Interesting observation to my last blog entry (which had nothing to do with a particular book but since someone brought it up, so let’s chat).   It brings up a serious misconception by the reading public.   Here’s what Anonymous wrote:

 

“P. 81 of Knock "em Dead"...oops...it was "When Harry Met Sally" for the deli fake thrill for Meg Ryan. (PS..I'm a professional proof reader...can't help it.)

Sunday, August 24th 2008 @ 7:37 PM

 

Let’s dispatch the ring-and-run aspect of hiding behind “Anonymous” when posting, writing, commenting, reviewing, etc.  If I have something to say,  I sign my name.  

 

On to the misconception:

 

Unless you are vanity pressed, subsidiary pressed, or writing for some of the e-publishers, authors don’t typeset our own books nor are the authors the last people to see the manuscript prior to going to press.  (Tangent - we are equally impotent when it comes to cover art, back cover copy, etc.)  Just to satisfy myself, I went back to my page proofs  for KNOCK EM DEAD and I did catch the error and corrected it.  Somewhere between me, my editor, the copy editor, the line editor and the typesetting, the correction failed to make it into the book.  Personally, stuff like a doesn’t bother me since most books have some version of a mistake or error.  

 

I don’t know when I found peace with the lack of perfection.  Somewhere during these past 15 years, I guess I just learned that weather and the final product that is my book are but two of the things over which I have zero control.   (Oh wait, at least 3 things - my daughter’s emerging hormones.  She’s getting to the point where I’m half expecting her head to spin around while she hurls pea soup.)

 

I also have no problem owning my mistakes.  In BEDSIDE MANNER, I wrote this line of dialogue:

 

“Your staying put.”

 

And just as an FYI, I do know my homonyms, it was a mistake.  Spell check obviously didn’t catch it.  I didn’t catch it when I read the manuscript prior to sending it to my editor.  My editor didn’t catch it.  I didn’t catch it in the galley stage.  The proof reader didn’t catch it.  The typesetter didn’t catch it.  The book went to press with that mistake.

 

There’s a famous story about a famous author - recently deceased.  He did a huge launch at a bookstore that opened at midnight a week early to satisfy his devoted fans in the town where the book was set.  The store sold out in a matter of hours.  The store owner went home (exhausted) with the copy she’d set aside for herself.  She settled in and began reading only to discover that after page 75, the book began again on page 1.   She skipped to the next 75 pages and realized the book went back to page 1 before beginning again.   She went to sleep that night haunted by the expectation that her store would be inundated with returns the next day.

 

I seriously doubt that the author, the editor or the publisher intended to ship a book with that kind of error.  Since famous was so famous, the publishing house retypset the book and  when it was ‘officially’ released (called the lay down date), all was right with the world.

 

Just as an aside, only 3 of the misprint books were returned to the bookstore with the midnight preview launch. 

 

Lots of things can happen to a manuscript/book along the way.  I had one in a train wreck that resulted in the book failing to reach bookstores west of the Mississippi.  There are cover horror stories - people with three hands, etc. I have a book where my name is misspelled in the author bio.  And I’m quite sure that in each and every one of my 30 books, there is some sort of error - a dangling participle?  A misplaced modifier?  A typo?  A factual mistake? A change in hair/eye color?  And one I know happens a lot of the time - the appearing, disappearing bandage.   I should probably avoid injuring my characters, that would take care of the magic bandages.  I’ve had copy editors who’ve changed something based on their own misconception - most recently it was an issue regarding DNA.  She’d watched enough CSI to think that DNA results come back within 48 minutes.  Um, no.  Did it end up in the book even though I did a STET in the page proofs?  Um, yes.  Did I let it go.  Definitely yes.

 

So for me, the bottom line is the gifts I was given by the very talented Cherry Adair and Leanne Banks.   Cherry always reminds me that there is no reason to criticize another author’s cover, typo, artwork, and/or all of the things the author has zero control of, especially something in a book that has hit the shelves.  By that point, there is nothing the author can do.  It’s like being out of town and putting on your cocktail dress, only to have someone tell you how horrible you look.  If you were at home, you could go up and change.  If you’re in a hotel, you’re stuck wearing that dress because you have no other options and every time you see your reflection, you feel horrible all over again.  Well, that’s what it feels like when someone decides to offer a critique after a book is in print.  (Please don’t confuse that with a person’s 1st Amendment right to hate the book and say so.  I have no problem with that!!!)  Leanne often reminds me that offering affirmation is the best gift we can give each other as writers.  It’s a lonely, difficult job with lots and lots of rejection. 360 days of the year, someone  teasing me about a typo won’t bother me, in fact, I’ll laugh right along with you!  But there are those 5-6 days when even the smallest slight will push me over the edge and make me all girly and tearful. 

 

BYW, Anonymous, your comment didn’t push me over the edge and this is in no way meant to be personal to you - I like that you brought up this issue.  I often forget that there’s a world out there and it takes us all time to learn the realities and nuances of the business side of publishing.

