Private Mountain

I had a decent weekend. I didn’t get a lick of anything written. Sure, I did revise and add to what I already have on my WIP, but two hundred words did not impress me. I need to kick it into high gear and stop letting myself get distracted by messed up toes, curly-haired nephews, fat cats and studly men. And food.

Really. This is what has been distracting me lately.

I could have worked on my stuff last night, but after a day spent slow-cooking white beans (which kicked serious ass, y’all) and smothered cabbage, I was done. I watched a little football, except not a single team I wanted to win, won. It was disgusting so I gave up on that. I watched my youngest nephew on Saturday afternoon, trying to coax him into eating something and finally got him to chow on a banana. I went to my oldest nephew’s house on Sunday afternoon and did this whole jaw-dropping thing. It’s so nice. The kitchen is…well, I don’t really cook despite my recent spurt of domestic goddess-ness, but that kitchen could make me want to cook. *drool*

But that has nothing to do with the title of this blog post. Nothing at all.

When I got home from my nephew’s house, I took a pain killer and plopped on the sofa to watch Island Hunters. It seemed a natural progression for me to go from House Hunters and House Hunters International to people buying islands. I didn’t know you could just buy an island if you had the money for it. I watched these people wander around sandy beaches with tropical…things on the trees and realized these people aren’t buying islands just for privacy or in preparation for the zombiepocalypse. They’re buying it because when you can throw a million dollars down on your own island…well, that says something about you.

So I posted on Facebook that I was going to buy an island when I made my millions. I forgot the people who follow me are wonderfully creative people. It didn’t take much for someone to talk me into buying a mountain instead. In Costa Rica. I’m more than happy to buy it as long as burly, sexy mountain men are included. Someone in the Cabal recommended we cash in all the bail money we’ve been pooling together (in case one of us ends up in the tank) because we won’t need it there. Hello? We’d be our own law. I get to be sheriff. But I put my foot down. We’re not having a brothel. We won’t need it since it will be a Cabal only retreat. (and I don’t share very well)

The idea has merit. Maybe not owing mountain men, but a writing retreat sounds wonderful. It has to be a place where writer friends can get together and hash out plot points. I know myself and I wouldn’t write with people around me. I like to talk too much for that. However, hanging out with other writers, bouncing ideas off them, laughing and sobbing over the publishing industry sounds wonderful.

Maybe that’s something I can aim for in my dotage. A writers retreat deep in the swamps (because despite my dislike of beaches, I’m afraid of heights more). What do y’all think? What kind of writers retreat would you like?

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

19,000 people fit into the new Barclays Center to see Jay-Z perform. This blog was viewed about 63,000 times in 2012. If it were a concert at the Barclays Center, it would take about 3 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Isn’t that cool? I had more views than Jay-Z did at a single concert! Okay, that doesn’t sound as impressive as I thought it would.

2012 was a good and bad year in many ways. In February, my agent and I parted ways after having difficulties selling Immortal Love. She did her absolute best, but New York wasn’t looking for sassy half-immortals.

From February to June, I went on a book writing binge, submitting Immortal Love to Evernight Publishing as well as a short story for their Keyboards and Kink Anthology. I sold You Bet Your Banshee to Siren and got bumped up to a hotter book level because of my stripping banshee. I wrote Primal Song in February, attended the Silken Sands Conference in March, got a request for work from Grace Bradley with Ellora’s Cave and had a sign contract by June.

Thus began my strange induction into the wild, erotic world of Ellora’s Cave. After Primal Song came out in August (amidst several trips to the hospital because of kidney stones for me), Primal Design came out in September and football season really kicked off. I’ve figured out (after three years of being a “serious” writer) that I can’t write during football season. I’m too engrossed in the games to pay attention. So I have to write a lot during the off-season.

I attended RomantiCon in October and had more fun than I ever have at any conference, no offense to anyone or their wonderful conferences. But there were half-naked cover models at this conferences and half-naked, muscular men trump everything else except for completely naked, muscular men. Just sayin’.

