kisses

Two different kinds of kissing experiences…

My first kiss was anything but pleasant. It was invasive, slobbery, and most definitely exciting. He was nineteen, building a house for a family member, and visiting Alaska for the summer. I was seventeen, newly graduated, and curious. My experience consisted of a serious of crushes that never panned out, from tall, muscled basketball players to lanky, nerd-types. Instead of acting on all my newly-fletched feelings, I found it much safer to fantasize and build a perfect story with a perfect boyfriend.

Needless to say, this first kiss had never featured in any of my perfect fantasies.

For one, the boy playing the major role was too short, only a couple inches taller than me. For two, it didn’t make me burn.
For three…well, I’m sure I could make quite a long list of all the imperfections. But the interesting point in all this reminisces is the exciting part. Even though it didn’t stir a furling of passion in my young, inexperienced body, I was quite taken with this new act. So taken that I wanted to practice ALL the time. And haven’t stopped practicing since that first one…

The first time I almost kissed a girl. That’s right. I never actually went though with it. It all started New Year’s Eve. Unfortunately I had just been dumped in a rather let-down sort of way, and decided I might as well join the crowd and get completely shit-faced. Isn’t that what people do when you almost get your heart broken, or at least your pride bruised? I was in Alaska, (which just so happens to be a cheap place to get drunk if you happen to be a girl, under age 60) and ready to down all the free liquor any man wanted to pour down my throat. I hit the dive bars with my best friend. We looked smoking hot. It might have been the fake eyelashes or maybe just that vibe. You know, we’re young and we wanna do whatever we wanna do. It worked whatever it was. Guys were on us in every bar we hit, and when we arrived at the last bar, the one with the dance floor, we were sufficiently lubricated with alcohol to make total asses of ourselves. Not that any of the crowd, mostly men, minded.

After using one guy as my personal pole, and having finger-print bruises over my hips to prove it, a few guys were barking up my tree if you know what I mean. In order to avoid being forced into something I most definitely didn’t want, I dragged my friend over to the most muscley man in the place. (Turned out he had 18in biceps…I think, the details are foggy.) Then it was New Year’s and everyone was kissing every one. At this point in my young life I had been fairly discerning about who I kissed. Well, that night I threw discretion to the wind. Working my way around our little gathering I frenched a couple guys and turned to my friend who was standing directly next to me and went for her lips. At the last second I realized who she was, and quickly diverted my lips away from hers to her ear, whispering frantically, “I almost kissed you!” And while I was slightly embarrassed, she never mentioned it again, leaving me to think two things: 1) she was so relieved she escaped that fate, or 2) she was wretchedly disappointed.

Pen Fatales: guest blogger

The Pen Fatales were kind enough to invite me to guest blog over on their blog this past Friday. The way it works is they have a word every two weeks and that's the topic. I got the word "blood." And had a momentary freak out. What was I supposed to say about blood? Well, I came up with something. Check it out: http://pensfatales.com/2009/10/monica-thinks-blood-is-gross.html#comments

the constant insecurities of a flaying writer

A memory snakes through my cloudy mind of an author I highly respect and admire asking me, “Is it good?”
She was referring to my writing. I’m pretty sure I stared at her, perhaps with my mouth hanging open. I may have said: “Ah, I think…I mean, I’m new at this, I was an English major…” My voice trailed off after a few attempts at answering such a blunt, straight-forward question. And the one thought that ran around my head in circles since this conversation was the daunting question: Am I any good at this writing business?
About a year ago, I had thought I was good. After all, my writing group, mother, and even grandmother had all said so. Why, even when the subject matter wasn’t what they’d prefer (I like writing about sex, after all.) they’d wax lyrical about my sentence structure: “The way you put words together,” dramatic pause, “simply amazes me.” Thank you very much, grandma, I love you too.
Or, “Um, honey…it was a little, how do I say, racy, vulgar, but maybe that’s just because I’m older and from a different generation.” That one’s from my mom. She continues, “the way you write the characters, though—my!”
So, I had thought I was good. (But telling a multi-published, award-winning author I was good, seems slightly pompous.)
Of course, I know my problem areas. Plot seems a foreign concept, often not realizing I even have a plot until after the first draft is written. And grammar errors always feature big in my critiques. Always the bane of my English teacher, I took to using double negatives in my everyday language to irritate her. Ah, the antics of middle children. So, yes, my writing was not perfect, maybe it was even sloppy, especially the first time around.
Did this make me a bad writer? Or just a sloppy first draft writer? Or…something else?
This question made me think, perhaps way too much. But it doesn’t change the way I think about my writing. I sit down at my computer and when I ask myself: am I good? The answer varies. Sometimes I say, “Nope, you suck ass.” Or “Kinda good.” Or “Damn good!”
Whatever answer pops out, I stay seated and keep pounding out those words. Because if I’m not good today, maybe I’ll be good tomorrow.

