Author Archive : Summer Devon

How do you make a hero out of a man who’s basically a charlatan and con-artist? A villain who steals from widows is perhaps the most evil person you can imagine, right?

Our hero, Oliver Marsh, is a medium who bilks mourners, a particularly vulnerable part of society. He pretends he can speak to the dead.

Is it possible to redeem a man like this? We tried to figure out an answer. Here are some possibilities (did we attempt any or all of these? Read the book to find out.):

Have his talent be real (even if he doesn’t know it).

Make him unsuitable for work in any other field–and forced to support a family.

Allow him to offer real comfort to the survivors. After all, there weren’t therapists before the late 1880s and along with the cheating, perhaps our con-artist could allowed the survivors the comfort of talking about their loss.

Bring him up against someone who hates him even more than the reader could . . . and then show how that person comes to love him anyway.

Allow him the opportunity to act truly heroic.

Have him devoted to a greater cause (in other words, the ends justify the means).

Any other ideas on how to reform a con-artist and turn him into a hero?

* * *
And, because (as Bonnie pointed out last week) I love research, here's an article I wrote about a couple of colorful Victorian mediums.

To celebrate, I have a contest going for a few more days over at my blog.
You can win a copy of the book, M&Ms, a gift certificate for $25 to Barnes and Noble.

Resisting alien invaders is easy. Protecting her heart is another story.

Leah’s plans for the weekend didn’t include dealing with an alien invasion in her kitchen. But there’s something about the wary, vulnerable, refugee half-breed Gabriel that compels her to hide him when the authorities come knocking on her door.

Gabriel has good reason to be suspicious of both humans and his own kind alike. He’s a halfling—half human, half Dar—the product of a breeding program undertaken for one purpose. To use the offspring’s inbred powers to influence humans on a deeply emotional level. So deep, they won’t know until too late that the Dar have gained more than a toehold on Earth.

Raised in subhuman conditions, all Gabriel knows of life is how to endure it. Then Leah opens his eyes to a life richer than any he’s ever known. Suddenly he’s not so sure he wants to be a pawn in the Dar’s non-violent, but no less insidious, plans.

Leah and Gabriel go on the run to seek help from the government, only to discover the invasion’s tentacles have gotten there ahead of them. In the final confrontation, the bond Leah and Gabriel have forged may be more than an emotional haven. It could save her world.

Warning: contains explicit sex, alien encounters

EXCERPT
Leah tried to recall all that she’d heard of the Dar.

Murderous. Cold-blooded. Strong. That last she certainly believed. He’d gotten the knife from her hand with no effort, and after a couple of years of hefting boxes and kegs, she was no weakling. Far worse, in her opinion, was the way lust whispered through her body when he touched her. The Dar’s mind-control supposedly didn’t work on humans. Then why was she so flipping confused?

The creature had been in her house an hour and she still didn’t know what to do. Stop him? Help him? But he appeared to be making the decision for her.

“Rope?” he asked.

Getting him out of her house apparently would be simple and he wouldn’t harm her. She should have felt more relief.

“It’ll be really difficult to live outside the law,” she said, wondering why she warned him. “What if anyone discovered what you are? You might be killed. There’ll be mobs after you.”

“Yes, so I understand. But that is not the worst thing that could happen. I must say my view of my future is much brighter since I ate such marvelous food. Thank you.” A half smile crossed his face again. “And I know that’s the phrase I want.”

She went to the utility drawer and handed the Dar the length of rope she kept there. Then a sudden wave of panic hit her when she remembered how she’d set up a retreat from her life. Her birthday present for herself had been several days off with no responsibilities—and no one looking for her.

“Sit,” he said.

She sat and immediately twisted in the chair to face him. “Wait. Listen. I might end up tied up here for days. I mean a friend might stop by, but maybe not.”

He crouched in front of her, holding the rope loosely in his hands.

“You could trust me not to call anyone,” she said, halfheartedly.

