Hey again, folks!

It's so nice to be back blogging with the pens!

For those of you who don't know me, I write the Jane True series for Orbit Books. It's urban fantasy and it's super fun.

Writing the books has also changed my life. I wrote Tempest Rising sort of out of the blue after I finished my PhD. I hadn't planned on becoming a popular fiction writer (I was a literary critic, who studied modernism and post modernism) and I'd even gotten my first job as a full time professor teaching modernism.

That first job was at Louisiana State University in Shreveport, and I loved it. I loved teaching my field, Shreveport turned out to be super fun, and I eventually made a really good home here. Unfortunately, I was also writing these books that were getting published, and yet they didn't count as publications toward my getting promotions at work. So when a job came up teaching in an MFA for popular fiction, I eventually realized I had to jump on it. Luckily, I got that job, and it definitely suits my new life as a writer/professor better.

But it was also in Pennsylvania, way far away from Louisiana and the life I'd made here.

So writing the books really has changed my life, in pretty substantive ways. Becoming a writer changed my goals, my job, where I live. But it's also allowed me so much more freedom and opportunity. Which is why I'm delighted to find myself back in Shreveport as a writer, invited to give a talk to LSUS's honor's program.

For that's been the best thing about writing. I'm blogging with Pens Fatales because I was lucky enough to meet three of the Pens, initially, at a convention. I met most everybody else later, when I would visit my initial Pens Friends in the Bay area. Writing has created for me so many opportunities for friendship, for travel, and for adventure. Who knew I'd love Kansas City so much? Who knew I'd have friends all over the country after five years? When I was stuck in Houston yesterday for a bit, and it looked like there was a chance my flight would be canceled, it was no big whoop--I've got good friends in Houston these days, after all.

So it's great to be back in Shreveport, where my career as a writer really began. It feels like coming full circle and it's a reminder to me that things don't have to end. They do have to change, but they don't have to end.

If you're in the Shreveport area and would like to come see me, here's a link to the public signing. There'll be punch!

Alpha Heroic Lines

Hey folks. This topic made me think about alpha heroes in urban fantasy and paranormal romance, and how easily they get chicks. That said, I think they're cheating. After all, they usually only get the chick because of the fact that they're the only one who can save the heroine from certain destruction at the hands of (insert villain here). In fact, when you think about it, most of our beloved alpha heroes are actually pretty lazy, passive love interests. They don't have to exert much effort to find or get the attention of their ladies. Mostly because a true alpha's love interest is literally hurled at him by evil henchmen, or she careens into the hero while running away from evil henchmen, or she swoons into his strong arms after he saves her from evil henchmen.....

In other words, except for the part where he has to kick some henchmen ass, our alpha heroes don't have to do a lot besides play "catch the panicking lady."

So let's make it a little more difficult for our alpha. Let's take him out of the dark alley and put him in the dark night club. Let's make him work for his, er, romantic dinner . . .

Here's some examples of pick-up lines I think an alpha hero in a UF or para-rom might say to a woman in a bar:

1) See this gun? That's not the only thing I've got that's hard like steel and ready to fire at your command.

2) I can kill a man in seven seconds, and make you come in five.

3) Wait till I show you my love karate.

4) Since I'm already covered in (insert whatever weird tribal tattoo-looking thing that is actually a mark of him being a demon/vampire/werewolf/etc.), I'll just have to ink your name on my heart.

5) These shitkickers were made for stomping . . . all over your bedside rug.

6) Is it hot in here or did you make my ________ powers ignite with passion?

7) You're so beautiful that if you were a super villain, I'd think twice before impaling you on my sword.

8) You could stake me any day, baby.

9) I no longer care that I'm condemned to walk in darkness, 'cuz you're my sunshine.

10) Thank the gods I'm immortal, or my heart would have stopped when I first saw you.

Now add your own! What would your favorite alpha hero say to his lady love?

(ps: Today you can also find me blogging about some books/movies I've liked recently, over at my site.)

Time Strategies

Hi folks! Nicole here. Today I'm going to talk to you about time, and strategizing time management as a writer.

