Traci's first title is now available from Samhain Publishing.

Ten Reasons Why Childbirth is Better Than a Broken Leg, Continued

   We were having a great time, throwing snow, making snowballs, Ryan falling over in the deep snow. Hoping to go down to my father’s and throw snowballs at him, we walked to the driveway—where I slipped on a hidden patch of ice. In my best Joe Theismann imitation, one leg went flying up behind me and twisted in an odd way. There was a sickening snap, and then blinding pain.

   I don’t remember how I ended up on the ground, but the next thing I knew I was lying in the driveway, snow falling fast, screaming for my neighbor to please come and help me. My poor son stood in tears next to me, telling me that he was sorry. (He says he’s sorry whenever anybody yells about anything.)

   The amazing thing was that he didn’t leave my side, just stood right beside me. I say it’s amazing because “run away from Mommy” is one of his favorite games. Even more amazing, or perhaps the luckiest thing, is that there was someone home at my neighbor’s house. The people who own it go to Florida every winter and stay for six months. This winter, their grandson and his wife just happened to be staying in the house. If they hadn’t, who knows how long I might have laid there in the snow.

   A ride in the ambulance, some time in the ER and the bad news—I broke my leg. More specifically, my tibial plateau, where the top of the bone in my lower leg meets the knee joint. Not only that, but it was a depressed fracture, meaning that the bone fragment had sunk below the level of the rest of the bone. They sent me home with crutches and some pretty good drugs, an immobilizer strapped to my leg.

   Took a trip to the orthopedic surgeon two days later. He looks at the x-rays, and then gives me more bad news. The bone is pretty much shattered and needs surgery to be repaired. Oh, and eventually I’ll have arthritis and might need a knee replacement.

   Gee, thanks.

   A couple of days in the hospital, and I left with a steel L-bracket, five screws and a cadaver bone graft holding my bone together. Plus twenty-one staples in my leg.

   Having this experience made me reminisce on how lucky I’ve been in my life. I’ve never broken anything before, and the only other time I was in the hospital was when I had my son. So I’ve decided to compare the two events. My pregnancy and childbirth, compared to this nightmare, was a walk in the park. Here are the top ten reasons why.

10.  With childbirth, barring any complications, you’re only off your feet for a couple of days. Break your leg, and it’s six to eight weeks of sitting on your butt. Which isn’t nearly as much fun as it sounds. Being waited on hand and foot, people asking what they can get you, what can they do for you, gets old after awhile. Really.

9.   Childbirth usually doesn’t require the use of crutches, which is an act of pure acrobatics. Hopping around on one foot using two metal sticks for balance is no easy task. Oh, yeah, sure it’s a piece of cake if you’ve tried it when you’re not injured, but try it while you have shards of bone rubbing against each other, or when putting your leg down accidentally causes pain to shoot throughout your body. Yeah, I fell the first night after breaking it. 2:30 a.m. and I’m screaming, stuck on the floor with no way to get myself up.

Not only that, but muscles you never knew you had start to ache. Armpits, chest, arms, palms, all protest when you get up to go anywhere. And getting to the bathroom requires half an hour of preplanning. Forget about it if you have to get anywhere in a hurry. It ain’t happenin’. 

8.   Nobody throws you a Broken Leg Shower. Friends and family were very generous after I broke my leg. Dinners were made and delivered to my house for over a week. Hubby didn’t have to cook a thing. But it still doesn’t compare to a party with lots of great presents and a cake. Although, on the upside, I didn’t have to wear a paper plate covered with bows on my head, either.

7.   Who comes up and oohs and ahhs over a broken leg? Nobody rushes to rub or pat your leg like they do a pregnant belly. And if they did, you’d probably want to slug them with a crutch, anyway. The best you can hope for is that people want to sign your cast, or at least look at your scar.

6.   People sent me flowers after I had my son. Broken leg? Not a single one. A couple of get-well cards and several “you poor thing” was all. Not even a box of chocolate.

5.   Nobody rushes to the hospital to look at your post-operative x-rays the way they do a newborn baby. There is no x-ray gallery, like a nursery, waiting for friends of the newly repaired, although perhaps there should be. Yeah, a place where all the x-rays are on display for people to gawk over.

Ok, maybe not.

4.   Bedpans. After surgery, I was stuck in a hospital bed for two days. Yeah, bedpans.

3.   When I had my son, I did it the old-fashioned way. Not “natural” per se—I had an epidural—but I delivered through the birth canal. If I’d had a cesarean, I might feel differently about this one. But, reason number three—surgical staples. They don’t really hurt; when they came out, there was only a pinch. But they did begin to itch. I don’t recommend them.

2.   Many couples look forward to having multiple children. Nobody that I know of wants multiple broken bones. If they do, well then, they probably need some sort of psychiatric attention.

1.   The best reason of all: When it’s all over, you get to take home that wonderful, warm little bundle of joy. Sure, you don’t get much sleep, and it’s a lot of work, but it’s still wonderful. The best you can hope for when your broken leg is healed is to be able to walk properly again. Maybe wear high heels, if you’re really lucky.

This is only my own experience, of course. Yours may vary by type of broken bone, complications of pregnancy/childbirth and your gender. Someday, I’d like to have another child. My husband would probably like the broken leg better. But then again, he’ll never have anything to compare it to now, will he?

And for the record, I’ll still take winter winds over summer heat and humidity any day.

***

Christine Norris is the author of several works for children and adults. She spends her time divided between her writing, substitute teaching and caring for her family of one husband-creature, a son-animal, a large dog whose greatest achievement is sleeping in one position for an entire day and a small feline who is very adept in his position as Guardian of the Bathtub. She also has done work writing English adaptations of novels translated from other languages.

To learn more about Christine Norris, please visit http://www.christine-norris.com. Send an email to Christine at christinenorris02@gmail.com or through her MySpace page, at http://www.myspace.com/christinenorris.

