Lesson number three hundred and twelve...

‘Been making book trailers for the Ellora’s Cave Romanticon convention. Eventually I had to stop and do the cleaning and the laundry…boring… anyway – check ‘em out. I wanted to keep ‘em simple.

So on to the lesson bit…

….if you recall I went and got all silly – okay stupid – over a man. That’s all over now. Why? Because I found my missing brain cells in my sock drawer and I am in my right mind once again…I also realize I have a lot of socks – mainly striped - anyway, in the last week, he, let’s call him Rodney, has been emailing to ask me how I was feeling. Hmmm…like he gives a rat’s arse.

I emailed him back, brain cells intact, and said “stop asking how I am, you don’t give a crap and I don’t want to think about you.” Rodney emailed back this complete and utter load of insincere, immature twaddle basically indicating it was my problem I had feelings for him and to “work through it” and he could see no problem in emailing me as “you are nice.” Yes and yes to points one and two and fuck off I am not to number three. And seriously, who the hell even uses the term ‘work through it’?

I’m just thrilled I didn’t go any further on than I did with Rodney. I know natural instinct and Spidey sense held me back. You know you can say ‘I’m sensitive and caring’ as much as you like but don’t you find the people who have to announce that are anything but?

Whew – I needed to get off my chest. It’s been irritating me all week. Lesson learned and I move on…and how am I? I am stronger and beyond amazing.

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How many? Care factor?

I finished up editing my Aussie book, Thigh High, due for release in December with Ellora's Cave. Its part of an Aussie series called Going Down Under. Its Aussie themed books written by real Aussie Ellora’s Cave authors. While I always write as I speak, 80% of the time in my books I have to tone down the Aussie stuff due to the fact that most nationalities don't speak as bloody lovely as we Aussies do. Thigh High is set in a small outback town and it’s full on Aussie. But then, that’s who I am. It's how I speak. I have added a glossary though to help translate some of the words.

Anyway, during the editing a friend and I discussed age and sexual experience and what is deemed "normal" for a woman. My personal opinion? Normal is what's normal for the individual. As always I believe age is irreverent regardless what the subject is. Lot's of sexual experience? Happy for you. Hardly any? That's okay. None? I see no problem with that. It annoys me no end when we try to pigeon-hole people into what we think they should be or should have done at this age or that. Why? Are we so perfect that we can pick at others? Well – no.

While all my heroines are smart arse women who have lived life and aren’t about to be messed around by anyone, all of them have different sexual experiences. Some have a hell of a past, others have limited it to one or two lovers, while a couple have been virgins. I think about the character of the heroine. Who is she? How do I want her to be understood by the readers? I don’t think ‘well, she’s 35 and she should have had 7.6 lovers by now ‘cause that’s normal.’ To me, it's irrelevant how many the heroine’s slept with. The main point of the story – the romance – is the romance. It’s about the concept that two people have looked at each other and thought, “This is the one.” Isn’t that why we read romance? We want to believe in that one true love? Is it really important who they have slept or how many?

Romance books cry out for a happy ending. A person or a character’s past is just not important. It’s the trials and tribulations of getting these two people together that is. And I have to ask why a man's sexual experience doesn’t come into question as much as a woman's? I never get comments or hear discussions about who the hero may have slept with or how many at his age and is that normal?

So sex in romance books – she loves him. He loves her. In the end that’s all I need to know.

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Find me a door…

I had to do this test today. Like anyone with any brains at all I try to avoid tests. Why? Because tests are pukeable. For example the Trade Practices test at work is beyond puekable. It’s all about ethics. I’m 45 years of age. I’m not about to learn ethics now for god sake. It’s too late for me. Bad behaviour is a way of life for me now. Thankfully, due to said badness, I have worked out how to cheat on this ethics test. No, you’re right. It’s probably not ethical but did I mention the bit about me being bad?

Anyway, the test I did today at the gym has a lovely name. Its call the skin fold test. There’s no way you can cheat on that sucker. It’s all about pulling at your flab with these pinchers and measuring the density of said flab. Lovely. This is when you find out if all that running up hill, boxing, lifting weights, jumping (I hate jumping – it’s the boob issue), lunging, squatting, losing oxygen flow, aches, pains, sweating buckets and profusely swearing at the gym has all been worth it.

