Okay...here's the thing...

I really wanted to write a fun little story involving Alan Rickman because HolyMotherOfGod who doesn't love Alan Rickman? Only, there's a bit of a problem. It's called Puke-a-Palooza 2011. And it's in my house. Making my life a living hell, so please bear with me while I post my favorite pictures of Alan Rickman and then go to bed and hopefully sleep off this miserable BS flu bug.

Hot Man Ass

Okay, I'll be perfectly honest here. I do not know what to write. I've never written a story for a blog, before, and I'm just not sure I can do it. Which is stupid, I know, because:

a) I am a professional writer. I write for a living. I'm supposed to be able to do that thing - what's it called again? Oh yeah. WRITING.

and

b) I post on about eleven hundred different blogs now.

Seriously. Why can't I do this? Apart from the fact that I'm not even sure if that's what's being asked for? I mean, Alan Rickman is so hot he practically gives me carpet burn just by looking at me. And when I say looking, I of course mean: I rub myself against the telly box while the DVD of Dark Harbour is paused on the bit featuring his bare ass.

Which is kind of saggy and old mannish, but I don't give a fook. It's Alan fooking Rickman! I'd eat a sandwich off his backside even if it looked like this:

*

He could MAKE me eat a sandwich off of that ass, just by talking to me in that clotted cream and cigar smoke voice. And he wouldn't have to say anything cool, either, like yes, yes, if you eat the sandwich I shall make you have an orgasm the size of my nose.

He could just diligently read stereo instructions to me, in that deliberate way of his.

"And then...cab-BLE B...is AH-ttached to socket...FFFF."

Don't even tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. I know you can hear his voice when I put all those weighty pauses and clipped together words in there. Ever noticed how he kind of emphasises the wrong bits of words sometimes, too? Yeah, now you do.

Now you're going to hear it forever, but don't worry - it won't ruin your enjoyment of him. Alan Rickman is a thing of beauty, to be loved forever. He is a flawless human being, made greater still by his appearance in the Greatest Romantic Movie Of All Time Apart From Maybe Starman and Terminator:

Truly, Madly, Deeply.

My God, I didn't know what to do with myself when I watched this at the age of thirteen. I think I cried so much I had to be hooked up to an IV. Everyone else wrote hideous Mary-Sues about New Kids From The Block. I wrote them about a man five hundred years my senior in a movie about getting over grief and going off with some other loser who isn't Alan Rickman.

I mean seriously. Would you give Alan Rickman up? I'm not even sure I'd care that he was a ghost. It'd probably work out better, in the long run, because he'd stay perpetually at his hottest age (about 912) while I turned into someone's aged grandmother.

Plus you'd half your bills right there, wouldn't you. No extra food to pay for, no clothes to buy him...sounds orsum, if you ask me. Alan Rickman in perpetuity, without any cost or consequences.

I tell you, I watched Truly, Madly, Deeply the way most people make their kids watch Sound of Music: turn it off before the Nazis show up. Don't let them see the horror! Just end it with everyone singing, or in my case:

End it with Alan Rickman shagging me, forever and ever Amen.


P.S. I have a new book out, hooray! Red hot menage, kinky Irishman, married couple who don't know what's hit them...if you want to know more, here's the buy link, where you can find a blurb and excerpt:

http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9586-all-other-things.aspx

But even better than that, you can win a copy at my blog!

http://themightycharlottestein.blogspot.com/2011/09/hot-menage-fun.html

Just comment to enter.




*Here I was going to have a humorous picture of an old man's flaccid ass, but unfortunately for the internet such a picture doesn't exist. I guess only women have ugly asses, huh fellas?

WYSIWYG

So...me. I'm pretty much the same me online as I am in real life. Except that my foghorn laugh is far more annoying in person or over the phone than the LOL that you'll see in emails or blog posts. I thought about creating an elaborate online persona, but then I thought..."Fuck it. I can barely keep my real life straight."

