Goofs in print

I did proofs for my March book this week. (For those of you who haven't been exposed to this painful process, it's when they send you a copy of a book-to-come, unbound, but printed on the page exactly as it's supposed to look in print.)

The problem is that, by this time, you've looked this book over, oh, approximately half a billion times, and you're so sick of it you can no longer be objective. So most of the time you're supposed to be looking for errors you're too busy moaning: "Boring! Boring! So the bad guy almost killed the good guy, and they jumped off a cliff and were rescued by giant flying amphibians! Boring!" (Okay, that was NOT my book, and forgive me if it resembles anybody else's. The point is that by this point EVERYTHING sounds boring.)

The other problem is that you really are supposed to mark only typos and other glitches - you are reminded regularly by editorial that this is NOT the time to be rewriting. And, of course, I see things I'd love to rewrite on every page. This, btw, is also why I try very hard not to read books once they're printed. I really can't fix anything then, and it makes me nuts.

That said, I caught a couple of biggies, beyond typos, this time. There was an action tag of a guy in a chair, only I forgot to have him sit down when he came in the room. Also, I had an outdoor scene where it was cool and pleasant one minute, hot a page later, and, while it IS Minnesota and that's perfectly plausible, I probably needed to make note of it one way or the other.

So that was good. But sometimes I miss things despite my best efforts, mostly because my eyes have a habit of seeing on the page what I THOUGHT I wrote and not necessarily what I did write. Of course, once it's in print, some helpful person will tell you. The worst one that slipped by me: I forgot I'd gelded a horse early on in the book, and somehow he managed to miraculously regrow his parts by the next time he showed up, some several hundred pages later. (In my defense that was a long book, with a lot of characters, and at least none of her eight siblings had a sex change!)

So, fellow authors, fess up . . . what got by you? Readers, you're welcome to contribute, too, the funny goofs you've found. (As long as they're in books that are unlikely to be recognized by any writers who stop by here regularly. I'm depending on your kindness; it's the holidays.)

Debra - SPACE INVADERS

No. Not the game! Well, at least not the video game.

We're talking about the real time, real human art of intimacy. The unwritten rules we live by which keep us safe. Oh, wait. They were written down, by Desmond Morris in "The Naked Ape." That's pretty much what humans are you know. We have a nicely polished veneer. We have a fabulous fashion sense (when we choose to employ it) and we can read. But we're still creatures of instinct.

Take that lovely cowboy cover of my first Loveswept. How well do you think you'd have to know a guy to let him wrap himself around you and grab hold of your waist? Pretty darned well or you'd be uncomfortable at the least and terrified at the worst.

Why? Because we build trust in other human beings one step at a time. Just like everything these days, "intimacy" has its own twelve step program. Each step is critically important to the development of relationships. Here they are:

1. Eye to Body. Like it or not we all have a type. That first cursory glance gives us information, lets us know if this is the kind of person we'll let into our circle.

2. Eye to Eye. This is the first make or break moment. There is risk here. What if the other person looks away? Looking away quickly and then right back is okay. That signals interest. But what if the person merely looks away in disinterest? There's a crushing blow to the ego!

3. Voice to Voice. This helps us determine if we can communicate, do we have common interests, do we think alike, can we have points of agreement on which to build? There is a sensual component to the voice as well.

4. Hand to Hand. Here's a biggie. By extending your hand to someone when we were still clubbing mammoths for food, the extendee was taking his life in his hands. An injury to a hand meant probably death. Life was too risky with only one hand. Mammoths are big. So, there is risk in extending the hand. The open hand says, "I'm vulnerable. I have no weapon and I'm willing to try." Even though the hand is a big step on the intimacy scale, it's as much about friendship building as relationship building. The individuals can stop here. No harm, no foul. If the individuals move farther down the steps of intimacy, things can get tricky. Expectations will begin to rear their ugly heads.

5. Hand to Shoulder. When men do this, it's the buddy thing. A symbol of approval. Women don't seem to clasp each other on the shoulder, do they? But if a man puts his hand on a woman's shoulder he darned well better have permission to do so or it's considered an aggressive move. Women take their shoulders very seriously. (I personally think this may stem from those early days of bra wearing when the boys had to snap the backs and straps.)

6. Hand to Waist. With the exception of those moments when we say, "Cheese!" for pictures, you don't find a lot of hands/arms around the waists unless there is an established relationship. And generally you don't find this in same sex relationships. (We're looking a the hetero situation at the moment.) The waist is halfway between some pretty interesting body parts! Vital organs are only an Aztec priest's grasp away. Tingling things begin to happen. Young men's thoughts turn to fancy. And there is an element of "claiming." Of ownership, doncha think?
When a heroine is put in a situation in which the hero has to say...teach her to rope and his arm's around her waist, this will be awkward if the relationship's emotional trust hasn't built to allow for this leap in physical intimacy.


7. Face to Face. Anytime *anyone* gets in your face this is a clear invasion of your space. How someone invades your space can make you weak in the knees or make you go for your gun. For an emotional bond to continue, couples allow this face to face contact. This is a rehearsal for other more intimate acts to come. A small moment to lose themselves and recover. Rejection after a successful kiss is likely to smart quite a bit! If a kiss is rejected, you can bet the rejected party is going to be reviewing all the signals to this point and wondering where they've gone wrong.

8. Hand to Head. Heck this goes along with # 7 usually. But consider the danger. A blow to the head and you're dead. That's why this is so far along the scale of intimacy. Remember this instinctive reserve and need to define our space is grounded in genetic memory and basic survival. How many of us immediately move our head away from someone who's reaching out to remove a leaf or tuck a loose strand of hair back? It's instinct to move our heads away from any invasion of space. Only our most trusted circle can enter this zone unchecked.


9-12. These last four are *definitely* sexual and should be private, but sadly these days (g) they are not. Private, that is.
(9) Hand to Body,
(10) Mouth to Breast,
(11) Touching Below the Waist, and
(12) Intercourse.

There you have it. Mankind's roadmap to sex, bonding and space invading. Teenage boys have always known that if they can just get that arm around a girl's shoulder in the movies that they were making significant progress.

Is it any wonder that the romantic clench has always held such special importance to romance readers? We can read the messages and signals sent by that body language. To the outsider the pose might look physical, but we know that the emotional bonding comes first. Nature set up a system to help our brains and hearts bond first.

So, who's been flirting with their eyes lately? Creating a little interest? Did your sweetie-pie skip a few steps? (That ratchets up the stakes and the temperature real quick!)

Guest- DARA EDMONDSON -- SALON SENSE

Debra here!

