Nicole Peeler belly dances, listens to baaad music, and still teaches at a prestigious university

So one day Rachael and Sophie and I were talking about great bloggers and --swear to God-- we all stopped, gaped at each other, and said, why hasn't Nicole Peeler blogged for the Pens? WTF? Do you think she could take time out of her busy schedule of belly dancing and molding young minds and writing smut to be our guest on Pensfatales?

Nicole said yes, of course, because she is all kinds of awesome and her superhero quality is to be funny and creative and genius on demand.

Check out her Jane True series of Urban Fantasy novels -- you'll thank me. Really. Nicole is h-o-t hot, and so are her books.

Nicole:

Well hello there, Pen Fatales and Readers! I am stupidly excited to be here. I haven’t had the chance to meet all of the Pens, yet, but if I were to begin waxing poetic about Juliet Blackwell, Sophie Littlefield, and Rachael Herron, I would have to write an EPIC. An epic, people. Because that’s how much I adore them.

So when Juliet asked me to guest blog here, I was super excited. I also knew I had to really dig deep, and really share. Nothing else would do for the Pens but brutal honesty. And so that’s what I did.

I like a lot of music. In fact, I would say that, for the most part, I’m pretty hip, pretty happening, pretty “in the now” when it comes to music. Except for one secret I keep buried . . . a secret so dark, so painful, I keep it hidden for fear of reprisal.

I freaking love Roxette.

I love them. I’m sorry. I know that’s like claiming allegiance to Twinkies, or to Hanson, but it’s true. I love the saccharine gooey sweetness that is Roxette. And here’s what I love about them:

• I love that I can take a power stance, and sing along with their songs in a REALLY dramatic way. The way I might, in other scenarios, herald the impending apocalypse, or sing of my lover having fallen on the battlefield, or announce that Sarah Palin has become our President.

• I love that the lyrics often mean absolutely nothing when you actually think about them. Roxette presents us with a philosophical conundrum akin to Schrödinger’s cat: If a song is sung about nothing, but with tremendous passion, does that song actually come to mean something?

• I love all of that spikey, spikey hair.

If you’re still not convinced, try it out. First, take a power stance--legs apart, arms akimbo, and head back so you’re READY TO WAIL. Now play this song and sing along as loudly as you can:

Enjoy the drama and the meaningless, all while imagining your own hair in all its potentially spikey glory. It’s infectious! Granted, it’s infectious in the same way that sexually transmitted diseases are infectious (caught doing things we know we shouldn’t be doing, with people we certainly shouldn’t be doing them with) and yet it’s SO MUCH FUN.

At least it is to me.

Stop judging, meanies.

Cuz I bet y’all have your own secret sin music! But who is brave enough to share?


Bio: Nicole Peeler writes the Jane True series of Urban Fantasy for Orbit Books. She’s also an assistant professor of English Literature and Creative Writing at Seton Hill University, where she mentors up and coming writers in SHU’s MFA in popular fiction. In her spare time, she travels compulsively and belly dances badly, but with great enthusiasm. You can find out more about Nicole and her books at http://nicolepeeler.com.

Bethany's Buddy

Religion was always on the milder side in my waspy family. We did Sunday service, provided it was followed by donuts on the beach. We worshipped in a non-descript wood-paneled room. We were quiet about our religion.

Naturally, like my holy roller sister, I grew attracted to the exact opposite. Loud, glaring religion. The multi-hued glass windows, jewels, and gory reliquaries of Catholicism. Dancing nekkid, widdershins, during the full moon, as I read from my Llewellyn Wicca Handbook. Making a metanoia and lighting candles in front of golden icons in the Greek Orthodox cathedral. Ooo, and stigmata! Stigmata was the very pinnacle of ostentatious cool.

As I aged, I developed my own personal religion, flamboyant but lighthearted. I studied religious history, and decided which bits of the bible made beautiful, wonderful sense, and which bits were essentially political propaganda centuries out of date. Love is love, whether you’re gay, straight, asexual, or poly, and I dismissed any words to the contrary as necessary growing pains for an ambitious religion - the best missionaries are 12 little versions of yourself, right? I felt guilty about my presumptuous take-it-or-leave-it attitude, but I couldn’t help think that my Buddy Christ™ roadside shrines were my own modern way of proselytizing. And a much healthier way, at that.

It got a bit harder to laugh about my faith when Mom got sick. Mom was the one that took me for doughnuts after Sunday service. Mom insisted on the advent candles on the dinner table. Mom sat with me in Maundy Thursday services, where we shared muffled, inappropriate snickers when the pastor would awkwardly duck behind the teeny lectern, his skirt-clad rear sticking out, so that no one would see him whacking a saw to mimic the sound of the nails being driven into Christ’s feet.

I tried to blame it on oxygen saturation and medication side-effects, but near the end, when she couldn’t communicate anymore, religion sure didn’t seem to be a comfort to Mom. She was scared, and confused, and visits from the pastor or reading aloud from the bible only made her more so.

I can’t express what a hit that was. Mom was the model for all of my religious beliefs. If in the end it meant nothing to her, what on earth was I doing with my life and soul?

It wasn’t until recently that I realized it wasn’t her religion that was challenged in that moment, it was my own. Her responses were difficult to interpret, at best. It was all about the meaning I laid on them.

I can’t know for certain what she felt when she died. I can only believe that her faith was with her, and that my fuzzy, loving, it’s-all-sweetness-and-cherries God was with her. And I do believe.

Buddy Christ™ is back on my dashboard now, by the way, and we’re spreading the good news in a Ford Van, reaching out to my quivering brethren. But it took a while to find my way back.



Bethany Herron is an urban fantasy writer, freight-train conductor, and RWA Board Member living in the Bay Area. She has the blessed fortune to be connected to the Pens by blood, and blogs at http://jujuwiz.wordpress.com.

Christmas, the Musical! (Or, How I Learned to Work with My Inner Grinch)

The Pens are thrilled to welcome guest blogger Jami Alden! Jami Alden is the author of sexy romantic suspense. Her next book, BEG FOR MERCY
will be available in June from Grand Central Press. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her socially well adjusted alpha male husband, her sons, and a german shepherd who patiently listens to dialog and help her work out plot points. You can find out more about Jami and her books at www.JamiAlden.com, www.facebook.com/jamialden, or by following her on Twitter @jamialden.



When I was little the holidays were an awesome time, full of tree decorating, cookie making, and most importantly, vacation from school.

It wasn't until I was older – my late twenties, in fact, that I realized what a freaking production Christmas is. By that time, I'd handled Thanksgiving on my own for several years – I had the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, the whole package down to a science, and had even managed to get the entire meal, appropriately hot or cool to the table more or less on schedule.

Then, a few years after my husband and I got married, we hosted Christmas for the first time. My in laws (including husband's 7 siblings) were flying in and staying through the new year. I scoured the stores for gifts for the whole group and had them wrapped and ready to go well before the big day. Excited at the prospect of “our” first Christmas, my husband and I went out in search of a tree. Only problem: no lights, no ornaments, no nothing.

No problem! I dutifully went to Target and got enough stuff to deck two trees worth.

Then, tree appropriately twinkling, I looked around the rest of our little rented house and realized... it was bare.

