Slay Your Demons

Fundraiser

2006-10-05T20:05:00.000-05:00

Yes, yes, I know! The site is horribly neglected! I promise I'll try to breathe new life into it after we get back home with our new daughter in November.

In the meantime, I'm sponsoring a Fundraiser for Love Without Boundaries. Lots of great stuff to bid on: lots of signed books (and series), critiques of manuscripts from editors, agents and authors, and even other cool goodies like signed Harry Potter movie posters!

Check it out! And remember, 100% of the proceeds go to Love Without Boundaries, so bid generously!

The Clutter Demon

2006-06-04T23:38:00.001-05:00

Shanna Swendson joins us this week to slay the clutter demon ...

****

I have a demon in my life that haunts me day and night. It interferes with my work, making everything take twice as long to do as it really should. It hides important things from me so that I have to spend hours searching. It keeps me from relaxing. It even inhibits my social life, preventing me from having parties, inviting friends over or even opening the door more than a crack to the UPS guy. When I do escape, it keeps me from wanting to come home again. I feel powerless against it, and every time I think I've got it tamed, it strikes back almost immediately.

I'm talking about my messy house. There are probably frat houses that are neater than my house is. I'm a bit of a pack rat at the best of times (you never know when you might need something in that magazine from 1995), and I'm good at tuning out things I don't want to deal with. I've never been a neat freak. A little clutter is comforting to me. But somewhere along the way I seem to have lost control. When I'm working on a book, it gets particularly bad because I have better ways of spending my time than cleaning the house. I've got a book to write! (Never mind that I seem to spend six hours out of a working day thinking about writing, then two hours actually writing, and maybe I could do that thinking while washing dishes.) I emerge from the book fog to face a pig sty.

Mind you, I'm not quite at the level of the pathological hoarders who get featured on the talk shows, the people who barely have paths cleared through piles of junk. At least, most of the time I'm not. At the moment, since I've been traveling a lot lately, I might have suitcases and some of their contents spread around, which makes walking a little dicey in places. Normally, though it's just a low level of constant clutter that's hard to clean around, and the thought of tackling it is almost too daunting to contemplate. I don't even know where to begin, and it's even more overwhelming when I consider that if I do get the mess tackled, it will probably just creep back at me before long.

I have heard that there are people you can pay to come in and clean your house, but I don't have the money for that, and besides, I'd want to clean the house before I let a professional cleaner through the door. I need to sort through the clutter for myself so I can decide what to throw away and where to put things that I decide to keep. I have trouble finding things I've put away even when I was the one who put them away. I'd be totally lost if someone else put them away.

I'm starting to have fantasies of a clean house that allows me to feel restful and serene, that lets me say to friends, "Hey, let's go back to my place and hang out." It would be nice to be able to just sit on the sofa and relax rather than constantly thinking about how I really need to clean up. Maybe I'll take another stab at attacking the messy house demon, and this time I'll slay it once and for all (or until another deadline strikes -- but that's another kind of demon).

***
Shanna is the author of the absolutely delightful ENCHANTED, INC. and the newly released sequel, ONCE UPON STILETTOS. Follow the link and check out her website!

Slaying the Amazon Demon!

2006-05-28T22:58:00.000-05:00

Give a big welcome to Lucy Monroe -- the site's first guest after scraping and climbing out of Domain Name Hell! Lucy's here to slay a few Amazon demons ... and by that we mean an Amazon {{other}} than a tall, blond, strong woman!

***
I've got a really schizophrenic relationship with Amazon...both as a reader and as an author. As a reader, I love the selection and amount of information I can garner on my favorite author's past, current and upcoming releases. But I hate the time I give browsing their stacks as it were. I can spend hours checking to see what I've missed, what's coming out and updating a wish list that will ultimately be a bought list.

As an author, my feelings are even more divided. I love seeing my books on their bestsellers lists, but the ones that don't make it have still had really awesome sell throughs and that leaves me feeling frustrated by my own angst over numbers that aren't clear indicators of my book's overall sales. Though some people truly believe they are. Go figure.

Then there are the book pages where readers and some online reviewers post their thoughts on my books. I admit it...I get warm fuzzies reading good reader reviews. They validate my work in a way that just plain sales do not, but again this is a two edged sword because - especially at Amazon - most books are going to garner both positive and negative reactions.

But why is it that there will be 12 glowing reviews and 1 disparaging review and the disparaging review will make it into the "Spotlight Reviews" section (even though it has no more votes than any of the other reviews)? Or worse (and this *has* happened to me), out of close to two dozen positive reviews the two single negative reviews are selected?

Why is it that some Amazon readers don't know when to let go of a bad thing? I mean, if they hated Books 1, 2 & 3...why did they read 4? Just to give it yet another nasty review? Do they think they are doing me some kind of favor by giving my work "another try"? I'd personally prefer they didn't. :) I'm so not into torture and I would not intentionally inflict unpleasantness on a reader. I say, do yourself a favor and don't keep reading authors you purport to hate. It's got to be bad for the digestion.

I love the new Amazon Plogs...and have had some fun connecting to readers that way, but um...what is up with voting on the plog posts? Is this a popularity contest where I need to see that 38 out of 43 readers who voted liked my Plog entry? I get enough editorial feedback on my writing...I don't need additional angst from readers who don't want to hear my sometimes rambling musings. They are there for those who *do* want to read them. Full stop. Period. But I love the comments feature, even when it's used by an obviously disgruntled reader to tear down my character and talents as a writer. Because she couldn't do that if there wasn't such a feature and through it, I've connected with some really nice readers.

See what I mean by schizophrenic? I can't fully make up my mind about this giant bookstore. It's certainly not all good, but then it's not all bad either. I guess, ultimately, I gotta love a bookstore that sells my books and lets me talk to my readers. But I don't have to love everything about them. ;-)

Take care,
Lucy Monroe

****

Award winning author Lucy Monroe sold her first book in September of 2002. Since then she has sold more than 30 books to three major publishers and hit national bestsellers lists in the US and England. She's a passionate devotee to the romance genre and reads as voraciously as she writes prolifically. Her highly charged, sensual stories touch on the realities of life while giving the reader a fantasy story not easily forgotten. Whether it's a passionate Harlequin Presents, a sexy single title for Kensington or a steamy historical or paranormal for Berkley, Lucy's books transport her readers to a special place where the heart rules and love conquers all. Visit her on the web at www.lucymonroe.com

We're Back! We're Back! With Demons to Slay!

2006-05-27T00:38:00.000-05:00

So, here's my demon ... the Not To Be Named Because I'm Too Freakin' Nice former domain name server for Slay Your Demons.

Yes indeedy folks, it took me WEEKS to get through to these people to renew the domain name and then ... no renewal!

Rinse, wash, repeat ... and again ... no renewal!

And through all of this, I've been calling the company, listening to the phone ring until my ear is about to fall off, being assured that all is being taken care of (except by the one guy who needs some serious customer service lessons ... when I explained that I couldn't hear him because I was on a cell phone in a hotel room in New York and could he please speak louder, he told me I was shouting at him. Um, hello? A) I wasn't, and B) I couldn't hear the man! Okay, granted, I WANTED to shout ...

And three ... count 'em three ... times I was assured the renewal would go through. You guessed it ... expiration!

Thankfully I was able to get a transfer to another company (that actually ANSWERS their phones!) and get the site renewed.

So my demon to slay: Online companies with lousy phone service and/or online chats that keep you on "hold" for hours and hours. And companies that don't follow through. And lousy customer service.

I mean, honestly, whatever happened to "the customer is always right?"

And, yes, I'm paying more now. And, yes, I'm waaaaay happier.

Jeez......

***

Julie is your Fearless Host for Slay Your Demons. Go buy her books so that she can continue to afford to host this site!

We're not gone! Just having technical difficulties!

2006-05-15T17:05:00.000-05:00

I had some problems with the domain name renewal, which is why this site has been down for a while. We'll be back asap, though!

Slaying the Shame Demon

2006-03-20T00:55:00.000-06:00

Jennifer Feddersen joins us this week to slay the demon, shame.

It took me 6 short years to go from Ivy League College graduate with the world at my feet to single, unemployed mother-of-three with my world crashing down around my ankles. At 27, I found myself with no husband and no career, my money gone, my credit trashed. I was reeling under the burden of all my failures.

Determined to turn things around, I put the kids (all under five) in childcare and joined the workforce. Reality soon reared its ugly head: after paying for the childcare, there was nothing left for food and housing. I needed to do something different. I quit my job and opened my own home daycare. And I started dating.