 

These are some of the new things I’ve learned since my first hardcover was released and I wandered away from the Harlequin auto-sale system (which I love, btw):

 

1. Real estate - this is when the publisher pays for front of store or end cap placement of your book;

2. A barge is one of those circular or round aisle displays;

3. Publisher’s Weekly matters;

4. Kirkus matters because hardcovers are library staples;

5. The print runs on most hardcovers has gotten smaller due to technology that allows the publishers to do additional printings quite easily - translation, print run doesn’t matter as much as it used to;

6. Pre-orders matter and publishers now pay attention to Amazon pre-orders.

 

I have tons more to learn.  But I do know one thing with absolute certainty - if I could write a book that appealed to every person out there, I’d be a very wealthy woman. 

 

Happy Writing!

Rhonda

 

PS - Thanks to Fay - flooded for 4 days -power on and off, internet on and off.  At one point my house was literally an island.  Water leeched into the garage and when I ventured out on Friday water seeped in the doors of my SUV as I ventured out to collect my daughter to and fro school.  I will never again mock a tropical storm.

No, not that kind of cone.  I’m talking hurricane cone of danger.  Not exactly what I wanted to hear this morning.  Luckily, I’m on the outer edge of the cone and the weather folks swear the computer models have it moving more up the west and central areas of Florida.  Hummm, last time they said that the hurricane didn’t listen, didn’t make the right turn out into the Atlantic and I was eating MREs for 3 weeks.

 

However, my greatest concern right now is my bud Mary Stella.  They did a mandatory evacuation of the Keys last night but only for trailer dwellers and tourists.  Folks from the Keys call themselves conchs, and often blow off Hurricane/Tropical storm warnings.  So Mary, if you have power - we’re thinking of you!

 

Tomorrow my concern will be my sister - Ft. Myers is supposed to take a hit in the morning.

 

And selfishly, I’ll have my fingers crossed that the tropical storm force winds don’t hit me.  Why?  Today the kid goes back to school and I get something that resembles uninterrupted time.  If we get TS winds, they close school - apparently school busses are so top heavy that buses can flip in 45+ MPH winds.

 

Good wishes to my buds in Miami-Dade and Broward counties.  Please take care.

 

So, like the other morons who haven’t prepared, I’ll be off to the grocery store this morning, fighting the blue-haired ladies for cases of water.  It’s only slightly less painful than root canal.

 

Regards,

Rhon

 

So let’s start with the  RWA San Fran experience.  My buds Cherry Adair, Amy Fetzer, Cindy Gerard,  Traci Hall, Mart Stella and I spent my birthday in style.  We went to Neiman’s for high tea - very posh, then our limo arrived to take us on a two hour personal tour of San Francisco.  Been there before but this was the first time I actually saw the Golden Gate bridge when it wasn’t shrouded in fog.  Then we ate at a fabulous restaurant in Sausalito.   The only down side to the whole evening was realizing we were celebrating the 20th anniversary of my 29th birthday. 

 

The conference was great - met lots of new people including my new editors and the publisher of Simon & Schuster.  I think I came back 10 pounds heavier.  I’m too afraid to step on the scale at this point.  Our workshops seemed to go over well.  I think The Little Pink Clubhouse summed up the Pitch workshop much better than I could have done myself, so here’s a link:

 

http://strategerie.wordpress.com/category/rwa-national-conference/  Please note I’m hiding behind the dais so I wouldn’t be in the photo - I always look like a corpse in pictures.

 

The other workshop I gave was successful only because my buds Amy Fetzer & Traci Hall jumped in to help since Leanne Banks couldn’t make the conference because of a death in her family.  It was on brainstorming and interactive, so 6 people who thought outside the box walked away with autographed books and the person voted most creative by the group was presented with the Leanne crystal bracelet (it would have been given away at the literacy signing but then we thought it would be better to present it to someone who participated in the workshop).  Since we ran over and we had the bar slot (4:30 - 5:30 - when people would rather drink that take a workshop), we decided that we must have been doing something right.

 

Lots of great socializing, much of it done around the astray at the end of the Marriott’s semi-circle driveway.  Okay, I smoke.  I’m okay with not smoking in my room - happy to be sent outside in the frigid 40+ degree weather so I don’t offend anyone.  I didn’t even mind that most of the time, I was breathing in bus or van exhaust.  I honestly don’t have a problem being shunned.  I don’t smoke in my house - never have - and I only smoke in my car, not my hubby’s or friends.  Here’s what I do mind.  I’m paying nearly $300.00 per night and when I went to the smoking area, without fail, some drunk or drugged, smelly and rude homeless person would accost me for money or cigarettes.  By accost I mean,  back me up to the building - completely violating my personal space.  If you didn’t give them something, they would not go away.  When one foil hat wearer grabbed my arm, I came down hard on his instep.  Now, call me nuts, but if I’m standing on Marriott property, paying Marriott rates, surely they have some responsibility to keep the area free of physical threats.  Remember, this is the hotel that as I checked in, handed me a map of the city with the ‘safe’ areas outlined in yellow highlighter.  It reminded me of New York in the late 70s-early 80s - accosted constantly.  You couldn’t walk 3 feet on any street without some skuzzy person blocking your way.  I’m married to a New Yorker and I’m no shrinking violet when it comes to telling people to kiss off, but San Fran homeless obviously attend obnoxious invasion classes.

 

This became more ironic to me when I went into a bar and there were 5 warning labels in the windows - drinking can cause birth defects.  Undercooked or raw food can be harmless to your health.  Our products may contain nuts and or nut oils.  Intoxication is dangerous and individuals can be charged with a misdemeanor for public drunkenness.  And my personal favorite - right next to the picture if a cigarette in a red circle with a line through it was a sign that read, “chemicals used to clean the carpet have been identified as carcinogens.”