Now, in my house we jokingly refer to my mom as “Patty Christmas.” Every year, she not only does the tree, she also swaps out all the towels for holiday themed linens and gets out all the Christmas themed drinkware. From December 1 – 31st, from your first sip of coffee to your last sip of wine, you are reminded 'tis the season. There are red velvet bows on nearly every doorknob and a faux pine garland winding up the staircase.

My house, in comparison, was sparse, minimalistic even. It wouldn't do. So, having no job or children at the time, I put aside my not yet off the ground writing career and did another wave of Christmas shopping. Candlesticks, towels, glassware, candles, vases in the shape of Santa's boots. I was set. No way Christmas would ever get me down again.

Fast forward 5 years. Let me tell you, nothing brings out my inner grinch like a crushing deadline. Add in 2 kids ages 2 and 5 months, about a thousand people to shop for a and a husband who worked 80 hours a week, and I was ready to cancel Christmas.

We managed to get a tree. It stood in its stand for a week while I circled it resentfully. “I am so not in the mood to decorate you.”

“This sucks!” I muttered. “It's all a bunch of BS and it's not like I don't have enough going on. F the tree. The kids won't give a crap, and they'll break the ornaments anyway.”

Someone must have been listening. Because one Saturday in December while I was out, no doubt doing something very self indulgent like going to Trader Joe's ALL BY MYSELF, some little Christmas Elves came to visit.

When I returned, the tree was decorated. The little holiday knick knacks were strewn around the house. Holy crap, who knew Christmas could happen in our house without me?

The little twinge of guilt I felt at having been such a scrooge disappeared in the wave of love and gratitude for my husband, for seeing that I needed a little help getting into the Christmas spirit, for taking a bunch of stuff off my plate, and doing it all without acting like it was a big deal or a burden or an imposition.

My own Alpha Christmas Elf :)

Do you ever need help getting into the Holiday spirit? Who are your helpers? Are you sad to season end or, like me, do you feel like you'll need the next 12 months to gear up for the next one?

Kate Perry's Museum....

Pens are so very pleased to welcome Kate Perry. Kate is the author of the Guardians of Destiny series, a Kung Fu Master, a tango enthusiast, and a cupcake aficionado. Voted by her friends as the woman they'd most want to stroll with down a dark alley, Kate's as likely to be spotted at the opera as she is practicing swordplay in Golden Gate Park.




Glass of wine in hand, Amy sat down on my kitchen floor. “Are you going to get a kitchen table soon? I don’t mind plopping on the floor because you’re making me dinner, but isn’t it time?”

“I just moved in, and I’ve been too busy to go furniture shopping.” I stirred mushrooms into the pan of caramelizing onions.

“Speaking of why you’re busy… I bought TEMPTED BY FATE last week. I’m on the handcuff scene. Hawt. ” She fanned herself. “So how is the new book release going?”



“I have one more guest blog to write.” I turned around, brandishing the wooden spatula. “I’m supposed to write about museums.”

“That’s perfect for you. You’ve been to museums all around the world. Write about your favorite one. Or the city that has the best museums.”

I added cream to my mixture, turned the heat down, and faced Amy. “Actually, I had this other idea.”

“Uh-oh.”

“It doesn’t involve explosives this time.”

“That’s only slightly reassuring.” She sighed in resignation. “Tell me.”

“I’m going to open my own museum.”

Amy blinked. “Just when I think I’m used to your crazy ideas, you spring something like this on me. Where are you going to open your museum?”

“Right here.” I waved at the bare walls of my new apartment. “I have prime real estate, not to mention that parking is easy in my neighborhood and I’m by two major Muni lines.”

“Yeah, but where are you going to get paintings from? I doubt you have a bunch of Chagall canvases hiding in your attic.”

“I’m going to do the paintings myself.”

“But you don’t paint, Kate.”

“Yeah, I do,” I said excitedly. I ran to my bedroom, grabbed my pack of paintings, and skid back into the kitchen. “Look.”

She silently flipped through my informal portfolio.

“And I have all these ideas for other paintings. I’d like to do a series based on my Guardians of Destiny series, depicting my heroines kicking ass. And maybe I’ll do a series on the Chinese elements my Guardians represent. And I’d like to do a series on fruit.”

“Fruit?”



“Like tomatoes on the vine.”

“Oo-kay.” She handed me back the paintings. “I don’t want to be a killjoy, but you write, you study kung fu several days a week, and you have a crazy dating schedule—“

“I’ve also been tango dancing.”

“Exactly!” Amy threw her arms in the airs. “When are you going to fit painting and being a curator in there?”

“I’ll cut back dating to two nights a week. And I don’t need that much sleep.”

Amy opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again to down some wine. Finally, she shook her head. “You do realize that if you turn your apartment into a museum, people will constantly be walking through. Which means you’ll have to clean more often.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “I hate cleaning.”

“I know.”

“Damn.”

She nodded. “I know.”

I brightened. “Maybe I can build a robot to do the cleaning.”

“Around your book deadlines?”

“If I created a heroine who was a painter-slash-inventor, then I could chalk it all up to research.”



“You—I—“ Amy shook her head and held out her glass. “Is there more wine?”


Kate can be found on her website at www.kateperry.com and follow her most excellent posts on Twitter @kateperry

My Day At The Museum

Pens are thrilled to have our pal Carolyn Jewel as a guest today! Carolyn Jewel writes historical romance for Berkley Books and Paranormal Romance for Grand Central Publishing. My Immortal Assassin, book 3 in her My Immortals paranormal series will be in bookstores everywhere January 4th, 2011. www.carolynjewel.com







Last month (November), I visited a writing friend in Brooklyn. (I should mention I live in California so the visit was for a week, not an afternoon.) I brought my son with me so that, in addition to writing related things I had scheduled, my son and I could do some New York-ish things. A brilliant plan! My son was broken-hearted that he was to miss a week of school, but he bore up well under the crushing disappointment.

I knew better than to overbook Things-To-Be-Seen, since that leads to exhaustion and crabbiness. I am not good with stress and overly ambitious schedules that leave no time for serendipity. Also, my son is 15. There’s only so much a teenager will tolerate from his mother and the point of the trip was not to torture him (seriously!) but to create some memories about travel actually being fun. And that serendipity thing? Four words: The Pop Tart Store.

However, I was determined that we should see the Jan Gossart exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art because the exhibit would improve my son’s mind and expand his horizons. Perhaps he would even be inspired to change his career goals from “sitting around playing Star Craft II all day” to “Renaissance Historian. “

It could happen.

It didn’t, but it could have.

Anyway, by this huge, amazing coincidence, there’s a Fantasy I want to write that involves a Renaissance-ish culture. As it happens, I was at this exact time completing revisions on a short story set in this world. My editor sent them to me the day before we were to leave for New York.

The astonishing timing of editors is the subject of a whole other post, I promise you.

When I was making plans for the New York trip and realized that the Met was going to have an entire exhibit of paintings dedicated to the very period I was using as my inspiration, I was beyond thrilled. There’s a reason English has stolen words like kismet. Also, I am a museum freak. If left to my own devices in a museum I will stop in front of each and every work of art and read every single word. And then contemplate. While writing scenes in my head.

Did I mention my son is 15? Renaissance painters are actually not his favorite thing. He was at great pains to point out to me that I was going through the exhibit slower than the stooped over, gray haired lady with a cane. Well, yeah. She was skipping stuff! The slacker. I suspect, but do not know for certain, that she was not staring at the exquisite portraits and thinking about the best way to steal the clothing for her Fantasy world. I could be wrong about that, of course.