His quiet voice was firm. “I’m sorry.”

She almost believed him. “You could lock me in the bathroom. It would take me a while to get out of there,” she lied.

“I suppose that would be a solution.” He rose to his feet. “Less uncomfortable for you as well.”

What a strange conversation. Almost as if they were going over plans for a work project.

He tucked the rope into his belt and knuckled his eyes.

“Look,” she said. “You’re exhausted. I can see that. Why don’t you, ah, lock me in the bathroom and sleep for a while.”

He frowned or rather a tiny crease formed on his forehead. He didn’t go for big emotional displays. “I have interrupted your life enough, Leah Parisi. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

He had to be kidding. She almost felt embarrassed about the fact that she planned to deceive him again.

They walked to the bathroom and her stomach turned when he insisted on going in to examine the room.

“Ah,” he said as he peered into the laundry chute. And without another word he pulled out the rope and undid a length of it.

“What will you do?” Her heart sank. He’d kill her or beat her. At best he’d leave her tied up. When would anyone think to come find her? The blessed peace of being alone for three days now seemed life-threatening.

“I can’t think,” he said. “I am assaulted by your sexuality and my exhaustion. I can certainly take care of one of those problems. And for obvious reasons,” he looked at the chute with that hint of a frown, “I’m now less worried about imposing on you.”

She held back the urge to apologize. For God’s sake, she hadn’t owed an alien intruder the truth.

He carried a chair into the bedroom and made her sit. With quick deft motions, he tied her to the chair. Then he dropped down across the unmade bed, sideways. Fluke, that wretched animal, jumped up next to him and curled into a purring ball.

She studied the Dar who slept sprawled across her bed. Not like she had a choice about the view.

His body lay so quietly he barely seemed to breathe. Perhaps Dar were really some kind of undead creatures. The strange dark figure looked huge against the lavender and blue flowered quilt her Auntie Louise had made for the room.

Leah’s hands began to tingle and she yanked at the cord a bit. She made circles with her feet.

Assaulted by her sexuality, he’d said. Ha. What the hell did that mean?

No, she knew exactly what it meant because the asshole had the same effect on her. His generous mouth, those spooky eyes, the wide, high cheekbones, his long-limbed body. No one had said that the fiery gold of their eyes could be lovely or that the faint scent of cinnamon wood was subtle and pleasant. Not a horrible stench as some described it. Maybe it was stronger on full Dar.

He sighed and a long finger twitched. So much for the notion that he’d died in his sleep. She examined the lean body, but of course he gulped down her food like a starving animal so they must not have fed him enough. Nor had they given him lessons on table manners. He wore drab green trousers and matching shirt. Not exactly a uniform but it echoed it. And no jacket or gloves or scarf. Great plan to drop him off with not enough clothes. What were those Dar thinking?

He rolled onto his back and the rotten Fluke stretched and lightly kneaded his paws on the Dar’s stomach. She wondered if that belly would be hard. Was his skin identical to a human’s? Did he have hair on his body?

Holy crap, he was doing it to her again. Assaulted by her sexuality? That was a laugh. When he touched her she was paralyzed and her limbs grew too heavy to move. At first she thought it was fear—okay, at first it was. But even as she planned to escape him, run for help, her body planned against her.

Yes, touch me, her skin had begged. Please keep caressing my wrist, move up my arm. Oh, her insides twisted when she understood that she hadn’t imagined that brief feather touch on her wrist.

She wiggled her hand again and yanked. And pulled on the leg that was tied around the chair rungs. She pulled so hard that there was a sharp crack and the chair broke. Leah tumbled over sideways.

When she opened her eyes again, she was looking at a pair of worn brown boots planted on the rug next to her head.

“Leah Parisi, do you never give up?” He sounded amused, not annoyed.

“Believe it or not, I didn’t mean to break my chair. I was just—I was trying to get the circulation going in my legs.”