The key to being a writer who actually finishes a book is not genius, or inspiration, or even talent. The key to finishing a book is one simple equation:

Butt + Chair + Writing Time² = Book

The problem with this equation. We all have a butt (some of us more than others) and it's easy to source a chair. But where do we find the time?

Here's my simple tricks to finding time.

1) Stop being an artist and be a working writer.

If you consider your writing a hobby, or something you're trying out, or just a lark, you'll never finish a book. Why wouldn't you do laundry or take the kids shopping when the alternative is something that's not real, just fun times? Instead, start thinking of writing as the same sort of thing as laundry, or cleaning the kitchen, or picking up the kids from school: it's something you schedule in every day because it's an important task. When you start thinking of writing as "something you have to get done" rather than "something you'll get to," it changes your whole perception of your daily routine.

2) Be flexible, but be disciplined.

The fact is that very few of us have the luxury of knowing we'll write every day from, say 11:00 AM - 3:00 PM. Most of us have jobs, families, and other types of responsibilities. And then there's Murphy's Law. You're not going to sit down to write at the usual time if your boyfriend just managed to chop off his finger or your toilet has exploded. In other words, life happens, and some of us have more potential for life happening than others.

So be flexible! Don't tell yourself, "I'm going to write at ten every day today, come hell or high water." Maybe at ten, on Tuesday, you realize you forgot a doctor's appointment, and have to rush out. If you're too focused on a certain time or place, you'll feel you've missed that window and won't re-engage.

Instead of being rigid about when you get what done, think in terms of what you want to accomplish in a given day or week. I might tell myself, "I want to write a chapter a day this week." I know how much writing I have to do for each chapter (about 3,000 words), and I can then divvy it up accordingly. Let's say that Monday I'm going to go look at some houses with my real estate agent in the evening (as I am), which means I'll go to the gym in the AM, instead of when I normally go. So I'll be at the gym when I normally write, which means I have two options: write before I go to the gym, write after the gym, or both (write half before and half after). That Monday, I'll do whichever I feel like. If I wake up early and raring to go, maybe I'll get the whole shebang done then. If I wake up grouchy and late, maybe I'll write after I've zumbaed out my crankiness.

But no matter what, that chapter will get written, that's non-negotiable. It's just the when/where/how I don't bother to schedule, knowing that life rarely allows us to be that forward thinking.

3) Don't be precious

This sort of goes with #2, but I'd highly dissuade anyone from getting into the habit of thinking they "have to have" something to be able to work. "I have to be at my kitchen table in complete silence," or "I have to be in a cafe, in that corner by the plugs." The fact is that we do have optimal work habits--those things that help us work at our best and it's great when we can achieve those. But it's rare we get that opportunity, so learn to write like a soldier learns to sleep: wherever and whenever.

4) Try everything

If you're someone who is really struggling with time management, and it has always been an issue for you, read books about this subject or google "time management strategies." There are TONS of resources on time-management strategies out there. Don't only look at books or resources for writers, either. Time management is time management, whether it's for business execs or parents. Look to a number of sources and try out their tricks, cobbling together a variety of strategies that work for you.

5) Rough draft means rough

For those of you who are normally great at time management, but find that you're doing everything and anything to avoid sitting down and writing, the issue probably isn't time, it's nerves. So here are the hard facts: your first draft is going to suck. They ALL suck. That's the point of the rough draft. My rough drafts suck; all the Pens' rough drafts suck; every writer in the world's rough drafts suck.

Repeat it with me: rough drafts suck.

The point of a sucky rough draft is that once you get that sucky rough draft on paper, you can fix it. Make it less sucky. You repeat this process till you have a damned good book. But you will never, ever, start at damned good book. The only way to get to damned good book, is to start with the sucky rough draft. So get that draft out, knowing it's going to suck, knowing it's supposed to suck, as that's part of the process.

I'd highly recommend doing Nanowrimo for those of you who really can't get over this hurdle.


6) Be selfish

This ties up with #1, but it's a lot easier to say "my writing is my work" when you're already published and you don't have a family, like me. The biggest complaint I hear from my students is that friends and/or family get in the way of their writing time, partially because they don't "get it." Young kids aren't going to understand why mommy is there, in her home office, but not playing with them. Lovers might not understand that just because they have the weekend off to play, a writer doesn't. Friends might think it's great you have this fun hobby, but do you have to do it all morning?

