Six Sentence Sunday #2

Six sentences from my evil conjoined erotica-writing twin Cara McKenna's latest sale, Curio, a.k.a. the Parisien man-whore story (out in early autumn):

Didier Pedra is the name of a male prostitute who lives at sixteen Rue des Toits Rouges, in Paris.

It’s a relatively quiet street amid the greater bustle of the Latin Quarter, his flat in the top floor of a long tenement, two blocks from the river. I never expected to find myself standing on the front stoop of a prostitute’s building in the rain, on what should have been another unremarkable Thursday evening in March.

Then again, I never expected to be five weeks from my thirtieth birthday with my hymen still intact.

As I stood on Didier Pedra’s front stoop—precisely six minutes early for my appointment and unwilling to go in, lest I appear too eager—I knew only a few things about him; that he’s in his early to mid-thirties, that he’s always lived in Paris, and that he has a reputation for being supremely good in bed.

As if I have any basis for comparison.

Thanks for stopping by! Head here to check out all the other Six Sentence Sunday excerpts this week.

New Sale!

Hey all, just wanted to share some good news my evil conjoined erotica-writing twin received yesterday—the so-called Parisien man-whore story has sold! Ellora's Cave offered me my eleventh contract with them, and I accepted. The official title is to-be-determined. It's working title has been Sixteen Rue des Toits Rouges, and I wasn't too shocked when it got nixed; bit tough to remember / spell / pronounce. I've got a nice list of alternatives to send off to my benevolent editor today.

[Addendum: This just in, the book now has an official title—Curio.]

Big thanks go to Amy, Ruthie, and Liz for beta reading and French translation assistance. Merci beaucoup, mes amies.

Just from randomly tweeting about the story during the writing process, I've been pleased by how enthusiastic some people are about the themes, both the male prostitute factor and the pushing-thirty virgin heroine. Fingers crossed they'll enjoy the book when it eventually comes out (should be a quick turnaround, probably out in the early fall). I'll be sure to post a tiny excerpt from it for this weekend's Six Sentence Sunday.

If the chores of the day permit (or rather, my tackling thereof permits), I'll probably be tweeting with a champagne buzz late this afternoon, so look forward to that. Enjoy your Fridays!

Thrusty Thursday: Huang Xiaoming

It's weeks like this that remind me exactly how tough this job is… There are just way too many good photos of martial artist / actor Huang Xiaoming to choose from. Hardest Thrusty Thursday curation ever…or at least tied with Gandy. But here goes…

Awww, teh pandaz. I couldn't resist. But that's not all—there's more!

The Bits That Must Not Be Named

Warning: cuss words, straight ahead.

Sorry, Georgia, but "black iris" is 

too purple a euphemism for me.

Interrupting my own manuscript polishing to air a bit of word befuddlement. Since my evil conjoined twin writes erotica, I've gotten very used to having a couple of handy, if inelegant, words at my disposal when referring to the female nether regions—pussy and cunt. In romance, at least category romance, those are still a no-go. And yet the two most useful slang terms for the male goodies—cock and dick—are fine. Why the double-standard?

Is it because in romance, it's okay for the male anatomy to still be given names that sound blunt and crass, but the lady-area must be euphemized into gentle desirability, lest we offend our delicate readers' dewy orbs? Is it because male characters are allowed to be, well, blunt and crass, while heroines are still stuck toeing the propriety line? Another permutation of the Stud v. Slut gender debate?

Whenever possible, I name specific bits of the lady-situation, like lips or clit. Good words. They say exactly what they are. But for the region as a whole…? Her sex? Her center? Her entrance? Sometimes I really wish pussy were on the table. Vagina and vulva and labia are far too clinical (I rarely use penis, incidentally, for the same reason). Breast is such a lovely word…I feel our southern climes got shafted (as it were) in the taxonomy department.

Writers—what words do you use in romance, in lieu of pussy and cunt? Readers—what words work for you, and which are InstaSquick™? Would you be offended to stumble over pussy in a category romance? Does vagina get the job done, or does it bring to mind one of those female anatomy cross-section posters from the gyno's office for you, as it does for me?

Mah latest book, you can has!

