King of the Nerds

Or, as I like to call him, the hubs.

One of the things I'm working on, one of my WIPs, requires some knowledge of martial arts. The hubs is huge into MMA -- mixed martial arts, for those of you not in the know. I've gotten attached to it a bit myself -- hunky guys wearing next to nothing while they pummel each other into oblivion. It has a certain charm. Did I mention they were hunky and wearing next to nothing?

So, I want to ensure that my WIP has veracity. I don't want to use the incorrect style name -- don't call it Karate when it's Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, don't call someone Sensei when it should be Sifu, and so on. I have Mr. MMA sitting at the dinner table with me. I figure, why not ask the expert?

Oh. Right. I remember why not now. Because the expert is going to give you all the information you need, and more. Much, much more.

"Honey, I need to have a monk running this thing. So I can have his wife --"
"A real Shaolin monk isn't married. That's in the movies."
"Okay, then what is a real Shaolin monk?"
"Well, you see, thousands of years ago --"
"Um, hon? I don't care this much. I need my hero to excel in several styles, so he's Mr. Skills."
"Well, there's infinite variety. He could go for years and become great, without having to leave Kung Fu."
"Fab. You realize I'm writing this book for real people, not martial arts nerds, right? I need styles, with names, that someone belts in, so the hero can be a black belt."
"Why does he have to have a black belt? There's plenty of forms that don't belt."
"Because regular people understand that someone who's a black belt is an expert. I don't have to explain. And what the heck do you mean by forms?"
"Well, like, he could be a master of Iron Fist."
"What's that?"
"Where your hands get so strong you pretty much have --"
"The G.I. Joe Kung Fu Grip?"
"Yeah."
"Why would I want my hero to have this skill?"
"Because it's cool."
"Not to non-martial arts nerds."
"Then have him be Iron Body. It starts with people beating you constantly with sticks. So you end up immune to pain."
"He's not immune to pain. He needs to be in pain at some point so my heroine can help him. He's a cop, not a superhero. Besides, do you belt in Iron Whatever?"
"No. But it's cool."
"Again, to martial arts nerds, only. What part of my questions and description of my targeted readers aren't coming through?"

And so it went. I finally got what I needed from him, but it was painful, even without someone hitting me with sticks, and a lot more work than it needed to be.

Oh, and just so you know, there is an additional aspect of the Iron Body stuff that some martial artists do. It's a strengthening technique that is, frankly, horrific in an almost hilarious way -- and I've seen the pictures to prove it. The end result, however, is supposed to ensure that the man can pretty much take a cannonball to the groin and keep on going. And yes, it's called exactly what you think it's called.

I put up with the hubs because, in his own way, he's mastered this technique, at least so far as it applies in the romance department. He may be a nerd, but he's a hunky one, and when it comes to Iron Unmentionables, he truly is the king.

Iron Love,
Gini

Walking Dead?

I need to find my resting pulse. Because, as near as I can tell, I've misplaced it somewhere.

See, I have to do this medical-type thing for work -- to get money. Believe me, that's the only reason why I go near medical anything. And part of the thing is that I have to figure out my resting pulse. Only...I can't find it.

I mean, I know how to find it. I know which fingers to use and where to press and everything. They even provide clear instructions with pictures. And unless you're supposed to press so hard you stop the flow of blood completely, I'm doing it right.

Only...no pulse. At all. And yet, here I am, talking, walking about, eating, sleeping, typing. All without a pulse.

So, my question is -- did I turn into an undead and just don't know it? And, if that's what's happened, how is it I missed all the fun stuff normally associated with this kind of transition?

I mean, no vampire swooped in, swept me off my feet, and proposed eternal life along with some serious necking. No werewolf panted up and humped my leg. I think someone would have mentioned if I'd gotten a love bite from a zombie, though the difference in the morning hours between me and a zombie is mostly skin tone. No ghostly visitations, no warlock waving his wand around, not even any witches hissing at me. I have no pulse and yet at the same time, no fun story to show for it, either.