Balancing Act, Continued

If this sounds like your day, you’re not alone. Millions of women all over the world hustle like this. So, you find yourself saying, “All right, we’re going to do a McDonalds run.” But while the family is biting into their greasy burgers and slurping down on those sodas, you feel guilty. Fast food is great occasionally, but when the little staff at the local chicken place call you by name and know exactly what your order will be…then, well, you’re visiting them just a tad too much.

Trust me, I know whatof I speak. There came a day when I was able to walk into a local restaurant and the waitress would hand me a glass of tea while I waited for my order to be filled. She saw my truck and told the cook what to drop. That, my friends, is a sad testament to my life.

So how do I deal with this hectic routine of life? Here are a few hints from lessons I’ve learned along the way:

·         The greatest invention: The crock pot. It has become one of my best-used pieces of kitchen equipment. It makes dinners ready when you are. The best thing is you don’t just make roasts in it! I have made casseroles, appetizers, snacks and even a cake in mine. And those new crock pot liners? HEAVEN SENT!

 

·         Who, what, where…only the schedule knows: The dry erase calendar—this is a wonderful invention. I keep a week’s worth of activities on the fridge. There’s one for meal plans and one for activities. We also have a regular calendar that hangs in my office and we keep all our month’s activities listed. Last-minute things are noted on a dry erase sheet my son made.

 

·         What’s for supper? After a long day of dealing with the frustrations of the world, you walk in the front door you’re immediately hit with “what’s for dinner?” You draw a blank. I learned to make a weekly menu.

Depending on how tired I am, I sit down Thursday or Friday night or Saturday morning with cookbooks, my calendar, coupons and sales ads. The menu is created with input from the family.

The snack calendar is made much the same way. The snack for the day is listed under the meals. It really does work. If they eat all their snacks in one or two days, then they’re just out.

 

·         Shop ’til you drop: Whether you love it or hate it, it always takes forever and then you suffer sticker shock at the check out.

To help with the sticker shock I use coupons. LOTS and LOTS of coupons. Every Sunday I sit with my mom and two newspapers, and we clip coupons. Then I give her ones I won’t use and she gives me ones I need.

I take the menu-shopping list and compile it with the everyday needs and coupons. (We usually shop at Super Wal-Mart and they meet all advertised prices from competitor’s ads.) I lay out my coupons in order of the path I take through the store. Then it’s off to the races.

The time it takes me to shop is cut down by following a set pattern each trip to the store. I always go in the same route. This way I know where every item I use is to be found. I limit my browsing moments so that I’m not tempted to overspend. I can methodically grab my items and hit the checkout in short order. (Of course, I have to follow a routine anyway—I’m just a tad OCD)

I average $10-$15 a week in coupons and sales items. That may not sound like much, but when you’re on a tight budget—and who isn’t these days—a little goes a long way.

 

·         Stock up: When your store has a sale on daily consumables, stock up. Everyone knows that canned goods can last for long term storage but what about flour, sugar, etc? When my store does a special super-saver on flour or sugar, I buy several bags. Then I leave out what I’m going to use right away. The others are wrapped in plastic bags—a great use of those plastic grocery bags—and sealed up then stored in my downstairs’ freezer chest. The same applies to cream cheese, butter, margarine, etc.

 

·         Make it now: When I get home from shopping, I set up my week. Meat is divided into serving sizes and the packages are marked for specific meals. Canned items are grouped by specific menus and marked. Extras are stored in the back of the pantry.

 

·         Freezers are our friends: Grapes and melons can be frozen for long-term storage. I also pick up those bags of overripe bananas that the stores sell for around two dollars. Then I store these in the freezer to use in baking. Banana breads and cakes are big favorites here. The skins will turn black and they really look…well…bad after they’ve been frozen, but they are still edible. Plus, when they unfreeze, they are so soft they easily mix up in your recipe.

When freezing things like sugar and flour, you need to take the care to wrap them completely. If there is the slightest leak in the freezer, it can ruin your investment. I always wrap the bags in the plastic grocery bags, twist the topknot tight and then I roll it up a couple of times and I use freezer tape to secure the package.

 

It seems like an awful lot of work, doesn’t it? I can guarantee you that it’s worth it. You won’t feel the added stress when you come home from work to scramble for what to make. Your family won’t hound you with the daily question of what’s for supper, and they will even have the direction to be able to help get it ready.

Soon, you’ll find that dinner is a snap and you even have time to relax for a little while in the evenings.

-----

Donica Covey lives in a suburb just south of St. Louis, Missouri. Her loving household includes a husband, a teenage daughter, a grown son, a hyperactive Cairn terrier and a sedate Springer Spaniel.

When not writing, dreaming of writing or reading, she can be found at one of her other favorite pastimes: shopping. Baking breads, cookies and cakes are another indulgence. She also enjoys peaceful times of ATVing, cattle counting and hiking in the woods of north central Arkansas, her second home.

You can find Donica on the web at: http://www.donicacovey.com.

Spring Cleaning, Continued

This year, I’m ambitious.  I’m choosing internal, external and fun and exciting!  Haircut, stepping up the exercise program and learning a somewhat unusual new hobby.  The first is pretty easy: I look through magazines or watch television, and when I see a hairstyle that I like, I capture a photo, print it and take it with me.  This year’s was an actress in a commercial.  I googled the commercial, found the actress’ web site, and there was my hairstyle.  Very slick!

The second is simply stepping up what I already do, mostly to get in shape for the third thing.  I do elliptical and stability ball work.  I’m going to extend those a bit, and now that it’s spring, add walking into my daily routine.  I have a few winter pounds to lose, and this is the way. 

For someone else, I’d recommend adding either a few minutes to your routine or choosing a new exercise.  Walking, swimming, a new aerobics video, bicycling?  Baby steps are great—this is spring cleaning, not a demolition and renovation!  Little steps can still have a big impact.