I love my friends and family more than I have words to express. I love animals in general and my cats and Brynn's dog in particular. I love the sound of waves on the shore and if I could, I'd live by a huge lake surrounded by trees. I love books and fabric and clay. I like to make something from nothing - this applies to writing, too. I love autumn and Ren Faires and live music. I think sleep is one of the best things ever. I would like to have more of it.

I'm easily distracted and crippled by self doubt. My organizational skills are questionable at best, and I have a hard time telling people no when they want me to do something for them that I may not have the time or the desire to do. I'm awesome at procrastination. I have a hard time remembering not to stress eat. I'm usually late for pretty much everything. I also think spiders are made of evil.

I think kindness, joy and compassion are contagious and that we should be spreading that crap all over the place.

That's pretty much it. What you see is what you get.

The real Slim Shady

So I'm not very shy about who I am. This is me. And that's my husband kissing me in case you weren't sure. Pretty much what you see is what you get.

I'm loud, I like to think I'm pretty funny, I am fiercly loyal to my friends and family. I love, love, love gay men. I write, I craft, I watch too much children's television programming. From Sprout to Disney XD, quiz me and I'll answer. Where do Rocky and CiCi work? Why they are dancers on Shake it up Chicago, of course. What's Luther's last name on Zeke and Luther? It's Waffles. Who is the nemesis of the iCarly crew? NEVILLE! BooYa. I've got it covered.

The opinions of Dakota are totally the opinions of the girl behind the psuedonym. In fact, I only have a pen name because a thousand years ago when I started writing I thought all authors had one and Dakota Rebel sounded pretty awesome. My real name? It's Liza. Which is fine for every day, but when I'm writing I like to dress it up.

My friends even call me Dakota, or D, now as if it were my real name. Which I love. It gives me the warm and fuzzy when Bronwyn calls me and says "Hey D!" Or when the kids see me on Brynn's living room floor and say "Hi Dakota." I don't know why, it just makes me feel like a real author. Who knows? I'm an enigma.

So pretty much you all really know the real me. I'm the one who comes on most Wednesdays to babble on about that weeks topic, or go off on an unrelated tangent. That's how I am in 'real life' as well. Highly off point. In fact, if you need to describe me in three words, use those.

XoXoXo
Dakota

Honestly, It Never Actually Happened

The thing about the real me is: she kind of sucks. Don't believe me? Here are five ways in which the real me blows big giant donkey balls. Yeah. That's right. She sucks and blows at the same time. And there are the genitals of what is, essentially, a small horse involved.

Check it:

1. Her hair almost never goes right. Even just after it's been cut, her fringe does this weird thing where it kind of kinks up and then out, as though there's a perpetual invisible roller under there. I do not know where this invisible roller came from or why it persists in hurting me, but it's there and it's pissed.

2. She loses socks. And yeah, okay, I know that everyone loses socks, but seriously - the real me loses socks while they are on her feet. I swear to God, I turn around for one second and suddenly one of them's gone. It just slides right off my body as though my skin has no more traction than a water slide, and then I'm just staring down at my foot wondering what the fook happened. Months later I will invariably find this sock in the most unlikeliest of places. Like inside the VCR.

3. She will not stop eating beetroot. I tell her that it turns her poop a terrifying purplish colour, but she does not listen to me.

4. Large groups terrify her. She forgets how to speak. She is not charismatic while in the middle of them. Things happen, like she accidentally pokes someone in the eye. Everyone is chatting about something ordinary, like shopping or what they had for tea last night. She wishes everyone was talking about Armie Hammer's nut sack, instead. Not cool, self. Not cool.

5. She wears a big orange dress all the time. I don't even know why! It's not even comfortable. When you sit on it, it makes scratchy grooves in the backs of your thighs.