After we finished the Gossart exhibit, we flew through some of the Georgian and Regency paintings because my son felt he had suffered enough and he had a point. Discretion, as they say, is the better part of valor. We went to the Met Store only to learn that the Gossart exhibit book will give you a hernia, so I did not purchase it at the Met. I bought it online later and let the USPS get the hernia shipping it to California.

The Museum of Natural History was much more to the 15 year old’s tastes and we spent quite a while there with nary a complaint about a certain person walking too slow while writing scenes in her head.

How did you feel about museums when you were a teenager?

Pens Welcome Author Virna DePaul!!

Virna DePaul is a former prosecutor whose debut paranormal romantic suspense series, The Para-Ops Novels, launches on May 3, 2011 with Book 1, Chosen By Blood, Berkley. It’s about a unique special ops team, its vampire leader, the human female he’s forbidden to love, and the mission that can save his clan.







This month, every person who pre-orders Chosen By Blood will get a free full-length e-novel by paranormal romance author Tina Folsom. See http://www.virnadepaul.com/goodies.shtml


Thank you so much to the Pens for inviting me to be a guest here today! I’m proud to be in the same writing chapter with such talented, inspiring, and kind women.

“[A]ge is not just about surviving, it's about flourishing.”

That’s a line in a Psychology Today article that discusses how women only get better with age. Of course, the line actually starts with “Old age” and I felt compelled to change it. No matter my age, I will refuse to consider myself “old.” I’m shooting for “experienced.” Well-developed. Enlightened. Seasoned.

Ripe.

Ah, that’s a nice one. At the end of my days, I want to be bursting with a juicy nectar that can only come from living an honorable, authentic, and bountiful life—one that can only come from trying. And I don’t mean a half-hearted, brief or intermittent kind of trying, but the kind of trying summed up here:

"Life is not a journey to the grave to arrive safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out and loudly proclaiming "WOW! What a ride!" (Ian Coress)

So I guess you can say I aspire to be a ripe piece of fruit with collagen to spare, but one that’s otherwise banged up, bruised up, limping and smiling like crazy.

I turned 40 last spring and, although I’m not happy about the extra pounds that are appearing far more easily or the wrinkles that seem to show up overnight (hence the need for extra collagen), I have to say I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, even though sometimes I still struggle with bouts of anxiety and insecurity. I’m more in touch with who I am, even as I constantly try to deepen that knowledge. Not everything I’ve learned about myself is positive (not even close), but for me, discovering the nuances is exciting and getting past the difficult times is empowering. It seems that as the years pass, I discover more things I like or am willing to do, things I’m not willing to put up with, or things I am capable of.

I believe my writing journey reflects my progress towards ripening, both personally and professionally.

By pursuing my passion for writing, I’ve learned some ugly things about myself, but I’ve learned to appreciate certain aspects of myself, as well. While most people see me as “nice” (I used to hate, hate, hate that term in high school), dedicated, a little quiet (and I am all those things), I am also bold, passionate, hedonistic, and funny. I’m stubborn and ambitious and driven. And yes, I am a slob, impatient, neurotic, quick-tempered, incredibly insecure, and often selfish, too.

But even so, I like myself. Because I’m trying.

The same can be said for my writing. After several setbacks submitting straight romantic suspense stories, I decided to write paranormal, a genre I read but had never even considered writing. Turns out I not only love writing it, but a publisher thought I was really good at it. Since then, I’ve tried my hand at contemporary romance, first person urban fantasy, and even erotica. I’ve enjoyed writing all of them but, best of all, I learned I can write all of them pretty darn well. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever publish in those genres, but who knows? The point is I wrote things I never thought I could because I was willing to take a chance and try something new.

My stories are generally darker, but in my contemporary romance and urban fantasy, my writing voice is notably more humorous.

And of course, all that passion I told you about? I think I express it in my life in general, but what happened when I refused to hold back and instead went balls-for-the-wall and wrote an erotic novella?

I surprised even myself. But no matter what, the essence of who I am, the good and the bad, is in whatever I write.

I plan to keep on writing, keep on improving and growing, and keep on flourishing with age. I’ll try until the ride is over and I’m not going to let anything or anyone derail me.

Virna just self-published her debut erotic novella under the pen name Ava Meyers at www.amazon.com/Copping-To-It-ebook/dp/B004FGMTBI It’s set to move at only 99 cents. Here’s a brief description of Copping To It.














Read the excerpt at www.hipwritergirls.typepad.com/avameyers/copping-to-it-excerpt.html

When Claire meets undercover cop Ty Williamson, she fears revealing her inner vixen. Then she's captured by a gang of bikers that Ty has infiltrated. Ordered to have public sex with Claire, Ty just wants to get her to safety - until he sees the desire burning in her eyes. Now Ty will prove he wants all of her: the good with the bad. In fact, the badder Claire is, the better they'll be-together.

Guess what? Virna will randomly draw names of two commenters who can pick either a prize listed at www.freebooksthatrock.com OR an e-copy of her erotic novella!!!! Comment away!!!!


You can find Virna on the web at www.virnadepaul.com and www.booksthatrock.com

Weaving In and Out of Worlds

Today's guest is mystery writer Supriya Savkoor.

Supriya is a former journalist turned mystery writer. Her international suspense novel, Breathing in Bombay, was awarded the 2010 Helen McCloy/Mystery Writers of America Scholarship for Mystery Writing. Supriya is based near Washington, DC, where she lives with her husband and two daughters.


One minute I’m here, the next I’m there, though I don’t always have to be in motion to make the transition. How do I do it? No, I’m not a shapeshifter, but sometimes my dual lens on the world makes me feel like one.

About ten years ago, my husband and I decided to backpack through Europe, choosing random points from a map. We started in Prague, ended in Rome, and hopped between as many cities as we could pack into the three weeks we had off from work.

Needless to say, the trip was extraordinary. Stone castles in Prague, the Duomo in Florence, San Marcos in Venice, the Jungfrau in Switzerland, those rustic, romantic lanes of Salzburg followed by that exquisite panoramic view of its skyline from the fortress. And always, endless stretches of gorgeous scenery whizzing past us, from one Eurorail stop to the next, especially those great open fields of yellow. Often, we watched from the dining car, as we sipped delicious, inexpensive house wine and tried to think of ways to extend our holiday.

There was plenty to fill us with awe--history, grand architecture, fabulous food, gelato, and lots of photographs. We did little shopping except to hunt for cheap film a couple times. Remember those days?

But then on our long walks, we’d encounter something both familiar yet so foreign. A small dive of an Indian restaurant in a back alley of Florence, loud bhangra music blaring from its open doors, the day’s specials written in Italian (pollo tandoori) on a chalkboard hanging in the scratched window, a string of colorful lights framing it. A little Indian grocery store in the grand train station in Bern, plastic bangles lining the counters, the pungent aromas of cumin and cardamom filling the air. A glitzy Indian wedding party sweeping through the streets of Interlaken. Young Bangladeshi men, refugees we were told, hawking colorful scarves on the fountain steps of Piazza Navona in Rome (one of my favorite places to sit and watch the grand and ordinary come together).