 

Oh, and it’s also one of those cities that’s banning trans-fat.  Soon they’ll decide wearing a thong has health ramifications.  So, I think I can say with relative certainty that San Fran will never be my hometown.  I didn’t leave my heart in San Fran, I left a spray bottle of Clorox Hard Surface.

 

Have a great day!

Rhonda (and yes, 2 weeks have past and I haven’t unpacked and am really not interested tackling that chore.0

 

PS - The kid starts middle school on Monday - I’ll have a life again!

 

Hi All . . .

 

Okay, after an über long break, I’m blogging here as well as Babesinbookland.com.  But I would be remiss if didn’t start off with what the Babes are doing in San Francisco.  We made bingo cards (available in the goodie room or from Amy Fetzer, Rhonda Pollero, Traci Hall or Karen Kendall).  What are you playing for????   Well. Babe Amy Fetzer also makes stunning jewelry and she’s made bracelets in each of the Babes colors.  How do you play?  Ask any Babe - Rhonda, Traci, Amy, or Karen (And if you see Mary Stella - she can help you too J) and the first one in each color to get BINGO wins.

 

Now, on a sadder note, our hearts and prayers go out to Babe Leanne who will not be at the conference because her beloved father passed away yesterday.   So here’s a hint . . . want to know Leanne stuff?  Ask Traci or Rhonda or any of the other babes.  (Want to know a secret?  Super talented Cindy Gerard knows a lot about Leanne!)  And hats off to Babe Traci for compiling questions and to Babe Amy for making the stunning jewelry - stop by the literacy signing and find a Babe - you can see the jewels for yourself!!!!

 

Amy, Traci and Rhonda will be presenting the workshop - Got Problems, We’ve got Solutions  (Amy and Traci were kind enough to agree to jump in because Leanne couldn’t make it.)  Want to know if one of the bracelets is still up for grabs?  Find a Babe and ask.

 

On to fun stuff - I’ll be blogging Nationals and if you think that will be without heavy doses of sarcasm, boy are you mistaken.  Half the fun of going to Nationals is cringing when you say the wrong thing to an editor or agent - I once said something snotty about my agent not knowing she was in the bathroom stall next to me. Oppssss!  And apologies ahead of time but if you’re dumb enough to get drunk at a business event, I think you’re fair game.  I’d do the same to myself, btw. 

 

So here’s what’s in store:

 

Finley is going to Nationals for the first time.  I can’t wait to see how folks react to the first 2 Finley Anderson Tanner novels.

I’m doing 2 workshops (with my agent, Cherry Adair, Amy Fetzer and Traci Hall)

I’m going to the St, Martin’s party, the Harlequin Party, the Pocket Dinner, The Maria Carvainis Dinner and then have additional meals with my editors and agent.  So yes, I’m talking fat chick clothes. 

 

Always good for a laugh - Amy Fetzer is my roomie, so I’m sure there will be much laughing and frivolity.

 

The trip has already gotten off to a ‘Bite me!” start.  I’m leaving in a few hours and yesterday (less than 24 hours pre-flight)  AirTran cancelled my return flight and put me on a flight leaving San Fran a day later.  Um, unless they’re paying for the room, no.  As in Hell No!  So after losing 2 hours of my life I’ll never get back, AirTran has me on a Sunday Night red eye.  In exchange I’m bumped to Business Class, but still, this blows.

 

So remember these sacred words travelers in case a hotel/airline/taxi/whatever tries to change the rules on you . . . “What else can you do for me?”  Don’t walk away without some sort of compensation - even if it is just a week of free in room wireless access.

 

Happy Trails!

Rhonda

 

I’ve had back to back deadlines and suffered the Wrath of God.  Since the beginning of the year, I’ve written 3 books and proposals for 2 others. 

 

My daughter graduated from 5th grade.  Now I’m happy for her, but when did elementary school graduation begin to rival graduation from Harvard?  We received an engraved invitation, which included an RSVP card for the ‘reception immediately following.’  I gotta tell you - it was an event and a half and I’m still not sure all that frou-frou stuff was necessary.

 

Oh, and the week of graduation, they went on their 5th grade trip.  To Universal Studios in Orlando.  I think our 5th grade trip was to the UTZ plant to see potato chips being fried.  They dent a note home reminding us to have the kids bring sunscreen, bottles water and $50.00 spending money.  In contrast - we got a free bag of chips.

 

The week before graduation (see why I haven’t blogged in forever?) my daughter had her recital.  As usual, it wasn’t a recital, it was a wonderful production.  They did Cinderella, Katie was a mouse (in addition to dancing numbers for each of her 5 classes).  The good news is - she can finally do her own hair and make-up.  Granted, she’s heavy-handed with the make-up but slutty actually works on stage.

 

Then last week I was smote by God.  We took a direct hit of lightening.  Fried two computer (my desktop and my laptop where - of course, I had my nearly completed manuscript).  I called Dell they were, as always, useless and because I had to turn in the book on 6/30, I ended up buying an HP and paying my fab computer guy to come over and salvage what could be salvaged.  I had external hard drive back-up and flash drives but the hard drives were plugged in, so they fried and the flash drives were useless because nothing would boot.  Did I mention that Dell sucks?  Just checking.  The Dell solution - which, btw came on 7/1, was to completely reformat my hard drive and see if that worked.  I’ve owned Dells for my last 6 computers but I will never, EVER buy another one. 