I'd like to welcome Dara Edmondson who's a new face in publishing. She gave up a career in marketing three years ago to follow a dream of writing fiction. She's currently with a small press--Wild Rose-- and has both print and ebooks. Her first print book was The Kitten Club which was out in May and snagged some good reviews.

She writes about "women in their forties, aged to perfection and ready for whatever life throws at them, from cheating husbands to problems with adult children to starting a new relationship or career." Don't you love that "aged to perfection" part??

Dara's a hoot and I thought the riders would enjoy her as much as I did the first time I met her at a workshop. So here she is to knock some salon sense into us!

First, a big thank you to Deb Dixon for inviting me to guest blog today. It's a pleasure to be in the convertible with such amazing ladies. I write contemporary romance for The Wild Rose Press but what I'd like to dish about today is the salon experience. We're all familiar with it – we confide all sorts of stuff in the person who does our hair or nails.

I got an up close look at the Salon Phenomenon (yes – I've named it!) when I owned a tanning and nail salon in the eighties and nineties in Orlando. I was a nail tech for many years and worked on clients so diverse it boggles my mind. Everyone from heiresses to prostitutes to housewives. I even rubbed elbows with a Saudi princess once, but that's a post for another day.

The Salon Phenomenon occurs when a beauty worker has very close contact with a patron (i.e. – touching hand or head). Something amazing happens. The patron reveals deep, sometimes dark secrets to the worker. And it's not the usual we're-friends-and-have-similar-disclosure-levels thing. No. The hairdresser/nail tech might reveal only her name, but the client, nonetheless often tells all.

Countless women revealed details of clandestine affairs, shady business practices or family secrets. They told me of long-ago sexual abuse and ongoing physical abuse, of friend and family betrayals. But why did they trust me when most knew very little about me? Not only was I touching them – a barrier most people don’t allow others to cross – but I faced them, one-on-one, on a weekly or biweekly basis. I listened and remembered details of the continuing sagas of their lives. They had an hour of my undivided attention and an assumption of confidentiality.

All the stories I heard, misery and joy I was privy to, turned out to be excellent fodder for my ideas file years later when I took up fiction writing. I changed names and details, but some of the situations I come up with are based in fact. Some were way too strange to become believable fiction. I got to play amateur psychologist to so many women – many who even told me I was their shrink with the benefits of having gorgeous nails when the session ended. But when I write their stories, they come out the way I wish they'd turned out for the clients. Some did, of course, have happy endings, but not all.

These days I often find myself missing that salon experience, hearing the inner workings of relationships and the adventures of women with exciting lives. When I do, I think about the worlds I can create on paper, the ones with Happily-Ever-Afters and loose ends neatly tied. There's a lot of job satisfaction in that. Where I couldn't fix things in real life for the women, I can in a book. I owe so much to those ladies, I dedicated my last book, The Kitten Club to them. Many were so touched, they actually cried when they read the dedication.

What about you? Do you value the salon relationship as sacred? Have you confided in your hair dresser or manicurist lately?

Who's Your Favorite Funny Guy?

We’re all so different, aren’t we?

Sometimes our writing connects with readers and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes movies connect, sometimes they don’t. Personally, I think comedy has to be the hardest genre out there to write.

When it comes to what strikes our funny bone, I think it’s more than just the a simple you say tomato, I say tomato thing going. Not only are their cultural and race differences, but age, sex, mood, topic, political biases, and religious affiliation all play a part in our perceptions.

My husband routinely sends me jokes and stories via email that I just do not think are funny. There’s the sixteen year old teenaged boy who lives for South Park. Then you got your ninety year old grandmas who wouldn’t know how to turn on a computer who think no one could ever match the Lucille Balls and Jerry Lewis’s of their day. Remember Red Skelton? OMG am I old.

Well, at least I know what OMG means. LOL!

There’s haha funny, there’s funny cute, there’s laugh-your-butt-off funny, there’s heart-warming humor. And, unfortunately, there’s always the didn’t-quite-make-it, don’t-get-it, don’t-ever-want-to-get-it, yeah-right kind of comedy. That cutting edge type humor that works for one person and falls totally flat for another.

Thank God for comedians who take risks, otherwise, we probably wouldn’t have M*A*S*H, or Jerry Seinfeld, or Saturday Night Live. Think about how many SNL skits fall flat. But when they’re funny, they are tears-streaming-down-my-face funny. There’s nothing quite so entertaining as comedy that surprises and hits us just right.

I’ll bet we could narrow down our favorite sexy actors to about five guys. But if we’re going to talk favorite comedians, will our answers hit all over the place or will there be a consensus?

So I’ve thrown up some pictures to spark the conversation, but, tell me, who is your favorite funny guy?

Greiman's post-binge blog

Okay, Thanksgiving is over. I’m now officially allowed to quit eating. I never actually thought I’d look forward to this, but I’ve eaten so much over the past week that I realize the garment industry was being overly optimistic when they labeled my robe ‘one size fits all.’

My ankles are now the approximate size of summer melons, my eye balls are swollen, and my skin hurts. Maybe this doesn’t happen to you, but it does to me. My skin actually, literally hurts…probably from stretching too fast. Yes, I know; it’s disgusting. Anyway, in an effort to make light of my problems (get it?) I googled food quotes. Here’s what I found.

“A waist is a terrible thing to mind.” Jane Caminos

“No diet will remove all the fat from your body because the brain is entirely fat. Without a brain, you might look good, but all you could do is run for public office.” George Bernard Shaw

“Middle age is when your broad mind and narrow waist begin to change places.” Joseph Cossman

“I have a great diet. You're allowed to eat anything you want, but you must eat it with naked fat people.”

“We have women in the military, but they don't put us in the front lines. They don't know if we can fight, if we can kill. I think we can. All the general has to do is walk over to the women and say, 'You see the enemy over there? They say you look fat in those uniforms.'” Elayne Boosler

“I found there was only one way to look thin, hang out with fat people.” Rodney Dangerfield

“The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight because by then, your body and your fat are really good friends”

“A recent police study found that you're much more likely to get shot by a fat cop if you run.” Dennis Miller

“Chocolate…it’s not just for breakfast anymore.”

“A friend doesn't go on a diet because you are fat.” Erma Bombeck

“Did you ever notice they never take any fat hostages? You never see a guy coming out of Lebanon going: I was held hostage for seven months and I lost 175 pounds, I feel good and I look good and I learned self-discipline. That's the important thing.”

