a half a million for plagiary

Ever since I read Regine Desforge's 'The Blue Bicycle' I've had a horror for plagiarism. Ms. Desforges is a French author who, unable to think of her own story, basically translated Gone with the Wind into French, transposing it at the same time to the second world war.
And now, a young Harvard student has been accused of copying a book by a popular YA author. She proclaims her innocence, but the paragraphs side by side are damning. And so is the advance she recieved - a half a million dollars. I sometimes wonder if the publishing business has all its marbles.
After Frey now Kaavya Viswanathan, who, although a Haraverd student, is too stupid to think of her own plot or write her own book, but instead lifts the plot and even the dialogue and prose word for word.
Of course, Ms. Viswanathan denies everything, claiming she was "very surprised and upset" to learn that there were similarities between some passages in her novel and passages in the other books.
Lifted from 'The New York Times' is one example of the similarities:

At one point in "Sloppy Firsts," Ms. McCafferty's heroine unexpectedly encounters her love interest. Ms. McCafferty writes:
"Though I used to see him sometimes at Hope's house, Marcus and I had never, ever acknowledged each other's existence before. So I froze, not knowing whether I should (a) laugh, (b) say something, or (c) ignore him and keep on walking. I chose a brilliant combo of (a) and (b).

" 'Uh, yeah. Ha. Ha. Ha.'

"I turned around and saw that Marcus was smiling at me."

Similarly, Ms. Viswanathan's heroine, Opal, bumps into her love interest, and the two of them spy on one of the school's popular girls.

Ms. Viswanathan writes:
"Though I had been to school with him for the last three years, Sean Whalen and I had never acknowledged each other's existence before. I froze, unsure of (a) what he was talking about, or (b) what I was supposed to do about it. I stared at him.

" 'Flatirons,' he said. 'At least seven flatirons for that hair.'

" 'Ha, yeah. Uh, ha. Ha.' I looked at the floor and managed a pathetic combination of laughter and monosyllables, then remembered that the object of our mockery was his former best friend.

"I looked up and saw that Sean was grinning."


I saw a couple other examples over at the 'Boston Globe'. What pisses me off is not that the silly girl is denying it - who would admit to such a thing? Of course she's going to try to pass it off as 'her subconscious tricked me' or some such tripe. What pisses me off the most is this: I read a lot, and I write a lot, and I would know if I copied someone's story and book. I'd know if the plot were similar, and if I'd read the book, as she claimed, I'd sure as hell know if I copied a phrase. Or two (there are 13 of these such incidences in her book, and it's not even a very big book.)

So this is what should happen. She gives the advance back. The publisher stops printing the book. If she's a good author she'll write something else, hopefully her own work. If she sucks, like I think she sucks, we'll never see her again.
One can only hope, at any rate. And No, I am not going to buy her book out of 'curiosity'. There are enough scammers out there making money off honest people as it is.
(End of rant, back to our previous program...)

Agent query Spam

Miss Snark may have found the source of the annoying e-mail queries so many agents have been complaining about lately.
Of course, I couldn't resist taking a peek and imagining all the letters this machine must churn out. For some reason, I received a couple query letters from authors wanting me to represent them. Since I'm not an agent, I wrote back telling them they must have made a mistake. I think now that the letters must have been generated by something like this program, because if memory serves me, the letter I got went something like this: (there were no bold words but it was easy to imagine the spaces to fill in the blanks)

Dear Sir or Madame Jennifer Macaire (this should have been a tip off right there - I don't know many Sir's named Jennifer, but I gave this author the benefit of a doubt and read on - after all - he could be foreign.)

I have written a fantasy novel called 'the Queen of the Ring' and I was hoping you would be interested in looking at it. It's a sword and sorcery tale with lots of adventure and humor. I think this book will be a best seller in the fantasy genre because it closely resembles Lord of the Rings, which as you know, was a huge success. (well, at least he got his genre straight.)

I think you are the right agent for me because I like your agency. (agency? What agency?)

My writing experience: None, but every famous author had to start somewhere! (Yes, and most started with rejections.)

Can I send my manuscript to you by e-mail or do you prefer snail mail and hard copy?

Thank you for your kind consideration,
Nit Wit


Dear Nit Wit,
This is Jennifer Macaire's computer replying. I'm sorry for the computer generated response to your computer generated query letter, but Jennifer has too many important things to do this morning, including getting her coffee brewed just right and writing two chapters on her WIP. Yes, you dim-wit, you sent a query letter to an author, and while she sympathizes with your plight (she was once in your shoes; just starting out and sending out query letters) at least she took the time to write her query letter herself and make sure the agent she was sending it to really had an agency.
Rejections are never happy things, but I, (Jennifer's computer) am chuckling over this one. If you can't be bothered to write a query letter, which is your first contact with a person who is supposed to love your work and represent you, then why on earth should anyone be bothered to read what you really have written? Luckily, I, Jennifer's computer (you can call me Sam) intercepted your sorry excuse for a query and took the time to reply. Not that you even deserve it. At any rate, we are not looking for fantasy books at this time. Jennifer is writing a novel and needs research about bridges. If you have any non-fiction about the history of bridges let us know.
Please do not send anything by e-mail. If you do send your manuscript snail mail, make sure there is absolutely nothing on any of the papers and that the paper is good quality, 80 g/m2 white, and virgin. Do not print or write anything on it; we don't want to read your tripe but paper is always running low here as Jennifer's kids all love to draw.
Jennifer is busy right now, otherwise I'm sure she'd love to reply herself. I know from experience she likes to help aspiring authors, but what she says about the spam she gets in her e-mail would carbonize your manuscript. If you want her to give you some advice, take mine: next time don't use a computer program to speak for you.
Sincerely yours,
Sam

Tom's diary

Tom's diary.
I found this lying on the sidewalk the other day and shamelessly copied it into my blog.

Monday. Day named after the Norse god Odin. So why isn't it Odinday? I'll have to ask Ron, he knows everything. Katie is a real trooper. She gets up and nurses the baby every five hours around the clock and never complains. She constantly amazes me. I have to look up the baby's name again because I forgot it. I know it means two different things, and one of them is Princess. Why didn't we just name her Princess? Much easier to remember. Note to self - write baby's name on arm with pen until it sinks in.
Katie didn't make a sound during the birth, we were so proud. She hasn't actually made a sound since, come to think about it, but that's all right - the baby screams enough for the both of them. Note to self - send maid out to buy earplugs so I can get a decent night's sleep tonight.
Katie can have them when the baby is weaned. And sleeping through the night.
Princess, I mean baby, is still screaming. Yesterday we found out that it was due to something called colic. Katie was crying, so I don't know if she paid attention. I'll have to get the scientologist doctor back in again so he can lecture her about that - she has to learn to pay attention.
I'm so glad she's a trooper. I don't know what I'd do if she went all sissy on me and had a depression and needed a shrink. Luckily she converted to scientology so she understands the futility of depression and shrinks. I told her that baby blues didn't exist. It's all in a woman's head, I told her. She just looked at me with her adoring eyes and agreed. What a trooper! Get them young and malleable said the scientologist priests to me, when I told them I was thinking about giving up on women all together. They knew what they were talking about. Those older women have too many preconceived ideas. My first wife was too butch, my second wife was too sucessful, Penelope didn't want to convert...Only Katie understands me.
It's getting hard to concentrate with all the crying going on. I think I'll move into the den.
Later.
Called Nicole and asked if the other two kids ever had colic. She reminded me we adopted them already weaned and toilet trained. I asked her what toilet trained meant and she said something cryptic. I'll have to copy that to Ron. He knows everything. I'm pretty proud of myself, I used the word cryptic in a sentence. I was reading one of Ron's books the other day and came across it. Very cool. I think I'll insist on it being in my next script, and why not part of the title as well?
The house is finally quiet. Katie just came downstairs for some of her special diet we fixed up for her. She still isn't talking to me. She'll get over it. She always does. She's such a trooper.

The McGuyver Haircut

Sunshine - check. Dishes done - check. Bed made - check. Laundry done - almost, lol. Since when is laundry ever done? Well, I guess I can blog bit.

I was remembering a story about when my son cut his hair like McGuyver the other day (I think I was reading Jona's blog) He came downstairs with his hand on his forehead and started to eat, and I said, "Take your elbow off the table and your hand off your forehead," and he did, and I gasped. No more bangs. Cut right up to the scalp. Hair sticking straight up all the way across the front and top.

"I wanted to look like McGuyver," he said, and right then I started to hate the mullet cut. I was upset. My son had thick, straight blond hair and it had to be cut into a brush cut to even it all out. I did not like the army look one bit.

Well, I laughed about it a month later when we went to Japan. We stopped off in England at a friend's house and was telling the story - and we actually all laughed about it. My friend, who was American too, thought it was hysterical my son wanted to look like McGuyver. She held her little five year old daughter in her lap, and played with her long, black curls. "My Jenny would never do that, would you?" she asked, and the little girl said, "Never!"

We went off to Japan together for a polo tournament, and the next week we were back in England, and our friend's nanny met us at the door and said, "remember that story that made you all laugh about the little boy?" Turns out my friend's daughter had decided to cut her hair while we were gone, and the little girl had cut herself a McGuyver cut too. She said she liked McGuyver the best, and wanted to look like him too.

We left the next day and the mother was still crying.
I told her she'd laugh about it in a month.
She did not look convinced.