This is where communication is key. Writing's not your hobby, it's your job, in the way that being a student is a kind of job. Just like a student has to cut up all those cadavers to become a surgeon, you have to hack at all these shitty rough drafts to become a writer. No, you don't have a contract, but yes, you do have an obligation. You owe it to yourself and your future to do this writing, so that you can have that book, and see where your career takes you.

So tell people no, and explain why it's important to you to have some time, every day, to do your job. Your children might miss out on an hour of extra indulgence on your part, but they'll grow up seeing a parent who pursues his or her goals, a far more important message. And your lover can get over it, as can your friends. They will if they deserve you and support you, just make sure to articulate what it is you need and why.

There are my tips for strategizing time management. None of it's rocket science, it's really about adjusting how you think about yourself, your time, and your writing. Let me know if you have any questions, or feel free to comment on any time management strategies that you have, in comments. :-)

I'm a Total Nag

It's true. I'm a total nag.

I think a big part of the problem was that I used to be pretty lazy. Through high school, especially, I was only semi-engaged with the idea of hard work. A big part of the problem was that I wasn't smart enough yet to understand how very little I know, and I could do well in things like school and after-school jobs with only a modicum of effort.

Then I went to college, and after a party-hearty first semester, I knuckled down. I definitely worked a lot harder than I did in high school, partly because I was beginning to realize that no matter how much I learned in class, there was so much more I didn't know. That said, I still wasn't winning any awards. Maybe I didn't "own" my life as much I should have, at that point, as I was still part of an educational system in which I knew I would, to a certain extent, be taken care of if I did what I was supposed to.

Everything changed, however, when I started grad school. Suddenly, either I got something done when I was supposed to, or I didn't. No one was there to remind me, or nag me, or help me schedule stuff. There were no helpful syllabi on which I could see what I must do, when. I just had to research a bunch of stuff, and then I had to write it, and occasionally pass stuff in.

All of a sudden, I was entirely responsible for my own success. And that changed me.

I became my mother.


My mom is an absolute power house of a woman who does approximately 1,000 things before dawn. The rest of the day is spent doing the real work. Seriously, she's amazing and slightly terrifying.


And I'm both proud and afraid that I've become her.


Now that I'm doing two things I love (writing and teaching), I have to be very productive in order to be, well, productive. Basically, I work all the time. It ain't pretty, but it's true. As a lifestyle choice, it works for me right now, and I'm not asking for an intervention. Where I go wrong, however, is not realizing that other people don't have to work as hard as I do, and very few actually want or need to.

Cuz that's when I start nagging. I know exactly what people in my life can do to become NUMBER ONE, so why aren't they doing it? I can't understand this, so I go ahead and fill them in on where they're going wrong. Eventually, I realize they want to punch me in the eye.

I'm shocked, every time.

So one of the things I'm working on is not giving advice unless it's asked for, and then dropping it once it's given rather than chasing up to see if they did what I told them to. I'm not not telling people what my MUCH BETTER PLAN THAN THEIRS is, and I'm no longer saying to people, "Why the fuck don't you just do it, already, and stop saying you'll do it?"

Because even if I am right, and I do have the answers, nobody wants to hear them. And I certainly don't want to be that person. Even if that person is RIGHT, GODDAMIT.

She's also annoying. That nag that is me.

Writing and Peace

On the one hand, I think writing can often help us find peace. On the other hand, I think peace can be too much of a good thing.

It's true that being a writer can help us get perspective on our own lives. Don't get me wrong: I'm just as apt to get caught up in my own little psychodramas as the next person. But, I think that understanding how narrative functions means that I can, usually, eventually, claw my way to some sort of understanding that whatever I'm going through can be narrated in different ways. Therefore, I can come with a more functional, healthy narration. We all do that already, when we say things like, "It wasn't meant to be," or "I can do better." Writers just have bigger, fleshier versions of these self-narrated outcomes to help us cope.