Unlife's not fair, is it?

Love,
Gini

'Tis the Season...

I'm not really on top of the holidays. Ever. But this year in particular. This year is what I like to call a Nostalgia Year. A year where I go back in time and shop like I used to when I was an older teenager and early twenty-something.

As in, I'm gonna get all MY shopping done on December 24th.

I'm a procrastinator by nature -- frankly, I'm a Gold Medalist in the sport, for many years running. But, more than that, I'm busy. Busy working. Busy taking care of the family and household needs. Busy writing. Busy doing writing-related things. Busy, busy, busy. And I like writing a lot more than I like shopping.

Now, lest the hubs read this and choke so hard it kills him, let me stress that I'm all over the buying and the spending and the getting and the having. It's the work involved in shopping well and wisely that I'm not all that into, this year in particular.

To me, writing isn't work. It's fun, it's exciting, it's joy. Shopping, on the other hand, feels more and more like work. And work is so rarely fun. I'd much rather spend time with my characters and plots and crit partner and beta readers and agent than trudge to the mall to slam dance with the other shoppers trying to get the best deal or the last Elmo doll or something.

But, there are children to shop for, and, to quote one of my favorite comedies (Dirty Rotten Scoundrels)...but...for the children...I'll take it. I'll go slam and trudge and shop 'til I drop to make sure the little ones have what their little hearts desire. Or something to that effect.

But first, I really have to finish this latest chapter...

Love,
Gini

My Fab Weekend

I had a great weekend planned. Truly I did. Parties and such. Fun. Relaxation.

Of course, as with so many things I plan, this went awry. And that quickly.

Before we went off to Las Vegas and SoCal the other week, the hubs and I noticed we had a leak. It was in the front of the house, outside, clearly related to the irrigation system. I called a plumber. They took my credit card and said they'd be by the next Monday (when we were recovering from our night out at the Vegas bars that didn't allow loud talk or foul language).

The plumbers did arrive and did call -- at an awful time in the morning, especially since we were still asleep in the nice, comfy hotel bed -- to share that they couldn't work on this because it was indeed irrigation related. So, they and the hubs conferred, and he felt competent to handle the situation once we were home.

Which he was, only the ma-ROON who owned this house before us fancied himself a contractor and handyman and did a lot of remodeling work. Himself. All of it wrong.

I won't get into all the wrong here, but suffice to say, if it's not working right, it's because this genius monkey had a hand in it.

So, the hubs turned off the water to the house, and pulled off the bad piece, which, because our water is so hard, broke off in his hands. And then, because the ma-ROON set up the irrigation and sprinkler system at the wrong point in the water system, instead of an easy fix, the hubs had created our very own Old Faithful.

One hysterical call to the City and fifteen wet minutes later, the water was shut off. Completely. By the City. Of course, in order to turn it back on, the City must come out again.

No worries, right? (Oh, stop that snickering in the back of the room.) The hubs fixed the pipes and we had to wait 2 hours for the glue to set. Then he called the City. To discover that there were 4 water mains broken all over the place, and while we were on their list, they weren't coming by any time soon.

Let me mention that no water means NO WATER. No washing of the hands. No cleaning of the dishes. No flushing of the toilet. Yes, exactly...and no outhouse, either.

The nice man from the City managed to reach us at 9pm. By then, we'd given up all hope of the parties -- the hubs was still covered in pipe glue and crud and I was in no mood. We threw a party for the man when he turned the water back on.

But, you know, at this time of the year, it's good to remember all that we have and can and should be thankful for, right? Me, I'm beyond thankful that we have friends who let us come by merely to use their bathroom, that the nice man showed up before midnight, and that we have indoor plumbing.

It's the little things you treasure...

Love,
Gini

"Sin" City -- Yeah...RIGHT

So, you wouldn't think that anything wouldn't go in Vegas, would you? You know their big slogan -- what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Gives the impression that this place is WILD, baby! Well, I'm here to tell you that you'd be wrong.