Spring

It's definitely spring now. Today it was so warm we were out in tee-shirts, and the air is balmy and full of pollen (I keep sneezing, lol). There are tulips now, bright, red, waxy tulips, and iris, with their surprising lemony scent and frosty petals. I love spring for its flowers, and because I can leave the back door open and the kids and dogs can run in and out. I even think that the bumblebees who get lost and blunder about the dim hallway before getting tangled in my lace curtains are sweet, and I carefully untangle them to set them free. I love the deep buzzing they make, like minature airplanes. Some are black, and look like flying teddybears, and some are bright orange. Both kinds are fuzzy and surprisingly heavy and gentle. I've never been stung by one. (Do bumblebees sting, I wonder?) It's too early for wasps, and the flies have just woken up and are a bit dazed.
My daughter just came in with a tiny frog cupped in her hands. She wants to keep it overnight. I said all right - but just over night.
She'll put it in the same plastic box as the lizard, I suppose, with some water. More proof of spring!

Breaks and fat babies

I'm taking a break. I finished edits and then thought about it for a while. Then I went over the whole thing once more and found a few more spots to be sanded smooth. I usually wait 24 hours after I finish edits before sending off a book. I learned this after a rather burlesque back and forth e-mail frenzy with one editor. Now I finish, wait, re-read, rewrite, and then reread once more before I hit send. Nothing more aggravating than hitting 'send' and finding a new adn wonderful silly typo in your text.
As you can tell from my blog typos I do not do that with my blog posts. In fact, I tend to rush through these as they areoften spur of the moment posts like this, brought on by a brain melt-down (I've been writing for ten hours and I need a BREAK!) or, as in this case, pictures of my new neice. She is adorable, blond, blue-eyed, cuddly, calm, and horribly obese. I want to take my brother and shake him silly. A six month old baby should not look like a weeble. (Weebles wobble but they don't fall down.) Babies should have necks. They should have knees and ankles. Will someone please tell this family to stop stuffing this child? The worse thing is I absolutely adore my brother. And I'm going to see the bundle of joy in a few months. I can just imagine how much fatter she'll get. A chubby baby is cute. A fat baby just looks stuffed - as if it might explode any second. And she was such a beautiful newborn. *sigh* I suppose it really isn't my problem. I am just the aunt. And I suppoes also that saying anything will just make everyone uncomfortable. And angry. After all - children are like your books. You hate any sort of criticsm, just look at authors comments when they get a bad review. You'd think someone said their baby was fat, for heaven's sake.
So, there are some things I will never do.
Never tell my brother his baby is fat.
Never tell a reviewer she or he is a bad reviewer because they didn't 'get' my book.
Never tell an agent/publisher "Look, you passed on this project but so and so took it!" (after all - it could go on to be a Resounding Flop)
(I just read this on an agent's blog and I was astounded. People actually do this?)
I will also never go bungy jumping, but that is because I'm a chicken and has nothing to do with manners.

A bit busy lately!

So sorry I haven't posted, I've been a little busy. I got edits back from my agent and wanted to finish those, and I'm determined to finish May's story before I head off to Germany.

Number one son is getting ready to join the volontary fire department. He has had lots of meetings and tests, and soon will be starting training. He's excited. Number two son is in the US in college and had an infection - went to the hospital, and got a 700$ bill. Thank goodness we were insured. My question is, how do Americans do it???

My daughter is on vacation and her cousin is here visiting. It's nice to have the two girls, they entertain each other and get along famously.

I have an English lesson this morning - so I'm off to find some books to read with my student!

Have a lovely day!

Kate made me do it...

Toot my horn, that is. She's been posting about the importance of promotion, and I was so happy about the kind comments I got about 'Angels on Crusade', I decided to continue. (I know you don't come to my blog to hear about my books, lol. You come for stories about personal trainers in my cereal box...) but today I just got word that Virtual Murder is available at Powells!

(here is the note I got in my e-mail this morning!)

Psst!
Virtual Murder
by Jennifer Macaire
is now available in TRADE PAPER at $14.95. To learn more about the book, please proceed to:

http://www.powells.com/cgi-bin/check_avail?inkey=61-1596321520-3&title=Virtual%20Murder&author=Macaire%2C%20Jennifer

Your best chance to get this book is to order it online immediately -- phone or
walk in ordering will not be as effective as the lightning fast power of the
internet!

OK - a word or two about this book. It's science fiction, it's not romance, although it's pretty hot and sexy, lol. It's for ages 16 and up. It was a finalist for the EPPIES and in the paperback version it's paired with a never-before-published novella called 'A World Between' that is more romance but is definitely sci-fi and is a really, really cool story if I may say so myself.

Here is an excerpt of Virtual Murder:

CHAPTER ONE

Where are you off to, lady? For I see you,

You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

~Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

He had blond hair, bleached almost white by salt water, and turquoise chips for eyes. Dressed in the Virtual Tours uniform of khaki shorts and a white button-down Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he also wore a whistle around his neck for no other reason than aesthetics. A red bandana flirted insolently out of his back pocket.

He put one hand over his eyes, shading them from the bright sun. With the other, he motioned to the gangplank, calling in a loud voice, "Welcome to Virtual Tours. I'm Mitch, your tour guide for this leg of the voyage. This way, ladies, please watch your step. The boat will be leaving in five minutes. Take your assigned seats. The number on your ticket corresponds to the seat number, clearly indicated on the front of each chair. Can I help you, ma'am? That's right, third seat on the left. You'll have a magnificent view of the island as we cruise by Redhook."

When all the tourists were boarded, he waved to the captain and jumped into the cabin. He strolled down the aisle, making sure everyone was seated. Pausing in front of a woman wearing a red sundress, he flashed a brilliant smile. "Hello, Rhonda. I saw you in the sending room at the tour headquarters. I hope you have a pleasant trip. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask."

Rhonda blushed and leaned over to the woman next to her. "My, isn't he a nice-looking man?"

The woman smiled at her in a conspiratorial manner. "They're all gorgeous! The Virtual Tours Agency goes out of its way to please their clients, in this case overworked career women, like us."

"I still can't get over it. I feel exactly as if I'm sitting on a boat, speaking to you. I can even smell suntan lotion, sea air, and the diesel fuel from the boat's engines. I'm having a hard time believing it's all an illusion!" Rhonda gave an amazed laugh.

"Okay, I'll prove it. What seat are you in?" the woman asked.

"The first seat on the left, window seat, with plenty of leg room and a superb view. Why do you ask? You're sitting right next to me, in the aisle."

"No, dear. I'm sitting in the first seat on the left, next to the window, and you're sitting on the aisle. We both asked for the same seat, and the Virtual Tours gave it to us."

"Well, I'll be! I'm Rhonda, by the way, from Nashville. You must be a regular virtual-traveler. It's my first trip," she said with a nervous smile.

"My name's Veronique. I'm from Paris," she said. "If you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask. I've been doing these trips for three years now, once every six months."

"That's wonderful." Rhonda settled back in her seat. "Oh, look at that view! The sailboats in the harbor, the sunlight sparkling on the waves and the islands in the distance, it's all so romantic. I can't wait to get to Tortola. I'm staying in the Sea Cow Hotel. Are you staying there too?"

"No, I'm going on to Virgin Gorda, but I've been to the Sea Cow. It's wonderful. Ask for the stuffed grouper, it's divine."

"How do they make everything seem so real?" asked Rhonda.

"Everything is real, in a way. Even this boat, the 'Bomba Charger', is an actual ferryboat making its way from St. Thomas to Virgin Gorda, stopping in Tortola. It's extremely sophisticated from what I gather, which is why virtual tourism costs nearly as much as a real trip does."

"It's a two-week adventure, with all food and drinks included in the deal!" quoted Rhonda.

"You're getting everything intravenously, chérie, don't forget. And in reality, it only lasts for two days. On your virtual trip, you won't sleep but a few minutes a 'night', although you'll feel as if it's been a full, eight hours. We won't get stiff either; electrodes take care of stimulating our muscles for us while we sleep."

"I know," Rhonda giggled. "I was nervous when they explained that part to me. I hate thinking of my body lying back at the institute, with all those wires and tubes in it. But I always wanted to go to the Caribbean, and this seemed like the perfect plan."

"It's a great idea. Especially for people like me, who work practically non-stop. You cram two weeks into only two days. I feel so refreshed after these trips. I'm even more relaxed and toned than after a real vacation, believe me. The scenery is unspoiled, no waiting in dreary lines, and we can do anything we want from scuba diving to hang-gliding in total security. Our guides take care of our slightest wish."

"Our slightest wish?" Rhonda felt a spark of interest and twisted in her seat to get a better look at the blond man. "Do we get to ask them out on dates?"

"No!" Veronique shook her head emphatically. "You can't even get near them. I've tried, believe me. But they don't let you touch them; it's against Tour rules. It's frustrating, especially at the beach, when they're strolling around in their bathing suits." She sighed. "But there are other people. I've met a few other tourists and even dated one for a while after I got back from the virtual trip."

"You exchanged names and addresses?"

"Of course."

"And he wasn't, you know, disappointed?" Rhonda asked.

"Why?" Veronique sounded amused. "Don't tell me you've chosen a virtual body for your trip?"

Rhonda nodded, reddening. "I'm not as young as this! When the tour operator asked for a photo of me, I sent them one of me in my twenties. I wanted to feel young again. It's amazing what the brain can do. I feel as if I've gone back in time." She hesitated a moment. "Forgive me if I'm being rude, but...is that your real body?"

Veronique shrugged. "Give or take a few pounds, wrinkles and gray hairs. It's true our brains can imagine us young again, but we can't choose a completely different body. It would be impossible to keep up the illusion. As soon as we saw something that captured our attention, we'd change back to the body our brain was familiar with. That's why the tour guides are all so young and handsome in real life, too." She winked at Rhonda. "You'll meet many people on your virtual trip. The trick is learning which ones are real and which are simply computer-generated images. There's nothing as embarrassing as finding out you're flirting with a figment."