Restaurants, shops, weddings, street peddlers. Despite these visible aspects of our shared heritage, I could barely relate to them. It felt as though we were worlds apart, them emigrating from Asia and planting roots in Europe and me, an American of Indian heritage visiting as a tourist. Yet these little brushes of cultural intersections deeply intrigued me. How did these people get here? How did they learn the local language? What are their lives like? Do they bridge cultural divides differently than I do? How do they adapt? Do they feel at home?

Looking back, I wished I’d asked, but it seemed awfully impertinent to ask what amounted to, “what are you doing here?” The answers I wanted were deeply personal, about their inner lives more than the mechanics of uprooting their families and making the physical move.

And as curious as they were to me in those settings, foreign really, they hardly registered us, two ethnic-Indian backpackers wandering through their towns. Meanwhile, I still think of them. My cross-cultural upbringing may have planted the seed for the fiction I like to write today, but travel has had a huge hand in growing that seed.

Visit Supriya on the Novel Adventurers blog.

Making Dessert from Disaster

Will our dear readers believe today's flubbed attempt to process our guest's post on time was was a deliberate attempt to reenact our theme of mistakes? That the PensFatales dedication to this topic goes above and beyond words? That we don't talk the talk, we talk the talk? Hmmmmm...we think...not.

Luckily our guest today, Joelle Carbonneau, is all too familiar with mistakes judging by the content of her post and the title of her new novel, SKATING AROUND THE LAW, coming out next week (woohoo! Congratulations, Joelle!). From one mistake-maven to another, hopefully she will forgive us!



Thanks for much for the Pens Fatales for inviting me to blog today. It is totally appropriate that I am blogging on Mistakes Week, because – yes – I’m prone to making them. I have the tendency to trip over my own feet when wearing high heels, save documents in places on my computer that guys at MIT would never be able to find and occasionally, I have been known to bake oatmeal cookies with no flour.

Funny about the oatmeal cookie thing. On a good day, I’m a decent cook. However, this time the cookies lost all shape and melted all over the cookie sheet into a big mess. After one look, my inclination was to pitch the whole mess into the garbage can and start over. Only, I am a touch crazy and I took a taste. Yum. I then shoveled the crumbly mess into a bowl and used it to top ice cream. Double yum.

Baking is not the only area in which I’ve found a mistake can turn into an unlikely opportunity. A few years ago, I set aside a manuscript I’d been editing and started writing a totally different kind of book for kicks. It was the most fun I’d ever had writing. Any goofy or strange idea that popped into my head went onto the page. And to top it off, I was writing in a genre I hadn’t studied much.

Everyone always says you should study the genre before you start writing. I used to believe that. Scratch that. I still do. Only, I made a mistake. I didn’t really know the subgenre I was writing in when I started. Heck, I don’t think I’d ever heard the term for the subgenre. Belonging to RWA, I knew all the romance subgenres, but I wasn’t writing a romance. (To tell the truth, I was bad at writing romances….and I tried. Another mistake, but one I learned from.) So instead of knowing what I was writing and making sure that I created a story that fit the expectations of the editors and readers of the genre, I just wrote.

Once I was done writing, I realized I had no idea what I had written. Yes, Skating Around The Law was a mystery, but what kind of mystery? Turns out I wrote a book that follows the cozy mystery guidelines but isn’t really a cozy. Well crap. I’d made a HUGE mistake. Everyone knows that it is easier to get a book published if it falls squarely in one genre. Yes, people blend genres all the time, but editors have a harder time selling those books to their editorial board because they are riskier. Double crap.

And yet, like the flattened oatmeal cookies, I couldn’t bring myself to throw that manuscript into the trash. It didn’t taste so good on ice cream, but I loved it. Turns out my agent and editor did, too. The one thing I’ve learned from the experience is that sometimes mistakes are more than good lessons. Sometimes they are opportunities. You just have to take a step back from the mistake and decide which one it is. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll find your mistake is both. I bet if you think about it, you have a few tasty mistakes out there of your own that I’d love to hear about.

Unashamed, Unabashed, Unrepentant: Why Erotic Romance Is Good for Women

The PensFatales welcome Theresa Stevens today! Theresa Stevens is an author, editor, and the co-owner of STAR Guides Publishing and EditTorrent.

It’s no secret that I have some fairly strong opinions on gender equality, but those that know me best have always had trouble reconciling that with my love of romance publishing in general and erotic romance in particular. How can one be both strongly feminist and an unabashed lover of “those” books?

There are two answers to this question, the simple but dry one, and the more complex but more truthful one.

The simple answer is that in order for a patrilinear system to work, the sexuality of the woman must be controlled. Before modern medicine, the only way to guarantee paternity of a child was to prevent the mother from having sex with anyone other than the intended father. (It’s a lot easier to guarantee the maternity of a child: just witness the birth.)

This type of sexual partner limitation is fine as long as the mother is on board with this plan. After all, we might like to have a say in who fathers our children. But it’s also not fine insofar as it leads to double standards, economic inequality, and other abuses. Erotic romance and other open expressions of female sexuality take us one step further away from the days when feminine desire was demonized as a way of strengthening the patriarchy and limiting women’s power and social standing.

But that’s sort of intellectually detached from the real state of my thoughts on erotic romance. In truth, when I read a “dirty girl book” (as I like to call them, and it’s meant fondly), I walk away from the reading experience with an incredible feeling of sisterly solidarity. Part of being a woman, a fully alive and engaged woman, is being a fleshly creature with sexual urges and, lucky us, the capacity for almost limitless sexual pleasure. Yes, we want to explore that in the context of a romance, because that’s also a part of being a woman. Our hearts and bodies are entwined. But for too long, for centuries, we’ve been openly encouraged to embrace the heart and feel shame at the body. Not any more, and hurrah for that.

So when I read a book with a heroine who thrills at the sight of her lover, who craves his most decadent touch, who surrenders every corner of her sexual psyche to his loving exploration, then I see an alive and engaged female character. And I relate to her, as do other readers of this genre, because her body is my body. Her lover is my lover. Perhaps most surprising, her fantasies are my fantasies.

If there’s one thing I learned in four years as an editor at one of the world’s leading erotic romance publishers, it’s that these feminine fantasies are common and universal. Over and over again, we read the same sexual scenarios in submissions -- a powerful male body, a heroine swept away by passion, issues of trust and yearning and fulfillment playing out in countless variations on a single theme. So if these fantasies are so common, if we’re hardwired for this kind of desire, then why not celebrate it?

Erotic romance does exactly that. With a broad smile and a playful wink, these books show readers that they’re not alone. Others out there secretly thought the same naughty thoughts and even went to the trouble of writing them down and sharing them. These books allow women to explore their own sexual and romantic urges in a safe way, in a way that promotes understanding of self and sister, and perhaps most important, in a way that’s uniquely feminine.

To all of you writing erotic romance or aspiring to do so, I urge you to push forward and never hold back. Never think that your ideas are too outrageous or scary or personal. Be bold. Reach for the new position, the new setting, the new way of making your heroine’s thighs tremble. Give us a hero we can love, and then show us how to love him in mind-blowing ways.

Somewhere out there is a reader who fantasizes about the same thing, and who, upon reading your book, will smile to know she’s not the only one. She’ll take courage from your boldness. And she’ll find confidence in this silent connection to other women. (And maybe even find a new trick to use on her lover later. But that’s an entirely different blog post.)

