Moving into the Future

I've been spending a lot of time at the airport lately, mostly picking people up and, when you do that these days, you frequently end up having a lot of time to think about the sorry state that airports have fallen into.

You know what I'm talking about, right? There are all these hastily built walls that look like they were put up over night; signs that still point you toward places you haven't been able to get to in a decade; increasingly complicated security mazes to navigate; and shops and restaurants that are all--for the most part--on the far side of said mazes and, therefore, off limits to anyone not actually traveling. 

For those of us who are waiting for our travelers to return, there are not always a lot of amenities. with which to amuse yourself while you're waiting. If you're really unlucky--if, for example, your loved one had the incredibly poor judgment to arrive at SFO's Terminal 3 (AKA the gates of hell)--you have virtually NO amenities. There's nothing to do but sit and wait (and not much of a place to do that either, btw) and wish that there was somewhere you could go to buy a book...or a newspaper...or some gum; or that one of the two restaurants (and I use that word very loosely) that are there would actually be open, or not out of food, or vaguely interesting.

Sorry, Peets, I love you dearly and coffee is a lot of things to me, but it's not dinner, okay? Not all by itself. Not even with a package of cookies. Anyway, to get back to my point...

There's a very impermanent vibe to airports these days, an air of making-do in an emergency. And I realized recently that it's lulled me into making the assumption that all the inconvenience was temporary, that someday  the emergency would be over and things would go back to something approaching normal. Now I find myself wondering whether the airports haven't been making the same mistake.

That must be the case, right? Because, as bad as things are, there's still no sense that they're making plans to improve the situation. And they'd do that, wouldn't they? If they cared at all about their passengers' comfort?

Or is that too naive?

I'm as sentimental and nostalgic as the next person, but sometimes you just have to accept that what's gone is gone, put the past behind you and move on. I sure wish the airports would get that message soon .'Cause this holding pattern they're stuck in is the pits.

Potato Chip Books

Unlike a lot of people, I’m not a true chocolate fanatic. I enjoy the taste, but I can take a single chocolate and leave the rest of the box without feeling particularly deprived. Potato chips, on the other hand, are another story. Put me near a bag and my self control promptly takes wing.

This rather labored explanation is meant to serve as the basis for an equally labored metaphor. Some books, you see, are like chocolate for me. I read a chocolate book over several days and then I may or may not get others by the same author. It’s pleasant reading, I like it, but it doesn’t really drive me to read nonstop. Other books, believe me, are more like potato chips. Once you start you just can’t put it down.

I first encountered the whole potato chip phenomenon when somebody gave me a box of Linda Howard’s old Harlequin romances from the eighties several years ago. I soon discovered I could polish one off in a few hours if I didn’t do anything else, and I usually didn’t want to do anything else while I was reading. After a couple of Linda Howard binges, I started rationing. I’d come home from work on Friday afternoon and curl up with a Linda Howard series romance. Three hours later, I’d probably be finished, but if I wasn’t, I’d go on reading after dinner or the next day until I was done. The whole process made Fridays something I looked forward to all week long.

After Linda Howard, I discovered Jayne Ann Krentz. Now Krentz’s books were a little longer, but I tore through them in the same way I’d torn through Howard’s. Weekend reading—I’d always check to make sure I had one on hand. Just like potato chips.

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that the writers who grabbed me this way (and I’d add Elizabeth Lowell to this list) were all old school. They’d come up through the ranks of series romances and they’d learned their trade well. Plots moved along at a very brisk pace. Characters were drawn in broad strokes and tended to fall into predictable patterns—the brooding alpha male, the headstrong, passionate woman. You didn’t spend a lot of time thinking when you read these books—you just plowed ahead.

