I'm A Lover, Not A Fighter

I am not a complainer. Like my guru Tim Gunn is always saying, "I make it work."

I am a quiet book nerd who could go an entire day without speaking to anyone other than my husband or my cats and feel just fine. I don't like to rock the boat. I don't want to draw attention to myself, or be the life of the party.

So you can imagine what it took to make me use the following phrases in public last Thursday night.

Phrase Number One: "This is some bullshit."
Phrase Number Two: "This sucks ass."

I used them in rapid-fire succession while we were checking into the over-priced and under-decorated Delano Hotel in Las Vegas. We had planned three nights at Mandalay Bay, but when my husband got an email that we could upgrade to the snazzier-than-thou Delano for a very minimal fee, he took the opportunity.

On arrival, we were greeted by a lone valet. He was unable to find a bellman, any bellman to help us with our bags. There were however around twenty people dressed all in black (security) huddled around the front door. No one opened the door to help me as I struggled with my bags. Inside I found a rave going on. And I couldn't find the check-in desk. I was directed to go back outside. My husband and I spent the next fifteen minutes in the company of a UK businessman wandering around the parking garage looking for the hotel entrance. We finally found our way to the secret check-in desk location. 

When I asked to see a manager, I was directed to a gum-snapping, grooving to the music young woman two computers over. She was obviously not the manager. When my husband asked to see the manager, he was directed to a man who said he would "comp us something." We were never compensated in any way.

We went to the room. It was small and decorated in a cold, minimalist way that only a Cold War Russian could appreciate. We went back down stairs to get a drink and were told we couldn't get one without a wristband. Where do we get a wristband? 

"Dunno."

Back to the front desk. Here's your wristband. And here's a whole lotta attitude to go with it. This is where the two above phrases come in. Insert here.

We left the next morning before checkout time and escaped to the comforts of the gorgeous Mandalay Bay hotel where we were treated like royalty. I took names of the staff who were kind. I plan on writing a note.

We were badly treated. I tweeted about it. No response. 

I've been searching the internet for a place to send my comments about the crappy hotel and the crappy treatment we received as well as the nice hotel and the nice treatment we received. Funnily enough, there are no email addresses listed online for either hotel.

So if you know how I can get in touch with the manager of the Delano Hotel in Las Vegas, please let me know. In the mean time, I'm telling my tale online.

An Unmarketable Skill

My memories of growing up on the shores of Lake Michigan include long summer days in and around the water. I had a summer friend – someone I only saw during a few weeks of overlapping vacation every year – she and I were matched by our grandmothers and spent every sunny day we could on the beach. Our activities were the same from the time we met when we were in fourth grade until we graduated from college.

The days were long in northern Michigan. The sun didn't set until well after 10pm. I remember having freckles across my nose like brown sugar and scabs on my knees like strawberries. Other than sunning ourselves and bobbing around in the water, our favorite occupation was hunting for Petoskey stones. These speckled stones are actually fossils made from coral in a sea that covered North America when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I can't remember a time when I went to the beach and didn't look for Petoskey stones. It is like second nature to be look down for speckled gray rocks while walking in the waves. It's an instinct that I don't remember anyone ever teaching me – I just knew when I had one in my sight.

We got to be so good at collecting rocks that at one point we opened up a rock business outside the post office. We were eight years old. I think we sold ten for a dollar. We made a killing selling stones to all of our grandparents' friends. And throughout our twenties when we were struggling to find our way in the world we often comforted each other with the thought that we could go back into business again.

It has been twenty years since I hunted for Petoskey stones on the shores of Lake Michigan. I returned with my new family last week. The water in the lake was as cold as I remembered, but within minutes it was the perfect temperature as it washed over my sandy feet.

I was able to find Petoskey stones quickly and easily. I was surprised to find out that it wasn't as easy for non-native Michiganders. There were so many pretenders mixed in amongst the stones in the waves. I was thrilled to discover I had a special skill. I can identify a Petoskey rock at three paces. Huzzah! We all went home with non-Petosky treasures. I've a couple of blue stones on my desk, as well as a white one with what I think is the pattern of a dancing horse on it.

It was a blissful day. The sun was high above in a blue sky. The seagulls cried and the waves gently tossed small stones and sand in their wake. I could smell whitefish being smoked in the harbor and I knew as the sun got lower in the sky I would soon be around a table of my beloved family members. 

