An illicit peek at what’s on my nightstand

There’s a conversation I’ve had several times since I became a published author, and it goes something like this:

New writer: I was wondering if you could give me some advice?

Me: Lock the dog out of the room before bumping uglies with your significant other.

New writer: No, I mean advice for becoming a published author.

Me: Oh. Sure, I’d say read.

New writer: Read?

Me: Read everything you can get your hands on. Read inside your genre, outside your genre, in your bed, or out of your comfort zone. Read fiction, nonfiction, magazines, medical journals, cereal boxes, and fortune cookies.

New writer: Yeah, well—I’m not really much of a reader, and I really don’t have that kind of time…

At which point I will either politely excuse myself from the conversation, or beat the person’s head against the bar. It depends on how full my wineglass is.

Suffice it to say, I’m a fervent believer in reading as the cornerstone to improving your skills as a writer. There truly is no better way to study the craft and learn what works and what doesn’t when it comes to putting words on a page.

I thought about this the other day when I was asked in an interview what books I’m currently reading, and I caught myself giving a censored answer. Not because I’m ashamed to be reading porn (I’ll happily admit that) but because I read so many books simultaneously, it sounds a little absurd.

I’m not afraid of sounding absurd here, so behold, I give you the current rundown of what I’m reading and why I’m reading it.

Title: Caught up in Us

Author: Lauren Blakely

Genre: Romance

Why I picked it: My agent recommended it.

What I love about it: This is a fun, fluffy, flirty, sexy romance that flows well, offers solid writing and interesting, likeable characters. Is it a little predictable? Of course! But sometimes that’s exactly why I choose a romance novel. I want my happily-ever-after, and I want some good sexin’ along the way. This has both, and it served as a terrific reminder of what I love about the romance genre.

Title: Blood Will Tell: A Medical Explanation for the Tyranny of King Henry VIII

Author: Kyra Cornelius Kramer

Genre: Historical nonfiction

Why I picked it: A friend recommended it.

What I love about it: I adore when a book sheds new light on a subject I thought I already knew pretty well. I’ve read plenty of books about England’s King Henry VIII, the Boleyn sisters, and the Tudor dynasty, but this book made me rethink a lot of things I thought I already knew. The author explores the possibility that Henry may have suffered from a medical condition that caused him to do crazy shit like behead friends and wives, and also made it difficult for him to sire children. The author’s expertise in medical anthropology is fascinating, but what I really loved is how entertaining and approachable she makes the material. I got so engrossed reading it on the elliptical machine, that I ended up doing a two hour workout. Even if I hated the book (which I obviously didn’t) I have to feel grateful for the excuse to eat bacon and have an extra glass of wine that night.

Title: Where’d You Go, Bernadette?

Author: Maria Semple

Genre: General fiction

Why I picked it: The book club I’ve belonged to for 14 years chose it as our April selection.

What I love about it: This charmingly funny story is told via the mixed media of humorous FBI documents, emails, letters, and narration from several characters trying to piece together what happened to a quirky wife/mother/architect who vanished. The characters are offbeat and unique, the writing is tight and hilarious, and the vividly-described Seattle setting had me laughing out loud at all the idiosyncrasies of my native Pacific Northwest. Just when I thought I’d pegged a character a certain way, the author would reveal another side to him/her that kept me breathlessly turning pages. And laughing. Lotsa laughing with this one.

Title: Stepmonster: A New Look at Why Real Stepmothers Think, Feel, and Act the Way We Do

Author: Wednesday Martin, PhD

Genre: Self help

Why I picked it: I spent the first 36 years of my life steadfastly, devoutly childless-by-choice, only to find myself in a relationship with the single father of two amazing kids. That was two years ago, and while my gentleman friend’s offspring are adorable, smart, funny, well-behaved, and lovable, the fact remains that I’m on very unfamiliar turf being around kids at all, let alone functioning in a semi-sorta stepparent role.  When something makes me uncertain or uncomfortable, I research the hell out of it. That’s sorta my thing, and it’s how I ended up with about a dozen stepmother-themed self-help books on my nightstand. This one was my favorite.

What I love about it: Many of the books I picked up had a doom-and-gloom approach, sharing commiserative stories about unsupportive men and bratty kids, or spouting statistics about how few women would get involved with single dads if they had it to do over again. I’m pretty far from that scenario, and just wanted more understanding of the human dynamics and what’s at the root of them. This book offered oodles of case studies, a good dose of psychology, and a healthy helping of validation that most of the things I’d been thinking and feeling are normal. Well, in this realm, anyway.

Title: No One’s the Bitch: A Ten Step Plan for the Mother and Stepmother Relationship

Authors: Jennifer Newcomb Marine and Carol Marine

Genre: Self help

Why I picked it: A fellow author who’s been on the same divorce/dating a single dad track as me recommended this book at the same time I suggested Stepmonster to her. If you’re involved with a single father, odds are good you’ll need some sort of relationship with the mother of his offspring. While things have gone just fine for me in this area, I’m always looking for ways to gain more understanding and improve my own coping techniques.

What I love about it: This book is co-written by a duo of women married to the same man. Er, that didn’t come out right. The ex-wife and new wife share their experiences from the different perspectives of the mom and the stepmom – each "the other woman" in her own way. Though I’m only a few chapters in, I’m enjoying the she said/she said interplay and the quizzes and worksheets that force readers to confront their own snarky issues and secret evil thoughts. Not that I have any of those.