“All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt!” Lucy Van Pelt in Peanuts by Charles M. Schulz

“I have this theory that chocolate slows down the aging process.... It may not be true, but do I dare take the chance?” Unknown

“The greatest tragedies were written by the Greeks and by Shakespeare. Neither knew chocolate. The Swiss are known for nonviolence. They are also known for superb chocolate.”

“I am not overweight. I am chocolate enriched.”

“If not for chocolate, there would be no need for control top hose. An entire garment industry would be devastated.”

“I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.” Erma Bombeck

“Chocolate is cheaper than therapy, and you don’t need an appointment.”

“The first law of dietetics seems to be: if it tastes good, it's bad for you.” Isaac Asimov

“I will not eat oysters. I want my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. Dead.” Woody Allen

“Chocolate is nature’s way of making up for Mondays.” Anonymous

These are all good quotes, filled with much fine advice and sage words to live by, but my favorite comes from Miss Piggy who says, “Never eat more than you can lift.”

So, any quotes you’d like to share? How about words of wisdom? Dieting advice? Or…my personal favorite…advice against dieting? Maybe you’d like to make me feel better by telling me how much weight YOU gained over the long, engorged weekend. Or by sharing your top secret plan that divulges how to lose weight while eating six high calorie meals a day. Anyone? Anyone at all?

By golly, there's no paper in that book!

It's called a KINDLE, and it's got me interested, very interested. It's Amazon.com's entry into the eReader market.

First off let me say, I don't do eBooks. Why? I love the experience of shopping in a bricks and mortar store and bringing home real, tangible books with gorgeous covers and lots of pages to read. I like seeing them stacked in my TBR pile maybe, but most of all, I like to admire them on the shelves in my office. If I've read a great non-fiction book, I like to keep it for future reference. If it's fiction, I like to give it a 'place of honor' on my keeper shelf. And heck, the ideaof reading a book on a small electronic screen has never sat well with me. I stare at the computer monitor all day. I don't want to read my books that way!

That opinion may change.

Just this week the AmazonKindle was announced. I've linked to the homepage, where you'll find further links that explain the device. Now this is not, I've been told, the eBook killer. Sony makes a reader that uses similar 'e-ink'. That means the screen is not backlit and resembles real paper. I can't imagine what that even looks like. I need to see one, hold one in my hand.

Here are a few of the neat things about Kindle:

--You don't need a computer to download books to it, or to recharge it. It's wireless. (Though, you can download pdf files from your computer to it, if you wish. There is a small fee.)

--Because it is wireless, you shop directly from the device. It doesn't use WiFi, but whispernet, which is supposed to be similar to a cellphone network. So I presume if you're standing at a bus stop, waiting, you can buy yourself a book in a snap.

==Buy a book, and it's delivered to the Kindle in less than a minute.

--Most NYT bestsellers are only $9.99. That means, you could be browsing books in a bricks and mortar. Decide you want to purchase Steven Colbert's latest for $20-some-odd dollars. Remember you have the Kindle in your pocket, and download the whole book for only $9.99. In less than a minute. How cool is that? [Paperbacks range in price. I looked up a few of my titles. The Nocturnes sell for $3.80. Luna tradesize are $9.99]

--It includes subscription to many of the world's major newspapers. You can also subscribe to blogs (for a fee; which sort of defeats that 'free' part of blogs).

--It holds over 200 titles.

--Long battery life. If you used it constantly, you would recharge every other day.

--No service plans or commitments. You'd be billed as Amazon usually does.

--If you're a writer, as mentioned above, you can upload pdf files. So I'm pretty sure I could load a work-in-process, tote it along to the doctor, and do a little editing using the keyboard and notation function while I'm there.

--I love the built-in dictionary. If you're reading and you come to a word you don't know (happens to me a lot), you click on it, and get the definition.

--free wireless access to Wikipedia. That's good or not so good, depending on how much you trust Wikipedia.

Why is this the device that may lure me into electronic books? Well, it's pretty. :-) The electronic ink looks like I won't have to suffer another screen read, but again, I'm reserving judgment on that until I actually see one. I like the idea of having some research books handy and totable. I even think I could get into my nightly reading in bed with this device. Not having to carefully hold that book so I don't crease the spine would so rock. And about that TBR pile. I would love to reduce that to zero by storing books in one handy-dandy little device. (Except the ones with the pretty covers and pictures inside, that I would continue to buy in paper.) Some books you just have to have 'in the flesh', so to speak.

As a writer, the announcement of the Kindle made me sit up straighter and reach for my agent's phone number. To be very truthful, writers do not make a lot on electronic copies of their books. Electronic copies receive some of the lowest royalties (although, I do know of one major publisher that does pay a reasonable rate). Think of the writers striking in Hollywood. They just want a piece of the action. And as a writer of paperback fiction, I want a piece of the electronic action. The book is the same as the paper copies my publisher sells, and there's less overhead to create an electronic book as opposed to the paper book. So why are my royalties so low? Just something to think about.

Now, the Kindle is priced at $400. That's a bit tough for my checkbook. And I really can't justify the expense. But as with most pretty new technology, it should go down within a year or so. I think about $199 would be more reasonable.

All right, I just found a great link to a Kindle review by the geeks at
Gizmodo. They tested it in bed, on a plane, and yes, on the toilet.

So what do you think? Did you click on the link to read a little more about the Kindle? Does it appeal to you? Do you regularly use an eReader? How does the Kindle compare to the eReader you normally use? If you've never read an eBook, would this be the device to get you to try?

Christie Asks: How Much Are You Paying at the Pump?

I’m heading out to the mall like everyone else today. I’m going to pick up my sister-in-law and my niece first, and we’ll probably hit a couple of places. With gas prices the way they are right now, maybe I should worry about consolidating trips, choosing the most efficient route, or perhaps even forgetting about it altogether, but I’m going to drive the car today without guilt.

Because it runs on used vegetable oil.

Oh, and we got the car off of Craig’s List for free.

We have an old college friend that my husband, Surfer Guy, spent time with this summer. He told him all about his “veggie car” which then inspired my husband to want one of his own. I just listened (well, half-listened) and nodded my head but didn’t think too much more about it. Surfer Guy can be all talk sometimes. But, then, since I apparently gave the green light (pun intended), Surfer Guy seeks out the perfect car. I’m still not to worried. It has to be a diesel Mercedes Benz from the 1980s, a certain model, and there were so many other parameters that I thought, “He’ll never find the right one.” And he didn’t, not for a couple of weeks. He didn’t want to spend too much on it and many of them were out of what he’d determined to be his price range.