The third focus is inspired by a friend of mine, Kirsten.  She made a pact with herself—that she’d learn a new hobby every year.  These weren’t little things.  One year involved golf.  Another year she made incredible stained glass artwork.  I have a hummingbird she made for me that has a place of honor in my bedroom.  Another year she tackled watercolor, and yet another wine-making.  Kirsten faded out of my life after my divorce, but each spring I think of her and wonder—what is she tackling this year?  This time, I wonder if I could have talked her into my current obsession.

And what is it? This is my bold move that I actually began last spring, but kept getting waylaid by various life events.  Scuba diving.  What, you say?  That’s spring cleaning?  Sitting at the bottom of the ocean with a sea turtle?  Aren’t you like—old—as in forty-seven years old? Well, of course this is spring cleaning.  I’m sprucing me up, making me more exciting and interesting, especially to me.  And what’s not more exciting than realizing a life dream?  New adventures add a zest and zing to your life, make the world more vibrant, help you feel more connected and alive.  Isn’t that what spring cleaning should do?

And the age thing.  As long as I prepare by getting into shape, it will be fine.  Actually, my divemaster in Hawaii was a bit on the portly side. So you don’t need to be in perfect shape to pursue a dream—whether it is something low-risk like a pottery or glass-fusing class, something different like bagpipes or even skydiving (okay, I consider THAT crazy, but who am I to limit your options?).

My version includes a trip to Cayman Brac, a warm, exotic tropical location.  I’m traveling with the local dive shop at the end of April.  This to me is the ultimate in spring cleaning.

One thing I’m not tackling this year, that you might consider, is cleaning out something old, getting rid of something that’s making you stale.  Actually, come to think of it, I am working on one bad habit—my posture.  I’m working with a physical therapist to help correct my bad posture.  (This is mostly due to a recent car accident which has seriously affected my posture, but hey, I’m counting it!) 

So let’s look at possible targets.  Do you drink too much pop?  Is coffee your culprit?  Are you parked in front of the television six hours a day?  Cut back a bit or work diligently to stop altogether.  If your vice is smoking, there are great programs out there.  If it’s pop or coffee or a weight-loss program, talk to your doc, they might have some great tips or suggestions.  Like my posture and the scuba diving, I’m getting the help of well-trained professionals—I wouldn’t go sixty feet under the surface of the ocean without someone guiding me. 

Hopefully I’ve given you a few great ideas and sparked your desire to do a little personal spring cleaning.  As for me—look at the sunshine outside.  Hear those birds?  The neighbors’ bulbs are blooming (why did I buy a north-facing house?  If it were south-facing, my daffodils would be dancing already), and there’s a slight breeze. Ooh, I wonder if there are butterflies flitting by?

Nature’s calling.  Good luck to all of you and have fun this year ‘spring cleaning’!

Stacia Wolf

www.staciawolf.com

**

Stacia loves to create new characters and place them in ridiculous and embarrassing situations.  Unfortunately, she draws many of those scenarios out of her own life, without having to change them overly much.  But Stacia has decided to enjoy the drama.  With several children, grandchildren, siblings, parents and canines inhabiting her world in Spokane,  Washington, Stacia has never had to look far to find inspiration for her stories

Why e-Books?, Continued

They're also cheaper than a paperback book and come in varying sizes from short stories to super-plus novels. That enables me to try a new author without feeling like I'm breaking the budget. The writing rivals anything that you can buy in print, and the some of the cover artwork is spectacular. Then there is the whole ecological side of the equation. E-books don't need paper. That's a pretty cool thing.

Many readers love the fact that they can adjust font and print size with their e-book readers. It makes it much easier for anyone with vision problems to enjoy the reading process instead of trying to squint and read the sometimes impossibly small print that many traditional print publishers use. An e-book reader can also be easier to hold than a really thick book. Turning pages is a breeze!

Will e-books ever replace print books?

Maybe. Maybe not. I know I’m not ready to give up my paperback books yet. But e-books do provide another venue for authors and readers alike. And with e-book readers becoming much more affordable, available and a convenient size, it's almost like reading a paperback book. Plus, it's a whole lot easier to store several hundred e-books than it is a few hundred print books. And that's important, especially when shelf space is running out. You also don’t have to dust them, and you never have to worry about getting another paper cut. Something to think about.

N.J. Walters is an award-winning, multi-published author with more than 25 books available in e-book form, and 15 books in print. http://www.njwalters.com

The First, Continued

   When I started writing romances, I thought my research days were long over. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl again. I set my first thirteen books in worlds I know well—the Yucatan peninsula of Mexico, New Jersey, Greece or Manhattan. Or I created my own worlds in which I controlled everything and could explain away seeming anachronisms. Writing was speedy and oh so freeing!

   This came to a screeching halt when I decided to start a “steampunk” romance. The setting is New York, 1890. Condoms? Electric street lights? Motorcycles? Central Park? What do the irons look like? The hats? Have the street names changed? (Yes, some of them have.) I choose 1890 in honor of my grandmother, who was born that year. What an era! I have a new appreciation for her, her stories and her changing world. Imagine—1890 to 1975. From horse-drawn carriages to TWA.

   Now I’m consumed with the introduction of just about everything, and I might even try for Jeopardy, except that geography would sink me.

   Have you ever wondered who the first person was to put a ________(fill in the blank) into their mouth and spit it out, or decide it was a good thing to eat? The first person to discover that toothpaste works well on bee stings? The first person to boil an egg, or blanch a tomato to get the skin to come off more easily?

   I’ve come to think of most firsts as accidents. Just can’t figure out how you think up a leather condom. Honestly.

Ciar Cullen lives in New Jersey with her husband and magical cat. Her latest book, Mayan Secrets, is available now at Samhain Publishing. You can find her at http://www.ciarcullen.com

Whirlwind Romance, Continued

   Well, probably more like a couple of weeks, maybe a month, but still, I understood what he was saying. Those two girls became very close in a very short period of time.