Title: The Best Man

Author: Kristan Higgins

Genre: Romantic comedy

Why I picked it: Kristan Higgins is on my auto-buy list anytime she releases a new book. I adore everything she writes, and this was no exception.

What I love about it: I love studying the work of the grand dames of the romantic comedy genre, and Kristan Higgins is one of the masters. She strikes precisely the right balance of funny and poignant, and her characters are always charming and unique. I read this one on the beach during a recent trip to Hawaii, and it promptly became one of my all-time favorites among Kristan’s books. Her brand of rom-com leans more toward bittersweet and less toward the wacky realm where mine tend to fall, which is another thing I love—studying the different approaches to comedy. Or you can forget all my overanalyzing crap and just enjoy the book, because it really is awesome.

So that’s the roundup of what’s on my nightstand right now. Er, among other things. How about you? Please share!

Comparison is the thief of joy

Every now and then, someone will ask how long it takes me to write a book. It's one of the few questions I hate answering, ranking right up there with, "does this skirt make my butt look big?" and "did you drink all that wine?"

(For the record, I do not bristle at the question that annoys the crap out of most romance authors, which is, "how do you research your sex scenes?")


One reason I'm not a reason I'm not a fan of inquiries about the speed of my writing is that it can vary wildly. Once upon a time, I could write a full-length, 85,000-word novel in about three months with a couple extra weeks tacked on for critique partner feedback and revisions. That was before the pressure of promotional responsibilities, conflicting editorial demands, and life-changes like divorce and young kids in the house. Those things slowed my pace considerably, turning novel-writing into something chopped up into random spurts over a 12 or 16-month period. Sometimes longer.

I'd reached a point where I assumed that slower pace of fits and starts was the new normal for me, so when my agent landed me a new contract in March and asked how long I needed to write a shorter 55,000-word novel, I asked for roughly five months. I'd just gotten started when she came back and said, "could you do it in six weeks?"

Like an idiot, I replied, "Um, sure?"

This coincided with my longtime critique partner accepting a similarly insane deadline, so we agreed to help one another with moral support, speedy feedback, and the occasional encouraging butt-pat.

The biggest challenge was not that butt-patting is difficult when you live 2,638 miles apart. It's that it took me awhile to recall how differently we approach writing. She writes best in quick bursts of 1,000 words on her lunch hour or 2,500 words after her daughter has gone to bed, then sends me scenes to critique.

For the first week or so, I'd grimace when I saw a text message from her declaring she'd written another 1,300 words while waiting for a doctor's appointment. You suck, I'd tell myself. The only words you wrote were Facebook posts about about your boobs falling out of your dress and how much you admire your gentleman friend's butt.

For the record, he does have a great butt.

I'd head home from the day job pledging to write 2,000 words after dinner, only to find myself cleaning the keyboard with a Q-tip while my computer screen remained blank. Some author you are, I'd mutter to myself.

It took me a good week to pull my head out of my butt and remember how I write best. Long, productive stretches of 5,000 to 10,000 words in a day, followed by three or four days of doing nothing   drinking wine   groping my gentleman friend   serious contemplation regarding the direction of the story. That is a more natural pace for me, and it's served me well in the past.

As it turns out, it works fine for a crazy deadline, too. I'm on track to finish the whole book in roughly five weeks, thanks mostly to excellent wine   the ease of writing blowjob scenes  several good days of super-productive writing.

After one such day, I made the mistake of posting my daily word count on Facebook and Twitter. I was pleased with my spurt of 9,000 words in 8 hours, and felt like sharing.

I regretted it almost instantly when I saw other writers lamenting their own daily production. I couldn't do that many words in a week, someone shared. I only wrote 500 words today, someone tweeted with a frowny-face.

By sheer coincidence, a non-author friend posted the following quote in her Facebook feed that same day:

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

It's attributed to Theodore Roosevelt, and the instant I saw it, I wished Facebook had a stronger option than, "like" (which is not to be confused with my usual wish that Facebook offered a "lust" option. See aforementioned comment about my gentleman friend's butt).

It is a great reminder to all of us, whether you're a writer or a teacher or a firefighter or a nipple-clamp tester. Your skills, your talents, your accomplishments, are your own. Someone else's skills, talents, and accomplishments do not diminish or detract from yours. Keep your eyes on your own test paper and your head in your own game.

Is this something that comes naturally for you, or do you find yourself playing comparison roulette pretty regularly? How do you feel about that? Please share!

Oh, and to answer those earlier questions, of course not, yes, and very, very thoroughly. You're welcome.

Lessons in romance writing, courtesy of a 7yo

“Do you want me to draw you a picture, write a poem, or write a story?”

This was the question posed to me by my gentleman friend’s seven-year-old daughter Saturday evening. Her dad and brother were on a quick run to the store, leaving me to glance around frantically at intervals in search of the responsible, supervising adult, only to realize that’s me.

Since we’d all spent our afternoon at an alpaca ranch, I had her draw an alpaca, followed by writing a poem about an alpaca. Then I suggested she write a story.

“What should I write a story about?” she asked.

I considered suggesting an alpaca, but decided we’d already beaten that theme to death. “I write stories for a living,” I told her. “You’d think I could come up with a good subject, but I’m drawing a blank.”