By now, of course, all three of these writers have moved into Living Legend status, and they no longer write in the same way. They publish longer works and they seldom do more than one a year. Moreover, their characters are usually more complex, with more complete backstories. But the lessons you can learn from potato chip books are real. Stories matter. Characters may be stereotypical, but they’ve also got to be interesting. And most of all, once you’ve got the readers hooked, you’ll hold onto them. For those of us who write books in a series, that’s the Holy Grail, believe me.

Potato chip books. Betcha can’t read just one.

So who have I missed? What other potato chip authors would you add to this list?

Guest Blogger Catherine Cade - Self Doubt

Hi, there! Many thanks to the Naughty 9 for hostessing me on their fab blog today. I write erotic romance for Samhain Publishing.

The other day on the Savvy Authors Loop, an aspiring writer asked, 'What if my writing is really just doo-doo?'

Her heart-felt question inspired a discussion that is still going on several days later. There are very few authors, romance or otherwise, who haven't wondered if they were awfully good or just plain awful.

The question hit home for me, too. I just wrapped up my Orion Series, about the alpha crew commanders of the spaceship Orion. The series is erotic sci fi paranormal romance, fast paced, full of adventure and red hot. Readers so far have embraced each book in the series, buying and enjoying them each in turn. So I can do that. My new series? I'm not so sure. What if I can't do this?

But then I remember that with each Orion book I suffered the same self-doubt in the process of weaving the story. And I got over it each time by fighting my way through it, by writing until the characters were once again showing me the way. There's a mystical thing that happens when I go deep into the world of my story, and it's flowing through me. But it's not easy to get there—it requires dedication. It requires the courage to keep going even when I'm convinced I can't do it ... until I remember I can.

The heroines in the romance stories that I love to read and write, go through a similar journey. Confronted with adventure, and a large, intractable male who might be her destiny if she doesn't shoot him first, each heroine struggles to discover her own power, the unique strengths that will help her triumph in both her adventure and her love story. If it comes too easily, her story is going to lull me to sleep, not keep me turning pages. I want to race one step ahead of the villains, be held at laser gun-point, menaced by dangerous thugs ... and then be rescued by the hero, and rescue him. I want him to

take me with a passion so great it consumes me, and enthralls him long enough to realize he can't live without me.

So, in creating a romance, I suppose it's only fair that I suffer a little of the perilous journey my characters do. Yeah, I'll keep telling myself that.

How about you? Is there anything you love to do, but struggle with? Is it worth the fight?

The final chapter in The Orion Series is now available from Samhain Publishing.

I've had so much fun creating the alpha males and feisty heroines who inhabit the world of Orion. In a way, I've saved the best for last.

I always thought Spock was the most intriguing character in those fab old reruns of Star Trek--all that intellect and power, held in check with such superb control, passion seething under that chill exterior. Love the way his story was brought to the forefront in the new Star Trek movie, don't you?

In a way, Deep Indigo is a tribute to Spock. Ah, space opera. Hokey as you were, with cardboard sets and plastic masked aliens, we loved you.

Here's a taste of the story…

"Navos led her into his stateroom, only his years of training controlling the desire flaming inside him. He knew that after a battle, soldiers often found themselves in the grip of lust, the less honorable among them committing rape.

He and Nelah had just won a deadly battle, although fought with empathic power. And now this slender, naïve young woman had him ready to shove her up against the nearest wall and take her there.

He’d nearly done so in the elevator—he had the access codes to shut it down and blank all surveillance. And knowing she wouldn’t stop him inflamed him. However, he was damned if he’d behave as a mere human male.

He had a thousand years of Indigon evolution in at least half of him and he meant to make sure that half remained uppermost, even in what promised to be a heady liaison. He might be throwing his rules about sex with passengers out the escape hatch, but he was still Indigon.

As the hatch slid shut behind them, he led her across the few steps to the large bed waiting in the shadows and turned her toward him. He wanted nothing more than to unwrap her like a gift and enjoy her tender body with slow care, but he had little time.

