Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Hair. I'm sick of it. Beside, I've always thought we'd be better off without it. I mean, what's it good for anyway? It's just some left-over vestige from primitive times when the first homo sapiens schlepped out of their caves and needed a good warm pelt to warm them right? So here's a nifty idea--let's all make a pact to shave our heads-maybe add a nice scalp tattoo, wear all kinds of snazzy hats. Ahh, I can see it all now, America decked out in all its bald-headed finery. Warms the cockles of me wee little heart. And why, you ask? Why? Because I hate my hair. It's scraggly, it's limp, it's practically nonexistent. I only have two strands, and let me tell you there are a limited number of does that look really dazzling when there are only two wispy strands involved.
So naturally, in accordance to Murphy's infamous law, my children are as hirsute as horses. My daughter has a mane like a mustang--and who's supposed to do her do for the prom? Me! Why me? I don't know. Do I have any kind of hair experience? Only if you count gluing ribbons to bald scalps--and cursing. I'm fairly accomplished at cursing. But I am woman (hear me roar) and Mom (hear me whimper) so I'll be curling and pinning and spraying and gelling until my poor daughter's hair is adhered to the top of her little pate like frosting on a cupcake. Maybe I'll even take pictures. Maybe it'll be gorgeous. Maybe it'll win prizes.
And speaking of prizes--here's another hair problem. My son Travis has got a pelt like a timber wolf. Cute as apple pie, but small children could get lost in his arm hair. And, as you might know if you were foolish enough to read my former blog, he's going to be a cover model contestant at RT so--the hair's gotta go. That's right. We're ripping that stuff out. He is man--hear him scream. Just kidding all you men of the world, I'm sure he will represent you manfully and stoically.
So chime in, America. Tell me why we need hair. Or why, as I contest, we don't need hair. Give us your hair horror stories. I bet I can top ‘em
Lois

(Post by Michele for Lois)

Why I Dig Romance Novel Cover Guys

It took me six weeks, but I finally tracked down Nathan Kamp.


I didn’t stalk him or anything, I just worked every contact I had until I found someone to hook me up so I could woo him. Not in the biblical sense, although the thought of that verily begs for a workday fantasy.

Who’s Nathan Kamp? Only the hottest and most popular guy on a romance novel cover since That Italian Guy.


I went after Nathan cause I wanted to interview him for
“Romance: B(u)y the Book,” my syndicated romance review column. I thought it’d be cool to talk with the man behind the image that’s graced more than 400 romance novel covers to date.


Not about how many push-ups he does -- though that imagery alone could inspire an Emma Holly novel -- but about who he is, why he does what he does, and what he believes in.

I hear your snickers, you cheeky wenches. But I’ll tell you anyway why I was so hepped when he said yes:

There are no persons involved with romance -- not readers, or authors, or industry folks -- who get less respect from the outside world than the guys who strip down, grease up, and work it for the covers of the books we adore.

So, I’m thinking, why not use my column to break down another stereotype about the romance genre – the dumb, “pretty-boy” cover model image.


Without giving away all the secrets of the interview, I’ll share this about Nathan Kamp: he is a genuine and exceedingly decent man.

Just like me, you get to define what romance really means. Cause you’re savvy, and smart, and you’ve got this fun and funky and powerful tool called the Internet to rock the message.

So, let’s define it for the naysayers:

Why do you read romance? What’s romance mean to you?

Michelle

I hope you’ll read my 2-part ExtraView interviews with Nathan, May 9th and May 16th!

Stepping off the cliff

I'm coming to the end of a fervent writing period. At the end of January I agreed to write a book for the new paranormal line Silhouette will debut this October. The name of the line is Nocturne. My book is slotted for November. Which means, I had about 2 1/2 months to write this book. Without direction or guidelines.

Oh sure, I knew the line was paranormal, and my editor wanted it to be about vampires. Dark vampires. And sexy. And to feature the hero's journey from dark to light. And please keep it under 75k words.

That's all I got for guidelines. And it wasn't like there were other books out in the series to read, to get a feel for this new line. I'm going to be MAKING the guidelines as I write. Hmm.... No, pressure there, eh?

I've finished the book. And today I'm sitting here wondering what I have done. Is it good? Does it fit what the line wants? Is this what my editor had in mind when she trusted me to write this book? I feel very much as if I'm stepping forward, with nothing beneath my feet. And as I'm sitting here, feeling this way, the image of the Fool tarot card comes to mind.

Yep, that's me, the fool. Have you ever felt as if you are stepping forward, with no idea what you are stepping into? It isn't dark, it's just...muzzy. Unformed, and unfinished and unsure. Surely when you step down, you will land. But how's that landing going to feel? Will it hurt? Will you struggle to cling to the edge? Or will you fly? Hmm...

Some tarot interpretors consider The Fool the most important card in the deck, while others dismiss it. The journey, a carefree start, stepping off without surety of where one will land, it signifies new beginnings, of acting against all that others believe to be correct, of taking chances. It is about trusting your intuition, and yes, taking that step.

So, here I go. I'll be printing up the manscript this weekend, and sending it off to see if it will fly. I've got to trust myself that this is the right move. That it will meet the unwritten guidelines and standards of this new line. It's not easy. (And I'm crossing my fingers that my 76K words will not be booed at too loudly. I've tried to cut the last 1000 words out, I really have!)

How often have you felt the Fool standing at the edge, wondering if you could make the leap? Did you make the leap?

Michele

Wily Girls. . . Girls With Wiles. . .