Best. Birthday. Ever.

It was one of those things you never thought would happen...a live TV appearance. And then it did--on the eve of my birthday. It was magical.

No, not me, silly. My debut novel, Hot on Her Heels. That's right, my very first book flashed across the small screen in all its shiny, sexy glory. It was a birthday to be treasured.

I never thought it would happen, but it did and there were fireworks...in my head.

Did you miss it on TV? Check it out on-line! My book is part of a box set with a few other novels.

http://electronics.hsn.com/escape-with-romance-exclusive-6-book-collection_p-5700283_xp.aspx?web_id=5700285&ocm=sekw

New Author Crush: Kristan Higgins

Most times when authors use a first person voice, I have trouble connecting with the main character, sometimes not even bothering to finish the book. The heroine seems so self-centered, since the reader gets the whole story from one character. Writing a book like this offers a definite challenge to bring the reader in, rather than alienate her.
But KH’s heroine, Grace, is plain endearing, completely flawed, and I want to be her new BFF. The book, Too Good To Be True, read quick and hilarious, often making me laugh out loud, garnering my share of strange looks. But I didn’t care; I wanted to be submerged forever in this quirky world.
If you like a book with a quick, clever, engaging voice paired with sexy neighbors, dumb dogs, and one big crazy family, go pick up Kristan Higgins' book Too Good To Be True, and let me know your thoughts.

Sue Grimshaw: awesome bookseller

I love Sue Grimshaw! She is the romance buyer for Borders and she actually loves romance! Just hearing her talk about every romance writer under the sun with enthusiasm and passion makes me want to one day be on her shelves. Not to mention she super nice and knowledgeable. Check out her blog at http://bordersblog.com/trueromance/

Chapter 3: lust at first bite or "the chocolate plate"

I prefer my romance served steaming hot, with plenty of good, old-fashion passion.

I got a full dose of just that when I had my first date with Dream Boat.  (My current amor)  That's when I experinced "it."  That most talked about and prepeuated feeling--pure, unadulerated lust.  "It" was the thing I read about in countless romances, the thing I craved about all else, the think I had almost given up on after twenty-five years.  (Yes, a bit premature.  As I mentioned, I can be quite the drama queen.)

And then I met him.  I don't know what it was about this guy, but all my senses hightened, as if my very pheramones strechted out to tangle with his.  All through our four-hour dinner (we dragged it on and on, niether one wanting it to end, even though the food was mediocre.) we were in top entertaining form, the ancient ritual of wooing a potential mate making our blood run hot.

But it was over dessert that I decided I would--in typical romantic fashion--do ANYTHING (sell my soul to the devil, cross the seven seas ect.) to get those big, long fingers to touch my body.  While it's a struggle to remember the details of what the dessert was actually called, I do remember it was something that left a pool of chocolate on the dantiy plate.  Still determined to impress and overwhelmed by sizzling lust, I utter without thinking, "I could lick that plate clean."

In that moment when I looked up and found him staring at me, I met his chocolate gaze and, I kid you not, a bolt of heat shot from his eyes into mine and straight through my body, pooling low and deep.  That was the moment I knew I would do anything to get more of that heat.

And I did.  Shamelessly and with fervor, I did anything to get those hands on my body, again and again.