You know what first dates are like. It doesn’t take long to get past introductions and weather chit-chat to the real question: “So, what do you do?”

Well, I took care of my own children and one or two others in my tiny one-bedroom apartment with no yard. I barely made enough money to stay afloat. I was on food stamps, for crying out loud. I dreaded the question and answered it badly, stumbling on my words; blushing. How could I talk about my work? I was supposed to be in middle management by now, not changing diapers for a living. As soon as possible, I shuffled the conversation on to other things.

But time went on, and my days took shape. No matter what my work was, I wanted to do it well, and I truly cared for these kids. I read to them. I held them. I did projects. I taught them. I took them to the park and beach. I filled my home with toys and props to delight their little minds.

And then one day I went on another date. The man was older, in his early forties. “I’m in stocks,” he said. “Trading. I’ve done pretty well for myself. I have a house with a great view of the ocean, a big screen tv, a pool. You’d really like it. How about you, what do you do?”

That question again. I pictured the man in his beautiful house, watching the stock ticker, making phone calls, scanning the business headlines. It sounded exciting, but it sounded stressful, too.

“I get paid to go to the beach, most days,” I began slowly, thinking about my own work. “I usually walk down after breakfast and stay there a few hours. I play in the sand and explore. When I return home, I do some art; painting or drawing, mostly. I get to do cooking, too, and I read a lot for my job. Then I usually spend the afternoon outside again. I love my clients, although they can be demanding, and they love me, too. It’s a pretty good gig.”

I have never seen such longing in a man’s eyes. “You get paid to go to the beach?” he breathed. “You get paid to be outside?”

“Not a whole lot,” I laughed. “But enough to get by on.”

“I’m hardly ever outside,” the man said, wistfully, and looking at his pasty-white skin I figured he was telling the truth. I could see the thoughts racing through his mind. Sell the house, chuck the job…

And I sat back, the demon not quite slain, but well on its way to an untimely demise.

***

Jennifer Feddersen is a homeschooling mom of four and a wannabe author, who is shopping around her first full-length young adult novel, Lucy and the Trolls. You can read her fiction blog at Once The Door Closes, a story of sex, murder, tech and daycare set in the beautiful, seaside resort town of Santa Cruz, CA.

Slaying The Demon Lawyers

2006-03-09T22:55:00.000-06:00

Alesia Holliday joins us this week to slay a few demons I'm rather familiar with!

When Julie invited me to blog about slaying my demons, I figured she didn’t mean copyeditors who don’t “get” humor, or the person in front of me at the grocery store who always has 72 items in the express line and waits until the total is completely rung up to begin the leisurely search through her purse for the checkbook that winds up being out of checks. Nah. That’s mundane stuff.

So since my new chicklit mystery series launches this week with BLONDES HAVE MORE FELONS, about a lawyer with attitude, I thought I’d blog about lawyers.

And their attitudes.

I was a practicing trial lawyer for nearly eight years (with breaks for staying home with babies) and let me just say that all those lawyer jokes? They’re out there for a reason.

In BLONDES, in fact, I even acknowledge THOSE kinds of lawyers: “Some of you were great examples, and some were horrible warnings.” LOTS of them were horrible warnings.

There was the big-firm lawyer from New York, who did everything but speak slowly and shout in my ear when I ran plaintiff discovery on a multi-state, multi-million-dollar mass tort case in Seattle. Because, you know, Us Rural Seattle lawyers ain’t got no good lawyerin’ skills. Nuh-uh.

Then there was the partner, when I was fresh out of law school, who had everyone in the firm terrified of him. His trick? He like to walk in the middle of the conference room, or your office, or anywhere you might be working, and start SCREAMING. Literally screaming. About how he was the ONLY ONE who ever did ANY QUALITY WORK in the ENTIRE FIRM. Finally, one Thanksgiving Day (yes, you read that right, I was young and foolish enough to give up my family Thanksgiving for the good of the case, the firm, blah blah blah), I’d finally had it.

I screamed back. I just let loose with a wordless, full-force, would do the heroine in a King Kong movie proud scream for as long as I could hold it. Then, while he stood there, shocked out of his skull, I calmly picked up my purse, said “Since you’re the only one who does it right, have at it. Happy Thanksgiving.” Then I left.

He and I got along fine after that. Bullies are kind of like that. Call ‘em on it, and they back down.

Then there was the defense lawyer at a mediation who’d secretly taped my allegedly-injured client hauling heavy things around like a dockworker. Well, the client had lied to me, too. It’s not like I would have represented AN UNINJURED CLIENT. But he waited until we’d wasted THREE HOURS on the mediation to play that tape for us. PAID BY THE HOUR, MUCH????

Of course, there was the small-town lawyer who made fun of me -- the “big-city” lawyer -- for bringing my case file with me to court. Then he asked me, in open court, before the judge (I was 7 months pregnant at the time): “So, are you pregnant or just fat?”

The judge, I am pleased to say, called us back to chambers and read the jackass the riot act. I won every point that day. Mwah ha ha.

So, do I miss practicing law? Helping clients? The adrenaline of the courtroom? Yes. Do I miss Demon Lawyers? Not in the slightest. But luckily for all of us, the demons in the courtroom – just as in life -- were far outnumbered by the nice guys and gals.

I liked to say “I bring the ‘civil’ back in to ‘civil litigation.’” But I admit that there were also times I said, “Take no shit, make no excuses.” Because I’m naïve enough to still believe in justice.

And you know what? December Vaughn is a lot like me!

Hugs,
Alesia

For a movie-style book trailer, excerpts, contests, and more, please visit Alesia at www.mysterychick.com!

The Demon Who Slayed "Sappy"

2006-02-28T00:00:00.001-06:00

This week Sabrina Jeffries joins us to ask what demon made sappy go out of style ... and when?

I wondered this today as I downloaded “I Hope You Dance” from I-tunes, then listened to it and cried. That was just after I listened to “The Rose” and cried (and if you don’t know that song by Bette Midler, you’re too young and hip to be reading this).

I cry a lot. At songs. At surprisingly tear-jerking shows like “Without a Trace” and “Cold Case” (hey, why do you think I was downloading “I hope you dance” in the first place?). At the part of “Miss Congeniality” when Sandra Bullock says she really does want world peace. At those cheesy Hallmark commercials where soldiers come home and long-lost friends reunite and other sappy stuff happens.

Cheesy. Sappy. That’s what people with “sophisticated tastes” call it when stuff actually draws tears. Then they make fun of it. And they expect me to go along.

Unfortunately, I’m usually too busy crying in the corner to go along. I think I may have a disease. I really LIKE when stuff makes me cry. It’s a release. I feel better afterwards.

Wait, isn’t there a literary term for that? Oh, right, catharsis.

I guess that’s my main complaint with some of the movies, books, music, etc., considered cutting edge and cool today. There’s no catharsis. You can’t cry to them. They’re too hip and too self-conscious. Emotion is sacrificed for the joke every time. So is drama.

Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy hip stuff from time to time. I loved every single episode of “Sex and the City” and laughed my ass off when Shrek poked fun at fairytales. But if you’ll notice, Shrek still ended like a fairytale, and even “Sex and the City” had the good sense to pair its characters off with their true loves when the series called it quits. So even the hip want sappy. They just won’t admit it.

So now you have it—that’s what I want. To bring sappy back into style. Out with hip, in with sappy.

And while you’re at it, could you bring back folk music, too?

Sabrina Jeffries is the bestselling author of a whole bunch of wonderful books. Visit her website at http://www.sabrinajeffries.com/

The Demon of the Frozen Heart

2006-02-20T10:39:00.000-06:00

Samuel Bernstein joins this week to slay a demon of the heart ...

Those who know me, have seen my first movie about a girl who shoots her dad to death, or who read me every day at www.killyourinnerchild.com know that I have plenty of violent demons to slay – childhood monsters that by all rights should have made me a serial killer at best or a political lobbyist at worst.

But when Julie asked me to guest blog here a very different sort of demon came to mind: Me. Or more accurately, my flash-frozen little heart that through my late teens and early twenties kept me from finding happiness.

It’s easy to trace my emotional unavailability, to put it down to my ruptured youth, to my tattered sense of self-worth – but who gives a rat’s ass? Blaming someone, anyone, wouldn’t have changed the fact that my heart had hardened like an octogenarian’s arteries, making itself into my own personal Demon – dead set on depriving me of love.

