrap party. He’d never seen Mars before. It was an exclusive wrap party—-just Brianne Cross, the last four contestants, himself, and the crew. But Nick remembered talking to the mysterious Mars, the two of them sitting on the back deck, the movement of Castle Creek rushing underneath the slats making him dizzy.

As Nick used the Escalade’s side mirror to pull himself to his feet, he noticed the bright yellow tape stretched across the entrance to the garage.

8. “We have a visual on the boat,” Coast Guard Lt. Commander Jake Carver reported. Her gloved fingers tightened around the helicopter’s control stick and she increased air speed. The chase was on. Counter-narcotics had become her reason for existing and she was damn good at it.
Jake’s heartbeat matched the tempo of the helicopter’s rotors and sweat bonded her flight suit to her body.
“They’ve got those motors running wide open; the fricking hull is half out of the water” her co-pilot, Tom Crenshaw, said.
“Weapons ready,” Turner, the helo’s gunner, announced.
Homes dotted this part of the waterway; there wasn’t much chance Jake would give Turner permission to fire that big gun.
The danger to civilians was too great and the sound of the machine gun firing would bring complaints.
The public wanted to be protected, but they didn’t want to see or hear it in their back yard.

9. Even after he was dead, my father’s obsession with magic continued to color my life. He hadn’t been dead so long that I didn’t have many memories of him, but my strongest were of sleight of hand and illusion. I still had a perfectly clear picture, even at seventeen, of being four and my father reaching behind my ear for a coin, myself laughing in delight.

Those were good times, but they weren’t enough to erase this.

Mom was gesturing out the windows of our two year old Sedan, the one we’d bought when we still had money, and giving commentary on our new home. She’d gone into her super-mom mode, just like every time she talked to me since her therapy “break through.” She had her happy face on. Pulling into the hotel dad cashed our life in for before getting himself killed, hers was the only face doing the whole bright and shiny thing.

“Those trucks must belong to the Weeks boys. Remember I mentioned them?”

10. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145. Had to be a tourist—who else would risk driving in this blizzard? He shook his head, about to continue trudging the steep hill home when the Honda lurched once then slipped sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the dense snowflakes and mist of his breath as the car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Miguel River beyond.

“Holy sh—” Lock whispered, his words drowned out by the metallic screech of the fender smashing through the guardrail, words forgotten as the Honda toppled into the dark abyss below.

“Hold on, just—I’m coming,” he shouted into the eerie silence and began stumbling downward, the horrific grinding sound still echoing sickly in his head.

The dense tree growth would have made this descent treacherous on any given night, but combined with the sting of the swirling snow and thin, bobbing beam of his flashlight, his journey became one of survival. Thick flakes clogged his breathing and slashes of frigid wind whipped him until he staggered. He pushed on, slipping and sliding and twice collided with cottonwood branches; the second one clocking him so hard it sheared his knit cap off.

Uttering an oath, he didn’t stop for it, his breath ragged now as he staggered onto the highway and half-ran, half-skated across.

11. Ephraim MacNeill would kill anyone who stood in his way. Still not believing his luck at locating Elizabeth’s current place of imprisonment, he feared the rumor a ruse, or worse—a calculated attempt to draw him into the spider’s web.

Then the sight of a woman paralleling his path in the deepening shadows drew his attention. She fled across the rain-soaked valley, her red curls whipping behind her in the breeze like a proud knight’s banner.

“Elizabeth!” Ephraim shouted, resheathing his sword, and dashed for her—the fear they’d soon be caught, cutting short the brief elation.

Bolting through sweet heather, she altered her course in the direction of his voice. Elizabeth, his only reason to live his immortal life.

Damn the clan wars that had kept them apart—but no more. Tonight he’d blood bond with her and forever…forever they would be joined as one.

Concentrating on his vampiric power, Ephraim attempted to fly to her, or to vanish and reappear before her, but his new found abilities eluded him at the most dangerous of times.

12. Darkness did not fall gently this day.

It scourged the land like a rolling plague, leaving shadow where there had been shapes—a predatory hunger not unlike his own.

He smiled at his conceit, cradling his cracked rib with one arm, and plunged into the heart of the night. They’d never catch him now. The fringes of Hell were his Heaven, and he was born of the blood.

Plowing a twisted path through the woods, he ignored the slashing pines that made his cheek sing. Shaken from still, dreamless sleep, the trees drenched the air with perfume, like a lover aroused. And that was fine with him; it might save his ass. He didn’t know whether his pursuers were after him for what he’d done or for what he was, whether they tracked by smell or twilight-sight.

But he knew they were very good at it.

13. The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Despite the timpani drum pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, his face was expressionless.

He stared at the naked, unsuspecting woman asleep on the bed, her slender body seductive even in slumber, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow.

The guilt gnawing at the man’s gut did not spring from having been inside her, making love to her earlier in the night, but from what he knew was inside her heart and mind and soul. That knowledge made killing her wrong—wrong on so many levels. Sadly, he had known it was wrong for a long time, but he had been powerless to change the course of events set in motion all those weeks ago.

What kind of monster had he become?

Somewhere along the way, the compass of his conscience had lost the true magnetic north of morality.

His fingers tightened around the syringe. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, releasing an avalanche of regret, remorse, and resignation; but still, a mountain of sorrow crushed his chest.

14. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Take it from me, a life where the dead are your regular clientele is nothing like Hollywood would have you believe. I’d love to claim some saint-worthy purpose, that it’s my calling to guide lost souls to a better place, but that would be a lie. I didn’t choose this life — it chose me. And destiny can be one mean sonofabitch.

Something was in the wind — if I’d been a comic-book superhero my spidey sense would have been at full tingle.

As it was, there was a worse than normal ‘Tuesday buzz’ crawling beneath my skin as I drove to work – a feeling not too far removed from the shriek of the drill as you sit in the dentist’s waiting room. The buzz and I were old foes, but it hadn’t been this bad in years. It built steadily until, when I finally stumbled across the threshold of the Queen of Cups, a colony of fire ants was working its way along my bloodstream.

I leaned back against the door, my fingers pressed against the aged, knotty timber worn smooth by centuries of service, and breathed deep and slow, drawing comfort from the unyielding surface.

15. She was going to die.

What cruel twist of irony would take her life at the hands of the very people she’d tried to save? It wasn’t fair, certainly unjust, but as she dropped her head to her knees, she knew it was the truth.

The hard jungle ground beneath her rumbled with the pounding of the natives dance. Darkness enclosed the clearing where the tribe congregated and the startled cries of jungle creatures filtered through the trees from all directions.

She should be scared, terrified really, but somehow – she wasn’t.

Actually, the more she thought about it, the situation she found herself in seemed somewhat poetic – or maybe the crash had just rattled her brain more than she’d originally thought.

She could see it now – her eulogy would read; Myla Jordan, twenty-six year old InterCorp engineer was killed in a helicopter crash somewhere in the Peruvian jungle…

Fate had dealt an unfair hand this time around and now she’d be remembered as one of the bad guys, nothing more than another of the oil company’s ethically deficient employees. Worse yet, was the loss of her journal and the pages of damning evidence she’d collected that could have brought InterCorp Oil’s operations to a standstill.

16. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When she sucked in a breath, the metallic scent in the air made her gag. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her it wasn’t just her blood. She would never forgive herself if…

“Sunshine?” The darkness swallowed her whisper.

“I’m here, but you need to be quiet.”

Relief started to flood through her, but slowed to a trickle, as the cold from the cement floor seeped into her bones. She struggled to move but her arms, tied behind her back, refused to budge.

17. The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. And Jackson Neale, cautious now after four bloody years of war, slipped deeper into its murky, concealing cloak. Anyone he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia could be counted on one hand, and he knew with absolute certainty that the person riding into his camp tonight wasn’t one of them.
Only a fool would enter another’s camp without hailing first, and this brazen bastard displayed a boldness that truly amazed him.

Jackson lowered his hand to his hip, calm assurance enveloping him as his fingers slipped around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Army Colt. Patiently, he waited as the rider guided a handsome Bay straight toward the saddlebags near the fire; the glow from the low flames highlighting expensive leather chaps and a set of Mexican spurs strapped snuggly around dusty, silver-tipped boots. And despite the chill of the encroaching night, his evening caller’s black jacket hung open, revealing a holstered revolver buckled low around a denim-covered hip.

With a smooth dismount, the rider dropped to the ground beside the saddlebags. All caution inside Jackson evaporated the moment the stranger lowered to one knee. Seeing his chance, he bolted from the shadows and rammed his shoulder full-force into the unsuspecting thief.

18. Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I confronted an assortment of tampon boxes and wondered if my diminishing egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about a future when the half-empty box, now faded and kinda tattered around the edges, still sat beneath the sink ready to mock me every time I reached for a hair dryer or fresh roll of TP.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”

“Yeah, could you put out an APB on my youth?” A rhetorical question, but when the kid gasped and made a move as though to summon the men in white suits, I dredged up a reassuring smile. “Just kidding,” I lied, vaguely trying to pinpoint the moment in life when I’d gone from miss to ma’am. But with forty-two guests due to arrive in under five hours, I could hardly afford to wallow in self-pity, so I grabbed a box at random, tossed it in my basket, and slunk to the check-out line.

Just ahead, a woman roughly my age pointed at the cover of a glossy tabloid devoted to the latest batch of celebri-spawn and their stick-thin moms. “Look at them,” she sneered, “all proud of getting their figures back when everybody knows they spend a fortune on personal trainers and high-priced chefs.”

19. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem – not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.

I’m invisible.

OK, not invisible invisible. But, in the not-so-mythical land of Highschoolia where blending in equals obscurity, I rated a negative seven JD on the Jane Doe to Lindsay Lohan visibility scale. I’d be the first to tell you I didn’t mind – well, typically. I’d made a deal with the devil … I mean the boy… and stomping away was the only thing I could do.

“The Plan” just might kill me where Advanced Trig had failed.

20. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight. He hadn’t left, not even to get coffee or a donut or to tag team in his partner for that whole good cop-bad-cop game. Mia’s eyes were dangerously heavy and though she had propped her chin in alternate hands for the last few hours, both of her biceps were beginning to feel like three day old spaghetti. Across the table, the detective stared that same level stare, the green of his eyes striking her like a backhanded slap.
“I’ve already told you,” she said, exhaustion slurring the edges of her speech,” my name isn’t Bridget, it’s Mia.”
A days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, the only sign that he was any worse for wear from their time in this cinder block hell hole.
“Each one of these stacks is a list of charges from a different state,” he explained softly, almost sympathetically, steepling his hands over the piles of paper that ran the length of the table, “and each stack carries at least a thirty year stretch.”
Mia’s eyes widened, racing across the dull formica as she counted the stacks, stopping at the mugshot they had shown her during the first hour – of a woman who looked exactly like her.
“I know these past few years that we’ve had our ups and downs,” he said, leaning in and lifting a hand as if…as if he were going to reach for her, “but you’re in serious trouble, and I need you to work with me…let me help you.”
This was madness – when she’d left the house this morning, on her way to a nothing job in a nothing town in Nowhere, Southern California, she’d never imagined she would end up in a Los Angeles police station by nightfall, being grilled by a man that was either crazy or wrong or both – and seriously unwilling to admit it.

Karin*

is popping in to chat this Tuesday.  Jami writes some hot stuff for Aphrodisia and Brava. 

KEPT

Coming February 24, 2009 from Brava

Got an investigation situation? Call the Gemini Men: Ethan and Derek Taggart. Yeah, they’re twins. Double the trouble and twice as sexy—women can’t get enough of them or their older brother Danny, who keeps ‘em in line when things get wild…

Ethan and Derek Taggart: they’re the men of Gemini, and when it comes to sheet-scorching undercover work, nobody does it better. The only one they answer to is big brother Danny—that is, until the right women come along to grab the reins and crack the whip as hard as the Taggart men like it…

Security is Derek Taggart’s game, and he plays it straight—no margin for error, no time to fool around…except with one hot little number who changes everything. He takes her home when she needs a ride—one she’ll never forget. The problem is Derek can’t forget her, a total about-face for a guy who keeps his enemies closer than his lovers. Then he finds out the sexy dynamo is Alyssa Miles, notorious party girl and darling of the gossip rags. It’s time to walk away and never look back, which would be a hell of a lot easier if his agency didn’t desperately need the high-profile gig her family’s offering: a minor detail that consists mainly of Derek watching Alyssa 24/7. Keeping an eagle eye on every inch of Alyssa’s nubile body isn’t exactly a hardship—the problem is keeping his hands off and his brain on when things go dangerously wrong…

“unbelievably fabulous”

Michelle Buonfiglio, Romance B(u)y the Book

A little birdie told me there will be free books for commenters! So don’t forget to stop by and say hello. 

 Karin*

Hop on over to Murder She Writes, I’m chatting about, among other things, Brazilian butt waxing.

What can I say?  It was a slow news day!

Karin*

So what did you think?  My picks to make it from this group are of course Danny Gokey. 

I’m hoping Anoop Dwag squeaks through, and of the girls, I like Alexis Grace.  I like the rough neck, but frankly don’t remember his name or what he sang, and the only other one that I remotely enjoyed was Ann Marie?  The tall brunette. She sang…um, she sang, it was a big song, oh, yes, Natural Woman.  Frankly, I liked it, and was surprised the judges didn’t.  Then there was that poor little girl, the real pretty one with thick brown hair?  I had to leave the room when she started to sing and make those funny faces.  I was embarrassed for her.  I really wanted her to do well. There was another girl who was so nervous her voice shook.  Can you imagine the pressure they’re under up there? Yikes!

A couple of weeks ago I taped five, one minute segments that aired on a local channel out here and I was nervous as hell.  If I had to sing?!  Well, maybe if I could sing it would be different, but dayum, I can see why so many just crash and burn on that AI stage.  I hate to see it, but if you’re gonna run with the big dawgs, you can’t stay on the porch.

So, dish, goils.  Who do you like to make this cut?  And if Tatiana makes it, I’ll shoot myself!

 Karin*

Before you scroll down and look at the lines that made it to this round, I have a favor to ask all of you.  J  I don’t ask often.  J J  But I need your help to help a friend of mine.  And it won’t cost you a dime.

Round Four of the American Title contest is up, and my dear friend Edie Ramer’s entry DEAD PEOPLE made it through!  Yay!  Like I knew it wouldn’t.  It would mean a lot to me if you simply sent and email to votes@romantictimes.com and put DEAD PEOPLE in the subject line.  Send one from each email addy you have.  I have read this story, and I can honestly say it will do any bookstore shelf proud.  It’s that good.  So, please, as a favor to me, go vote for DEAD PEOPLE.

Thank you.  J

Now the 25 who made it to round ten!!!   Y’all know the drill!  (and I have to say these are shaping up into some intriguing stories!!!)

1.  “Zeus has summoned you.”

With a growl, Markus rolled over on the giant four poster bed and scowled at Octavious, who stood at the entrance to his chambers, arms crossed over his chest like the arrogant bastard he was. As usual, he wore a long blue velvet robe that trailed to the floor, and his white-blond hair fell straight to the middle of his waist, giving him the appearance of a serene and youthful Merlin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Markus snarled, closing his eyes again. “Zeus will have you by the throat if he catches you.”

“It was Zeus who sent me.”

Markus opened his eyes and rose up on one elbow. “Since when do you do what he asks you to do?”