 

The lightening also friend my daughter’s new Wii, the intercom system, the outlets, the circuit breaker board, my microwave, the control for the sprinkler system, the cable boxes, the satellite dishes, and probably a bunch of stuff I have thought of yet.

 

But here’s what I learned from my smoting - those surge protectors we all buy can handle 300 volts.  A lightening strike is normally about 10,000 volts.  For under $300.00 you can have a whole house surge protector put on your breaker box that can handle 60,000 volts.  Guess what I own now?

 

Happy writing,

R - who is off to Disney World today for the annual family vacation

 

The RWA conference is just 60 days away.  It’s a place to learn, network and feel the love and support the organization offers aspiring writers and published authors.  Opps, my bad.  RWA only supports authors published in 2007 or 2008 and everyone else can take a seat.  Granted, I’m probably chiming in late here but I just found out that RWA is excluding published authors from the literacy signing who didn’t have a book out in that timeframe.  Excuse the pun, but what a novel idea.  A non-profit organization raising funds for literacy turning away people whose books are available for sale when selling those books adds to the overall donation.

 

Worse yet, the reasons given make my skin crawl.  Citing space problems and the costs of stocking books released in years other than 2007 and 2008, RWA has decided to ban those authors from participating in the literacy signing.  To put it bluntly, what a dumb-ass move.  Not every published author can afford to go to Nationals every year.  They skip a few while saving the money and this year were told – without warning - that the book they wrote that was released in 2006 (or some other year) isn’t welcome at the party.  Talk about disappointed.  If I happened to be one of those authors, I’d be crushed. 

 

We give out freaking pins to people so they can prove they are more unpublished than other unpublished people (Pro pins) while granting the former better access to agents and editors at Nationals.  I’ve yet to meet an agent or editor who doesn’t think the PRO thing is a joke since the only requirement is proof that you failed to write something and sell it.  If she met the age requirement, my daughter could achieve PRO status in a week or less.

 

RWA is so inclusive it has become exclusive.  And excluding published authors from the literacy signing is just moronic.  Lest anyone think I’m suffering sour grapes here, I have three books that meet the criteria, so I’m welcome to sign.  RWA already has enough trouble enticing published authors to participate in the conference, why create a situation where members are shoved aside?  If anyone should be excluded from the signing, it’s non-romance writers and authors who don’t have an actual book to sign.  RWA is a well-oiled machine.  It would be very easy to stick a note in the registration packet telling an author his/her book was a no-show.  Clear that seat and give it to the next person.  Signing bookmarks or something else because your book hasn’t been released or because it can’t physically be on the table for some reason, well, sorry, maybe next year.

 

There, that solves the space issue and if no books are available, it also solves the size issue – two of the reasons for this new policy.

 

Why is this important?  What if an author is making a comeback after a dry spell and wants to sign excerpt booklets to let people know their next release is in 2009?  What if you’re an author who has to work a fulltime job and only have a book out every three or four years?  Sorry, RWA is too busy creating PRO pins and funding academic studies to validate the genre.  I know this is a nutty idea, but if the organization insists on allocating funds on a study, how about one on why RWA has such a bad reputation among other professional writers’ organizations and why winning a RITA™ doesn’t carry prestige or earn the author a bigger advance; and why winning a Golden Heart™ doesn’t always translate into a sale.  Or, maybe RWA could fund a study on why including a separate, perfectly valid genre – erotic fiction – gets a place at the table when romance writers are being turned away?  It isn’t the Erotic Writers of America; it’s the Romance Writers of America. 

 

I’m jaded and biased by my membership in Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.  Those organizations have retained their focus on their respective genres.  Their workshop presenters are always published authors and/or publishing professionals and/or experts in a given field – forensics, packaging and distribution, etcetera.  Thriller Writers came about, in part, because thrillers didn’t always meet the definition of a true mystery.  Other subgenres have branched out to form their own national organizations as well – the Private Eye writers even gives out their own award – the Shamus – and winning one, like winning an Edgar, carries some weight.  In fact, MWA goes out of its way to promote Edgar winners by sending them to events (yes, they pay for those considered the best of the best by a juried panel to speak at various events). 

 

What a shame that our national organization has opted to ignore its own mission statement:

 

Romance Writers of America (RWA) is the national association for published and aspiring romance writers.  Through education, networking, and advocacy, RWA supports the professional interests of its over 9,500 members. RWA's more than 140 local and special-interest chapters provide opportunities for members to come together to discuss the industry, build connections and find support. The camaraderie and friendship members find within RWA are invaluable.  (right off the RWA website)

 

How does excluding authors from the literacy signing fall in with the claims in the mission statement?  Specifically, to “. . . support the professional interests,” or provide “. . . opportunities . . . and find support,” for the members.

 

Ah, well, leave it to RWA to find a solution that only creates more problems.