So what happened? How did I slay the little sucker? Well I met someone. In Temple of all places. On the High Holy Days. I’ll call him “Ron” since that’s his name. He was truly, intrinsically nice. Not my type at all, since I favored inarticulate guys on motorcycles. But I gave Ron a chance. We dated for almost two months before I dumped him, or more accurately, before I almost dumped him, which is to say that I was in the act of dumping when something shifted inside – when I unexpectedly was given the magical weapon to wield against my Demon.

I started the dumping in the usual way: “I need to talk to you” – a phrase that sucks all the oxygen out of a room. Ron knew what was coming and I knew he knew. I tried to explain how much he meant to me, when in truth, at that moment, I was lying; or rather I thought I was lying. All I wanted was to be away from him because I knew we would never be a couple. And I kept going on and on trying to explain how it was me, not him, which I also thought was a lie, though it later turned out to be true, and I stumbled through a monologue about how I didn't really feel “that way” about him.

The whole conversation took the usual turns of such conversations and Ron had a very far away look as he tried to hold himself together. He repeatedly told me I was making a terrible mistake, that I was horribly wrong, and that he was absolutely sure our destinies were intertwined. Then I did the most unfair thing imaginable: I burst into tears. Nothing is as low as starting to cry when you’re the one trying to dump someone else. I reached for him, holding him to me as my sobbing grew stronger, and it was about that time that the dam burst for Ronnie too. My life changed in that moment.

With Ron everything was up front, every emotion, all the love, all his vulnerability. He didn’t edit out anything. In trying to dump him I ran smack into the force of his love and the honesty of what he felt. On impact I suddenly understood I was running away from the very person who could open the rest of the universe to me, all of it. My family legacy of misery had made a play for dominance and I had almost believed the filthy lie my Demon was whispering incessantly in my ear. I almost threw happiness away with both hands.

So there we were as the enormity of my flirtation with disaster became clear, both of us crying our eyes out like there would be no tomorrow. We didn’t stop crying, not as we made love on the couch, not during the halting, emotionally naked conversation that followed, and not while I held him, never wanting to let go, wishing I could take back everything I said.

My heart melted. My Demon was dead.

***

Samuel Bernstein is a screenwriter and author living in West Hollywood, California. He wrote and co-produced the Paramount/Showtime film “Bobbie's Girl," which received an Emmy nomination for star Bernadette Peters. This season he wrote for ABC/Disney’s “W.I.T.C.H.” after working on “Judging Amy” in its final year. His first film was the multi-festival award-winning 1997 feature "Silent Lies," and he won a Stonewall Book Award from the American Library Association Award for "Uncommon Heroes." Coming Soon: His new book, “Confidential: the Rise and Fall of the Most Scandalous Scandal Magazine in the History of the World.”

Slaying the Tourist Trap Demon

2006-02-13T21:48:00.000-06:00

I join myself to slay a demon this week!

"New York, New York! It's a hell of a town!" No, really, it is! A town (pardon me, a massive metropolis) where I would love to live for at least a couple of years. Soak it in and move on. That's my idea of a bit of heaven.

Anyone who's read my books (particularly THE GIVENCHY CODE or my current release, THE MANOLO MATRIX) can probably tell that I have a little love affair going with the city. I have, in fact, ever since I first went after my sophomore year of high school. After that, I went to visit a friend, Sam Bernstein, on school holidays, and always had a blast. Now, I go whenever I can to visit friends, hang with my agent, annoy my publishers. That kind of thing.

But I still don't live there, and no matter how much I wish it weren't so, that makes me ... a TOURIST. I know, I know, you're holding fingers out in a cross and shrinking from me. But it's true. And, as a tourist, that means I get stuck with the tourist traps.

Sometimes, the tourist traps are fine. I love FAO Schwartz, for example, and was thrilled when it re-opened. And I love tea at the Plaza. But even that esteemed haunt has suffered under the tourist label. What was once a lovely place with excellent service and large pots of tea and an ample supply of clotted cream has turned into a stingy experience where you have to practically dance on the tabletop to get more hot water. Once I wrote it off to a bad day. But after two similar visits I had to accept the fact – my favorite haunt for scones and clotted cream (other than Harrods) had gone downhill.

That's a problem for a tourist because it's so hard to find non-tourist places. And even if you're off the beaten path, what can you do? There are restaurants about every six inches in NYC. Some good, some terrible. And it's really only the locals who know. Fortunately, I have friends who are locals, and on my last trip to NYC I visited my friend and critique partner and managed to be completely tourist-trap free for the duration of the trip!

In other words, to slay the tourist trap demon you really need to travel with a local. Witness what we enjoyed:

212, which is at 133.East 65th. Oh my gosh! We went down into a darling the little courtyard and had cosmos served by a Truly Cute Waiter (which, of course, is key!). The menu was French Italian, and the food was spectacular (if you go, try the goat cheese ravioli). Not the kind of place I would have discovered as a tourist. But definitely the kind that a tourist WANTS to find!

And, in true non-tourist fashion, I also enjoyed Indian take-out. Now, for a Texas girl, this is a Very Big Thing, because Indian food is incredibly expensive in the Austin area (there are times when I REALLY miss Los Angeles! Like when an Indian food or Chinese food craving hits!) But on this trip, it was as if I was a local. We had take out from Baluchi’s, 224 E. 53rd. Awesome korma and tikki masala. The Naan (my fav) is exceptional, and I leaned to love Samosas. Yum.

My two favorite restaurants, though, were Italian. The first is on 77th, Caffee Buon Gusto, which is SUCH an appropriate name even though I have no clue how it literally translates. Just looking at the name to me suggests good. Better than good. Kiss your fingertips and sigh kind of good. It's an authentic Italian restaurant with classic, home-cooked dishes. The service is friendly, the prices reasonable, and the atmosphere inviting. The bread is so delish it makes me thrilled that I was never sucked in to the whole Atkins-phase. Those folks just don't know what they're missing. I've dined in Italy, and stepping into this charming restaurant is like dining with the locals. Wonderful!

My other fav was Nino’s, a cozy little Italian eatery located at 1354 First Ave. This one really sucks you in with the wonderful mural on the wall. The spinach ravioli is awesome, as is the service. There's even live music on the weekend, which I usually don't like (too loud) but in this case, it only added to the experience. Fabulous!

So there you have it. Like the Beatles said, I get by with a little help from my friends. And in the same way, I slayed the demon of overpriced, bad tourist food!

***

Julie Kenner hosts this site, so she figures it's okay to mention that she has a book out RIGHT NOW (THE MANOLO MATRIX) that is set in Manhattan. Although the characters don't eat at the restaurants mentioned above, Julie is glad that she had the chance to while researching the book.

A Rant Against Rude Demons

2006-02-06T13:10:00.000-06:00

Deirdre Martin joins us this week to slay a few rude demons!

***

I hate people when they’re not polite.”—The Talking Heads, “Psycho Killer”

Should Miss Manners ever decide she wants to retire, I know the perfect candidate to replace her: me. Maybe I’m just getting cranky as I limp into middle age, but it seems to me people are becoming increasingly rude, and it’s driving me to despair.

Case in point: I was in the produce section of my local grocery store, quietly perusing the lettuce, when the man standing next to me erupted in a coughing fit. He hacked. He wheezed. He gasped. He choked. But not once did this Typhoid Michael ever think to cover his mouth. When he was done spraying sputum all over the arugula, he picked up a head of lettuce and moved on as if nothing had happened. I, on the other hand, was traumatized. All I could imagine were millions of invisible airborne germs gently wafting through the store, contaminating everything from bananas to beef. The worst part was, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen this happen. It made me wonder: is it possible there really are people out there who were raised by wolves? What would possess a normal, decent human being to hack up a loogie in public and think nothing of it? The mind boggles—at least, mine does.

Not too long ago, I was in the parking lot of the same store when a carload of college students pulled into one of the handicapped spots. They all jumped out and ran into the store, no doubt to pick up a few items and quickly be on their way. Gentle reader, I wanted to slash their tires. This is the kind of the thing that turns me into a human version of the Aflac duck, sputtering with rage. Why? Because it’s just not right. These were able bodied young men and women. You’re telling me they couldn’t park further away and walk an extra two hundred feet to the store? Puh-lease.

I wish these were the only two examples of degenerating civility I could cough up (pun intended) but alas, they’re not. I’m sure everyone reading this has a horror story involving a stranger on a cell phone. My personal favorite? The woman sitting next to me in the gynecologist’s waiting room: “ I TOLD YOU, I THINK IT’S AN INFECTION...,YES IT STILL ITCHES...WELL I CAN’T HELP THE DISCHARGE.”