It was at this conference that I met some very interesting people. I went to the Pro Football Hall of Fame with Christine d’Abo, met Frances Stockton, Cara McKenna, J.K. Coi, had my hand on Caveman Nick’s rock hard ass, hooked my fingers in Caveman Georgio’s pants, got spanked by Caveman Georgio and spent several days cleaning up drool.

This is also where I met Lea Barrymire, A.M. Griffin, Cara Carnes, Piper Trace, Sasha Devlin, Cassandra Carr, Sky Robinson and Cristal Ryder. We spent a lot of time together, laughing (in my case dancing until I hurt), talking about spoofing erotic romance and later, we’d start the Cabal of Hotness. By the way, we’re kicking off our formal introduction to the world today. You should stop by to find out what you can about us before we take everything over starting January 2. Hint, we’re holding a giveaway in January.

I’ve met a lot of people in my writing career, some of them soul mates from the moment I speak with them, some of them frightened me (I’m not going to talk about her but she held me captive at my very first conference telling me about her soon-to-be-written eight book series), but for the most part, the people I’ve met in 2012 have helped push me to push my limits.

Sure, I’ve discovered I have a very dirty mouth. Orbitz would love me. But I’m okay with that. I enjoy what I write. I enjoy the person I’ve grown into. 2012 saw me becoming more confident in myself as a woman, as a writer and as a human being. I’m not quite as intense that I’ll start carrying a razor blade in my cheek to “cut a bitch”, but I’m not far from being Honey Badger bad ass either.

So here’s hoping 2013 will bring even more changes. And more sales for everyone. And more happiness in this world because God knows we need it.

Now, be careful out there, my pretties and Happy New Year!

Randomness

First off, I nearly overslept this morning. I could blame it on nyquil because I took a dose before bed last night, but that stuff sort of wears off after four hours. No, the blame for me waking up too late to work out or even have a cup of coffee this morning goes to my characters.

It all started innocently enough. Sort of. I was waffling on a story. Okay, I was waffling on several stories and it occurred to me that others in my group—yeah, that group, The Cabal of Hotness—were suffering from the same inability to write. One night, after being frustrated by my characters yet again and hearing of another author’s problems getting the story out, I decided we needed to make a pact. And so we did. We’ve all vowed to complete and submit a story to a publisher by December 31, 2012. Failing to meet this deadline means at RomantiCon 2013, you’d have to buy the cabal drinks. The motivation here is money because some of us are lushes *cough “not me”*. If we meet this date we get to toast ourselves and pat ourselves on the backs for a job well done.

This brings me back to my original point. Seeing as how I don’t want to have to buy drinks for everyone, even though I’ll probably get toasted and start playing Lady Bountiful and buy drinks anyway, I realized I needed to get off my ass and write a friggin’ book. I have so many stories started, so many characters who don’t want to friggin’ cooperate with me, I’ve been pulling my hair out trying to decide which one needs to be the “one”. Writing on more than one wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I closed my eyes and picked one and that’s what I’ve been working on slowly. Very slowly.

I was supposed to write six thousand words yesterday, but only managed about 2500 before I got distracted by Duck Dynasty. But I have been trying to figure out where the first “real” sex scene because that’s what I dreamed about in my nyquil haze. Sex, sex, and more sex between my hero and heroine. In a gym, positions I’m still trying to figure out, you name it, they were doing it. Is it any wonder I woke up all bleary-eyed and exhausted?

So yeah, I’ll be writing lots and lots of sex it seems. I figure I can probably eek 15k in sex scenes which will put my story in the novella category. Throw in the conflict, the dark moment and the happy ever after and I can probably push this story to 38k, possibly 40k. Now, if I can do all of that, edit it, send it off to CPs and revise it one more time before sending it off on December 31st, I’ll be good.

*crosses her fingers*

What did you dream about last night? Oh! A few quick announcements to make. Don’t miss today’s edition of Demystifying the Male over at Lea Barrymire’s blog. And if you have any questions you’ve always wanted to ask a man but were afraid to, be sure to let her know so she can pass it along. Also, tomorrow I have the sexy and fun Taylor Cole on the blog talking about nearly anything I could think to ask him. It’s a great interview so be sure to stop by.