So Hugh – my trainer - and I went into this little room and measured my fat. I have to say I like a man who can make a woman feel totally at ease with her body in a situation like that. I say we clone Hugh. One for every woman. He’s adorable – young – but adorable. Anyway, after picking up layers of my fat with his pinchers and some quick calculations Hugh was beyond happy. Actually I think he was happier than me if his dance of joy was anything to go by. I have lost 15% body fat. I’m happy with that. I worked for that. I deserve that.

Hugh instantly wanted to take a picture of the two of us together to put on the wall at the gym as I was his only client who had lost that much fat. I am all arse kicking muscle. Anyway, I declined the photo for now. Why? Nah, I’m not vain. I am what I am but at that point I had spent an hour sweating heavily with Hugh and my hair was plastered to my skull, my face was red and my shirt was drenched with sweat. “You’re such a girly-girl,” he said. Yeah – what of it? So I have promised Hugh we will have a photo on the board. I’m not into photos per se but I realize it’s more important to him than me as it shows other people how he can torture, I mean train people, into achieving.

So, I’m pretty kick-a-door-in damn fit. I have the steel toe capped boots at work…just got to find me a door to kick in.

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Questions…

- can you eat cereal three nights in a row for dinner? How healthy is that?
- what's the world record for people asking me about the bruise on my forehead? Was I drunk? No, just plain clumsy.
- why did I continuously pick up and lift over my head, and then throw down hard, a 10 kg ball just because Hugh (trainer) said it was a good thing to do? Would I jump off a cliff if he told me to?
- is pain from exercise really good for you?
- is losing weight worth it? Do I need muscle? What happens if I lose all my beloved cellulite? Is there counselling for that?
- will the weight find me once more?
-why is it when you go to the bottlo (liquor store) that they always ask me if I want my purchases cold? Do I look like I need a drink that badly?
- why do they always look scared when you ask a shop assistant that question?
- and what wine do you serve with cereal?
- if green vegetables are good for you then why can’t we have green chocolate?
- how many naked book cover requests can you send in before the cover gods go “duh -stop it already - we know what you want.”
- how many times can I drive my editor insane with typos?
- and what's with her obsession with frogs? What’s that about?
- why is it screaming children are always in the supermarket after work? Isn’t there a law about children rampaging and terrorizing single people?
- how many times do I have to say no before someone gets it?
- how many gazillion lotto tickets do you have to buy before the lotto gods stop laughing at you and let you win?
- why is it the hooks on your bra give way at the most inopportune moment?
- why do we even have breasts?
- why can't men have breasts instead?
-…and cellulite?
-…why can’t they have periods too?
- If I have hardly any petrol in the car is that a good reason to call in sick?
- why do smokers stand in the sunlight fagging away (smoking) and then comment how fresh the air is outside? How can they tell what fresh is?
- why can you always sleep at your desk during the day at work but not in you bed at night?
- how come the person you work with eats rubbish all day but he falls apart in horror if you eat a snack can of healthy tuna?
- why is the woman in the picture above standing as she is? What is she selling? Why doesn’t she straighten up?
- Oh why, why, why Delilah?

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Ah, love...

Riiiiight...

AN INDONESIAN cannibal is seeking love, promising his people-eating days are over.
Sumanto, currently residing in rural Central Java, was jailed after he dug up an old woman's body for a "cheap and tasty meal".
"She was delicious," he told AFP from his room at a Muslim mental rehabilitation centre in rural Central Java.
"I love meat... all types of meat as long as it's cooked. But I don't eat people anymore."
But after a lengthy stint in prison, the former farmer now longs for the taste of love.
"What is love? How can I describe it when I've never experienced it, never tasted it?"
http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,25808245-401,00.html

Okay – I read this and I suddenly pictured dozens of romance writers banging out a story on their keyboards about cannibal love. We always jump on a new theme or idea. We’ve had zombie romance and every shape-shifter know to man, Neanderthals, gargoyles, robots, mermaids and god-knows-what-else falling in love. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if someone is feverishly writing a cannibal romance right now.