Then one day, on Craig’s List, he finds a car of the right vintage, in our town, that the guy is giving away just to get it out of his driveway. Of course, it didn’t run. But we have AAA, so Surfer Guy has it towed home. In a few days he has it up and running. In a few more days, at the small cost of a conversion kit off the internet, he has it ready to run on veggie oil (you can run it on a combo of veggie/diesel too). He was so excited, he didn’t want to wait to find a used oil source, so he bought gallons of new oil at Costco. I think that tank of gas cost like $10.00 a gallon. But the car worked, and now he gets used oil once a week from Chopsticks Inn. He has to filter it through these drums he picked up at the car wash (also used, once held soap, and also free), so that takes a little time, but he loves, loves, loves his veggie car.

And hey, it smells better than a diesel or regular gas car too! Just the faintest tinge of something cooking.

So I’m off to the mall in the veggie-mobile, gas-free, guilt-free.

What’s the gas going for in your area? And what will you cut down on if the prices continue upward? Don’t say romance novels!

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Riders join in wishing everyone of our readers and contributors a safe and happy Thanksgiving. We are so blessed to be able to live in a free country, to have families that are healthy and loving, and to be able to pursue our dreams of bringing our stories to readers through a publishing career. Further, we are truly blessed to have found each other and to have made friends that are more like family spread all over the country.

We wish you joy and peace, now and in the holiday season ahead.
We wish you the time to reflect on the many good things in your life.
We wish for you the opportunity to put your arms around those you love and tell them how much they mean to you.

An attitude of gratitude is one of the most powerful things in the universe.

Kathleen's Cell Phone Snafu

Blogger is giving me fits as I try to post, but this is nothing new. The harder I try to get with the technology program, the behinder I get.

Take yesterday, for example. I am about to leave the house, and I'm planning two stops. I announce one of them. "Going to the grocery store for a couple of forgotten items. You need anything? (pause) I've got my cell phone. (I check my purse.) If you think of anything, call." My first stop: Great Clips, where I made a quick stop yesterday after the major grocery shopping, and purchased what turned out to be gel and root booster. I wanted shampoo and conditioner.

So I'm waiting for the Great Clips person to figure out how to do an exchange on their "new system" and my purse starts playing "When the Saints Go Marching In" (chosen to separate my signal from the others going off up and down any given store aisle). I move quickly. The sooner I get the thing out of its cute little case, the sooner the tinny alarm will stop.

It's DH. He's screaming about something I should pick up. No, he's not screaming. The phone's screaming, and heads are turning. The thing's on speaker. This has happened before. I don't use speaker. How do I turn it off? "What? I don't understand. No, wait." Where's the button? "Clyde, lower your voice."

DH has a low voice. I find myself saying what more often of late. Must be another function of aging. He doesn't like to repeat himself, so he's taken to singing after the second "What?" So I'm getting this song about who has a runny nose and how we just ran out of Kleenex and I should get some Vicks while I'm at it, and I'm watching the heads appear, one cubicle after another, front to back of the shotgun-style shop. The only person who doesn't seem to notice is the woman struggling with her own technological wonder--the computer masquerading as a cash register. "Marge, do you know how to do this? It won't accept anything."

I hang up on DH. (It's a flip phone, so I'm actually flipping him off.) I do a little song and dance about the speaker function, and one by one the heads retract into their shells. Great Clips Lady gets help from her co-worker, and the computer finally allows us to trade gel for shampoo. I can't get out of there fast enough.

Cell phones bug me, and they know it. I don't think I really need one. Or I wouldn't, if pay phones hadn't gone the way of the typewriter. I'm probably letting them bug me. I could do a better job of ignoring the people who carry on at the table next to you as though the person on the other side of their conversation is deaf. Or getting too old to hear the low register. Or talking long distance back in the old days. Poetic justice, this Great Clips moment. I know I didn't set the thing on speaker. I don't know how.

Cell phones. Love/hate? Love? Hate? Or is it just me?

Clooney-Fabio Kerfuffle

A week or so ago, in a restaurant frequented by beautiful people, George Clooney and Fabio came to blows and had to be separated physically. The reason? Clooney said someone in Fabio's party took his picture and he gave them a "second finger salute." Fabio, who was dining with a bunch of ladies for "charitable" purposes (that means they paid to have lunch with him and some charity was supposed to get the $$), then went over to George's table to defend his companions' honor and told George to "Stop being such a diva." George responded with: "Takes one to know one." Or maybe it was "Na na na na, boo boo."

Anyway. Catfight ensued. Diva a diva.

They had to be pulled apart.

I can't believe nobody has blogged on this in the convertible. I mean, it's Fabio-- once the poster boy of Romance. Okay, not everybody liked him, or could even stand him, but he was identified heavily with our genre and appeared on the covers of TWO of my books!! So when I read the article on the dust-up between these two icons. . . well I was more than a little conflicted.

I mean, I've always liked Clooney. Even had the stray fantasy. . . ahem. But to think of him picking on Fabio, a poor little underprivileged immigrant boy. Wait a minute. The F-man made pots of cash in his heyday. Probably grossed more from my books than I made. Not to mention the family money he's lived on his entire life. Hmmm. Maybe he's not exactly underprivileged. Or underdeveloped. Then why does it seem George was being a jerk for picking on somebody twice his size?

In the news articles, they listed George's age as 46 and Fabio's as 48. And I took a good look at the once golden boy. No longer golden, folks. He's let his hair go back to its dark roots. And he's got lots of lines now. He looks. . . um. . . older. And he looks like he's got a few miles on him, too. Those squint lines from leaning down and saying "Huh?" all the time. On the other hand, George has the luck of the Irish (or the Gaelic, anyway) with a kind of "Sean Connery thing" going. He's all salt-and-pepper and aging handsomely. Not to mention, he's got at least two Academy Awards and legions of adoring fans. He's got a career, for pity's sake. Why does he have to be mean to poor old Fabio, whose claim to fame is a few now-ragged book covers and a moldy margarine commercial or two?

So what do you think? Who do you have more sympathy for, George or Fabio?






















There is a photo (I can't reproduce it here. Copyright issues.) which shows George displaying that crass digit. . . which means his photo was being taken. . . which he didn't appreciate. Some say it was a Fabio setup from the start. But do you really think Fabio would stoop to something as low as staging an incident to get his name in the tabloids and on blogs across America?

I mean, if Fabio is really that sensitive about his honor and his fans, he should have a few bones to pick with Pierce Brosnan, who did his trick-or-treating one year as Fabio Frankenstein! Don't believe me?


Then, I learned this isn't the first time George and the F-man have locked horns. They've exchanged words and shoves before! Learning that made me think the "set-up" talk had a bit more credibility.

