Wow! What a party!

For all you who missed the party at RT. . . here are some pictures of the CosmoChix! We had a great time and threw a heckuva bash. Some said it was one of the best parties of the conference-- and believe me, there were plenty!

We had 120 people in a suite and on a terrace loaned to us by the estimable Jo Carol from RT and our honorary bartender was none other than the runner-up cover model, Travis Greiman!! Through the evening, questions were asked about Travis and when answered (guessed!) correctly, earned a goodie bag of record proportions! Plus, everyone had cosmos, wine and other drinks. . . food and chocolate. . . and received goodie bags with CosmoChix mirrors as favors. Oh yeah. . . and Travis brought a number of his new buds with him. . . so we were overflowing with handsome young males of cover model quality!

Don't you wish you'd been there?
We wish you had, too! Let's do it again, sometime!

Last one in. . .

The rest of the Chix are already in Daytona Beach, kicking back and having fun, and I'm stuck here makin' party plans and packin' up the car with all kinds of goodies. . . Ghirdelli chocolate, cosmopolitan mixer and spirits, martini glasses. . . give-away goodies. . . prizes, centerpieces. . . whew! A lot to do before I hit the road tomorrow.

And I still have to pack. . . and figure out what to wear. . . and tan and lose ten pounds overnight so the Greenpeace-ers won't keep trying to push me back into the water. . . and try on all this new makeup the rest of the Chix talked me into. . .

I'm goin' casual, you guys! It's summer and it's Florida and it's RT. Time to party!

Wait until you see what we have in store for you! If you're still reading this. . . get yourself in gear and get to Daytona Beach!

RT, here I come!

Just a quick note to let you all know I'm off! If you're interested in locating me at RT I'll be in Club RT on Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 with the Vampire Vixens. Stop by and pick up a silicon bracelet that reads 'got blood?'. You know you need one!
Then, you won't see me in any official capacity until the signing on Saturday, and of course, the CosmoChix party Saturday night! It should be a blast, and I look forward to meeting you all!

Michele

Other Mothers' Sons

The countdown has begun; I’m leaving for the Romantic Times Readers' Convention with my rather nervous, but still cute as pie cover contestant son in…let’s see…four days. Plus, I have a couple of books to write, a few horses to train, a mare in foal, and a house that’s about to be condemned by the health department.

So, when my teenage daughter ran up to me with a gaping baby bird in hand and asked if I wanted to be a humanitarian, I promptly told her, "No. No, I don’t. I want to be a cranky old woman who refuses to allow another distraction into her life, especially if said distraction has to be fed, conversed with, or nurtured in any conceivable way. I’m overloaded. Can’t you see I’m overloaded?"

It was rude, I know, but my bright little daughter should have known better than to ask. After all, she wasn’t all that thrilled when, last Christmas, she found ten newly-whelped puppies in her bathroom…placenta, dog slobber et al. Not to mention the ferret we adopted not so long before that. It was gallumping around a parking lot looking lost (and a little carnivorous), so we bundled it up in a coat and took it home.

Ferrets, as you might know, are not the sweetest smelling animals in the universe, so what better place to keep it than your beloved daughter’s bathroom. It’s better than the kitchen. Growing up on a cattle ranch in North Dakota, I spent many a blustery winter morning sharing my breakfast with newborn calves.

But we don’t have calves. We have dogs, horses, an occasional ferret, and cats. Ragdoll cats to be specific. One of them has kittens, or rather ‘kitten’. The other was about to ‘kitten’, so a pre-fledging just didn’t fit into the master plan. I told my bird-loving daughter as much and I was firm…for about three seconds, until I looked down into that gigantic, yellowed billed baby bird maw. At which time I believe I said something eloquent like, "Oh crap," shoveled the ugly little thing into a box, and toted it into the kitchen.

This morning, Serenity, above-mentioned mother-cat-to-be, gave birth to six pink-pawed, rat-like kittens. Six is a passel of kittens. They’ll need some tending. There is also the baby bird to consider, which, by the by, has to be fed mushed up puppy chow from a syringe at three hour intervals. I shoved all eight little critters into Tara’s micro sized bathroom. One big happy family.

As for me, I’m escaping to Daytona in four days to lie on the beach, party with the CosmoChix, and ogle other mothers’ sons. Tee hee. My bright little daughter’s going to miss me something fierce…at three hour intervals.