So you believe me now, right? All of that is absolutely awful, and absolutely real. But you know what's not awful? The fake me, who I have just now invented for the purposes of this totally scientific comparison:

1. The fake-me gets out of the shower and flicks her head, and her hair immediatly falls in perfect, dry, three feet long ringlets to her equally perfect ass. Of course it has to do that, because she's about to have a wild sex orgy with half the cast of The Social Network.

2. When she has wild sex orgies with half the cast of The Social Network, no-one's toe accidentally goes up her bum. Though to be clear, I'm not saying this ever actually happened to the real-me. I just thought it sounded funny, I swear.

3. She can eat anything she likes, and her poop remains a perfectly reasonable colour. In fact, I'm not even sure if she poops at all. She probably just eats unicorns and farts rainbows.

4. Eight million people came to her last birthday party, and they hung on her every word. She even managed to say things that made total sense! And then once the party once over and everyone had gone home, she demanded Armie Hammer show her his nut sack. And as we all know from the sex tape, he put up only the mildest of fights.

5. She does not wear a big orange dress. Ever. Which I think proves my point more than anything else on this list.

Real Me: 0
Fake Me: Owner of a sex tape that features Armie Hammer begging me to stop doing that with my toe.

I mean, it's just no contest really, is it?

Will The Real Simone Please Step Forward...

*Here*

This is pretty much the real me. Mostly because it is more time consuming to be some one or something I'm not.

I prefer to sit and swim at the beach and walk through nature, taking photographs and letting my imagination run wild.


I claim more brothers and sisters than my mom actually gave birth too and consider my family of friends closer to me than my blood family. I spent time in the military and am seriously considering going back in.







I have loved big cats since I can remember, and have been drawn to history for about as long as I have known I was a storyteller and writer. I have always wanted to be a writer - everything else is extra.



I like festivals and faires and getting to know people. I also have more hobbies than most people, but I can blame it on growing up - my mom does too, although I have more than she does - raised with the 'idle hands are the devils workshop' sort of thinking.

I write the stories of the characters living in my head and have fun doing it.

I am a visual person, generally a good thing, but sometimes not so much.


Overall, what I write here is pretty much the real me. I don't want to spend the energy it takes to be someone else and have to remember all of those details.

Simone.

Life As We Knew It...Lost

9/11 started out as a pretty normal day. I remember cruising to work, listening to Spirit in the Sky on CD and thinking it would be a fun day. I thought about the cupcakes I had to pick up at the bakery to take with me to a meeting that evening. I thought about the trip I had to make to the Secretary of State office that day to get my license renewed. I wondered what present my husband had gotten me.

I expected it to be a special day, the way it had been thirty-one times before then. 9/11 has always been special to me. It’s my birthday.

So that morning, I was in the break room and my friends were singing Happy Birthday and over one of their shoulders, I see the TV and on it was this burning building. And as we all turned to stare, the second plane rammed into the other tower.

In that moment, any innocence I might have had—and there was some—was destroyed. Until that moment, I’d thought we were safe. This was the home of the brave and the land of the free and the place where wars weren’t fought. Murder didn’t happen like this in the United States. It couldn’t be real.

And I wondered—I feared—how much more there would be before this ended. Would the nuclear power plants in Michigan be targeted? Would I be safe? Were we looking at chaos and societal collapse? Would there be war?

Life as we’d blithely known it ended that morning.

The day I’d held as sacred was destroyed.

There’s a theory that we’re all connected, that we belong to a collective consciousness. There’s no day that I believed this more than on 9/11. I felt it. To say I was completely freaked out would be an understatement. That morning, it seemed as if the center had been ripped from my soul. For days, I walked around with this hollow black space inside me. Heavy, aching, echoing with horror. I felt loss and sorrow as if it were my own family members in those towers and on the planes and at the Pentagon, as if I’d faced certain death and felt guilt for escaping. There was no joy in life for awhile after. It’s hard to explain the knowing, the certainty of so many people’s terror. The clawing finality. The united pain.