I wanted to crawl under my chair and die. Then I thought: what do I have to be embarrassed about? She’s the one who should be the one wanting to hide. And yet, she wasn’t. Therein lies the basic paradox of rude people: their behavior is appalling and yet they have no shame, nor any regard for others.

Take mommies and daddies who bring their babies to the movies. You haven’t lived until you’re trying to savor the onscreen wonder that is George Clooney and some infant behind you is wailing so loudly your eardrums begin to bleed. No offense, but that little bundle of joy shouldn’t be there. If he is and he starts to yowl, his parents should remove him from the premises so that others who’ve PAID to watch the movie can continue to do so in peace. Color me a big ole bee-yatch, but if you can’t afford to hire a babysitter, or ask a friend or relative to watch your kid so you can have a night out, then rent videos and stay home. Please.

Whatever happened to “do unto others as you’d have them do unto you”? Because I’m one of the nicest people in the Western hemisphere, when I’m driving and another car needs to merge or change lines, I let them in. Why wouldn’t I? And yet, there have been times I’ve actually missed my exit or a turn because some jerk wouldn’t give way. What does he gain by doing that, apart from arriving at the office three seconds earlier than he would have had he not let me in? I totally don’t get it. Are people really that petty? (Don’t answer that)

Other examples of rudeness that make me contemplate living off the grid include:

*Joggers who have their iPODS cranked so loudly they can’t hear you when you warn them you’re coming up on their left, only to have them curse YOU for sneaking up on them and scaring them.

*People who cut in line (It brings out the elementary school child in me. I want to yell, “Hey, no cuts!”)

*People who wait until the last minute to RSVP an event or don’t bother to RSVP at all.

*Sales people who pretend they don’t see you when standing right in front of them (Must be that “Make Me Invisible” potion I swallowed before I came into the store)

*People who go over the time limit on the aerobic machines at the gym even though other people are clearly waiting to use them (I guess their glutes are more important than mine).

The list is endless.

I know I sound like the female equivalent of Denis Leary or Foamy the Squirrel, but I can’t help it. How hard is it to show courtesy and respect for your fellow human beings?! To use your manners? It costs nothing, and everybody wins. Now excuse me while I dust off my machete and go find those college students....

***

Deirdre Martin’s new book, THE PENALTY BOX, will be in stores on March 7th, while her novella, SAME RINK, NEXT YEAR, part of Berkley’s “Hot Ticket” anthology, will be published in May. She’s pretty sure neither book contains any rude people. Visit her website at: www.deirdremartin.com

Replay that Demon!

2006-01-30T00:51:00.000-06:00

This week, author Ann Roth joins us to slay a demons of the high and low tech variety!

Isn't technology amazing? I can't imagine life without email and the Internet. How did writers manage without computers to edit, move things around, add and delete? And who can live without cell phones? Or Replay TV (which is the same thing as Tivo).

Two years ago Christmas, we bought ourselves a Replay TV system. At the time I thought, who needs this thing? and figured I'd never use it. But my husband wanted one, and you know about men and their toys.... :-)

Two years later I am totally dependent on our Replay-far more than my husband. I set it to record my favorite shows for watching at my convenience, sans commercials. We pause it during "live" shows to discuss something that just happened or to replay a scene or bit of conversation. We also use it to search for programs based on subject or actors or directors... you name it. Now and then, I even use it for writing research. I just finished a contracted novel about bigamy (working title, Betrayal, pub date sometime in 2007). Aside from searching out information on the 'net and querying a few lawyer friends, I also used Replay to search for movies that dealt with bigamy. I found two to stir my creative juices. I highly recommend Replay, and no, this is not a paid advertisement.

However, much as I love my hi-tech tools and gadgets, there are some low tech items I can't live without. Chocolate, light bulbs, laundry soap, radio, to name a few. And books. Nothing can take the place of a book. Give me a library or better yet, a bookstore, and a half-hour of free time, and I'm in heaven. There's nothing quite like browsing shelf after shelf of brand new books, selecting one and holding it in my hands. Reading the back cover blurb and sliding my fingers over the cover…ooh!

I love the excitement and anticipation of opening that very first page, the unmatchable new book smell heightening the experience, and waiting for the words to unlock my imagination and transport me to a different reality. I like the feel of the pages between my fingers and the fact that I can dog-ear a page to refer back to or highlight a passage that moves me. Now and then I even get food on the pages. A travesty, but sometimes a girl's gotta nosh. :-)

We're lucky to live in a society that provides us with technology we never even dreamed of and at the same time continues to deliver a multitude of satisfying low-tech items. I happen to have a delicious, low-tech box of chocolates sitting on my kitchen counter. Think I'll head over to my neighborhood bookstore and pick up a new book to go with it.

***

Ann Roth writes romance novels for Harlequin/Silhouette and women's fiction for Kensington. In 1999 she won the Golden Heart for best long contemporary. Six months later, just four days before Christmas, she sold the book to Silhouette Special Edition. That book, STRANGER IN A SMALL TOWN, was a 2000 Romantic Times nominee for best first long series novel. Since then Ann has sold nine more novels to Silhouette Special Edition, Harlequin American and Kensington, and one online serialized novelette (see Weekly Online Read at http://www.eharlequin.com/cms/onlinereads/readsToc.jhtm).

Her newest release, a Harlequin American titled, THE BABY INHERITANCE, is a February release. Visit Ann on the net at http://www.annroth.net

Slaying the Rx Demon

2006-01-27T11:11:00.000-06:00
Me and my glands jump into the fray to slay the Rx ... despite helping to make us well!

Let's talk about drugs.

Specifically, let's talk about antibiotics and Claritin-D (or any allergy meds that have that "d" attached to them. The decongestant component. I'm too lazy to pop over to google and look up the actual word, but if you have allergies, you know what I'm talking about.

But let's talk about the antibiotics first.

Why, why, why can't we just walk into a pharmacy and get these? I was in France many years ago, got sick, described my symptoms, and walked away with a lovely prescription of who-knows-what sort of antibiotic that cleared up my infection in no time flat. Easy squeezy. And I was back in the land of the living in no time.

Here? No.

Here's my process for getting the drugs I need to get well:

Get sick. Really sick. So sick that I can't drive the 4 y.o. to daycare. Sleep in recliner all day. Have 4 yo take care of me (of which she is VERY proud!). When husband comes home, move to couch (a feat which takes all my energy). Sleep.

On Saturday, continue with the same. Husband comments that I should have gone to the doc on Friday. Yes, but HOW? I couldn't drive and an ambulance seemed a little over the top. Swear to make appt on Monday.

Sleep all day Sunday until 24 airs. Prop self up to watch 24. Realize I'm feeling a tiny bit better. Ingest chicken soup.

Monday, decide I'm on the mend and it's not worth going to doc.

Tuesday, feel better but weak. Throat still feels bizarre, but better.

Wednesday, start to feel worse again. Convince self I can't be worse.

Thursday – definitely worse. Call doc.

No appts until Monday.

Repeat of earlier weekend as I slide back into the gunk.

Monday ... wait at doctor's office for hours for appt. Get antibiotics for tonsillitis.

Take pills.

Hours later realize nose has swollen to Bozo size b/c of apparent allergy to drugs!

ARGHHHHHH

(for the record, nose has gone down and tonsils are on the mend.)

OK, yes, in the end I was (or am on my way to being) healed. But why couldn't I have just had dh go to CVS and buy antibiotics on that first Friday and regained over a week of my life????

And what about allegies? Why, after years of buying decongestants in the OTC aisle, has our paternalistic gov't suddenly decided we can't do that anymore? Honestly, I just have a feeling that there really aren't that many people out there stocking up on Claritin-D in order to manufacture meth. It's absurd, it's annoying, and it's invasive.

All I can say is yeesh!

Signing off now to go soothe my still-sore tonsils with tea ....

***

Contribute to Julie's campaign to stock up on Claritin-D for those allergy emergencies by rushing to your local bookstore and buying a copy of the just-released THE MANOLO MATRIX! Read more at Julie's site, www.juliekenner.com

The Hideous Horrible Flu Demon

2006-01-18T00:58:00.000-06:00
It's beaten me down. Four -- count 'em -- four days I was under. Sucked into the vileness of illness. Stranded on the couch with only cough drops, Nyquil and Ibuprofen for sustenance.