He squatted next to her and unknotted the ropes. Her struggles must have pulled the knots tight yet he easily worked his long fingers into the rope and pulled her free. When he reached under her arms and hauled her to her feet, she felt as lightweight as a child.

She covered her nervousness by picking up the pieces of rope and chair. “Why’d you help? Why didn’t you just leave me here on the floor and leave?”

He shrugged, a thoroughly human gesture, yet as exaggerated as Italian opera. “You were lying sideways on the floor and it didn’t look comfortable.”

She began to laugh. For some reason, his ridiculous concern hit her as hysterically funny. Here was one of the creatures who’d tried to destroy her planet and he was fretting that she wasn’t comfortable. She laughed so hard she had to sit at the edge of the bed. She dropped the pieces of chair and covered her face with her hands.

Granted I didn’t do high profile promo for Taken Unaware, my new book at Samhain, but I’m more interested in reading other people’s books at the moment.

Yesterday I went to the bookstore for the first time in a long time and noticed how exotic it felt to wander the shelves. In less than a year, my book-buying habit (read: addiction) has shifted dramatically. These days I find almost all my books online. I usually go my local Barnes and Noble to pick up the paper copies of books that aren’t available online, but I’ve really cut back on using the bricks and mortar as a place to find my reads. Browsing in the bookstore is an extravagant experience reserved for special occasions. We avoid regular visits to keep the impulse buys down (mine and my kids’). Sort of sad.

That means almost all the new writers I’m finding are ebook authors. There are a lot of reasons for the shift besides trying to keep the spending down, reasons from lack of storage space to the great immediate gratification of instant buy and including failing-but-not-quite-failed eyesight. I can make the font bigger on e-books and that means I don’t have to track down one of the approximately 40 pairs of reading glasses I have stashed away, i.e. hidden from myself.

How do I find new books now? I’ve only found three Samhain authors, Bonnie Dee, Nancy Lindquist and Marie Treanor, through reading excerpts.

Ah, excerpts. So beautiful and so dangerous. There’s a reason I don’t often visit the samhain cafe loop. The excerpts are just as potent as a walk through the store when it comes to luring the innocent into impulse buys. Hey speaking of which, maybe you ought to go read this. Take your time.

The ebooks I buy are often from writers I met online. It’s interesting how many of the new writers in my autobuy list who are also online friends. I first bought their book because I liked their blog or their remarks in a loop.

My partial Samhain list: Charlene Teglia, Shannon Stacey, (and okay, maybe I started out with them because we’re going to be in a collection together coming in January) Linda Winfree, Lyn Cash, Nell Dixon, Dee Tenorio, Lauren Dane, Catherine Berlin, Denise Patrick, Meg Allison, Alexis Fleming, Dionne Galance, Bettie Sharpe, Kate Johnson, and others whose names I’ve forgotten—and who’ll either be relieved or offended that I didn’t mention them.

I wonder how people find their new reads these days. New York Times Book reviews, Romantic Times or some other paper review publication? Word of mouth? Online reviews? I imagine as the online world grows, the whole process of looking for and buying books has changed for a big chunk of the population. They might not even notice, like I didn’t, until they head back to the other, non-internet world. I only pray a trip to the bookstore will never be as quaint or outdated as flipping through a card catalog in a library.

Celebration

By Summer.Devon on October 7, 2008

One of the questions they asked me at this interview was how do you celebrate new releases. The obvious answer: Chocolate. And I realized I need a better ritual, or at least a more finely tuned Happy Release Day celebration.

Chocolate’s a good start, of course. But this raises the question of which sort do you consume for which genre release? I suggested dark chocolate for the gothic romances. Heady, liqueur filled chocolate fits erotic romance. Maybe that spicy jalapeno chocolate for menage books?

And then there’s a matter of quality. Hersheys would be enough for a release that you loved writing. Godiva is reserved for the release of the book that tortured you with revisions and rewrites.