The hubs and I got to Vegas in record time...I think it may have taken us longer than anyone else this year. But, we got in, and raced right off to a bar. Because that's how we roll, okay?

So, there we are, in Red Square in the Mandalay Bay complex, having some kick-butt and scary expensive martinis. A couple of fun guys sit down next to us, and soon, it's a party for four -- sharing booze and jokes and generally having fun.

It's a Sunday night in Las Vegas -- the Sunday before Thanksgiving, I must mention -- in the middle of a scary crappy economic situation, so you'd FIGURE that they'd be thrilled we were there, drinking and laughing and generally showing their place to be a hip, happening spot. And you would be wrong.

One of the guys -- who I'll call John, since that's his name -- was telling ribald jokes in a loud and ribald manner. And he was told to keep it down. And to stop cursing. (This just in: Loud voices no longer allowed in Vegas.)

So, he tried. But we were drinking a LOT of vodka, and, well, fun folks get loud, okay? So, he got told, again, to stop talking loudly and, above all, to stop using "foul language". (This just in: Dirty words no longer allowed in Vegas.)

He tried. As God is my witness, he tried. But, you know, the jokes were good dirty jokes and, as will happen when a man is drinking $350 a bottle vodka (no freaking lie), he got loud again. And we were told, in no uncertain terms, to stifle John or get the hell out.

Yes, it's true. The hubs and I were kicked out of a bar in Vegas for being too loud and ribald. And the bar in Vegas kicked out two men who were -- up until our group shunning by the apparently Amish folks running this particular bar -- planning to try each and every vodka in the place. And the place has hundreds of vodkas. (This just in: Making money on the overpriced sale of alcohol no longer as important as decorum in Vegas.)

So, we went to another bar, where the DJ was rolling hot 70's tunes and John and I disco danced and were loud and obnoxious because no one could hear us while the other guy (name protected so his wife doesn't think he was doing anything untoward -- which he wasn't, since he wasn't being loud or using dirty words) and the hubs chatted business (sorta) and the other guy convinced the hubs that dancing with one's own wife is a good way to keep said wife happy.

I had a great time. I loved these two guys...at least, what I can remember of them. We all had a LOT of vodka. My only regret is that our new friends live in Texas and so I can't party with them on a regular basis. (This just in: It's apparently more fun in Texas than in Las Vegas.)

And remember if you're going to Vegas, you behave yourselves and keep the noise, and especially the dirty words, down. Decorum, that's the new Vegas slogan. And above all, do NOT, under any circumstances, order the $350 a bottle vodka and expect to be treated well by the bar staff.

Love,
Gini

Holiday Tip #2: If you buy Gini a bottle of $350 a bottle vodka, she will love you no matter what else you do.

Off...to Las Vegas...

...go north, the hunt is on. (A little something for you Johnny Horton fans out there. You know who you are.)

It's on. The man and I are heading for the City of Lights, the City That Never Sleeps, the City That Takes Your Money -- we're going to Vegas, baby!

I don't expect to win (much), but I do expect to eat, drink and be merry. And then go to SoCal and visit the 'rents and cook the turkey (yes, it's true, they leave the bird to me...why ask why?). And then come merrily home to collapse. And, possibly, write about it.

Conveniently, I need to go location scouting for books, and in both cities, too. So I'm sure this will all be tax deductible, right? Right? ESPECIALLY if we win big. Then that MUST be tax deductible, right? Right? (Of course, the chances of us winning big are in direct proportion to the likelihood that we will gamble enough to make winning a possibility. And we won't. So, for all you CPAs out there, no worries, we're cool.)

So, on the (likely) chance I don't 'see' all of you until after the big day, have a Happy Thanksgiving!

I leave you with Gini's Holiday Tip #1: If you put in enough wine, everything -- the turkey, the vacation, that boring relative who won't leave you alone, driving all over creation with your spouse, visiting your parents, boredom, the dessert -- comes out great. So, live by the motto of, "More wine!"

