Text Box: Last year I drove to Orlando, this year, I drove to the Miami International Airport. If I could have driven all the way from Islamorada, FL to Reno, NV, I would have. I hate flying. I managed to find the long term parking garage nearest to the American Airlines terminal. They were doing security sweeps of the cars going in. For some reason, this did not reassure me that parking my car at Miami International was any safer a proposition today than it was last year. Guys wanting to rob your vehicle are not going to use up valuable storage space in their van with bombs.  I hauled my luggage to the check in desk. They now have a cute little E-Ticket self serve computer on which you can process your own boarding pass and luggage tag. I believe the thinking is: If you can figure out how to order an airline ticket on-line, you can use their E-Ticket computer with no problem. As a computer engineer I can blow about a million holes through that nice theory, but I won’t. Suffice it to say that I needed help on the first run through.  I forgot my sweater in the car.  South Florida’s climate is not conducive to training it’s residents to always remember to bring a sweater. I hiked back to the car and got it. One would think, having just recently left my car, I would have no problem finding it again. One would be wrong, of course. The parking garages are nicely divided by a level number and a letter from “A” to about “P”, which probably makes sense to Librarians familiar with the Dewey Decimal system. I could remember level five and that was about it. I roamed up and down the levels and sub levels that qualified as five until I found my car, retrieved my sweater and then hiked back into the terminal. For all the hype you’ve heard about beefed up security, the only thing that has changed since the last time I went through a security check point is the new requirement to remove my laptop computer from its case and send it through in a basket. I am going to guess this is because they can’t x-ray through the computer and people could hide stuff on the other side? If that’s not the reason then I have no clue. I miss Dave already so I call him. “I’m at the airport.” “Listen. A bunch of us are fixing to go out to lunch. Can I call you back later?” Dave’s at work, obviously. “I will be on a plane by then.”  “Oh yeah. That’s right. OK then. Don’t spend any money.” This requirement of his seems just as stupid this time as it did every other time he’s said it. I’m eyeing the Duty-Free shop keenly as I agree not to spend any money. Dave hears my silence but his co-workers are distracting him. “I mean it, Cindy. Not a dime.”  “OK hon. Have a great lunch.” I manage to hang up just as the Duty-Free shop clerk comes over to ask me if she can help. I find out that I have to be leaving the country in order to purchase anything from the Duty-Free. “But I’m leaving Miami to fly to Reno.” I reasoned. “Since Miami isn’t technically a part of the U.S. anymore, especially since the last election, that should qualify.” The Duty-Free clerk disagrees. I’m guessing I’m not the first person to try that tact on her. I fail to spend money.  On the first leg of the flight, from Miami to Chicago I managed to get a seat with one empty in the middle. The person in the window seat did not say one word on the entire flight. Those of you, who know me, know this is a form of torture on the level of the Bamboo spears growing slowly up through the skin. From Chicago to Reno -- same thing. I am starting to wonder if I look weird. On the courtesy van from the airport to Circus Circus, I catch my first glimpse of the RT conventioneers. Two women, strike up a conversation about the different categories of attendees and determine that one of them is a “Published Author” and the other is a “Reader”. I signed up as a “Tweenie”. I will explain it later, as I did to the dozens of people who read my nametag and asked what the hell “Tweenie” meant. Next year I am going to put “Writer” and see what that does to the nametag reading elite. Last year I was “Aspiring Author”. There is something about that particular label which just grates me. I have no idea why. A complete lack of progress in getting my own novels published maybe?  