The demon I slayed? A nasty little germ I call Violet-Virus.

And she's not quite dead yet. So off I go to do battle with swollen glands and spiky temperatures.

And next week ... a longer (even possibly more coherent) post ...

Your host,
J

Slaying The Review Demon

2006-01-08T20:44:00.000-06:00
Author Karin L. Tabke joins us this week to slay the review demon!

I said for years before I sold I wouldn’t allow bad reviews to bother me. I said I wouldn’t become neurotic, one of those types who googles their name 24/7 and has amazon .com imprinted in their fingertips.

OK, so I lied. But, I have prevailed over the obsessive demon that drives me to check reviews. It only took one less then stellar review. Actually for what I write, erotic romance, it was good, I mean the reviewer said mine was the hottest in the antho, blah blah blah. But there was one teensy weensy comment that bugged me. Really bugged me. She said I traded realism for heat. For those of you who don’t know, I write hot cops. Authentic as they come. In real life I sleep with one for god’s sake. In fact, I make sure I run procedural scenes by hubby to make double sure they are on the up and up. I don’t like using creative license with my hot cops. By taking the high road, my characters must battle the powers-that-be so much harder when the scenario is authentic, not CSI Miami. I don’t make up my own cop words, or my own cop reactions to suit my plot or character’s whims. I don’t write a la la la cop wonder world, I write edgy, by the book, real life, cop life.

So when a reviewer tells me my cop talk is not realistic, they are the ones watching too much television. Give me a break.

I had a contest judge tell me once I should interview a cop to get the ‘flavor’ of a real live cop. Um, I’ve tasted a real live one plenty, and his flavor is just fine.
So, I guess my demon is reviewers who think they know the score but don’t, and with that little bit of misinformation make uninformed comments, thus giving an uniformed and negative slant to what otherwise could be a great review.

“So, Karin,” I asked myself, “How should you deal with these people who take CSI Miami as the gospel of police work?”

“Well,” I answered myself, “I won’t.”

“What do you mean you won’t?”

“As in will not deal with them. At all. Period. Because if I do, I’ll look like a sore loser, a whiner, someone who can’t handle criticism, albeit uninformed.”

I’ve seen authors take on not so nice reviewers not because the reviewer was misinformed but because the author didn’t like their review. My feeling is, people/reviewers are entitled to their opinions, and the reality is some people just won’t like my book. Period.

Then there are those other reviewers. The ones who let blood. And let’s face it, there are just some plain ol’ mean spirited people out there. They like to tear down, hurt, and maim, and there is a huge audience for that. I’m choosing to steer clear of engagement with those types. I’m not a wuss, a puss or passive, quite the opposite, but I refuse to waste my energy arguing with someone whose sole purpose appears to be stirring up crap.

However, if I happen upon a review that states something specifically grossly contradicting what I know to be factual, I will nicely inform said reviewer that their information is inaccurate, and leave it at that.

All in all I enjoy reading reviews and there are several sites I visit regularly whose reviews I find smart, informative, subjective and yes sometimes a bit snarky, but that’s the great thing about this business. We all can have an opinion and no matter what someone else thinks or feels they can’t take that away from us. It’s ours we own it.

***

Karin writes erotic romance/suspense for Kensington’s new Aphrodisia line and Pocket. You can see for yourself how her hot cops hold up. THE HARD STUFF, Kensington Aphrodisia is out now. www.karintabke.com

Karen and Miss Size Two at the Gym

2006-01-01T23:26:00.000-06:00
Karen Scott rings in the new year by slaying a very familiar demon!

As with most people, Christmas time for me, is the one time, where calorie counting goes out of the window, and I end up indulging in every bad food there is out there.

No matter how hard I try to be good, for the two week period before Christmas, I eat like a hog, and the week leading up to the New Year, I treble my calorific intake. Chocolates, jellies, sweets, biscuits (cookies if you’re American) copious amounts of alcohol, mince pies, Christmas cakes and puddings. You name it, I’ll have eaten it.

I calculate that during Christmas time, I probably eat twice my body weight, which really isn’t a good thing.

Then comes New Years day, and the resolutions for the year ahead are made.

Every year, without fail, my top priority is to lose the excess pounds that I gained in the month of December. I renew my gym membership, go out and buy attractive gym clothes, and some new trainers (sneakers) which kind of advertises the fact that visiting the leisure club, isn’t a regular undertaking, thus making one feel a little silly.

The absolute worst thing about going to the gym after the pre and post-Christmas indulgence, is that there is almost always a size two figure in a trendy leotard, looking totally elegant, running on the treadmill next to yours. Yesterday was no different. Sigh.

Whilst, I feel as if I’ve just run up Mount Kilimanjaro, Miss Size Two doesn’t even look like she’s breaking any sweat. Also, whilst she’s running, she manages to run in a graceful and athletic way, whilst when I run, everything bounces around in a very unseemly manner. Sigh.

At this point, I leave Miss Size Two , and go and find a corner, where I can exercise without feeling as conspicuous as Rosie O’Donnell in a Pussy Cat Dolls dancethon.

Next up after the gym workout, is swimming.

I suddenly remember that the swimming costume that I brought with me, is a tad high cut, and I haven’t had my bikini area waxed in about two months. Crap.

I can’t remember whether or not, my down-below hairs are in a controlled state, or if I need to take some quick evasive action. I go to one of the toilet cubicles and quickly check that ‘down there’, doesn’t resemble the Amazonian jungle. I sigh in relief when I find that it’s ok. I really should have checked before I left the house.

I then get into my swimming costume, and I notice that my belly looks slightly distended, whererby a month ago, it was perfectly flat. Crap.

Then just to make me feel better about the excess baggage that I’m carrying, Miss Size Two comes to the locker next to mine, and starts stripping down to put her costume on.

Instead of a one piece, Miss Size Two has a two piece, and she hasn’t got a roll of fat anywhere on her body. Crap.

I always wonder why anybody which such a perfect body, would put themselves through the torture of working out. I think it’s just to make people with post-Christmas fat feel bad. Sigh.

I try to hurry, in an effort to make sure that we don’t walk into the swimming area together. I feel bad enough, without comparisons being made between my body and hers.

Of course, Miss Size Two is a fast dresser, so inevitably, she does follow me out to the swim area. Sigh.

I notice that she’s not too bothered about wrapping her towel round her, whilst my towel is securely fastened round me from head to toe. As far as I’m concerned, there is no earthly reason for my designer cellulite to be put on show for any Tom, Dick and Harriet to stare at. She obviously has no such qualms. Crap.

I step into the swimming pool, and I feel as if I can finally relax. I love swimming, and I’m fairly good at it. I even manage to look graceful whilst executing the front crawl.

Miss Size Two manages to look even more graceful doing the backstroke. Bitch.

I find that after about 5 lengths, I’m starting to lose the will to live. My lungs feel as if they’ve been hit by volcanic rocks, and my arms feel as if they’re about to drop off. I look over at Miss Size Two, and find the bitch still smoothly swimming, without pause. Jesus, even her frigging hair looks perfect. Crap.

After twenty lengths (I’m determined to stay in as long as possible) I finally get out and go to the steam rooms, where sweating like a bitch is perfectly acceptable. I saw Miss Size Two going into the sauna, so I know that I’m safe from her perfection for a while.

After about ten minutes, the door opens and Miss Size Two bounces into the steam room. Everything about her is pert goddammit. Sigh.

Being the kinda gal who doesn’t really give a crap about appearances, I immediately exit the steam room, once she sits down. Hey, when you’re feeling like an elephant, there’s no room for false politeness.

I go into the sauna, then go into the hydrotherapy pool to relax for a little while. I don’t see Miss Size Two for the rest of my swim period. Thank God.

I have a shower, then go back to my locker. Miss Size Two is there, and she throws me a friendly smile.

She compliments me on my figure, and tells me how envious she is of my stamina. She says to me “I was nearly dying on the treadmill earlier, I should really come to the gym more often, then it wont feel like such hard work”

At this point, I find it hard to keep my mouth from gaping open in shock. Whilst I’d been watching her, and being envious of her figure, and the effortless way she moved round the club, she’d been doing the exact same thing to me.

The moral of the story? Sometimes, the way we see ourselves, isn’t necessarily how others see us. Sometimes we are our own worst enemy, so we need to remember that everybody has their own insecurities that they have to deal with.

All that glitters ain’t gold.

Happy New Year Folks.

