I was a Teenage Starbucks Freak Magnet

Okay, fine, fine. I'm a regular old Starbucks Freak Magnet. And I'm afraid that we are about to veer wildly into a rant here in just a moment, which I normally try to avoid in favor of a less hysterical "here's how it went down" sort of approach. But this case was special. So here it goes, my tale of woe...

The other day I told a complete stranger that my name was Susie. (It's not. No part of my name is Susie.) It seemed easier than telling him I refused to tell him my name when he asked. As I was trying to justify buying a box of chocolate-covered dried raspberries, he suddenly took my wrist, encircled it with his fingers and started calling me "little sparrow." And then later, when he shrieked, "Susie!" across the crowded Starbucks, in the midst of some kind of psychotic break, I actually turned to him and responded. I guess I felt I had to commit to the character. That's his psychotic break, by the way, not mine.

This was the third episode of a Starbucks Stranger Personal Space Violation in a week. As I said, I'm a Starbucks Freak Magnet.

I don't know about where you live, but in L.A., Starbucks is an official home office. We've got twenty different people doing business on their cellphones at any given time, ten people on laptops writing bad scripts, three people meeting their new tenants to sign an agreement...you get the picture. I thought it was understood that we were all there to do business. In fact, just today there were these guys who brought their printer in. Not kidding.

Of course, it was an odd day all around, what with the spontaneous fire behind the counter that emitted a really horrible chemical smell, plus the girl who came in with the collar up on her polo shirt. Honestly, I haven't decided which of those three things (printer, fire, 80s fashion trauma) is more bizarre.

But I digress.

I honestly don't know what it is about me. I'm beginning to think that when I'm working I appear to be some sort of wispy, docile creature. In other words, prey. Of course, I'm not really all that wispy or docile ,and I don't happen to like being accosted by people who really don't have particularly valid intentions. (Don't ask me to explain what a valid intention is, but I think you know what I'm saying.)

I go to Starbucks to work, and I have headphones which I put on whether or not I actually listen to music. The headphones are supposed to mean, "I can't hear you, I'm working, please don't talk to me unless you are a movie star." That's what they seem to mean for all the other people wearing them.

But all of a sudden, in the span of a week, I've got the Susie guy touching me and telling me I'm like a little sparrow (What? What?! ) and the chess player clearly two pawns short of a brain who wants to know if he can even maybe talk to me again some time. (Good god, man. If you have to ask...) and the guy who gets me to take off my headphones so he can tell me that he's an MBA and warns me that if I don't have a great marketing strategy "like throwing a big party" for myself, my career is going to tank (Thanks. That's helpful. BTW, why don't we take your MBA and pit it against the combination of my MBA, BS in business and CPA, and see what we got, eh? Now go talk yourself up to someone NOT WEARING HEADPHONES.)

At its core, this is a problem related to politeness. If someone is talking to you in spite of your headphones, common courtesy suggests you acknowledge that they are talking. So I've thought about it some, and I think I've figured out the solution.

How to Cure Freak Magnetism:

There is one major rule. When the moment arrives and the Freak accosts you, do not--I repeat--do not actually remove said headphones completely from head. At any time.

Instead, you want to modify your approach to a mere easing away from one ear. Easing. Gently. Because you do not, under any circumstances, want to let your fingers fall away from the headphones. Your fingers must touch the headphone device throughout the entire ordeal. This will create a persistent connection, that is, clear body language that says that you only have but a few seconds for him. Are you with me? So, like this:

Freak: "Hi, can I ask you a question?"

You: Feign inability to hear.

Freak: "Hi! You're so little!*"
*Yes, someone actually said this to me.

You: (realizing the futility of pretending you can't hear) "One sec."

This is it. This is your moment. Take forefinger and thumb. Ease the earpiece closest to the perpetrator gently away from your ear. Take care not to dislodge the entire headphone device! This would be certain disaster. Once earpiece is eased as described, lean forward slightly with wrinkled brow so as to denote that a) you have been disturbed and b) you are in motion and what goes forward must go back.