I'll keep the self-pimpin' brief. Samhain released my latest romance today!

It's called Trespass, and it's about a woman on the run from the law after a crime of self-defense. She takes shelter in the home of a stranger, deep in the heart of Montana's ranch country, and much lust and betrayal ensues. It's been getting shelved under such awesome Goodreads categories as "hot-cowboy-lovin" and "cowboy-stud-fever", but I feel obligated to point out to any true cowboy fetishists, Russ is technically a large animal vet. Though he does own horses and the requisite hat. Here's the official blurb:

He opened his home. She stole his heart…and his money.

Many would envy veterinarian Russ Gray’s life in rural Montana’s wide-open spaces. Russ calls it lonely. In a country with more cattle than eligible females, he doesn’t envision his seven years as a widower ending anytime soon. Until a mysterious woman lands at his door in the dead of night, riddled with buckshot.

Sarah Novak hates lying to such a kind, handsome man, but if an upstanding citizen like Russ finds out why she’s been three weeks on the run, he’d surely turn her in. Yet she can’t refuse his offer to let her stay until she heals, no questions asked.

From the start they fall into an easy companionship, then teasing flirtation flares into an unexpected intimate connection. But no matter how right it feels in his arms, guilt tugs at Sarah’s heart. Russ doesn’t deserve what she must do next.

When Russ wakes up with an empty bed—and an empty wallet—his first instinct isn’t to call the cops…it’s to catch her and find out why his urge to protect her overshadows all reason. Because he’s had a taste of real passion, and he’s not letting it slip away without a fight.

If you want more details or an excerpt, check out Samhain's Trespass page, where you can order and save 30%. It's also available through the Nook and Kindle. You can read an early review here.

Six Sentence Sunday #1

Six sentences from my July 26 release from Samhain, Trespass.

She regretted what she’d done back in Buffalo, and until this morning she thought she’d never regret anything that badly for the rest of her life. But this, seeing the kindest man she’d ever met so clearly disappointed and untrusting… Right now she’d give anything to fix what she’d wrecked, or maybe to have never crossed paths with Russ Gray in the first place. He deserved her like he deserved a kick in the teeth, the way she deserved a second chance—not at all.

Sarah watched him clearing the dining room table as she settled into the blankets, and she saw the biggest regret of her life standing there by the window. She had another urge to run, run far and fast until her lungs burst, if only to stand a chance of forgetting what they’d had for two glorious nights, the thing she’d wrecked, just like she’d known she would.

Head here to check out all the other Six Sentence Sunday excerpts.

Change coming to Sundays…

Change is coming to the Super Lucky #1 Fun Blog's Sunday routine. In lieu of the Sunday Puzzle (which I've been dutifully stealing from NPR for an entire year) I've decided to give the Six Sentence Sunday scene a whirl.

If you haven't heard of Six Sentence Sunday, here's what the SFR Brigade had to say about it: "The idea of Six Sentence Sunday (SSS) began with Sara Brookes. She posted six sentences from a work-in-progress or published piece on her blog on the occasional Sunday to gain interest from readers. Another romance author friend thought it was a good idea and asked for details. When a couple more author friends showed interest, Sara decided to create a central location to post SSS links and make it easier for readers to find and also easy for those wanting to participate. The first SSS post was on February 28, 2010 with four participants and is continually increasing every week…"

It's up in the hundreds now! I've been curious about it for months, having seen the #sixsunday links flying by on Twitter every weekend, but thought it was the territory of an exclusive group of authors. Nope. I'll be participating for the first time tomorrow, right here, with six sentences from my July 26 romance release, Trespass. Hope you'll stop by!

Friday Night Fu Review: Ip Man 2

Ip Man 2 ★★★★ 

This is one of those rare cases when the sequel surpasses the original. I didn't actually do a formal review of Ip Man, but it was a good movie. Beautifully filmed and choreographed and starring the super talented Donnie Yen, and yet…it didn't light me on fire. Certainly not the way Ong-Bak did. In my opinion, it was lacking a certain amount of charisma and fun, though there's no doubt is was a solid Kung Fu film.