Today’s release is a paranormal. I think that calls for something with nuts. You guys can celebrate with me by coming up with more categories and ways to celebrate. Or reading an excerpt here and this one over here. (The best celebration I’d arrange for your participation is you, buying the book AND eating any sort of chocolate you want while you read it.)

Yeah, see? Look what I do for you. Not only have I fine tuned, but Individualized Your Celebration Plan.

How do you other authors mark a new release?

me: Listen kid, I have to blog.
kid 3: You promised to turn on the sprinkler and you told me I couldn’t do it because last time it went in all the windows and—
me: okay, okay.

five minutes later…

me: oh, jeez, who left the gate open! The dog is gone! Damn! Let’s go get the dog. Tell the neighbors.
neighbor: Your dog came into my house.
me sorry! thanks!
kid 2: I need a ride now.
me: Oh, look, I left the window of the car open. Dagnabit, the seat’s all wet. Grab a towel. One for me too, please? Let’s go.

fifteen minutes later, back home again. . . phone rings.

kid 1—at friend’s house: I was going to get a ride, but that friend left without me. Can you come get me?
me: Give me twenty minutes. I need to post this blog about the inspiration I get when I write at home versus the Starbucks.
[for some reason, I can’t seem to work at Starbucks. I’m the only writer I know of who has trouble producing novels surrounded by strangers. I was writing about how nice it is to work with my family around me]

kid 1: I gotta go. Mike’s mom is going to work and doesn’t want him home with pals.
me: I guess that party where you guys smashed Cheetos into the rug didn’t go over well, huh?
kid 1: Just come get me, please? And I forgot to eat lunch, I’m starved. Can we stop and get something? Please?
me: no. We can’t afford to stop at Taco Bell all the time and the food is terrible for you.
kid 3: Do I hafta come with you? I want to go in the sprinkler.
me: Let me ask the neighbor if she can just keep an eye open, okay? Just, remember, don’t turn up the water.

Thirty minutes later, back home again.

me: Hey, boy 1, get back here and carry in your Taco Bell trash.
me: BOY 3!!!! You turned up the water! Oh no! There’s a puddle in the family room!
kid 3: I didn’t turn up the water. I just moved the hose a little bit because it was going on the driveway and we don’t want to waste water.
me: We don’t want to water the family room! Get a towel and a mop. We got to clean this up. You have to. I have to GO BLOG AT SAMHAIN.
kid 3: where’s the mop?

five minutes later, we find the mop which is upstairs in boy 2’s room for some mysterious reason

kid 3: Where’re the clean towels?
me: Don’t use the clean towels! Stop! Hey!

twenty minutes later.

me: I can’t post this article. It’s full of lies. Lies! Lies! Oh, God. Look at the time. It’s after five and I was supposed to post at three!
kid 1: I don’t know why you’re all wigged out. It’s not like you do anything all day but sit in front of the computer.
…..curtain….

Yesterday I was feeling glum about the whole romance rioting world. (Romancelandia is a society, anyway. . . Okay, a town maybe. A village, all right?)

Then I opened an email reminding me that it’s just about time for the auction. That’s the ticket, find the good news. In less than five minutes I found four examples of romance writers doing good in the real world.

SO THERE, noisy unpleasant woman in the restaurant. (and some might add, in your face, blind item gossip. Not me though.)

TAKE THAT, hideous fights about nothing important. (e.g. blogs that go on about how horrible RT was or how anyone offended by RT should be taken out and stripped of her romance writer credentials).

Enough with the bad & silly.

Onto the fine & dandy Romance Writers do:

1. Brenda Novak’s auction of course.

2. The sale of this book— Profits donated to the Cincinnati Battered Women’s Shelter.

3. Romance Unleashed’s Unleash Your Story, the upcoming write-a-thon to aid research into cystic fibrosis (Next September. Be there. I’ll remind you, so don’t worry about missing it.)