I half expected her to grab her pen and request instructions for drawing a blank, but she’s smarter than the average bear.

“What kind of stories do you write?” she asked.

I hesitated, deciding it was best to keep things simple instead of explaining the concept of romantic comedy and the fact that the last scene I wrote involved a passionate encounter with the characters covered in pureed beet.

“Well, I write romance novels,” I told her. “They’re pretty much like love stories.”

“Love stories,” she repeated, testing out the phrase.

“Sure,” I said. “Usually about a boy and a girl who love each other.”

I opted not to confuse the issue by explaining the current popularity of male/male romance or BDSM erotica—a responsibly adult decision, if I do say so myself.

“I’m going to write a love story,” she announced, and bent to the task with pen in hand. She wrote an introductory line, then looked up. “How did you and daddy meet?”

I weighed my words carefully, not sure how much to share. She’s heard snippets of the tale before, and we included both kids in the celebration two weeks ago when my gentleman friend and I commemorated the two-year anniversary of our first date.

But the details are a bit more complex. I imagined myself launching into the story. Well you see, you were a newborn when your parents moved here, and your dad got a job in the education department of a medical center where I served on the marketing team. But we really didn’t know each other at all—maybe just enough to say hello in the hallway—and we would have lost touch completely after we both moved on to other jobs. But your dad ended up working in an office where he became best friends with one of my close girlfriends, which is how I heard about your parents’ divorce and your dad’s eventual rebound to become the strong, confident, sexy guy he evolved into over the following few years. That’s why I called him for advice and moral support when I went through my own divorce several years later. Well, that, and the fact that I thought your daddy was hot, and I kinda wanted to make out with him.

I didn’t say any of that, of course.

“We both worked at the hospital,” I told her, aiming for simplicity. “A long, long, time ago.”

That was enough for her. She asked for help spelling a few words, including her father’s first name (which she recently discovered is not daddy).

At last, she presented me with the story:

It was lovely and simple and sweet, and a very good reminder to me of my own habit of over-thinking plot-lines for my romantic comedies. I’m not a plotter by nature, but recently had to craft a detailed synopsis for the editor handling a new book deal I haven’t formally announced yet.

When the editor presented me with constructive feedback on the synopsis, I laughed when I got to this line.

Tawna might be over-thinking this just a wee bit.

It’s a phrase I’ve considered having tattooed on my arm more than once, and a good reminder to me that sometimes less is more, particularly when it comes to love stories.

Luckily, the notes came at a point where it was easy for me to course-correct and head in a more simplified direction with the story. I’m now about two-thirds of the way through, and feeling good about things.

When my gentleman friend returned from the store, the seven-year-old presented him with the story, complete with a hand-drawn cover. “Do you like it?” she asked him.

He smiled at her, then at me. “Very much.”

Are you a fan of the KISS principle (Keep It Simple, Stupid) or do you struggle like I do with the habit of over-thinking things? Please share!

I’m going to go read that story again. There might be a line or two to help me out with this next scene.

Need a favor? Here are 6 ways to boost your odds of hearing YES

Let me state, for the record, that I am ridiculously grateful I’ve sold a few books, and that readers have enjoyed them enough to seek me out and send me messages.

I might prefer it if they sent wine or photographs of half-naked men, but let’s not dwell.

The content of my email inbox has changed considerably in the 18 months since my first romantic comedy hit shelves. Luckily, I haven’t seen a decline in the number of messages requesting I purchase penile implants, low-cost Viagra, and Russian brides, but I have seen a distinct rise in requests that aren’t as much fun.

• Will you donate signed books?
• Will you judge our contest?
• Will you write a guest post on my blog?
• Will you critique my manuscript or query letter?
• Will you speak at this event?
• Will you tell me how to write a book and get it published?
• Will you introduce me to your agent?
• Will you do that swirly thing with the handcuffs and the strawberry jam?

While the last one is an automatic yes, the rest, sadly, are not. I wish they could be, just like I wish I could gather everyone up in a big group hug with complimentary butt pats.

But with my time stretched to the absolute breaking point (I’m currently on deadline to write an entire book in six weeks) and my finances keeping me squarely on the discount wine aisle, I find myself saying no a lot more than I ever have in my life.

It makes me sad, but it also makes me realize there are things people might not realize when making requests to authors or other business professionals. If you’re planning to hit someone up for a favor in the near future, here are six things to keep in mind: 

 

Free is a good price (but not for everyone)

My agent does a splendid job negotiating my publishing contracts to provide me with a decent stack of my own books for promotional giveaways and gifts to friends and family. Even so, my stash generally runs out quickly, which means I'm digging into my own wallet to purchase any additional books I need. It’s a weird feeling placing an order for a book you wrote, and even weirder knowing that even with an author discount, the cost + shipping ends up being pretty close to the retail price. While organizing receipts for taxes last week, I caught sight of what I paid for copies of my own books in 2012. The amount made me cringe, as did the receipts for postage and mailing supplies. I contribute to charity auctions and book giveaways as often as I can, but there’s a limit to my resources. Want an author to contribute a signed book to your auction or giveaway? Offer to chip in for postage, or spring for the cost of the book itself. The same rule applies if you're hitting up another retailer for goods or services.You’re a lot more likely to hear a yes (perhaps even a hellyesthankyousomuch) if you offer to cover the person's out-of-pocket costs.