My Year of Reading Erotica

The PensFatales welcome Michelle Wiener, who is a freelance writer and editor, which is another way of saying she spends a lot of time online writing silly things on Twitter. She blogs about TV and other stuff here. She reviews mysteries and thrillers for RT Book Reviews, and she is THRILLED to be a guest on Pens Fatales.

<---- This is what she looks like when she reads the Internet.

Up until about a month ago, the tagline to my Facebook profile read simply, "I review porn." It wasn't entirely accurate, more about me trying to be flip than a factual description. What I was really doing was reading and reviewing erotic fiction.

It wasn’t something I’d set out to do. To be honest, my erotica frame of reference was limited to Anaïs Nin and a handful of stories submitted to alt.sex.stories that my long-distance boyfriend in college would email to me, which tended toward the "hot babysitter deflowers her 13-year-old charge" ilk. (I think he thought he was keeping the spark alive? Sort of endearing, but mostly missing the mark. By a lot.) (Also yes, I am that old.) (And nerdy.)

But I was about to lose my full-time job, needed something to keep me busy, and wanted to do something both creatively generative and challenging.

It was challenging. I think it must be very hard to write sex scenes, let alone scene after scene in book after book, and have them be always fresh and exciting and, you know, sexy. Who am I to judge an author or her readers on their proclivities, acts and language for such a deeply personal thing? Though I admit, I soon found myself compiling a list of words that completely turned me off. I won’t list them all here, but I will say that I never want to see a woman’s genitals referred to as a “crevice” again. I don’t want to judge! It may work for you! I just prefer the simple and obvious terms for sexy parts. (But not too clinical! “Labia” doesn’t work for me either.)

What disturbed me more than unfortunate language choices was a common theme I discovered in erotic fiction: female characters who are somehow unable or unwilling to own their sexual desires. They're either too shy, or uptight, or inexperienced, or repulsed-but-secretly-curious by practices they think (or think they should think) are disgusting. And what they need is the right man to show them the way.

I am not talking about one woman's sexual awakening or journey of sexual discovery. I'm talking about stories in which the ostensible hero of the story cajoles, coerces, or commands the heroine to sexually perform in a way that makes her uncomfortable at first . . . until she realizes that this is what she needed all along.

It's too close to "she said she didn’t want it, but she did" for my comfort. Worse are the stories in which the heroine is under the influence of some sort of mood-altering aphrodisiac drug while she has mind-blowing sex – sometimes without even knowing she’s been drugged. I don’t need to explain why this is disturbing. At the very least, how satisfying can the sex be, really, if she’s not fully present for it?

What bothers me is that these stories perpetuate the idea that women do not have sexual desires of their own. This is an old, old, stubbornly persistent idea. It's at the heart of slut-shaming. It’s used to justify sexual assault. Again, I don’t want to infringe on anyone’s particular kink – I’m down with fantasies of seduction and submission, though I think there’s a line that should be honored between seduction and force, even in fiction -- and I truly don’t want to insult anyone, but frankly – I’m insulted by these stories. They’re not sexy; they’re depressing.

And it got to a point where I just couldn’t do it anymore (pardon the pun; it was intentional). I really, really want to like the books I read. I want to lose myself completely in another world and meet interesting people and get caught up in their lives, and then I want to tell everyone I know how great the book I just read was. And I was having an increasingly difficult time separating my politics from my professional reaction, and I couldn’t very well write 750-word treatises for each book that offended me. I had to admit that erotica wasn’t my thing.

Which is not to say that I didn’t like any of the erotic novels I reviewed. I raved about quite a few of them. I learned that I prefer romance novels with spicy bits more than erotic novels with romantic bits, and that I prefer mystery novels to almost any other genre. So I’m reviewing thrillers and mysteries and crime novels now -- my mom says, "You're still reading about body parts, it's just that they're on dead people now" -- and I'm happier.

The fact that so many of them feature whipsmart female detectives who don't take no guff from nobody probably has A LOT to do with that.

Maddee Spills on Names

The other day I walk into a local store where I shop now and then, and meet up with a woman who is very nice but let's just say decidedly odd. She's uber tan, uses greasepaint or some such thing to tame her wild hair, and has a mustache. She's poring over photos spread out on the counter.

"Whatcha looking at?" I ask.

"My daughter just had a baby!" says she.

"Oh she's cute!" [sorta] "What'd they name her?"

"Mitten."

Ummmmmm... what is the proper response to that?

MITTEN? WTF??



Okay, so I have a THING about names. I love names. I soooo agree with the rest of the Pens that names should mean something, they should match the person, have the right FEELING.

Which is why, when I got divorced some years back, I decided it was time to reinvent myself with a new name. And I did. I dropped the little Swiss Girl name I was born with; traded it in for the name of an island off the coast of Morocco, of all things. Why? I was trying to give honor to my father, whose family came from there. And Madeira is a lovely place, so I've heard. Full of colorful flowers and tropical vistas and that works for me.



The problem is that as lovely a word as Madeira is, it didn't completely "fit" me. It's a little too pretty. Or a little too formal. Or something. So I shortened it to Maddee, which feels more like ME.

Little side note: the reason for the weird spelling is that I wanted to own my domain name (and maddiejames.com is taken -- she's a romance writer). Now how many people would take domain name availability into account when naming themselves? I bow at the altar of the internet.



I know people roll their eyes about me changing my name in my 40s -- I realize it's weird. But life is an adventure, right?

I did it a little earlier for my son. Yep, he was born with a different name too -- and no, he wasn't adopted from some foreign country where his original name was hard to pronounce. He was born in my very own stomach (well you know what I mean). The thing is, we were SUPPOSED to have a girl. I was so positive of this that when my husband chose the name Quade "if" it were to be a boy I said "whatever." As far as I was concerned, it was going to be a girl named Quinn. And to make a very long story short, a boy popped out and my husband said "his name is Quade, right?" and I was like "whatever" 'cause you know how after you have a baby you're so relieved that it's OUT that nothing else really matters?

But really? Quade? Does it not sound very grownup and not unlike the hero of a lusty romance? And can anyone really bond with a baby with a lusty romance name? I couldn't take it. I had to change it. This after the official birth certificate and 100 Christmas cards welcoming Baby Quade to the world.



Christmas cards went out the next year which said: "Same baby, new name."

I should have done that after my divorce. "Same woman, new name."

Well hopefully not the same woman. Hopefully better.

So Quade became Riley. The name is much more common now, but 15 years ago, when my sweet little patootie was born, I had never heard of it. At least not until a big bald man walked into my office one summer morning selling strawberries. I bought some, asked his name, and fell in love. With the name, not him (lest you think that's why I got divorced).



(I know this man isn't bald but he's wearing a strawberry suit. A STRAWBERRY SUIT! Doesn't the internet rock?)

And now I am finally getting to the POINT of this post, which is that unlike my son, named after a strawberry peddler, my daughter was named after a character in a BOOK. And really, what could be better than that? I love good character names, love them with a passion. And when I read The Prince of Tides 18 years ago, I fell in love with the name Savannah. Like Riley, back then it was quite unusual. And the character was beautiful and had flaming red hair. Okay, she was a crazy person. But it was still a great name. So when my little sweetie was born with a head of bright red hair, how much more perfect could that have been?



Little side note #2: saying "sweetie" reminds me -- when I was married, I used to call my husband "sweet pea" and sometimes "sweetness." And one day on accident I put them together. Wait for it....