The Weekend Wrapup

So did everyone have fun learning more about the sharp-tongued Justin Alan Whitfield on Friday? I know I had a blast reading his responses to y’all questions. I hope you’re gearing up for this week because he’s stopping by again, this time to talk about his and Taylor Cole’s book, Take It Off! The Naked Truth About Male Strippers. I asked them some questions I’m sure would leave me blushing if inquiring minds really didn’t want to know. Be sure to stop by to learn more about the book and the naked truth about male strippers.

Other than Justin’s very funny visit on Friday, the weekend was kind of tame. I got my hair did, went shopping with my sister and I swear, I only ever spend money when I’m with her. It’s as though her very presence encourages me to open my wallet. I ended up buying a blender (which I did need, by the way), makeup (OMG, Urban Decay. Yay!) and a wicked cool, blue fingernail polish…and other stuff.

These are not my fingers. I have a crooked middle finger from having it broken years ago. Just thought I’d mention that. But this is the color I have.

I also had a hell of a time chatting with the Cabal of Hotness. Have I mentioned them? They’re a group of writers I met at RomantiCon, or afterwards, who somehow became like sisters from many other misters to me. We’re A.M. Griffin, Anya Richards, Amy Ruttan, Cristal Ryder, Cassandra Carr, Cara Carnes, Lea Barrymire, Piper Trace, Sasha Devlin, and Sky Robinson. They’re hysterical and they leave me in hysterics. I’ve tried to share some of their witty conversations with others and get a puzzled, slightly pitying expression in return. *mutters* Meh.

And then there was the time change. Did anyone else feel as though they were running late for work today because the sun was shining? I did. I drove faster because I kept thinking I’d miss the whistle and arrived ten minute early. Oops. It’ll take some time to get used to the change and by the time I’m settled in a routine, they’ll go and screw it up again. Mais!

So…was that everything this weekend? I think so. Watched Sergeant York, probably my absolute favorite war movie behind Kelly’s Heroes, watched a little football, brainstormed book three of the Cajun Heat series and slept. Oh, wonderous naps, how I love thee!

What did you do this weekend? I have no doubt it was more exciting than what I did.

RomantiCon: The Writers

I’m back again with another recap of RomantiCon 2012. Before I get to the meat of the post I have a special announcement. I worked my ass off to hunt track down each of EC’s cavemen to ask them one special question: Would they mind being interviewed here on my blog. And you know what they said? They’d love to! The things I do to try to make y’all happy. You want the sexy menz? I’m going to bring them to you, but you have to work for it first.

I’m giving you until Monday, October 22 to come up with some questions you’d like me to ask these wonderful men. And they are wonderful. Please leave your questions in the comments and I’ll compile them for the guys next week so we can all get to know the Cavemen a little better.

And now, the rest of the story…

I’ll admit to being a little concerned about this conference. No, I wasn’t expecting them to truss me up as some virgin sacrifice to one of their sexy cavemen…although that would have been awesome. It’s that whole “What if no one wants to be my friend?” feeling. Like you’re in high school all over again and praying you remembered to put deodorant on.

But it wasn’t like that at all. Mainly because I shared the shuttle with another writer who was attending their first RomantiCon. Sky Robinson was a blast to hang out with. This woman has a laugh that makes you hurt yourself laughing. It was a little less intimidating once you have someone, also new, to talk to because then you start branching out. Tentatively, yes, but by the time you leave the convention, you’re like “What’s up, hooker?” Or maybe that was just me.

Sitting with Sky is the mysterious A.M. Griffin who managed to nearly make me have an accident with her impression of the fine state of Oklahoma. Sorry, it’s an inside joke, but ask her about it if you ever meet her in person. You’ll probably hear a lot of laughing and denials.