 

Rhonda

Okay - first the good stuff . . . my next cover:

I’m really proud of myself.  My faux umbilical cord (my kid is adopted and almost 11) stretched all the way from Hobe Sound to Tallahassee.  I made it through my daughter’s first 3-day school trip with lots of Xanax but only a few tears.  Actually those tears were mostly the result of the medical procedure I had on Monday, but we can discuss (or not) that little Medieval treatment later.  The Xanax was great but I actually have a writing/reading related purpose for coming out of bloglessness . . . the only time she called was to have my husband read to her at bedtime. 

 

As a working writer, I do get concerned by the lack of interest young people seem to have in reading.  Selfishly, I want them to grow up and be consumers.  I want to be employed ten, fifteen, twenty years from now.  Okay, so maybe twenty is pushing it, I don’t want to die at my desk.

 

Enough about her being back, now I’ll rant about my own back.  After doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary – I twisted t get out of my car and lifted some luggage – stuff I do quite often.  Then I folded like a cheap suit, barely able to stand erect.  That was March 9^th.  Me being me, I waited about a week, and then went to the doctor.  Got what I expected – probably pulled something.  No biggie.  Only it didn’t get better, it got worse.  Had this sharp pain running down my leg.  It got so bad that I – a person loathe to seeking medical attention – went to the ER.  Got a nifty shot of Demerol and a referral to a back specialist.  Go see the back specialist and he sends me for MRIs and CT scans and PT.  (In my world PT does not stand for physical therapy, it stands for Pissing away time).  My take on PT was confirmed when the first (and only as far as I’m concerned) session consisted of me lying on an ice pack for 20 minutes, then lying on a heating pad for twenty minutes.  I’m sure Blue Cross/Blue Shield will be billed hundreds for that not-even-an-hour.  And the chitchat from the therapist . . . he knows a healer in Alabama who can lay hands on and has had some success with back patients.  Um, huh????  Check please!

 

So I go back to specialist who gives me the results of all the tests – seems my sciatic nerve is pinched under a staple that was left (intentionally) in my spine in the mid 1990s.  Oh, and I have some minor arthritis in my spine and a disintegrating disc and another disc that’s bulging.  So he uses the S word.   I’ve already had surgery on my foot and on my leg and it’s only April, so I immediately nix the whole surgical approach.  So then, he tells me the next option is a lumbar injection to numb the nerve.  Says it isn’t a big deal.  Only takes a few minutes.  Pain relief can last from days to months.  Great – I’m good to go.  So my hubby and I arrive at this surgical center and low and behold, we run into friends.  Seems she’s having the same thing I’m having.  She goes in first.  She comes out crying and says it was the worst pain she’s ever endured.

 

Me?  I have a seriously high threshold for pain, so I’m thinking this woman just wimped out.  So I’m optimistic as I crawl up on to the gurney and they do all the prep stuff.  Pet Peeve – doctor comes in after I’m strapped down, face down on the table.  If you’re going to jab something into my body, I really prefer a face-to-face hello first.

 

Needle one – this will numb the area around your spine.  Needle two – apparently needle one didn’t do its job.  Not only do I feel this thing poking between my vertebrae, I can see it on the screens set up around the room.  I curse.  Loudly.  Needle number three – I instantly learned - was the reason for the restraints.  Worse than kidney stones, worse than childbirth.  Felt like he was shoving a hot poker straight through me.

 

“All done,” he says in a cherry voice.

 

“Me too,” I say through my tears.

 

Then he tells me it will take a series of three of these.  Um, not just no but HELL NO! 

 

My back is now worse than when I started and I’ve decided to change doctors.

 

So, my kid is home safe and sound but I still walk like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.

 

So, how’ve you been?

I'm really excited and more than a little stunned to learn I won the bronze medal for popular fiction in the Florida Book Awards.  It's really nice to know that I'm not the only one who likes Finley.  The thing about writing is it's often done in a vacuum, so we don't get feedback until, in the case of KNOCK OFF, nearly two years afterit was written.  So, as my hubby often jokes, today is one of the few days I get to feel special, 'cause tomorrow I go back to just being me.

Happy Writing,

Rhonda

 

The good is Demerol, though I may need a Brittany-esque quickie through rehab to wean myself off them.  (I feel Catholic here)  It’s been 13 hour since I popped my last Demerol and I probably have a good 3-4 hours left in me before I cave to the pain.

 

This weaves nicely into the bad.  Two operations in less than a month is not my idea of fun.  But, both were ‘nothing’ procedures.  The first was to repair and replace my titanium toe joint with a hinge joint.  All went well, until the infection came along.  I swear I’m some sort of Mersa Mary when it comes to health stuff.  Stuck in that recoup were both the hubby and the kid getting strep.  I’m thinking of hoarding Z-Packs for the future.  I don’t think an actual meal has been cooked in this house since before January 19^th.  Also smack dab in the middle of that was the continuing saga of my house being up for sale.  One day I actually dragged my ass out into my car in the garage and reclined the seat to sleep while some realtor marched his (obviously) disinterested couple through the house – either that or they thought I was a corpse and were put off by the prospect of owning a home that had a dead woman lying in the Honda. 