Everything was the same as when I was young, but I took it all for granted then.  Now that I'm not there every day, I know what a treasure hunting for Petoskey stones truly is. It it is my little piece of heaven here on earth. If only my Petoskey hunting skills were something that I could put on my resume.

Maybe it's finally time to open the rock shop. 

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

It's the end of summer and the news has been so dark recently. It's been hard to turn on the television. I am the kind of person who wakes up most days and looks forward to what the day might bring, but I have been feeling a little defeated.

And so it seems like the perfect time to make a list of all that's right in the world, all the things I love in the world, and all the little things that make my day bright.

1. Waking up next to the Handsomest Man Alive
2. Laughing together over the absolute nastiest joke I've ever heard. (No I won't repeat it. )
3. Hearing Joey chirping at the birds on the backyard feeder.
4. My big brown leather writing chair.
5. Watching Joey, Gracie, and Roxy sleep.
6. Sending texts to and from Sara.
7. Getting phone calls from my relatives to plan upcoming get togethers.
8. Knowing that candy corn season is right around the corner.
9. & chocolate chip cookies. Anytime. Any place. Anywhere.
10. Having a home-grown Caprese Salad for dinner.
11. Re-reading classic romance novels from my youth.
12. Looking forward to spending a week in my favorite place on earth.
13. Boxy, grey T-shirts. (A girl can never have too many.)
14. My lighted make-up mirror (Yes, I show some wear. But it could be worse. Way worse.)
15. Knowing my mom has a full and active social life.
16. Putzing around in the kitchen with a new recipe.
17. Hearing the kids outside playing after school.
18. Rocking out in my car to Pink.  Blow me (one last kiss)...
19. FB pics of my sorority sister's children at the same age when I met their parents.
20. Blue skies.

I challenge you to make a list as well of 20 things that make you thankful. It will make your life ever so much sweeter.

Get Me Off This Rollercoaster!

When I'm reading a romance novel, the dark night of the soul is one of my favorite parts of the story. I want it to get really bleak. I want the hero to be chained to the walls in the bowels of a blackened dungeon. I want the heroine to be trapped in the tallest tower with no way out. I want all hope to be lost. I want all these things knowing that I can count on a happily ever after ending.

Yet in my real life when I'm writing a romance, I try to avoid dark night of the soul moments at all costs. I don't want to buy a ticket to ride that rollercoaster. I plot and plan to put my own characters on that rollercoaster every time I begin a new story, and please keep your hands inside the ride at all times, but I want my reality to be rollercoaster-free. I want my life to be a gentle boat ride like "It's A Small World" at Disneyland, only without the annoying earworm of a song.

While I'm on the gentle boat ride portion of  my life, my writing is smooth sailing. In fact it's a little like a sunset cocktail cruise. Only there's no sunset and no cocktails --unless it's after five o'clock somewhere. I can crank out words like a machine. But let's face it, the gentle boat ride is the shortest ride at the amusement park of life.

No matter how hard I try to avoid it, I end up buying a ticket and getting on life's rollercoaster. It's inevitable. Sure, it's all fun and games and Instagram selfies going up the hill, but the minute I'm going down at a fast rate of speed, my writing goes into complete upheaval. My word count slows down to a halt.  At the first sign of strife, or a change in my schedule causes me to have a hard time even sitting down in the same room as my computer.

For the last few weeks, I have been screaming on the downhill slope of life's rollercoaster. It wasn't one big catastrophe that put me on this ride, it was a series of little events that didn't seem to matter much until suddenly I'm on the rollercoaster dropping sixteen stories at what feels like the speed of light. My stomach drops out and I'm scared to death because I know I can't count on a happily ever after ending in real life.

I was dropping fast on the downhill slope when I realized that just as I could slip into a story someone else had written when my reality was too much to bear, I could also slip away into a story of my own. Why not? Either way, I was using my imagination to comfort and protect me.

My word count increased overnight. Instead of avoiding my computer, I was looking to it for comfort. Yes, at first I had a hard time maintaining my concentration for a long period of time.  And it took me more time to leave the upset of my reality behind and be able to slip into my story. Eventually I managed to get into it and write.  

I'm determined to get back on the cocktail cruise, no matter what ride I'm on.

Woot woo!

Am so thrilled about this!

#My Writing Process

The lovely and talented Morgan Richter tagged me on The Writing Process Blog Tour! We met when we were both working as temps on the Paramount lot in Hollywood. We were practically neighbors, living across Olympic Blvd. from one another. We were frequent guests at each other parties until Morgan moved to New York City and I moved to the burbs. I love her blog, you should make it one of your bookmarks.