"A figment?"

"That's what people created from a computer program are called. Real people's projections are called virtuals."

Rhonda was dismayed. "How can I tell the difference between a figment and a virtual? I thought everyone was based on a real person!"

"Well, figments usually wear white uniforms. The best way to be sure is to ask, but if you don't want to appear rude, just ask if he's been on many trips before. A figment will reply that he's part of the program."

"I can't thank you enough for your advice," said Rhonda. "Can you touch someone in this, um, world?"

"Of course. Try, touch my arm!" Veronique grinned, patting her arm.

Rhonda reached over and touched her forearm. She could feel everything-the woman's skin, her gold bracelet and even the fine hairs on her arm. "Amazing," she murmured. "How do they do it?"

"Sensor devices, implants. It's all done through the brain, all highly sophisticated. You'll taste the food, feel the sand on the beach, splash in the ocean and burn in the hot sun. The only thing that isn't the same is making love." Veronique lowered her voice. "As you probably have heard, it's a Net prohibition. It's about as exciting as filing your nails."

OK - I wanted to add that the whole first chapter is on excerpt at my website www.jennifermacaire.com - just click on 'My Books' and 'Virtual Murder'
Thanks!!

Easter time again...

(a photo of 'les Grands Chartreuses' monestary in Isere, France)

Well, it's Easter time again! Lent is drawing to a close, and spring is here. I can wake up now and leave the back door open, letting in a nice breeze instead of an icy wind.

Today I'm spring-cleaning the house and my son is going to mow the garden...(he doesn't know this yet...) So that tomorrow everything is sparkling clean. My husband is in the south of France and won't be back until Monday. He's playing polo there in the sunshine - lucky!

It's vacation and everything seems to have slowed down. The village is very quiet. A lot more people go off on vacation now than at Christmas time. The roads are better, there is still snow in the alps, and springtime is lovely anywhere - at the shore or in the mountains. We spent Easter break at the sea-shore one year and it really was lovely. France had a wonderful coastline - from the rocky shores of Brittany to the high cliffs and large sandy beaches in Normany, and the south, of course, with its deeply scalloped coastline with alternating sandy beaches and rocky bays. And although swimming is still out, it's warm enough for kids to wade, catch crabs, and play in the warm sand.

In the alps there is still snow at the highest ski stations, and lower down there are lovely hikes to take around steep trails to see old castles and monestaries hidden in the valleys. We went to see 'les Chartreuses' one year in the spring. The monks were just moving the cows from the winter stables to the first level pastures, and there was no sound but the cows lowing and the birds chirping, because the monks of the Chartreuse monestary have taken a vow of silence. And along the trail are signs asking for hikers to respect the quiet and not speak. So the whole valley in encased in a deep silence. It's quite lovely.

At any rate, have a wonderful Easter weekend no matter where you spend it!

Angels on Crusade

An Excerpt From: ANGELS ON CRUSADE

Copyright © SAMANTHA WINSTON, 2005.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

The nurse in charge of freezing my molecules inserted a glowing needle into my arm and had me count backwards from ten. I got to zero and stared at her, perplexed. “Now what?”

“Again.”

I obeyed without question. Ten years of prison had left their mark.

Then a cold wave washed through me. I felt my blood freeze. No one had told me it would be so painful. My teeth chattered and the place where the needle was inserted into my arm ached and ached. The pain grew. Frost bloomed in silver flowers on my hands and face.

The pain was so intense I passed out. My last thought before I fainted was wry. The program was going to lose their corrector. I was dying.

* * * * *

I didn’t die. I woke up lying on my back in the middle of a large mud puddle. Rain pelted my face, and my body convulsed with painful tremors. For several minutes, I felt so awful I wished I had died.

Groaning, I rolled over and propped myself up on my forearms. My clothes were drenched and filthy. I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t hold me. I crawled off the road and collapsed behind a large bush. I had no idea why I’d been beamed into the middle of a road. I could have been killed. I looked closer at the road and sighed. If anything were going to come down it, it would probably be an ox plodding before a heavy farm cart. The farmer would have been able to stop in time.

Unlike me. I hadn’t been able to stop my car in time. I’d killed a child, and I’d been punished with life in a reproduction prison where I spawned one hundred and twenty possible children. Every month an ovule was taken from my body and fertilized and the egg was implanted into an artificial womb. For ten years, I reproduced. I lay on a metal table once a month and donated an ovule, and in between, I worked at the prison library, copying ancient paper books onto gel matrix for safekeeping.

Then I’d been given a choice. Go back in time and change a mistake, or continue to live in a prison, in solitude, where my only jobs had been to produce eggs and reproduce books.

My mission now lay before me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember exactly what it was I had to do. Unfortunately, there seemed to be an empty space in my brain where all that information was supposed to be. I couldn’t remember the first thing about it. I shivered with panic and cold. If my mission failed, the Time Correction Foundation, the omnipotent TCF, would erase this portion of time and I’d be erased along with it.

I took several deep breaths and calmed my nerves. All right. It was coming back to me. I had to convince a young boy not to join the ill-fated Eighth Crusade and therefore save the future crown of France.

I huddled in the gorse bush and wiped the mud off my dress as best I could with my hands and thought of my mission. It had all happened because of a mistake. Time travel was reserved for a select few—highly trained journalists chosen to go back in time and interview famous people. The journalist who’d caused the error I’d been sent to correct had spoken of the crusade in front of a boy who should never have heard about it.

The careless man had taken holograms, as the regulations instructed, but he hadn’t checked to make sure nobody else listened to his interview with Queen Marguerite. Jean de Bourbon-Dampierre had been near enough to hear. On the hologram, he looked up from his reading as the journalist began to speak. Because of what he’d overheard, the boy had slipped out of his bedroom one night and run away to join a ragtag gaggle of youngsters on their way to save Jerusalem.

Jean would not do anything of note during his life, but his descendants would eventually rule France. By running away, he changed the course of history dramatically. I was supposed to find him and bring him back. If I succeeded, I’d be allowed to live the rest of my life in the thirteenth century. If not, I’d be erased, along with all the mistakes the journalist had wrought in only two sentences.

Just two little sentences which had been approved for the interview, for the queen, but not for Jean de Bourbon-Dampierre, visiting with his mother and sister at the court. “My Queen Marguerite, what have you heard of the crusade your husband, the king of France, has embarked upon? What about the group of youths calling themselves crusaders who have nearly reached the sacred Cathedral?”

The words had echoed weirdly around the room, and that evening Jean packed his meager belongings in a leather bag and clambered nimbly down a castle wall in search of adventure and a way to get out of his Latin studies.

The personal trainer in my cereal

I bought my regular package of sugarless fruit and fibre cereal and lo and behold, there was an exercise CD within. I decided it was fate - it's vacation here and my gym class won't start for another two weeks. So, I put my gym clothes on, moved the coffee table, and put the CD in my computer. First two little cartoon heads came on - Monique and Dave - and they told me about my new gym program - complete with a healthy diet (consisting mainly of the sugarless cereal, I imagine. I sort of skipped that part.) Then they asked me some questions about my height, weight, age, etc. Being a pathological liar, I put down:

Name - Princess Noodle (now everyone knows what name I use in the gaming sites)

Age - 25 (of course!) (d'oh!)

Height - 175 cm. (a lie, a lie!)

Weight - 55 kilos (an even bigger lie - oh, I'm in for it now.)

I hit enter and waited for Monique and Dave to die laughing. They didn't. The cartoon talking heads then asked me to peruse their profiles and Choose One of them as my Personal Trainer! (gasp - my own personal trainer from a cereal box!) I chose Dave, only because he was cuter than Monique (who needed something done with her hair) and in his profile the word 'fun' appeared more often than the word 'serious', which Monique used too much for my comfort. So, I chose Dave and Monique whined something about being disappointed but if I changed my mind, she was always there...which kind of creeped me out for a minute until I remembered they were just cartoons on a CD. OK.

I then got to fill out my schedule with this little calendar I keep on my desktop which will beep or do something annoying to remind me "It's Time to Exercise with Dave!" (Oh, I wish.) Anyhow, I finish that and then chose the "Exercise Now!" button. Let's Go!
Dave appears, all buff and holding a whistle and a towel - he looks like a life-guard. He tells me that my training session is divided into three parts, the warm-up, the work-out, and the stretching. I hit warm-up and off we go. Dave says, "Stand up straight. Lift knees as if marching in place." I wait for him to do it along with me, but he only does it once and stops. Some trainer. I do that for about two minutes and switch to warm up number two. Something about deep knee bends. Then I click, click, click ahead to see what joys await me and see sit-ups, leg-lifts, etc. etc. I'm disappointed. Dave is no fun at all. Where are the aerobics and rock music?

So, I keep Dave on the computer while I load Bon Jovi on my cassette player and off I go. I decide to try to remember my work out from the gym. I start with the easy step-touch. OK - that's fine. But what does my teacher do next? And what do I do with my arms? I can't remember. I realize that during gym my brain switches off and I simply copy what the teacher does like a mindless robot. I move my arms up and down (I feel like I'm about to take off) and my daughter comes in, sits down with the dog in her lap and watches for a few minutes. I put some extra effort into my moves, hoping to impress my daughter with the importance of a good work-out.

"Mom," she says after about five minutes. "You're traumatizing the dog."

Over on the computer screen, Dave watches impassively. I'm starting to like him better than my daughter. "Don't you have any homework?" I puff, as I step-touch and wave my arms.