But even if Fabio did try to make a little news. . . why does it still seem like such an uneven match? Is it because Fabio was a one-trick pony and never seemed overly bright or capable? Because there was always something a little odd and weak about his eyes. Because after charming a generation of American women with secret fantasies, the best he could do was a few margarine commercials? Because we liked him a lot better when he kept his mouth shut and didn't spoil the fantasy?

Have you seen the commercial on TV that shows a woman waking up to a much-aged Fabio? I nearly had a heart attack. . . until I realized they'd made him up to look that way. What was the most disturbing was that for a moment I actually thought he'd deteriorated that much! Then I realized, I was watching a male fantasy. . . the stud who made all women swoon, gone to seed and scaring the very women he once charmed. A little male revenge on all our delicious female fantasies.

What do you think? Who was the bigger horse's patoot? George or Fabio? Looking back, what do you think of the whole cover model phenomenon on the 90's? Did it serve a purpose? Do the Hollywood hunks of today serve much the same purpose as Fabio did?

Debra - Grading On the Curve

That's what we do. Grade what we see. Our experience. Our work. The work of others. (Which is way more fun. Usually.)

A thousand times a day we make quiet little judgments that steer our course. We toss a pebble and the ripple rocks a stranger. Often we aren't aware that we've made a rippling micro-decision. Other times we know what we decide will make a difference.

Judging contest entries by unpublished writers is one of those jobs that will rock strangers, perfectly lovely people who'd might not have ever entered a contest before and have just handed me their baby. Every time I agree to judge I swear I will be better. More lenient. Less blunt. And then the entries come and know that I can only be me. It's not an easy job. (Constructive judging, not being me.) Especially when a contest has a complicated score sheet, not a simple 1-10 scale. Instead of one judgment, I have what seems like millions.

Oh, I don't say evil things like, "A writer? Who you kiddin? Go back to day care." Nor to I subscribe to the hurtful useless Queen of the obvious remarks like, "I've never seen a more convoluted mess of a scene masquerading as a plot and so little understanding of grammar. Have you read a book or been to school at all?"

I don't subscribe to the theory that there is only one way to construct a book or a character. Every book is different. I have to remind myself that some books simply aren't books which will score well in contests but are fabulous books nonetheless. I probably value voice above all. And I've never given a critique that says, "Get that GMC book by Debra Dixon."

Sunday, I grabbed my large stack of entries, fluffed my favorite pillows, prepared to do my duty. I'd done several entries on planes recently but I still had over 10 to plow through. Critiquing is hard work. Start to finish, including my notes, it's about two hours per critique for me. Rare is the entry that you can simply lose yourself in their work, zoom through, and can award a perfect score. Also rare is the genuinely butt-ugly manuscript, especially in an RWA contest of some sort.

For my money, give me the fabulous entry or the awful entry. Give me a brilliant but fundamentally flawed manuscript. Anything but the middle-of-the-road-don't-hate-it-don't-love-it-perfectly-competent manuscript. This is such an industry of fairy dust. A writer needs something more than competency. For the awful manuscript an experienced judge can usually find something to suggest that will genuinely improve the manuscript. We can offer a light bulb moment. For the fabulous entry we can offer the kind of genuine delight in their work that might buoy them along in the hard times as they keep knocking on doors.

But what can you do for the competent manuscript? Writers will shoot you if you tell them, "Find your voice." "Bring something fresh to the table." "We don't fully connect with your characters."

Those are big rocks to throw and the fix always depends on the writer, the book, the genre. Not something I find easy to do in a contest entry scoresheet.

What are the critiques you hate to give? Which ones have you hated to get? For anything, not just writing. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.

Beowulf, sweet Beowulf. The movie version.

With more anticipation than skepticism, I hurried to the theater to see Beowulf 3-D last night.

And left with my 3-D goggles in a twist.

Fabulous cast. Tons of work. Staggering effects. Most of it lost on me. Apparently, I am one of those unfortunate people who don't visually register this form of 3-D well. The background kept popping out at me, while the characters (who were supposed to do the popping) stayed flat and in the background. Aghhhhh. I had heard this was eye-popping and fantastic "motion capture" technology. There was so much motion, my eyes never really adjusted and I was torn between watching with the 3-D glasses and taking them off and watching the fuzzy version.

Also. . . the characters, while sometimes interesting, look plasticized. GI Joe and Barbie in costume. They show only a fraction of the true range of emotion and character they need to show to make this any more than just a commercial for Hollywood's fx makers. And a poor commercial at that. I should definitely have gone for the regular, flat-screen version. But, I listened to the reviewers and the hype instead of my own good sense. $8.50 (the matinee price!!) wasted.

The animation/motion capture stuff distracted from the story and the main theme of the movie: "Pride goeth before a fall." And frankly, it was hard to watch studly Beowulf make such lousy choices and commit himself to a course we knew to be disastrous. Even worse, we didn't get to actually SEE the fall. Or even the consequences of it. A love story was referred to but otherwise omitted. It was as if they chopped out at least half an hour of scenes and plot to just hurry up with the ironic ending.

Sigh. I so wanted to love this movie. And I've seen 3-D that truly did have me dodging in my seat. . . at an IMAX theater. So I don't think it was just me. No one in my party-of-four had a good viewing experience. Someone suggested we might have fared better if we sat closer to the screen (we were mid-theater). Don't know. Don't intend to find out.

With such a stellar cast, it should have been wonderful. All that talent wasted.


And Ray Winstone who played Big B. . . I would have really loved to see him naked in the real. Instead, he looks waxy and unnatural most of the time. (This pic is as good as it gets. In fact, I don't recall him looking quite this good. But then, things WERE moving pretty fast.) And the longing looks between the lovers just made them look like they had bad astigmatism and were trying hard to focus. And poor Brendan Gleeson. . . he looked like an overgrown Hobbit. Brendan, of behalf of American Womanhood: we still love you!

At home, in bed, later, I began playing it in my head as a real live-action movie and it was so much better. I guess they have to try new things, but I'm at a loss to explain how they can possibly think this would be better than ordinary (magnificent) actors up on a screen and some killer special effects.

Shrug. Can somebody explain that to me? And if you go to see it. . . let me know what you think! Oh, and Angelina. . . was cool. . . very unreal. . . terrific femme fatale. Her character was the ONE that didn't suffer from being made into a cartoon. Was it my imagination that they actually ADDED weight to her bottom half to make her more sinuous and curvy? It may be the first time in the history of cinema that they actually enlarged a woman's bottom half!! And hey, was she wearing stilettos in that first scene? I could have sworn I saw stiletto heels!