   Thing is, I know firsthand how quickly strong bonds can form in stressful situations (and the AI competition has to be an incredible roller coaster of stress.) A couple of the best, most raw, most real relationships I’ve ever had came out of Air Force basic training and tech school.

   During periods of extreme stress, the best and worst of everyone, including yourself, comes out. People are stripped down to their essence, and they do one of two things; they either become supportive team players who try to make sure everyone makes it, or their extreme survival instinct kicks in, and they turn into the “everyone for themselves” kind of people, the Sawyers of Lost.

   Those who become supportive team players have the ability to form intense bonds very quickly. And the elements that create those bonds are the elements that will make believable a love-relationship happening over the space of just a few days between a romance hero and heroine.

   I’ve always taken issue with romances where the hero and heroine fall in love in a matter of days. It isn’t that I don’t believe it can happen, because I know, from experience, that it can. But making it happen believably is something that many writers fail to do.

   “Bond-seeds,” as I call them, are planted quickly and bloom hugely. The seed of one of my Basic Training friendships was planted within an hour of arriving at Lackland AFB. I was trying to hook my dog tag chain around my neck, but my hands were shaking (two TIs were in my face screaming at me) and I couldn’t snap the fastener into place. I tried and tried, all the while being screamed at, and finally a girl named Lisa ran across the dorm bay, hooked the chain for me and went back to her locker. She risked a lot to do that. She was my hero that day, and I had a chance to pay her back the next day. A friendship was born.

   Over the next 6 weeks in hell (and several months of tech school later), I saw exactly what it takes to form bonds quickly.

• Risk

• Sacrifice

• Confession

• Honesty

• Vulnerability

• Laughter

• Teamwork

• Support

• Failure

• Danger (not necessarily physical)

   Give me those elements in a story where a hero and heroine fall in love quickly, and I’ll buy it. Strip those characters down to their cores in order for them to survive, and I will understand how they can form bonds you won’t often find even in relationships that progress “normally”.

   I know it’s possible to form intense bonds in a matter of days, hours, even. I also know that convincing readers of that is difficult—but not impossible.

   Can I do it? I’ve tried, but it’s up to the reader to decide if I’ve been successful. But that scene from American Idol brought back a lot of emotions and memories, and reminded me of what it takes.

Under her own name, Larissa Ione writes emotional contemporary romance for Samhain and Red Sage, and sexy, gritty paranormal romance for Grand Central Publishing.  She also writes erotic paranormal action/adventure novels with writing partner Stephanie Tyler, under the name of Sydney Croft. For more on Larissa’s work, please visit her website at www.LarissaIone.com

Gemstones, Continued

   I have had a love affair with gemstones forever. The healing power of rose quartz and the calming effects of lepidolite have helped me through trying times. It seemed a natural progression to involve myself with making jewelry to house these beautiful gems. I have sold these to little shops and at fairs.

   Now, to fit into my lifestyle as a writer, I am once again involved with the sparkling beauties. I have my own at-home business, and adorn women with gorgeous protective tiger’s eye necklaces, turquoise, onyx or jade. I no longer make the jewelry, but that is fine with me. My time is spent writing or hosting jewelry parties—parties scheduled around my writing. It’s a wonderful setup.

   If anyone out there, whether a writer or butcher, baker or candlestick maker is interested in getting more involved with these gifts from Mother Earth you can contact me at Baywytch@hotmail.com .

B.Ella Donna's Every Witch Way But Dead, "Suspense at its finest. You are kept guessing until the end." HRC Reviewers Choice Award Winner

Life's Little Handbook, Continued

I was reacquainted with my children. They were not the angels I thought them to be. I was also trying to launch my writing career. I was on a losing course each step of the way. Then one day I was sitting at the computer, the kids were arguing and I opened a fresh file. I let my mind wander and before long, an idea formed. A handbook for family living.

When you get a job, you get a handbook outlining what exactly is expected of you, right? Well maybe that’s what we needed, a handbook detailing exactly what was expected of us as a family. So, I began typing.

My son was six. He was mature for his age and he showed it. His “free time” was spent taking things apart to see how they worked. I tailored a section that suited him. He was required to refrain from touching his father’s tools without permission, was to say “please” and “thank you”, was to show respect to his elders, keep his room cleaned up, feed and water his puppy and not pick on his sister.

In the handbook, I created a chart for him and each time he did what he was supposed to do he got a sticker. When he went for a full month with all stickers, I let him pick a restaurant and then we went to a movie and dinner—just the two of us.

Our daughter was four so her rules were simple, potty training charts, and whenever she helped mommy or daddy, she got a sticker. At that time stickers were all the reward she needed.

Each year, as our children grew, I tailored the handbook entries for them. Cleaning rooms replaced potty training categories. The fighting ones always remained in place. But slowly they were being given more and more household chores to do.

Each year when the book was updated, we sat as a family to create the new version. The kids were allowed to give input on what duties they wanted to do, what rewards should be given and what things could be omitted from the new handbook. Then I typed it up, printed it off and everyone in the family signed it. Then we put the pages in sheet protectors and it was placed in a three-ring binder that was kept on a bookshelf in the living room.

When my husband lost his job and we had to move back home to Missouri, that handbook went along with us. It helped keep track of who was responsible for making sure what items were packed and moved along.

Years passed and my kids were in high school and junior high. Once more, the handbook was updated. It addressed schoolwork, after school activities and even dating. As the years before, we all sat to create the revisions and all agreed to them. Then it was signed, dated and stored in that old binder.

Now my daughter is in her teens juggling high school and a job, but she still has responsibilities to be found in the pages of that handbook.

My son is a married man with a baby girl of his own. I look at him, and I know he didn’t always follow the course I charted for him. But, that handbook did give us structure and balance.

Our rules for living came from very practical places, our Bible and our common sense. It seemed like a corny idea at its inception. My husband laughed it off and told me it would never work. Sure sometimes we strayed, but I’m proud to say that my kids were well behaved, well adjusted and did what we wanted them to with very little argument.