I also got to meet Lea Barrymire and Erin Simone, two very lovely, witty ladies who left me in tears at times. In the picture below from left to right, Erin Simone, yours truly, Sky Robinson, A.M. Griffin, and Lea Barrymire. We had so much friggin’ fun, if we’d had anymore, I’m pretty sure we would’ve gone to jail.

There were also some authors who seemed to pop into the picture just to shake things up, but I never managed to get a candid of them. Shoshanna Evers is gorgeous and made me both relaxed and uncomfortable for reasons I’d rather not explain *cough*. Christine d’Abo is friggin’ hilarious and she was my Pro Football Hall of Fame buddy. Three hours of ogling Super Bowl rings, old football jerseys, helmets, shoes and all kinds of things forms a bond unlike any other. And I’m not even mentioning the hours we spent in the Pro Hall of Fame store.

Sasha Devlin is my sister from another mister. Actually, we’ve decided we’re formerly conjoined twins who were unevenly separated as she has the boobs and I got the booty. Francesca Hawley spent some time with us as well and helped me stay up so I wouldn’t miss my flight out on Monday morning. J.K. Coi, Cara McKenna Cristal Ryder, Cassandra Carr, um, um, um….Cara Carnes, um, there’s more! Regina Cole, Virginia Cavanaugh, Aline Hunter, man, the list just goes on and on.

Needless to say there were a lot of authors there who made me feel as though I was right at home. The fact they’re also connoisseurs of beautiful men makes it that much easier for us to get along.

Have you begun checking out flights and hotel reservations for RomantiCon 2013 yet?

Making Friends at Nationals

Well here we are, two weeks out from Nationals and I’m glad to say I haven’t been obsessing over it as much as I did last year. Of course, once again, I’m lucky enough to be able to skip the pitching sessions. For those of you who are anxiously biting your nails, pulling out your hair, and waking up in the middle of the night screaming, “But I still have to tell you about the HEA!”, you have my deepest sympathies.

To me, the scariest part of a conference is that pitching session. I had two of them at my very first conference and I don’t think I slept very well for a week. I mumbled my pitch over and over in my head—probably in my sleep—until the people who were with me could’ve pitched my book for me. When it was time for the big session, I paced. I muttered to myself like a crazy woman. I attempted to meditate to no avail. But once in the room, as nervous as I was, I realized the editors I was pitching to were…well, people. I know, shocking, huh? Editors and agents are people, too and I’m sure some of them are rather shy and uncomfortable with the sessions as well, so go easy on them.

My first Nationals conference, I was scared to death I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. *laughs hysterically* I mean, I may seem like a perfectly social person online, but in person, I’m the person who likes to fade into the background and observe. However, there’s a different feeling in the air at a Nationals conference. The people are you are writers as well and yes, they’re probably more comfortable hiding in the corner as well.

However, when you start to actually mingle with your fellow writers, you can run into some very surprising people. I’d already been chatting with many of the ladies with GCCRWA, so I figured I would be glued to their sides the entire time. After a few misses, I was finally able to hook up with Sayde Grace and Jillian Chantal. Through them, I met Rebecca Zanetti, Cynthia Eden, Leah Fields, and Brandi Hall. They were a great group to hang around with, but there were times when we had to go our separate ways.

I didn’t cry much because I discovered the smokers. Yes, I smoke. I know, I know, I don’t need to be reminded of the evils of the cancer sticks, but if it hadn’t been for those cancer sticks, I wouldn’t have met the amazing team that makes up Sable Grace. Or my Orlando Click, Silvia Arada. I wouldn’t have had an interesting conversation about football with Beverly Jenkins (who is just full of awesome). Or Elizabeth Sinclair, or dozens of other romance writers. Every single one of them was gracious, let me tell them my agent sob story and gave me advice.

You can’t put a price on that. Oh, and did I mention the people you meet in line getting food? I met a lovely young adult author from Houston and we ended up having lunch together. I’m horrible because I can’t remember her name right now, but that’s what Nationals is all about: making new friends, meeting old ones, and learning from those who have been in the business for a while.