 

Spell the person's name right

Not long ago, someone contacted my agent asking if Twana would be willing to judge a contest. I see the misspelling a lot, so I’m generally pretty understanding. Hell, I’ve been known to type my own name that way after a few glasses of wine. I replied directly to the requestor, politely explaining I was too swamped to judge, but wishing the best with the contest. I signed the email with the correct spelling of my name, along with my auto-generated signature line containing four (count ‘em, FOUR) instances of my name spelled correctly. My email address itself also gives the correct spelling, so I was surprised to receive a response moments later that began, “Thanks, Twana.” I resisted the urge to beat my head on the keyboard as I read the follow-up request for free signed books in lieu of my time judging.

I wish I could say this is an isolated incident, but it’s not. I understand I don’t have the most common name on the planet, and like most people with unusual names, I expect the occasional misspelling or typo. But if you’re asking a favor from someone, the least you can do is take a few minutes to google and make sure you're correctly spelling the person's name or business.

 

Know something about the person you’re contacting

Looking back over requests I’ve accepted in the last year, there’s something every single one has in common: the person making the request knew something about my books or about me personally. I don’t have children or any particular connection to a private school in Vermont, so that request for signed books to auction in a fund-raiser for the school's lacrosse team? Sorry, not my top priority. But the reader who knows I’m a sucker for animals and kicks off the donation request for a no-kill shelter by asking about my pets by name? Yep, that one gets a second look. I’m pretty easy to stalk, whether you’re scrounging for personal details here on the blog, my website, on Facebook, on Twitter, or by digging through my trash. Most authors are similarly stalkable, so take a moment to learn something about the person you’re approaching for a favor.

 

Flattery will get you everywhere

Number of requests I’ve accepted that begin, “dear author” and include a generic solicitation for free books, contest judging, publication advice, guest blogging, or a pair of panties from my laundry hamper: Zero.

Number of requests I’ve accepted that refer to me by name and describe damaged keyboards and/or nasal passages resulting from the requestor shooting a beverage out his/her nose while laughing at a scene in one of my books: A lot more than zero.

That’s not to say I’ll always say yes to someone who claims to have read one of my books, nor am I suggesting your ticket to a favor is tattooing a part of your body with a quotation from the Cheez Doodle scene in Making Waves. But if you’ve read and enjoyed something in one of my books, that’s a nice thing to mention when you hit me up for a favor. Same goes for literary agents, retailers, or other business professionals. It never hurts to compliment an agent's client before asking her to read your sample chapters, or to praise a specific dish on a restaurant menu before you hit up the manager to donate a gift certificate.

 

Have we met?

We don’t need to have a pillow fight in our underwear to have a personal connection (though I’ll wait right here if you want to grab your pillow). But if we’ve interacted in some capacity, that’s a good thing to highlight. Maybe we’ve commiserated on Twitter about our shared habit of spilling food down the front of our shirts. Maybe we’ve “liked” each other’s food photos on Facebook. Maybe we’ve met at a conference or at the gym or while peering through the keyhole of Daniel Craig’s hotel room. If we have a personal connection of any kind, remind me of it when you get in touch. 

What’s in it for me?

Agent Janet Reid had a brilliant blog post last year with this same title, and I encourage everyone to go read it if you’re thinking of hitting up any creative professional for a favor. To quote one of the most beautifully, snarkily direct parts of the post:

You want an agent at your conference? You want me to judge a contest? You want me to guest blog? You want me to critique pages? So do a lot of other people. You have to show me the value of saying yes.

I've had people tell me with a straight face (mostly ‘cause I think they actually believed it) that
--being on their blog would give me more visibility;
--attending their conference would help me get in touch with writers;
-- judging a contest would bring me potential clients.

None of those are actual benefits that accrue from those events (and my keyboard didn't survive the visibility one) nor are they things I want to accomplish.

I want to promote my clients.
I want to promote my agency and colleagues.
I want to contribute to causes I support.

Figure out how your request will help me do that, and when you email to ask the favor, spell out how it does any one of those three things and your chances of yes get better.

Now, clearly an author’s goals are different from an agent’s, just like creative professionals or the owners of retail shops have another set of ambitions. A good friend of mine owns a handbag boutique, and rarely does a day go by without someone dropping in to ask her to contribute merchandise or cash to a worthy cause. The ones that pique her interest are the folks who can use solid numbers and market research to show how being involved will result in an increase in traffic to her shop. Telling her she needs to contribute because it’s “the right thing to do for the community” will earn you a stern look and a list of the hundreds of other ways she gives back to the community every day.

So there you have it—six ways to sweeten the pot if you’re asking an author or other business professional for a favor. Got other tips to add? Please share in the comments!

And let me know when you need me to show you that handcuff trick with the strawberry jam. You might want to buy some extra washcloths.

Why I let strangers grope my gobstoppers

Several weeks ago, a woman with cold hands squeezed my naked sweater potatoes with a look of intense concentration.

I paid her for it.

At least, my insurance company did.

“I know you’re only 38,” my doctor said as she palpated my fun bags, “but since you have some family history of breast cancer, now would be a good time for you to schedule a baseline mammogram.”

Not eager to argue with someone gripping one of my meatloaves, I left my annual exam and phoned the radiology clinic. The scheduler asked so many questions about my dairy pillows, she knew them better than I did by the time she booked my appointment.