Love,
Gini

The Creation Agent, Installment 2 - Live

Alert for those of you not on Hook Me Up!

Installment 2 of my website-only serialized novel, "The Creation Agent" is up. Click on Expanded Universes and enjoy! And feel free to give comments and feedback on the blog.

Happy reading!

Love,
Gini

Gini's Spyder Web

So, I went to test drive the Y-factor. Which is marketing hype for a 3-wheeled motorcycle, called the Spyder.

We have Kawasaki Ninjas (mine is a 250, my husband's is a 600), but I'm still riding down the streets and highways going, "Ahhhhhhhhhh!" in my mind. The entire time. Every ride. I think I'm too aware of how easy it is to die on a bike.

I'm also too aware of the fact that I dropped my bike the first day I had it. Going 3 mph.

Of course, it dropped because I was going 3 mph. But, still, the healthy fear is there. And every corner said healthy fear rears its head and goes, "Gini...you're gonna die!" What can I say? My healthy fear has a life, and a big mouth, of its own.

I know that dropping the bike is my biggest fear. I also know that I love riding. So, the big motorcycle show was in town, and I decided to test drive a Spyder. A three-wheeled, traction-awesome, you-can't-drop-it, nor-can-you-flip-it bike.

The difference between a Spyder and a tricycle is that the two wheels are in the front on a Spyder, hence the Y-factor thing. The Spyder also looks like a modern Batcycle. It's very cool. You don't look stupid or scared on it, you look like you're about to go to the Bat Cave and change into your Kevlar Batsuit and then go fight crime in a totally cool manner. So, obviously, I like the way the Spyder looks.

I had a few challenges, of course. I mean, nothing can be easy, at least for me. I wanted to test drive their semi-automatic and essentially forced them to bring one to me for the mini-test. Because I panicked and went totally blank and could not, for the life of me or anyone else, remember how to shift. But, once that was past, I was good. Terrifying the instructors and salesmen, but still good. Slower than everyone else, but still good.

Hey, I feel the need for speed just like everyone else, but we were testing on city streets and the police force were out and cruising. About the last thing I wanted to do was get a speeding ticket during this test drive. I'll save that for when I get one and let 'er rip on the open road.

The big test, of course, wasn't the power. This thing has, easy, triple the engine power of my Ninja. I needed to catch up to the rest of the test driving herd, so I just revved it and flew, almost literally, through the intersection. No, power is not an issue. Neither is handling. Some of the guys testing with me felt it was bulky and didn't handle like their bikes. I was going, "I can't drop it!" I loved the way it handled. Especially around corners.

Oh, the corners. I was fine on most of them, but there was one right turn where I was going far too fast and I knew it. Had I been on my Ninja, I probably would have wiped out. But I felt the Spyder go, "Oh, she's taking this one too fast. Better slow us down a tad and engage the traction control. There we are, little lady. All safe, sound and speeding along." The Spyder also told my healthy fear to shut up and leave me alone. It was like driving the motorcycle version of KITT, only the Spyder has a sexier voice.

Needless to say, I want one. Preferably in black. Or silver. Maybe even the red. But the black is the coolest, and the most like Batman or Robin would drive. However, the yellow one is out. After all, I want to be Batgirl, not the Yellow BumbleBee.

Love,
Gini

P.S. Check out my Playlists page to see a picture of me on the Batcycle.

15 Minutes of Fame

Got to do something really fun the other night -- I got to lead a table topic at my RWA Chapter (Desert Rose) meeting. And no, it wasn’t on how to properly pick the right Aerosmith album to listen to while writing (though I could do that one in my sleep).

No, it was about networking at writing conferences.

And, before you scoff and snicker, I’m actually very good at it. It’s how I landed my most awesome agent. Well, I had good books, too, but I got in a strong position to share them with her by utilizing my networking skills.