The Silver Lining

Lois here.

Maybe you’ve heard the one about how dental practices have made astounding advances in the past decade or so. Maybe you’ve even fallen for that ‘pain free’ line they toss out with such glib cheerfulness.

But I had a root canal today and I’m here to tell you--it’s all lies. In my humble opinion (with the left side of my brain still half numb) dentistry remains in the dark ages. Instruments of torture are still strung out before one’s terrified eyes. Unfeeling practitioners still gleefully torment the unsuspecting. Moments of horror in an otherwise civilized world.

But…and here comes the clever portion of this blog…while I was sitting there, staring up the endodontist’s oversized nostrils and trying not to yank out his nose hairs, I thought of a mystery plot for a short story I promised to write. In the story…you guessed it… the endodontist is mysteriously…and probably quite painfully…killed.

Do you love it?

See? There is a silver lining to every cloud just like your mother told you. In fact, during my early days in the business…before I’d ever sold a single word…when I was gnawingly frustrated by my growing mountain of rejections, I used to give my vegetables editors’ names. Then I’d chop them up and cook them.

Anyone seeing a vengeful and perhaps demonic side of me? Or…are you just now beginning to realize the genius of my system? Huh? I’m just looking on the bright side. Seeing the glass half full. Squeezing lemonade out of the fruit of my… Well you get my drift.

Anyway, maybe you’ve recently discovered an upside you hadn’t noticed earlier? Or maybe you’ve learned to sew your own silver lining in the suit coat of life. Work with me here, people; I can’t feel my left eyeball.

The question

All righty, people, it's time to ask the serious question. I mean we've been paying homage to the fine soldiers, waxing over our favorite Xmas tunes, sympathizing with the television writers. All well and fine, but I have a burning question. I need to know! It's an age-old question (okay, so maybe a little less than two decades old). But it bears serious thought. And ladies, I promise, if you stick around and read the whole blog, there are treats at the end. Let me tell you, the research I did for today's blog was grueling. So without further verbiage...


Which do you prefer: Boxers or Briefs?

You have a favorite, you know you do. As far as I can determine, this became the hot question after basketball superstar Michael Jordan did a Hanes commercial in which a pair of ladies wondered coyly as to Jordan's preference. I don't remember his preference! Anyone?

The question resurfaced in the media during the 1994 MTV Rock The Vote campaign when one of the reporters offered presidential candidate, Bill Clinton that same choice. I couldn't find the answer; perhaps he dodged that one as he's been known to do with those intimate questions.


I know my preference, and I'll get to that soon enough. But before asking for votes I thought I'd do a brief history of er...briefs.

We can begin with the loin cloth. Cave man gear. Though I wonder if it could really be considered underwear since that is all they wore? Do you suppose they were fashioned of leather? Talk about chafing. And forget about wash and wear.

Around Medieval times the braies appeared. These were poufy, diaper-like linens that men wore with ties about the waist. When hose became popular, they would tie the hose (each leg was a separate piece) to the braies with metal-tipped points (ties). It all sounds so fussy. But then, one tug of a tie and voila! I imagine laundering was much easier for the lady of the house, much more preferable to the leather loin cloth. But I've heard the medieval sorts weren't keen on washing, so a man might wander about in his braies for weeks before deciding to go for a clean pair. Now doesn't that make those medieval romances sound all the sexier?

As hose became more popular and braies were left behind, the male of the species found himself wearing a single hose on each leg, tied around the waist, and the er, dangly bits were simply left to dangle beneath those long doublets. I wager it was a woman who came up with the idea for the codpiece, tied about the waist and to the hose. Of course, we can be sure it was a man who decided the stuffed codpiece was the way to go.

Despite my efforts, not a lot of info was available for the 17th-18th centuries, though a longer and snugger version of the braies was worn, or nothing at all beneath the breeches.

Victorian times saw the two piece undergarments, top and bottom, and the Industrial Revolution ushered in the union suits, which are what we think of as 'long johns' completely covering a person from wrist to ankle. Sexy! Not. Or—?

Not until the 1930s did boxers and briefs come into fashion thanks to elastic waistbands. It's also when the word 'underpants' was first entered into the dictionary.

Bikini type undies snugged into eyesight in the 1960s thanks to the invention of Spandex. [Note: It was not an easy task trying to find pics that would not offend or suggest too much of the brief's contents. So no bikini pics. But I trust you are all masters of Google. As am I. Did I mention grueling?]



Nowadays the variety of underwear is astounding. But I'll stick to boxers and briefs. Unless you prefer commando? What say you, all you Scottish kilt wearers? Yeah, that's Gerard Butler in a kilt and wearing a pink sweater while wielding a big-boy's hero sword. You're welcome.

Okay confession time. When I was first married The Hubby wore briefs. Not sexy briefs. Tighty whitey briefs. And anyone who's ever been privy to the legendary tighty whiteys knows they just don't stay tighty for long. Wash them a few time and they get stretchy and saggy and well, they just don't fit snug. Not a pretty picture. I pride myself on the fact that I weaned The Hubby from that hideous entry into the lexicon of male undergarments and he now wears my favorites: boxer briefs. Oh, that's your third choice. The boxer brief is the sexy combination of boxer-length with the snug brief fit. All my heroes wear them.

Now what about you? Briefs?



Boxers?




Boxer briefs?

Told you there'd be treats!

Did I mention the research today was grueling? There are hundreds of blogs dedicated to men's underwear. I mean, blogs that feature daily pics of men's underwear. I was fascinated. I was doing this in the name of research. I scrolled. I perused. I...slowly, but shockingly, realized all those blogs were owned by men. And then I quickly got myself back here to the convertible. Whew!

It was a tough job, people, but someone had to do it.
M

ps - Is it weird if I confess the man that does it the most for me, up above, is the cartoon Tarzan? :-)

Guest Author: Kay Stockham

I first met Superromance author, Kay Stockham, at last year's RWA conference. She was a RITA finalist for her second book, Man with a Past, and I was a total newbie geek. The Harlequin party was my first as a published author and Kay made me feel so welcome. Oh, and I'll never forget her shoes. LOL She wore theeeee most stunning black sandals I think I've ever seen. Spike heels, black satin ribbons ... I think she even danced in them.

Anyway, she's a truly lovely lady who writes wonderful books and knows her dress sandals! Here's Kay ...

Christmas Carols

First off I want to say a big thank you to Helen for inviting me on the cyber road trip in the convertible. I've always wanted a convertible. Give me hat, though. You don't want to see my naturally curly hair get the windblown look, trust me! I'd scare small children.