4. “Readers for Life” Literacy event, the annual book-signing open to the public at RWA (July 30 in San Francisco this year). It happens every year and it is boring to go on about something so established. Even RWA doesn’t seem to toot its own horn about the sale—I can’t find a damned official link for this year’s event. Here’s Christina Dodd’s link. But listen, that book-sale raises thousands for literacy—more than half a million dollars over the years. Not so shabby.

I’m glad that the whole bushwa about plagiarism is dying down, and that black-footed ferrets got the last word via Paul Tomle.
Yet the stolen ideas fairy is still in business, prancing around and creating suspicion.

Yesterday a friend sent a slightly indignant email—she’d spotted some idea theft. She’d watched an episode of Beauty Shop (a show I didn’t know existed) and she described a scene at the end of an episode when a woman in horrible disarray rushes into the shop needing a makeover because she is supposed to be in a wedding in three hours.

My friend complained that she had just that morning read a book with the exact same scene. A woman in horrible state needs a make-over because her wedding is in a few hours. My friend asked, “Think the author saw Beauty Shop? Probably.”

My response? “Not necessarily.”

Sit down, friend, I said, and listen to my wedding hair-horror story. No don’t bother to get a beer. This won’t take long:

I lived in Boston and was getting married in Maryland, in my brother’s back yard.
When I went to the fancy-pants beauty salon where I’d made an appointment a couple of months earlier, I discovered they’d erased my name. I couldn’t get the upscale snots to take me no many how many times I said “BUT I had an appointment! I’m getting married! Today!“ I’m pretty sure they didn’t believe me. I hadn’t started crying…yet.

My brother’s shower wasn’t working right—only cold water or dribbly, I can’t remember—so I couldn’t even wash my hair. Panicked, I rushed to the White Flint Mall a little before 3 pm (I was getting married at 4:30) and located a packed Generic Haircuttery Beauty Shop. Picture me in horrible disarray, clutching the bizarre headgear I was supposed to wear, in tears because I was supposed to be in a wedding in 1.5 hours. My wedding.

They took me in, but my hair and make-up sucked and because I ended up with a perky little ponytail (no, really) I couldn’t wear the bizarre headgear hat thing. I settled on a wreath of dried flowers I ripped from the hat which I think I liked better anyway.

It was a good wedding despite the hair.

I have no huge regrets, though this is the part that burns my ass: apparently some romance or screenplay writing bitch was watching, taking notes. And since this took place in [sob] 1985, I know I was first with this one, or at least pre-_Beauty Shop_.

Okay, you can get up now,
Kate

So what have we learned today? Here’re some choices:
1. Don’t get married in my brother’s back yard.
2. Don’t assume that just because it’s sit-com whack-a-doodle dumb, it hasn’t happened in real life**
3. It’s all been done before. Everything, and usually more than twice.
4. All of the above, especially 3.

**It sure didn’t feel wacky at the time—more like a nightmare. But if I can dig up a photo of me in my less-than-perfect hairstyle I will post it and you can decide: wacky? Nightmare? Or Gidget?

UPDATE: You can see the pictures here because the picture gods at Samhain are hating me. And the scanner gods won’t even do business with the old snapshot I have of my Gone with the Wind hat I’d planned to wear and was going to inflict on show you. Now I remember what I hated most about the hair wasn’t the pony tail or the loss of my GWTW hat. It was the wings. The mid-80s mall rat wings. I didn’t want those, but boy howdy, I got them.

Ack! ACK! The BoD

By Summer.Devon on October 13, 2007

The Blue Screens of Death has hit! Again. Curse you, Dell.
It’s chilling the way that thing pops up so calm and so blue. It’s inhuman.

The trouble started last week when I used my laptop like a laptop. I traveled with it. Silly me.

I went North to visit a sick friend and I knew the computer would be invaluable. It was, it still is, between BoDs which come and go, slowly at first and then with more certainty until at last, Poof.