Ten years later, the gnawing feeling still weighs heavily in my center when I think of that day. I often believe I’m past it—we’re all resilient, aren’t we? We’ve all moved on. We pretend that we don’t exist in a changed world. Everything is okay. Just keep breathing. Just keep watching your back. Just be suspicious of anything unusual.

Ten years later, we’ve put cement blockades around federal buildings and military stations. Our children understand that moms and dads don’t always come home. We live in a place where trust is a nostalgic memory, lost with our naïve innocence.

Change happens, but this…this was abrupt and shocking, dragging us from our safe misconceptions and thrusting us into a world of disbelief and fear. It shook the world, deepening divisions and strengthening bonds. We’ve moved on and learned a new normal. But the fear remains. We hide it better now than we did on that September day, often veiling it behind anger and distrust and occasional rabid patriotism.

Our scars are deep, and they will remain with us forever.

And that’s where we’re at…ten years later.

Ten Years Later

When I was a kid, I used to worry about being bombed like Europe was during World War II. I don't know why I had that fear. Too many Sunday matinee movies that played almost soundlessly on the TV while I visited my Dad and Grandma? Maybe. Weird kid fears? God knows I had a ton. But when I'd vocalize them, I was always told the same thing, "That would never happen here." In fact, I can still hear my Dad's voice in my head. I heard it in my head as my cousin and I watched the devastation unfold on the TV screen. I wanted to call him and scream, "But you said..."

I didn't, of course.

I know we weren't alone in thinking that it couldn't happen here. I remember hearing that a lot afterward. "I never thought it could happen here."

The day it happened, my cousin, Sarah, and I were putting together a scrapbook for our Grandpa's upcoming 80th birthday and we were sorting through the WWII photos - particularly the ones of V-Day. The men in the pictures were so young and looked so happy to be done with the fighting. Sarah and I were talking about how glad we were that two of our other cousins who were in the Navy didn't have to deal with a war like that.

It all changed when Brynn called me and told me to turn on my TV. She sounded off. If you know Brynn, you've gotta understand that freaked me out more than anything. Brynn is calm - even if she's freaking on the inside, it's rare that you'll ever see it. The fact that I could hear that edge in her voice sent chills down my spine.

I turned on the TV and Sarah and I both collapsed on the couch and stared at the images. I might have still been on the phone with Brynn or maybe someone else had called. I talked to my husband at least once or twice. I know I talked to Brynn multiple times that day. At one point, I stupidly wished her a "Happy Birthday." I felt like an ass as soon as I said it. Who says "Happy Birthday" in the middle of thousands of people dying? This ass, apparently.

Corwin was in preschool and Killian was in second grade. I remember pacing, panicking trying to remember when their buses were supposed to get home. I contemplated going out and pulling them out of school so they'd be home with me instead of out in the world that in the span of a few minutes had become a 1000% more unsafe than I ever imagined it could be. It wasn't a conscious thought, but the feeling that if my family was home and we were all together, it would be okay.

I also got a call from Cait. It was her birthday, too. Her 16th. Her friends had gotten her a giant Sponge Bob balloon and on it was written "It's the Best Day Ever!" They were singing Happy Birthday to her in one of her classes when the office broke in with the news. She put the balloon in her locker and left it there 'til it deflated. She came over after school that day and ended up spending the night. We both still think of 9/11 whenever we hear that Sponge Bob song.


At the time, all I could think about was all of the all of the kids who'd never see their mom or dad again and the parents who'd never see their children. I think of the people who lost the loves of their lives, friends and other family members. In fact, ten years later, that's what I still think about. I also think about all of the soldiers who've died in the line of duty since then. I think about all the people in other countries who've died or suffered directly or indirectly because of what happened here.

I know there are some people who've been able to bring about some good in the world since and even because of this tragedy, and I applaud them. But mostly I think about the senseless loss of life and hope and pray that someday, preferably soon, that hate will give way to peace. Maybe I'm stupidly naive, but I believe we're capable of it...if we choose to.