Ip Man 2 (葉問2:宗師傳奇, 2010) on the other hand, was really exciting. Both films are biographical, telling the story of Ip Man, founder and Grandmaster of the Wing Chun style of Kung Fu, and Bruce Lee's mentor (though Bruce doesn't turn up until the very end of the sequel, in an obnoxious bit of heavy-handed foreshadowing). The second film follows Ip Man's struggles to start his own Kung Fu school in 1950, in the wake of the Japanese invasion of Hong Kong depicted in the first installment. Ip Man is opposed by a bullish collective of established masters in the area, and must win their respect and acceptance if he's to realize his calling and provide for his vulnerable family.

Xiaoming, you are getting

so thrusted on next week…

Amid all this drama, colonial tension is also brewing. The British are causing unrest in Hong Kong with their blustering imperialism, and this manifests itself in the form of Mister Twister. Twister is an über-thug English boxer (played by Mancunian martial artist Darren Shahlavi) who scoffs at Kung Fu and its pint-sized practitioners. Of course this unites the city's schools, and Ip Man has the chance to prove himself a true and worthy master if he can rise to challenge the British brute and avenge the Chinese fighters who have been injured and even killed in the ring.

I thought this movie was really solid, and far more fun than its predecessor. It loses a star for the hyper-precocious Bruce Lee reveal (which could have been so much cooler if handled with a wink instead of a sledge hammer), and some unnecessarily over-the-top Crouching-Tiger-style stunts, which felt out of place in an otherwise passably realistic biopic. But it gets a solid four stars from me, especially since it's got Huang Xiaoming, who is a FOX!

Here's the kick-ass trailer:

Thrusty Thursday: Sam Worthington

Thrusty Thursday, woefully overdue and needing no explanation…
Behold, Sam Worthington!

Addendum: how thoughtless of me to not include an interview!

Another name rant!

I love a good name rant, so I eagerly clicked on a Twitter link to this Gigi's Closet post about real-life baby-naming WTFery. Of course it got my head spinning, so please permit me a fresh curmudgeoning on the topic of character monickers.

I've been reading the voicetastical Kristan Higgins' Too Good To Be True, and the name of its [rowwwrrrr] hero is Callahan O'Shea. For realz?! But although normally such a name would propel my arm to launch the book clear across the room, this time it didn't. This is solely because of the heroine's reaction to the name—she's as agog at its over-the-topness as I am, as the reader. It also works because the heroine has a troublesome habit of inventing boyfriends, and giving the hero a fake-boyfriendworthy name like Callahan O'Shea completely reinforces that theme.

Pulling off a wacky or cutesy or über manful character name is all in the believability. Higgins did this again in All I Ever Wanted, when she named her heroine Calliope, of all gaggably adorable things. But Higgins is good—the wackadoo name and its reference make sense when you meet the heroine's parents.

As I've said before, the first place I turn when I need to figure out my characters' names (which I do very early on—the name for me often comes before the personality, even) is this site, where you can view the top 1,000 [American] baby names by decade. I head to the decade my character was born and pick from the top 200.

I know, I know…it sounds so boring, so willfully, joylessly realistic. It's my book! I could make up any name I like! But that's not my scene. My characters, and my heroes in particular, tend to skew a bit, well, nuts. They're weird enough on their own. A special name would be overkill. Plus I get the specialness fix by writing foreign heroes on occasion—Maxence, Rasul, Rory, Didier, Ian, Reece. All fairly common names in their respective cultures, but I still get to indulge my inner writerly impulse to extra-specialify my characters. I've also done the same with surnames-as-nicknames. Flynn, Pike, Mac, Daisey, Ty… Atypical names work best (in my noisy opinion, anyhow) when they're made believable in the face of their oddness.

In my evil conjoined erotica-writing twin's latest manuscript, the heroine ended up with a weird name, which was not my intention. She's a pretty quiet, conservative character (despite the fact that the story centers around her deciding to lose her virginity to a Parisian male prostitute) and I'd expected to name her something like, I don't know…Anne, maybe. A safe, simple name for a cautious, no-frills character. But she ended up getting named Caroly. The name fell right off my fingertips without me really thinking about it, because sometimes names just present themselves. And in the end it worked, because the next words that plopped onto the page told me why:

“Good evening. You’re Carolyn?”

