First I must thank a few of my tweeps (I feel strange writing that term but perhaps only because I am over 45) for having this idea pop into my head.

So thank you to ‏@xTHE_BUBSx @tiffw88 @callmemrwayne for cracking me up on Thursday during our excursus on excessius buttocks and junk-in-the-trunk, a discussion springing from my feeling my age as I reached for my bifocals to read my twitter feed.

My comment? That at 40 my bum fell two inches. I cannot swear to it, but if my back would allow me to pivot, turn, bend or creak just a little bit more I could see to tell you with great certainty that yes, my bum is a bit lower, a bit rounder, and bit heavier than the last time I saw it in its entirety some 20 years ago.

I was lean then. All of 118 pounds and boxing. About 5% body fat (actually, I have no clue on the actual percentage, I am making this up) and all muscle (largely true). Certainly no boobs. In fact, I never owned a "real" or "functional" bra until I was 39.

Then motherhood and forty struck. I regret neither. Narratively my life is more rich. When I was a lean mean boxing machine I had little to say or write. I was too busy overworking at a miserable job then hanging out in a gym. I regret the former, not the latter, by the way.

Nothing more exhilarating than hanging out in a real boxing gym and having a fantastic work out. People asked why I boxed and I replied honestly: I like to box. Pure and simple. Sure, the workout felt great. Nice to strike something with all your might. How often do you get to do that in your day-to-day? I can tell you: almost never.

Nothing is more exhilarating than doing the speedbag or padwork with your excellent coach (who shall remain nameless because I don't want to embarrass him).

Nothing. Until I had my critters and realized that having your four-year-old observe that Jabba is an omnivore is pretty fantastic. Then he connects that Jabba, a mollusk apparently, is likely a hermaphrodite and observes "he must be sitting on his testicles but I guess that's alright because he still has a vagina" and I realize that the trade of buns-for-babies worked in my favour.

My junk in the trunk. I never get to the gym much now. I just had my second critter (at 45) so my junk and my trunk have grown astonishingly. Occasionally now I feel self-conscious. Usually when I fold laundry and misrecognize my husband's jeans for my own. As he's 8 inches taller than I am, the mistake rankles just a bit.

But while some talk of standing on the shoulders of giants, I sit on the buns of a forty-something mother. A little taller than I used to be, but only when sitting down. As I told @xTHE_BUBSx, at least now that I have a much larger bum, I can see over the hood of my car.


ps Give my tweeps a follow. They are worth it.

Apologies for my absence. To the left you will see the culprit. I succumbed to the charms of soft ice cream (actually, it might not even be ice cream, just the dreaded "frozen dessert") and paid the price.

That doesn't mean I was lost in soft serve oblivion these past eleven days. Oh no. I confess I have dreamed much of spending day upon unending day with soft ice cream at the ready. Chocolate "flavour", plain, dipped. Sprinkled.  You name it. I love, or rather, used to love soft ice cream. I had a good week, planned my work schedule, did some errands, then decided to treat myself before sitting down to do some serious writing.

Like the Cookie Monster and cookies, soft ice cream was my sometimes food. A reward food. As of last week, it is my never-the-fuck-again food.

Because, dear readers, I got the E.Coli Cone. Yes indeedy. Your intrepid reporter got food poisoning from this seemingly innocent summer (ok, it's spring) treat. Mmmmmmmmm. E.coli. Nature's way of saying "get the hell out of my way" as you run for the toilet. Assuming you can run, which you can't, once the full force of e.coli hits you. More like you crawl, praying.

So I no longer say "I scream for ice cream." I guess "I hurt for yogurt" is my new battle cry, but no one's made an indie film scene about it for me to link to. I'm hoping Roberto Benigni will hear my call and get Jarmusch to update Down By Law.

Writing 0. Soft frozen dessert 1.

Next week will be better. Nice to have dropped a bit more of the baby weight though.

First I should say this photo is only slightly relevant to my blog. I am not writing about bunnies stuffed into my maternity bra. I am writing today about "purple prose" and how much I love it.