Okay back to book character names. Here are my faves of all time...

Novalee Nation in Billie Letts' Where the Heart Is. One of my favorite books, and one in which names are very important. There's a very curvy character who names all her children after snack foods (Brownie, Praline, Baby Ruth, you get the idea...).



Scout (and Atticus) Finch in Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. Of course Harper Lee is a damn cool name too. And Gregory Peck? HOT!



Antsy Carruth in Gar Haywood's Man Eater. I adore that name -- can't you just picture this woman?



Saxon Roberts in Jack London's The Valley of the Moon. Seriously awesome name. I would have named my daughter Saxon if Saxon Mack hadn't sounded so weird.



Troo O'Malley and her sister Sally O'Malley in Lesley Kagen's Whistling in the Dark. Troo is SUCH a cute name. And Sally O'Malley. I mean come on -- what's cuter than that?



My daughter (when she's older, please) wants to name her daughter Huckleberry. Another literary gem.

Sophie, it will be the height of true fandom when someone names their son Goat. You wait -- it's gonna happen.

xox me, maddee

What’s in a name?

Please welcome today's guest, Avery Aames, author of newly released The Long Quiche Goodbye.

Avery Aames is the author of A Cheese Shop Mystery series for Berkley Prime Crime. She likes to read, cook, garden, and do amateur photography. You can visit Avery at www.averyaames.com. She also blogs at Mystery Lovers Kitchen, a blog for foodies who love mysteries, www.mysteryloverskitchen.com as well as at Killer Characters, a blog overtaken by cozy authors’ characters, www.killercharacters.com.

Names. Indiana Jones…James Bond…Hercule Poirot…Nancy Drew. Names are very important to distinguish the character that leaps off the page. John Smith would never be Indiana Jones. Jim would never be James. Hercule…I can’t even imagine another name for Hercule, can you?

Names are very important to me as a writer. If I name a character Nikki, she takes on a personality of her own. Strong, kick-ass, alert. If I name her Charlotte, she’s gentler, more refined, a bit of an artist. Both are passionate but in entirely different ways. Now, I’m not saying that a Nikki couldn’t be an artist and a Charlotte couldn’t be kick-ass, but for me, this is who they are…who they have become. Have you met people who match their names? When I think of the name Janet, I think direct, funny. Ginger is a long, lanky exotic dancer or actress with red hair. {Yes, I’m probably influenced by Gilligan’s Island.} Kat is a whole lot different than Katherine or Kitty or Kate.

When I began writing A Cheese Shop Mystery series, I started with a few characters. That list quickly grew to an alphabet of characters. In cozies, writers populate entire towns. At some point, I realized that I had an Amy and an Amelia, and it dawned on me that the two couldn’t dwell in the same story. They just couldn’t. They started with A and they sounded the same. Multiple times, I found myself typing mistakes--entering Amelia when I meant Amy and vice versa. [Side note: Have you ever read a book where there’s an Ann, Amy, Analise, and Annabelle…or some such combination, all with that sort An or Am combination and after a while, you’re wondering who’s walking onto the page?] In The Long Quiche Goodbye, Amy was an eight-year-old twin, and Amelia was a twenty-two-year-old Amish woman. Amy was leaping off the page with personality; Amelia wasn’t. So I kept Amy, and I searched the Internet for the most popular Amish names. I landed on Rebecca. [I didn’t have an R-named character other than Rags, the Ragdoll cat. I didn’t think the two would be confused.]

Suddenly Rebecca took shape. She was plucky, coltish, curious. Amelia wasn’t any of those things. She was shy and tentative and, well, just not very memorable. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying all Amelia(s) are shy and tentative and unmemorable. Look at Amelia Earhart. Talk about personality. But in my world, Amelia didn’t have pluck. Rebecca did!

Another problem with the names I had chosen cropped up when I realized that I had two characters whose names sort of rhymed. Kristine and Kathleen. And they not only rhymed, they started with the same letter K, they were both thin, they were the same age, and they were forthright. Uh-oh. How many times do you think I got their names wrong? If I couldn’t keep them straight, how could I expect my readers to? So I changed the names. [Let’s hear it for the global “replace” tool on my computer.] Kristine remained Kristine. It fit her. She was regal and wanted to run the town. Kathleen became Vivian, a much nicer name for an antique dealer. The name Vivian had a softer tone, an artier feel. She sailed into The Cheese Shop with the grace of a clipper ship. Kristine marched onto the scene.

Don’t get me wrong. I know people are not named according to their personalities or their looks, but when I write, I try to fit the name to the person.

On a personal note…true story: My real name isn’t Avery. {How many of you knew that?} It’s Daryl. I can’t tell you how many times over the years I’ve heard people say: “Where’s your other brother Daryl?” or “Funny, you don’t look like a boy.” The name Daryl sticks with people. They expect me to be direct and strong, though not masculine, and many expect me to be good at football. [I can’t even begin to tell you how many Darrells there are who play football, both white and black. Most are wide receivers or tackles. If I’d played, I would have been a safety.] Avery, on the other hand, is the kind of gal who would love to take things slower, slip into your kitchen, pour a cup of coffee (or wine), and talk about cheese.

If you’re a writer, think about how you choose your characters’ names. Are there any that aren’t quite fitting the name and screaming out for a new one?

For readers, think about your friends. Would you have named them differently? How about your family? Do any have nicknames that have stuck because that’s just who they are? Peanut, Pooh, Tweedle Dee, Rocko?

Names. I love them! And I’m thrilled to have a couple of my own.

Best to all,
Avery
Say Cheese!

The first book in Avery Aames' Cheese Shop series, The Long Quiche Goodbye, came out on July 6. You can purchase the book at Avery’s bookseller page: www.averyaames.com/book1_sellers.html

Obsessed With Firearms? You Be the Judge - Reece Hirsch

Today the Pens welcome thriller writer Reece Hirsch, whose debut novel THE INSIDER came out in May. Publishers Weekly called the novel "fast-paced and film-ready" and said the "tough, ambitious characters will keep fans of legal thrillers on the edge of their seats."

Reece lives right here in Northern California with the rest of us, so we're happy to have him in our Pens-tourage. (Like that? I just came up with it!! :)

The recent Supreme Court decision lifting Chicago’s handgun ban demonstrated once again that we are a nation obsessed with our firearms. The same goes for mystery and crime writers. If a handgun ban were to be imposed upon our genre, we would all be out of business. With that in mind, I compiled the following tally of weapons used in my debut legal thriller THE INSIDER, while trying to avoid spoilers.

Page 3. The weapon: concrete pavement after a fall from the roof of the Embarcadero Four building in San Francisco. Attacker: Unclear. Victim: Attorney Ben Fisher. Body count: 1.

Page 47. The weapon: a wineglass to the head. Attacker: Russian mobster Yuri. Victim: Corporate attorney Will Connelly, my protagonist. Body count: 0.

Page 73. The weapon: car cigarette lighter. Attacker: Unclear. Victim: Attorney Ben Fisher. Body count: 0 (this occurred before Ben hit the pavement on page 3, but we don’t learn about it until page 73).

Pages 83-87. The weapon: a box-cutter. Attacker: Russian mobster Nikolai. Victim: Will Connelly. Yes, Will is having a bad week, but the body count is still: 0.