9/11 -- 10 Years Later

I remember...I wasn't sure what I was going to write for today about that day and the days that have followed.

The days leading up to the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks were ordinary, I knew it was approaching, but I've become involved with school and veterans and the military, so I wasn't dwelling on those days. It wasn't really until on the way home from school Friday and talking to my daughter that the emotions from that day hit. She was reading about the attacks, but some of the facts weren't quite right. So, we talked about that day, I told her where I was and that I remembered watching the planes hit and the devastation that followed. I told her about a solidarity the American citizens had and the immediate suspicion cast on ALL Muslims and Middle Easterners, regardless of who they were.

There were silent tears when I pulled up the pictures that I thought she needed to see, not the more sanitized image the school news article would show. There is an emotional impact that can't be felt or truly understood through a simple article.

I have a friend, one of my sisters by another mother, who didn't feel the need to watch the coverage all day to prove that she wouldn't forget. None of us who were alive that day will readily forget. And while I understood her point, I knew my daughter needed to know what happened.

What I have seen, noticed, or thought about the changes that have occurred over the last ten years? The easy answer is a lot. The more difficult answer depends on the subject. I'm pretty sure that people will disagree with me - and they're allowed. Because we have an all volunteer military that said they would die for this country defending the Constitution - well until we give all our freedoms and rights back to the government to keep us safe.

Do I feel safer - First, I wasn't scared in the first place, because I don't live in city (then or now) that is actually important. I mean, I grew up here and I like some of the people, but on a national or international level -- it barely raises a dot. So no, I don't feel safer.

I've seen friends and family go to war in lands where only one was truly supported. Thankfully, unlike the Vietnam Veterans and in large part because of them, today's service members are supported.

And then there is the Patriot Act (which is super scary - I've read it, but it's allowed because fear allows people to be willing to sacrifice freedom for safety) and the TSA rules, which allow the government to invade people's lives and privacy without any actual proof.

We still squabble over everyone having equal rights and tolerance issues.

The world is a smaller place today on a communication level than it was in 2001 and it's harder to stay isolated from the rest of the world.

On the other hand, it has brought people together. People who normally wouldn't have met.

Over 3000 people died that day - they were civilians, service members, firefighters, EMTs and police officers - they had families and friends and on that day we were all one family and nearly everyone was affected. It is an event I will never forget.


Simone.

Back to Basics

The leaves are starting to change color, it's getting cooler and the kids are back in school. It's that time of year where we start at the beginning. Weirdly, I always think of this time of year as the beginning rather than January. So in keeping with that beginning theme, I'm going to highlight the basics I feel are most important.

Normally, I don't read anyone's post before I write mine, but I figured this was one of those weeks where there might be some overlap with people's ideas about writing basics. I was right.

1.) If you wait for inspiration, you'll never finish anything. You just need to sit your butt down and start typing. Yep, it's hard. Yep, sometimes you're going to write utter crap. But, that crap is so much better than nothing and that crap can be revised into something freaking awesome. So sit down, shut up and do it.

2.) Set relatively attainable goals then do everything in your power to complete them.

3.) Very your sentence length and style.

4.) Don't head hop.

5.) Use active verbs and stay in the same verb tense throughout your story.

6.) Avoid filters like "thought" and "felt"

7.) Avoid word repetition.

8.) Avoid cliched, cardboard characters or plots.

9.) Read! It feeds the creative mind.

10.) Have fun! Yes, writing can be damn hard work, but it's also supposed to be fun. If you're not enjoying it at least some of the time, you may want to rethink your career choice.

That's all I have. Of all of those, I think 1, 2, 9 and 10 are the most important, but hey, I've been wrong before!

Basic Training

My number one writing basic, the one thing I tell everyone who asks what it takes, what they should do, how they can be a writer is:

ASS IN CHAIR. FINGERS ON KEYBOARD.