But as any of you who follow super dramatic writers on Twitter probably know already, we don't often use our powers for good. Because, on the other hand, too much peace in writer's life is never a good thing.

The fact is that many of us, though not all, mine our personal lives for nuggets of narrative gold. And that means that we're oftentimes looking for a reach new source of dramatic ore. Indeed, the scenes I'm most happy with in my writing are usually scenes that pick up an emotional frisson from my own experience. It'll be completely distorted in terms of actual events, but I've injected a totally fabricated scene with a grain of emotional essence that, at least to me, is real. And I think this injection of experiential truth helps makes such scenes real to my readers.

Meanwhile, this process becomes, in itself, a weirdly curative act. First of all, when I experience something negative (or positive, for that matter) I'm able to get some good distance by inevitably thinking, "Wow, this will be great to write." And then comes the second part of the equation, the writing, in which I'm usually able to exorcise, or at least spank about a bit, some of my demons. Even better is when I can indulge in a good memory, or a good experience, and get to the center of why it made me happy, or a better person.

Peace, I've discovered, has never been something I've particularly admired or for which I've strived. Instead, I've always taken a Faustian view of things--that there's something to be said for wanting, and working, and dreaming, and fidgeting. It means we make mistakes, but at least we're alive.

Our struggles, then, give us something to write about and for others to read. Our demons are our friends, and peace something to be kept at arm's length, for fear it might dull our perceptions.

The Leftovers: Or Dating in my Thirties

I’m thirty-three, and I am single. That’s by choice, as I’m both very independent and very peripatetic. But about a year ago, now, I decided that I should try to put down roots, mostly because I love my job here in Pennsylvania and I wanted to try to make the state home. For while the job is a great fit, the place…not so much.

Anyway, that led me to embark on Internet dating. Which, a bare six months later, led me to declare a moratorium on dating, period.

This is not a slam on Internet matchmaking. I know tons of people who’ve met their SO over the computer, and I’ve had a long term, long distance, "not-a-relationship!" with someone who, for all intents and purposes, I met on Twitter.

Instead, this is about dating in my thirties, and how all us thirtysomething singles have left are the leftovers. Granted, I think dating in my thirties would be very different if I lived somewhere else—somewhere more ambitious, more productive, and more economically healthy, like New York or London. But here’s what I discovered make up the leftovers—what’s left when someone’s still single in their thirties:

·      The Walking Wounded: Those men and women recovering from a divorce or separation so brutal, they’re basically an ambulatory sucking wound. Don’t get me wrong, I actually enjoyed these dates, as I am a writer. So under the auspices of being “a good listener” I probed for all the gory details, carefully filing them away for future use in my fiction. 

·      The Great Unreconstructed: This is the man (although I’m sure there’s a female equivalent) who adheres to a patriarchal view of the world that places him at the apex because he is THE MAN. Therefore, he’s certain he’s more successful than you, the woman. When he discovers he’s not, it’s like watching one of those bizarre New Guinean birds do a territorial display—all puffed chest and flaring comb(over).

·      The Disaster: Just what it says on the package. He’s got awesome excuses for why he lives in his sister’s attic and has never achieved a single one of his ambitions, excuses which you totally want to believe, because at least he’s fairly liberal. Then you realize he doesn’t judge because he can’t, as he’s really a total loser.

·      The Chameleon: That guy who tells you everything you want to hear. At first you wonder if it’s a Machiavellian plot to get in your pants, and you giggle to yourself because you’re actually rather easy. But at some point you realize that the poor sod actually has no idea who he is, and that he wants to be everything, anything, other than himself.

·      The Marquis: He’s the guy who advertises himself as a warehouse of fetishistic carnal delights. Inevitably, he’s also 5’4”, with a potbelly, no hair, and coke bottle glasses. Or nine feet tall, 150 pounds sopping wet, with a ponytail trailing down his back like an anemic polecat. Either way, you’d be too busy giggling at the sight of him in a leather harness to choke out the word “Daddy.”

·      That Guy Who Poses In Photos With a Python For No Apparent Reason: I still haven’t figured out that guy. Lemme know if you have any thoughts.