Now I’m planning a handbook for our children’s children. When Alyx comes to Elisi’s house, she’ll know what’s expected from her and what to expect from us. Lots of love and homemade cookies are definitely tops on that list

Donica Covey has one book available with Samhain Publishing.

Getting in the mood, Continued

But reading about in-your-face sex, holy cow!  Now that got my attention and interest to say nothing of my blood pressure (which is kind of surprising considering I've been married to the same man for about a million years). 

"This is what I want to try," I declared before I'd finished reading my first erotica—which happened to have been written by my friend Kate Douglas.  "Hmm.  Fine," I yammered at myself.  "So go for it."

How, the practical side of my nature challenged as I fanned my flaming cheeks.  How does an old married broad go about penning words I hope my mother never reads?  The light bulb flashed.  Research.  After all, research got me into and through those seven historicals.  Next question: what kind of research?  Not the personal kind, thank you very much.  Not only didn't I want to wind up in divorce court, it can be a dangerous world out there.  I don't know the rules.  Heck, I don't even know where the games are played.  Besides, I'm pretty sure the good stuff starts after my bedtime.

That's when I started to let my fingers do the walking, on the Internet.  I prowled Amazon.  I discovered books about Kama Sutra. (Yes, I live a pretty isolated life.)  I devoured Nancy Friday's My Secret Garden.  I downloaded a fifty-page tutorial about the ways and wherefores of the female climax and wound up highlighting darn near the whole thing.  The Kama Sutra books (if you don't know) are unabashedly illustrated and demonstrate more sexual positions than my body could accomplish back when I was lean and mean.  I rejected some for the simple reason I couldn't describe the necessary gyrations but others, oh my!     

But erotica is a lot more than Part A fits into Slot A.  Like all other successful fiction, it hinges on emotion.  Feelings.  The heart.  The mind.  What's happening between the ears of my characters became the vital question.

Shortly after I stated writing erotica, I half stumbled and half marched into bondage, BDSM and capture.  Some editor let it out that bondage was a top seller and that got my wheels turning.  I confess: my first sexual fantasies were about becoming some pirate's hostage. (Or was it Tarzan's captive?)  I loved the idea of being tied up and reigning as a macho hunk's prize possession.  Why not take those fantasies out of the closet or wherever I'd stashed them and have fun and make money writing about damsels in distress who just happen to be having the sexual adventure of their lives?

Research time once more since I've never been a BDSM player, and in the real world, bondage would scare the you know what out of me.  Back to the Internet and stumbling into a pile of sites that were so amateurishly produced I couldn't get past the bad acting, and/or infected computer.  Was I ever going to get honest and open insight into bondage-loving women and the men eager to accommodate them?  Where to go to tap into my own libido so I could authentically produce the kind of stories I wanted to?

Kink.  Specifically www.Kink.com.  Even more specifically www.Hogtied.com and www.SexAndSubmission.com.  There are other sites within Kink devoted to one fetish or another, but my pump is primed at those two places. Hogtied is the granddaddy of the whole enterprise (and that's exactly what this multi-million dollar business is).  Sex And Submission, although fairly new, banks on a number of fantasy scenarios.  At both sites, nubile young women are stripped naked and tied into positions I didn't know the human body was capable of assuming by master riggers.  I'll leave it to your imagination what takes place.  Suffice to say, at the end of a shoot, both the women and men are happy and satisfied customers.  I can't relate to the more extreme scenes and knowing everyone's being paid for their performances gets a tad of a bit in the way of the fantasy.  But I listen closely to what's being said, the look in the eye, the body language, the sights and sounds of a climax. 

Oh yes, my imagination has taken flight, bolstered by vivid visuals.  Just because this old broad walks the straight and narrow doesn't mean she can't have her kinks.  Or write about those kinks.

Now, where are those handcuffs?

It's All About the Emotions-or-Why Should I Care?, Continued

   Simple. When it comes to romance stories at least, it’s all about the emotion. Let me hear an, “Amen, Sister!” or at least a “Duh!”.

   As I’ve looked through the drafts of these romance stories I’ve been asked to assist with, my most frequent comment has to be this: “But how does it make her feel?”

   Too often writers get caught up in explaining what’s going on, step-by-step, and forget that we’re supposed to be deeply inside someone’s body and mind. You can have very different feelings from the same action. 

   For instance, when someone the heroine is attracted to brushes an errant lock of her hair away, and his fingers feather across her cheek—she’s going to feel something. Does it make her shiver?  Does it make her blush? Does her heart leap into her throat? Does she stutter over what she was saying?

   On the other hand, perhaps the villain of our story has her imprisoned and does the same thing.  When his fingers brush her cheek—she’s going to feel something very different. Does she flinch away in fear? Do tears spring to her eyes? Does she gag as revulsion or terror sweeps over her?

   How does it make her feel?

   Recently, I was reading through a love scene and the author very skillfully led us through the action. I knew exactly what was happening, but I was completely disinterested in what should have been an integral and defining moment. It read something like this:

He pulled her down onto the bed. She tugged at his T-shirt until he lifted his arms and she could slide it off. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a moist, hot kiss.  She threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled his head even closer to hers.

   And on and on it went. Do you even know who’s POV we’re in? Do you care? I didn’t. I want to know how she feels (and, yes, we were in the heroine’s POV). How much opportunity was lost by this author to reel the reader in, to involve them in this moment? I don’t need to know where each various body part or article of clothing was. I know how sex works. What I do want and need to know is whether his breath against her cheek made her quiver, or if the feel of his skin against her hands took her breath away. Did her lips linger over his for a moment in a kiss like none other she’d known? 

   How does it make her feel?

   When her mother dies, or her dog is run over, or her sister tells her that she needs a kidney… don’t tell me what happens. Note the difference in this writing (mine, written on the spur of the moment right now, in case you wondered):

“Rover, no!” Jessie grasped for the leash a moment too late and watched as her nine- year-old terrier dashed into the busy street. She looked both ways before following, one hand up to warn the drivers she was crossing in front of them. Horns honked and tires squealed, but she was focused only on the little body darting to and fro before her.

