I just spent two weeks in a pool house in Long Beach, California.  “We really need to get a TV out there,” said my hosts.

“Don’t bother,” I replied.  “I’ll be fine.”  I wasn’t sure I would be, but I figured I could always go into the house and sit in their darkened media room and watch the big LCD if I needed a fix. 

But, surprisingly, I didn’t.  I was busy, had writing to do, had correspondence to handle, a radio and some books to read.  I just didn’t feel the need, which surprised me.

I’m not an anti-television snob.  I was listening to This American Life and there was a story featuring a man who literally did not watch any television, and he joked about people who pretend they don’t watch network television but secretly do.  “I don’t usually watch television,” they say.  “But I do enjoy Nova.”

Seriously, I try not to be a couch potato but, if it’s on, I watch it.  And, I am one of these people that when the TV is on, I watch it in a trancelike state.  Sitcoms I hate. Reality shows that horrify me.  Commercials.  Even bad commercials—the ones that make me feel as if I’m chewing aluminum foil.  I can’t seem to stop myself.

I live in a tiny cottage where the largest central room contains my office, my dining table and my living area.  Oh, and the TV.  So, yes, it does get watched. 

In my defense, my brother is living here, too, and he does turn on the TV when I probably would not.  In addition to movies, which he loves, he watches local sports team and the channel that broadcasts all public meetings involving the state legislature.   The people that get up and speak in favor or against a bill are more interesting than you might think. 

When Bob moves back to his summer home in a week or two, the real test will begin.  Will the hours I spend spellbound by ads for products for which I have no use decline?  Will I limit myself only to the shows I consider to be really good:  House, Grey’s Anatomy, Ugly Betty, and Desperate Housewives?

Will I get more reading done?

Will I get more writing done?

By the way, I am working on a proposal for a book that has me so excited I have a hard containing myself.  I can’t reveal details yet, until I have the proposal in the hands of my agent and thus documented—but it’s HOT.  Maybe I better unplug the TV until I get it done.

When I first decided to become a writer, I fantasized about the day when I would go on a book tour.  I’d travel to wonderful cities, stay in nice hotels and eat room service breakfasts before heading off to a round of speaking engagements where I would meet my adoring fans.

I was disabused of this fantasy during one of my earliest writers’ conferences, when I sat in on a discussion group of seasoned writers, including some who had appeared on the New York Times Bestsellers list.  It was an eye opener.

First, none of them had tours arranged by their publisher.  Some were prosperous enough to employ publicists to do the footwork, but most of them made the calls and set the schedules themselves.  They talked about how reluctant many book store owners and managers were to work with them, how far in advance schedules had to be set, and how they often showed up to find the bookstores had forgotten to order copies of their books.  (Note to self—call the Barnes & Noble in Long Beach and make sure they are ready for this Thursday.) 

None (as in NOT ONE) of their publishers paid for transportation or accommodations on their tours.  I heard stories of how they traveled in groups, four to a two-bed room in a seedy hotel, and lived on Top Ramen.

Then there were the actual appearances. Every one of them had experienced a signing where they sold not a single book.  One told a hilarious story about waiting for hours, unnoticed, at her goodie-laden signing table, only to be snubbed by all passers by.  Finally, a friendly looking woman approached her.  “I don’t want a book,” she said, “Can I still have a cookie?”

One author had even written a humorous song about a long afternoon spent at a table in front of Walden Books at some unnamed mall entitled “Nobody Came.”  He sang it for us.  All four verses.

I laughed dutifully.  And vowed it would never happen to me.

But, it did!  I arranged two group events for the Connecticut Romance writers that turned out to be total busts.  I toured libraries and, on two occasions, had no one show up for my lecture.

However, I was still determined to have a book tour.  With a real launch party.  At a location that appeared in my book.

So, for my May 1^st release, I made a plan.  Agreeing to do all the footwork, I was surprised when my publisher actually did come up with a (very) little money for the event, and printed up posters for me.  As earlier posts show, I found getting people on the phone just as difficult as that group of writers warned.

But I still did it.  I scheduled a two-week tour in California, with six appearances and a real launch party.  I sent engraved invitations, put ads in papers, called reporters, notified local civic leaders, talked to libraries, dropped off bookmarks and flyers—the works.

I also arranged for free lodging and transportation.  No room service, but my friends’ pool house is at least as comfortable as any hotel room.  And my borrowed car runs just fine, although having no air conditioning has required some logistical strategies to arrive at signings with hair in order and no visible sweat rings.

I’m halfway through and so far, it’s been pretty great. 

Okay, so there were a few road bumps.

The posters with which I had intended to paper the town where the launch was held did not arrive until two days before the event.  I got them up, but I’m not sure how effective they were.