It’s 8:30 PM Reno time when I finally check in and get to my room. This year I roomed with Tara. We spent half the night catching up on gossip before we finally conked out. Wednesday, October 23, 2002. At 8 am, according to the convention schedule, the cover models go for a morning walk. We are going to have to take the schedules’ word for that, because under no circumstances did I want to A.) Get up that early, and B.) Walk around with cover models. It’s possible there were people who did this activity. I was unable to locate anyone who would confess to doing it at any of the functions I attended. At 9 am, Tara and I were up, dressed and semi-human. Tara scoped the layout on Tuesday afternoon when she arrived, so we had a pretty good idea of where we needed to go to get registered and acquire the magic tickets that guaranteed us entrance into the really good stuff -- stuff like the “Goody Bag Room” and the “Cover Model Competition”. Yes. Yes. I know I ran from the Cover Model thing last year before it even got started because I kept hyperventilating every time they stripped off their shirts. I was determined to tough it out this year come hell or high water. Seriously. This is the year. At 9:30 hundreds of us stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the closed ballroom doors waiting to get into the Welcome Brunch and RT Awards. When one is standing shoulder to shoulder with that many people, one tries to entertain one’s self. Most people entertain themselves by reading nametags and attendee classifications. We read “Published Author” and try to remember the names of the books that person has written and then attempt to pretend we are going to strike up a conversation with this total stranger whose books we love – or think we loved if we can only remember the name of one freaking title.  Tara, of course, knows everyone, but I can’t be a pathetic sidekick all day. I need to strike up a conversation. I search for the loudest group, which happily, is right next to me. I scan the tags. I want to make sure I never ever have another accidental encounter with someone who will strike me deaf, dumb and stupid. (See last year’s chronicles on the horrifying Jude Devereaux disaster.) Standing directly next to me is Renee Bernard. Renee is quite possibly the only reason I decided to come to the RT Book Club Convention in the first place. For those keeping nametag track, Renee (who I call Robin) had her “Aspiring” scratched out and “Published,” penned in on her nametag. “Robin!!!” I call Renee Robin. She checks my nametag after backing up to a safe distance from the screaming lunatic next to her. We’ve never seen so much as a picture of each other but as soon as she deciphers my name from the tag, recognition sets in. Renee is pissed with me. “Where the hell was my eight am wakeup call?” I stare blankly. Think. Think. Think. Is she mistaking me for hotel staff? Or worse, was I supposed to call her room this morning? I think I was. “Um. I forgot?” “Oh THAT’S nice.” Honest-to-god, I just forgot. Stress does that to me. I look around for Tara wondering if I can somehow shift the blame on her. I’m working on zero caffeine levels at this point and nothing comes to mind so I decide to suck it in and take the heat. “I’m a complete moron, but in my defense, the lack of moisture in the air has sucked all of the water out of my system and my brain cells have shriveled significantly.”  Robin’s eyes narrow as she contemplates the technical merits of my sad excuse against how much she adores me. Reno is a desert after all. She decides to forgive me and the bad craziness that always accompanies green-eyed redheads begins.  The doors to the Mandalay Ballroom open: We sat with Sharon Sala and a cover model. He answered questions when directly asked but volunteered no conversational color of his own, so I gave up talking to him. Sharon Sala on the other hand was WAY fun. In fact, post this away on your calendar for next year: Most Romance Writers are fun. I did not write down everyone who sat with us because that would have been rude, or at least, more rude than normal for me. It was a good group, except for the brooding cover model person. The food was amazing. The award ceremony was mercifully brief.  As we exit the ballroom, Renee stops to check for her ticket to the Cover Model Reunion Ball. “You’re going?” I mean, obviously she’s going, but the real question is, why? “You know, I just checked off everything on the registration form and got a little check happy. So, yup. I’m going.”  I look at Tara, “You’re not going tonight?” “No.” Tara probably said more than that but the answer was essentially, no. I hadn’t signed up for it. I have issues with cover models in close proximity to my person. I contemplated my wardrobe. What the hell do people wear to a cover model reunion dinner? Not that it matters since I didn’t bring anything for it. Cover models and food just somehow seem mutually exclusive to me. Sigh. And there’s my phobia of cover models stripping off their clothes every chance they get. Shudder. If it were anyone but Renee . . . I suck it in and pay the $60 for a ticket. Have I mentioned yet that Renee lives 3000 miles away from me and that we had become friends without ever actually seeing each other? So this is our wild weekend get together. It’s an important fact later on in the chronicles so file that away. We check the schedule as I scoop up freebie stuff from the clepto tables. Last year I made a really nice notebook stuffed with everything. Someday, when I am published, I am going to sift through it all to see what made a lasting impression. In the near future I paw through it to create my buying list of books I want. The clepto tables draw us like moths into the Hospitality Suite where the published authors sit in state at cute round tables with more promotional goodies to draw you over to them.   