You: "Sorry, what?"

Freak: Asks a bogus question that has no relationship to anything he has said before.

You: Answer the question politely, succintly, say, "Well...gotta get back to it!" in pseudo-maniacal perky persona. THEN EASE THE EARPIECE BACK, never having let your fingers move away until entire headphone set is securely fastened.

I truly believe that it's all in the Ear-Ease (patent pending). I guess I'll have to try it when I get back from the conference.

And that's it. That's the rant. Of course, I'm sure you're all wondering, 'cause I mean, it all really does beg the question: Why is it never Clive Owen telling me I'm like a little sparrow? Notice how when it's Clive Owen saying it, it's just so much better. Maybe still a little creepy dangerous, but in more of a bad boy way as opposed to a parolee way. So why is it never Clive Owen? Why? I'll tell you why. Because movie stars don't buy coffee in the Valley. They buy coffee in Brentwood.

P.S. The next person who calls me "little sparrow" dies a fiery death. How's that for wispy and docile?

Actually, you *can* judge a book by its cover, so...

Book covers are SO important. So, so important. I happen to have had the most unbelieveable luck as far as covers. Every book title--with the exception of my novella in Secrets 8*--was the one I originally wanted. And every cover I've had has been at the worst, above average and at the best, drop dead fantastic. It's definitely a cross your fingers moment, though, when that cover art shows up in your inbox.

As it happens, my publisher asked me for my input on the cover art for Crimson Rogue the other day. I wouldn't say that it's normal to have input, but both my publishers are really good about it, and this particular publisher is among the best as far as welcoming--and using--your input.

I started off the way I always do:

"Please, please no clinch covers. Absolutely nothing where the hero and heroine are hugging, fondling one another, looking adoringly into each other’s eyes or otherwise committing clinch."

Then I waxed on a bit about my vision for the overall concept (I won't tell you 'cause I don't want to spoil it!) and moved on to a description of the hero and heroine which included the following plea...

"First off, as I’ve stated in the past (and you agreed with me!! Yay!) um, please do not put the heroine (or the hero, for that matter) in Spandex. Tight leather, cool. Tight Spandex, uncool. Clothing with pockets/zippers, cool. Layers of stuff, i.e. vests over longsleeves with ammo strapped on, cool.

Repurposed photo of corporate executive type or cheeseball 'space-fantasy hero,' uncool."

(I should note, at this point, that kick-butt action romances of the particular flavor that I write are relatively new. Frankly, I just don't think the publishers have the proper stuff in their wardrobe rooms. They're all gonna have to go to Army Surplus, or something, and get some decent props. You know some SWAT gear. I described Jenny Red in The Shadow Runners as being totally strapped with all kinds of weapons...they gave her a putty knife. I'm still laughing about it. Go look closely at that cover. That's a putty knife strapped to her leg. They Photoshopped the flat edge to a point. I still think it's a great cover, though.)

...and referenced the always amusing 'hair issue' in and amongst other things...

"It’s not critical that she be shown packing weapons (though I’m all for it), but she should look like she could definitely kick some major ass. Her hair could be up, down, ponytail, whatever, but it’s probably not going to look like she just stepped out of a salon. If you do a ponytail, please make sure you can see the tail of hair." (It's my only nitpick about the cover for Crimson City...her hair should be coming over her shoulder, or if it's an updo, more hair should be seen atop her head. Yeah, I'm a little obsessive about this. I realize that. Heh.)

And that's just a snippet. I wrote more than two pages of description about overall vision, setting, color scheme, hair, hero, heroine, pants, jackets, attitude, you name it. (How about this? When I get the cover, I'll post it along with the full text of what I wrote and we can do an analysis! Fun!)

I wouldn't say this is normal. But that's just me. I don't want to get a cover and be suddenly disappointed that they didn't "get it" when I didn't explain what "it" was.