Some of the notables who had sent RSVPs for the launch were no-shows.  This included the Mayor Pro Tem of Newport Beach, several important book store owners, representatives of the Travel and Convention Bureau.  On the other hand, some unexpected old friends showed up and my liquor bill was way lower than I feared.

The store for the Friday night signing forgot to order the books, but scrambled to get copies from some other branches.  Luckily, I had a few in my car.  Also, it was at a trendy outdoor mall and I had no idea this became a hangout for teenagers beginning about 6:30 PM.  Luckily I sold enough books to adults before then to make up for the line of non-buying adolescents that lined up to talk to me and take advantage of my bribes (free Tarot readings) in the later hours.

On Saturday, I sat in one of the emptiest stores I have ever seen.  A huge, well maintained and beautiful Borders, there was barely enough foot traffic to keep the doors open.  I somehow managed to sell about ten books—I’m an excellent ambusher.

Then, there was yesterday at the Fashion Island Barnes & Noble in Newport Beach.  This made up for everything.  They’d remembered to order, including copies of Beg for Mercy, the first book in the series, and gave me excellent placement.  I sold out of every copy they had in stock and had to go get more from my car.  Whoopee!

I have a couple of days off before I resume my appearances, and then fly back to Connecticut.

Has my tour been everything I dreamed of, back in my naive first days?  No, of course not.  But I can’t complain.  

I’m definitely going to do this again next year, when the next installment comes out.  I’ve learned a couple of lessons and gotten (too late for this trip, but excellent—thanks Jann!) a good list of local media contacts. 

And I just love this pool house!

I love lists.

I make a list before I clean my house, go to the grocery store, or settle down to serious work for the day.   If I attend a lecture or workshop, and there’s a Q & A, I jot down a list of questions before raising my hand.  I have lists of bookstores, media contacts, books I want to read in the future, books I want to write in the future, workshops I want to develop, and marketing and publicity ideas.

Now, I’m getting ready to leave for California for a two-week mini-publicity tour, with time allotted for research, and I have a whole SERIES of lists.

-         Launch party RSVP list

-         Launch party invitees who haven’t RSVP’d, so I need to call and harass

-         Press members who haven’t yet scheduled an interview

-         People I have to call re: local research items

-         Events list (with outfits planned)

-         Full clothing packing list, including shoes, underwear, accessories and jewelry

-         List of toiletries needed

-         List of medications and vitamins to pack

-         List of people to contact and notify I’m going to be out of town.

-         List of emergency contact numbers in California

-         List of things I’m having shipped to California (books, posters)

-         List of bookstores where I am not signing, but need to go by and sign stock

-         List of marketing materials I am carrying with me

-         List of business tools I need so I can write/work while I am there

-         List of things I need to get done around the house before I leave

Oh, GAWD, it’s a list of lists.   This reminds me of my corporate days, when we once had a meeting about meetings.

Is there a twelve step group for this?  There should be.

“Without caffeine, I have no personality whatsoever.” – Mercy Hollings, Beg for Mercy

People ask me if Mercy Hollings, the character in my series, is based on me.  The short answer is “no.”   I am neither brooding nor a loner, I wear bright colors and own enough makeup and hair-care products to pose a storage issue.   I have no paranormal abilities beyond an aptitude for Tarot cards and would no more own a 135-pound Rottweiller than I would a baboon.  And I really don’t like baboons.

That said, Mercy and I do share a few traits and a common experience or two.  We like the same restaurants.  We both wish Sam Shepherd was fifteen years younger, single, and living next door.  We like dirty vodka martinis with blue cheese olives.

And neither of us can function without coffee.

My doctor told me I should “lay off the caffeine.” 

Whoa, I tried to protest.  I’ve already cut back from six or eight cups a day to one or two.  I stopped using artificial sweetener and, when at home, lighten my coffee with soy rather than my preferred half and half. 

So, for the first time in my life, I am going to completely ignore my doctor’s advice.  Sorry.  I’ll quit a lot of things, but not coffee.

Does anything smell as wonderful as a freshly opened bag of Columbian beans?  Kona while it’s brewing?  A corner shop that roasts its own beans?

Coffee is what gets me up in the morning, especially on those days when the bed is just sooooo comfortable.  I imagine that freshly brewed cup, and my feet find the floor.

Currently, I’m hooked on Senseo dark roast.  My ex-boyfriend got a Senseo pot with a selection of coffee in an office gift exchange a few years ago.  It sat in the box for a good six months.  Neither of us, accustomed to grinding our own beans as needed, could imagine drinking coffee made from pre-prepared pods.  But, one morning we were out of coffee, so we set it up.  And were immediately hooked.