After half an hour I'm tired and do my sit-ups with Dave cheering me on, then my stretches, with Dave offering advice (don't strain yourself. If it hurts, you're doing it wrong.) Oh, well then, I better stop Everything! I finish my 40 minute work out and turn Dave off. He waves goodbye and says, 'See you soon!'

Maybe Dave. Maybe.

Miss Snark's contest

Miss Snark's contest is over, and the winnner is Stephan with entry Number 12 - very fun entry! (you can read it here - along with the other entries. I particularly recommend number 77 if you like Harrty Potter X rated, lol!) Mine actually got to be a finalist, so I'm pleased as can be. The competition was stiff and the rules daunting...But we all had fun!

http://misssnark.blogspot.com/

Here's mine:

TRY OUT HITTERS

“Drop everything and give me ten bucks,” said galleycat. “I'll get you out of this mess.”

“No.” I was going through with it. I spit on my hands, picked up the bat, and strode out to the pitch.

“Bat Segundo!” came the call from the ump.

The crowd looked at me from down their long noses, but I pretended not to notice.

“This isn’t for the likes of you,” yelled a man in the stands.

I wanted to tell him he looked like a terrapin, but the ball was streaking toward me and I closed my eyes and swung with all my might.

I connected with the ball and felt the shock right down to my toes. The ball streaked towards the stands and whistled over the crowd so low they had to duck. I’d hit it completely wide.

“Strike one!” called the ump.

Titters from the crowd.

I gritted my teeth and tapped the bat in the dust.

“Your mother wears army boots!” Got I was tired of that old snark. My best friend galleycat usually stuck up for me in a muddle. But in this crowd of promenading poodles he was strangely cowed.

“There’re too much people here, you shouldn’a never signed up,” said galleycat. He was standing just next to the line of aspiring hitters, most of whom were twice my size and weight.

The roar of the greaspaint nearly drowned out the smell of the crowd-my head was spinning. I stuck my chin out. “I can hit the ball further than those pansies.”

The ball came at me, faster than before, like a will of the wisp. I swung again, and this time the ball shot straight up in the air.

“Girls can’t bat!” screamed someone from my right.

“I get one more try,” I screamed back, exasperated.

“Strike two.” The ump grinned at me.

The last ball was mine. I hit it over the crowd, over the fence, out of the field. Galleycat jummped up and down and screamed, the ump took his mask off and swore, and the pitcher spat in the dust and said, “I don’t care how hard she hits, I'm not having no Girl on my team.”

“Who says I wanted to be on your team?” I said. I put the bat down dainty as you please. “I just want you to think about me when you're playing a real game, and you're two outs and one run down.”

Galleycat and I walked past the line of try-out hitters, and I heard one mutter, “Damn, she hits the ball like Paul Bunion.”

Interview with Author Beverly Havlir!

Bev is one of the authors on the POM's list (as in Pom Pom girls because we cheer each other on! - nothing beats having friends!) And since I adore her and her books, and since she happens to have a new book out Today! I wanted to share her with you - So (drumroll please)...Here's Beverly!


Sam: So, can you tell us how you decided to become an erotic romance
writer?

Bev: I've been a lifelong reader of romance, but for me there was always something missing. A little extra spice, if you will. *g* That motivated me to write my very first manuscript with some very hot sex, and I haven't looked back since.

Sam: What is your favorite thing about writing for Changeling Press?

Bev: Everybody at Changeling Press is just great to work with, from my editor to the cover artist and everyone in between. The other authors are friendly and just helpful. It's an awesome atmosphere. I like it a lot.

Sam: What is your birth sign, and how do you think it influences
your writing? LOL (being very New Age here...)

Bev: I'm a Cancer, and as such, I'm very moody. LOL. My writing depends on my mood . *g* There are times when I write up a storm, when the story flows and the dialogue sparkles! Then there are the days when I can't write anything that makes one iota of sense. I drive myself crazy! LOL.

Sam: Is it hard to juggle writing and 'real life'?

Bev: It is. It takes discipline. When I first started writing, I had a hard time balancing work and real life. Now I've devised a schedule of sorts so I can get my chores and errands done, and get my writing in. My husband and kids are very supportive, and they understand when I need the "me" time so I can write. LOL.

Sam: What really nutty thing do you do Because you are a writer?

Bev: I have a habit of watching people and making up stories about them in my head.My husband laughs and says "You're such a writer!" LOL. I just can't help weaving stories in my mind. I've done that since I was a young teenager. Also, I have a tendency to predict the endings of tv shows or movies, which drive my kids nuts!

Sam: Anything coming soon you'd like to tell us about?

Bev: I have a book coming out in May from Ellora's Cave. IRRESISTIBLE is an erotic romance with a little bit of a twist, since its about a married couple. It's something new for me, and I really like this story. So please, watch out for it on May 3rd. I will also be having a contest to coincide with this release. I'll be giving away a custom made fashion tote bag with lots of goodies inside. I'll have more info up soon in http://www.beverlyhavlir.com my website or check out bev_havlir_readers@yahoogroups.com for a photo of the beautiful tote bag I'm giving away and also for more details.

Bev's new book: Bandar: License to Pleasure

Blurb: The mission is simple. Sneak into Utuja and rescue Lara Conway, kidnapped daughter of the Earth Federation’s Premier. Vartan doesn’t reckon on a beautiful spitfire who fights him at every turn. Soon, he’s grappling with a bigger problem -- how to keep his hands off her.

After a harrowing ordeal, Lara Conway is happy to be rescued. Even if it is by a rude, gorgeous studmuffin who doesn’t seem to like her but eats her up with his eyes. Danger lurks around them as they try to outrun the Xerexians and get off the planet alive. The erotic pull of temptation and passion shadow their every move. In the heat of the jungle, Vartan and Lara will strike a bargain for A License to Pleasure.

the Very Best Real Tomato Sauce

Now the secret to this is slow cooking. You really have to do it on a day where you're going to be home and you can be around to stir this once in a while. (Note that it does not take much watching or work.)
Cut up one clove of garlic and put it in a pan with about a quarter cup of olive oil. Then you put the tomatoes in (cut in half, face down) and cook on low - medium -low until completely mushy. (This way, if you want, you can lift the skin off the tomatoes when they're cooked.)
When they are mushy stir, and add a teaspoon of sugar, a half a teaspoon of salt, and a half a cup of red wine. (Drink the other half - lol)
Then cook & stir some more until it starts looking almost creamy.

You can add sliced smoked ham, parmasian cheeze, basil, cooked onions, or some cooked ground beef to this recipe and make spagetti sauce, or use it to make lasagna. Or just drizzle it over some fresh noodles and enjoy with a nice glass of red wine!

Let's Play Corrupted Wishes!!!

Here's how it works:

Person 1 makes a wish
Person 2 grants it, with a hilariously unpleasant twist, then makes a wish of his/her own.
The next person then corrupts THAT wish, and makes his own wish, and so on.

Like so:

Person 1: I wish I had a Maserati.

Person 2: Your wish is granted! You have a Maserati. By Matchbox.
I wish I could fly.

Person 3: Your wish is granted! You can fly! You just can't land.
I wish every day was Christmas Eve.


Person 4: Your wish is granted! Every day IS Christmas Eve--and you're in retail.
etc.

I'll go first.

I wish I was on vacation.
(play in comments section)

Date change!!

My chat is now this Sunday April 9th at 2 PM EST!

I'm a featured author this month at Erotic Escapades

- Click on my picture to read the interview where I name drop
shamelessly, talk about upcoming books, and give away the secrets of
my past...

And don't forget to join me on April 9, 2006 at 2 PM EST in the
Erotic-Escapades Chat Room where moi, Samantha, will be
talking live to all of my fans!!!
(or both of them - please - come one come all!)

Don't forget:

April 9th at 2pm in the Erotic-Escapades Chat Room! Be there!

(I'm giving away prizes...)

Hugs
Sam

April Fool's Day!

An April fool in France is called an April fish - why? No one is really sure.
'April Fool's Day' supposedly started in France according to the French (this is so typically French you can't believe it) when one of the kings (Louis? Henri? I get them all mixed up) decided that the calender year would now start in January and that all over France it would be The Same for everyone. (Before, apparently, each region had a different New Year's Day, most being on the first of April. Well, everyone accepted January 1st, but there were (there are always) those who resisted change and hung on stubbornly to their day...The first of April. And those people were made fun of by others. And this developed into the April Fool's day.
"Hey you fool, stop celebrating today - New Year's day was three months ago!"
Now, a little harder to explain is the fish. In France, on April fool's day, children cut out a little fish in paper and tie or tape it to some unsuspecting soul's back. They then spend the rest of the day giggling about it. Why a fish? Some say it's a cross-over from Easter coming soon & the sign for Christians(Christ - Fish - April Fool's fish) But most people just think that of all the animals a kid could draw and cut out easily and quickly - a fish was the easiest. The person with the fish on his back was ridiculed all day long (The Fish fool!) and thus 'Poisson d'Avril'.
Now, in Germany, they also have April Fool's day, but there they call the day by the name of an animal - any animal at all you can imagine...But not a fish. It's never Fischtag in Germany. Hundtag, pfordtag, gantzertag...you name it, but not a fish. (and please pardon my german spelling)
At any rate, Happy April First!

Bonsai!