My friend wanted to know lines from Lear (gutenberg has the whole text. I also read her some sonnets) and she asked me who wrote a poem about the sorrow of a happy past (Mark van Doren—thank you bartleby.com) She had me look up some of her old friends (google—you know that address). And she asked me about my writing. (my head. I mean I wasn’t going to read her the rough synopsis that has “they go at it like rabbits” She’s an old lady.)

My husband’s theory is that a year in my laptop’s life is like three years for most people’s computers. He might be right. I read books on it, I write books on it, watch movies, do research, hide from my family, write long rants.

Last night I waited through long BoD periods (getting longer. Sob) and transferred everything from the laptop to the internet. Gmail accounts are the way to go for preserving those stories!

Cursing, I rode my laptop to its limits. At this point it is like one of those limping horses that show up in books, an old nag bound for the glue factory. Someone always borrows or steals the poor thing and pushes it far too hard. Trembling and foaming with the effort, the horse will drop dead at any second. It’s always an animal with a good heart in those stories. Pushing itself to its death. Good animal? How about picky prima donna pain in the tuchus?

My computer, blinking and whirring, will eventually click off, never to be heard from again. I will throw it off the deck.

Luckily everything important is saved in other places. Finding all those passwords and stories and information again should be interesting.

I pushed the flickering screen a little more because I just needed to do one more thing….At three a.m. this morning I went shopping.

A Toshiba this time. I hear they’re sturdy. And I’m opting for second day air.

In the meantime, I’ll read actual books and for actual work I need to save, I’ll borrow my children’s computer when they’re not around. And maybe I’ll whimper a lot.

The Knight’s Challenge

By Summer.Devon on September 11, 2007

What I love about these stories (and I got to read them all) is that each interpretation makes sense, but other than the basic facts of scales and maybe a snout, they’re nothing alike. The dragons, I mean.

The dragons are selfish, selfless, noble, wise, slightly stupid, careful or reckless. I enjoyed them all—especially newcomer Nina Mamone’s story.

I based my own dragon on the stories I loved as a kid. I think a covetous, dangerous, powerful and basically solitary creature can be a lot of fun.

Here’s an excerpt from the beginning of The Knight’s Challenge

Sarkany’s newest assistant, Pettifer, stood at straight-backed attention, a posture left over from army days, no doubt. Pettifer coughed and the subtle pulse in his throat increased. The man must carry bad news. But when he managed to speak at last, he didn’t divulge any great surprises. “She isn’t willing to come see you. Sir.”

“Miss Benson is a nuisance.” Sarkany selected a chocolate and allowed it to melt in his palm before licking his hand clean.

Pettifer apparently didn’t like Sarkany’s cruder practices. He showed his discomfort now by averting his gaze and staring at the painting of a mountain range that hung on the office wall.

Sarkany didn’t bother telling Pettifer that chocolate against his skin tingled. He didn’t tell any of his assistants the reasons for his odd eating habits. He never explained himself to anyone.

Sarkany wiped his hand with a linen cloth. “Did she tell you why she has been buzzing around me or hunting for a way to cause me harm?”

Pettifer shifted his weight from foot to foot. “No, sir. Though I did ask. She, uh, only said she didn’t need to report to you.”

Sarkany was almost amused at the man’s nervousness as well as the woman’s defiance. He fished out another chocolate and tossed it in the air before catching it in his teeth. Rather like catching prey, or the closest he came these days. “I am her landlord. I am her employer, or close enough.” He swallowed this chocolate almost whole. “What else do I need to hold over her before she understands that prodding me and then ignoring me is not in her best interest?”

“She might not know you own her building. Do you want someone to reveal your ownersh—”

“No, I don’t think so. She’d find some way to weasel an advantage.” Hands in the silk-lined pockets of his trousers, he walked to the window and stared down on the busy street. His realm—but he didn’t feel the usual satisfying glow of surveying his possessions. Miranda was more interesting at the moment. “I imagine she’d make threats about safety inspectors or some such rot. She is not a subtle creature, this Miss Benson. Did she say why she attacked me? Again? And do you know what her next attack will be?”