Meanwhile, the last thing Internet dating taught me was that I, Nicole Peeler, am myself a leftover. I might look good as a bullet pointed list, especially in terms of career success, etc. But in truth, I’m so successful because I am utterly, unapologetically selfish; I take the concept of “independence” to an obsessive, slightly paranoid level; and I ALREADY HAVE MY OWN LIFE, THANKS. So, anyone knocking at my door, trying to move in with their schedule and their (ugly) furniture and their (terrible) thoughts on home décor and their (stupid) ideas about where and how to live and their (crazy) idea I can’t travel whenever I damned well please and their (selfish) demands I give up my lover and their delusion they can cook sometimes and their propensity for moving my pots and their inability to put the shit back in the cupboard where it belongs and their leaving their shoes in the hallway where I trip over them and their………. Well, they can go fuck themselves.

I, my friends, am a leftover. Make some casserole out of that. ;-)

Presence

Coming in late to this discussion, everyone's said most of what I'd say about presents, meaning stuff. I'm one of those obnoxious people who has pretty much everything she wants, in terms of stuff. Plus, if I do want something, I usually just go out and buy it. Meanwhile, most of the people I know also already have what they want. So gift-giving, especially in todays time of regifting, wish-lists, and the state of our landfills, seems to me such a silly thing. But what about presence, rather than presents? I've been thinking a lot of presence, lately, and how little I seem to have of it. And yet, I live in this technological utopia, where everyday more and more gadgets are invented that better allow us to communicate. My new phone gives me Face Time, on top of Skype, on top of messages and calling and email and Facebook and Twitter... And yet I spend so little time really talking to the people I love. Don't get me wrong, I'm in constant contact. "Love the profile pic!" "Movie at 8. See you there." "Hey, skype next week?" Et cetera, et cetera. And yet I think partly because of the plethora of ways to communicate, I now almost resent genuine communication. I spend so much time adding to or answering the inundation of tiny, practically pointless messages that I actively avoid lengthy phone calls, or long emails, because I've simply run out of time in the day and have other things to do. In fact, I've been feeling really lonely recently, but I realized that I've barely talked to any of my amazing, really good friends. I've been in touch, yes, but that's it. No real discussions, no real sharing of feelings or the sort of grooming that relationships need, to stay strong. If I'm honest, and my relationships were primates, I'd be the monkey that perfunctorily pats and runs, when what I really should be doing is to sit down for a nice long spell and eat up all the lice on a friend's body. I need such acts, personally, and my relationships need it, too. But what about Nanowrimo! And grading! It's the end of the semester, fercrissakes! I don't have time to pick nits! So I complain of being lonely, even as I send out a hundred hastily worded messages, or tweets, or Facebook comments..... I'm thinking that instead of worrying about presents, this holiday season, I need to think about upping my presence. Not only do I know it's not made by children in a Chinese sweatshop, but it's something I really want, that only I can give. I hope my friends and loved ones will be feeling just as generous.

Hell Is Other People (we create)

So, I'm in revisions hell. As I said on my own blog, a revisions hell is a hell of your own making--literally. And, for once, in the correct sense of that term.

I am trapped by own characters, who force me to endlessly (or so it feels) change the minutiae of their lives just because books are supposed to make SENSE.*

The swines.

All of this left me thinking, how do I best encapsulate the hell which is Revisions Hell, without doing all that much work as I am, indeed, in Revisions Hell? And that's when I remembered Jib Jab--God's gift to those of us who have revisions to do.

So here is "my" interpretation of Revisions Hell. I put "my" in quotations, as it's mostly created by Jib Jab, who used Shelley's Frankenstein, anyway.

And Frankenstein is perfect, of course, as a metaphor for the artist's relationship to his or her creation. Not least because that book IS a metaphor for the artist's relationship to his or her creation. I know that, because I taught those words to second year students at the University of Edinburgh for at least three years.

Trust me, folks. I'm a doctor!

And here is "my" version of a metaphor for something or other. Ahhhhh, postmodernity. How I love thee.




*In reality I'm mostly smoothing out the love story arc, which means writing nookie. So yeah, a lot of this complaining is just for show.