Octavious moved to the table by the unlit hearth, built into the cave where Markus was imprisoned, and poured himself a glass of ambrosia wine.

2.  “I am the Keeper of Paradise, Purgatory and Hell.”
John Parker realized his tone was over-harsh when the shipping clerk backed away, stammering, at his response. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Well, not these days. He’d forgotten it brought out his temper.
His anger would have been hotter if he’d been let through unquestioned, though. The King’s goods needed ample protection.
The clerk had been damned either way.
Parker watched him sidle off until he disappeared into the thick mist.

3. It was feeding time and humans were the only thing on the menu. Krystoff’s acute vision took in the deep crimson that covered the gray cracked sidewalk, the smell of blood thick on the air. Krystoff stopped to inhale, “You can’t hide” he said mockingly, his words echoing off the cold concrete. He knew he was close; the signs of their victims’ struggles were still fresh. “I know you’re here,” Krystoff said as he felt his body tense in response to the coming battle. His enemy was becoming reckless, leaving bodies littered in the wake of their feeding frenzies. Either that or they no longer cared he thought coldly to himself, though he hoped it wasn’t the latter of the two.

Krystoff moved through the darkness of the alleyway while rain swept across the ground in waves, as if Mother Nature herself cried out in anguish at the scene below. Soaked from the downpour he moved through the shadows, the sounds of broken glass echoed from the distance as he followed the trail through the darkness, his only light coming from the arched flashes of lightning from above.

4. That’s where the body is.

Amelia’s stomach knotted as she trudged toward the recovery site, carefully watching where she placed her feet in the snow. She yanked on the sides of her wool hat and tucked her chin into her scarf as she strode through the fluff, blinking away the swirl of snowflakes.

The weather was for skiing, sledding, and snowball fights, not for investigating old bones in a frosty tent in Boondocks, Oregon.

Her target, the old single story apartment building, looked deflated, concave along the roofline, as if it was too exhausted to stand up straight.

Three hours ago, Dr. Victoria Peres had demanded she hustle her butt directly to the freezing site rather than have Amelia wait to use her forensic dental skills on the skull in a heated, sterile lab.

“Do you live here?”

Amelia’s concentration jerked to the scowling cop and she numbly shook her head.

5. The warmth of the desert vanished under a shroud of bone-chilling twilight. And Jackson Neale, cautious now after four bloody years of war, slipped deeper into its murky, concealing cloak. Anyone he’d befriended on the trek westward from Virginia could be counted on one hand, and he knew with absolute certainty that the person riding into his camp tonight wasn’t one of them.
Only a fool would enter another’s camp without hailing first, and this brazen bastard displayed a boldness that truly amazed him.

Jackson lowered his hand to his hip, calm assurance enveloping him as his fingers slipped around the worn, wooden grip of a well-oiled Army Colt. Patiently, he waited as the rider guided a handsome Bay straight toward the saddlebags near the fire; the glow from the low flames highlighting expensive leather chaps and a set of Mexican spurs strapped snuggly around dusty, silver-tipped boots. And despite the chill of the encroaching night, his evening caller’s black jacket hung open, revealing a holstered revolver buckled low around a denim-covered hip.

With a smooth dismount, the rider dropped to the ground beside the saddlebags. All caution inside Jackson evaporated the moment the stranger lowered to one knee.

6. It came to Nick Holloway, gradually, that he was lying on cold, hard concrete. Something above held him fast. His shirt was hooked on the undercarriage of a car.

He managed to get loose—tearing his new Rag & Bone combat shirt in the process—-and crawled out from under. Enveloped by the stench of motor oil, shaking and sick, Nick finally realized where he was: the two-car garage beneath the Aspen House.

The last thing he remembered was talking to a guy named Mars at the “Soul Mate” wrap party. He’d never seen Mars before. It was an exclusive wrap party—-just Brianne Cross, the last four contestants, himself, and the crew. But Nick remembered talking to the mysterious Mars, the two of them sitting on the back deck, the movement of Castle Creek rushing underneath the slats making him dizzy.

7. Megan Trent jerked out of a deep sleep at the sound of her clock radio turning on and off by itself in a rapid beat of white noise and eerie silence. She watched as the red display numbers flickered in and out with a frantic Morse code lightshow. Gasping in an ice-cold breath, goose bumps pimpling her skin, she knew he had come again in the deep, pre-dawn hours of the night.

Her lover.

Her dead husband’s ghost.

Like a Ouija board’s planchette, her thoughts stood uncertain and shaking between yes, I should and no, I shouldn’t. A decision made brought peace to her heart and her mind. Happy tears poured down her cheeks as she fell back against her pillow and gave in to temptation yet again.

Her eyes closed, tears frozen on her icy skin, as Aaron’s memorable scent of spicy musk aftershave filled the air, enveloping her and the sheets.

8. Fate had painted a bull’s-eye on my back. The ironic thing, I didn’t believe in fate or karma before my brother left a message on my office’s answering machine that was the equivalent to Armageddon dropping a line just to say hey. Being the self- designated birdie-flipper of fate I had to know if listening to the message would be like Darth Vader—Phoenix, I am your brother.

After six years of silence, only one thing would have made Samuel call me. Earlier this week the family had been going through the family bible, and would I mind if they whiteout my name? But, no, instead of letting the call stay a mystery I helped fate change my course, and pushed that stupid button to listen to the message. At least to my credit, I braced myself to hear what my brother had to say.