Pages 225-233. The weapons: unspecified pistols. The shooters: Russian mobsters Nikolai and Yuri and a team of law enforcement agents led by Department of Justice Special Agent Joan Fisk. The setting: the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade. Body count: 2.

Page 312. The weapons: unspecified pistols. The shooters: Two Russian mobsters in Puma track suits and four Department of Justice agents. The setting: Justin Herman Plaza in San Francisco. Body count: 3.

Pages 313-321: The weapons: first, it’s unspecified pistol versus unarmed person, followed by screwdriver versus hammer. Participants: Will and a bad person who shall remain nameless. Body count: 1.

As the above tally indicates, I’ve written a legal thriller, but not a courtroom drama. This count does not include: (1) brandishing of guns, (2) threatened use of guns and (3) use of fists.

I know that there are certain readers who love nothing better than to catch a mystery/crime author in a firearms error. If you say that a particular handgun has a safety, it had better have a safety or you’re going to be receiving some e-mails.

I bypassed that issue a bit in THE INSIDER because my story is told from the perspective of Will Connelly, a young corporate lawyer in a big San Francisco law firm. Will is no Reacher-esque action hero with a connoisseur’s appreciation of the damage that can be done with a particular handgun and ammunition. When Will handles a gun, he just notices how cold and heavy it feels in his hand. When someone points a gun at Will, he’s doesn’t notice whether it’s a Ruger or a Smith & Wesson, he just thinks about how to avoid getting killed. Putting much more detail about the make and caliber of weapons wouldn’t have been consistent with the limited-third-person point-of-view that I was using.

Like Will Connelly, I’m a lawyer who doesn’t engage in much gunplay in my everyday life. However, I know that, as a thriller writer, I’m going to need to up my firearms IQ soon because I’m working in a genre that favors a body count.

Don't Shoot! I'm in the Bathroom.

Welcome today's guest blogger, Boyd Morrison, whose debut thriller, THE ARK, was released in May.

Boyd is a Seattle-based author, actor, engineer, and Jeopardy! champion. He started his career at Johnson Space Center, where he got the opportunity to fly on NASA’s Vomit Comet, the same plane used to train astronauts for zero gravity. He went on to earn a PhD from Virginia Tech, then used his training to develop eleven US patents at RCA and manage a video game testing group at Microsoft before becoming a full-time writer. When he’s not working on his novels, Boyd acts in stage plays and independent films. His hardcover debut thriller, THE ARK, was released in May, and translation rights for THE ARK have been sold in eighteen foreign markets.

I have shot thousands of people in my life. Many of them were my friends. However, they don't hold it against me. In fact, they were expecting it.

My extensive weapons training has prepared me for a career as a thriller writer. But I wasn't a cop, spy, soldier, or assassin (as far as you know). I got all of that experience playing video games.

Before I became a full-time novelist, I worked in the Microsoft Xbox division as a user testing manager. We would bring consumers in to play the games we were developing to find out where players would get frustrated or stop having fun. And as part of my job, I had to play through the games so that I would know how to design the tests. Yes, I got paid to play games.

Not that you have to pay me to play. I've been a fan of video games since my dad got me the first Pong home game. At the time, we were amazed at the sophistication of using two rectangles to bat a dot back and forth across the screen. It's been a long journey to the point where we are now, in which players are disappointed if the blood splatter isn't realistic enough when you blast someone in Grand Theft Auto.

One of my favorite games is the Call of Duty series, which you can play online with other people. In the latest installment of this first-person shooter (as the genre is called), you take the role of a soldier fighting with the latest modern weaponry. The developers of Call of Duty have put thousands of hours into researching the dozens of real pistols, assault rifles, shotguns, and sniper rifles used in the game. The guns sound and operate exactly like they do in real life. You can even feel the difference in the recoil with the vibrating controller (FYI, if you enter the word “vibrating” into Google to get more information, “controller” is not the next word Google suggests).

When I was with Microsoft and playing these games at home, it gave me a ready-made excuse when my wife would ask me to do chores.

“Honey, I can't take out the garbage right now!” I would say, never taking my eyes off the screen. “Can't you see I'm working?”

Now that I'm writing novels, my excuse is still intact. I view all of those hours in front of the television as valuable research. My debut thriller, The Ark, features a lot of gunfights. That happens when a madman is trying to destroy civilization and rebuild it in his own diabolical vision. Luckily, the hero, Tyler Locke, is a former army combat engineer with plenty of weapons training. He may not like being shot at, but at least he knows how to return fire.

I, on the other hand, have never been in a real gunfight, nor would I really care to be, mainly because of the whole fear-of-death aspect. In my virtual Call of Duty gunfights, about the most dangerous thing I ever do is hurdle a chair on my way back from the bathroom so that I return in time for the start of the next game.

I have shot real guns as research for my books. At the gun range I've emptied a few magazines into paper targets so I could accurately convey what it's like to fire a .22 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver (“plink”) and a .50 caliber Desert Eagle semiautomatic (“BOOM!”). But unless you're in a Stephen King novel, the paper targets don't shoot back, and there are only so many different types of guns you can try out in real life. I recommend video games to help you fill in the gaps.

So if you're writing about a hit man and want to know how if feels to shoot someone with a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle from three hundred yards, try aiming at one of your friends. I can tell you from personal experience that headshots are the most rewarding.

Susan Shea's Rules

Today the Pens are happy to welcome Susan Shea, a lovely member of our local writing community and someone who writes a clever, twisting, mysterious tale about one of my favorite subjects: the clever, twisted, mysterious ways of the art world. Susan has her first novel coming out THIS MONTH: Murder in the Abstract (an Avalon Mystery). Booklist calls it: "...a series to watch."

Plus: Susan is generously offering a signed copy of Murder in the Abstract to a randomly chosen commenter! So leave a comment (with your email in the text) and answer this question: what rule(s) make YOU freeze?

“Rules.”

Immediately, I’m suspicious. Oh, yeah? Who says?

Next, I’m nervous. What happens if I mess up?

Then, I’m confused. What are they? Who has them?

Clearly, I don’t do rules well. I don’t have the traffic tickets or IRS penalty notices to prove it because I’m not stupid. Those kinds of rules cost more time and money to thwart than I want to spend unless there’s a moral issue involved. However, this wonderful blog site is about writing and writers, and I’m a guest, so I’ll stick with rules for writing and why they only sometimes make sense to me.

Here’s a recent, true demonstration of my attempt to follow the rules. I’m having trouble with the pacing of my second book, especially because the end is sort of tricky. I like the scenes and the order in which they take place. But fitting them into chapters is getting awkward, never mind into three acts. See, someone smarter than I am told me to divide my book into three acts. There’s a crisis at the end of the first act. There’s a defining situation at the end of the second act that makes the pursuit of the villain a personal quest - no turning back from this point on. And, of course, there’s the climax and resolution at the end of the third act. So far, so good.

But another, equally successful author wrote that the big moment comes halfway through the book, which brings up another of my weak points: math. What’s half of a third and does that mean the highest drama comes before the second act’s climax? I’m now completely frozen. Never mind chapters – I’m not sure where the periods go! So I call yet another smarter-than-me author who obviously understands this stuff. She’s patient and I almost get it after a half hour.