The penguins on the cover of Adventures of an Ice Princess? Yup. I said, "Um, I really want a penguin on the cover. Penguins are cute. Everybody loves a penguin. So if I couldn't have anything else, could I at least have a penguin?"

Jenny Red on the cover of The Shadow Runners? I said. "She's like a red-headed faux-hawked Gwen Stefani." Okay, she's not Gwen, but they got the sense of the character perfectly.

What a Girl Wants, my first book, was the only book I didn't really have input for. I thought it a wee bit "general" but people seem to really love the cover, so what do I know?

I helped brainstorm the cover for Card Sharks, and let me tell you that the result is way better than I even could have imagined. Well, except for the fact that my name is so small it's impossible to tell I wrote the book. But it's EMBOSSED, dammit! And that means I'm loved. ;)



*Extra credit if you remember from a past post what the original title of Kiss or Kill was!

Tae Bo: I didn't die. Probably because I didn't do it.

So some of you have been waiting for my Tae Bo update. The truth is...I did, indeed, go to the Billy Blanks Tae Bo WORLD TRAINING CENTER. I slipped in the door and this is what I found:

A very, very large sparsely decorated...space. It smelled like sweaty men (a lot of them), and I don't mean that in the good way. There were long banners with oddly-worded motivational sayings. There was a big sign warning against taking pictures which, as I'm sure you can imagine, disappointed me greatly.

To one side of this massive cavern of an exercise space sat two women--behind a wall of protective plexiglass, for god's sake. And frankly, I have a sense that if Billy Blanks so much as reads this blog, he's going to yell at me.

Not that I've met him. Or will anytime soon. Because after asking the two women which of the classes would provide the maximum benefit with the least amount of public humiliation for a beginner, I was instructed to try the half-hour "Basic" class. And something tells me that Billy doesn't teach the Basic class.

So, I'll have to let you know how it works out when I finally go. But damn, I wish they'd let me bring in my camera.

ON TOUR: Gena Showalter & CJ Barry (Can I get a woo-ha?)

I think you'd have to have been under a rock not to know about these two fine authors and their respective books. (If you've just come out from under a rock, I'd like to welcome you to my blog. And add that there's really nothing wrong with the whole rock thing. I'm just saying.) There's fun bonus material at the end of the blog, so read on...

Gena Showalter* is the author of Awaken Me Darkly. CJ Barry** is the author of Unmasked.

Unmasked by CJ Barry
To the merchants he plunders, he is the Ghost Rider of the Dead Zone. To sector law enforcement, he is a wanted space pirate. To the slaves he rescues, he is the savior laghato. To one determined female captain, Qaade Deter is serious trouble.

Torrie Masters had heard of the legendary raider, but she never expected to encounter him, especially on her maiden voyage for her family's shipping business. Nor would she have expected that beneath his black mask lurked an enticing man destined to challenge her in ways she can’t shoot herself out of.

But a great threat has emerged, one that leaves Qaade no choice but to join forces with the woman he believed was his enemy. A woman with a warrior's spirit—now entrusted with the fate of thousands, one pirate’s impossible dream, and the power to leave him…UNMASKED.

Awaken Me Darkly by Gena Showalter
Mia Snow is part of an elite task force within the New Chicago PD, and every night she stalks and kills otherworldly predators. Alien advocates often ask her if she, a hunter, a legalized killer, lives with guilt. Her answer: Hell no. She’s seen the carnage aliens leave in their wake. Years ago, they killed her older brother and she has hated them ever since. They deserve the sting of her pyre-gun, and if necessary, she will fight to her death to see them eliminated. She is an Alien Huntress.

Now, there is an alien serial killer preying upon humans. Mia must use her psychic abilities and deadly fighting skills to find him. Funny thing, though. Her prime suspect, an alien, is also the only man she’s ever loved.