“I really don’t want to leave this message, but I don’t think you would call me back.” He paused, and it felt like one of those moments that last a lifetime.

9. Even after he was dead, my father’s obsession with magic continued to color my life. He hadn’t been dead so long that I didn’t have many memories of him, but my strongest were of sleight of hand and illusion. I still had a perfectly clear picture, even at seventeen, of being four and my father reaching behind my ear for a coin, myself laughing in delight.

Those were good times, but they weren’t enough to erase this.

Mom was gesturing out the windows of our two year old Sedan, the one we’d bought when we still had money, and giving commentary on our new home. She’d gone into her super-mom mode, just like every time she talked to me since her therapy “break through.” She had her happy face on. Pulling into the hotel dad cashed our life in for before getting himself killed, hers was the only face doing the whole bright and shiny thing.

“Those trucks must belong to the Weeks boys.

10.  “We have a visual on the boat,” Coast Guard Lt. Commander Jake Carver reported. Her gloved fingers tightened around the helicopter’s control stick and she increased air speed. The chase was on. Counter-narcotics had become her reason for existing and she was damn good at it.
Jake’s heartbeat matched the tempo of the helicopter’s rotors and sweat bonded her flight suit to her body.
“They’ve got those motors running wide open; the fricking hull is half out of the water” her co-pilot, Tom Crenshaw, said.
“Weapons ready,” Turner, the helo’s gunner, announced.
Homes dotted this part of the waterway; there wasn’t much chance Jake would give Turner permission to fire that big gun.

The danger to civilians was too great and the sound of the machine gun firing would bring complaints.

11. Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem – not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.

I’m invisible.

OK, not invisible invisible. But, in the not-so-mythical land of Highschoolia where blending in equals obscurity, I rated a negative seven JD on the Jane Doe to Lindsay Lohan visibility scale. I’d be the first to tell you I didn’t mind – well, typically. I’d made a deal with the devil … I mean the boy… and stomping away was the only thing I could do.

12. Even two hundred yards away in near-whiteout conditions, Locklen Roane saw the red Accord careening too fast down Highway 145. Had to be a tourist—who else would risk driving in this blizzard? He shook his head, about to continue trudging the steep hill home when the Honda lurched once then slipped sideways on the highway. He stiffened, squinting through the dense snowflakes and mist of his breath as the car now faced backward but skated forward, gathering momentum as it slid straight for the guardrail and the San Miguel River beyond.

“Holy sh—” Lock whispered, his words drowned out by the metallic screech of the fender smashing through the guardrail, words forgotten as the Honda toppled into the dark abyss below.

“Hold on, just—I’m coming,” he shouted into the eerie silence and began stumbling downward, the horrific grinding sound still echoing sickly in his head.

The dense tree growth would have made this descent treacherous on any given night, but combined with the sting of the swirling snow and thin, bobbing beam of his flashlight, his journey became one of survival. Thick flakes clogged his breathing and slashes of frigid wind whipped him until he staggered. He pushed on, slipping and sliding and twice collided with cottonwood branches; the second one clocking him so hard it sheared his knit cap off.

13. My name is Isadora Macleod and I am haunted. Take it from me, a life where the dead are your regular clientele is nothing like Hollywood would have you believe. I’d love to claim some saint-worthy purpose, that it’s my calling to guide lost souls to a better place, but that would be a lie. I didn’t choose this life — it chose me. And destiny can be one mean sonofabitch.

Something was in the wind — if I’d been a comic-book superhero my spidey sense would have been at full tingle.

As it was, there was a worse than normal ‘Tuesday buzz’ crawling beneath my skin as I drove to work – a feeling not too far removed from the shriek of the drill as you sit in the dentist’s waiting room. The buzz and I were old foes, but it hadn’t been this bad in years. It built steadily until, when I finally stumbled across the threshold of the Queen of Cups, a colony of fire ants was working its way along my bloodstream.

14. Darkness did not fall gently this day.

It scourged the land like a rolling plague, leaving shadow where there had been shapes—a predatory hunger not unlike his own.

He smiled at his conceit, cradling his cracked rib with one arm, and plunged into the heart of the night. They’d never catch him now. The fringes of Hell were his Heaven, and he was born of the blood.

Plowing a twisted path through the woods, he ignored the slashing pines that made his cheek sing. Shaken from still, dreamless sleep, the trees drenched the air with perfume, like a lover aroused. And that was fine with him; it might save his ass. He didn’t know whether his pursuers were after him for what he’d done or for what he was, whether they tracked by smell or twilight-sight.

15. The man slouched on the edge of the bed, his fingers clutching the deadly syringe hidden in his jacket pocket. Despite the timpani drum pounding in his chest and echoing in his ears, his face was expressionless.

He stared at the naked, unsuspecting woman asleep on the bed, her slender body seductive even in slumber, her blonde hair a halo on the pillow.

The guilt gnawing at the man’s gut did not spring from having been inside her, making love to her earlier in the night, but from what he knew was inside her heart and mind and soul. That knowledge made killing her wrong—wrong on so many levels. Sadly, he had known it was wrong for a long time, but he had been powerless to change the course of events set in motion all those weeks ago.