It was great fun to share my experiences with the gals at my table. They had a lot of good questions, too, which is always great when you’re a speaker -- no one wants to present to the Silent Zombies. So, I had fun and got to impart some actual wisdom, so a good time had by all and all that.

Of course the real test isn’t how well it went with a group of writers who are already dedicated to the art and professionals in their own rights.

No, indeed. The real test is going to come next month. When I get to present to a full classroom…of high school students.

I'm sure it'll be fine. After all, to paraphrase my favorite line out of "Real Genius", the young folks love it when I get down with them verbally.

And maybe I can convince some of the nice gals who were at my table at the Desert Rose meeting to come with me as plants in the audience...hey, they were all fun and youthful, it could work...

-- Love, Gini

The Haunting of Gini

I went up to Jerome last weekend, in order to take part in a Haunted Writer's Retreat.

It was fun and all. Good food. Found some great jewelry. Relaxed -- somewhat. We didn't see any ghosts, of course. Not because we didn't want to. No, we didn't see them...but we did feel their presence.

"Oooh, Gini!" you say. "You felt the icy fingers? Had chills? Felt something walk through you? Heard ghostly howling? Ran into Elvis?"

Actually...no.

The ceiling in our room leaked. A lot. From no discernable source.

Before that sounds all exciting, let me quickly say that the hotel determined the source -- a broken pipe that handled bathtub overflow from the rooms in the floor above us -- it just took a while. And the indoor rain stopped...in about 3 hours. The folks in the room above us had, apparently, run a bath and then forgotten about it, so there was a LOT of water raining (heh) down into our room.

We had plenty to do in those hours, us and the nice kid who was functioning as maintenance. Rearranging the entire room, for starters, since the water was falling on one of the beds. New linens and such. Basically once we were through you could have done some serious break-dancing in the middle of our room. It wasn't conducive to writing, however.

The hotel comped me for the night, of course. But it did make me think -- was it really faulty pipes? Or were the ghosts that supposedly infest this place just playing a prank?

But the one thing I really can't stop thinking about? How do you start running a bath in a hotel room, anywhere, really, and then just forget about it? I really wanted to ask the people above us what they were doing while their bathtub was flooding my room. I have my guesses, of course.

I think they were playing Hide The Haunt. But we'll never know. They disappeared mysteriously the next morning, never to be seen again.

Well, I overstate. They paid their bill and took off before I got up the next day. Though I do hope I don't run into them again -- we've booked the same room for next year's retreat and, really, one wet, haunted ceiling is enough for me.

-- Love, Gini

Harsh Realities

One of the more interesting bits of information I picked up at the last conference I attended was the way the editorial process works for novels.

At some smaller houses, the editors have free reign -- they choose what they want and, if all goes well, go with it. They like your writing, they like your agent and trust his or her opinion, they think the book can sell, they buy it.

But at most of the bigger houses, it's decided by committee. So, the editor picks your book, likes it enough to champion, and then takes it to the full staff for review. The process varies a bit per house, but your book is going to need a variety of champions in order to make it to the acceptance phase.

There are pros and cons to each, of course. You know at the smaller house that if they like you, they're going for it, which is cool. You know at the bigger house that if they like you, someone fought persuasivly to ensure they ALL like you.

Either way, it helps explain in part why the process takes (to writers) so long. The editor at the smaller house, having full authority, is going to be VERY careful and really consider all the options before saying "it's for us." The editor at the bigger house is going to do that, too, because he or she is going to then have to fight for your book. Careful consideration is being given all along the way.

The positive? When you DO get the contract offer, it's nice to know it means that they like you...they really, really like you!

Conferences ROCK!

Just got back from the Society of Southwestern Author’s Wrangling with Writing conference. Had a BLAST. And, um, well, that’s why I haven’t updated until today.

Not only did I get to hang with my most fabulous agent, but she had me in front of a really smart, savvy editor from a big house, so I could pitch some of my other books…which said editor wants to see. Way cool.