They both needed sleep. She would have it. He must go and aid in the investigation now beginning. Whoever the dead man was, whoever had been controlling him, he’d been acting as a terrorist. The Orion was obviously not rid of her tormentors.

But before Navos did the work at which he was so skilled, divining the patterns and motivations in a crisis situation, he desperately needed an outlet for the sexual flames fanned by their mind meld.

He sent his power twining about her, silently urging her close to him. She shivered visibly, her plum-like breasts rising and falling quickly as she fought for breath. Her eyes rose as far as his mouth, then her own lips parted on a shuddering sigh of surrender and she swayed toward him like a lovely, slender reed.

Triumph surged through him. She was so attuned to him. He spoke to her silently once more. Would she hear him, or had their earlier communication been a fluke, forged in the fire of urgency?

“Touch me.”

Her hands settled like birds’ wings on his chest, slipping up over the sleek fabric of his flight suit. She found the fastening at his throat, baring a long vee of flesh

His hands curved around her tiny waist, urging, guiding. She swayed closer, first her moist breath and then her soft lips brushing against the column of his throat.

Every cell in his body thrilled.

“More!” He had to feel that torturously delicate exploration move up his throat, then down, across the smooth hardness of his chest, her eager hands pushing his flight suit back until her fingertips found his nipples. A hard shudder arrowed through him as she traced them.

She was trembling in his hands, a fact that filled him with savage delight. He wanted her shaking, wanted her desperate for him.

He pushed his loins against hers, rocking his erection into the juncture of her thighs as she tasted his skin with the tip of her silky little tongue. He hung on the feathered edge of orgasm. His nostrils flared, jaw clenched, as he fought the urge to let go just from the graze of her mons on his straining phallus.

But no, he wanted every bit of her, wanted to be deep inside her before he put them both out of this delicious agony.

He traced just the fingertips of one hand, so large against her delicate frame, up the sleek front of her flight suit, over one pebble-hard nipple thrusting underneath, up under her chin, tipping her face toward his. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, dazed. Good.

He nipped at her lower lip—hard. “Open your suit to me.”

She fumbled with the fastening under her chin, her eyes drowning in his. It parted under his waiting fingertips. He slid his fingers down with hers, so under his tutelage she unfastened the garment clear to her belly. Her skin was unbelievably silken, shivering at his touch.

His mouth hovering against hers, he stroked the suit open farther, until his fingertips found the firm mound of her mons. Ah, like a velvet peach and a few inches farther, the luscious juicy center of the fruit, the sleek folds of her vulva. Indigons had only the faintest traces of hair around their sex. It gave the women a delicate, vulnerable beauty.

She whimpered some incoherent plea against his lips, her hips tilting forward to meet his touch.

“Yes,” he breathed into her mouth. “Give yourself to me.”

“I already—have.”

... visit the Samhain site for more excerpts, and to buy the book.

http://store.samhainpublishing.com/deep-indigo-p-6258.html

Women's Intuition: fact or myth?

Have you ever experienced that “gut feeling”, or knowing something without knowing how you know it? Some people seem to have more “intuition” than others, but what is it really? A sort of “sixth sense”?Wikipedia defines intuition as “understanding without apparent effort”. That seems a simple definition for something so complex and difficult to explain

Psychologists have historically lumped “intuition” in with astrology and mental telepathy and have never really taken it seriously, but researchers at the Univerity of Leeds in England recently studied intuition in more depth. They wrote in the British Journal of Psychology that “ intuition is a process that lies beyond conscious awareness, a form of rapid information processing deep inside the brain structures in which the brain draws on past experiences and external clues to make a decision.”

Using technology that measures blood flow to different areas of the brain, they were able to deduce that when someone processes information and makes a quick “gut” response, their brain is actually doing several things at once – analyzing and using their past experience to process the information rapidly.

Lead author Gerard Hodgkinson, a professor of organizational behaviour and strategic management and head of the Centre for Organizational Strategy, Learning and Change at the University of Leeds says intuitions are "a combination of pattern recognition," It’s “mental short cuts by comparing the circumstances in front of you against some kind of template of similar past experiences." Scientists call this rapid primed decision making.