I managed to say, “I am.” My name is in fact Caroly, a misspelling on my grandmother’s prospective baby name list that my mother found exceedingly fetching; no sympathy for her daughter, doomed to be addressed as Carol or Carolyn for the rest of her days. And because of how Caroline is pronounced in France—Caroleen—nobody here ever gets my name right when I introduce myself. But that’s fair, considering how badly I mangle their entire language every time I open my mouth.

So I'm not immune to the weird-ass character name impulse, as harshly as I judge it. And from the Higgins examples above, I'll admit I'm not a true stone-cold bitch about it in others' work. But there's got to be an reason for a weird name. Fine, christen your thirty-year-old contemporary hero Greyson or Rayvyn or Chance McO'FitzFlannahan, but you better clue me in to what in the heck his parents were thinking. Or smoking.

To reiterate what I've said before—your characters are special enough on their own. Or in other words, tossing glitter on a perfectly delicious cupcake doesn't actually improve the thing.

Stuff that's awesome: Trailer Park Boys

Just wanted to put in a plug for Trailer Park Boys (2003–2008), the Canadian mockumentary-style comedy centered around the nefarious doings of the Sunnyvale Trailer Park's many residents. The show I think it compares most easily to is Reno 911…but TPB has more continuity and, dare I say it, depth. It's also got the most (and the most effective) running gags of any show I've ever seen, rivaled only perhaps by Arrested Development in quantity and quality. It's all about recurrence. Recurring tertiary characters, recurring jokes, recurring clothes, recurring jail sentences, recurring props (Julian's rum-and-coke, Ricky's car and oversize-hound's-tooth shirt, and Ray's piss jugs come immediately to mind for me). The show's many seasons and specials are all on Netflix Instant Watcher, so if you're a sad, deprived American (like me) do yourself a favor and get yourself hooked, now.

Quick warning—the video's full of swears.

More fun with Wordle…

The evil conjoined erotica-writing twin finished Sixteen Rue des Toits Rouges yesterday, better known on Twitter as the Parisien man-whore story. More word cloud fun via Wordle.net with the completed manuscript…

Sunday Puzzle

It's Sunday again, and you know what that means—time for me to rip off the puzzle segment from NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday!

Mustachioed enigmatologist

extraordinaire, Will Shortz

If you're a newcomer, each week on Weekend Edition Sunday, Will Shortz (the hardcore crossword puzzlers' almighty God) comes on the radio to do three things: share the solution to the previous week's puzzle, invite a winner who entered the correct answer to play another puzzle (usually word-related) on the air for word-nerdy prizes, and present everyone with the next week's puzzle (answers due in by Thursday afternoon via the WES website if you want a chance to play on the air).

Note: I never post the solutions on this blog…at least not before the submission deadline. I see lots of keyword traffic coming from people looking for the answers, which is at best impatient, and at worst, cheating. For shame.

Now without further ado, here's this week's new puzzle:

Think of an adjective that might describe a child before a summer vacation. Change the second letter to the next letter of the alphabet, and you'll name someone you might see in a hospital. Who is it?

Click here to see the original puzzle posting, check the answer to last week's challenge, listen to the segment, or find the link to enter your answer.

Le Jeudi Frotteurible: Romain Duris

Not only is it Thrusty Thursday, it's also Bastille Day! And since I'm starting to earn a reputation for exploiting France's considerable male fox population in this feature, I'd be remiss to not source yet another homme thrustable for you all this fine holiday. And so without further ado, actor Romain Duris!

Wordle, where have you been all my life?!

While we were chatting about first drafts on Twitter, my pal Ruthie Knox turned me on to Wordle.net, where you can paste text and create really beautiful, customizable word clouds (to show you what words you've used most). She dared me to plug in my evil conjoined erotica writing twin's current work-in-progress, Sixteen Rue des Toits Rouges, aka The Parisien Man-Whore Story. Here's what resulted. Damn, look how huge my like is! And of course, there's cock, practically dead-center (and not all that big, as Ruthie didn't hesitate to point out). Got a WIP of your own? Plug it in and leave your URL in the comments.