Two weeks later, any clarity I had has evaporated. So I scrap all the rules and decide to reread the entire manuscript in hard copy and do it by instinct. End the chapters with a flourish where my protagonist sticks out her tongue, metaphorically. Consider a third to be a moveable point at which someone brandishes a knife or finds a body. And the midpoint? Oh, well, it’s in there somewhere. Maybe a kind editor will point it out to me during revisions. I’m going with my gut and remembering that the point of all these rules is to establish and maintain a rhythm, mounting tension, and belief in the characters and their intentions, good and bad.

The writers who host this site have proven they can do all of that and, if they follow rules, they do it so gracefully that I’m not aware of the structure, just caught up in their stories. Maybe one rule we authors can all follow, even if we’re not so good at fractions, is just that: write a great story and make the hard work invisible to the reader.

Thanks for letting me visit Pen Fatales!

Susan C. Shea is the author of MURDER IN THE ABSTRACT, the first in a series of crime novels. She’s a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Romance Writers of America and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. www.susancshea.com

Breaking Rules

Welcome today's guest blogger, mystery writer Krista Davis, whose Domestic Diva series features two characters with very different ideas about what it means to follow the rules. Heroine Sophie Winston is someone we consider a bit of an anti-Martha Stewart, but her nemesis Natasha has some other ideas about what it takes to be a domestic diva...

The mere thought of breaking rules is a little bit seductive, like sneaking a chocolate-iced Krispy Kreme doughnut when you’re on a diet, or falling in love with a vampire bad boy. Of course, not all rules are fun to break. Sticking a finger into an electrical socket or driving on the wrong side of the road is just unwise at best.

In the Domestic Diva Mysteries, Sophie Winston and her best friend Nina Reid Norwood would say they follow rules. Except for the stupid ones. And that drives Natasha (one name, please, like Cher) nuts because she thinks she’s the Martha of the South, and that Sophie really doesn’t qualify as a domestic diva because she won’t follow the rules.

Natasha would tell you that it’s three weeks to Fourth of July weekend. “By now, I hope you’ve sent your invitations, decorated with hand-drawn fireworks that you embellished with red, white, and blue sparkles. You still have time to sew patio cushions and install shiny blue tile on the top of your picnic table. Don’t forget to schedule a trip to pick fresh blueberries for the pie.”

Sophie would laugh at her because she believes in keeping things simple. She doesn’t send friends and family formal invitations. They know they’re invited. And a blue or red tablecloth would be just as festive as blue tiles. Sophie defies the new rules of domestic divahood which infuriates Natasha. No one gathers in Natasha’s perfect, sterile kitchen. They come to Sophie’s house (just down the block) where a fire crackles in the kitchen fireplace on cold days, and there’s always something good to eat. This time of year, you’ll find Sophie and her friends gathering on her patio around watermelon margaritas and spiced shrimp.

Natasha believes in rules and is always the first to point out Sophie’s failings when it comes to being a domestic diva, or anything else for that matter. Yet, it’s Natasha who broke the cardinal rule of girlfriends. A rule so big that it’s right up there next to thou shalt not kill. Natasha set up housekeeping with Sophie’s ex-husband. Sophie likes to think that her marriage was already over, but her family and friends aren’t so sure. Natasha is paying for her wrongdoing, though. She’s finding that the trouble with stealing someone’s husband is the constant worry that he might just wander back to his old love, especially since Natasha hasn’t been able to convince him to tie the knot.

Sophie and Nina would never betray a girlfriend that way, but they’re not beneath sneaking into someone’s house or office for a little snooping when murder is involved. Definitely illegal, but it sort of pales in comparison to wrecking a marriage. Does it seem like it’s lower on the scale of rules that can be broken because they’re trying to right a wrong by catching a killer? Or because that unwritten rule of girlfriends is of the highest order?

Sneaking a forbidden Krispy Kreme doughnut is about the extent of my rule breaking. But don’t worry about Sophie, one of these days Natasha’s finger may just find its way into an electrical socket.

National bestselling author Krista Davis writes the Domestic Diva Mystery series for Berkley Prime Crime. Her first book, The Diva Runs Out of Thyme, was nominated for an Agatha award. The Diva Paints the Town was released a few months ago and The Diva Cooks A Goose will be in bookstores in December. Learn more about Krista's books at http://divamysteries.com and visit her at http://mysteryloverskitchen.com, where she blogs on Saturdays, as well as a fun new blog written by characters in cozy mysteries http://www.killercharacters.com.

Wear sexy shoes and you will be a better writer

Today's guest is Mario Acevedo, vampire mystery writer extraordinaire. Mario has many opinions about all sorts of underpinnings...especially shoes.

*Oh, one question Mario-- does all this apply to the boys, as well?*

(Disclaimer: The opinions of our guests do not necessarily reflect those of the Pens...)

There’s a constant feud between genre and literary writers and here’s my take on a big difference between the two: Woman genre writers get pedicures and wear nicer shoes.

I was going to Twitter that last line but instead use it here where I was asked to discuss lingerie, metaphorical underpinnings, and lace-up boots (under which I include women’s shoes in general).

I’m sure literary writers will object to my conclusion. T.S. The exception proves the rule. At the last literary reading I was at, there were only three women in attendance (out of forty) with nice shoes. (I complimented one of them and she replied, “Mario, I was waiting for you to say something.” I do have that reputation.) So is there a metaphorical underpinning between a woman’s shoes and the kind of stories she writes? There is. I’ve been to many genre conferences--mystery, fantasy, romance--and the women wear nice shoes and show off their pedicures. Genre writers give us compelling characters in engaging plots with a clearly defined story question. These women know where they are going and what to expect at the destination.

At literary conferences, it’s a plague of gnarly toes, clunky shoes, and the most vile of all Mario repellent--Birkenstocks. Even among the young women who should know better. So then, literary writers: maybe some humor, the occasional pithy anecdote, but mostly rambling prose on a road to nowhere.

Ergo, with the certainty of rocket science. Shoe choice = type of writing.

Sadly I don’t know enough about what lingerie women genre and literary writers wear. But nice sexy shoes do indicate a predilection for satiny and silky (and perhaps leather) corsets and bustiers. Don’t forget the tiny panties, tap pants, cat suits, and Cuban heels. So I venture that women genre writers wear lingerie much more often than their literary counterparts. I detect a pattern.

What does lingerie say about metaphorical underpinnings? Quite a bit but it depends how a woman wears her foundation garments and related accessories. A woman who wears a corset and garter belt with ease and grace is telling the world not that she merely feels sexy, but that she is sexy. Hot. I’ve had women tell me they don’t need lingerie to feel sexy. Good for them, and they’re missing the point. A woman wearing lingerie has the supercharged aura of the femme fatale. Mysterious. Dangerous. And it’s that promise of mystery and danger that pulls us men in like a tractor beam. Have mercy on us.

Women genre writers understand the metaphorical underpinnings of their undergarments and shoes. They aren’t afraid to express their sexuality or show that they know where they’re going and what they want when they get there. Just as in their writing.

Happy fanging!

Mario Acevedo is the author of the Felix Gomez detective-vampire series. His latest book is WEREWOLF SMACKDOWN and his vampire characters have been spun off into a comic book series, KILLING THE COBRA, from IDW Publishing. The images are available here: http://www.marioacevedo.com/MANewsletterKillingTheCobra.html The comics can be ordered from: http://www.tfaw.com/

For a straight man, Mario knows an awful lot about women’s shoes. He lives and writes in Denver, Colorado.