That's about as basic as you can get, but it is the most honest and heartfelt advice I have for any aspiring author. And for any current author as well. If you are not sitting there writing then nothing is going to get accomplished. It doesn't have to be good, polishing comes later, it just has to be there. Your stories are not doing anyone any good inside your head.

Of course, there are other basics that are useful:

Always use double spaced 12 point NORMAL font. (Arial, Times,etc. NOT Comic Sans or Zapf Chancery.)

Know the difference between there, their and they're. Threw and Through. Your and You're. If you're not sure...LOOK IT THE F*@K UP! No editor is going to take you seriously if you can't comprehend basic grammar. It hurts their brains to look at it and they can't focus on the story.

Spell check is your friend, but it is not the be all end all to draft revision. It is not going to point out errors that it doesn't understand. If you miss letters, but it still spells a valid word, it't not going to point it out. You meant 'his' and typed 'is', guess what hot shot, is is a word and you have one more error in your manuscript. You have to read your MS with a clear head. Walk away for a few days then come back and read it. Or better yet, get a beta. Someone who you trust to be brutally honest with you. I'm sure you have twenty people who will tell you "Oh my gosh this is the best story I've ever read." You need that one person who will say "You spelled the heroine's name three different ways, your POV is totally screwed up in chapter three and for God's sake woman use a comma once in a while." That right there, is your best friend.

So there are a few little basics to get you going. I'm posting this early but I'm sure that the other authors are full of tips and hints for you to keep you on track. Have a lovely Wednesday and I'll see you next week.

XoXoXo
Dakota

Beetroot Makes It Orange

Okay...writing basics. What pearls of wisdom do I have to share with the world? What little nuggets have I gathered together over the course of my two years as a published writer, five years as a teacher of creative writing, and 18 years as someone obsessed with writing stories about Damon from the Vampire Diaries' fabulous butt?

Well, here's my top ten list:

1. Never fall asleep with the laptop on the bed. Just don't do it. I know you're tired, and you just want to watch How I Met Your Mother sleepily for five minutes, but believe me it will end badly. Turn off the laptop, put it away, and then go to sleep. Otherwise, you may well wake up from that dream about Loki from the Thor movie not really being your brother so hey it's cool that we bonk, with a laptop that now looks like this:

And no, I don't know where the gunfire came from, either. It's just what happens when you fall asleep with the laptop on the bed, okay?

Also: it's still an incest dream, self. What the hell's the matter with you??

2. Don't write that incest story. Not even about the mammothly sexy Tom Hiddleston as Loki. You'll get letters.

3. Don't pretend that bags of mint meltaways are a substitute for an actual and proper dinner. They seem filling at the time, but later on you'll poop green.

4. Go outside once in a while. Around the time your skin starts peeling off and youe eyeballs turn grey is the appropriate moment.

5. Make sure the sex you're writing about connects with the plot, characterisation and emotion of your story. Yep, it's a real and proper tip. I stole it from the legendary Emma Holly, of course, but I think it still holds true. Basically, don't just throw in random sex scenes. Your sex scenes should move the story along as much as any of your other scenes that feature Loki crying over the incest he's just committed, etcetera.

6. Don't comment on reviews. Not even good ones. Okay - maybe comment on good ones. But a simple "thanks for reading, really appreciate the time you took" is more than enough. You can use that on the bad ones, too, because seriously - resist the urge to say something horrible. Even something that seems innocent can turn out badly. It's so easy to seem snide and passive aggressive - a simple "that's not what I intended" often turns into a bloodbath.

Do not be in that bloodbath. For a start, blood is murder to get out from under your fingernails.

7. Try not to start every sentence with "she" or "he". This is one of my pet peeves, but I think it still makes sense. Mainly because books filled with sentences starting with he or she sound like a robot wrote them.

8. Don't base your hero on Michael York. He is Satan himself. He walks among us! Stop now, before your hero has an upper lip like a monkey!

9. If you find you're on paragraph three of an explanation of something, stop, cut it, and start a conversation instead. Even if it has to be a conversation in the heroine's head. For example:

Why the fuck did he do that? I can't believe it.