Sunday Puzzle

It's Sunday again, and you know what that means—time for me to rip off the puzzle segment from NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday!

Mustachioed enigmatologist

extraordinaire, Will Shortz

If you're a newcomer, each week on Weekend Edition Sunday, Will Shortz (the hardcore crossword puzzlers' almighty God) comes on the radio to do three things: share the solution to the previous week's puzzle, invite a winner who entered the correct answer to play another puzzle (usually word-related) on the air for word-nerdy prizes, and present everyone with the next week's puzzle (answers due in by Thursday afternoon via the WES website if you want a chance to play on the air).

Note: I never post the solutions on this blog…at least not before the submission deadline. I see lots of keyword traffic coming from people looking for the answers, which is at best impatient, and at worst, cheating. For shame.

Now without further ado, here's this week's new puzzle:

Name a classic television show in two words with eight letters. Remove one letter from each word. The remaining six letters, in order, will spell the last name of a well-known writer. Who is it?

Click here to see the original puzzle posting, check the answer to last week's challenge, listen to the segment, or find the link to enter your answer.

11 Things Top Model Taught Me About Writing

Laura and Ann, go on with your weird, charming selves.

This also works for Project Runway, Top Chef, and plenty of other creative contest-based reality shows. I'm talking about writer-as-contender. Whether you're after a contest final, a contract, an agent, or a good review, they way you pursue the coveted and finite prizes of this industry matters. Here's what shows like Top Model have taught me:

1. Everyone has an off week. Even the stand-out talent on any of those weekly whittle-down shows gets a lousy critique or two. As long as the judges know you've got potential and want to see more, one missed target isn't enough to sink you.

2. The judges want to be wowed. Most judges—and indeed editors, agents, contest entry readers, reviewers—don't get off on ripping people apart. A toxic few may, which is unfortunate, but the professionals don't, I promise you. They'd far rather be delighted than disappointed.

3. Be yourself. This comes up constantly on those creative shows—know who you are and play to your strengths. Don't try be someone else, even if you love their work, and don't just go through the motions of what you think a writer does. Don't just pose. A genuine weirdo is infinitely more charismatic than a soulless imitator.

4. Be a pro. Be humble, but not self-deprecating to a point where people cringe. Believe in your work, but not to a point where you're telling the judges they don't know what they're talking about. Always be gracious, sincere, and attentive, but unafraid to admit politely that you disagree.

5. Be emotional. You know all those boring, wooden, flat, cold girls who get sent home at the start of any Top Model cycle? Don't confuse strength and poise with bottling emotions. Self-control is good. Repression is not. Unless you want to deliver stiff, lifeless, forced work, don't be afraid to feel.

6. But don't be a psycho. Like a shaken soda, intense sensations like anger, jealousy, distrust, and betrayal need to be allowed to settle before they're uncapped. Nothing undermines professionalism quicker than a reactionary outburst, fight-picking, retaliation, or passive-aggressive gossip or sabotage.

7. Be a good housemate. Your fellow writers are many things; your peers, your friends, your colleagues, your competition, your connections, your future collaborators. Friendships are invaluable in this brutal business, but respect professionalism. If you're tempted to gossip or blow off some steam, never take it for granted that no one else is listening. Snark isn't the same as wit, and as good as it might feel in the moment, it doesn't flatter you. If you're tempted to vent online, ask yourself, "Would I put this in a public post?" It's the interwebs, people. The cameras are always rolling. Never forget—the reunion show's got clips.

8. Accept defeat gracefully. If you get voted off (a contest loss, a rejection, a shitty review) take it like a pro. If appropriate, thank the judges for their time and interest, and exit with a smile. Last impressions count, too, so leave a pleasant taste in their mouths. It's okay if you're faking it for the sake of dignity—grace doesn't have to feel good.

9. Triumph just as gracefully. If your fellow contestants are heartbroken, don't do a touchdown dance at the podium. Own and celebrate your happiness, but again—dignity.