When I was eleven-- during the thaw after the Great Ice Age-- and in pubescent turmoil over the whole how-to-get-the-boy-to-like-me thing, I did what most young girls have better sense than to do: I asked my mother.

"What do you have to do to get a boy to like you?" I said, my head filled with visions of blue-eyed, auburn-haired Rodney McClanahan, who sat behind me in Mr. Childress's sixth grade class. My mother, being the closest thing to a fount of all things wise and feminine I had available to me, leaned close and whispered: "You just have to use your feminine wiles."

I knew then and there I was in deep sh*t. Because I didn't have clue what she was talking about. It took fifteen years for me to realize she didn't know what she was talking about either! She had grown up the eldest of six kids on a depression era farm and had worked her way through college and dated mostly via air mail through WWII. She was about as "wily" a female as Ma Kettle. But the fact that she'd hooked up with my tall, handsome dad gave her "creds" with me, so I kept trying to discover my elusive and clearly underdeveloped "wiles."

From watching TV, movies, and my numerous cheerleading cousins, I gradually learned that smiling, eye-batting, giggling, and fitting into a size 4 were involved. Oh, and blonde hair. My mother wouldn't let me go blonde or get contacts, I was a hopeless size 14, and-- worse-- I had a reputation for being smart. Three strikes. I couldn't wile and beguile boys, so I decided to compete with them. And I won. sigh.

It took me until halfway through college to quit approaching the whole "girl-boy" thing as an acquisition problem and begin thinking of it as an enjoyable interpersonal opportunity. It took still longer for me to realize if I could make a guy laugh, he was halfway to being mine. Then, of course, it took even longer for me to figure out how to get rid of the ones I hadn't actually INTENDED to make laugh. . .

The best (and most infuriating) advice I ever got: be yourself and be happy being yourself. The worst advice: never let a guy know how smart you are or how much you like them.

So what do you say? What was the best/worst advice you have gotten on dating and relations between the sexes? And can anybody enlighten me on that whole "feminine wiles" thing? Ooooh. . . and here's another one. . . what is the difference in dating/relationships when you're in your twenties and when you're (ahem) "older?" I just went through all of that and I still don't get it!!!

So, Spring Has Finally Arrived!

I realize that in other climes, it may have been above frigid for some time, but here in the northland we're just beginning to get the feeling back in our extremities. I also realize that for normal people, spring means mowing grass and working on getting a nice crispy tan. For me, it means hosing down horses that haven't seen a curry comb for six months, mucking out paddock, and preparing for the Romantic Times convention.

Never been to an RT convention? Well, you ain't lived. RT is where hundreds of romance authors gather to sign books, gossip, and ogle the guys who are competing for the title of Mr. Romance. But this year I can't ogle, since my son, Travis, is going to be one of the contestants. How weird is that?

But he's cute, really cute, and if he competes that means I get to spend a whole ten days with him. He graduates from pre-med the middle of May, then we're off to Daytona Beach where I'll be doing the smoozing thing while he (apparently) plays volleyball and prepares for pose downs. Seriously, pose downs!! Can this get any stranger?

Yes it can. While he's posing down there will be hundreds of my peers and readers ogling him. What am I supposed to be doing? Maybe I could write a book or something, but naw, All those women out there will be looking at my little boy (okay, he's 6' 3", 220 pounds, but still). Shouldn't I be defending his honor or something? Then again, I think it may have been me who convinced him to do this in the first place. Maybe I was even the one who mentioned the fact thacesareanndured a cesaerian so he could have life.

Oh the guilt, oh the embarrassment. Wait a minute...oh the fun! Every young man should probably have a couple hundred fans to watch him get greasy. This may be the best moment of his life. And I'll be the cause. Sigh. This is going to be great. So come to the CosmoChix party on May 20th. Travis will be bartending. I'll be...doing whatever mothers of cover contestants are supposed to do. Geez, I hope there are couple of mucky paddocks to clean out.


Lois

What is sexy?

So I'm mid-deep in the current story. A vampire story. Do you think vampires are sexy? I'm not sure exactly why I do, but I can dig 'em. Most of the time. :-) Don't give me any dead tall, dark and deadly dudes, though. They've gotta have a heartbeat and breath.
Always good requirements for any potential mate, wouldn't you say?

Every Tuesday iTunes posts its new releases, and today I was thrilled to see they finally put up the entire Dave Matthews catalog. Now, there's only one Dave Matthews song I really like, and that is CRASH. And I tell you, that is about the sexiest song out there. Why? Because it's a man's confession to being totally whipped, in over his head and 'tied up and twisted, the way I'd like to be' as Matthews puts it. Needless to say the instrumentals, with the mandoline and strings, adds to the overall sexiness, but it's those lyrics, sung from a man's needy desire to crash into her, that gets me every time.

Oh, for those brief glimpses inside a man's head. We don't always want to know what's going on in there. But don't we all want to know what it is, exactly, that gets them off in that sweet, surrendering, drowning fall to love? And it doesn't even have to be love—passionate, twisted lust will do in a pinch. Just let me know a piece of his thoughts at that moment. Is it raunchy? Is it colored with silliness and sighs? Does it make me shiver to know I've intruded on that private piece of brain-lust? Can I see it in his eyes? Or do I want to feel it like a whisper across my body?

They're different than we women, you know. Men are visual, we're told. They need love and lust and all that crazy sex stuff to be tangible and now and in-your-face, and don't-stop-until-we've-had-enough kind of fulfillment. Foreplay? They don't need it. They just want to crash...

...and I'm right there, waiting for the collision.

So what do you find sexy? What's your favorite sexy song? Have you had a glimpse into a man's crashing thoughts?

M