***

Karen Scott is an avid reader who runs a blog called, It’s My Blog and I’ll Say What I Want To. Karen deals with a whole host of current issues on her weblog, but her main thing is discussing books. She posts reviews and weekly author interviews. To date, her interviewees include writers such as, Lori Foster, Julie Garwood, and Julie Kenner herself. Visit her on the web at http://karenscottworld.blogspot.com/

Merry Christmas!

2005-12-25T20:52:00.000-06:00

THE HOLIDAY DEMONS

2005-12-21T00:36:00.000-06:00
Julie here again, joining myself as I stand in for a guest blogger whose holiday got a little crazy (and don't we all know about that!).

And speaking of the holidays getting away from you, there's fodder for a whole slew of demons right there. In fact, in honor of David Letterman, here are my Top Ten Holiday Demons:

10. A blazing fire in the fireplace (or, rather, CREATING the blazing fire). Honestly, I can't figure out what the big deal is about forest fires. I mean, I can't get a blasted fire going with fat wood, newspaper, brittle dry sticks, and a long-stemmed butane lighter. So how the heck does an entire forest go up from one little flame?

9. Pre-packaged, pre-cut cookies advertised all over the television. Yes, I like cookies. And yes, I'm even willing to bake them from scratch with my daughter. But those packaged flashy ones are just too fun looking for little kids. "Look Mommy! It comes with icing. We can make Santa!" My problem? The dough isn't as good as mine (or the pre-made stuff that comes in a tube for that matter) and the icing is icky. I'm all for speed and easy living, but, hey, it's the holiday season. Slow down a bit! (Or buy Mrs. Fields. Much better ...)

8. Vanishing television programs. I have such fond memories of old kid's Christmas programs. Things I would wait for weeks to see, carefully studying the TV Guide so I wouldn't miss it. Nowadays there's no anticipation. We watched Frosty, The Grinch, and A Charlie Brown Christmas tonight. Fun, yes. But it lacked that extra added "it's holiday season I must be glued to the television at 7 p.m." oomph (pathetic, I know). And where the HECK are the shows I remember like The Little Drummer Boy. I haven't seen it on TV in years. How does an entire children's show go missing?

7. The colorized version of It's A Wonderful Life. Enough said.

6. The Marlo Thomas remake of same. Enough said.

5. The remake of Miracle on 34th Street. Ditto.

4. Children's toys packaged in such a way that you would swear the containers contained nuclear secrets. I mean, how much plastic, twistie ties, tape, and other security devices does a plush doll need anyway?

3. "Some assembly required."

2. Crowds! This one's my own fault. If I could remember, like my grandmother, to do my Christmas shopping throughout the year, this wouldn't be a problem. (Well, it would if I needed to go to Target for something non-holiday related, but you know what I mean). Still, can there really be that many cars in Georgetown? I'm thinking folks from Austin are coming up here to get away from the Austin crowds.

1. And the number one holiday demon: Chocolate. But, hey, that's a demon I can live with. And one which will inspire my New Years Resolution list ...

***
Julie Kenner has just updated her website. In the spirit of the holiday season, click the link and check it out!

FAT errors, kernels, and missing hard drives

2005-12-11T23:42:00.000-06:00
I join myself this week to slay a particularly evil demon ...

Is it really so much to ask to have a computer that works? I mean, the dang things cost enough, so why is it that I seem uniquely incapable of owning a computer that doesn’t have Fatal Errors, bad disk segments, Wauboot errors (or something similar, considering the computer is no kaput, I can’t go back and check) and every five seconds of “Outlook has caused a fatal error in kernal 32” gunk.

It’s gunk, I tell you, and I’ve put up with it for way, way, way too long.

My desktop is still stumbling along, despite crashes every day at least even though I no longer use it as anything other than the portal through which the internet comes into the house and sends out the lovely wireless signal. (Also, my laser printer is so old that I don’t know how to hook it to my new iBook, about which I will wax poetic in a bit).

My friends and I have finally decided I have too much copper in my blood or something, because it’s a persistent problem: computers just break on me.

The last straw came with my IBM Thinkpad, a computer which, in theory, I love. The feel of it, the keyboard, the responsiveness. This one though, was possessed ...

First off, it would shut down mid-project, go to a DOS screen, and say something about an FAT error and how I needed to back up drive C. (With great restraint, I managed to talk myself out of the possibility that my computer was commenting on the baby weight I still haven’t lost after 4 years ...)

This didn’t sound good to me, so I called IBM, and complained, but it was 4 days after the warranty expired, and I got no free replacement (I did get a new harddrive and motherboard for only $400ish, so that’s something). And back comes the computer.

Better, but still not great. Lots of little crashes (and all my software was new!). And then came the day that the computer gave up the ghost. Nothing. Except, you know, a lovely little message in DOS-type saying that it couldn’t find my hard drive. This, I thought, was bad.

And this at 5 p.m. on a Sunday while I’m on deadline.

Panicked, I braved the intersection of I-35 and 1325 (if you live in the Austin area, you’ll understand. If you don’t, pick your worst intersection and imagine it. All the worse b/c they shut it down during weekends to build an overpass) in order to get to the nearest Best Buy, which was the only place open that could look at the machine.

I took it in, hoping at the very least they could pull my emails off. I explain my tale of woe. I open the computer. I press power.

It starts just fine.

Someone, just shoot me. I mean, really.

I buy a 1GB thumb drive and stand there, copying everything I can think of, then leave the computer with them for full diagnostics and another back up of the entire hard drive.

When I get the machine back, they tell me they found nothing wrong.

Sigh.

So I continue using it. Still crashes frequently, but I can live with that. I schlep it with me to Houston, along with many emails to answer and a book to revised.

I start working.

It starts crashing.

Word and Outlook would not stay open. They crash, restart, crash restart, etc.

It’s enough to drive a girl crazy.

And so I went crazy w/ spending: After an 8 a.m. morning show, I drive to the Galleria and am first in line at the Apple Store. “Can you sell me a notebook in ½ hour?” I ask. “I have to be in Katy for a booksigning and have no spare time.”

Transaction complete, laptop left at the store to pick up between morning and evening event, and me a happy camper.

I return after the signing, find the sales associate who’d been helping me, and walk out w/ my new iBook (on which he’d loaded my software).

I have to say, I LOVE this machine. There are a few things I haven’t figured out. (Why, for example, the Airport icon thingie has disappeared on some programs, but not others. I’m sure it must be some preferences thing, but WHERE?) but Apple has a neat thing called ProCare and I’m making a list of questions for the next time I go to the Apple store (conveniently located in South Austin, which is only convenient to my town just north of Austin when you consider there didn’t use to be one in Austin at all).

So, yay Mac! I’m a convert!

But, lest my desktop computer get attitude and crash as well, let me just reassure it: I love you too. Please keep plugging along. Daily crashes I can handle. Permanent hard drive failure, not so much ....

Julie Kenner runs this site, and is now posting from an iBook. Her next book, THE MANOLO MATRIX, will be out in February. It was written on a PC. The next full-length book written on the mac will be THE GOOD GHOUL’S GUIDE TO GETTING EVEN, Berkley, currently unscheduled.

New Entry Coming This Weekend

2005-12-10T00:17:00.000-06:00
Yes indeed folks, we've had technical difficulties (picture a staticky television screen and then a test pattern).

Guess what demon's gonna get slayed this weekend???

Happy holidays,
J

The Shopping Demon!

2005-11-06T10:57:00.000-06:00
Literary Agent Jenny Bent joins us this week to slay a demon I'm soooo familiar with!

Shopping. Shopping, shopping, shopping, oh shopping. Both the love of my life and the demon I must battle. The amount of shoes and bags and clothing I now own staggers the mind. My shoes fill two closets and a cardboard box on the floor. And I’m not even particularly good at taking care of what I own: five hundred dollar Laboutins duke it out with five dollar flipflops in the struggle for space and my attention. I’ll often wear a pair of shoes and be asked if they’re new. They’re not. It’s just that I own so many pairs that some of them don’t get to come out to play very often.

Part of the problem is the way my weight fluctuates. I go from a four to a twelve to an eight in the space of six months. So this, naturally, requires several wardrobes. Wardrobes which are stuffed in boxes and plastic storage bins under my bed waiting for me to “grow back” into them. One day, I know, those leather pants will fit again, like the proverbial prince coming to my rescue. Is this weight fluctuation, common to all in my family, just an excuse for me to buy more clothes? Of course it is. Does that make me stop? Of course it doesn’t.