You may remember a while back I posted about two bonsai trees I bought; one for my son and the other for my daughter.
My son immediatly painted a backdrop for the bonsai tree, so it wouldn't feel lonely or out of place, and he painted one for my daughter's tree too. My daughter put her bonsai in her bedroom, and also found a painted fan she got in a Korean shop in New Jersey, and a Chinese calendar we got at our local Chinese take-out store. My daughter's tree grew and grew!
Now it looks like it has two huge bunny ears or antennae. My daughter refuses to trim her tree, claiming it's Happy.
(It looks estatic - you have to admit.)
My son's tree is much more sedate
(I put the two together for comparison - my son trims his tree, waters it, and keeps it from drafts.)
But I love my daughter's exhuberant tree. It's no longer bonzai, it's bonanza!

What happened to writing this week?

What happened to writing this week?
Monday I sat down at the computer and started to work on my WIP when the phone rang. It was France Gallop, one of my clients. They needed a drawing for a kid's frame to color. I said 'Fine, when do you need it?' and they said 'Today.'
So I spent the day working on a drawing and getting it approved by the powers that be at France Gallop, and after five p.m. we settled on a version everyone liked, and I made dinner.
Tuesday I have a two hour gym class I love, so I didn't get home until after noon, and then I had to go shopping because on Monday all the stores are closed in France. I did manage to squeeze in an hour of writing before my daughter called from school. Could I come pick her up? One of her teachers was sick and they didn't have class. And could I drive her friend Pauline home too?
Wednesday was today, and this morning I came downstairs to find my son had taken over the computer (in France kids don't go to school on Wednesday.) My daughter had sculpture class, and I gave English lessons to two children, and then a friend dropped by with her dog and kids in tow - shall we go for a walk? And the weather was gorgeous so I said yes.
Tomorrow is Thursday, and the electric company is cutting off our electricity from 8 a.m. until noon. And then the mason is coming to look at a wall which is collapsing in my laundry room. I also have a neighbor's daughter coming for an English lesson. She has a test she wants me to help her study for. Tomorrow I don't think I'll get much done. Plus I have gym, and I really love my gym class.
Friday I have to drive my hubby to the airport. He's going to St. Tropez for the weekend - yes, being a polo pro is a hard life, lol. I get to stay home...But that means Saturday and Sunday I may have time to write!

As Easy as Apple Pie

There is nothing as easy to make as a French apple tart. I made one tonight, so I thought I'd do a photo cooking lesson. Okay - everyone ready? You need:
A couple apples, a half a cup of sugar, some cinnamon, lemon to keep the apple slices from turning brown, a tablespoon of butter, and a ready-to-back puff pie pastry.

First step:
Lay the pastry in the dish and slice the apples. Toss them artistically into the pie dish.



Step two:

Cut a one tablespoon of butter over apples. Add 1/2 cup sugar (sprinkle over the top) and a dash of cinnamon.



Step three:

Bake in a 175 C° oven for about 45 minutes.

Let cool a little bit, then enjoy!!

Really Sappy Shows (we love them!)

My daughter and I are watching sappy shows and we love them. Ann of Green Gables was on for three Sundays in a row (the whole series) and my daughter and I sat and watched the whole thing. Today there is another sappy show about a widow and a cowboy, and of course, we are hanging on every word.

It's raining out. The sky is gray. There is nothing to do but watch sappy TV shows and drink green tea.

What are the sappy shows you love the best?

Link for the day:A Woman of no importance

Self Doubt and why it's Good for writers

I read an interesting article about Patrick Viera this morning that got me thinking. Patrick is a football player (soccer to us Yanks) who has been playing since about 1996 with a top rate club in England, Arsenal. His coach wrote a book about him enetitled 'Viera'. I didn't read the book, but part of it is excerpted in the Guardian. Anyhow, his captain says this about him:

"The trophies Patrick won with France obviously gave him a lot of confidence. But he's a guy who always has self-doubts. I like the type of self-doubt he has because it produces some very positive questioning. It's not the sort that paralyses you during a game, instead it leads to a process of reflection which makes you self-critical. Patrick always analysed his performance with great lucidity."

That struck a chord with me, because so many writers doubt themselves. They are terribly insecure about their writing. I think it's important to take that self doubt and turn it into something positive. Instead of becoming insecure, a writer should try to become self critical and instead of letting the doubt paralyse you (I do this sometimes, I think 'this isn't right, I can't go on!') You should try, instead, to turn it into a constructive questioning session between you and your book.

Me: "Why am I stuck at this point?"
Book: "Either you have a problem with the character, or you're just being lazy. Try writing three more pages and see how that goes."
Me: "The character can't do what I need him to do.
Book: "Go back and make sure you've given him the ability. Maybe you left something out! Check!"
Me: "The plot is getting too complex, I'll never be able to keep all the thread untangled."
Book: "Either make an outline now and take care of all the plot lines, or get rid of the ones that don't forward the story. Is that plot about the race track helping or hindering? Look carefully and remember, 'when in doubt, leave it out!'"

So don't let doubt paralyse you. Try talking to the book and even with the characters (Jaci is a great one for doing this, lol) And listen to what they say!
Self doubt can be very positive if you ask the right questions!

OK - and now for somethign completely different......

The link of the day
Guerrilla Gardening
Check it out!

Saint Abdul of Afghanistan

In Afghanistan there is a man being tried for converting to Christianity from Islam. According to the lawmakers, it's against the sharia law (law of Islam) - since some interpret the Koran as saying that if you turn from Islam you have to be killed.

A few hundred years ago, it was illegal to worship only one god, and the Romans had a field day tossing Christians to the lions for sporting and entertainment. Many of these martyrs went on to become saints (St. Blandine, St. Polycarpe, St. Pothin, and St. Irénée the martyrs of Lyons, for example)

Poor Abdul Rahman propbably won't feel comforted by this fact. But it would be interesting to see how long it will take the Catholic church to declare him a martyr, then possibly give him sainthood.
Saint Abdul of Afghanistan, the century's first official Christian martyr.

It wouldn't be quite so galling if Afghanistan wasn't a country that the US had freed and set up the government for. It seems that if the US had wanted this, they could have spared themselves a lot of trouble and bombs and just left Afghanistan to the taliban.

On a brighter note, it seems things are looking up in Iraq.
And if you believe that, go read
Riverbend's blog and weep. Bahgdad Burning

THURSDAY THIRTEEN

I'm in the middle of a chapter and thought I'd take time out to do my Thursday Thirteen list.
Here is is:
Thirteen things about myself that I hate.
1) I can procrastinate for days.
2) I hate making decisions about money.
3) I can't stand my stomach
4) I really hate my singing voice. It scares crows.
5) I hate my habit of interrupting people
6) I can't tell my left from my right
7) I can't do math. Numbers make my heart race.
8) I can't say 'no' to chocolate.
9) I can't tell a joke - even the easiest ones fall flat when I tell them.
10)I'm incapable of balancing my monthly budget
11)I can't say no to kids and gypsies selling stuff door to door.
12)I bite my fingernails
13)I clench my jaw at night so hard I have to wear a teeth guard.

Thirteen things about myself I actually like:
1) My freckles
2) My sense of humor
3) My family (well, most of them, lol.)
4) I like to play games
5) I'm basically friendly
6) I'm a sucker for a stray dog or cat
7) I can write with both hands at once, and write backwards and forwards.
8) I can do a handstand
9) I make pretty bouquets with flowers
10)I'm a decent rider
11)I can get along with prickly people
12)I can concentrate and finish any project
13)I have a hell of an imagination

Happy Thursday Thirteen!
Since I'm technically challanged, (I forgot to put that in the hate list) Just add your blog in the comments list - thanks!!

Welcome spring!

The first day of spring was two days ago, but it wasn't until today that it started to be 'spring'. It snowed, hailed, and sleet fell yesterday, so when the sun came up in a clear blue sky this morning it felt really good!

Here is a very depressing article by Richard Curtis - it should be required reading for any aspiring author, and readers should take a look at it too. It explains a lot. (Especially why I can't find my favorite authors or haven't been able to discover a really good author lately.)

Richard Curtis

A Hullabaloo

I was supposed to be writing today. My next book is coming along beautifully and I'm having such fun writing it. All right - I have fun writing all my books, but this is laugh-out-loud fun, and I really wanted to keep at it.
But life gets in the way. (As usual)
So I have fifteen minutes to play on the computer, so I'll write a blog post. About something. (Waiting for inspiration...)
About...Fat heroes!
Yes, fat heroes. Regularly in the Romance Writing Blogworld there is a big Hullabaloo about 'Why are there no fat heroines?!' Well, I can't answer that. I never really thought about it. I don't like (and we went into this before) I don't like too much description because I like to imagine my own hero and heroine. I don't need her measurements, clothing size, or weight. A good author should be able to show not tell how the characters look. And I don't care if the heroine is fat, thin, or dyslexic, as long as I can IDENTIFY with her and find her SYMPATHETIC. I'll be more inclined to do so if she's dyslexic, can't do math, and gets lost the second she leaves her house. Now there's someone I can identify with. And if she loses her car in the parking lot, I love her already.
Anyhow - back to the hullabaloo. Three or four times a year someone starts whining about fat heroines and the lack of or dearth of or whatever...I say, what about the fat hero?? There is something very depressing about the readers squealing they want fat heroines and hunky, slim, athletic heroes. Why do men get to stay fit? Can't they be chubby? Can't they have a fat tummy too? WHY DOES THE HERO HAVE TO BE PERFECT? It does not make sense to this reader.
The fuss says 'we want imperfect heroines (real life people - I like that) but the fuss never spreads to the hero, who stays firmly rooted in the fictional fantasy of the prince on the white horse.
Hello! Why can't the fat heroine have a fat hero? Why can't the slim heroine have a fat hero? (If he's rich and drives a fancy car, this is very realistic. He can even be twice her age and a Scientologist to boot...)
Anyhow, think about it. It could be an interesting story. Really.

