a little witch in all of us

Publication may still be five months away, but today, August 30th, 2013, the cover for Suddenly Sorceress was introduced to the world. And I, for one, couldn't be happier. I LOVE this cover. I'm so excited to share it with you.

PMS can be a real witch! 

Ivie McKie isn’t your run-of-the-mill kindergarten teacher.  After an encounter with a horny goat, followed by a confrontation with her lying, cheating fiancé, Ivie is shocked when the big jerk suddenly transforms into a skunk—the black and white furry variety.

Enlisting the help of her shopaholic friend Chloe and sexy club magician Jackson Blake, Ivie is forced to play a literal game of cat and mouse as she races against the clock to change her ex back before she's arrested for his murder.

With every new spell comes a fresh wave of sexual desire, drawing Jack further into Ivie’s troubles—her panties, the car, the kitchen, and assorted seedy bathrooms along the way.

Ivie soon discovers what every witch worth her spell book knows: There’s nothing worse than a bad case of Post Magical Syndrome.

Suddenly Sorceress, coming February 14, 2014.

Cover by Streetlight Graphics

I'm too sexy for my hair

I've said it before, but getting old kinda sucks.

Ok, so it has its perks too. I mean, I'm certainly wiser than I was 20 years ago. But the years haven't improved my balance or coordination. Not one bit. And so what if I know a lot more useless trivia than I did before? That's really only something I can drag out at parties, and at my age, I don't go to many parties. And while it's true, my skills at writing have definitely improved, did it really have to come at the expense of my hair? 

It's like I have a traitor in my midst. Fifty streaks of gray? Really? And the worst part of gray roots is the process of fixing them. And make no mistake about it...they must be fixed.

See, the thing is, if your hair feels old, the rest of you follows suit, and I'm too young to feel so old. So until my hair has conformed to the illusion of youth yet again, I refuse to allow any form of photographic evidence of my existence. And I have a live Spreecast coming up in a week or two. So I can only hide for so long.

This is why I convinced the hus...I mean imaginary dead president, to play chauffeur while I hit up the closest beauty supply place in a fifty mile radius so I could stock up on hair color supplies. What? I'm not paying someone else a hundred bucks to do what I can do for less than ten! I may be old, but I don't have dementia.

Then again, I may just be crazy for coloring my own hair. Hey, it's a messy job, but somebody has to do it!

Until the next time...I'll be bringing sexy back!

it's time for a break out

I'm just a few bars away from a prison cell. I feel like my mouth has been duct-taped shut. My hands are cuffed behind my back keeping my fingers far from the keyboard. Even my brain is on total lock down. I've been forced to eat beans and cabbage for dinner. But worse than that, I've been banned from discussing anything that goes on in my house...other than myself.

Crap. Not this again!

You send one tweet about someone who doesn't like attention and all hell breaks loose. It's not like I divulged bank account information...or intimate sex life details...though I suspect my readers would eat that stuff up. No, it was something I thought was totally innocuous, and yet, apparently I'd committed a fairly grievous crime. And as we all know, crime doesn't pay, but we all pay for crime.

So here I am, trying to come up with something exciting to write about, and drawing a great big blank. I haven't had a shower yet. I haven't left the house in days. Even the ducks are out of ear shot. I'm totally screwed.

And not in a good way. Not. At. All.

But for some strange reason, I find myself thinking about the Gettysburg address. And embarrassingly, I don't have it memorized. The balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, yes. Lincoln's most famous speech...nope. That's a writer for ya. A writer with nothing to say. Or more specifically, nothing I'm allowed to say.

So, I've decided from today forward, I'm making up a new life.

And in this life, I'm several pounds lighter and at least a decade younger. Handsome men are falling at my feet and I can actually walk in a sexy pair of Jimmy Choo's. Oh yeah...things just got a whole lot more interesting around here. Who needs the nouveau Amish and their snooty ducks? Not me. I have Henry, the Earl of Catnip and Cooper Maxwell. I have my own damn theme music and I'm walking through life to the sassy beat!

Right after I take a shower and shave my legs. Even I can't imagine this stuff while sitting in a dirty Eddie Bauer sweatshirt with a good month's worth of stubble.

Until the next time...I'll be having fun for a change!

what is sexy?

Sexy?  Oh sure…I know.  Webster defines sexy as being, “sexually suggestive or stimulating.” But what exactly does that mean?

Are we talking about the fuel to your fire? The harmony to your melody? The keys to your libido?

When I hear people speak about sexy, they always refer to an object of perfection.  A Greek god or goddess.  A sleek sports car. The most delectable dish imaginable.

Advertisers want us to believe only flawless naked bodies are sexy.  They tell us that racy cars, lacquered in candy apple red, speeding down a deserted highway are sexy.  Hot melted chocolate drizzled over just about anything is sexy.  And ok…I’ll admit it.  Those things can be sexy. But isn’t sexy more than that? Isn’t sexy something different for everyone? One man’s bunny is another man’s Botticelli? Or something like that.

To me, sexy is an off-kilter smile and a day’s growth of stubble.  A strange sense of humor where he can laugh at his own shortcomings.  An indefinable glance that makes my toes curl from across the room.  It’s something in the timbre of a man’s voice when he whispers sweet nothings into my ear on a moonlit night.  The way he brushes his lips across my cheek in the moments before the actual kiss, and the silence that follows.

Sexy isn’t something you can order online in a pretty package. It’s something you cultivate over time. It isn’t one size fits all…it’s tailor made to fit.  It doesn’t jump off the page, it’s tucked in between the lines. 

Sexy is a feeling created from within.

At least that’s what’s sexy to me.  What’s sexy to you?