For those of you who are attending Nationals for the first time and you’re nervous about not having anyone to talk to, don’t worry. There are so many people who are feeling the same way that you’re not really alone. And if you’re still worried, come find me. I will so talk your ear off!

Tomorrow I’ll talk about clothing and next week, I’ll get to the scheduling

The People We Meet

In continuing with my year-end review, I can’t go another day without mentioning the people. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the romance writer’s community seethes with wonderful people. If you’re lucky, you “click” with several of them.

This happened to me this year. 2009 saw me going through the writing process alone. Sure, I’d started emerging from my shell (because Danica pushed me out), but I still hadn’t developed friendships. I think it started with my first critique partner. To be quite honest, I’d forgotten I signed up to the Romance Writer’s Community (a place to help critique partners find each other).

Then one day, this lady named Daisy Harris sent me an e-mail asking if I’d like to partner up. I was scared because up until then, I hadn’t really had anyone other than agents read my stuff. It felt…weird. Then I got my first critique. This woman made me crack up laughing at her comments. I wish I could lie and say she found no problems with my manuscripts, but she did. And she made me laugh at my goofiness. Yeah, there were a lot of “you know there’s a line between troubled and crazy…” kind of comments throughout that particular manuscript and I had to agree with her.

Daisy is one of those people who’ll make you laugh and then tear into your manuscript with a vengeance. She points out things you don’t see and doesn’t make you feel dumb for missing them in the first place. I adore Daisy because she’s managed to make me a better writer and helped me see that humor can be a part of the critiquing process.

A month or two after I met Daisy, I met Avril Ashton. Avril is sassy and stylish (she gave me inspiration to move my characters out of leathers and into high fashion) and she loves a strong heroine. I love a strong heroine as well, but up until we started working together, I think my leading ladies were wishy-washy. By critiquing her, I saw what a heroine could be and applied the theory to my own work.

Where Daisy points out the ridiculous and makes me laugh, Avril will point out that though the hero and heroine had sex, they hadn’t even kissed yet. Horror of horrors! She’ll also tell me flat out if she likes my heroine, if my dark moment is gripping enough and not melodramatic. She’s been a rock for me.

But it doesn’t end there. Oh, no. The critique partners aside, I’ve met so many wonderful people online and in real life. At Nationals, I finally got a chance to meet two of my favorite online personalities, Jillian Chantal and Sayde Grace. Southern ladies with sass, they made me feel like one of their own. I love these ladies and can’t wait to meet up with them again.

Then there were my “clicks”. Nora Roberts mentioned that sometimes you meet someone you click with and end up friends forever and ever and ever. I made a click at the conference. A spunky lady named Silvia Arada. She and I spent a lot of time together going to workshops, hanging out at the book signings, and huddling with the Smoker’s Club. We decided at the conference that when we’re both published, we’re going to sit near each other at the literacy signing. It will happen. We know these things.

There are so many people I’ve become close to in 2010. I’ve made so many new friends I wish I could mention them all, but that would take a much longer post. As much as I love to ramble on, I wouldn’t want to bore anyone into drooling all over their keyboard, so I’ll stop here.

The people we meet through our writing journey are people we’ll work with. They’ll become colleagues, they’ll become staunch supporters, and rivals on the NYT Bestseller’s List (We hope!), but most of all, they’ll become friends. They’re people you go to for advice, for moral and emotional support. They’re the people who flat out tell you your characters sound crazy and unbalanced and that is not attractive in a heroine. They’re people who will tell you that you have to take a leap of faith and not to let past problems burden you. They’re the people you’ll want with you for a very long time and if you’re lucky, you’ll have them forever.

A Little Privacy Here!

I value my privacy. You’d never guess that, huh? Cause I tell y’all everything going on in my life. But that’s because I consider y’all friends and I know you won’t judge me…right? *snorts*

However, as I’ve gotten older, my privacy has become something I’m almost paranoid about and some people just don’t understand that. It might not even be “privacy” I like, so much as my space. Oh, I love my space…not to be mistake with MySpace (which I truly don’t like, virus infested site that it is). Space. Ah! Glorious space. Except I have none.