What kind of monster had he become?

Somewhere along the way, the compass of his conscience had lost the true magnetic north of morality.

His fingers tightened around the syringe.

16. Ephraim MacNeill would kill anyone who stood in his way. Still not believing his luck at locating Elizabeth’s current place of imprisonment, he feared the rumor a ruse, or worse—a calculated attempt to draw him into the spider’s web.

Then the sight of a woman paralleling his path in the deepening shadows drew his attention. She fled across the rain-soaked valley, her red curls whipping behind her in the breeze like a proud knight’s banner.

“Elizabeth!” Ephraim shouted, resheathing his sword, and dashed for her—the fear they’d soon be caught, cutting short the brief elation.

Bolting through sweet heather, she altered her course in the direction of his voice. Elizabeth, his only reason to live his immortal life.

Damn the clan wars that had kept them apart—but no more.

Tonight he’d blood bond with her and forever…forever they would be joined as one.

17. If she’d been a bad girl when she had the chance, she probably wouldn’t be dying right now. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When she sucked in a breath, the metallic scent in the air made her gag. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her it wasn’t just her blood. She would never forgive herself if…

“Sunshine?” The darkness swallowed her whisper.

“I’m here, but you need to be quiet.”

Relief started to flood through her, but slowed to a trickle, as the cold from the cement floor seeped into her bones.

18. He brought four items to their first date: a spray of orange roses, because he knew they were her favorite flower; a duffle bag containing a change of clothing; three condoms to capture any stray DNA; and a freshly sharpened hunting knife.

With anticipation fizzing through his veins—as effervescent as the finest batch of imported champagne—he plowed through the sprinkler mist dampening the walkway and took the steep steps to her porch two at a time. The sheath strapped to his ankle pinched with each step. Trying to ignore the irritating sensation, he concentrated on the sprinkler mist cooling his face. The tactic had a secondary, even more welcome effect, it curbed the eagerness.

Upon reaching the cover of the porch he shook the moisture from his hair and paused to look around. She had a beautiful view up here on Fancher Heights, below—the lights of Wenatchee spread from east to west in a glittering cobweb of diamond dust.

Her neighbors were set well back, hidden behind lush borders of emerald arborvitaes. Secluded upon this bluff, estranged from her nearest neighbor by a leafy barricade of sound-deadening vegetation, the setting couldn’t have been more perfect.

19. The mansion loomed eerily through the swirling mist, a sinister shadow against the backdrop of a storm darkened sky.

Destiny Ryder hunched over the steering wheel and stared through the car window in awe even as apprehension skittered down her spine.

“This is beyond insane,” she muttered as she put the car in gear and coasted through the beckoning wrought iron gates.

The crunch of tires on gravel was the only sound as she pulled up in front of the ghostly yet captivating manor and leaden legs carried her up the cracked marble steps leading to the scarred wooden doors.

Heart pounding, she raised a hand to knock but before she made contact with the door, it was wrenched open with such haste, she jumped back in fright.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Ryder.”

The Scottish accent was darkly sexy but Destiny wasn’t fooled.

After all, she had the smarts to know that voices never matched the face.

A strong, masculine hand grasped hers and pulled her unresistingly into the house where she finally got her first look at the owner of that voice.

20. The young prince was going to die. When the angry mob of outlaws and outcasts finally realized who it was that had fallen into their clutches, they would tear the young nobleman to shreds, and there was nothing Shallah could do to prevent it. Blood caked his face and hands, obscuring his features, mute testament to the fact that he had not been captured without a fight. One wrist was manacled to the wall at the far end of the cavern; in the chains that were reserved for criminals among criminals, those who had somehow betrayed the tightly woven structure of this band of misfits.

Drawing her dark cloak tighter around her, Shallah edged quietly through the throng gathering around him, never taking her gaze from his battered face. Even partly obscured by his matted, bloody hair, she could see his dark eyes were keenly intelligent, dangerously angry…and hauntingly familiar. A snarl curled lips that had they not been cracked and split, would have been full and sensuous.

As she watched him glare defiantly at the mob closing in on him, an echo of a dimly remembered dream tugged at the corners of Shallah’s mind, forgotten images and vague memories she could find no root for.

What treachery had brought him here?

21. Jackson Taylor’s toes clenched as he came abruptly awake, the left side of his body shivering. A soft weight held his shoulder down, the feel of a woman’s curves pressing hard against his chest, keeping the right side delectably warm. Cold water tickled his feet, wet sand dug into his butt and the tangy, salty smell of the ocean filled his nostrils.

A flash of red hair, spinning lanterns and Latin dance music raced through his mind before it went blank. Levering his eyes open, he winced as the first fingers of yellow sunlight bounced off the white sand to hit him right between the eyes. The infernal beat of bongos intensified just behind his right temple.

Shit, thirty-two was too old to wake up, hung-over, not knowing where he was or how he had gotten there.

Just what the hell had he done last night?

Well, what was fairly simple to answer if the sand digging into his butt and Red’s silken skin against his chest was any indication.

22. She was going to die.

What cruel twist of irony would take her life at the hands of the very people she’d tried to save? It wasn’t fair, certainly unjust, but as she dropped her head to her knees, she knew it was the truth.