Now on to the questions at hand:

1) What am I working on?

My focus this week is on a New Adult Paranormal novel I've been working on for a year. After having written it once, twice, three times a lady… with way-more-than-I-care-to-admit different edited versions, I decided to rewrite the entire thing this past spring. Now, I am editing and polishing the new manuscript!

For a hint as to what it is about--the story stemmed from a couple of questions about standard fairytales and Happily Ever After endings: Why doesn't the Fairy Godmother save Prince Charming for herself? Are there any rules for being a Fairy Godmother? What if, just once, the Fairy Godmother fell in love with Prince Charming? What would happen?

2) How does my work differ from others in its genre?

My work is really just a New Adult novel. It's the paranormal bits that make it different from other manuscripts in the genre. My main character would object strongly to being the main character in a Paranormal novel. She has deluded herself into thinking she's just an average twenty-five year-old SoCal chick with a slow metabolism, terrible eyesight, and a tendency to splurge on designer handbags.  But she's not. She's a fairy by birth and a fairy godmother by trade.

3) Why do I write what I write?

I write because I am a fan of storytelling and the allure of getting to use my own imagination to create a story that other people might enjoy is just too powerful for me to ignore.

4) How does my writing process work?

It involves a lot of staring at walls and my husband yelling at me over and over that I'm not listening to him. And I'm not, but I don't like to be accused of it. Makes me seem insensitive. 

It's just that the little voices in my head are louder.

Each manuscript is different but here is how I've been most successful recently:

1. Feed cats, make tea. (In that order lest I be killed.)

2. Put on writing clothes (torn, unattractive, loose fitting) from the bag that I was too embarrassed to give to Goodwill.

3. Put my butt in the big leather chair.

4. Here's the tricky part – avoid all social media and emails.

5. Write at least 2,500 words or else you can't leave the chair.

6. Only after daily goal is met, answer emails and use social media.

7. Use leftover creative energy to edit other projects.

8. Rewrite WIP.

9. Edit WIP.

10. Feel triumphant.

11. Feel worthless.

12. Feel completely spent.

12. Repeat 1-12 above when the sun rises again.

Now, I am passing the pen to the fabulous Miss Maria Powers, a dear friend and writer from the Los Angeles Romance Authors writing group! I look forward to reading about her writing process!

Under Drone Attack

We moved. 

Just like that. Two weeks ago we were happily tucked into our little condo on the edges of a park where we fed the birds and our cats chirped happily at them out the window. Then we found a place to live. Called the movers. Stuffed the cats in carriers and drove a half mile down the street to a new house.

At first my biggest problem was what to put where. Then it became where are the cats. They had all new hiding places and had become even more diligent about hiding due to the fact that they were mad that we had moved at all. Cats are territorial. They don't like change. They're even worse than me.

I've spent all the time in the new house running around making sure the house was secure. That the cats couldn't get out and no one that I didn't know couldn't get in. In between, I've been unpacking boxes and packing boxes. It seems like a never ending story.

Lasst night after our fifth trip to Lowe's in as many days, we were bringing a load of miscellaneous stuff to the new house from the old house when we were called over for introductions and merrymaking with the new neighbors.

It was a jolly good time. New people are interesting. They have all new points of view. The nice old lady who lives across the street from us is of the opposite political persuasion from The HMA and I, and not knowing any better she attempted to persuade him to see the world from her point of view. This was not going to happen.

As I was standing there in the middle of the street wondering how he was going to sweet talk his way out of this dilemma, a man (with what my imagination believes was a heavy Russian accent) appeared and started pointing into the sky above our house and yelling, "What is that? There in the sky?"

We all looked up at the roof above the house that we had just moved all of our most prized possessions into -- and there it was. A lighted object hovering above our back yard. It darted side to side and up and down. If I didn't know better, I would say that ET had landed in my backyard and was going to be hiding out in my closet with the cats. It reappeared twice. My husband identified it as a drone. And while I had heard that Amazon was going to start same-day deliveries via drones and someone else was thinking of using it to deliver pizzas -- I honestly never believed that a drone would be flying over my backyard.

And yet, it happened. We have a microwave that cooks frozen food in less than three minutes. We have wireless phones. We have a trash can that opens with a wave a of a hand. I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

So when you get our change of address card next week, don't be surprised that we signed it "with love from The Jetsons." That is if we're still here. If we haven't been kidnapped by aliens...Or Jeff Bezos.