The night before my mammogram, I considered treating my lady balls to a special dinner or buying them some expensive lotion. Everything I’d heard about mammograms indicated my chesticles were in for an unpleasant experience, and I felt I owed them something nice.

My gentleman friend gamely offered to assist, adding that he'd also be happy to conduct the entire mammogram himself.

"You're such a helpful, selfless individual," I said.

"I do my part," he agreed.

The next morning, I walked into the clinic and spotted this sign over the front desk:

“I’m supposed to be here for a mammogram,” I told the receptionist. “But that PET thing sounds like more fun. Do I get to pick who pets me?”

She gave me a nervous smile and a bunch of paperwork to fill out. I sat there in the waiting room giving my pointer sisters a pep talk until a cute guy came out in blue scrubs and called my name. I followed him down the hall where he pointed me to a small dressing room.

“If you’re wearing any lotion or deodorant, you’ll want to clean it off,” he said.

“You’re not offering sponge baths?” I asked as he handed me a weird pink wraparound top.

He shook his head and pointed at a bowl of wet-wipes.

I sponged off my own  rib balloons and wriggled into the pink top, unclear why I couldn’t just walk to the mammogram room shirtless and save everyone the hassle. I had my answer seconds later when I found myself in a second waiting area accompanied by half-a-dozen other women wearing the same top and matching uneasy expressions.

“It’s like some kind of weird prison garb,” I said to one woman who looked up from her magazine as I entered. “Think we get to keep these shirts?”

“At least they warmed them up,” she said, and I agreed that was a nice touch.

Seconds later, a technician called my name and led me down the hall to where this contraption awaited my hush puppies:

“This is your first time?” the technician asked.

“Yes. Does that mean I get extra foreplay?”

She laughed and began a brief lecture on pressure and pain thresholds. I’m sure her precise wording was much more clinical than this, but what I heard was, “some women are delicate and sensitive, and some hussies like things rough, and if you’re one of the latter, you’ll do just fine.”

I’m sure those weren’t her exact words, but I relaxed anyway.

I relaxed further when I remembered the words of a friend who used to work in a mammography clinic. “Women with big boobs are usually easy, so you’ll do great.”

I appreciated the backhanded compliment, and reminded myself to look at all women with oversized love muffins and think easy from now on.

For the next five minutes, I engaged in a sort of bizarre dance with the technician calling out the moves. “Take two steps this way. Lift your arm. Turn to the right. I’m going to move your breast now.”

She maneuvered my beanbags into position, stepping away every now and then to tighten the vice grip before stepping back to rearrange my t-shirt meat on the metal plate.

“You’re done,” she announced abruptly.

“Really?” I asked. “That’s it?”

“For some people, mammograms are very painful. For other people—” she shrugged, leaving me to fill in the blank as, insensitive bitches like you don’t feel a thing.

Which was true, and a great relief, but still.

“Do I at least get a lollypop?” I asked.

“You got squeezed. Isn’t that better?”

“Very true,” I agreed. “It’s an awesome day anytime someone cops a feel before 9 a.m.”

Three days later—lightning fast, in my opinion—I got a letter in the mail:

While the first line was a relief, it was the second that caught my eye. I handed the letter to my gentleman friend. “Apparently, my flesh bulbs aren’t very smart,” I said.

“What?”

“My hood ornaments,” I informed him. “They’re dense.”

“Do they need some special ed?”

All jokes aside, I googled “dense breasts” and was taken aback by what I read. According to areyoudense.org (I couldn’t make that up if I wanted to) some women’s flapjacks are made up mostly of fat, while others are comprised of more connective tissue. It’s impossible to tell by feel (though you’re welcome to give it a shot) and it’s not until you stick your paw patties in a mammogram machine that you have any idea what they’re made of.

The problem is that dense mushmelon tissue is white on a mammogram, which is the same color cancer appears. In other words, if your bikini biscuits are dense, you won't always spot cancer on a mammogram. Not only that, but cancer turns up five times more often in women with dense jahoobies than those with fattier milk fountains. Those of us with dense skin snacks are encouraged to get regular ultrasounds in addition to mammograms to avoid missing anything important.

Consider that your public service announcement for the week. Now go out there and grope your sweet rolls. Or someone else’s. It’s the right thing to do.

There's nothing buzzing in my pants

There are many good reasons I shouldn't be trusted with an iPhone, and not all of them center around my fondness for sending cleavage shots before double-checking the address of the intended recipient.

Here's one of the reasons:

It's the second time I've broken an iPhone screen (the first time, you may recall, I handed the phone to my gentleman friend's ex-wife to show her the broken glass at the precise moment he texted me something filthy to lighten the awkward mood).

So yeah. I broke another iPhone screen. It's no surprise, considering how frequently I drop the damn thing on concrete, but still. I'm two months shy of the renewal date when I'm eligible for a new phone, so I checked into how much it might cost to have a professional replace the glass. I paid $99 for the phone in the first place, and that's what I intend to pay for a new one in a couple months, so I couldn't justify paying the same just to fix the screen.

A pal told me how cheap it is to find replacement kits on eBay and instructional videos on YouTube, and my gentleman friend generously volunteered to tackle the task. I ordered the kit online and presented it to him on Saturday.

He hoped it might be a 20-minute project he could finish quickly before a scheduled outing with a pal. An hour later, he was scowling at the disassembled phone.