It's not perfect, but it's better than miles and miles of she couldn't believe he'd stolen the diamond of Bubonga. It had had been in her family for generations, passed down from her great Uncle Charlie. Some said it was cursed, because the Bubobogan people...

Ugh, no. What are you doing? Short, sharp, showing is always better. Show the curse melting her face! Have Uncle Charlie appear as a ghost and hurl the diamond at her! Anything but exposition dumps, anything!

10. Write what moves you. If you're stuck, and you want to procrastinate for hours rather than write because this next scene is going nowhere, just stop, and write something else. Write about Loki bumming Thor, if you have to. Just write.

And those are my top ten writing basics. Of course, most of them are nonsense. We could play a game in which you guessed which ones, but to be honest I think it's fairly obvious. I mean, one of them's about green poop, for God's sake.

P.S. I'm having a competition over at my blog to celebrate the release of my two books - Guarded and Telling Tales. They're both about sexy threesomes and moresomes (with combinations such as the ever elusive MMMM), they're both smoking hot, and you can find info how to enter and win them both (along with links to excerpts and such) here:

http://themightycharlottestein.blogspot.com/2011/09/new-releases-competitions.html

Would love it if you stopped by!

Labor Day!!!!!

Labor Day, at least here in Michigan, is the signal for school to start. Our weather is generally getting cooler, okay this morning it was down right freezing, and our nights longer. School, for public schools at least, starts tomorrow. It starts for me too tomorrow. Two more years and I'm done. Happy Dance. Well, done with a degree that I'll use for an everyday job. After that, I'll be taking random classes in history, sociology, psychology, and what ever else tickles my fancy. But there will most likely be a move before that part will happen.

Anyway, it's back to school time - school supplies started popping up back in July. Now, they're everywhere. I don't mind, since I like office supplies.

Back to school means the 'normal' subjects to be studied like English - my daughter's school calls it Language Arts, Math, Science, and Social Studies. But for writer's it can also be a good time to review the basic's, which is amazingly enough, our topic of the week.

Here are some of the Basics:
+ Every story needs a strong beginning, middle, and end.
+ The main characters should be 'real' and someone people can identify with. That includes being flawed and needing to grow. An argument I recently had with a friend of mine, who insisted that the hero needed to be perfect and go through his growth and character arc BEFORE he even met his heroine. In a love story. Have them go through it together. Much better idea.
+ Know your market, but know your talents, style and voice better.
+ READ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
+ Know your limits - including time management and self-discipline. - For this I'm breaking my monthly goals down into weekly goals. I use a kitchen timer and friends on Twitter to keep me focused and accountable.
+Have a good support system of people who either write or understand writers. Because, they are priceless!

Other than that, have a safe and happy Labor Day!!!

Enjoy,

Simone.

That really chaps my...

Okee Dokee! Hey! I remembered to blog and here's my Cowboy/Game Show/Licorice story.

I knew I was in trouble when I saw the cowboy standing on the curb in front of my house in the suburbs of Chicago. I mean, if I lived in the suburbs of say, Cheyenne Wyoming, I wouldn’t have blinked, but here in Chicago a man in chaps was out of the ordinary unless you went to one of the clubs I didn’t frequent.

Slowing my car to a halt, I parked beside him—mostly because it was my spot, not because I wanted to talk to him. Talking seemed unavoidable.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said as I rounded the car. Right…straight off Gunsmoke and probably looking for his horse or where he’d left his straightjacket.

I gave him a tight nod and kept heading for the safety of my house. He followed.

“Can you help me?”

I closed my eyes and made a face with my back to him. Great. He’d muttered the magic words I couldn’t resist because I couldn’t say the counter-spell of “No.” Slowly, I turned, carefully freeing my face from frustration and raising a brow in enquiry.