I spotted Thea Devine and apologized for the article I wrote where I questioned Kathe Robin about Thea Devine being her real name. It’s her real name. She says she hears that a lot, so, no biggie. I also lingered at Sherrilyn Kenyon's table with cover model Franco Carlotto. I signed up for the basket being raffled, not realizing that one "Must be present at the drawing" to win. I spot Judi McCoy. My daughter Lauren has tasked me with one mission, find Judi McCoy and tell her that there are no caves in the Florida Keys. Judi uses a cave as a device for her Rip Van Winkle tale called “You’re the one”. Lauren is a fan, but that glitch nearly unglued her.  It turns out Judi had been waiting all this time for someone to call her on that wee bit of fudging. She had, she said, already written the first eight chapters before she arrived on Marathon Key with her husband for their working vacation. She contemplated rewriting the beginning and decided against it. Besides Judi, Lauren and I are probably the only people in the world who know and care that the highest elevation in the Keys is eight feet (und my house in fact) and that there are no caves above the water level and none that I’ve seen below either.  Judi wrote a special note for Lauren.  Renee and I head over to the “Aspiring Writer’s” room to see what the subject of the moment is and fall in to a strange lecture on synopses. There is a glare from the window behind the speakers. It’s killing both of our eyes. Renee reads on the schedule that Stefan Schwarze, a cover model, and Christine Feehan are in the Hospitality Suite signing for an hour. We decided to sneak out of the synopsis lecture and go. On the tram back to the main building, the woman sitting next to me reads my name tag and mentions, "They called your name for the Sherrilyn Kenyon Basket." "They did?" "Yes. But you had to be there to win, so someone else won it." I pondered a good answer to this news and decided to go with, "Thanks." Later, Renee compared the encounter to kitten stomping.   "I mean, why even TELL you you were called when you had no hope in hell of winning?" I patiently explained that this was the story of my life and that if she was going to hang out with me for any length of time, she would need to expect weird stuff like that. There is something of a line formed in front of Stefan Schwarze and Christine Feehan, and it’s difficult to tell when my turn comes up so I make the huge mistake of asking the model if he is “free”. He gives me an odd look and I hear what I just said in my head, realize how that probably sounded, and restate it. “Are you available?” I meant, available to sign his autograph. But that’s not how it sounded. In my defense, he was unbelievably gorgeous. Think you could do better? I expect to see you there next year and we’ll see. Renee starts laughing.  “Oh dear god.” My face is in flames so hot I feel blisters forming. I start to say something else when Renee saves me. “Stop there. Not another word. You can’t save this one.”  I am forced to have my picture taken for the evidence files.   Wednesday, October 23 2PM Erotic Lessons for Writers & Lovers   A few months ago, after reading Renee’s novel “Blind Aphrodite”, I mentioned that her romance writing leaned towards the sweet side. The conversation then denigrated into an all out accusation of prudery. I was talking with the earphones on while driving. I blame traffic. Anyway, she challenged me to a contest. Write the hottest love scene. Ann Peach graciously agreed to judge. I mention this because our little competition is what decided us on our next seminar decision. We attended two hours with Robin Schone, Alice Gaines Chambers, Thea Devine, Thom Racina and other masters of the Erotica Romance genre. Also in attendance was the scariest editor in the history of romance. Kate Duffy. I am paraphrasing here so forgive any misstatements. Here's the gist. Kate said not to waste time finishing the entire novel before sending it to her.  “Why finish writing a bad novel?” Kate said agents usually do more harm to their clients than good. “Most of them don’t know how the numbers work and I’ll take them for every dime I can. Do the math people! When I’m dealing with an author directly I give them the best deal I can offer. I’m not going to screw with them because if they find out later, they walk.” . . .and, on the dreaded Synopsis? “Why bother writing a synopsis? I don’t usually read them. Just send me what you have. If I want to see a synopsis after I decide I like your work, THEN write it.” My head hit the table in front of me. I’d just spent the better part of a year and a half trying to find an agent and perfecting the art of writing a synopsis. I had not sent out any part of my current work in progress because I thought editors wanted the book to be finished before you sent them a few chapters. My whole life flashed in front of my eyes. “There, there.” Renee was patting my back in sympathy. “You couldn’t have known.” As we are leaving I have to say it, “She scares the shit out of me.” “Why?” “I think she would chew me up, spit me out and stomp me into a little Cindy puddle.” “I think she tells it like it is. If she doesn’t like something, she says it. That’s honest.” Renee is something of a pragmatist. I am more of a pessimist. I just find life is easier that way. It puts me ahead of the curve ball about to hit me in the face. All I am sure of is, if I ever get to meet her face-to-face, after I pitch my book, I am going to need drugs. It never occurred to me that the editor listening to me pitch might require drugs as well. That revelation comes later.   Wednesday, October 23 7:30 PM The Cover Model Reunion Dinner See the pictures. The whole cover model thing is basically visual anyway. Maybe if I’m in the mood later I will re-cap it for you. For now you get: A good time was had by all. I was hideously underdressed. Cover models do not grow more conversationally erudite after copious amounts of alcohol have been consumed. And that pretty much covers it. Thursday, October 24 8 AM RT and Genesis Breakfast Have I mentioned yet that the food at this convention has been mouthwateringly fabulous? Well I’m saying it again just in case. This morning we start with Bagels, Lox and Cream cheese with a dish of fresh fruit, followed by a plate of specialty breakfast dishes. Until now I lived in a world of cereal and eggs. I will never be happy with breakfast again. Nancy Bartholomew of “Strip Poker” fame joins us with her two sons. They have mastered the arcade games and figured out the roulette tables. They are, unfortunately, unable to actually play roulette and are hamstrung by mom’s reluctance to gamble based on a system devised by a 13 and an 11 year old. I believe they convince her to gamble on their numbers on the last day of the convention.  As we are leaving the room for the seminars of the day, an announcement goes out that editors are accepting appointments for “Aspiring Authors” to pitch their books. Please sign up. Eh? I thought they were booked months in advance and there was no way in hell I would get to see one on this trip. I thought wrong. My conscience kicks in. I am, after all, here in the hope of moving my career a few baby steps forward in the process of getting published. I have nothing prepared. But, if I had prepared something it would have been wrong and it would have sucked anyway. I drag Renee over to the sign up sheets. All three editors have times available. Renee and I sign up to see each of them as a pair so we will have a full thirty minutes together as opposed to fifteen minutes each.  What? Yes. Yes. I know it’s not done. Writers don’t go in as a pair unless they are collaborating on the book they are pitching. But here’s my thinking. I know, from past experience with stressful meetings that I turn into a babbling idiot. This being the case, I require an interpreter, someone who speaks “babbling idiot”. Renee! Editor Appointments: Mere minutes after signing the appointment sheet, Renee and I realize what exactly we have done. Panic sets in and we do what all normal women do when panic strikes, go to the Ladies room. "What are you going to say?" Renee has her pen and pad of paper out next to the sink jotting down notes. Personally, in times of blind panic, like this one, there is nothing in my head to jot down.   "What do you think we should say?" "I don't know. You're the expert. What's the usual?" And here is the crux of our current dilemma. If I am the person with the greater expertise on meeting editors, we are in serious trouble indeed. Because, as you probably already know, editors terrify me. I have no rational explanation as to why this is and I can hear dozens of you out there groaning that I need to grow up and stop being silly. But, the fact of the matter is, I would rather have a cavity filled with no Novocain rather than visit with an editor.   "I need caffeine -- lots of it." We head out to the snack bar to kill time. While Renee writes a brilliant blurb for my current work in progress, I harass the cowboys at the table next to us. "So. How's the convention going for you guys?" "Purty good so far! He just got married!" They are pointing to their friend across the table. He looks sheepish about the whole business. I smell blood. "Where's the bride?" "She's up in the room getting her face on." "So you decided to get married at the cowboy convention? Romantic." "Convenient. I told her if she wanted to get hitched, she needed to tag along to Reno." "Very Romantic." I mean this is a weird way. It's kind of free spirit-ish of them in addition to being economical. He probably saved the cost of a new horse by doing it this way. Being married to a boat fanatic, I see the similarities. Renee is still writing notes. "Well my Dad just spent forty grand for my sisters wedding that didn't last six months. I figured it's a waste of money." "So how did you two meet?"  He looks as if he would rather not answer this one, but his friends aren't going to let it go. "Tell her about the penny test!" "The penny test?" He sighs. "I hid a penny on the floor and told her I dropped it. She looked for it for fifteen minutes, found it and picked it up. Any woman who will do that for a penny is marrying material." "You're one lucky guy." His friends all agreed. They mosey off for breakfast before the roping contest. And, I am left with seconds to go before we meet with Kate Duffy. "What have you got?" I ask Renee. She reads it. It's brilliant, but sounds nothing like me. This may be a good thing, but I know I will sound stupid saying it. I go into Kate's lair completely unprepared. Kate Duffy Kate's assistant Beth meets us at the door and tells us that she is running about thirty minutes behind. Renee and I hang out at the end of the hallway by the window pondering the view. I can see trees in the midst of color changes, something we don't see in South Florida. It's rather cold outside and the window is cool against my shoulder as I lean against it to get a better view. Renee tries to prompt me with her pitch blurb one more time and I am even more convinced I would sound silly saying it. The thing is, I think this book I am working on is too far removed from what's out on the market already. It's what I want to read. And, I am weird. So. Who else could possibly be interested, and more to the point, how do I get across what it's about without making it sound -- well -- weird. Obviously, I can't. So I go in, knowing I am about to crucify my best work. It's worked for me in the past. Maybe it will work again. Beth calls us in. Kate has set up shop on the two double beds in a typical Circus Circus hotel room. Kate is on the bed farthest from the door, so Renee and I get comfy on the other bed. I am trusting Renee not to mention the fact that I occasionally bounce up and down nervously. Once we establish that Renee and I are not actually together, as in collaborating on one book, Kate asks me what I have to pitch to her. I look at Renee. "I didn't ask Renee. I asked you." "Can she go first?" I'm pathetic. I know this. Worse, Kate has figured me out in less than five minutes. "No." I sigh heavily and brace myself for disaster. Kate listens politely as I attempt to describe my novel. Occasionally she attempts to redirect me to something that makes sense, but I doggedly dig my grave deeper. Renee described it later in the following way: "First her eyes narrowed in concentration as she tried to follow your story. Next, her jaw dropped in amazement when you added the voodoo stuff. Finally, her eyes glazed over and she started weaving her head in a figure eight as she tried to follow all the characters and plot lines you were introducing. I think she shut down right about there and that's when she begged you to stop." "Stop...please, just stop."  I attempt to interject. "No." Kate holds her hand up in a plea for a few moments of silence.   Deep breath and then, "Cindy, you've been talking for six minutes and I swear, I have no idea what your book is about....It could be the most original and amazing best seller or....not. But at this moment, I can't tell....and I don't want you to say another word. Just send me the first three chapters and a synopsis and let's see what we've got." "But. . ." "No. Not another word." I am now bouncing as discretely as possible. Renee scootches away a few inches and starts her pitch. It is perfect. Kate wants to read her manuscript too. Her assistant Beth whispers in my ear as we pass by her to leave, "That was great you guys! You two are really funny." I now require alcohol. Lee Emory Lee Emory is a writer and an editor. She has said in several articles that she prefers that the bedroom door remain closed in romance novels. I'm thinking Renee's novel is going to go over well with Lee [pan back for our argument on her tendency to write "sweet" romances] and it does. Me? I pitched the Buccaneer and appeared to make a zero impression; until, I mentioned that Kathe Robin really liked it. Lee lectured us a bit about the business of publishing and her dislike of authors using a passive voice. I failed that pop quiz when she dropped it on us.  