YOU be the agent

The idea was terrific. Firebrand Agent Nadia Cornier decided to play a game on her blog called 'You be the agent', and posted query letters she invented/cobbled together, and invited everyone to 'be the agent'. We had to
A. Reject
B. Request Partial
C. Reject with a request to see future projects

Well, I played along quite happily. Nadia posted three queries, and I made two requests for partials and one rejection.

After reading Nadia's last entry I noticed I rejected the agent's own work, lol. She dug out a story she'd written a while back and made a query to go with it.
I did request an existing YA book, so I was happy about that. I also requested a book from a query letter full of typos and mistakes - but that's because I was caught up in the idea of the book, lol. Nadia says she'd have requested partials from all three queries and then goes on to explain why - which is terrific for us writers agonizing over query letters.

Here's the blog:
Agent Obscura

:-)

Away in a manger...

If Jesus was born in Israel today, and Mary didn't have enough shekels to pay the hospital...(after being turned away from two other hospitals)what would happen? Apparently, he would be held hostage.

This from the Guardian today:

"Israel's justice ministry is deciding whether to prosecute a Jerusalem hospital that held a new-born baby for two months as collateral because its mother was unable to pay her bill.
The ministry intervened last week to force the Moqassed hospital in East Jerusalem to give the infant to its mother and is examining whether to charge it with false imprisonment.

The mother, who is an Arab but has not been named, gave birth to triplets prematurely in January. As the children's father is a Palestinian resident of the West Bank, the hospital demanded payment of 10,000 shekels (£1,250) because it said it was not certain of recovering the costs of treating the babies from Israel's national insurance fund even though their mother is a legal resident of Jerusalem.

When the woman said she was unable to pay, the hospital said it would keep one of the three children, a girl, as a "guarantee" until the money was found.

Earlier this month the parents went to the justice ministry. The head of its legal aid office, Eyal Globus, said he investigated their claim and found it to be correct.

"It turned out that things were exactly as the mother said they were; the third baby was being held," he told Haaretz newspaper. "This is not the first time that the hospital has kept babies as hostages for payment of debts."

The ministry ordered the release of the baby and said it would ensure the insurance fund reimbursed the hospital. The hospital declined to comment.

The woman's family told Haaretz that she was turned away from two other Israeli hospitals because she was unable to pay a deposit of about £40,000 before being admitted."

(Does this story sort of remind you of something that happened in a manger once? Anyway, now we know what would happen if Jesus was born today - he'd still be in the hospital until Mary could cough up the shekels. Or maybe the three kings would foot the bill?)

Note: this story has a happy ending since the ministry is paying the insurance and reimbursing the hospital. But I had the same problem when my twins were born prematurely in the US, and there was never any question about the hospital keeping one of the twins hostages until we cold pay off the bill, which came to nearly a quarter of a million dollars, BTW.

Moral of the story:
Is there a moral here? Can you think of one?

Thursday Thirteen Fours

1) Four jobs you have had in your life:
1. Salesgirl
2. Inventory checker (have no idea what my job title was - I had to do inventory for a department store one year)
3. waitress (this job lasted exactly 3 days, so I'm not sure it counts. I was also a hawker for a pizza restaurant - I stood on the street with a tee-shirt that said 'had a piece lately?' and yelled 'get a piece of pizza!'- this lasted until the navy came in.)
4. model

2) Four movies you would watch over and over:
1. Willow
2. Lord of the Rings
3. Ladyhawk
4. Harry Potter III

3) Four places you have lived:
1. New York
2. St. Thomas
3. Paris
4. Palm Beach

4) Four TV shows you love to watch:
1. Lost
2. The Experts
3. Camelot (a French comedy skit)
4. Buffy

5) Four places you have been on vacation:
1. St. Tropez
2. Megève
3. Palm Beach
4. (my life is basically one big vacation so I feel like I'm cheating here, lol)


6) Four websites you visit daily:
1. New York Times
2. The Guardian
3. Agent Obscura
4. Blogs - pick a blog, any blog...

7) Four of your favorite foods:
1. Steak
2. Chocolate
3. Chocolate
4. Chocolate

8) Four places you would rather be right now:
1. Someplace Warm
2. Someplace Sunny
3. Someplace warm and sunny
4. Probably Australia

9),10),11),12),& 13) Four friends you are tagging that you think will respond:
1. Andrea
2. Jim
3. Wynne
4. Virenda

Cold Snap

The cold returned with a vengence this week, putting frost on the windows and turning the grass white and sparkly in the morning.
I've been hard at work starting another book. I'm about 10,000 words in and starting to get an idea of where it's going. (I have the beginning and the end...I just have to find the middle. It will appear. I'm 'pantsing' this one, which means no outline...Unless I get bogged down in which case I will make one.
Note to self - outlines will prop up a sagging middle. Does that make them the girdles of writing?

I also started a daily photo blog - combining my love of photography with my love of procrastination - I think I've found my calling.
I'll go down in the record books as the author with the most websites.
So go here and see what life is like in a twelfth century French village.

Montchauvet Daily Blog

Or go here and see how well I can procrastinate (and sign up as one of my Friends, lol)
My Space

Now I'm off to haunt the Washington Post's discussion groups. (I'm elevating Procrastination to an art form...)

Mr. Perfect

The other day my husband was in a bad mood (don't ask me why - I think it was because hunting season is over and he had to put his bows and arrows away.) It made him crabby - so my son went around all day calling him "Mr. Grumpy". And that made me laugh. My husband is rarely grumpy, so when he's in a bad mood, everyone picks up on it. And because he has such a terrific sense of humor, we all feel comfortable teasing him about it. He's been my husband for over twenty years now. We met in 1979 when I was 18, and somehow, I just knew I'd met the man I'd marry. He felt the same way - telling his friends even before we'd met - "Wow - did you see that girl?" I fell for his shy smile and mischievous eyes. He says he admired my intelligence and my 'Cough - cough' OK - you didn't fall for that either? Well, I think it was my legs and 'bosom' as my great-gradmother would delicately put it. Well, it's true that the physique is the first thing one notices about someone elses unless you're blind, in which case it might be the voice or handshake. In my case, I thought he was too skinny but cute, not handsome but nice-looking, and he had these incredible twinkly eyes. He was playing polo when I saw him and the next weekend when I went back to watch a match - he was sitting on the sidelines with a huge cast. He'd shattered his elbow. I asked him how it was, and he told me (in very broken English) that it really "urt", but it would be all right in a month or so. So I sat next to him (he made sure that chair was empty) and we talked. We couldn't talk very much, because I spoke no French and his English was atrocious. He spoke Spanish fluently, but my Spanish was limited to "El Radio de Noche Puerto Rico!" the only station I could get in St. Thomas, where I'd grown up. So we sort of talked and he asked me on a dinner date. I took my sister with me on all our dates. He told me later he was desperate to ditch the chaperone, lol. Finally, after two months of dating, he invited me on a weekend to Deauville, where he'd started to play polo again. I took a friend with me, but this time he managed to ditch the chaperone...and we've been together ever since.
Why is he the perfect man for me? Because he's patient, he's funny, he's fun to be around, and he's got gorgeous eyes. He's an eternal optimist - when our babies were born prematurely and the doctors said they only had a 25% chance to survive, he Never doubted they would be fine. He has faith. He's not religious, but he has strong moral values. He's not a finacial wizard, but he does his best. He's had polo accidents and broken his arm, hand, hip, nose, and wrist - but he managed to become the best polo player in France, playing off an 8 handicap. He never cheated at the game, like so many others, or stooped to using the dirty tricks some players use. Even the best players admire him for his fair play. That's part of being perfect. His reputation is pure gold, as is his heart. He can't pass a stray dog on the street without stopping to pick him up, and he's adopted lost kittens (even though he claims to hate cats) and even a wounded bunny...
He thinks the sun rises and sets on his wife and children, and we pretty much feel the same for him. So how can I not love him? He's perfect.

Ann tagged me for this - so I'm going to be romantic and tag all you gals who have the 'perfect' man. Go for it!

Polly Gimme

I read an editorial in the NY Times that pondered the legalization of polygamy.
After reading this, and trying to keep an open mind, I started to laugh.
Why? Well, think of it this way. If it's legal for a man to have several wives, it will have to be legal for a woman to have several husbands.

I'm starting to like the idea more and more.
And because of that...It will never become legal.
Oh...Did you guys forget something? You can't pass a law that affects only one sex, which brings me to my next VIP (very Important Point) Freedom of choice. You American women better get your voices heard, or you'll be living in a country where abortion is illegal, and polygamy a fact of life...For men only.


Who's Afraid of Polygamy?
By JOHN TIERNEY
Published: March 11, 2006 the New York Times

If gay marriage becomes legal, its opponents have been warning, the next step in America's moral deterioration will be legalized polygamy. These conservatives won't be happy with "Big Love," the HBO series starting tomorrow night.
This story of a husband with three wives in Utah will not terrify Americans. Polygamy doesn't come off as a barbaric threat to the country's moral fabric. It looks more like what it really is: an arrangement that can make sense for some people in some circumstances, but not one that could ever be a dangerous trend in America.

After watching the husband on the show struggle to pay for three households and watching his three wives struggle for his attention, the question that comes to mind is not how to keep polygamy illegal. The question is why we bother to ban something that takes so much work these days.

When polygamy was outlawed in the 19th century, the Supreme Court upheld the ban by citing the "evil consequences" of a practice that "has always been odious among the northern and western nations of Europe." It dismissed polygamy as "a feature of the life of Asiatic and of African people," as if that were reason enough to damn it.