Lois' "Tempting the Wolf" hits shelves July 25th. She's too humble to tell you, but the rest of us aren't. -Cchx

Barbie, you got some 'splainin' to do

A recent visit to a fellow author's house for our annual PAN meeting resulted in half a dozen of us playing, er, Barbie. Actually, we quickly dressed the Barbies in historical costumes and tried not to reveal to our fellow cohorts just how much fun it was to relive good times with a long lost friend. I'm talking about Barbie. And I once worshipped to the altar of Barbie.

Oh yeah, Barbie was my life, my goal, dream. I was going to have the perfect life someday, just like Barbie. I would have the perfect figure, exquisite clothes, and stylish hair. My feet would always fits into precious pink heels and my boyfriend would always greet me with a smile and those perfect white teeth. I'd have the camper, the apartment, the corvette, why yes, I'd even have my own private airplane and a Barbie Horse. And when I married, I'd come home to Ken, whose plastified smile was always ready to greet me. Ken would do whatever Barbie asked, he'd even wear the plastic apron and serve Barbie drinks aboard the airplane as they jetsetted to DisneyWorld for vacation. (Hey, I was a kid. DisneyWorld was the Ultimate Vacation.) If Barbie asked, Ken delivered, and never without that plastified smile.
And ah, observe the precious Barbie baby, whose head (I didn't take note of at the time) was virtually the same size as Barbie's head! (Talk about an anatomical ouch!) But the accessories that baby had! And all of them matchy-matchy and easily moved about by Ken, (as he grinned his plastified grin). Along with the perfect Ken, and perfect baby and a plastic cat or two, Barbie lived the dream.

Well, Barbie, you got some 'splain' to do.

I'm grown now. I have the 'life'. I'm married, have children, and the two cats (not plastic, but there are days I wish they were because I suspect plastic cats don't hack up hairball). Interesting, isn't it, how the dream can change? I don't seem to recall there being a Barbie Broom and Dustpan, Barbie Dishrag, or for that matter, a Barbie Toilet Brush. Barbie never owned a washer and dryer, and heaven forbid she wouldn't have a perfectly new outfit to wear each day, anyway. And what's with that baby that never came equipped with the Barbie Baby Rash or the Barbie Baby Diaper Genie? Who could have ever suspected a baby would be so...smelly and just so darn odd after that perfect big-headed unbendable baby that even smelled like baby powder?

And I certainly never recall Barbie having to rush to the bathroom and spray the Barbie Deodorizer after Ken exits with a guilty plastified grin affixed to his face. Nor do I recall the standard issue Remote Control Ken, just pose him in front of the plastic television, and point the remote; that's his talent!

They never had Corporate Raider Barbie, equipped with cellphone, laptop, rolodex and a wicked craving to sleep with Boss Ken while simultaneously sabotaging Barbie Climbing the Corporate Ladder's chance of ever getting that big promotion. And never mind the lacking appearance of Department Store Barbie on toystore shelves, who comes with a snappy blue vest and a tilted name tag and wears a frown on her plastified mouth as she mumbles into the intercom, "Price check on a box of supersize tampons. Checkout eight."

Where was Domestic Barbie? Oh, I know, she was married to Seventy-Hours A Week White Collar Ken. She stays at home with three plastic Spit-Up Babies and four Can't Be Housetrained poodles clambering for her attention while she can't figure out how the Barbie Toilet Brush got shoved into the garden hose and where did that last Barbie Babysitter find the secret alcohol stash?

My personal favorite would have been Migraine Barbie. A tiny bottle of Barbie Aspirin comes fitted into her plastic fingers, but don't bother calling Doctor Ken. You can't remove her from the box. She needs it dark and quiet. And don't shake her up; she'll spew.

What about Writer Barbie? She'd come equipped with a Barbie Computer (yet how to type with those four fused plastic fingers?) a stash of chocolate and attired in pajamas and bunny slippers. Her hair would refuse all styles and she would have an extra large backside garnered from Dedication To Work While Hunched Over The Keyboard Chasing The Muse. But man, would she have the office supplies. Little tiny Barbie Paperclips and Post-it Pads. An endless supply of fancy pens and little tiny books with her name on that she could hand out, perhaps even to Migraine Barbie, in an attempt to sooth her troubles. She'd write fantastical stories that always ended happily, sort of like the original Barbie Dream, but with a lot more reality stirred in.

Yeah, I like Writer Barbie, even if she's been known to attack UPS Ken when he comes knocking because he is her only connection to the outside world and he brings boxes from Amazon, and occasionally checks from her publisher. Ken doesn't know it, but Writer Barbie and UPS Ken have this 'thing'. It's okay, hand Remote Control Ken his clicker, and the whole world is right.