“I’m on a reality game show thingy,” he said. “Kinda like Amazing Race, but not terribly amazing. It’s more like…Incredibly Stupid Scavenger Hunt. Do you think you can help me out?”

I glanced around and didn’t see a single camera or even an unfamiliar car or shifty bush. “Does this line work for you often?” I asked.

“Ma’am, I don’t need a line. But…” he added hopefully. “I could use some licorice.”

“Licorice?” I repeated.

“Yes, that’s what I have to find. I lost a bet or maybe it was some sort of immunity challenge—”

“No, I think you were right the first time. It was another asinine bet.” My eyes narrowed at the man who was in fact my husband. At least, his drinking-slash-baseball-slash-partners-in-crime hadn’t made him shave his head again or get another tattoo. “Where’d you get the chaps?” I asked.

“The farm and feed store. Like them?”

“They have potential. What’s the rest of the bet? I’m sure it’s more than hanging around the sidewalk.” Now that I glanced around, I saw his pals looking out their front windows, laughing.

“Well, I have to talk you into dinner out while I’m dressed like this.”

“You’d fit right in at Chuck E Cheese,” I offered, rolling my eyes. “These bets have to stop.”

He shrugged. “Mercury’s in retrograde, at least that’s what my secretary says. It messes with things.”

“Right.” Seriously, it had been in “retrograde” for the better part of the last year and the only effect on me was the splash back of people blaming every damn thing on it. “Your marriage is about to be in retrograde,” I told him.

He grinned and stepped closer. He liked when I got pissed off. The sex was always great. “How ‘bout some role play then? Fuck the bet. I’d rather play cowboy and schoolmarm with you.”

This was sounding better.

“You’ll wear the chaps?” I asked.

“Will you wear your heels and librarian glasses?”

I laughed. “I don’t think old west schoolmarms had heels.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips over mine. “I don’t think I care.”

I shrieked with laughter as he hauled me over his shoulder and carried me to the front door.

This bet might just turn out better than I thought.

Okay...you asked for it.

This is my story involving a bag of licorice, a game show and a cowboy.

You've been warned.

Distorted sounding carnival music blared from the loudspeakers and I winced. I wasn't even sure how I'd gotten to this freak show. But somehow, I was here - surrounded by flashing lights and obnoxious music. It wasn't a freak show in the traditional sense. There were no bearded ladies, no contortionists or sword swallowers.

And despite the carnival music, there wasn't a funnel cake to be had. Instead, the nauseating order of licorice permeated the air. There were bags of the stuff. There was also licorice on a stick, deep fried licorice and licorice slushies. I hate licorice. I couldn't stop gagging.

Instead of the stereotypical skeevy carnies, there were guys in suits with slicked back plastic looking hair. Some of them had big flashing wheels - others had buzzers. It was like I'd died and gone to game show hell.

"Step right up, little lady!" the carnie smarmed into his microphone. "Diagram this sentence and you get your choice of prizes!"

I didn't really have a choice. The crowd pushed me forward and up to the podium. I glanced at the glowing screen, a little seed of dread sprouting in my stomach. The cat jumped.

"Seriously? The cat jumped is the sentence? Subject and verb? That's it? What kind of challenge is that?"

"Give the lady a prize!"

"But - but - " I sputtered.

The back wall of the game show booth revolved and there were nothing but cowboys lounging against the set. Tall, short, old, young, hot, homely - the choices were virtually limitless. And of course, they all had bags of licorice. I chose the hottest one of the bunch (what am I - stupid?) and wandered down the midway, my "prize" following along.

All I wanted to do was go home, but I was swept along on the tide of the crowd from one bizarre game show to another until I ended up with a heard of licorice eating cowboys following me around. I don't even like cowboys!

By the time I finally made it through the front gate, I was leading a herd of twenty-seven, licorice eating cowboys. What the hell was I supposed to do with twenty-seven cowboys? I suppose I could start writing gay romance novels and convince them to be my research. I know Chris and Jase would probably appreciate it.