*End of Blog Gena Showalter Bonus: Speaking of Gena, I happen to be in the position to tell you a little something about her that you might not already know. I have my sources.

Apparently (and perhaps you should sit down)...

Gena engaged in spousal warfare by washing her husband's reds and whites together and letting him wear them. Oh, by the way, he's COLORBLIND. (Girl, that is evil. Heh-heh.)

Gena once donned gloves for an entire summer after a disasterous sunless tanner incident stained her hands; she told people that germs scared her. (Um, so it was better that people thought you were...INSANE?)

Gena has been known to invoke a mysterious medical condition that requires that she eat constantly as a means to excuse the fact that...she eats constantly. (Okay, I'm SO using that.)

How's that for dirt?!

**End of Blog CJ Barry Bonus: I ROASTED CJ a little while ago. For those of you who missed it, here's the chicken-o-fied version of Unmasked:

The Bikini Wax. Let's discuss, shall we?

Part of the reason for my extended blog hiatus was a writer’s retreat in Florida over the Fourth of July weekend. Karen Kendall, Joanna Novins and I decided to hunker down and do some power-writing. Karen said that not only did she have a pool, but that she was having a Fourth of July BBQ for an assortment of guests.

Well, I don’t know about your world, but in my world, Florida + Fourth of July + swimming pool = bikini. And inevitably, the bikini must lead us to consideration of The Bikini Wax and that age-old question:

To Brazilian or not to Brazilian?

Okay, easy question. Let’s not get excited. I’m certainly not getting a Brazilian for Karen and Joanna, no matter how much I like them, nor, frankly, for a bunch of strange men-guests (I say strange, in the sense of stranger, not in the sense of odd.) even if they do happen to be super-nice and Peruvian.

But it’s the sort of thing that one really needs to keep up on, if you understand what I’m saying, because it can get away from you.

So when my esthetician at Pink Cheeks said, as she’s ripping hair off my body with wax to the point where I’m practically blacking out, “I don’t understand how you girls can leave it this long,” I really shouldn’t have been surprised.

It was the same reaction the esthetician at The Heritage in Christchurch, New Zealand had when I showed up for a waxing after six months in Antarctica. And I wanted to tell her that it didn't matter what she said about it, because nothing could possibly make me let the Antarctic barber who gave the National Guardsmen buzzcut touch-ups, touch me up. I'm sure you can see my point of view.

Let's face it. I’m busy. I don’t have time to be running around constantly waxing things. And it’s not cheap. You’d think we’d be well on our way to evolving into completely hairless beings, but I guess since this is primarily a matter of female concern, it’s low priority behind the men wanting to evolve into beings with larger penises and, for that matter, more hair on their heads.

The reason I feel I can discuss this sort of thing with you, my friends, is because beautification, in all of its forms, is so common here in Los Angeles that there is no longer any sense of inappropriateness: “Who did your boobs?” “Nice veneers, man!” “I’ve got to get a colonic this week. I feel toxic. Even after all of that celery juice.”

In fact, last month, someone invited me to share a serving, if you will, of Botox shots. Somehow, they were getting a special deal (inhale sharply) on this service from Dr. 90210 (Oh, he’s good. You want a doctor who is so obsessed with treating his patients properly that he’s willing to ignore his family. Seriously, that’s the kind of doctor you want. Dedicated. So, exhale.)

Of course, if it got my book cover on TV, I might allow a reality TV star to inject botulism germs into my face, sure. But since it wasn’t going to be televised, I figured I’d pass. (And then I’m thinking, do I need Botox? Is that what she’s saying? I pad off to the bathroom mirror and stare at my face from several different angles and end up not getting much writing done that day.)