Yet an institution that has been around for so long must have had something going for it. Humans aren't as inclined to polygamy as some apes are — we probably evolved as hunter-gatherers who mostly had one mate at a time — but some form of polygamy has existed in the vast majority of cultures.

Some opponents of polygamy call it the exploitation of women by rich men, and that's true if the wives are coerced into the marriages. But many wives have willingly chosen it, like the three women on "Big Love," who have married a successful businessman.

These three wives, who live in adjacent houses, sound much like the women in polygamous marriages I've talked to in rural Africa. The African wives told me they had mixed feelings about the arrangement — and their fellow wives — but over all, they figured it was better to share one prosperous husband than to marry someone else without land, cows or a job.

That's the way social scientists figure it, too. Polygamy isn't the cause of women's low status in traditional societies, but rather a consequence of their trying to move up. The biggest losers from polygamy are the poorer men who end up with no wives. Women benefit because polygamy increases their number of marriage prospects — and in traditional societies, marriage is often the only way for a woman to improve her status.

Even in those societies, polygamy is practiced by just a small minority because few men have enough resources to entice more than one wife. As a society modernizes and women become educated, they gain other economic options and become less and less willing to share a husband. Eventually polygamy is out of question for practically everyone, men and women. At that point, the monogamous majority can safely proclaim its moral superiority and outlaw the practice for everyone else.

Critics say children would be better off growing up in a home with a full-time father, but a part-time one is better than what's in many homes today. The father in "Big Love" is more like Ward Cleaver than today's alpha males who've dumped a series of wives and families.

Polygamy isn't necessarily worse than the current American alternative: serial monogamy.

Elizabeth Joseph, a lawyer and journalist who was married to a polygamist in Utah, says her experience handling divorce cases made her appreciate the stability of her marriage. She also appreciated other perks, like the round-the-clock day care that enabled her to keep an unpredictable schedule at work and to relax when she came home.

"If I'm dog-tired and stressed out, I can be alone and guilt-free," she explained in a speech to the National Organization for Women. "It's a rare day when all eight of my husband's wives are tired and stressed at the same time." She told the NOW audience that polygamy "offers an independent women a real chance to have it all" and represented "the ultimate feminist lifestyle."

She won't persuade many American women, feminists or otherwise. But if a few consenting adults like her still want to practice polygamy, there's no reason to stop them. And if the specter of legalized polygamy is the best argument against gay marriage, let the wedding bells ring.

sushi

Well, yesterday was busy. I went to gym, went shopping for groceries, had lunch with a pal at a sushi restaurant (Love sushi - Luckily - you'll see why) Got home, took a jog with son and dogs, then I checked my e-mail and found a letter from agent Caren (sounds vaguely F.B.I.-ish doesn't it?) asking me for some new revisions on chapter One. Seems she preferred my original beginning instead of what she'd suggested. I took her ideas and incorporated it into my original beginning now it absolutely rocks. Two heads Are better than one. And Caren has some good suggestions. (I love talented people.)
Then time for dinner party - I got dressed up and went to friends' house. On the table was a huge sushi platter! Yummmmm!
Guests nationalities: Three French, one British, one Argentine, one Malgash (from Madagascar) one German, one American (me). We had Cosmos for starters and lots of red wine. Then I was up at 6 a.m. this morning trying to teach our new puppy not to bark and wake everyone up. Rusty, our older dog, was looking on with a pained expression as I stormed downstairs to swat Auguste on the rear. Rusty never barks and thinks Auguste is an aberration. Not to mention a pain in the butt.
Right now they are both snoozing in the same doggy bed (they are so cute when they sleep - just what I used to think about my kids...)

Just started a new book two days ago. On chapter four. Having fun. Decided not to use personal pronouns anymore.

Just kidding.
Actually, I was sitting at my desk happily writing, when my husband came in the room, cup of coffee and plate of toast in hand, looking for tape.
Why do men never know where the tape it? Or the batteries, or the new package of toilet paper? I'm not the perfect house-keeper, but my brain, for some reason, keeps track of all these little things. I can be immersed in a new story and can still tell you where everything is.

"Tape is in the basket by the toaster. Batteries are in the drawer under the toaster in the kitchen...Where they always are."

"Oh, right. Thanks."

The tape is quite visible for anyone in the kitchen using either the toaster of the coffee maker (hubby makes his own toast and coffee in the morning) So he saw the tape at least three times before asking where it could be. The batteries never move. They've been in the same place for five years now.
I'm trying to form a hypothesis about men's brains and looking for house-hold items. I will test it for a few years and it will evolve into a theory. Sort of like the theory of evolution only far easier to prove. I'm betting this will be accepted as fact in a few years' time. Men's brains only have room for toast and coffee.

P.S. - he just asked me where the strawberry jam was hiding...(It was next to the sugar bowl.)

Baby's got blue eyes...

I read a lot. I read all genres, and I mean, all genres. Science fiction, mystery, romance, biographies, self-help, historical fiction and history books, children's books, you name it. And one thing that makes romance different from almost all these books is the detail applied to the hero and heroine's names and description. In no other genre will a book start out like this:
"Rebecca Demorney stepped out of her house and tossed her blond hair out of her face."
I just picked up a romance book I had lying around and opened it to the first page - the first two words are the heroine's name. Maybe it was a fluke. But it seems that in romance books, the heroine is described right down to her toenail polish by the end of the first page. And throughtout the book, her hair will be described as golden, silken, flying in the breeze...well, you get what I mean.
I'm going to pick on a book I love, so no one can say I'm being biased here. "Outlander". (I LOVED this book, it's one of my all time favorites.)
For all the author's protests that it's not a romance, the number of times the hero and heroine go boink throughout the series is mind-boggling. In the last book, I think they were ducking under hedges and darting into closets every three pages, but that might just be my imagination. Anyhow, take my word for this - the book is a romance. Another thing that's sure - everyone knows that the hero, Jamie, has blue eyes and red hair. How do we know? Because in every chapter we get a re-cap of his looks. Every time he changed expression, his looks are described. His blue eyes flashed. His blue eyes grew steely. His blue eyes crinkled with laughter.
Question: Do authors think that the reader will forget what the characters look like if they don't describe them at least once a chapter? Does it really add to the book to see the heroine's blond hair cited so often?
In the Martha Grimes mystery books I read, some of the characters have physical attributes that get repeated often. Melrose Plant has green eyes, I believe. And Inspector Jury is tall, dark, and handsome - though I can't vouch for the color of his eyes. Carrie-Ann is drop-dead gorgeous - but her whole character is nothing but a gorgeous physical description, so I can forgive Martha Grimes for foisting her upon us.
In the science fiction books I read, the hero usually gets described once or twice, (usually how he looked in his space-suit) and if there is a heroine, she's usually got some sort of physical description, but it fades into the background of the story unless it's a romance science fiction, in which case we'll have the hero and heorine described ad-nauseum in their space-suits, out of their space-suits, and how her blond hair looks floating in weightlessness.
Historical fiction (I was reading a fiction book based on the princes of Wales the other day) describes the people, but doesn't go on and on, (as in a historical romance) about broad shoulders beneath various colored capes, dresses of endless hues that bare creamy bosoms, and more about the eyes.
Why is it that romance harps endlessly on the physical description of the hero and heroine? For once, I'd love to read a romance novel that didn't mention the character's physical appearance every chapter. I can remember what they look like. You only have to describe them once, and maybe throw in a couple 'his blue eyes looked sorrowfully at her' or 'there was a ray of hope in her brown eyes...' and even then, it's not indispensible.
I like to use my imagination to fill in the blanks. Having someone described right down to the mole on their left calf is fine - as long as it's done only once. But if the author just mentions a "smokey gaze beneath a flame-colored mane of hair", I will be able to imagine something completely different (and far more fascinating) than if the author said; "Jilly Monet had dark gray eyes and bright red hair that hung well past her shoulders."
Sometimes, less is more. And in romance, description should be used more sparingly and with more respect for the reader's memory. Honest, I can remember that the hero has blue eyes. You don't have to hit me over the head with it every chapter. And even if you never mention their last names or eye color, if the romance is strong and the characters interesting...I won't even notice. My imagination will fill in the blanks.

A fringed shawl

It's bitter cold out today so I'm sitting at my desk with a moss colored fringed shawl around my shoulders. For fun, I even put on a green and gold glass bead bracelet to match. I feel all dressed up. Do you sometimes dress up? I usually slop around the house in jeans and a big sweater. (I have on jeans and a sweater - I just added the shawl for the cold and the bracelet for the fun.)
But that's not the reason I started to blog. I was working on edits this morning, finished, and then sent off the manuscript hoping it will do. Then I blog-hopped for a bit, and stopped in at a professional's blog to see her take on promotion. She was raving about a writer who has a new way of promoting her book through a large blog space reserved (mainly) for musical groups and kids. Since the author had written a teen story, this was a great promotional idea. So I went over and admired the site. The band/music theme worked pretty well for a book. But this is what bothered me:

Being an author used to mean writing, sending the book to an editor and collecting royalties or getting a flat fee.

Being an author usually means holding down another job - very few authors can support themeselves writing (I think the percentage here in France, anyway, is 1% - not very inspiring is it?)

Being an author now means having to promote your own work.