   Are you drawn into this story? Do you care what happens to the dog or the heroine? Would you put this book down at this point, and not worry about when you picked it up again? I would.

   Now, try this on for size:

“Rover, no!”  Jessie tamped down her panic as she made a desperate attempt to hang on to the slippery leash as her nine-year-old terrier dashed into the busy city street. 

With only a fleeting thought to her own safety, Jessie looked both ways before leaping into the traffic herself, holding up one hand to warn the drivers she was crossing in front of them. Horns honked and tires squealed, but she didn’t care. 

Visions danced before her eyes—Rover as a three- week-old puppy, rejected by her mother; Rover snuggling in the crook of Jessie’s neck every night for warmth and comfort; Rover licking the tears from Jessie’s face when David had walked out on them. 

Nothing was more important in this moment than Rover’s safety. She was everything, the only thing that kept Jessie sane. If Rover died, Jessie didn’t want to live.

   Better? Do you care whether Rover lives or dies? Does this at least give you an idea WHY Jessie leaped into traffic after her dog? Do you know how she feels?

   If I could give one recommendation to romance writers (aside from proper grammar, which should be a given but is sadly often overlooked), it would be to take every advantage to show emotion.  If your readers don’t care about your characters, if they don’t understand motivation, why will they bother to finish the book? Or worse, why will they ever pick up another one?

Marianne Arkins was born in California, met her husband in Colorado, got a puppy and got pregnant, then moved with the group of them to the frozen north of New Hampshire where her thin blood keeps her indoors six months of the year. It's the perfect scenario for writing! 

She has eight published short stories with The Wild Rose Press, a novel, "One Love For Liv", available now from Samhain Publishing, and she just received a shiny new contract from Samhain for a short story.

Check out her website or blog for more information or to see what's going on inside her brain and in her day-to-day life and to enter her monthly contest. 

Movies, Continued

   I highly recommend this documentary for anyone who was a brat, is raising them or happens to deal with them on a regular basis (i.e. teachers, etc), especially if you are married to one. Ms. Musil didn’t hold anything back. Yes, there is talk of patriotism and honor, of how living as a brat in a foreign country changes your perspective and can make more tolerable of others. There is also the aspect of growing up without color barriers. I had a lot of friends from mixed race families because it was tolerated in the military. But, she also covered some of the drawbacks—the cloistered type of life, the stress to always succeed in everything because it reflects on your military parent, of the constant moves and the readjustment to civilian life.

   For people who have never experienced life inside the fortress, it is an illuminating peek into just what a child must endure for their parent to succeed in the military. Comfort of a stable home is often sacrificed for another move, another job, another promotion.

   As a military brat, I found myself completely enthralled. I laughed at some of the memories, cried at some of the others and started to understand my own compulsions. I do have those military brat feet that itch after 2 years. The director herself moved 19 times in 20 years as an adult. It also discussed the psychological ramifications as we try to cope as adults.

   As a mother of brats now, I see the differences. More people live off base, so your lives are not as infiltrated with the military. Also, I don’t feel the pressure to always have your kids strive to be number one to reflect well on the parent. Another factor that has changed is working moms. But, reflecting on the comments of many of the brats, it highlighted the fact that we still have problems. Dealing with depression, especially in the world of constant deployments, is something that just isn’t happening. Any kind of medication passed out by a military doc will go in your records, so many people will avoid getting help.  Even as a spouse, your anti-depressant meds will go on your military spouse’s record and follow him/her for years to come.

   For anyone who really wants to know what the world is like for a military brat, you have to look no further than Donna Musil’s Brats: Our Journey Home.

Mel’s Momma Rating: 13 and up for discussion about rape, suicide, family violence and alcoholism. 

Links to buy: Brats: Our Journey Home

FICTION

This was the infamous Jack Riley? Her gaze reluctantly slid over his body again confirming all the rumors. He was indeed the sexist spy around.

 “You’re Jack Riley?” The words slipped out in awe. She wanted to slap her forehead in embarrassment. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He chuckled at her surprise. “So you’ve heard of me.”

That had to be the understatement of the decade. “Yes.” Did her voice actually squeak or was that just her imagination. “Denny informed me that you wouldn’t be arriving for a few days.”

“Yes, well, my plans changed. So, I’m at your service.” All amusement disappeared in a blink of an eye and she caught her first real glimpse at the highly trained professional spy that survived some of the toughest battles in the war on terror. He glanced around them carefully. Two homeless men huddled beneath the awning of a liquor store close by to avoid the rain. To the casual onlooker they appeared harmless enough, but then in this business, Carrie had learned long ago that not all things could be as they appeared. 

“I suggest we take this someplace a little more private.” He moved further away from the liquor store and out of earshot of the two men.

Carrie didn’t budge. “I agree. Where do you suggest.” 

He pivoted back to look at her, surprised that she hadn’t followed him. Most women probably went along willingly to whatever he suggested.

“My hotel’s not far from here.”

“My apartment would be more secure. And away from the target.”

He raised one brow but didn’t challenge. “All right.” She could hear the amusement in his answer. He was struggling not to laugh at her attempt at taking charge of the situation. She’d seen his attitude a million times in the past in just as many faces.

Carrie had struggled most of her adult life to make it in a man’s world. The last thing she needed to deal with right now was Jack Riley’s condescending treatment.

“Could this day get any worse,” She mumbled to herself then turned and started walking away at a fast click. He could just damn well keep up if he wanted to discuss the case. She didn’t care which he chose. The first thing she planned to do when she got to her apartment was to call Denny. Midnight or not, she needed to know why her superior officer chose to send Agent Riley in to check out her coffeehouse without informing her—his lead agent on the investigation.

“My thoughts exactly.” Riley fell effortlessly into step beside her. “Where are you parked?”