Of course, the cost of Senseo pods is about three times that of whole beans.  And it uses so much electricity (for about thirty seconds) that, when I use it in my motor home, the generator audibly struggles.    But I love them.

I’m not big on flavored coffee, with the occasional exception.  I like coffee made with real pecans, like you see in some southern cities.   Chicory is okay, at least at the Café du Monde with a beignet on the side.  And I used to get the organic beans mixed with dehydrated orange peel that were kind of interesting.  But mainly, I just want a basic dark roast Columbian coffee.

Mmmmm…time for another cup!

Check it out!  I got the posters for my mini-publicity tour for ANGEL OF MERCY.

Sweet!

Isn’t in March that’s supposed to come in like a lion?

I guess old Leo has a sense of humor, because he’s back on April Fool’s Day.  It’s blustery and wet, although not especially cold. 

When I moved here from Miami, everyone told me I wouldn’t be able to stand the winter.  They were wrong—I stood it just fine.  I was excited about every snow fall and even kind of enjoyed driving on slippery roads, as long as they weren’t crowded.  Hydroplaning can be fun, given the right mental attitude.

But, now that we’re in what is unofficially known as the Mud Season, like everyone else around these parts, I’m ready for Spring.

Spring officially started a couple of weeks ago, but the signs are slow in coming.  The jonquils and daffodils haven’t made an appearance yet, and the bare trees haven’t quite taken on the reddish cast that means they’re covered with buds.

The ground is mushy in that way that only happens when the top inch or two has thawed and the ground underneath is still frozen.   Because they don’t like walking on it, the cats are hanging out in the house, and there are serious territorial issues.  I’ve been serenaded with kitty/ninja noises for days.

This past Saturday, friends threw their annual party, where they spread beach blankets indoors in front of the fireplace and everyone is asked to wear beach clothes or something on a tropical theme.  I dutifully dug out sandals, baggy white linen pants, a Hawaiian shirt and a fake hibiscus for my hair.  The outfit looked odd against fish-belly-white skin, but what the heck.  I covered it all with a wool coat and stepped outside.

I almost froze on the way to the car.

Once there, it was fun.  They had heated up the inside of the house to a degree that the spoil-sports who had showed up in weather-appropriate clothing whined that they were overheated.  Poor babies.  We played reggae music and drank beer and ate guacamole.  It was a lot of fun.

Of course, by the time we left (well after midnight) the temperature outside had dropped fifteen degrees so, when we stepped outside, my girlfriend and I got a sobering reminder that it would be a good three months before we wore these outfits again.

Back to wool socks. *Sigh*

When did it get so hard to get someone on the phone?

Those of you who aren’t writers might be under the impression that if a big New York publisher does a mass-market release of a new novel, they also provide some publicity and/or advertising.

Guess again.

With the exception of authors who are so famous they don’t actually need help with publicity (the publishers shell out for publicity and advertising because they’re afraid another publisher will steal them away), we writers are on our own.  Some people hire publicists, but they charge like attorneys, and they’re out of my price range (so far).  So I find myself on the phone, trying to get someone to talk to me.  Anyone.  Please!!!!

I’m getting ready to launch Angel of Mercy in Newport Beach, California, where the series is set, so I’m putting together a mini-publicity tour.  There’s a launch party at the Newport Landing, a real restaurant located next to Sam’s fictional boat rental business and with an outdoor patio overlooking the route of the very real Balboa Island Ferry.   I’m inviting local business and civic leaders and, most especially, media.

The problem is finding out exactly whom to invite.  This means getting past the receptionists and website “send-us-an-email-we’ll-never-actually-answer” links and getting an actual human on the phone.

Of course, I’m in Connecticut so I can’t even start making the phone calls until noon, because of the time difference.   And I mostly end up talking to voice mail.

Does anyone out there actually respond to their voice mail?

I understand that a lot of the exorbitant fees charged by publicists is because of their ability to get a warm body on the line.

My next book sale better come with a big honkin’ advance, because I am sooooo paying someone else to do this next time.

I’m tired of orgasms.

No, not of having them.  Of writing about them.

My alter ego, Virginia Reede, occasionally writes erotic romances.  Way too long ago, I outlined a series of novellas, about a group of seven women who form sort of a witch’s coven.  There is an underlying plot that runs through the stories and each book also has a stand-alone romantic story arc involving one of the seven women.  These will eventually be published in e-book format by Ellora’s Cave, and possibly put together into one or two anthologies in print format.

I’ve learned a couple of things about erotic e-books.  One is that the shorter ones actually make more money than the longer ones, even though they cost less.  The other is that those with a hotter rating sell even better.  So my goal is to write a short novella that is so hot it burns your fingers.