"You have to take the entire thing apart before you even get to the screen," he said. "All these screws are tiny and they're in there so tight, I end up stripping them."

I nodded. "The only words I just heard were screws, tight, and stripping."

"You should have been here five minutes ago when the video instructed me to remove the vibrator."

The phone was still in pieces when we had to meet our friend, so I left the house without it. I wasn't expecting any urgent calls from my agent or editor, so I figured it was no big deal.

I figured wrong.

Not that anyone needed to reach me in an emergency, but I hadn't counted on how dependent I've become on my phone. I kept reaching into my bag to snap a photo or update my Facebook status or check email, and I'd have a moment of panic when I came up emtpy-handed.

After awhile, I got used to it. Within a few hours, I began to enjoy it. There's something liberating about being free from the urgent need to chronicle every brew pub I visit or every dirty thought flitting through my mind. There's a sort of relief in taking a break – even a forced one – from the technology that's taken over my life.

Which is not to say I'll intentionally smash my new iPhone screen just to earn myself a day off. But if it happens again (who am I kidding? When it happens again) at least I know I can survive quite nicely without the vibrating gadget constantly in my hand.

Well, one of them.

Have you ever taken a technology break? What are the pros and cons of taking time off from buzzy little gadgets? Please share!

And please give a round of applause to my gentleman friend for all his hard work. I should probably think of a generous way to reward him. Any ideas?

Open wide and take it one bite at a time

I skipped blogging the last couple weeks while I endured exhaustive literary exploration and journeyed to the far corners of the globe conducting tireless research for my next two novels.

In other words, I was in Kauai visiting my parents, hanging with my brother & his fiancée, and celebrating my gentleman friend's 40th birthday.

For the record, I am working on two books set on the lovely garden isle, and I did spend vacation time exchanging phone calls, emails, and text messages with my agent. Though I can't yet share the reasons for all the urgent correspondence, suffice it to say my plate is quite full at the moment. Not a bad problem for an author to have.

But of course, I'm not just an author. As we made the 3.5 hour drive home from the airport, traveling through a mountain blizzard following an all-night flight from Hawaii, I realized with dread that I had to report to the day job the following morning.

I adore being the Communications and Public Relations Manager for my city's tourism bureau, which frequently involves sipping beer with journalists on the Bend Ale Trail and spending afternoons snowshoeing or kayaking so I can blog about my adventures. I love what I do, both as an author and a part-time day jobber.

But as I sat there the next morning in my office, jet-lagged and exhausted with a sunburn that caused me to scratch myself inappropriately more often than normal, I stared at my overflowing email inbox and tried not to cry. Hundreds of unread messages glowed on the screen, their bold, black font like an evil email sneer. I scrolled down the page, hoping most of them were messages I could ignore about donuts in the break room week-old snow reports.

There were no donuts, stale or otherwise. And I was faced with the daunting task of tackling that overflowing inbox, along with the blinking light on my voicemail and the pile of mail lurking on a corner of my desk and a plethora of meetings on my calendar and my boss hovering in the doorway saying, "When you have a minute...."

The buzzing sensation in my brain was not unlike the one I've experienced as an author faced with an impossible deadline or a daunting set of revisions (though it's a different kind of buzzing than what's generated by the device beside my bed, which is where I seriously wished to be as I stared down my task list and wondered where the hell to start).

One of many lessons I'm forced to learn over and over as an author, a day jobber, and as someone hoping to maintain a home that doesn't appear as though a small nuclear weapon was detonated in my living room is the importance of tackling daunting tasks in small, manageable chunks. It's like that age-old question, "How do you eat an elepahant?"

One bite at a time.

And so, I dug in. Which is the way every success story starts, whether you're writing a book or shoveling dog doo in the backyard. I've learned the hard way that if I allow myself to dwell on the big picture – ohmygod, a WHOLE BOOK?! A task list longer than Ron Jeremy's beef bayonet? – I will expend more energy fretting than I would actually getting shit done.

In the case of the day job, that meant prioritizing the email inbox and tackling the time-sensitive tasks first, tending to media requests for photos and making sure all our social media channels were updated with engaging content. Fortified by that small sense of accomplishment (not to mention three cups of strong black tea) I moved on to the voicemail, then the less urgent email, pausing every now and then to pee and respond to requests from colleagues (occasionally at the same time).

Am I all caught up? I wish I could say yes, just like I wish I could say I spent last night writing the synopsis I promised my agent instead of rolling around naked. OK, that's a lie. I totally don't wish that last one.

Still, I've learned to be patient with myself, and to accept the fact that no sane person (or insane person, for that matter) can accomplish everything at once, regardless of the task. If you know someone who can, send him or her my way and I'll supply all necessary tea and AA batteries.

How do you approach daunting tasks and overflowing inboxes? Please share!

I'll be busy shaking Kauai sand out of my undies.

My crazy three years since "the call"

There's been a lot of behind-the-scenes author stuff happening these last few weeks. Most of it I can't talk about just yet, but suffice it to say, I'm lucky beyond belief to have the world's savviest, smartest, most dedicated, determined, and supportive agent on the planet.

A quick round of applause for Michelle Wolfson of Wolfson Literary, please?

It dawned on me the other night when I was exchanging emails with Michelle at nearly 1 a.m. her time (did I mention the dedicated part?) that it's been almost exactly three years since I got the call that Michelle had landed me a three-book deal with Sourcebooks for my romantic comedies.