 

In order to have my toe job, I had to turn the power off on my IPG.  Quickie explanation – it’s a unit the size of a cookie inside my thigh with leads and electrodes that go to both my spine and down my right leg to treat a form of nerve dystrophy.  So after the toe job I go to turn it back on and nothing.  Nada.  Shit.  So I go visit the Medtronic rep at the doctor’s office and it turns out that coincidentally, the batteries on the IPG need to be replaced.  Not great news but not anything I haven’t done before.  It’s a quick procedure, they pop out the cookie, put in a new battery pack, a few staples to close and voilá – done.  I had to cancel Birmingham (felt terrible doing that to them) and arranged for the 15 minute procedure.  Hummmmmm, didn’t exactly work out that way.  An hour and a half later, I had my new implant but apparently it didn’t like the lead junctions from the old system so instead of 1 little incision, I have 3 with 32 staples holding my leg together.  But this new system is rechargeable.  I was a little high when she was explaining how to recharge it, so I’m amusing myself with the image of plugging my leg into the cigarette lighter of my car.

 

Now that I have Franken-leg, I realize that I’ll be in Seattle Washington when the staples have to be removed.  God Bless Cherry Adair, she found a surgeon willing to remove them.  Now . . . how to get through airport security?  I’m thinking a copy of the operative notes and tears should do it.

 

So, for those of you wondering where I’ve been over at Babesinbookland.com and/or have had your emails or calls ignored, sorry.  And with over 1,000 emails stacked in my inbox, I may never be heard from again.

 

Rhonda

 

Thank God I am a generally ODC person any way, if not the last 24 hours would have sent me running and screaming down my own driveway.  Last night, while screeching at the 10 year old to finish her homework before dance, the phone rings and it’s the realtor.  A couple would like to see my house.

 

In ten minutes. 

 

So we raced around making the place look presentable and then bolted for the dance studio.  Potential buyers do not want the homeowner present as they wander through the house.  Fine with me except for one minor detail – we came home an hour and a half later to the sound of the shrill beep coming from the fridge.  The realtor and/or her clients had failed to close my fridge door properly. 

 

Oh, and there was a phone message that a couple is coming today at noon; another couple is coming at 3:30 and yet another couple is coming Friday.  Either people just like walking through homes or the real estate market in south Florida isn’t as grim as I’d thought.

 

On to other stuff . . . If you’re going to be in the Birmingham area this weekend I will be too.  Murder on the Menu sounds like it will be a great weekend featuring a bevy of authors from all over the country.  Here’s the link with all the info: http://www.wetumpkalibrary.com/Default.asp?ID=357&pg=Murder+on+the+Menu+2008

 

I’m really excited.  Not only will I get the chance to hook up with some friends but also I’m going to spend three glorious days in the land of cheese grits.  I love cheese grits.  Love them plain or with shrimp.  Cheese grits are a comfort food.  My grandmother used to make big pots full of them and I’d battle my way through my 35 cousins to make it to the head of the line.  Being the youngest, nobody was allowed to toss my greedy little fanny to the side. 

 

I did a little guest blogging this week as well.  The great people over at Fresh Fiction asked me to share, so I did.  Here’s that link http://freshfiction.com/page.php?id=762  just scroll down for my take on why I am nothing like the main character in my books.  The folks at Fresh Fiction also let me do an Author’s tip article for them – it’s on crime, criminals and pacing – here’s the link for that bit of info: http://freshfiction.com/page.php?id=744.  

 

So, in addition to my surgery – and its friend the infection – kid and hubby getting strep – I’ve actually made some great progress on the next Finley mystery.  Have I mentioned that I adore my new agent Donna Bagdasarian and my new editor at Pocket, Maggie Crawford?  FAT CHANCE (no more ‘knock’ titles) is coming along nicely.  I’ll be taking some sporadic time away from writing to promote the release of the second Finley book – KNOCK ‘EM DEAD (due out 2/27) as well as the paperback reissue of KNOCK OFF (out now!!!!).  So it’s going to be a busy month, culminating with a great trip to speak at the Whidbey Island Writer’s Conference.

 

Happy Writing,

Rhonda

 

Men are like....

1. Men are like ..Laxatives ..... They irritate the crap out of you.

2. Men are like.Bananas .. The older they get, the less firm they are.

3. Men are like Weather .. Nothing can be done to change them.

4. Men are like .Blenders You need One, but you're not quite sure why.

5. Men are like .Chocolate Bars .... Sweet, smooth, & they usually head right for your hips.

6. Men are like ... Commercials ....... You can't believe a word they say.

7. Men are like Department Stores . Their clothes are always 1/2 off!

8. Men are like ..Government Bonds .... They take soooooooo long to mature.

9. Men are like .....Mascara .. They usually run at the first sign of emotion.

10. Men are like Popcorn ...... They satisfy you, but only for a little while.

11. Men are like Snowstorms ..... You never know when they're coming, how many inches you'll get or how long it will last.

12. Men are like Lava Lamps ... Fun to look at, but not very bright.

13. Men are like Parking Spots All the good ones are taken, the rest are handicapped.

Yes, I understand they are necessary – especially in this market.  South Florida – like much of the country, is in a serious slump.  So why am I selling my house?  Two Reasons – 1 – to get my kid into a different middle school next year, and 2- to downsize a bit. 