Purple prose? What's that you say and what does it have to do with bunnies stuffed into the largest bra I've ever owned? One my husband can wear on his head quite comfortably? He's a big guy. This is a serious bra. Room for the bunnies for sure.

Purple prose is eloquently described by wiki, but I would hate to see you leave my blog so I'll quote here:

Purple prose is a term of literary criticism used to describe passages, or sometimes entire literary works, written in prose so extravagant, ornate, or flowery as to break the flow and draw attention to itself. Purple prose is sensually evocative beyond the requirements of its context. It also refers to writing that employs certain rhetorical effects such as exaggerated sentiment or pathos in an attempt to manipulate a reader's response.

I love purple prose. Like bunnies stuffed into my bra, it makes me laugh. I was editing the other day and came across a gem or two I excised from The Coach House which I thought I might share. You see, as much as I love to write erotica and romance, I love to write comedy. I think of myself more as a humorist who gets some now and then {smiley face}. In particular I like to write purple prose in a Dark and Stormy Night kind of way. I keep the really bad ones for use in my "Mimi" book as I call it (coming soon to an agent near me, if I find one).

His manly hands, roughened by centuries of toil and exercise impatiently sought her womanly passage which was already growing wet with pleasure long-antcipated. Panting like a wolf on a cold October night after howling at a full moon although he was a vampire and not a werewolf, Daniil tore open his blue Oxford silk shirt and deftly, without thought, unbuckled his belt, flinging himself on her desperate to feel her desire beginning to meet his in a greeting of mutual attraction and delight. He was nearly breathless in his desire for her curvaceous torso ending in long legs not unlike the legs one sees on a very beautiful Greek statue, but not so white as his because he was a vampire and she, a delicious mortal human woman, as warm as they come. Moving her gently rounded hips provocatively, Carys whispered almost timidly like Beatrix Potter's Mrs Tittlemouse, “Kiss me, Daniel. Kiss me my love.” His full and sensuous lips swiftly answered her softly spoken request, and to her delight his velvet and probing tongue was firm and assured, although a tad cold due to his lack of circulation, but that in itself had a relief for her lust-heated body. Daniil kissed her deeply, ardently, as though he might swallow her if he were so inclined. She allowed his tongue to carry her into a purely sensual world of pleasures hitherto inexperienced, as the kisses of her fiance Steve repulsed her in their dead-fishlike quality.

Obviously I didn't keep it in the final version of The Coach House. But every once and a while I get bored trying to think of new ways to say he grabbed her lady parts and smooched her. I always complain that finding words for pussy just gets to be too much for me. I guess that's why I also took to writing Neurotica randomly. My next posting, p'haps. Purple prose is what the erotica/romance writer does when they really just want to say: they got it on.


Who wants One Good Screw? Is that a rhetorical question or a dilemma?

I have, actually, eight (8) One Good Screws. My very nice wholesaler donated them to me as gifts for a party I will be hosting tomorrow. The problem:

They are scary looking . I'm not into the sharper-edged goodies. Just a personal preference. I don't judge those into hot wax, injection fetishes or suspension but these look a bit on the ouch you almost hit my ovary side. My party guests are, if I read my Survey Monkey results correctly, are not into these goodies. They are more romancy and waterproof and/or discreet vibey types.

These screws seem to have no real use. Unless, of course, you are into having relatively hard-yet-narrow silicone with pointy edges entered into your person (see above note). They are clearly to be affixed to something, but to what? (See note below)

To what indeed? According to the site: Once attached, [the toy] will not pull off without great effort ranging from 50 to over 500 pounds depending on the toy. I wish I wish the manufacturer's site was more forthcoming. What I do know is they offer a huge selection of screws (for harnesses, ok, I understand that) and exercise balls. Pilates anyone? I'm sure I'm not yet ready to bounce to new heights of fun on a slender but pointy toy attached to this good screw.

Having said all this I would like to note that the accompanying literature tells me these screws are made of food and medical grade silicone which is good news for those of us with orifices. These are dishwasher safe and environmentally friendly (particularly the packaging) which is even better news if you have a dishwasher (I do, my husband) or care about the environment (I do).