“Parked?” Her steps faltered for only a millisecond before she grinned up at him. “I’m not. I walked here.”

“You walked here?” He seemed shocked.

A quick nod confirmed the truth. “I did.” She stopped walking and faced him, her grin widening into a chuckle at his baffled expression. What was the problem? He certainly looked…um…healthy enough to keep up. “What’s the matter Agent Riley—afraid you can’t keep up?”     

While he smiled at her sarcasm, she knew he hadn’t missed the challenge. “I can take whatever you can dish out, boss.” He waved a hand in front of them. “Lead the way.”

After only a few blocks of walking at that same fast pace, Carrie started to regret her brave words. He didn’t have to try avoiding the potholes and puddles in three-inch heels.

“Would you like to take a break?” Her companion asked without a trace of his earlier amusement. Which made her all the more suspicious.

In the darkness, she squinted at him trying to make out his expression. “What?”

Silently he indicated the heels. “Want to take a break. As sexy as those are, I doubt that they’re very comfortable.”

She glanced down at the offending stilettos and then up the sincerity in his eyes and decided to put pride aside.

“You’re right—I hate these damn things. And my feet hurt like hell.” Grasping his shoulder for support, Carrie leaned over and removed the shoes. “I let my friend talk me into wearing these things in a moment of weakness. I don’t normally wear heels.”

“I know.”

He took the shoes from her. “You do?  How?”

He carefully considered her question. “You don’t seem the stiletto type.”

“Really. And what type would you say that I am?” She flashed him another smile. Was he flirting with her?  Impossible. Not the sexist man alive.

“The type that doesn’t need expensive shoes or designer dresses to be attractive. The type of woman that would look good in anything she chose to wear and incredibly sexy in nothing at all.”

Her breath lodged in her throat when he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering to cup her cheek. Someone moved. Whether it was him or her, Carrie couldn’t be sure, but in a heartbeat she was close enough to see the heat in his eyes. His long legs rested on either side of hers.

If you don’t have sex soon, you’re going to dry up inside. Her friend Melinda’s prophetic words resounded through her straying thoughts bringing her gaze to a mouth that just begged to be kissed. She leaned closer, tracing the tip of her tongue across his full bottom lip. She could feel his reaction shuddering through his body.

For one breathless moment, their gazes locked. Green eyes clouded with just a touch of suspicion and more than a hint of desire. Her breath caught as his tongue edged her lips apart then slipped inside to move slowly against hers.

Had she lost her mind? She didn’t even know this man! Well beyond the legend of him that had pretty much reached super-human proportions around the halls of the Hoover Building. Her father would have a fit if he could see his properly brought up little girl kissing a stranger in the middle of a public place.

The image of Martin’s angry expression made her current reckless state even more appealing. Her fingers gripped the lapel of his shirt bringing him closer. She could feel the heat from him. His hard arousal was both exciting and dangerous.   

One hand skimmed tantalizing up and down the curves of her body, robbing her next breath. The other circled her waist then slid upward stopping just short of touching her breast. His thumb brushed across her hardened nipple.

Carrie groaned as the almost forgotten passion spiraled through her and heat prickled under her skin, intensifying the feeling.

Her fingers stroked across the hard plain of his chest then lower. He captured her wrists, stopping her. He said something that she didn’t catch.

“I beg your pardon?” She opened her eyes meeting his again.

He released her wrists and stepped back. “I said I’m sorry. That was uncalled for and completely unprofessional.”

It took everything inside of her to match his emotionless tone. “It’s-it’s okay.” She took a deep breath and cleared her throat, trying not to sound like Daffy Duck. “It doesn’t matter,” she managed with a bit more confidence. Their eyes met for a moment longer, but Carrie was the first to look away.

“It matters,” he insisted. She wondered if he were talking about the kiss or something more. “We’re colleagues, I was out of line, and I apologize.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to kiss him again and test that stoic confidence in his voice.

“Okay, I get it. Apology accepted.” In a tone that mirrored his she added, “This is me.” She gestured toward the elegant red-brick, four-story apartment building she’d chosen for its proximity to work and the quiet neighborhood that consisted of mostly older tenants. “Are you coming with me?”

While he hesitated, Carrie held her breath. For the life of her, she wasn’t sure what decision she hoped for the most. That he would refuse and she’d lose the opportunity of a lifetime to pick the brain of the most infamous spy in modern history. Or that he’d accept and she’d be tempted to find out for herself if the other rumor were true. Was Jack Riley as notorious in bed as he was out of it? 

After what felt like an eternity and then some in which he seemed to be struggling with his own equally difficult dilemma, he gave her a terse little nod that served as an answer then followed her inside the lobby.

She’d tasted sweet. Hot. Heady. Like pure desire. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any other woman before her. And he didn’t trust himself not to blurt all those things out or drag her back into his arms. What the hell had gotten into his head—or more directly to the point—other parts of his body? Had he lost his edge here? Suddenly, Jack found himself rethinking his whole year and a half of celibacy. Maybe breaking it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Especially if it were with the delectable Special Agent Carrie Sierra. She had certainly proved to be special. She made him hot and hard and had him rethinking promises he’d made to himself.    

Jack settled for nodding his answer. Best not to speak. Not that it mattered. She’d probably guessed the reason for his silence already. She was a highly trained agent after all. His body language alone had to be giving away plenty.     

They waited in silence for the elevator to take them to the fourth floor. Her apartment was at the very end of a posh corridor decorated in muted shades of paint, and expensive but tasteful artwork. The place had to cost a fortune. He wondered how she could afford the rent on a Bureau salary.

She stopped in front of the dark mahogany door. While she slid the key inside to release the lock, he took a second to study her up close. The dress clung to her body reminding him of how tempting those curves felt, slipping beneath his fingers like silk. Her short, light brown curls had been slipping from the pins that had held them in place since she entered the coffeehouse. Probably since she’d styled it earlier. Although she wore entirely too much makeup, which made her brown eyes appear even more sultry than they were, standing this close to her she looked extremely young. Almost too young to be part of the FBI, but then it seemed like every new recruit got younger and younger each passing year. He felt positively ancient standing next to her. Or maybe it was just the things he’d seen during in his tour of duty that made him feel this way. Old beyond his years.