“That triggers a physiological, emotional response, a bodily sensation, where people know clearly what the course of action is, but they don't know why," Hodgkinson says.

So when you get that feeling, that sense of something, knowing something that happens quickly and you can’t really explain how you know it, what your mind has done is taken the information you have – even if it’s not complete information – and rapidly analyzed it, compared it to past experiences and quickly come to a conclusion.

How about “women’s intuition” and the generally accepted belief that women have more of this quality than men?

Dr. William Ickes, writing in Psychology Today, said that when he started researching this, it was expected that they would find that women have more “intuition” than men. But that was not the outcome their research led to, in fact. At first they found very little difference between men and women and they were about to conclude that the stereotype of women’s intuition was a cultural myth, but then a change in their research methods led them to see there were some differences. After additional research they found strong evidence that “the gender difference we had occasionally observed was indeed based on differential motivation rather than differential ability. Women, on average, don’t have greater empathic ability than men, but they do try harder to live up to their stereotype in situations in which they are reminded of it.”

So it comes down to the fact that women are expected to be more intuitive and therefore try harder at it, while men aren’t really motivated to be intuitive -  so they don’t.

I think I’m pretty intuitive. I can often sense how people are feeling. I often read “back story” into situations based on subtle clues, reading people’s motivations, even imagining things that have happened that I have no way of knowing. Sometimes I never know if I’m right...but often I am!
Do you think you’re intuitive? Here’s a quick on-line test to see how intuitive you are. Try it!

Fooooooooood.

I admit it. I'm hooked.

I'm completely addicted to food-based shows.

It doesn't matter if it's a competition, like Top Chef, or a "how twinkies are made" expose, or just a cooking demonstration complete with recipes. If there's food involved, I'm so there.

My newest favorite is Cupcake Wars. Who knew the world of handheld individual cakes could be so cutthroat? Or that Peanut Butter Banana Bacon cupcakes could actually look appetizing? Sure, there are misfires, but those are part of the charm. And all-pink teams competing against guys who look like ex-Marines appeals to my "opposites-attract" sensibilities.

Midkid prefers any of the cake decorating competitions. Forget the bite-size treats - bring on the towering creations with spinning tops and pyromaniac displays!

The DH is a fan of Man vs Food, and I have to admit I can't seem to change the channel when it's on, either. By all rights I should be appalled by the sheer volume of food that poor host shoves down his throat on a regular basis, but there is a touch of the quixotic about it.

And don't even get me started on the cooking demonstration shows. One of these days I'm going to make a mandarine orange martini. Or a beef and pepper sandwich on ciabatta. Or...

Damn. Now I'm hungry.

*wanders off to raid the fridge*

Do you watch any cooking/food-related shows? What's your favorite?

Is There a 12-Step Program for This?

There might be something wrong with me. Something so sick, so twisted, I should probably get professional help. But who would believe me? Who would take on someone with such a bizarre and incomprehensible condition? They say the first step is admitting your problem. So here it is...

I like doing my taxes. Wait! Don’t shun me! Hear me out…

I’m not talking about the part where you hand over your money to the government. I like some of the things they do with it, others not so much. This is not a political post. And I’m not talking about actually doing my taxes—like figuring out depreciation and margin interest and lord knows what else. My accountant does the hard numbers work.

I’m talking about digging out my receipts, going through my checkbook, tracking down missing credit card statements. It’s like reliving the year all over again.

The thirty-plus charges at Island Naturals in Hawaii bring back blissful memories of excessive lilikoi-coconut pudding consumption. I can practically taste the passionfruit…And look, all those charges from Orlando, Florida! The 2010 RWA conference! How fun was that... And I had no idea I spent quite that much at certain e-publishers sites. But that’s okay, it’s research.