The hard jungle ground beneath her rumbled with the pounding of the natives dance. Darkness enclosed the clearing where the tribe congregated and the startled cries of jungle creatures filtered through the trees from all directions.

She should be scared, terrified really, but somehow – she wasn’t.

Actually, the more she thought about it, the situation she found herself in seemed somewhat poetic – or maybe the crash had just rattled her brain more than she’d originally thought.

She could see it now – her eulogy would read; Myla Jordan, twenty-six year old InterCorp engineer was killed in a helicopter crash somewhere in the Peruvian jungle…

Fate had dealt an unfair hand this time around and now she’d be remembered as one of the bad guys, nothing more than another of the oil company’s ethically deficient employees.

23. It may sound odd, but sometimes moments in life seem to have a distinct smell. At any moment, of any day, a plethora of aromas can summon a wealth of emotions and memories. To Grace Riley, life’s happy moments were tinged with the perfume of sunshine and fragrant grass. During the moments of sorrow, sadness polluted the air with an oily, suffocating smoke, and even danger caused a detectable metallic scent. The odor that wafted up to her sensitive nose now was none of these.

The smell assaulting her, the repugnant odor of dust and stagnancy, was the same scent that had haunted her steps these last four years. This unshakable companion was loneliness. An emotion that was her companion by choice, but that fact did not make bearing its company any easier.

Pushing aside the feeling, Grace tied her apron with the same grim determination that medieval knights donned their armor with before a battle.

24. Looking back, my mid-life crisis began on a Tuesday in March, right there on aisle twelve of the local supermarket between the laxatives and the condoms. That’s the day I confronted an assortment of tampon boxes and wondered if my diminishing egg production warranted the forty-eight count economy size. See, I worried about a future when the half-empty box, now faded and kinda tattered around the edges, still sat beneath the sink ready to mock me every time I reached for a hair dryer or fresh roll of TP.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?”

“Yeah, could you put out an APB on my youth?” A rhetorical question, but when the kid gasped and made a move as though to summon the men in white suits, I dredged up a reassuring smile. “Just kidding,” I lied, vaguely trying to pinpoint the moment in life when I’d gone from miss to ma’am. But with forty-two guests due to arrive in under five hours, I could hardly afford to wallow in self-pity, so I grabbed a box at random, tossed it in my basket, and slunk to the check-out line.

Just ahead, a woman roughly my age pointed at the cover of a glossy tabloid devoted to the latest batch of celebri-spawn and their stick-thin moms.

25. They had been in the interrogation room for twelve hours straight. He hadn’t left, not even to get coffee or a donut or to tag team in his partner for that whole good cop-bad-cop game. Mia’s eyes were dangerously heavy and though she had propped her chin in alternate hands for the last few hours, both of her biceps were beginning to feel like three day old spaghetti. Across the table, the detective stared that same level stare, the green of his eyes striking her like a backhanded slap.
“I’ve already told you,” she said, exhaustion slurring the edges of her speech,” my name isn’t Bridget, it’s Mia.”
A days’ growth of beard shadowed his jaw, the only sign that he was any worse for wear from their time in this cinder block hell hole.
“Each one of these stacks is a list of charges from a different state,” he explained softly, almost sympathetically, steepling his hands over the piles of paper that ran the length of the table, “and each stack carries at least a thirty year stretch.”
Mia’s eyes widened, racing across the dull formica as she counted the stacks, stopping at the mugshot they had shown her during the first hour – of a woman who looked exactly like her.
“I know these past few years that we’ve had our ups and downs,” he said, leaning in and lifting a hand as if…as if he were going to reach for her, “but you’re in serious trouble, and I need you to work with me…let me help you.”

Karin*

This week has been so crazy busy I forgot: tomorrow is Valentine’s Day!  I was all ready to go to my SFA-RWA meeting tomorrow, we’re having Deb Werksman as our guest, but as it turns out, I have other business to attend to, so I won’t make it.  It will be my first missed meeting in 3 years!  It will definitely feel weird, but I have to take advantage of this opportunity to expand my non-writing business.  Times are a tough all around.  Improvise, adapt and overcome!

But after I do what I gotta do tomorrow, hubby and I will go to church with my in-laws like we do every Sat, then out to dinner.  Nothing fancy, then we’ll come home and settle in for the night.  The kids?  Oh, they all have plans, as they should. But I’m going to work on revising my author business plan as well as recast a completely new business plan for my non-writing business, a business which I have sorely neglected these past few years.

I’m actually excited to jump back in with both feet.  I think I was just chained to the deadline chair for so long I forgot what it felt like to get out and be involved in the other business word again.  Writing is very solitary.  The only time it seemed that I was going out was to my RWA meetings, conferences and church on Saturday’s.  Any other time I was holed up in my office hunched over the keyboard writing.  My oldest son complained constantly about how I looked like a homeless person because every time he came by, I was in sweats, a tee shirt (I have one particular shirt that is old and stained and pretty gross to look at but always clean, that I love to wear. My son hates that shirt!  So does hubyy…but it’s soo comfy!), no makeup and my hair pulled back.  I realized after a business meeting this past Wednesday morning, I’ve let myself go.  Yep.  I have. 