Anyway, if you find yourself in L.A. in need of a wax, I definitely recommend this place on Ventura. My esthetician (for god’s sakes, can we just say, “waxer?”) did an amazing job. And besides, if it’s good enough for Pamela Anderson, it’s good enough for me=>

From a April 2003 Los Angeles Magazine article by Tamar Brott about my waxing salon, Pink Cheeks, which was supposedly the first salon in L.A. to go where waxing salons had not gone before. They invented the "The Playboy":

...Cindee Esser-Thorin, whose motto is "Where there's hair, we're there," never advertised the Playboy nor was it her idea in the first place. But she enjoys telling the story of its creation, which, as in all satisfying creation stories, can be pinpointed to one particular moment.

That is the moment Pamela Anderson came in and said, "Cindee?" and Cindee said, "What?" and Pamela said, "Can you wax my lips?"

Back then Anderson was still the "Tool Time Girl" on Home Improvement and Pink Cheeks was primarily a facial salon, whose name was meant to signify youth and good health, that only did the occasional bikini wax.

Esser-Thorin was understandably horrified. "I said, `Your lips? On your hoochie?'" she recalls as if it were yesterday. "And Pamela goes, `Uh-huh!' and I go, `Oh, Pamela, no way! That's going to hurt, sweetie.' And she goes, `Please, I'm so tired of shaving.' And I said, `No,' and she goes, `Please!'

So I waxed her there, and it was beautiful! This nice little V in front with her lips clean. And then she goes, `Cindee?' And I go, `What?' And she goes, `Will you wax my butt?' I said, `Your butt? Your winker?' And she said, `Yeah,' and I said, `Oh my God, whatever!'

So I flipped her over on her hands and knees and slapped her little winker with wax, and--yank, yank--she was clean as a whistle. And it was like, `Oh my gosh, girlie, you're on to something.'"

Oh my God, whatever! Sometimes I really love L.A.

ON TOUR: Angela Knight & MaryJanice Davidson (Don't let the innocent author photos fool you.)

Note: I've been on hiatus for so long that I've got SO much to tell you. And I've got to answer all the comments and visit your blogs and say hi and all that good stuff. So, I'm just gonna keep posting two entries a day or so (be sure to scroll down so you don't miss any good stuff!) until I catch up or pass out with my hands stuck in carpal tunnel claw position. Yay! It's good to be back!

As you may know already, I'm a huge fan of both Angela Knight and MaryJanice Davidson. They are both alums of the Secrets anthologies. Angela's story in Volume 6 inspired me to try writing a futuristic, and the rest is history. I've waxed on and on about how much I adore her writing in an earlier post, and I will therefore move on before poor Angela begins to worry.

I shared Volume 8 with MaryJanice and I remember reading her erotic-comic-werewolf-romance story after I got my author's copy and thinking: HOLY CRAP, SHE'S FANTASTIC! Anyhow, they are both super-cool chicks and when you go to their Web sites to check them out, please do not be fooled by the innocent author photos. I have personally cackled in a somewhat evil-like manner about something or another in the corner during a writer's conference with MaryJanice. So I know.

Anyhow, here's the skinny:

Master of the Moon by Angela Knight
Diana London is city administrator of Verdaville, S.C. She's also a werewolf who helps out the chronically shorthanded Verdaville Police Department by moonlighting as a police K-9. But even Diana starts wondering if she's bitten off more than she can chew when a serial killer comes to Verdaville. This particular killer isn't your average psycho - she's a vampire sorcerer who kills men to power her black magic. Then the King of the Fairies shows up, and things get really weird...

Undead and Underappreciated by MaryJanice Davidson:
Most women would love to live as royalty, but Betsy has found that being vampire queen has more problems than perks, except for always being awake for Midnight Madness sales. It may be easy to find blood (yuck) in the dark of night, but try finding a strawberry smoothie. And employees at her nightclub Scratch have been giving her nothing but grief since she killed their former boss. Some people...

But Betsy's "life" takes an interesting turn at a baby shower for her wicked stepmother, who lets it slip that Betsy has a long-lost half sister. Now twenty years old, this woman just so happens to be the devil's daughter...and destined to rule the world.