Miming Memes. Or Meming Mimes?

So, when I first read this topic on a our Pens Google alert, I thought:

"What the fuck am I going to say about MIMES?"

Then I reread it again, and I remembered my Selfish Gene, and then I did some research on current memes.

I got a bunch of hits that made sense: The dancing baby, the dancing hamster, LOL CATZ, the Bedroom Intruder, etc.

Only as I read every single one of them, I imagined them with mimes. Miming memes? Or meming mimes?

I've not recovered since. ;-)

What would you like to see a mime meming?

What's Luck Got To Do With It?

Sometimes I say how lucky I've been in life, and people get mad at me. They misinterpret my acknowledging the circumstances in which I grew up as my being self-effacing or humble. They think I'm saying that I am lucky to be successful, or that I think I don't deserve my success. But that's not what I'm saying.

Instead, I'm commenting less about my life now, and more about how I grew up. The fact is, I'm incredibly lucky. My parents are the most supportive, encouraging, and understanding parents possible. They were coaches and guides when I was a child, and now they're friends and advocates. They made huge sacrifices to give me an amazing education and they still support decisions that take me far from my family or are otherwise rather random or controversial.

I think knowing how lucky I am to have had this kind of childhood makes me really leery when people use cultural mythologies such as the American Dream, or that all men are created equal, to blast ideas of charity, or the idea that society needs to support its least well off. I'd love to think that those myths are true, and that we can all pull ourselves up by the bootstraps if we really want to. It'd be wonderful if opportunities come to everyone no matter what their circumstances, should they just take advantage of it.

It would also make sense if I believed these things, considering my own parent's lives. They both were middle children in working class families who "made it." They are tremendous success stories, unprecedented in their families.

And yet, I know my parents were incredibly smart, strong people who struggled with the might of lions to get where they are now. My dad would also argue they lived in a different America, one that took better care of its citizens. Furthermore, my mom's choice to teach special needs children her whole life has made me realize how blessed I am, and that there are so many different kinds of inequality in our world.

My mom's schools have a variety of different students who need to be educated outside the public system for a variety of reasons. Some are severely autistic, or brain injured, or otherwise mentally or physically impaired. Some come to her schools because they're victims of the most extreme abuse--physical, mental, or sexual. Some come simply because they've been ignored all their lives and have no idea how to act in society. They're basically a modern form of feral child, raised by technology rather than wolves.

Over the course of my life, I've spent a lot of time thinking about those kids, and who is going to take care of them. Some of the children are lucky enough to have marvelous, engaged parents who'd do anything for them--but who are also mortal. The victims of abuse are part of a system that has no money to support them. And these kids have already had everything I took for granted--all that love with which I grew up--perverted. And then there are the kids who, as they may say in a hip hop song, don't know how to act. But that's because no one has ever taught them.

So we have some kids who simply can't be self-sufficient and our system has to think through how we're going to accommodate them when their parents can't do it. But what about the kids who are damaged in so many other ways that aren't as apparent, or visible, or diagnosable as, say, autism? Can a person pull themselves up by the bootstraps, when they've never even been given a pair of boots?

I think about all the opportunities I've had that stem from my confidence, which was a product of all that love I felt as a child. I think of the doors that have opened because my parents taught me how to talk to adults and how to be productive, socially. I think about all the things I've been able to take advantage of because I never doubted my own abilities, and because I know that if I fail I'll still have people who love me.

And then I think about what it would be like not to have any of these intangible benefits. I don't have a special glow, because I was loved, nor do I have a special pass to a special club. And yet that's what it sometimes feels like, when I think about it--like everything I grew up with made all the hurdles a bit shorter or shaved a few miles off all the marathons.

I'm not saying that everyone who didn't have it perfect in life should have a free pass. I'm just saying that before we assume everyone's equal, and that we all had the same chances, we really examine our own lives. Oftentimes we'll find more legs-up than we thought.

Because I don't like living in a country where there is so much suffering. I certainly don't like living in one in which poverty sits side-by-side with the most grotesque wealth. And I think it is our responsibility to watch out for one another, especially for those people who've never gotten a break.

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.