It starts at home. I’ve mentioned before that I have two cats and one dog. Oh and a mother. I love all four, but sometimes, I just want to be left alone. Really! It doesn’t happen though. If I go outside for a smoke and a little quiet, the dog will come with me. She has to come with me if only to climb in my lap and sleep. Le sigh. Then Mom will show up and with her comes the old evil cat. She wants to talk. My mom, not the cat. I just want some quiet time. She gets upset with me because I’m not talking to her. I’m reading (said with a sneer and a glare). If my brother stops by, like he did this morning, the conversation will go like this:

Bro: Hey, what’s up?

Mom: Not much, baby. At least you talk to me.

Me: Are we really doing this again?

Bro: Hey, she sees you all the time, why does she need to talk to you?

Me: Exactly!

It isn’t like I don’t want to talk to her, but after about five hours of chatting, I really don’t have much left to say. I can’t talk about my writing because she’ll say something like, “Well maybe you need to stop writing about those vampires and werewolves and stuff. Can’t you just rewrite your stories?” God love her.

Then there’s the inside lack of space. If I try to retreat to the bathroom for anything, I’m followed by the young cat and the dog. The dog apparently has an imaginary leash that forces her to follow me. The cat just likes to catch me on the toilet because, let’s face it, I’m a captive audience. I can’t even shower alone. No, she must race me to the bathroom, sit on the counter and stare at me around the shower curtain. When I go to grab shampoo or soap or face wash on the caddy, her little paw snakes out and tries to catch my hand. Why? Because she wants me to pet her! Gah!

Now for the public stage…I don’t like stores because I don’t like people crowding me. I’m not claustrophobic, but I don’t really enjoy people in my space. I remember one time I was trying to pay for my purchases. This lady stood right behind me, less than a foot behind me while I was trying to put my PIN number in the machine. I snarled, “Could I have a little room here?!” She took half a step back. That meant I had to huddle over the machine so she couldn’t get my number and steal the money I don’t have in my account.

I just don’t get how some people have no clue about personal space. I mean, friends and family are allowed closer to me than others (and hot men are almost always welcome to get up close and personal) but if I don’t know you, could you give me some breathing room? I can’t tell the cats and dog this because they just look at me like I’m stupid. My mom, bless her heart, just wants to invade my audio space.

How about you? Are you a space invader, or do you have force fields that protect you from those space invaders? Do you have pets who watch your every move like I would if Gerard Butler suddenly started stripping in front of me?

Guilty Conscience, or Paranoia?

Yesterday morning, I logged onto Facebook and saw I had twenty-two notifications. My first thought (before opening them) was, “Holy cow, people love me!” Then when I opened the notifications, I saw that 21 of these people had “commented on a video of you”. My heart stopped. What? When did I make a video? What had I done? ZOMG!

I winced and clicked on the link. Please, don’t let someone have discovered my secret identity as an exotic dancer (exotic because I have moves that’d make anyone look twice…from disbelief that I’d actually dance in public).

The video came up. I held my breath. I swear I’ll never ever pretend I’m driving on the Autobahn again. *peeks through her eyes* Phew. I was tagged in a video (book trailer for Tonya Kappes’ novel) which was excellent, by the way. Can’t wait to interview you for the blog! But the fear that someone had a video of me and posted it on the interwebz stuck. And because I like to ponder, I have to wonder if I have a guilty conscience, or if I’m just paranoid.

Let’s look at the facts: I don’t party anymore, but there have been a couple of times when I got a little tipsy and danced. No, I didn’t take off my clothes or anything, but I really, really don’t want someone to have a video of me doing my version of dancing. I mean, I know I can’t dance worth a damn, which is why I generally wait to do it when I’ve had a few drinks in me. Regardless of my claims to the contrary, the only people who will want to watch me dance are those who want to piss themselves laughing. Paranoia, check.