10. Tabloids are a bitch. On the grand scale of a national reality show, no matter how popular a contestant is, for every ten fans, every ten flattering gossipy blog posts about them, there will be a certain percentage of cruel ones. The same goes for reviews. No one—no author or genre or book or voice or plot—can please everyone. Not even close. And not your job. And sad as it is, some people are naturally, toxically contrary, and will make it a point to hate things that others praise. They don't matter—dodge them like turds on a hot sidewalk. For the rest, know yourself and what you're feeling, and if you're going to click on an editor or agent's e-mail or a review link, do so when you know you're in a frame of mind to handle it, good news or bad.

11. The show ends, but the job doesn't. No triumphant high or sting of defeat lasts forever. Take heart if you struggled and came up short, because one set-back is just that—one set-back. You didn't final in the Golden Heart, but a year from now, who'll care? You still get to write, and isn't that what you love? What's that you say? You won the Golden Heart? Well, bask in that excitement and take your bows, savor but don't wallow, because the glow is joyous but fleeting. Careers grow or fizzle well after the show's finale airs. When the newness and attention of a triumph wanes, what you do, alone in front of your keyboard, is what really matters. So make damn sure you love it.

A Thrusty Thursday Mystery: The New Captain Morgan

My real-life pal, erstwhile design compatriot, alpha beta reader, and all around class-act lady-woman, Kramy, nominated this salty dreamboat. Sadly, between the two of us we spent at least a half hour on Google but couldn't figure out who in heck this guy really is. I plead with you, oh wise and merciful interwebs, who plays the new Captain Morgan? He's got Kramy's delicates all in a bunch.

ADDENDUM!!
July 22, we can has rumor! An anonymous commenter suggests the new Captain Morgan may be this guy, actor Josh Burrow. I can neither confirm nor deny, but get thee to teh Googlz! What do you think? Does we has latebreaking news?

PSA for Pale Gals

If you've met me, you know I'm about as pasty and cancer-prone as a person can get without actually crossing over into albinohood. I'm pale and peppered with the level of frecklage most people manage to ditch around age twelve, everyone but me and Minnie Driver. The underside of my forearms are blue. I've got light-colored eyes, which are meant to be a sign of low pigmentation, and if it weren't dyed, you'd be able to see that half my hair's already gone white, even though I'm thirty-two. I'm pale, yo.

Also if you'd ever met me, you'd know I'm a snot-bag about covert advertising. I hate being advertised to, especially sneakily. So it is with great hypocrisy and enthusiasm that I'd like to plug a couple products for my cave-fish-esque, pigmentally challenged brethren and sisterthresnthen.

First, Garnier Nutritioniste Moisture Rescue Lightweight UV Lotion. I used to be a devotee of Oil of Olay Complete, another facial moisturizer with SPF. I used it faithfully for at least ten years—I figured if I was doomed to burn and never tan, I'd take the hint and turn my curse into a preventative war against wrinkles—but finally had to admit that in the summer, Olay Complete is just too damn greasy. I'd tried a squirt of a similar Garnier product while visiting my mom last Christmas and was impressed by how lightweight it was, yet moisturizing even in the moisture-sucking New England winter. Well it does just as good a job at preventing sunburn, too.

Another oldie but goodie is Lubriderm's Daily Moisture Lotion with SPF 15. And actually, I use the CVS knock-off, which works just as well. I take long walks, and it's as effective for me as the same strength sunblock, without the greeeaziness that makes me long for a shower. Not as light and un-greazy as regular Lubriderm, but a very happy compromise. I went for a ninety-minute walk just now in the sizzling July sun, and I'm pinkness-free. It inspired me to write this post, so that's got to be worth something.

So give those a shot, my oily, pasty sisters. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Three Years (and one day)

Yeah, it would have been timelier if I'd remembered to write this post yesterday. But at any rate, I've been writing for three years, now!

The anniversary of the first time I opened up a blank doc and started typing, wondering if maybe I could write a whole book, is easy to remember. The fourth of July. I did indeed finish that book I started at my parents' house while home for the holiday weekend in 2008. I haven't sold it yet, and am starting to believe I may never sell it and may not even want to…and that's okay. It's valuable as far more than another contract, because it's the book that proved I could write a book. Now three years and one day later, I've sold fourteen novellas and novels, all because I wondered if maybe I could.

