Happy Paperback Birthday to Romance Is My Day Job!

IMG_2513So that storm. Yeah. No way could I traverse ankle-high snowbanks on my block, not even in my fiercest worm-stompers. That’s my lame attempt at sarcasm. Can I confess that I was kind of excited for a big, massive pile of snow and totally inconvenient delays and shut-downs? I’m from Upstate New York. It’s in my DNA to crave snow as high as a house. I shouldn’t be disappointed. All I have to do is think of what a nightmare Tropical Storm Sandy was–and how poorly I dealt with losing my first world comforts* for five days.

I digress!

Speaking of first world comforts, on my book birthday, I’m afraid I didn’t go to B&N because in dutiful editor fashion, I was glued to an overdue manuscript (and it was cold out). Friday is the day I will stalk myself on bookshelves** and celebrate this achievement once again. To tide me over until Friday, my Q&A with Biographile is live!

By the end of the day, I started watching Friday Night Lights, which has rendered me worthless for the rest of the night. Coach Taylor is a role model. His pep talks inspire me to begin anew, every 43 minutes. I will kick some butt. I won’t ever quit. Not on this field. And I can kick a field goal 46 yards (totally can).

*Easy Internets, ice cream, trustworthy sandwiches, light in bathroom, candy as evil sin and not only food that is fresh.

**Narcissism is okay if you can back it up!

Romance Is My Day Job Arrives with Juno

IMG_2508My author copies of Romance Is My Day Job arrived today and I got that giddiness every writer has when seeing tangible proof of her story. I’m very lucky I got to experience this five times with the same book: hard copy, audio, Polish version, Thorndike large print, and now paperback! That’s a lot of giddiness for 309 pages. Is there a better boost during what will be–potentially–one of the worst blizzards in New York history?

I added to the joy–ignoring my no dairy, no sugar, no gluten–with some Ben & Jerry’s (salted caramel core) and pecan sandies. If you crush the cookie on the ice cream, you have a perfect dessert, except for the lack of whipped cream. Then I remembered my secret Reese’s Peanut Butter stash. Am I prepared for this storm or what?

Tomorrow, as the storm is underway, the paperback should be on shelves. I’m hoping to trek over to a bookstore to find it.

Monday’s Pet Peeves (Which Never Include Julia)

article-1095106-007B725B00000258-365_468x287With the horrific events of the last week (my heart is with you, France), I had a difficult time coming up with a blog post. How can I think of romance when atrocities keep happening? Finally, I shut off the television and refocused my synapses. I have some new pet peeves that have irked me in recent months.

The heroine can’t stop crying: I used to believe that if I wept, I’d be even more of a romantic heroine, especially if in front of a boy! Sadly, the weepies creeped out my swains. As a reader, I enjoy a well-placed cry-fest, but those stories where the heroine keeps gushing and gushing over past travails, well, I wanna tell her to get some Kleenex and good meds. Is that heartless? Maybe, but I like it when a heroine can keep her marbles together. That said, it takes very little for me to ugly cry (I’m looking at you, end of Notting Hill).

Writing too young: I’m guilty of this in real life–trying to be 20 instead of 46 (thank you for pointing this out, nieces). In romance, sometimes you can tell when the twenty-five-year-old heroine is actually fifty. Slang from the 80s might slip out along with well-placed millennial idioms. Or her joints bother her when it rains. Or the sexy scenes seem inauthentic and derivative of recent blockbuster books. Just an issue to watch as you’re writing.

Ignoring editorial suggestions: I’m not fond of times when after I spend days of reading and marking down revision notes, a writer will just refute every one of my points. The pregnant heroine doesn’t realize she’s pregnant until two minutes before she gives birth and never sees a doctor before or after, just because. Or the heroine faints a lot and that’s just what happens. Or the hero has no reason to be mean and never changes–but that’s just how he is and the reader will understand. Yish. I vacillate between letting the writer shoot herself in the foot and remembering my integrity. I try to land somewhere in the middle leaning toward the latter.

And now with these peeves in mind, let’s get back to writing strong stories! Happy Monday to you.

Happy New Year, Romanceaholics!

Happ1557522_808571112514501_3106188295153656640_ny New Year to you!

My dream New Year’s Eve used to be the whole Times Square cluster-something celebration with confetti, happy people, and that midnight make-out session. Then I moved to New York and grew warier of crowds and drunk people. Over the years, with many different experiences in those last ten seconds of the year, my ideal December 31 is just watching Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper (since Dick Clark is truly gone) and letting revelers revel on the streets.

The thing is…I don’t usually wind up doing this. Last night, lovely friends invited us out to a club. Our pre-work involved a new dress with sequins for me and a tuxedo for my guy. The place was near Times Square, which this year had a friendlier vibe–though maybe it’s because we avoided the 1,2,3 subway lines and didn’t actually touch Times Square. We danced (only to “Blurred Lines” since you have to dance to this, even in really high heels), ate, conversed and wandered around. I learned from two younger ladies in our group that my watching The O.C. is not cool, so I won’t watch the last season. We disagreed on whether Kanye and Kim will last. My husband had taught himself to tie a bowtie, but then his buttons were inverted the entire night.

I was happy to be where I was since I was with my squeeze at midnight. Then, we scurried home, dodging people before diving into a subdued F train.

And now, onto the resolutions. Right?