Fact: I am a goober. Yes, yes, when I was in college I didn’t party for the first few years. I was a band nerd. After practice, I was too tired to go dancing. So what did my friends and I do for fun? We’d head to the 24-hour grocery store, browse the aisle and act like asses. Case in point, the day we decided to have a heel-clicking contest. I lost. Okay, I can’t click my heels. Happy now? My feet got tangled up together and I fell in the cookie display. I’m sure there’s a security tape out there somewhere with this mishap playing in slow-mo. Paranoia, plain and simple.

Okay, so the more I think about this, the more I realize that I’m just paranoid. I can’t think of anything I’ve done that I’d have to be guilty about…unless someone got a video of me ogling men, but that’s nothing to be ashamed of…is it?

My other thought, was that someone (because this was under my pseudonym) got a video of me doing something stupid at Nationals. What comes to mind? Me running into a glass wall at the hotel. I didn’t like…run smack into it. It was part of the revolving doors and I thought we’d reached the lobby when I started to step forward only to meet the wall. Sayde Grace had a good laugh at that, but that’s not too bad, right? Or maybe someone had a camera on during the man-eating deer workshop and they panned on my face when I realized Bambi is a killer. Still not too bad.

Phew, I’m so glad I got this off my chest. I’m paranoid, y’all. How about you?

Make Yourself at Home

To do a quick recap of the hospital fiasco and the weekend craziness…my mom didn’t have surgery. After a five hour wait, we were told they wanted to run more tests on her. About five hours after that announcement, we left the hospital. No, no one was happy about the wasted time, though we’re all relieved mom wasn’t in a drugged stupor on the drive home (although that might’ve helped ease the griping between her and my sister).

Saturday morning, I checked my work e-mail and lo and behold…I had a request from an agent for a full. Of my first manuscript. Wha-Wha-What?! I only ever had one request for a full for that manuscript and someone (not saying who, but they’re on my agent A-list) wants it? Cue the panic. I spent the rest of the weekend frantically editing with the help of my CP Daisy Harris. I still have some work left to do before I can send it on its merry way, but I feel a little better after having someone else look at it.

So on to the topic of today’s post. My brother moved out a couple of months ago, after he got married. He didn’t go far. No, he lives next door now. Not a big deal really. It isn’t like he’s bringing his laundry to the house or anything, but I have a suspicion he’ll sneak in at midnight for a snack. See, he’s a midnight grazer. You know, the person who wakes up in the middle of the night, goes to the fridge and stares into it as though the mysteries of the universe are waiting to be discovered on the shelves.

When he lived with us, it was a routine for him: go to bed early, wake up about midnight, drink some milk, snack on something, then go back to bed. Now the things he snacked on weren’t “normal” snack foods. No, he likes food food. You know, leftovers. He’ll eat fried chicken, fries, cold Chinese food, whatever is at hand and that’s his snack. Yesterday, my mom made fried shrimp and gumbo. We invited my brother (he wasn’t going to stay away even if we had a restraining order) and his wife to join us for lunch.

About five hours later, I was sitting outside taking a break from editing when I saw my brother trying to covertly sneak over. His aim? You got it! He was after some more shrimp. It wasn’t midnight, but I told him I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up in the middle of the night with him at the kitchen table chowing down. He just laughed because he was thinking it!

Everyone treats our house like their own. My brother, obviously, because he lived at home for so long. It’s second nature for him to come in, go to the fridge and help himself. But he isn’t the only one. My cousin, Jenny, used to raid our fridge every chance she got. If we had homemade soup, she fixed herself a bowl. It’s normal for her to scrounge around our leftovers. My aunt (her mother)? Same thing. They instantly peek in the fridge to see what my mom cooked.

My nephews take it a little further. Their scrounging isn’t limited to the fridge. No, they hit the freezer and all the cabinets looking for food. We don’t begrudge a single one of them food. It’s…well, it’s just normal for us. Even my friends when I was in college would peek in the fridge and then be ashamed of themselves because you just don’t do that in someone else’s house. Unless it’s ours.

Why am I telling y’all this? Well, if you find yourself poking around south Louisiana and happen to be in the neighborhood, you know you’re welcome to make yourself at home. We have leftovers!