Environment. Here comes the recycling woe: what the hell do I do with eight of these? My supplier doesn't carry these so no things to attach these screws to will be available. No doubt my wholesaler received them as promotional items then passed them to me. 

No one on ebay carries them which means it's not likely there is a market for them. I suppose I could find that wedge and put them up there for bids but I can't be bothered.

Or I could sell them in my own store but what would I say about them? To be attached to what? The screws "allow you to better control your toy" or "for those times when you don't want an accessory" to use their own pamphlet included  with this item.

I can throw them out (environmental frowny face) or recycle (not sure on laws about recycling silicone). 

I leave it, then, to you dear readers. Anyone want One (or eight) Good Screw(s)? You pay the postage and handling and anywhere between one to eight (you let me know) are yours. I hate to be wasteful. Although I must confess my garbage collectors are very solicitous. Perhaps the lingerie catalogues from last week?







I am working on the French translation of my novellas (yes, I actually am French, well, half-French while the rest is Sicilian and Irish) when I realized that I don't quite have the vocabulary for certain words.

We spoke some French at home, but never those words. I went to French Montessori in the early years, then died of boredom in an English-speaking convent school (no, really. This is not a persona thing).

Knowing there were gaps in my language skills, I studied French, in later years, at the Alliance Francaise. Lived in Quebec, worked in Switzerland, Belgium, and France. But still those words never really crossed my path.

So here I sit with two novellas of erotica on my desk and I realize I am not current on the lingua franca, so to speak, for pussy, clit, cock, balls, spank, ass, or breasts. The usual suspects. Does my intrepid protagonist shout "Je viens, je viens" when she comes? Does she call her pink parts her "chatte" or is there something more common? I confess I don't know.

Google Translate is always helpful. I sought them out this morning looking for my Naughty Word List as I call it. Here's what we have for pussy:


Vagin is pretty obvious. But in erotica women don't refer to their "vaginas" much. I can see how the French receives this: Oh oh oh Ronald, kiss my vagina. Yes, there. No, there, more to the left my masculine man. There. Yes yes I am arriving! Oh swiftly  now my stud, I am almost at my destination of bliss.

A little more literal and technical than one would want. Having said that, I think it could be fun and it reminds me of a chapter I wrote once while frustrated trying to find new ways to say "had sex". I'll post that another day.

So I think chatte might be it. I know that if I refer to my cats as my chat and pronounce the "t" giggles and sly looks ensue. But this opens up another question for debate:

How many women, really, refer to their vaginas as their pussies? Really? We see it in porn, read it in erotica. But do we really use it? I guess some do. The convent-part of my upbringing means I say "vagina" or just gesture with my eyes when referring to my pink parts. Ok, and I say pink parts. I guess that forbidden nature of it all is what drew me to romance and erotica writing in the first place.

Wouldn't Sister Viola be proud to know where I am today? Actually she might as I do my best to at least keep the grammar correct.

I think people shtup best when there are no dangling participles, don't you? 

What on God's Green Earth could that be? Origami for your hoo-hoo? Make it a little crane, perhaps? Something festive to surprise him or her the next time they travel south?

Heck no. But good idea. In fact, now I have something else to do with my hands tonight.

Labial folds, or more accurately, nasal labial folds (also known as Marionette Lines) are those ghastly lines running from your nose to the corners, possibly lower, of your mouth.

If you are under thirty, this may not touch your life. Yet. But if you're on the other side of that equation, you have them. Or not. Perhaps you have rejuvenated somehow. I haven't. I wish I had. But I'm afraid of injecting synthetic collagen, or worse, into my face. Or anywhere else. I eschew sharps.

I mention this only because I had to send my new editor at Evolvedworld.com a head shot. And it wasn't a pretty sight. All I could see were nasal labial folds and a bit of sagging on one side which didn't balance with the other (wisdom teeth extraction gone a bit awry leaving me with some nerve damage).