She opened the door and stepped inside then waited for him to do the same. The second the door closed, a dog the size of a rat bounded into the room yelping in a high-pitched tone that grated on Jack’s already raw nerves.

“Good boy, Nickie.” She reached down and scooped the rat into her arms.

“What’s that?” The words slipped out before he could stop them and she glared back at him.

“This is Nickie. My dog. What did you think?”

Yeah, there was no denying the anger in that question. She knew what he’d been thinking. “Nothing.”

“Looks more like dog food,” he muttered under his breath.

“I heard that.” The dog licked her nose and lips bringing an instant smile to her face. Jack’s body hardened as he watched them. Great—could he get any more pathetic?  Being envious of a dog. Just because he’d like to be licking parts of her body and bringing more than a smile to her lips.

He followed Carrie and the dog into the living room and pretended to look around while trying to rein in his wayward thoughts.   

Jack could feel her watching him in the awkward silence that followed. She seemed uncertain as to what came next. “Do you want to talk about the case or would you like something to drink. Coffee.”

He grabbed the lifeline she gave him with both hands. “That’d be great.”       

She hesitated for another second expecting something more. “Great. Coffee it is.” She shook her head and turned on her shoeless heel with the rat still in her arms, leaving him alone.

Jack wandered around the tiny space that served as a living room, half listening to the noises coming from her kitchen. He could hear Carrie talking baby talk to the dog as she prepared the coffee.

The place was neat and uncluttered of personal items. Not even a photo of herself or her family. Maybe they weren’t close. The woman who lived here was a mystery. From the quick peek he’d gotten of her driver’s license outside the coffeehouse, he’d discovered she was twenty-five years old, five-foot-three and a hundred pounds. From kissing her he knew that she had curves in all the right places. Carrie Sierra was gorgeous. Although he knew from the second he met her that she didn’t share his opinion.

Denny told him the only female member of his elite team had been top in her class of recruits at Quantico. Her analytical skills were superior. By all accounts, Agent Sierra was on her way up the ranks of the Bureau.

But then, Jack was on his way out.

And she was a distraction he didn’t need in his life right now.

That didn’t stop him from being curious about Carrie Sierra. Which should have been his first clue to back off. Walk away. Involvement with a woman at this point in his life was not an option.

Besides, he’d been with lots of women far more beautiful and sophisticated than her. What was so special about Agent Carrie Sierra? 

He took a quick look into the kitchen in time to see her open the fridge. The woman was a health nut—that much was evident by all the greenery in there. She probably ate, slept and breathed the Bureau. She’d learn in time. It didn’t pay to give away so much to the cause.

Jack moved to the small desk located in what should have been the dining area. Another clue to the woman who occupied this space. Obviously, she wasn’t big on entertaining, but the laptop sitting open on the desk was state of the art. The latest and best around.

Next to the computer, he finally found something personal. A photo of a much younger Carrie standing next to a woman.  

“Oh God…” The past came rushing back at him. Norah. Her smiling brown eyes were the only resemblance to her sister.

 The man standing stiffly behind the two girls, the expression plastered on his face resembling more of a grimace than a smile, was none other than Martin Bennedict. Norah’s father.

Jack remembered a far different expression the last time they’d met, shortly after Norah’s fatal shooting. A day he’d never forget if he lived to be a hundred. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. To say that Martin had been furious would be the understatement of the decade. The man literally seethed with pent-up rage. Laying the blame for his daughter’s death squarely at Jack’s feet.   

How many times had Norah talked about her baby sister Carrie, but until now, he’d never put the two of them together.

Carrie Sierra was Norah’s sister. His Norah. She’d chosen to use her mother’s maiden name. Why?  Because of the Bureau or her father?

Everyone who knew him seemed surprised when Jack put in for a request to return to the states. Only one person knew that this was it for him. His final assignment. He’d returned to D.C. to share the information he knew with Denny’s team and then turn in his resignation.

For a long time now, he’d been looking forward to giving up the fight and becoming normal again. Through all the near death experiences that had become part of the game, he’d promised himself that when the time came, he’d know when to walk away. That time came outside of Tora Bora. It was time. At thirty-eight he’d used up eight of his nine lives.

And he couldn’t rely on the ninth.

The hundred-acre ranch he’d bought years back with its tiny one bedroom house had been beckoning him for months. He looked forward to doing nothing more exciting than watching the sun set.

“Coffee’s ready.” Jack wasn’t aware of her presence until she spoke. Guilt and dread threatened to be his undoing. He spun around in time to see her holding two cups. A baffled smile playing around the corner of her mouth.  

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. “Were you looking for something in particular?” She asked, her gaze sliding to the photo he still held. “Or were you just snooping. What’s the matter—did you think I’d lied to you about being part of the Bureau?” 

“I wasn’t snooping,” he forced out defensively. Only his voice hinted at something more. She seemed to weigh his answer, struggling to see the unseen. To make sense of what might really be happening beyond the obvious. The Bureau had taught her well. As he watched her, a dozen conflicting emotions raced through his brain. Desire. Pity. Regret. All the things he’d let himself hope for since meeting her slipped away like the air from his lungs. He couldn’t be with her.  

You’re losing it, buddy.

She arched a curious brow that suddenly reminded him of her father. Revulsion formed in his throat like bile. No matter how much Jack might want to blame Martin Bennedict for Norah’s death, he knew the truth. He hadn’t done anything to stop the sequence of events that had led to that fateful day. He’d simply stood by and let it happen. 

“But while we’re on the subject of lying, why the hell didn’t you tell me you were the deputy director’s daughter?”

Copyright 2008, thesamhellion.com