Of course it took a lot more than merely wondering and trying. As fun and awesome and better-than-anything as this job is, it's tough. There are multiple challenging aspects…rejection, poverty, eye strain and backache (my ball chair sprang a leak and I am missing that fucker), and the sheer challenge of being clever or at least coherent, day after day. But the thing that strikes me as the most difficult is the discipline. Writing is like dieting, if you're keen to lose weight. You want to lose weight / finish a book and all you have to do it eat less / write every day! Yeah, simple. So why are both cited as being infamously frustrating? I don't know, but the thing that strikes me as borderline miraculous about my own writing process is that I rarely need to dip into the well of discipline.

Sure, there are days when I do have to bribe myself with coffee—and the promise of cheap wine and reality TV afterward—to reach my one or two or three thousand word goal, and the prose that might normally take me two hours to slam out takes all morning and half of the afternoon. But on the whole, there's nothing I'd rather be doing. I can't think of very many things I can say that about. Walking is close. Watching TV while my husband grazes my arm is another contender. When I was a kid, it was drawing, and whenever possible, swimming in a hotel pool and diving for the room keys my dad would toss in the deep end, over and over. Ah, the rare freckled retriever.

But these days, the thing I long to do while I'm forced to perform the mundane tasks life demands of me is write. To be free to fantasize about what my characters are up to and then get that good stuff onto the digital page. Perfect job for an incurable daydreamer. How magical is that, having a job I actually long to perform? A job that gets me out of bed, excited to play God? How lucky am I to have something in my life that's not only addictive and pleasurable, but productive, creative, mildly lucrative, and fabulous for breaking the ice at parties?

So anyway, just wanted to share my three year scriboversary. It's the leather anniversary, incidentally… Way too tempting an excuse to buy a new iPad cover.

Sunday Puzzle

It's Sunday again, and you know what that means—time for me to rip off the puzzle segment from NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday!

Mustachioed enigmatologist

extraordinaire, Will Shortz

If you're a newcomer, each week on Weekend Edition Sunday, Will Shortz (the hardcore crossword puzzlers' almighty God) comes on the radio to do three things: share the solution to the previous week's puzzle, invite a winner who entered the correct answer to play another puzzle (usually word-related) on the air for word-nerdy prizes, and present everyone with the next week's puzzle (answers due in by Thursday afternoon via the WES website if you want a chance to play on the air).

Note: I never post the solutions on this blog…at least not before the submission deadline. I see lots of keyword traffic coming from people looking for the answers, which is at best impatient, and at worst, cheating. For shame.

Now without further ado, here's this week's new puzzle:

From listener Dale Shuger of New York City: Think of a common four-letter adjective. Then take its opposite in French. (It's a French word that everyone knows.) Say the two words out loud, one after the other, and you'll name a famous film director. Who is it?

Click here to see the original puzzle posting, check the answer to last week's challenge, listen to the segment, or find the link to enter your answer.

No Java July

Wow, it's July! That means I've made it halfway through Discipline Year…and with a minimum of failing and cheating.

Jujube-Free June was a raging success—ditching the added and refined sugar proved easier than I thought, plus I lost five pounds. But true disciples will know, June was supposed to be the no-coffee month. I stand by my decision to swap June and July, because I needed to get a lot of writing done in the last month (and I did—a personal best of an insane 58,000 words) and caffeine withdrawal was not opportune.

But I can put it off no longer. As I type this, I've got my mug of green tea steeping beside me. Green tea is acceptable, because I'm not actually giving up caffeine this month, just coffee. Coffee for me is as much an emotional crutch as it is a chemical one. When I don't feel like working, I make myself a cup of coffee (often decaf) because having it there makes it feel less like I'm shackled to my keyboard, somehow. Other writers do that with chocolate, if the author stereotypes are true. Being allowed an oral fixation makes staying planted in one's seat far more bearable. Can't hurt to trick one's brain into associating writing with pleasure, right? Especially for those days when it feels more akin to amateur trepanning.

Now it's too early to report on withdrawal, but I'll return with my findings…and my suffering, because I know that's what all you sickos come here for. I've also been warned that day three is the worst in one's break-up with any chemical mistress, so stayed tuned for that trainwreck.