This means LOTS of very explicit, juicy sex.  In my current work in progress, the hero and heroine have had sex four times by page thirty-six, and will need to do it at least twice more before I finish up at about 70 pages or so.  And I still need to have a complete story arc with goal, motivation, conflict, a black moment and a realization. 

Some of the stories in the series may have one less or one more sex scene, but I figure they will average about five per novella.  This means that to complete the series of seven, I will have to write thirty-five explicit sex scenes without them becoming too repetitive. 

And, despite the fact that my selection of circumstances and sexual positions are drawn a combination of (long) memory and (complete) fantasy, it’s really not that difficult for me to come up with thirty-five different ways to do the nasty.   But these books are for women, and they’re erotica, not pornography.  Women want to know what the characters are feeling.  If I’m going to keep that spicy rating, they also are going to need to know what the characters are smelling, tasting, seeing and hearing.

So, did the earth move?

Which means that at some point in every sex scene, I’m going to have to describe the orgasm.

Now, I can whip out a copy of the Kama Sutra and figure out plenty of ways to do it.  But I frankly only know two types of orgasms:  Good ones and great ones.  In an erotic book, they all need to be great ones.

So, I dust off the metaphors.  There are the disaster scenarios:  The heroine can explode, erupt, or shatter.   I can use water images:  She can dissolve or melt or, in one scene I wrote, rise up like a fountain and burst into droplets.  There are metaphysical orgasms that turn into out-of-body experiences. Similes:  popping like a champagne cork, vibrating like a kettle drum, squeezing like an angry cobra.  (Hmmm…have I used the cobra one yet?  Better check and, if not, put it on my list.)

I’m only on book one of the series.  This means I’ve got thirty-odd orgasms to go.  Wish me luck.

When I worked in a corporate environment, I was known for my organization skills.  I kept so many balls in the air simultaneously that I attracted recruiters from Cirque du Soleil.  And, while doing this, I got up at five every morning in order to write.  I wrote the first draft of Beg for Mercy in less than five weeks while keeping up a grueling work schedule.

So why, now that I no longer have a day job, do I have a hard time keeping up with my laundry?

I’m not the only full-time writer who has experienced this syndrome.  The theory seems to be that working around the day-job imposes structure and forces the writer to create and adhere to a schedule. 

The one thing I’ve more or less stuck to is Marketing Monday.  That means that one day a week, I don’t write.  Instead, I make all the phone calls and do the promo work associated with my career.  I enter contests and send copies of books to members of the press.  I fill out registration forms for conferences and do workshop proposals.   

And, as a former business analyst, I can’t do anything unless I start out by making a list.  I was sick last Monday, so today’s list is FORMIDABLE.  It was terrifying me.  Then I remembered one of my best-loved old corporate tools, the Bubble Chart.  It’s what you do when you have a long list and everything on it seems urgent.  Proper use of the form causes the most important items to “bubble” to the top.  Once the items are ordered, you just start on item number one and don’t go on to two until one is either finished, or you hit an insurmountable obstacle, such as needing to receive a call back in order to continue.

Tarot enthusiasts will be amused to know I drew this card today. Hmmm...

On my list of seventeen urgent items, what bubbled to the top?

“Write a Blog Entry.”

Ahhhhh.

I participate in a group called Meetup.Com, which is essentially a networking website.  Are you a vegan quilter?  A newly divorced Chihuahua owner?  A left-handed supporter of Ron Paul? You can find others with similar interests at Meetup.Com. 

I joined a group called “The Spice of Life’s Too Short Meetup,” a name that sounds like a “before and after” puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.   They’re fun, though, and last night we went to a dance at a country club in Westfield, Massachusetts.  It was way out in the middle of nowhere, and I never would have found it without my GPS.  I didn’t know what to expect, but eschewed the Jimmy Choos for comfortable shoes.  GOOOOD decision.

The excellent Floyd Patterson band played, and everyone danced virtually every song.  There were a lot more women there than men, so we danced together like in junior high.  And the band insisted it was time for everyone to take their shoes off and dance in their socks.  We complied.

There was a group of people from a nearby ballroom dance studio, a few country club members having a Saturday night out, and about 20 people on a bus outing from a group home for the mentally handicapped, who were so much fun that when they had to go home, everyone stood up and waved goodbye to them.  We had to give them credit for starting the whole conga line thing.

Other than the presence of a full bar and an outdoor smoking area, it really was remarkably like a school dance.  

Man, that was fun!  If your life has arranged itself so that you don’t find yourself with opportunities to get out there and be a dancin’ fool every once in a while, it’s time to find yourself a good old fashioned sock hop.  Trust me on this.