I actually get a high from spending money, like when I spend $400 on La Mer skin crème products. Or $100 on earrings I absolutely don’t need, but make me feel better about the ugly bridesmaid dress I am being forced to purchase (and wear-ugh). So yes, my demon is shopping. Or so says my credit card bill. Or my boyfriend when I bring home yet another purse (but I didn’t have one with black suede fringe to match my new boots!). But when I spend three hours in one fabulous boutique in the East Village and come home with four outfits which make me feel fantastic even if I have gained a pound or two, I don’t know….shopping doesn’t seem so bad. And when I get compliments on new shoes, or new bag, or new coat….again, shopping feels like my friend. And I haven’t even started on shopping WITH friends, which is of course the most fun thing of all.

If only shopping were free. But I don’t know—most days, it seems worth it to me. Of course, I haven’t opened my latest credit card bill yet…..which makes me think, maybe it’s not shopping that’s the demon. Maybe it’s just Chase Credit.

***

Jenny Bent is a literary agent with Trident Media Group. Before joining Trident, Jenny worked for 10 years in the publishing industry as an editor, bookseller and literary agent. She has a BA/MA with first class honors from Cambridge University in the UK. Visit her on the web at http://www.tridentmediagroup.com/jennybent.html

The Fear Demon!

2005-10-30T22:25:00.000-06:00
Shanna Swendson joins us this Halloween week to slay the fear demon!

It seems appropriate at the time of year haunted by ghosts and goblins that the personal demon I most need to slay is, in the words of Franklin Delano Roosevelt (and a memorable episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer), fear itself.

I'm not a big fan of fear. I don't get any kind of thrill out of being scared. I don't like horror movies, I don't like big rollercoasters or other scary rides, and I don't celebrate Halloween by going to a haunted house where people jump out at me and yell. That's not my idea of fun.

Not that I'm a total weenie. I often do things that would scare many people. Public speaking doesn't make me the least bit nervous. I've traveled alone to a foreign country. I've walked the streets of New York City alone at night. I've been a babysitter for twin toddlers. And I've submitted manuscripts to editors and agents, which is not an activity for the fainthearted.

Still, though, I have this fear of fear that keeps me from doing some things I'd love to do and that may have held me back in other areas. If I fear that something will make me nervous to the point that I don't do a good job or come across as cool and collected, I may avoid doing it.

Take singing, for example. I'm a good singer (I've been told by many people, including professionals). I've had some training. I sing in a choir. I love to sing and even harbor daydreams of starring in Broadway musicals. But I can't sing alone in front of people because I have this weird fear of stage fright that gives me stage fright. It's vicious cycle. I do get a bit of performance anxiety that affects how well I perform, but because of this, I become terrified that the stage fright will strike me and hurt my performance, which makes me truly afraid, to the point I break out in a sweat, shake uncontrollably and lose my voice. Because of this fear, I don't put myself in situations in which I need to sing where anyone can hear me.

Not singing in public hasn't really held me back much in life, since I'm a writer and writers aren't generally expected to sing (unless, I guess, you get invited to join Stephen King's band, but I don't think that's something I need to worry about anytime soon). But this fear of fear does hold me back socially. I have the hardest time dating or even meeting men to date because part of me is stuck somewhere back in seventh grade, when I learned to avoid talking to guys I liked for fear I'd sound like an idiot or (horrors!) they might figure out I liked them. To this day, I find myself avoiding the men I'm most attracted to in a social setting because I'm afraid I'll become afraid and freeze up or babble on or otherwise look uncool. It's so much easier and more comfortable to play cool and aloof from a distance. I rationalize that I get similar results but feel better about myself. If I did approach someone, get nervous and make a fool of myself, I wouldn't make a good impression, probably wouldn't get anything started with the person, and would then feel like a fool. By not approaching, I'm making no impression, don't get anything started and don't feel like a fool. Similar fears sometimes hold me back from meeting people who could be important to my career or from asking for things I need.

This kind of thinking is insidious. Taken too far, it could lead to utter paralysis. If I could conquer the fear demon, then the other, smaller fears might be easier to manage. Maybe I should conjure the image of Buffy's fear demon, the one whose picture in the reference book was actual size. It's an easy enough demon to slay, if I can get over the fear of being afraid of it.

***
Shanna Swendson conquered the fear of fear enough to sell five romance novels before breaking into the mainstream with Enchanted, Inc. earlier this year. Her next book, Once Upon Stilettos, will be released in May 2006, and the next two books in her magical chick lit series are scheduled for 2007. Visit her web site at http://www.shannaswendson.com.

Edible Demons...

2005-10-21T22:22:00.000-05:00
Cindi Myers joins us this week to slay a personal demon!

You want to talk demons? Let’s talk about the piece of devil’s food cake that’s torturing me from the kitchen. I’m sitting here like a good little writer, slaving away over the computer and I can hardly think, that cake’s taunting me so loudly.

Yes, my personal demon is my crazy-making relationship with food. I love it – too much judging by the fit of my jeans some weeks. I also hate that it’s impossible to just eat anything these days without having second thoughts. Is it all carbs that are bad this week, or just the good-tasting ones?

If I eat that yummy Alfredo sauce with whole wheat pasta, does that count as health food?

If I eat Fritos with organic bean dip, that’s good, right?

If dark chocolate is full of antioxidants then dark chocolate with caramel and nuts must be even better for me, right?

Why don’t lima beans taste as good as lemon bars?

Come to think of it, if all those vegetables and whole grains are so good for us, why weren’t we born with a preference for them? Give me Cheetos and Diet Coke over carrot sticks and tap water any day. Salt, sugar and fat make life worth living in my book.

My mother-in-law, an otherwise wonderful woman, is a fat-phobe who swears her diet is going to help her live longer. After a weekend at her house with a cupboard filled with skim milk, fat-free cheese ‘food’, ‘lite’ peanut butter and tofu ‘chili’ I submit she won’t live any longer, it will just seem that way.

It’s bad enough that I’m conflicted over what I eat, but as chief cook and grocery shopper in our household, I can’t get away from making food decisions. Should I buy the expensive organic, free-range chicken or opt for the regular stuff at one-third the price? (What are they feeding those free-range hens? Caviar?) Is wild salmon at $21 a pound that much better than farm-raised for $7 a pound? If I buy organic broccoli, does slathering it with a sauce made from Cheez Whiz defeat the purpose?

Last year, my doctor ordered me to give up sugar and white flour. Diabetes runs in my family and I was headed for trouble if I did not, in his words “change my wicked ways.” As someone born with a sweet tooth, whose first word was “cookie,” this was akin to a heroin addict going cold turkey. Though the specter of debilitating illness and years of insulin shots were a powerful inducement to quit.

Still, I really missed sugar. So I set out on a quest for the perfect sugar-free dessert. Surely modern technology had developed some reasonable substitute for sugar that would satisfy my jones for dessert.

Oh, cruel agony! I am here to testify that I have yet to find a sugar-free product that is even a pale imitation of the real thing. They all have a strange, off taste and sometimes an appalling texture to boot. I got to the point where I decided no dessert was better than these sad posers.

My hubby, ever helpful, even presented me with a Valentine’s gift of sugar-free chocolates from the most expensive gourmet shop in town. They tasted...strange. Worse, I discovered that the main ingredient was a sugar substitute that caused...um... intestinal distress.

I spent Valentine’s night on the porcelain throne, cursing this frat boy’s joke that masqueraded as gourmet chocolate.

For now, I’m into rationing. Only so much sugar a week, carefully spaced out with those whole grains and vegetables that I am learning to accept if not love.

Which brings us back to the devil’s food cake. Rich, gooey, evil cake. One slice would be so yummy, but is it worth it?

Get thee behind me, Satan!

Cindi Myers spends a lot of time writing scenes in which her characters eat -- some of which make it into her books. Her latest release, LEARNING CURVES, is about a size 12 reporter with food issues of her own. (It's on sale NOW -- run, go buy a copy! Or at least pick it up and fondle it so that the other shoppers will be envious and want a copy of their own.) Visit her on the web at www.CindiMyers.com

Demon Procrastination- Get Thee Behind Me!

2005-10-16T23:24:00.000-05:00
This week, Blythe Christopher de Orive joins us to slay a very familiar demon!