I like my realtor, he’s a decent guy.  He dropped in last night – 40 minutes late, a serious pet peeve of mine – to go over what he thinks needs to be done to make the house more saleable.  Touch up paint – makes sense; unclutter the garage – I’ve been after my hubby to do this for years so, um, yeah; resurface the pool – trying, the guy we had all lined up isn’t returning phone calls, got a name for someone who might actually show up to do the job?; power wash the roof and driveway – did that last week (Oh, okay he says); shampoo the rugs and steam the grout – did that last week and remember, this was the model house 12 years ago, the previous owners had big dogs and grandchildren and the carpet needs replacing – something the new owners can do (another Oh, okay); power wash the lanai – did that 2 weeks ago (another Oh, okay);  We’ll paint the lanai as soon as the pool is resurfaced, how’s that?  He thought that was okay so long as we didn’t use white.  Then it turned ugly . . .

Could I box up everything in my office and put it in storage?  Um, hell no, I actually need my reference books to write and the promo stuff has to be at my fingertips since I have not 1 but 2 books out in the next 35 days.  Could I take everything off my bathroom vanity?  Um, hell no again.  I’m happy to stick stuff under the sink if/when he shows the house but no, I will not pretend that no one lives here.  Would I move the lingerie cabinet out?  Um, hell no part 3 – call me selfish but I’d like my undies and jammies accessible. Could we box up my daughter’s toys and books?  Gee, she’s 10 and call me silly but I think she’d like to have toys and books.  And my personal favorite – could I get rid of some of my shoes? 

And I thought the most painful part of yesterday was having the stitches removed from my foot . . .

Just thought I'd share . . .
Jack decided to go skiing with his buddy, Bob. So they loaded up Jack's minivan and headed north. After driving for a few hours, they got caught in a terrible blizzard. So they pulled into a nearby farm and asked the attractive lady who answered the door if they could spend the night.
"I realize it's terrible weather out there and I have this huge house all to myself, but I'm recently widowed," she explained. "I'm afraid the neighbors will talk if I let you stay in my house."
"Don't worry," Jack said. "We'll be happy to sleep in the barn.  And if the weather breaks, we'll be gone at first light." The lady agreed, and the two men found their way to the barn and settled in for the night. Come morning, the weather had cleared, and they got on their way. They enjoyed a great weekend of skiing.
But about nine months later, Jack got an unexpected letter from an attorney. It took him a few minutes to figure it out, but he finally determined that it was from the attorney of that attractive widow he had met on the ski weekend.
He dropped in on his friend Bob and asked, "Bob, do you remember that good-looking widow from the farm we stayed at on our ski holiday up north about 9 months ago?"
"Yes, I do" Said Bob.
"Did you, uh, happen to get up in the middle of the night, go up to the house and pay her a visit?"
"Well, um, yes," Bob said, a little embarrassed about being found out, "I have to admit that I did."
"And did you happen to give her my name instead of telling her your name?"
Bob's face turned beet red and he said, "Yeah, look, I'm sorry, buddy.  I'm afraid I did. Why do you ask?"
"She just died and left me everything."
(And you thought the ending would be different, didn't you?...  you know you smiled... now keep that smile for the rest of the day!) 

 

 

I’m still anxiously waiting the unveiling of my new toe.  It’s still hidden beneath a few hundred yards of gauze.  The first inkling I had that the post-op Gods weren’t smiling on me was the raging fever I developed 24 hours after surgery.  But hey, that’s what antibiotics are for.  Me?  I’m more bummed over the nail I chipped navigating my trusty walker around the room.  The antibiotics knocked out the fever, only to have it replaced by the other kind of fever – cabin fever. 

 

I think I’m getting a little squirrelly being housebound.  And just to keep me on my toes (9 out of the 10, of course), my daughter has strep.  My dh has stepped up to the plate, foregoing softball to wait on us – a huge sacrifice for him. 

 

Oh, and on top of that, my house went on the market this week.  The poor realtor had to wait patiently for me to shuffle from room to room so she could take photos.  This isn’t the greatest time to sell a house in south Florida, so I’m not stocking up on boxes and packing tape.  My only hope is that we can relocate before the kidlette starts middle school.  Not that we’re relocating very far – 11 miles north to be exact. 

 

I don’t like moving.  Probably because I haven’t had much practice.  Excluding college, I’ve moved exactly 3 times in my adult life – 5 times if we go back to birth.  Obviously, I like putting down roots and am reluctant to move unless and until it becomes necessary.  I’ll miss my office.  Not only is it exactly what I’ve always wanted, in the correct colors and swimming in flamingos (bad metaphor since flamingos aren’t big swimmers), I have killer views of the sunset over the lake. 

 

But as I’ve dipped my toes (9 out of 10) into what’s out there, I’ve decided that it won’t be too hard to find a house with an office I can learn to love.  It does remind me of the old days of space sharing.  The first seven years I was published when my office was also the guest room, the store-it room, and the stuff-we-can’t-find-anyplace-else-to-put room.  I won’t be doing that again, but there’s a uniquely Florida thing when it comes to house design. 

 

The formal living and dining rooms.  One of the reasons to live in Florida is the casual lifestyle.  So why, I keep asking, would I want a formal anything?  When we entertain, it’s always a casual half-in, half-out affair.  When it’s in the low 80s in February, why would you want to eat anywhere other than on the lanai?  So we have two rooms that we basically walk through to get to the rooms we use.  I did see a model house where they’d turned the formal dining room into an office.  You walked into the foyer and smack into the middle of the neat as a pin office.  Fine in a model, hardly practical.  When I’m deep into a book, my office isn’t tidy.  I can’t imagine having everyone traipse through my office to get to the kitchen.  I’d probably start thinking percussion mines – at least discourage some of the foot traffic.