I see why investigators look first at people’s credit card statements to figure out what they’re up to. I get a whole different perspective on myself when I do my taxes. I can see when my husband the carpenter came into my life. All of sudden, hardware store charges began to appear. I can see that most of my Christmas shopping happened embarrassingly close to Christmas. It’s right there in black and white. You can run but you can’t hide from your credit card statements.

Reviewing your expenditures over the past year is great for shattering your delusions about yourself. Yes, I DO spend a lot of money on ebooks. Yes, I DO spend an inordinate amount of time in coffee shops and no, a tea and muffin is NOT virtually nothing. Those charges add up. I’m not saying how much. Barb’s Video took a healthy chunk of my income. Do we really watch that many DVD’s? Yep.

Even if what I discover makes me cringe, it still feels good to go over it all. It makes me feel I’ve brought order to the chaos of my spending. When I’m done, I feel cleansed and forgiven. Forgive me, IRS, for I have overspent. In penance, I will say ten Hail MBaM’s and pay whatever my accountant tells me.

So there you have it. My deep dark secret is out. Is there hope for me?

What about you? Am I the only one with this weird problem, or is there anyone else out there who doesn’t mind doing their taxes? If you want to vent about how horrible they are, that’s okay too. Let's hear it!

Anything You Want

As if it was meant to be, I just got the final approval on the blurb and stuff for my UPCOMING RELEASE! So I wanted to share! :)

I'm excited and nervous about this release (well, what's new?! :)) but this one is important in a way. It's my first release after my Bradford series last year and I'm anxious to see if readers still like me after this! No, seriously. I'm *thrilled* by how many readers have loved the Bradfords. *Thrilled*. Super thrilled. But Anything You Want isn't related to the Bradfords at all. So, will it be a let down? I hope not. I really love this book.

But I know as a reader I'm pretty loyal to series and their characters. As a writer, doing a series can be just as fun as it is for readers. But obviously, eventually, the series has to end and everyone--the writer and the readers-- has to find out if the writer can do more.

So, *deep breath* I guess I'll be finding out in a couple of weeks if readers think I pulled it off! :) How do you feel about that first book after a series ends? Are you sad? Willing to see what the author does next? Always secretly hoping for a long lost illegitimate brother from the series to show up? Or are you okay moving on, meeting new characters and reading new stories?

Anything You Want is an enemies-turned-lovers story. There's also a love triangle, a woman who pretty regularly makes major mistakes, a guy who really tries to do the right thing... and hot kitchen sex.

Anything You Want, March 15th from Samhain

Erin Nicholas

Suppose the solution to all your problems is the one thing you never wanted…


It figures the one time Sabrina Cassidy is determined to do the responsible thing, karma kicks in. After four years on the road chasing her musical dream, she’s stranded six hours from home with no money, a ruined credit history—and morning sickness.

Out of options, she swallows her legendary independent streak and calls the only person who won’t hang up on her. Luke, the man she left behind.

Marc Sterling’s first instinct is to protect his business partner and best friend from another broken heart. That means letting her think she’s talking to Luke, then finding a way to send her in the opposite direction.

When he shows up at her hotel room, there’s something in the air beside their customary insults. Sure, her rebellious attitude, smart mouth—and purple panties—still drive him crazy, but now it’s a different kind of crazy. The kind that has him driving her home instead of to the nearest airport.

And when Luke offers to solve all her problems if she’ll only say “I do”, Marc realizes he’s just crazy enough—about her—to forget whose heart he wanted to protect.

Warning: Contains two people who don’t like each other very much, a Toyota that can’t quite handle the road trip home, and a spontaneous proposal. Or two. Or three. And foreplay with—what else—pie filling.

Excerpt:

He turned with a frown. “Why are you here?”

“Oh.” She pulled herself up straight. “To yell at you.”

“Can you get it over with so I can finish here?”

“Love to. Leave my stuff alone and mind your own business.”