It got me thinking about what's changed in my life and in the publishing industry since that time.

I've released two books and one active-fiction title. Making Waves hit shelves in August 2011, and was nominated for RT Book Reviews contemporary romance of the year. The Chicago Tribune made me all swoony when they wrote, "Fenske's wildly inventive plot & wonderfully quirky characters provide the perfect literary antidote to any romance reader's summer reading doldrums.” And if that weren't delightful enough, Believe it or Not came out in March 2012 to reviews like this one from Publishers Weekly: "Sexually charged dialogue & steamy make-out scenes will keep readers turning pages.” Meanwhile, Michelle landed me another deal with Coliloquy, which publishes active-fiction titles like my story, Getting Dumped (sorta like a grownup version of choose-your-own-adventure). And all those books are just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what's kept me busy these last three years. Which leads me to my next point...

Being a published author involves a lot less book writing than you'd think. When I look back on the last three years, I've written two full manuscripts and two partials from scratch (none of which you've seen, but we'll cover that in another paragraph). That might seem like a lot, but compared with my former ability to churn out a completed manuscript in 3-4 months, it's pretty slow. So what have I been doing with my time? The answer isn't as x-rated as you might imagine. Promotion. A lot of it. At one point I was writing daily blog posts here, weekly posts for my day job, weekly posts for The Debutante Ball, and as many as seven posts a week for blogs the Sourcebooks publicist lined up during my release months. It hurts my brain to think about that. Then there was Facebook and Twitter and interviews for magazine and newspaper articles. I also spent a lot of time on editorial revisions, ranging from smaller copy edits to completely gutting and rewriting books from scratch. There was also travel – for book signings and conferences and speaking engagements. There's also the aforementioned day job, plus the fact that I do sometimes have a personal life. I'm flabbergasted I ever found time to poop, much less write new books.

Those new books I mentioned – the ones you've never seen? Yeah. About that. I was talking recently with a friend whose debut novel came out the same year mine did. Hers was wildly successful, winning oodles of awards and bestseller honors. But since then, she's struggled to write a book her publisher considers "the right next book." She's not alone, and this is something I wish I'd understood back when I thought a book deal meant the end of publication angst. If anything, it gets tougher. Editors and marketing folks use your previous reviews and sales records to determine "the right next book" for your career. Sometimes, it isn't the one you've just written. I learned that the hard way when the book I crafted as the third in my romantic comedy contract was praised as a wonderful, funny, well written story – but not "the right next book." Some of it was about tone, some was about perceived changes in the market, and some of it was just baffling editorspeak I can't possibly understand, but must respect and defer to if I want to succeed in this industry. I went back to the drawing board and wrote an entirely new book intended to be the third in my romantic comedy contract. And now we wait. And wait. Did I mention the waiting doesn't get easier? 

What the @#$% happened to the publishing industry? I'm dumbfounded by how quickly the industry has changed in recent years. It wasn't long ago aspiring authors would carefully craft query letters, lick their stamps, then lick their wounds when form rejection letters appeared in the mailbox from these mysterious, terrifying creatures known as agents. These days, agents banter on Twitter about Pop Tarts and queries with everyone from bestselling authors to those who've never finished a manuscript. Social media has leveled the playing field and removed a lot of fear for authors, and that's a good thing. Another dramatic change is the perception of indy publishing, small press, and self-publishing. I'll admit it – three years ago, I secretly saw those publishing avenues as the domain of writers who weren't quite good enough to land traditional book deals with larger publishing houses. But these days, mid-list and mega-bestselling authors are jumping ship with traditional publishers and going the indy or self-pub route. Does that mean it's the best choice for everyone? Nope, definitely not. But the fact that authors now have choices like these – and that they're regarded as legitimate career moves, rather than last resorts – is empowering and exciting.

Is this my life? If you're a regular reader of this blog, you already know my personal life has undergone some pretty major changes in the three years since my book deal. Back when I got the call from my agent, I had been happily married and happily childless-by-choice for more than twelve years, and I assumed I'd stay that way forever. But life threw me some serious curveballs that first year, and the divorce I never saw coming put a funny kink in my year as a debut author (and not the fun kind of kink). But things have a way of working out in the long run. The longtime acquaintance I tapped to be my "divorce mentor" turned out to be the most amazing, compassionate, considerate, sexy, fun, talented, kind person I've ever met. And his two kids have become a source of joy and laughter and daily amazement for me in ways I never could have expected. Is this the life I thought I'd have three years ago when I shrieked into my agent's ear over the phone line? Hell no. But it most ways, it's better.

So that's my roundup of what's changed in the last three years. What's yours? Please share!

The domineering male with spinach and dish soap

My longstanding critique partner writes heroes who are chauvinistic, knuckle-dragging jerks.

I can say that, since I write heroines who are unlikable, unsympathetic bitches.

We've critiqued each other's work for close to a decade, long before either of us had a book contract or a clue how to spot our own idiotic habits. We've gotten good at rehabbing each other's work so our editors aren't subjected to the ass-hat behaviors of our characters' earlier selves. By the time readers see the finished product, her heroes and my heroines have been transformed from douche-nozzles into quirky, imperfect-but-likable individuals.

At least we hope so.

I woke this morning to an email from my critique partner with the first ten pages of her new manuscript and a request that I identify instances of domineering jerkitude before she goes too far with the story.