Do it in the Forepart of Plenty of Time
Day late and a dollar short
Late for your own funeral
Johnny Come Lately

Why are there so many aspersions in the English language concerning tardiness, procrastination and general lassitude? I think we have all been guilty of sloth at one time or another. I would like to discuss one aspect of this – Procrastination- the second cousin once removed who has sweaty, mucous-y red hair and huge misshapen freckles. Yes, you know the one. He smells too. NO ONE wants to play with him. I had great hopes for this article when Julie asked for volunteers. I even started it more than a week ago at work and got a lonely paragraph done before I had to approve some pictures for our company website and then, alas, the muse got buried under many more mundane pursuits. Oh, and did I mention a bout of bronchitis and our 10 ½ month old had diarrhea emanating every hour on the hour for 2 days? Yes, yes, that is no excuse.

Do it in the Forepart of Plenty of Time
That brings me to the first adage above. My mother, in an effort to organize my life (my mother thought you could force people to organize just as you can force confessions out of some), wanted me to start all my projects VERY early in the process to mitigate any unforeseen problems. Good advice. As almost every project I have every undertaken has had last minute problems. Okay, so those projects that I don’t start until the night before and I have to stay up until the wee hours... which is better? Concentrate the pain in a few bouts of compressed agony or slowly stress out from starting early and realizing all the problems you will encounter? Hmmm.

Day late and a dollar short
The second expression of tardiness conotates a maleficent affect of money, which comes from the Depression. I remember my Grandfather saying people were always “a day late and a dollar short” which always conjures up a flophouse on bowery row with deadbeats barking wet short breaths into their cupped hands to stay warm trying to decide whether they are going to take the sermon with the soup just inside the door of the mission. I don’t think my Grandfather ever knew quite that kind of poverty but he did have a very spare sense of humor. He always told my Grandmother to save money when he died she should just throw him over the back fence. There was the Corely funeral home just over the fence line of their property.

Late for your own funeral
Which segues nicely to the next platitude on my list concerning sloth and its handmaiden, procrastination. Late to my own funeral? Now how is that possible as I am going to be cremated? I can however, be late for the fire. And, as most religions believe that we exist in a corporeal shell, then who cares if we are late? I imagine I am going to be having cocktails with St. John the Baptist (think Old Skool St. Peter) while my crusty outside is burning. I hear he makes a helluva martini. He just whispers “vermouth” over the vodka. With 2 olives. And speaking of Johnny…

Johnny Come Lately
Johnny come lately? How did he get such a bad reputation? I had read somewhere that Frank Sinatra berated his cronies if they were even 5 minutes late to any event as he hated waiting on people. So, is Johnny “JFK”? No, because I know that axiom has got to be much older than Frankie’s time. Can you be a Johnny come lately to your own funeral? Or in JFK’s case- a “Johnny come way before you time”? I digress. I would just like to know who this Johnny is so I can commiserate with him.

Procrastination is so comfortable to me. It is the balm to my Gilead. Okay, it is the mentholatum to my bronchitis. I am way too conversant with the “I can get that done in 4 hours” mode of thinking. The problem is- I have been able to get a lot of projects done in 4 hours but not without flop sweat and angst. I have lofty ambitions for my life such as: being organized, compartmentalizing my life in see-through plastic totes (with pictures outside of its contents) and possessing sweat free pores. I feel very disappointed every time I fall into the trap of procrastination. If there are more members of procrastinator’s anonymous out there -how would we know? They would never meet. They might leave notes for each other on the Kingdom Hall door saying “Sorry, I missed you. I thought Austin time was 30 minutes later than Central Standard Time”?

I set artificially early deadlines. I pad my schedule. And this is the equivalent of setting your clock ahead 5 minutes. You know you have done it and you do the mental gymnastics every morning to subvert your best intentions. Know that I am ever vigilant, yet resigned to my fate.

It is 2:49 am. Pass me the mentholatum and extra strength antiperspirant.

Blythe has been an engineer, farm worker, tennis pro, Scooby-Doo character wrangler in a mall, professor and an art director. Currently, she is an Interactive Art Director for a quasi-state agency and dabbles in all forms art. Visit her website at http://www.blythespirit.com

THE HEAD DEMON

2005-10-04T15:50:00.000-05:00
This week one of my best friends, Stephen Alan Carver, steps up to slay a demon!

So off the top of my head, I wasn’t sure what to write about when Julie invited me to guest-blog, so I decided to write about the top of my head.

You see, I am a bald man.

No, not one of those People Magazine “Sexiest Men in the World” bald men. Not Bruce Willis. Not Patrick Stewart. Not [insert your favorite bald celebrity name here]. Not even the kind of men that most romance novelists write about (all the bald men in romance novels are of the Bruce Willis hunky type). However, amazingly enough, most men in romance novels have a healthy, luxurious, [insert your own romantically appropriate adjective here] full head of hair. I would cry, “Bald Bias!!” against all romance authors, but that’s another blog entry altogether! A sort of Bald-Bias-Blog. Hmmmm…a revenue generating idea? I wonder…but enough of that.

If anything, I am closer to the “Jason Alexander” type of bald man, except that my balding is uneven. (For all I know his is, too and we have even MORE in common than being short, round, balding, white male actors…but I digress.)

Yes, I have bald patches here and there. And here. And there. But NOT there. I have a very peculiar type of male-pattern balding in that there seems to be no pattern.

So, when my unusual pattern-less male balding began to appear, I decided to shave my head. I had a couple of reasons for doing so, not the least of which was to find out if I had a strangely shaped head with bizarre bumps, ridges, crests, valleys or [insert your own geographically correct terminology here] (and no, I don’t) but I also wanted to find out if people truly find bald men sexy.

And it’s true! There are women (and not a few men, surprisingly enough) who do find a shaved pate sexy. I have one co-worker who likes to occasionally rub her hand across my head. Sometimes it’s a little stubbly (as I don’t shave it everyday) and feels kind of “velvety” (her word) and other days it’s incredibly smooth (I just shaved that morning) and she would…hmmmm…how to say this…purr. I had to give her permission to do so because other employees thought it was a weird form of sexual harassment, but neither one of us had a problem with it. Isn’t it weird what kind of society we live in?

On a side note, bald WOMEN are definitely sexy! For proof, watch Alien3 (not the best movie) because Sigourney Weaver is HOT in that film! Talk about a nicely shaped head!! Sinead O’Connor…back in the 80’s….wow! I could go on….

Now, I used to be in love with my hair. And I used to have a lot of it. When I was much younger (Julie can confirm this because she took some pictures of me at the time), I had some incredibly beautiful, long hair. I would perm it, I would color it, I would just let it grow long…(I had a great stylist at the time who allowed my every indulgence…for $50 bucks a pop).

By the way, all of this prodigious hair growth as a younger man was in response to the fact that I am an Air Force brat who was forced to keep his hair buzzed as a small child. The minute my dad told me I could start growing it, I don’t think I cut it between third grade and high school. I was even the only guy in high school who had to put his hair up under his marching band hat. My brother went through the same thing (not the marching band, part).

But knowing that the baldness gene was eventually going to make an entrance into my life, I always promised myself I wouldn’t cry when it happened, I would just take it like a man and cut all my long hair off. Call it quits. Sayonara! So long, buckaroo! Don’t come back now, ya hear! (not like it could, or anything).

Ah, I remember the day well. Santa Barbara, California. A bathroom with a mirror in front and a mirror behind. That first, tentative glance at the back of my head. The twist of the head to be sure it wasn’t a trick of the light. Nope. Thinning hair in the back. Looks like it. My fingers examining my scalp and running through the hair to confirm the observation. Yes. Hair thinning confirmed. Definite.

BWAAAAAAAAA!!!

OK, so I didn’t actually cry, but I WAS sad. So, after a couple of weeks, I took the plunge and cut off most of my hair. Back to the ol’ elementary school buzzcut. I guess I was fortunate in that being bald saved me a lot of money on hairstyling in my 30’s. I strongly recommend Super Cuts and just tell them to put the electric razor on setting “# 1.” $6.

So, after a while, I came to terms with my unusual male pattern baldness and decided to shave it all off. And while I cannot deny that the late night advertisements on TV for hair surgery, Propecia and Rogaine haven’t had their affect on me, especially in my late-night chocolate ice-cream eating low moments, and that seeing the over-the-counter Rogaine bottles in my local drugstore has been REALLY hard to resist at times, I have found, fortunately for my sanity, a little comfort knowing that I’m still as sexy as ever.

If you ever meet me, you’ll find that last bit really funny.

Afterword: I now find that I spend almost as much time on my hair, shaving and conditioning my scalp, etc. as I used to when I was younger and had lots of permed / colored / blow-dried hair. Ah well…some things will never change. Like vanity.