I actually took a short road trip not long ago and discovered some of my favorite music on the radio. Can you believe XM is already playing Christmas carols on their Holly station? I'm in heaven! I loooove Christmas carols. The cheeriness, the joy. The happy times. No matter the mood I'm in, certain carols can come on the radio and I'm humming along. Jingle Bells, Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer, Winter Wonderland, Santa Baby. You're humming them now, too, aren't you?

No, it's not even Thanksgiving yet---but I'll make a confession. As of Sunday evening we have our twelve-foot Christmas tree up in our great room. Yes, I'm one of those people. Forget Halloween and Thanksgiving (well, no, not really, but you know what I mean). For me, it's Christmas all the way, baby! LOL You can't get those ornaments and decorations out early enough for me because I LOVE Christmas and all its meaning.

Christmas is about hope and forgiveness and love. Who can't use more of that this time of year? That's part of the reason why I think A CHRISTMAS TO REMEMBER, my current release, means so much to me. It's a redemption story with an amnesia twist and I hope you'll check it out. For a sneak peek at the book video, go to www.kaystockham.com. It's on shelves now and if you pick it up, please drop me an email and let me know what you think.

But before you go check out the video, answer this:What are YOUR favorite Christmas carols? What gets you humming to beat at 3 AM when you hit the Black Friday sales? Share your favorites with us. I'll choose a name from those who post and they'll win a copy of A CHRISTMAS TO REMEMBER!

Thanks for letting me come play today. I soooo loved riding in the convertible!

Kay

SALUTE TO OUR VETERANS

Sunday was Veteran’s Day although it was observed yesterday. And yesterday, we had the wonderful Syrie James as our guest in the convertible. We have several veterans in our family and I’m proud and grateful to each one of them for their service. In honor of all who have served and of all who are currently serving I want to sharing the following tribute. It may be a day late, but it doesn’t negate the importance of recognizing their sacrifices.

WHAT IS A VETERAN?

Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye.

Others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg - or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity.

Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe
wear no badge or emblem. You can't tell a vet just by looking.

He is the cop on the beat or a fireman who spent six months in Saudi Arabia
sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't
run out of fuel.

He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown
frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four
hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel.

She - or he - is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep
sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang. He is the POW who went away one person and came back another - or didn't come back AT ALL.

He is the Quantico drill instructor who has never seen combat - but has
saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang
members into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.

He is the parade - riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals
with a prosthetic hand. He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.

He is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb Of The Unknowns, whose presence
at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all
the anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the
battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.

He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket - palsied now and
aggravatingly slow - who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes
all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares
come.

He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being - a person who
offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country,
and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice
theirs.

He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is
nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest,
greatest nation ever known.

So remember, each time you see someone who has served our country, just lean
over and say Thank You. That's all most people need, and in most cases it
will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were awarded.

Two little words that mean a lot, "THANK YOU".

"It is the soldier, not the reporter, Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet, Who has given us freedom of speech. It is
the soldier, not the campus organizer, Who has given us the freedom to
demonstrate. It is the soldier, Who salutes the flag, Who serves beneath the
flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to
burn the flag."

Father Denis Edward O'Brien/USMC

I hope these words touch you as much as it touched me.

Cindy

We've Got Two Winners!

The 2 contest winners from Syrie James' contest yesterday are:

mshellion

and

laura @ laura williams' musings

Please forward your snail mail addresses to Helen at helenbrenna@comcast.net.

Also, Syrie wanted to thank everyone who visited yesterday and tell everyone that she's hosting two other give-away contests at her website. So check out www.syriejames.com today!

Guest Author: Syrie James

Hey All,

I’m so excited to have Syrie James with us in the convertible. I first met Syrie at a mystery writers’ convention out east. She was, at the time, a successful screenplay writer but was hoping to break into the literary field. And now, just about eighteen months later, here she is, bursting onto the scene with a fabulous debut novel the world’s just dying to read.

So please help me welcome Syrie…and Jane Austen. :) Lois

Have you ever had to make a giant left turn on the road of life, only to discover that fate has led you to the best possible destination? They say that fate has a way of leading us in the direction we are meant to go; that when you fall off a horse, you have to pick yourself up and get right back in the saddle again. These maxims have certainly proved true for me in the story of how I came to write and sell my new book, “The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen”!

(Very cool note - this picture of Syrie was taken in front of Jane Austen's House/Museum (Chawton Cottage) in Hampshire, England!)

When I first decided to make a change and write books after a long career as a screenwriter, I thought I was supposed to be a thriller writer. I loved page-turning suspense and romance, and had what I hoped was a great idea for a medical thriller. Two years later, after an incredible amount of research, I had a completed novel and an agent in Manhattan who loved it. Despite her most ardent efforts, however, she was unable to sell it.

The rejection was heart-breaking … but I knew I couldn’t quit. When I wrote that novel, I felt as if I’d been starving for years, and had suddenly sat down to a feast. It was a joy to be set free from the restrictive format of a screenplay, to be able to describe thoughts and feelings, and people and places, and to write a scene that lasts longer than 2.5 minutes. I had a wonderful new literary agent who believed in me; I just had to pick a new genre and start all over again.

So I decided to write about Jane Austen.

I had majored in English in college, and traveled extensively throughout England. I’d read and loved all of Jane Austen’s novels, and I’d seen every Jane Austen movie or mini-series ever made, some many times over. But her life story was filled with gaps, and left me unsatisfied. I found it hard to believe that this brilliant woman, who gave the world such wonderful and romantic stories, never fell in love herself. I decided to write the book that I wanted to read: to give Jane Austen a deep and loving connection with the man who was her soul mate, even if, in the end (as in history), they were unable to marry.

I knew that Jane must tell the tale herself. We would meet Jane’s large and loving family, and her circle of friends; we would experience her thoughts and feelings, see her wrestle with her inner demons, and come to understand her writing process. The novel would be her private, recently discovered memoirs.

Once committed to this project, I realized that I had chosen, without a doubt, one of the most difficult possible stories to tell. Not only did I need to learn every single thing there was to know about Jane Austen’s life in England two hundred years ago—and become on intimate terms with everything she ever wrote—but I needed to find my way inside her head, read the secrets of her mind and heart, and (most daunting of all) write in her own, specific style. I had to sound exactly like her!

What on earth, you might ask, was I thinking? In terms of writing skill and enduring popularity, Jane Austen has been compared by many scholars and critics to Shakespeare. How could I dare to presume that I—a mere mortal, and a Californian, at that—could (if you will) channel her spirit? Couldn’t I pick something easier to write about, like maybe a contemporary soccer mom in Los Angeles?! But no, that would never do. I must write about Jane.