In short, I am ugly. 

It's too bad, really. Because deep down I am such an uber-babe. I suppose superficially I am one too, because I know that there is something for everyone. Somewhere, in fact, someone is looking for a woman who looks like Jabba the Hutt in PVC. 

I found some photos but decided I had to adjust them. But I don't have a clue what I'm doing so I just let Picasa do it for me. Random buttons later and you can see my "head shot". 

I told Paula at Evolved that I look better in motion (as does she, she says). I observed that in motion my wrinkles could pass for dimples. Deep wide dimples. 

But dimples mean youth right? Right?

Then I must be very very young.

There is something delicious about seeing your work in print. And even more delicious about seeing MINE in print.

Oh yes indeedy, the print copies are done. Sure sure, it's nice to have an eReader, but isn't a paperback just so wonderful to hold? Isn't it lovely, in this digital world, to have something tangible appear?

I wanted print copies for a few reasons. Not the least of which is the now-it's-here-now-it's-gone ephemera known as "cloudware" and just digital in general. On the one hand our texts and IMs will come back to haunt us, on the other, my books will disappear, possibly never to be reformatted for whichever new reader comes along in 2018.

And isn't it nice to leave a legacy for one's progeny? Or as I put it "nice to embarrass the kids with something."

Makes Grandma seem a little more hip.

So go. Now. Run out and buy a book. Or a novella. Or two, preferably mine. Live a little.

Who? Who?

Moi of course. Yes it's true I will be having some articles published on Evolvedworld.com and I couldn't be happier. Stay tuned for the actual launch date of articles by yours truly. Isn't it reassuring to know I can write more than four-letter words?

Hate to waste that MA.





Yesterday was freebie day on Amazon for my wee trashy novellas. Thank you to the folks who downloaded 414 of my Kindles. I am new in this game so was expecting, at best, maybe 20 or 30 downloads.

I see, courtesy of some searching, that freebie download days can yield thousands. I will look into this next time. Why so keen to give it away? Because I want an audience, dammit. I'm needy.

You may have noticed there is no DRM on my works. I take a page from the Grateful Dead and am pleased to have you share my work. It's nice to sell a bit too, but I don't mind people having it for free either.

Guess I'm just a child of the Sixties.

It is an amusing thing to watch a small problem grow large in the hands of technology. Which is to say: the printers spelled the publisher's name wrong (easily fixed, right? RIGHT?). No. it's not.

The printer, CreateSpace, spelled my publisher's imprint incorrectly. This came in from CreateSpace:
"We reviewed the supplied ISBN and imprint information for this titleI; however, the ISBN and imprint name do not match the ISBN informational source we access. As a courtesy, we have updated the imprint name in your Member Account to reflect the accurate "imprint of record."

Of course they didn't match because the publisher entered the name correctly. CreateSpace, checking with Bowker, either typed it incorrectly, or Bowker is wrong. It doesn't matter because one week and several emails later the issue still isn't resolved and my little book "The Fire" is listed on Amazon as being issued by "Dreambulation Editions" not "Deambulation Editions".

The kicker? Deambulation was closed down about 7 years ago and my publisher was issuing my books under an entirely new imprint, having none of the following words in the name: Dreambulation, Deambulation, Editions.

Now she has decided what the heck, since CreateSpace and Bowker know more than Collections Canada (Library and Archives), who is she to argue? Fine, she'll go with the closed-down shop name for my books rather than fight it out (because, apparently, the ISBN prefix was originally assigned to Deambulation). Fine. But now they spelled it wrong and we have to somehow prove they did. Because the publisher records are correct. They've been shown to CreateSpace, but they need more proof. Like maybe a forwarded email instead of screen grabs and other documentation?

No, let's just keep it Dreambulation for one of the books. It's a better story. One week later the book is out and the imprint will live on in infamy as a one-hit wonder. Thank you CreateSpace and Bowker for spending an awful lot of time to still not fix a little typo.

Oh, and my publisher is Deambulation Editions. So there. I checked. Take that Bowker and CreateSpace.