It's a fact of writing life. Authors are encouraged by their publishers to have their websites, their blogs, their plogs, their writer's space, their 'freinds', their chat grops, their mailing lists, their newsletters, their contests, their chats, and their own original ideas about promoting their book. Not to mention traveling to conventions, book signings, postcards, business cards, bookmarks, cover flats, and special stickers with 'autographed copy' written on them. (If I've left anything out please let me know - I'm trying for a complete list here)

So this professional's blog got me depressed for a while as I struggled to come up with a new, exciting, fun way to promote my book that had nothing to do with going to jail, (those who read my blog will know what that means, lol) or spending money I don't have, or taking too huge a chunk of time out of my day. I like to write. I don't know how to promote. It's depressing to see this bubbly new idea that will probably work well but that will take up a lot of time. (This person has no kids or family life, I just noticed. Just write and promote. Some have all the luck.) So before depression settles even more firmly around my shoulders like a fringed shawl, I will stop thinking about promotion...and start something I am good at - writing my next novel.

The Human Tribe

I've been sick in bed for the past two days - the weather was so bad I caught a chill, and rather than fight it, I decided to just pamper myself, drink lots of chicken broth and tea, and sleep. So I did, and now feel much better. But while I felt too awful to work, I couldn't resist blog hopping. I look at my computer like a window open to the world. The world is so diverse, and so many people have such different lives that it's endlessly fascinating.

Here are blogs I discovered besides the one on my links list:

http://www.a-mother-from-gaza.blogspot.com/

and
http://www.chayyeisarah.blogspot.com/

There is also
http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/

and http://abacaximamao.blogspot.com/


All these blogs have more links from people who comment (read the comments and click on the posters) and you can go from Brazil to Australia to Israel to France to Iraq in the click of a mouse (a new cliché to take the place of 'wink of an eye')

And while I go back and forth I keep in mind the article I read a while back in the National Geographic about the human DNA - about how we are all descended from a hunter / gatherer tribe in Africa. There is a mitochondrial Eve who mothered the tribe of humans - mothered this incredibly diverse array of individuals who live in peace or are at war, who believe in different gods and mythology - but who ALL come from the same family. We all sprang from an African Eve...

It boggles the mind. And of the article, the thing I loved most was the comment from a native American who, while submitting to the DNA test, said, "I just hope it's not going to prove we're* all Swedish. *speaking about his tribe.


Personally, I love thinking that somehow I am related to every person on earth.

My Glamorous Life as a Writer / Part 4

A little while after that book signing, I stopped telling people I was a writer. When I told people what I did they were always impressed. So how come I stopped? I think it was because people were impressed with the notion of writing a book, but their first question was never: “What is the book about?” it was always, “How many copies did you sell?” or “How is the book doing?” which took away the entire artistic, creative part of things and made me feel like a salesman or someone who’s worth was measured in dollar signs. I’ve never put much emphasis on dollar signs. I’d rather be measured by the things I’ve accomplished. Hopefully, I’ll have more friends at the end of my life than published books.
And then, one day this summer, I went to a big bookstore. It was so big and important, I didn’t dare tell them "I’m an author”. But I went to the children’s book section, and there was my book. I went to the erotic section, and there were two more of my books. And then my stepmother asked at the information desk if one of my historical books was available. The woman checked the computer and said, “Jennifer Macaire. Let’s see. We have ‘The Secret of Shabaz.” Here she paused, and then, to my immense delight, she said, “I know that book. It did really well here. My daughter read it and loved it.”
I couldn’t stop grinning, my stepmother introduced me as the author of the book, and I floated away on a cloud. It wasn’t finished though. The bookstore manager came looking for me in the aisles and said, “I noticed you have another book coming out soon. Would you be interested in doing a book signing here?”
He gave me his card and told me to contact him when I got back to NY.
My glamorous life as a writer came rolling back. It was worth it after all. Worth the rejections, the edits, the flashers, the measly pay and the heartbreak. It was worth it. Someone’s daughter had read my book...and loved it.

However, I can’t speak about my life as a write without mentioning ‘The Promise’. It’s a book I wrote when my sons were about nine. One day, they asked me to write a story where there were no grown-ups. “None at all?” I asked.
“None,” they replied firmly. And then Sebi gave me the idea. “They all got killed off by a virus,” he said.
So I sat down and wrote ‘The Promise’. It was a slim, unassuming story about a boy named Ryan who didn’t give up. He made a promise to his father, and he meant to keep it. He and his younger brother and sister made a voyage to the south of France, meeting other survivors along the way. It was a small book, but it had great consequences. My mother, an English teacher, decided to use it in her class in a maximum security prison for minors. In my book, the narrator is the hero of the story. But the boys in the prison identified with Red Sky – the villain. But Red Sky redeems himself in the book. The boys in the prison loved the book so much they asked my mother if she could find the film. My mother said the book wasn’t a film, but she knew the author. Incredulous, the boys demanded to know who it was. When she told them it was her daughter, they wondered if I couldn’t come in and talk to them about the book. It required several months of preparation, special permission, and lots of organizing – but the day arrived I went to prison to speak about my book.
I was a little wary, and had no idea what to expect. And it certainly wasn’t the barrage of thoughtful, interesting questions the boys asked me. From the metaphor of setting free the wolves, to Red Sky’s motives in saving the horse…everything had to be discussed at length.
Amazed by the visit, and amused by the demands I write a book ‘just for Red Sky’, I sat down and wrote a sequel and presented it to the classes for Christmas. (Just what they wanted – an unedited first draft!) My mother had them editing it for an English lesson one day. (How many of you can spot the misplaced modifier in this page? How many typos can you find?)
I’ve been back to the prison three times. Each time I’m thankful for the prison authorities who take the time to organize the day for me, and who make everything go so smoothly. A special thanks to the director and to my mom, of course, for letting me be part of the program. It really means far more to me than dollar signs to hear a young boy tell me, “Mrs. Macaire, I want to say something. When I’m out of here, and I have a wife and kids, I want to be sitting on my sofa one day and watching television and see your film, ‘The Promise’ with my kids. And if it doesn’t become a film, I’m still going to sit down and read the book to them. Because it was important to me. It made me see to the future.”
Well, after that – who needs a best seller?

My Glamorous Life as a Writer / Part 3

My husband thought it was terrific. His wife the erotic romance writer. He told ALL his friends. They started calling me Samantha. The first time that happened I thought the person had forgotten my name and I corrected him. He winked and said, “Yes but Samantha is so much more exciting, according to your husband.”
I was torn between wanting to hit my husband or hit his friend. Writing was serious business! I was an intellectual! I soon got off my high horse. A well written book is fine. But in the erotic romance business the readers want emotion, characters they can care for, and lots of hot and interesting sex. Dithering over things like description, pacing, and atmosphere held me back. My editor told me to stop mucking around and Just Write!
Fine. I could do that. I had to adjust my attitude, but I was used to that. Anyone who has had kids knows that having an attitude is setting yourself up for a hard fall. Who can feel young and glamorous when your kid asks you what it was like living with the dinosaurs? Or when they see you in your bathing suit, their eyebrows go up, and they blurt, “You’re so fat!” (And the minute before you’d just been thinking how well you looked.) So attitude wasn’t the problem. I put my dreams about writing ‘literature’ aside and wrote...and published over fifteen erotic romance books.
But having kids also meant they were always begging me to write a story for them. So I did. I sat down and wrote ‘The Secret of Shabaz’. It was one of the hardest books I wrote. I wanted it to be for all ages, especially for teens – that group of children with an attention span of about thirteen seconds. I wanted it to be fun but at the same time I wanted to give readers something to think about. I love fantasy, so I wrote a magical tale full of adventure, a dash of horror, a pinch of romance, and with a heroine I would have wanted as a best friend. I finished it after two years of writing on it between erotic romances and sent it to Medallion Press. They loved it.
I was on cloud nine. I was a published author of a YA book! Now I could tell my whole family, even the ones who had weak hearts. This was exciting. I started getting an attitude again. I was going to NY for the summer, what better way to kick off the new book than with a book signing in a big bookstore? I looked up bookstores in the neighborhood and called them. Two agreed. I gave them the ISBN numbers and practised looking modest. (Hard to do – I was getting an attitude.) I found a passage to read that was not too long, not too short, and had some humor in it. Perfect. I found a little black dress that made my tummy almost look flat. I asked all my family and my friends living nearby to come. I brushed my teeth.
I arrived on time.
The bookseller had set up a little auditorium with a table and MY BOOKS sitting upon it. I had a poster the publisher gave me which I propped up near the books. I sat on the chair. I waved to my parents, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles...and several strangers. The strangers sat up front. My family, in an élan of generosity, left the whole front row free. I introduced myself, picked up my book, and started to read.
The man front and center opened his legs wide.
He had on baggy shorts. He lifted them a bit to make sure I noticed he was not wearing any underwear.
I lost my place in the paragraph and had to start over. My first book signing and I was getting flashed.
I was determined not to let that little detail ruin my book signing. I would have understood if it had been for my erotic books. But this was a kids’ book, for goodness sake! My glamorous life as an author was taking another beating. I was at my first signing, damn it. I wasn’t going to let some pervert ruin it. And then the bookstore’s cat jumped on the table and sat on my pile of books. It wasn’t comfortable there. It jumped down and prowled around the table as I read. There were several titters. And I hadn’t gotten to the funny part yet. I risked a glance at the audience. Wrong move. Flasher had pushed his shorts up and was practically waving his equipment at me. The cat jumped down to my lap. Better. I kept reading. I didn’t miss a beat. Then the cat got bored and left. I finished reading and stood up, determined not to look at Flasher and ask the audience if anyone had any questions. There were more titters. I looked down. There was cat hair all over my black dress. It looked like I was wearing a gray apron. Resigned to my fate, I asked if there were any questions. There was a long silence. One person raised their hand.
“Yes, mom?” I said.
(to be continued...)