So, I have decided not to look like a homeless person anymore, not only for my son, but for myself.  I threw the old green shirt in the trash.  Some of you are shaking your heads thinking, “Karin, screw them. If you love that shirt you should wear it!” And you would be right, but now, when I think of the shirt, I think of my son and hubby and how much they do not like me in it.  It’s kind of lost it’s luster.   So, I bought some new tee’s.  Comfy non-stained, non-faded. And you know what?  I feel better in them then in the old raggedy ones.

So, it was time.  In fact, I’ve neglected a lot of things, and it’s time to get back into the swing of everything!

How about you?  Do you get into ruts?  What do you do to get out of them?

PS!  Am I the only one pissed Jamar didn’t make the cut to 36?  I swear I wanted to destroy something when they told him he was going home!  I felt sooooo bad for him!  

Karin*

I’ve been involved in an erotic short story contest.  The first round was in November.  There was a week of public voting to see if I got into the print anthology and $100. I was pretty stressed that week, but it wasn’t too bad.  And whoo hoo, I made it, into the semi-finals.

Then semi-finals rolled around last week.  And I thought, “I just have to get into the top three, then it goes to a judging round for the grand prize and I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

I probably was slightly annoying with my promo, because I wanted in the finals.  I just wanted to get to that place where it was going to be decided by a panel of judges and wouldn’t be about a popularity contest anymore. 

So what was the grand prize that would make me this insane?  50 free copies of the anthology that I’m going to be in, and a $3,000 grand prize.  In this economy, that’s nothing to sneeze at.  Actually it’s nothing to sneeze at anyway.  There was only one other time when I saw that much money at once and it was when my grandmother died.  So it wasn’t exactly a happy moment.

Then this past Monday rolled around and I made it into the finals, and for a moment there was this huge sigh of relief, because whatever happened, it was totally out of my hands.  The judges would make a decision and that would be that.

But, there was a twist. (Isn’t there always a twist?)

They were doing a third public voting round.  Only this time it was a “non-binding poll” that could sway the judge’s decision.  What this really means is, if it’s close with the judges the person with the most votes has a definite edge.

I think that was my snapping point.  I just couldn’t take anymore of it.  I needed it to be over, and it wasn’t.  I’d promised people they wouldn’t have to hear another peep from me about the contest, but they did.  And under this stress I’ve become what I hate, promo-zilla.

It’s really causing me to re-evaluate how I approach things and why.  Yes I want to win, pretty desperately in fact, but my  husband (who rocks times a thousand) came to me and said: “I know you want to win, but if you don’t, you still have all these other goals you’re going for.  And it won’t affect that.  You’re going to do bigger things than just this.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear.  Because win or lose, at the end of the day I have to be the kind of person that I can respect.  So yeah, I want to win, I’ll do what I can to get those votes, but I’ve got to take the crazy down a notch.  I can’t let this consume me.  And I want to come out on the other side still a person worth liking.

Have you had a moment like this that has tested your mettle?

http://www.bettersex.com/t-erotic-fiction-contest-semi-finals-story3.aspx

http://zoewinters.wordpress.com

So here’s the line up for this season’s Dancing with the Stars! Talk about train wrecks!! 

Belinda Carlisle, 50, singer (former Go-Go frontwoman)
Stephen “Steve-O” Glover, 34, reality-TV star|
David Alan Grier, 53, comedian
Shawn Johnson, 17, Olympic gymnast
Jewel Kilcher, 34, singer, TV personality
Lil’ Kim, 33, rapper
Gilles Marini, 33, actor
Ty Murray, 39, former rodeo cowboy
Nancy O’Dell, 42, Access Hollywood anchor
Denise Richards, 37, actress (formerly of Wild Things )
Lawrence Taylor, 50, retired NFL player
Chuck Wicks, 29, singer
Steve Wozniak, 58, technology billionaire and co-founder of Apple Computers

Thoughts off the top of my head: Denise Richards could stomp all over Bikini girl for the ultimate Beyotch award.  Steve-O?  I wonder if he can stay sober long enough to practice (I know, not nice, but c’mon, he is a forgone conclusion).  Shawn Johnson?  Is she the cute little gymnast that won the gold on the beam?  I like her.  Jewel?  Um, she was rude to a guest a couple of years ago on Jay Leno (granted the guest was a course woman comedian, to say it nicely, but c’mon). Anyhoo, I’m-too-good-for-the-world, Jewel (that’s my perception, I could be wrong…), refused to shake the guest’s hand and made an ugly face at her. She lost me forever, then and there.  Lil’ Kim?  Didn’t she do time for something? I think her and LT may have shared a cell.  Nancy O’Dell? Yawn.  Same for Steve Wozniak. 

If I had to hazard a guess right now, I’d say Belinda Carlisle who looks amazing for 50 will do well, especially if she gets, say, Maks.  Hah!  Wouldn’t we all?  There will be no Juliana Hough this year and not sure if her bro’ is going to hang out or not, cuz he has his own band now too.  I bet LT will do well.  Apparently, his addiction issues are under control, and he was the best of the best in his day.  I do hope he does well.  I also think Shawn John will do well too, if she can reach her partner.  J

I wish all of them well, except one, and I’m trying really hard not to wish her ill-will but it would be like me wanting Heather what’s-her-name, Paul’s ex, well.  I. Just. Can’t. Seem. To. Force. Myself….

What do you think?

Karin*