 

The Demerol is kicking in, so I’ll stop droning about house hunting.  Oh, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you to zip over to Romance Novel TV (http://www.romancenovel.tv/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=4)  to see Beth Coitta and myself at the NJRWA Conference.

 

Have a great day!

Rhonda

A new toe.  Technically a new toe joint, but new toe just sounds better.  At 9:45 this morning, I’m getting said new toe.  Why?  Well I got this wild hair after getting new toe #1 that I would turn over a new leaf and exercise.  But what kind of exercise?  After reviewing my options, I figured a jazz class would be fun and serve the cardio improvement concept.

 

Paint a big ‘A” for ass on my forehead.  Just 3 weeks into said jazz class, I broke the bone holding toe #1’s implant in place.  So I’ve been hobbling and abusing Tylenol for months.  I wanted to get through the holidays without gauze dressings and crutches.  So today is the day.

 

And of course when you are on deadline and fully aware of the fact that for the next few weeks you’ll be in bed, foot elevated, tethered to your laptop, and a tad loopy from the meds, it’s a great idea to decide to put your house up for sale.  Yep, made that decision this week, too.  Maybe I was under the influence of Tylenol, but it has to be done.  Don’t get me wrong, I like my house.  I don’t like the middle school my daughter is slated to attend next year.  And I’m not big on the private school options.  Affordable faith based or $20k for the only other private school in the area. 

 

But the toe and the house decision aren’t the things I’ll remember from this week.  No, in a couple of months I’ll look back and recall that on January 17, 2008, my daughter put on pointe shoes for the very first time.  It may sound like a small, insignificant thing but it’s a big deal.  She’s worked toward this for more than five years and to see the concentration on her face as she stood at that ballet barre in her shiny satin toe shoes is indelibly etched in my brain.

 

So what do you get a woman who has almost everything?  A treasured memory.

 

There’s a reason I hate being a homeowner – stuff breaks.  And I’m married to a man with very few man skills.  We even have to hire an electrician to change the florescent bulbs – my dh can’t set the tubes into place.  Personally, I think he suffers from homeowner performance anxiety.  This week it’s the pool pump motor.  It went something like this:

 

Friday:

“Honey, do you hear the pump?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t usually sound like that.”

“Why don’t you go turn it off?”

“I don’t know how.”

(In a seriously pissy tone)  “Fine, I’ll do it.”  – BTW, it requires opening a small box mounted on the outside wall above said rattling pump and flipping the switch to ‘off.’  I return with my clothing damp from having brushed up against the hedging hiding the pool heater and parts (and occasionally a VERY big black snake).  “Honey, go call the pool guy and tell him about the noise.”

DH, “Naw, I’m sure it will be fine if we just let it rest for a day.”

Rest?  It’s a flipping pool motor, not a rump roast, though by this time I was mentally thinking my husband was a rump hole.

 

Saturday:

Pool motor comes on, sound is worse.

Me:  “Go turn it off.”

DH: “I don’t know how.”  (See above for the rest of the conversation).

 

Sunday:

Pool motor grinds to life.

DH:  “Maybe we should call the pool guy.”

Me: “It’s Sunday, I’m not haunting him on a Sunday.  I’ll turn it off, want to come with me so you can learn how to do this in case I die or something?”

“Naw, you’re really good at it.”

 

Monday:

Pool motor sounds really, really bad.  I bypass the pointless conversation with my dh and go to turn it off.  It’s stuck, so I improvise and change the automatic timer to trick the ailing motor into thinking it’s done for the day.  I call the pool guy.  He’ll come out at the end of the day.  Yeah – the cavalry is coming!

But the pool motor cops an attitude and turns itself back on.  I curse, go back out and turn it off manually, then tell my husband to go into the garage and cut the circuit breaker for the pool equipment.

DH: “How do I do that?”

“Um, open the panel and find the pool equipment label and flip it to the off position.  Surely a man with an MBA can do that, right?”

A few hours later, on come the rumbling, grumbling pool motor.  Me:  “Didn’t you flip the breaker?”

“Yes.”

So I go check and turns out girlie man shut off the pool lights.

 

In my next life, I’m marrying a handy guy.

 

Over at www.Babesinbookland.com this week we’re talking about making resolutions – pros and cons – as well as strategies to be more organized – in writing and life – and we’ve even gotten a great challenge from Leanne Banks!

So, planning on a fresh 2008?  Head on over and don’t forget this site: http://www.onlineorganizing.com/ExpertAdviceToolbox.asp it has some great tips for being all you can be!

Happy 2008, Rhonda

‘Tis the season of over-commitment.  At least it is for me.  There’s decorating, baking, shopping, wrapping, the dreaded Christmas Letter, Christmas Cards, hosting Christmas Eve dinner for 45, my daughter’s Nutcracker practices and performances, nagging my husband to do a few things that I usually end up doing when I get tired of waiting on his happy butt to get into gear (for example – did he swing by to get the stands from the caterer so I can set-up the buffet?  Nope, he painted the front walkway that no one will see on Christmas Eve because it will be dark when they arrive)