So, which Barbie would you like to see on the department store shelves?

Michele

Heroes, Heroes, Heroes. . .

Okay, I'm stuck on page one of the new book proposal, thinking about all the possible cool things my hero can be. And now I'm totally confused. Tall and semi-muscular, dark hair and cool eyes. . . the basic outline for my hero doesn't usually change too much. (He looks a lot like Rupert Evert, but hetero, if that makes any sense. Although this Nathan Kamp guy pushes all the right buttons. I may have to change my romantic hero template!) But from there. . . he could be anybody. . . even the butler!

Here's where I'm stuck. I'd write a "strong silent type," but I love writing dialogue and what do I give him for dialogue? Personally I'd like a funny guy, but not everyone likes a funny or snarky hero. I'm not really good at the tortured, brooding type. . . though I have tried over the years. So what do I find sexy, I ask myself. What do I find HEROIC?

A take charge sort of a guy? Action first and sort out the bodies later? A guy estranged from his own feelings who has to learn to embrace his feminine side? A smooth talking, hot walking city dweller? A guy in a dangerous, manly profession: spy, firefighter, policeman, detective, soldier, sea captain, alligator wrestler? A guy with a checkered past and a dim future? A guy with a noble soul but a deliciously sinful exterior? A ladies' man? A guy who has no luck with chicks? A guy with the tenacity of a bulldog and the instincts of a stalking tiger? A guy with a heart of gold and a sexy, "dirty laugh"?

See my problem? There's so much to choose from in the imagination. If only real life could be so lush with possibilities!

More important. . . what kind of hero isn't out there enough? What do we long for, but don't find on the racks?

Maybe there's plenty of tall, dark and dangerous already. Or can there ever be enough of tall, dark and dangerous? Is the world ready for shorter, lighter, and cuddlier?

Good Lord, I just described my fiance. Who would probably take serious exception to the "shorter" thing. He's six feet one. But his gorgeous prematurely-silver hair is certainly lighter and he is "cuddly" in spades. And does he give great back and shoulder rubs!

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

The CosmoChix blog is hereby launched!

The Cosmo Chix blog is hereby launched!

This is what I get for finishing a book. . . more writing to do. It's this or clean out my study, which has a solid eight months worth of detritus piled around and draped over everything. I don't mess with my office while I'm writing. . . well, any more than the health inspector requires. Probably a superstitious thing. . . like wearing the same pajama bottoms every day at the computer and not cleaning out the refrigerator while writing a book.(REALLY, REALLY bad luck! Trust me on this, people).

But this superstition sort of makes sense, because you never know when you may need something jotted on one of those bits of paper tacked to the wall with chewing gum(or the chewing gum) or some reference from a book under the kneehole where the dog sleeps, or a piece of research printed from the internet(also handy when re-lining the bird cage). So I keep it all. And If a book takes more than eight months to write, the dust piles up alongside the paper and I start wheezing. Right now, I'm trying to decide whether to invest in a hazmat respirator and go after the dust balls myself or to apply to EPA for a toxic waste removal grant. Oh, what the heck. . . the third eye on the dog looks kinda cute.

This is not to imply that I'm not an orderly person. Just a little harried and obsessed near the end of a book. And what a marvelous obsession this book turned out to be. . . The Book of True Desires. . . an historical romantic adventure set at the turn of the century in Florida, Havana, and Veracruz. . . with a very unusual heroine and a hero who happens to be a butler. A snarky, superior, droll. . . oh, yeah, handsome. . . BUTLER. When I say the butler did it. . . you can bet there's a wicked twinkle in my eye! I can't wait to start handing out galleys and collecting comments. Who says historicals are dead? I think they've just been waiting for something fresh and new and interesting to come along!


More is coming about the Cosmo Chix. . . an introduction of the writers. We six who make up the illustrious group span just about the spectrum of published romance authors these days. . . contemporary, paranormal, erotica, historical, and suspense. . . we do it all. And like the motto says. . . we give good romance. We're preparing to throw a heckuva party at the upcoming Romantic Times Convention in May in Daytona Florida. The Cosmo Chix will be serving yummy "Cosmos" and munchies, giving away a door prize, handing out cool party favors. . . and having a ball! Everyone's welcome. . . the more the merrier!

Look forward to seeing everyone there. Also-- as if you needed MORE incentive-- one of the cover model contestants is slated to be our bartender! But that's a story for another CosmoChix writer to tell. . .