The irony?

In her effort to avoid creating a pushy pig, she'd gone too far the other way, crafting a man who urgently needed to grow a pair of love spuds.

The whole thing got me thinking about spinach and dish soap.

When I first began spending time with my gentleman friend, I invited him to dinner. He listened politely as I recited the planned menu – hazelnut-crusted halibut, steamed red potatoes, homemade bread.

"I'll make sauteed spinach," he said. "You have olive oil, right?"

I was taken aback. I love to cook, and I do it often for friends and family. When I invite people to dinner, most reply by asking, "what can I bring?"

Usually, I demur. "Don't worry about it," I insist. "Just bring your smiling self."

If it's a good friend, I might suggest a bottle of wine or a loaf of bread. But most of the time, I give in to my need to prove I have everything handled and my reluctance to issue orders. It's easier to tell people to arrive empty-handed than to feel like I'm handing out assignments.

Which is why my gentleman friend's offer of sauteed spinach caught me off-guard. He was assessing my needs and finding a way to contribute without requiring me to assign him something. I'll make sauteed spinach may have been a simple statement, but to me, it was akin to him saying, I will look for ways to be useful to you without waiting around for orders. He wasn't asking me what he could bring – he was telling me.

Pushy? Presumptuous? Maybe a tiny bit. But also the most successful form of foreplay imaginable.

It could have been a fluke, but it wasn't. A few months later as we bustled around the kitchen cleaning up after a meal, he watched me squirt dish soap from a plastic bottle.

"Why don't you use that built-in soap dispenser next to the sink?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I wish I could. It hasn't really worked right for years."

He grabbed me by the hips, pushed me aside, and crawled under my sink. "I think I see the problem," he called from the depths of the cupboard. "Got a screwdriver?"

I stood there dumbfounded for a minute. OK, maybe I was checking out his ass. And maybe I was also contemplating making an inappropriate screwdriver joke.

But I was also pondering how sexy it was to have a man who didn't just yell from the couch, "you need any help out there?" He anticipated the likelihood of me saying, "that's OK, I've got it," and bypassed my half-assed refusal by doing the job cheerfully and without making me ask for it.

And yeah, he pushed me around in my own kitchen. A little domineering, but holy-mother-of-hell, it was sexy.

There's a fine line when it comes to writing alpha males in romance or any other genre. On one side of it, you have the chest-thumping caveman taking charge because he's certain the silly little woman can't do anything for herself. On the other side, you have a guy who sees a genuine need and takes charge of fulfilling it without waiting around to be asked or listening to half-hearted refusals. It's a tough balance for a writer trying to create an alpha male who doesn't come off as a guy two steps from clubbing a woman over the head and dragging her by the hair toward his den. The trick, perhaps, is in showing your reader an intuitive helpmate, as opposed to a controlling misogynist.

Oh, and lest you think my gentleman friend reserved the sensitive caveman bit for those early months of dating, I'm happy to report things haven't changed. I spent the last week battling a nasty cold, which meant he spent most of that time ordering me to take care of myself and rest. On Saturday, he caught me in the kitchen trying to do dishes.

"Go lie down and relax," he commanded. "I've got this."

I agreed, then turned and began rummaging in the cupboard for a mug.

"Out!" he ordered. "Now!"

"But I need tea."

"I'll make you some tea and then I'll do the dishes," he said. "Just go lie down."

Five minutes later, he brought me a steaming mug of tea, accompanied by a filthy joke about teabagging. 

"You're a pig," I told him.

"You love it."

Very true.

Here's to men who've learned the secret of blending a touch of pushy, domineering attitude with the spirit of a sensitive helpmate. They're the ones who get laid in romance novels.

Deservedly so.

Three things I've learned being a judgmental b*tch

I'm armpit deep in a pile of romance novels as a result of volunteering to judge this year's RITAs (the romance novel equivalent of the Academy Awards).

I won't pretend it's a hardship to spend every waking moment reading romance novels. That's pretty close to my description of a perfect job, right behind "adult product tester" and "wine quality assurance manager."

But still, it's time consuming. It's also a good reminder of a few things we writers sometimes forget in our dogged pursuit of agents, book contracts, and joyous reviews from readers who had spontaneous orgasms upon opening our latest masterpiece.


Here are a few things I'm hereby commanding myself to remember:

1. Amazing books get published every day, some that make me swoon over the quality of prose and storytelling while thinking, "I couldn't ever write like that." That's true, I couldn't. But it's also true no one could ever tell my stories the same way I could. And I couldn't tell your stories the same way you could. The great thing about books is that no two are exactly the same, and thank dawg for that.
2. Lousy books get published every day. It's true, and as much as we all like to imagine that only quality material rises to the top, that's not always the case. But this fact neither detracts from nor builds my own experience as a writer. Pointing out examples of lousy writing that gets published just makes us look petty and snobbish.
3. Every published novel I pick up to review for this contest has been rejected or ridiculed by someone at some point. Guaranteed. This business is subjective, and just because one agent, editor, or reader doesn't want what you're writing doesn't mean everyone will feel the same. 

That last point is significant whether you're a writer, an engineer, or a nipple-clamp salesman. Rejection is a fact of life, and there's always something we can take away from the experience. What's your takeaway?

I leave you with this gem I spotted on Facebook this morning. Amen, Mr. Maraboli. Amen.