I decided that I had a few things going for me: an obsessive love of and familiarity with all things English; a love affair with Jane Austen; experience wrestling with my own writing demons and ambitions (which allowed me to feel an empathetic kinship with Jane); experience writing romance; and, apparently, a knack for reproducing the cadence, tone and language of a British author from a previous century.

Researching and writing the novel was a true labor of love. While I was writing, I only read works by or about Jane Austen, to keep her voice in my head. My husband and I went back to England on a self-guided “Jane Austen tour,” where we walked in Jane's footsteps. We visited all the places Jane lived, including Chawton Cottage, were she wrote or re-wrote all of her novels, and the major sites in her life and books—including the beautiful city of Bath, and charming Lyme Regis—where I walked on the Cobb (a location made famous in “Persuasion,” and of great importance in my novel.) We were even treated to a private tour of Godmersham Park, the huge estate which belonged to her wealthy brother Edward, which Jane loved and often visited. (See photo above/left.) An incredible experience!

Many moons later, “The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen” sold at auction, after a two-day bidding war between three major publishing houses. It has been exciting to go through the pre-production process, and to share in the evolution of the book’s cover and interior design. It’s a thrill to now see the book at bookstores and online, and to read the reviews from critics and messages on my website, www.syriejames.com. Apparently I’m not the only person who was dying to see Jane Austen have a romance of her own!

The other exciting news is that I just sold my next novel to Avon A/HarperCollins, “The Lost Memoirs of Charlotte Brontë,” (about one of my other favorite writers) which I’m busily engrossed in writing. I have learned, through this process, that the true secrets to success are the three P’s: passion, patience, and perseverance. And one more thing: there really is truth to that old adage, “dreams can and do come true for those who wait!”

Readers and Riders with the top down: have you ever had to make a giant left turn on the road of life, and ended up in a fabulous new direction? If so, share your stories! And if you have any questions for Syrie James, let her rip!

Bonus: Syrie is giving away free books to two lucky commenters; one book in a random drawing, the other to a blogger who agrees to review "The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen" on her website with a link back to her site. So if you have a website and would like to be included in the reviewer group, please put "reviewer" or something like at the end of your comment.

Ho, ho, ho

It snowed this morning. Didn't last long, but big, fluffy flakes that had my son (hatless and jacketless, of course) standing in the driveway with his face to the sky, cheering.

I also glanced at the calendar.

So the time is coming. The holidays, that is. Most of which will be at my house this year, because my two oldest work retail part-time and their schedules are easier if we take driving out the equation.

I love the holidays, I really do. But I don't love the madness, the sense that I'm running as fast as I can to try and get everything done.

So this year, I'm determined to pare it down. To keep the things that really matter, the things I truly enjoy, and get rid of the rest.

So how do you do it? I've tried a couple of times to do the pre-made meals, and it just doesn't do it for me. Heating all that stuff up is almost as much work as cooking, and my stuffing and gravy are simply better. (Any suggestions on particular shortcuts that work great, easy dishes that are always a hit, are much appreciated.)

I've happily given up much actual, in the flesh shopping. Thank Santa for the internet.

A real life Christmas tree is non-negotiatiable. I'd rather not have one, or have a really tiny one, than have a fake. (This is a point of disagreement between me and the dh. Some time I'll tell you about the year of the Great Christmas Tree War.) But I'm thinking about not hauling out the other decorations; we just redecorated, and I'm still admiring my new decor.

Hmm . . . I've mostly given up making Christmas cookies. I like to bake, but there's really nobody to eat them. (I refuse to consider calories on the actual days of the holidays, but we simply can't do that for a month. Not and still ski down the hill, rather than roll, when we head for the slopes after Christmas.)

What about you? Any good hints and tips for making the next months memorable but not crazy? What's a "must" for you, and what have you let go of?

Susie, who is reading a pile of Mary Balogh Christmas novellas. Is there anyone who does that better than she does?

Christie Says: Turn Off the TV, Pick Up a Book!

The Writer’s Guild of America is on strike, in case you didn’t know. The WGA represents 12,000 workers who write scripts for TV and film. This is what’s at issue: How writers will be paid for their stories which will air on “new media” such as the web. The WGA wants residuals (these are the what we call royalties in print publishing) and, like royalties, is a kind of deferred payment that WGA writers get when a TV show they wrote is run and/or re-run. What they’re asking for is to be paid when their work airs, whether it’s via TV or at the movie theater or via the internet. Currently, studios are showing full episodes on their websites that the viewer pays nothing for, the writer gets nothing for, but the studio or the network get advertising dollars for through sold advertising on their site.

This isn’t like the print-publishing practice of giving away Advanced Readers Copies to gain word of mouth. In that case, publishing houses don’t get paid either—and there’s a limited number available. This is a case of the networks/studios, in the words of the immortal Dire Straits (in a song, ironically, about the music industry), “getting something for nothing and chicks for free.”

The other side claims that the “new media” is too new to come up with a model of fair payment for writers, but the fact is, the WGA is asking for a percentage of their profit. If the studios/networks see nothing from these new platforms, then the writers see a percent of nothing. Oh, and let’s not forget writers want an increase in their share of DVD sales. 8 cents instead of the current 4 cents per unit. How greedy! (They offered to give up on this demand over the weekend but the cold rejection from the other side made them re-think their submission.)

There’s a whole lot of places on the web to read about this and what’s at stake. As a working writer and TV viewer, I think it’s important to know that the average Writers Guild of America member makes 5k a year on their writing. Again, that’s an average. So yes, a few make lots more—yet they too believe it’s important to fight for these issues.

Joss Whedon (of "Buffy" fame) commented on the website whedonesque.com about the strike and what he had to say really hit home to me. Many people don’t understand how hard writing is. They think because it’s “art” it’s fun. But it’s important too. He says:

“…human awareness is all about story-telling. The selective narrative of your memory. The story of why the Sky Bully throws lightning at you. From the first, stories, even unspoken, separated us from the other, cooler beasts. And now we’re talking about the stories that define our nation’s popular culture – a huge part of its identity. These are the people that think those up. Working writers.”

If they’re denied the ability to make a decent living, there won’t be new stories, new shows, new films. So let’s support them. Okay, and book writers too! Turn off the TV until the strike ends and pick up a book instead.

I’m opening Tara Janzen’s (recently riding here), ON THE LOOSE. Tell me what you’re reading this week!