“Um. She has some idea that you are responsible for the mess at the nursing home.”

He turned around to examine Pettifer. “Interesting. I don’t even own that property.”

“She thinks you could somehow step in and solve the problem.”

“I should have more of a sense of noblesse oblige?”

“Yeah, that’s about it. Sir.”

Pettifer shifted from foot to foot again and took a few shallow breaths. Apparently the subject made him nervous. Sarkany made a guess. “Tell me. Did you use your looks with Miss Benson?”

“Sir?”

“Your manly wiles. You are an attractive specimen. Did you attempt to placate her with a winsome smile?”

The assistant frowned. “No, sir, it didn’t occur to me.”

He was a bad liar.

Sarkany knew Pettifer enjoyed pretty women and Miranda Benson fit any description of pretty. Her skin glowed like pearls, her eyes were bright as emeralds, though not that uninteresting color, her hair bright as gold. He considered the notion, and decided not gold. Lustrous like gold, yes, but the color was more a tarnished silver, rippling to her shoulders.

Her good looks might explain the foot-shuffling. Perhaps Pettifer’d been caught by her attractions and he’d listened to the female—and even agreed with her. Pity if he’d have to sack the man, but more than one assistant had been tossed out for going over to the other side.

Sarkany grinned at a sudden thought—and ignored Pettifer’s tiny whimper of fear.

Could the other side actually be the guild?

Miranda might be one of them. Silly not to have thought of the possibility right away, but he hadn’t faced one of their foolish knights for more than a hundred years. The guild kept itself quiet, just as Sarkany did.

He could easily stop the threat of Miranda Benson, but he’d been bored lately. Simply smashing her efforts wouldn’t be amusing.

The Winner? Me me me

By Summer.Devon on January 10, 2007

A couple of years back I ran a contest called “What Kind of Contest Do You Like to Enter Contest?” I had a lot of answers—over 200—which I decided meant that the meta-contest was a success.

Almost everyone who answered said they preferred to enter contests that depended on chance, rather than talent. Yeah, me too.

On the other hand, I like holding contests that give me something fun to read. Long ago (thousands of years in Internet time) I held 55 word story contests, mostly because I love reading flash fiction. Oh, and then there were the write the cover copy contests. I just finished a contest rather like that in my new blog.

I lined Valerie Parv up as my judge because she’s famous and funny and said yes. I ran those contests a bunch of times and loved reading them. Once I moved blogsites though, they just didn’t translate.

OH! I completely forgot about my “Making the Readers Do My Research For Me Contest.:“http://www.katerothwell.com/contestover.html It was great and I loved the entries so much, I keep them attached to the main page of my Kate Rothwell page.

A publicist pointed out that as a tool of promoting my own work, this collection of contests are fairly useless. The promotional contest tool that works best with that is a “read the excerpt and answer the questions.” Those are fun, and I’m holding one of those too.

But I get to read my own stuff all the time, especially at my blog where it’s all about me me me. I love it when visitors come into my blog, start talking and maybe even take over the conversation. Then I feel like a hostess at a successful party. I can just sit back and be entertained by the guests. Comments are what make blogs so very cool. This particular Samhain blog is doing nicely with that. Carry on. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be circulating. May I offer you a pig-in-a-blanket? Charli made them and they’re delish.

And maybe once you’ve had enough cyber-champagne you might tell me about contests you HATE. Contests that you avoid and maybe even get you so annoyed, you won’t pick up that author’s book even if it was served on a platter of male cover models.

That’s a fun topic. Angie? If I get enough people entering, can I pick a winner—using chance, naturally—and send her. . .ummm… socks?

Uh oh, I have to go to work.

I’ll be back later to put in links and play around and change my egregious errors. Blogs. Works of art in continual process of change.

UPDATED TO ADD A GAZILLION LINKS, mostly to ancient blogs.