Got to meet other agents, editors and authors and just be with those who ‘get it’, get what the writing life, and the writing business, is like.

But it IS a business, and conferences are part of that business. I’ve had a lot of fellow writers tell me they can’t afford to go to conferences. My response is that you can’t afford not to. Learning how to pitch in person, how to network, how to just relax and be part of the writing group, are all things that successful writers know how to do, and wannabe successful writers need to learn how to do.

In later blogs I’ll parcel out some of the learnings…and some interviews with agents along the way. I’d do it now, but hey! Gotta keep dangling the good stuff to keep the readers coming back for more, right?

Per the conference -- of course right!

Love, Gini

Music and Writing

I happen to be one of those writers who has to have music playing when I create.

Boy, that sounds lofty.

Let me be more honest. I’m someone who has to have music playing all the time or I risk going insane. I am not one with the sounds of silence, no matter what Alanis Morissette might want to say about it.

My issue isn’t that I’m not comfortable in silence. Well, okay, I’m not. But I’m not comfortable in silence because unless you’re in a soundproofed room all alone, there is no such thing in our world today as ‘silent’. And I have good hearing. And it’s selective. And worse, I have a vivid imagination. And it’s not selective at all.

Little tinkle that could mean the wind’s blowing the chimes or could mean someone just broke the basement window? Odd sound that might be the dog’s tummy rumbling or could indicate immediate danger of the earth opening up and swallowing the city whole? Repetitive sound the fans and air conditioning make? I hear all of them. And they distract me.

But if I put music on…then I only hear what I want to hear. And it’s not always the music.

For example, I play music when I’m on the telephone. So that I actually pay attention to the person I’m speaking with. Otherwise, they’re telling me about their latest brush with the law and I’m thinking, “Was that…was that a bug knocking against the window, or is a zombie about to attack?”

So music’s an integral part of my life. Therefore and by obvious extension, it’s a huge part of my writing life.

I need music not only to drown out the other things -- like the TV, the husband, the daughter, the pets, those damned fans -- that will distract me, but to inspire. And said music had darned well better have lyrics. In fact, I was originally going to title this Music and Lyrics, but didn’t want to make Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore all jealous. (But, I have to admit…I LOVE that movie. *cough* Okay, yeah, back to the topic. Whatever it actually is.)

I’m not a classical music kind of girl. Oh, I like plenty of it, but not to write to. With no lyrics, the music ends up, for me, just like the stupid fan -- I hear it and start going, “Is that…is that a bassoon or an oboe? I have no idea, but I think it’s a bassoon. No, oboe. No, French Horn.” That way lies madness. Trust me.

All this is to explain why I, a writer, have an entire page devoted to my playlists. And why some of my links are to band sites. (Because there is nothing cooler in this entire world than Aerosmith, okay?!? *cough* Sorry.) Because I can’t survive or create without them.

What about you? Strong, silent type, or rock ‘n’ roller all the way? No worries if you’re the former…we serve all kinds here.

Love, Gini

My World and Welcome To It

So, here it is, my first blog on my brand, spankin’ new website. Wahoo!

*cough*

So, I guess I’m supposed to say something all awesome and witty and interesting now, right? Ummm…

(crickets)

Dang.

Well, let’s just go with top of my head, semi-informative and see how it goes.

I’m a writer (yeah, okay, obviously, but it had to be said) and since I took the time to write a bio, I’m going to force you to find it to get all that bio-type stuff. It’s cleverly hidden on my Playlist page, since I’m far more into music than I’m into me.

My goal with the blog is to share some of the creative process, some of the business process, and some of the fun. I’d really love for you to make comments (though nasty for the sake of nasty ones will be taken down -- ex-boyfriends, you have been warned). My goal is also to blog on at least a semi-regular basis. I’d promise daily, but I know myself. So, let’s shoot for at least twice a week and as the mood strikes me and see how it goes.

Sounds like a plan, and I’m great with plans. We won’t talk about follow through at this precise moment…

Love,
Gini