“You don’t mean that.” Marc bent and put another pie in the oven.

It annoyed her that she got distracted by how great his butt looked in the faded jeans. “What?”

“I think you really, really want me messing with your stuff and minding your business. In fact, I think you’ve realized that I’m the only one you want messing with your stuff and that’s why you’re here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know?” He looked up and made lasting eye contact for the first time. “You’re going to pretend that you don’t know? And act surprised that I know exactly what you’re doing?”

“What I’m doing? I’m not reading your mail and messing with your stuff and confusing everything.”

“Is that right? I’m the only one messing around and confusing everything?”

“You’re the one touching me all the time and flirting and smiling at me—” She stopped, realizing that she was on the verge of admitting things she shouldn’t say out loud even to herself.

“And every frickin’ time you—” He stopped and visibly gritted his teeth.

She stared at him when he failed to go on. “I what?”

He scowled at her. “You respond.”

“I respond,” she repeated. “What does that mean?” But she knew exactly what he meant. She responded to him in ways she never had to anyone, or anything, before.

“It means that all I can think about is getting you naked and making you respond over and over again.”

Her body definitely responded to that and she had to concentrate on breathing normally. Still, she tried for flippant. “I think that’s maybe more your problem, than mine.”

“Maybe it is.” He didn’t look up and was stirring the ingredients in the bowl like he had a personal vendetta against them. “After all, you have another guy hanging on, don’t you? When you get all worked up you can just go off to his office and have him scratch the itch. The itch I created.”

He really seemed upset and she knew he wanted her to believe it was because she was driving him crazy. But she thought just maybe it was her and Luke together that was driving him crazy. Which meant he was jealous. Which made her want to smile. She resisted, but she definitely wanted to. “He’s the guy I’m going to be living with. He should be scratching my itches.”

“The guy you might be living with.” Marc threw—not tossed—the spoon into the sink. He thumped the ball of dough he’d created onto the wooden counter top and began flattening it.

The man drove her crazy. “And you’re pissed because you think he can do better.”

“That’s probably why I should be pissed.” He hit the dough with the rolling pin.

“But?”

He didn’t answer, just kept rolling.

“Why are you pissed then?”

Nothing. His jaw was tight and the dough was getting a beating, but he wouldn’t even look up.

“Oh now you’re going to shut up? You open this up and now you won’t follow through?” She wanted emotion from him, a reaction, even if he was mad about something. She wanted to know that this was more than casual to him. “Let’s talk about these itches I need help with.” He still didn’t look up.

“Come on, Marc. If we’re gonna fight, then fight with me!”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he muttered.

The muttering drove her crazier than any yelling might have done. “Well, I want to fight with you!”

And she did. She had so many pent up emotions, so many frustrations and it seemed that many, if not all, stemmed from this man. She wanted to let loose with…something. And Marc was the closest target.

Marc, who was simply rolling out piecrusts and muttering at her.

That wasn’t going to fly. If he didn’t want to fight with her now, he soon would.

She reached out and grabbed the closest thing, a can of apple pie filling. She scooped out a handful and flung it at him, hitting him directly in the center of the chest.

He froze, the rolling pin gripped in his hands.

When he didn’t react further than that, she took another handful and threw it. It hit him on the front of his right shoulder.

He put the rolling pin down and finally looked up her. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as he began unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s how you want to do this?”

Her heart was pounding and she was sure it was from anger. It had to be anger.

But as more and more of his chest was revealed she knew that lie wasn’t going to make it much further. He shrugged out of the shirt entirely a moment later and her heart rate kicked into high gear.

Wow. He was muscled and broad, skin tanned with light hair gracing his pecs and stomach. She wanted to touch it. All of it. With her tongue.

This was bad.

He started toward her. She backed up. “How I want to do what?”

“Get me naked.”

“I…don’t…” But she couldn’t quite get the lie out. She did want him naked. Bad.