So, this would be the plot of my cannibal romance book – our hero, the reformed cannibal, is working as a chef. He does this due to his love of meat. Our heroine is a waitress. She has a fear of condiments – other than that – she’s a hell of a waitress. One busy night at the restaurant, she rushes into the kitchen with multiple plates, slides on a patch of grease on the floor and falls down. The half empty plates she is carrying, are covered with the remnants of French mustard and a particularly nice garlic vinaigrette salad. They crash onto her breasts and stomach as she is sprawled onto the floor. She screams due to her condiment fear and rips open her blouse to clear the offending spices away. Our hero, the cannibal, races to her aid. He stands for a moment smacking his lips in thought as he salivates over her luscious, spice covered flesh. What does he do? How is he tempted? What will she allow? Will he cure her condiment fear for good? Will there be a ‘help wanted’ sign for a waitress in the restaurant window tomorrow? Oh the culinary tension…

Welcome to…

… the sailors of the USS Essex who landed in my hometown of Brizzie. We’re a sleepy little hollow where the native have some odd quirks but we’re basically harmless. And Dr Phil is here next week. I can’t see a bunch of Aussies spilling their guts on all their personal problems without several dozen alcoholic beverages first….

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So I killed him…

Who? Rodney. Huh? Rodney the toe rag who upset the heroine in the current book I’m writing. Yeah, I don’t mind telling you he’s dead because he’s not at all integral to the plot – in fact he was just a name I used to explain something about the heroine. He was only a few sentences until I got the idea to kill him. Actually, a friend passed the idea on. She suggested murdering a character could be cathartic – that it could help me take my mind off something. She was right. I felt so much better after I killed Rodney.

On yesterday’s post I mentioned that I was having trouble writing romance – that I likened it to an illness or a commodity and that I had to snap out of that way of thinking due to the whole writing-of-romance-books-thing that I do. Anyway, that all came about due to these dumb arsed feelings I had over someone. I am pretty much over him – he’s more like this annoying thought in the back of my mind. You know when you want to confront someone and yell at them for making you feel horrible – it would prove nothing – because they wouldn’t get it but it would give you a chance to yell loudly and that’s always good. So when the idea came up to kill someone in the book, I thought straight a way of Rodney. He is a piece of pus who made my heroine feel bad about herself and made her cry. At first he was just a reason, then he became a target. I have to admit I really enjoyed killing Rodney.

While I do not condone killing real life, flesh and blood people, I admit to wantonly killing my fictitious character of Rodney for my own benefit. It was symbolic. Rodney had to die so I could move on. Rest in peace Rodney….or in this case pieces…

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Romance? Meh…

I’m finding it really hard at the moment to write romance. I’m writing all around it and skipping the lovey-dovey bits. Why? Because I don’t believe in romance at the moment. That the concept of romance and everyone wanting to be in love exists – okay – sure – I get that. People like to do silly things. And let’s face it, how would we sell greeting cards, flowers and movies without the romance thing? Like yesterday’s blog on sex and prostitution, romance is a big seller. Get rid of the idea of romance and that would crush part of the global economy. That people are happy and blindly in love I understand. It’s like the common cold, we all get over it eventually or we prolong it and do something dumb like move in together or get married til’ death do us part. Scary stuff romance, huh? And is there a point to romance other than the economy and germs? Well…nah, I don’t believe so.

That’s my dilemma. I currently see romance as a commodity or an illness that affects your brain. Yes, bad ju-ju for a romance writer because the heroine can’t send the hero back with a sticker on his head asking for a refund when she’s sick of him nor can she buy an elixir that cures her from wanting him…besides if there was one of those you just know it would be fattening. And there is no way she can avoid the hero for most of the book just because she worked out he never understood her and that his agenda and hers were incompatible. It would make the book awkward. You’re supposed to get them together and keep them together no matter what dumb stuff they do to each other. That’s you’re job as a writer. But then – that’s romance for you – real or written – it’s awkward. Never mind – I’ll find my romance mojo soon…must be here somewhere….maybe in my sock drawer…

So – Monday once more. The plan of action today…ignore all work phone calls particularly those from a certain number…well, why make the day any harder? My excuse? Oh, I didn’t realize you rang. You rang two dozen times? Oh dear…was it important? I’m sure you coped…you’re so big and strong and smart…yes, when all else fails rely on bullshite to maintain sanity.

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