It has something to do with an excessive use of the word "had". I am many things, passive is not one of them.   She seems to reluctantly agree to read our work and asks that we give her ninety days to respond.   We escape with our lives. Russell Davis One would think, after the Kate Duffy debacle, that I would have my act together by the time I invade Russell Davis's lair. One would be grossly incorrect. Renee and I are on the home stretch and sensing freedom is near, we go in with a tired sense of unavoidable doom. It has been a weird day and it can only go down hill from here on out. Russell has the same room as Kate, only he has set himself up at the vanity\desk and provided one chair for the intended victim. He is lounged back, huddled over his coffee, looking like we are the last impediment to his escape from a very long, very trying day. He is, in fact, the very picture of a poster boy for ennui. I can sympathize. And, I honest-to-god don't want to be responsible for giving him nightmares later. But as any five year old knows, what we want is not always what we get. I make Renee go first. Renee's novel is a Time Travel. Russell stops her. "Wait. I have to say a few words about time travels here before you get started." We look at each other and then at him. This was different. "There are a few theories about time travel that I believe make a decent device in a novel. The first theory is that we go back in time but we are ghosts, able to observe but not interact with anyone. This prevents the cardinal disaster that is possible for all time travel, the paradox. The next theory is that we travel back in time, are able to interact, and do something small which eventually wipes out our entire family, thus killing ourselves in the process." Obviously Russell reads time travels. Renee looks worried. "Then there are the WAYS in which we might travel through time, and I have to tell you, that if your heroine gets hit on the head with a rock and inexplicably travels back in time, just nod your head and don't send me your book. If she is in a car accident and hits her head and inexplicably travels back in time, just nod your head and don't send me your book. Now, having said that, how does your heroine travel back in time?" Renee pulls herself together and I see her re-writing the entire book in her head.   "She get's lost in a snow storm." "A portal! That's good! Does she ever return to her time?" "No." "That's better. No paradox." I personally think that does create a paradox but I am not an expert on time travel. Renee is allowed to pitch her book. He wants to read it. I am next. And altogether now, let's re-cap: "First his eyes narrow in concentration as he tries to follow my story. Next, his jaw drops in amazement when I add the voodoo stuff. Finally, his eyes glaze over and he starts weaving his head in a figure eight as he tries to follow all the characters and plot lines I am introducing. He shut down right about there and that's when he begged for crack." "Stop! Please, not another word...just let me...think..."   A pained expression crosses his face, "I'm going to need something stronger than coffee to continue...some serious stimulants." He looks at me and laughs and says, "I swear."  He looks over to Beth, "Beth? Anyone dealing crack cocaine out in the hallway? See if you can grab some for me...."  I attempt to interject. "No. Not another word." I fall back on the bed in despair. I did it again. Renee got the chair BTW. I got the bed. Better for a soft landing. Russell then ran back through everything I told him, in the correct sequence, like he had actually been listening.   "What you are describing sounds like 'Tart Noir'."   Oooohhhh. I like that. Tart Noir.   "I'm going to tell you what I want. I want a one page synopsis and the first three chapters. mark the envelope with the fact that I requested to read it at this convention because those are the only things I am reading until the end of the year. You realize I am going to be talking about this one with the other editors later?" "Yup." I have that effect on people. I can't help it. We left as quickly as possible before more damage could be done. I hear Russell and Beth explode in laughter as Renee and I fall all over ourselves laughing in the hall. Beth runs out to catch us. "That was actually better the second time than the first time. You two are hilarious. Good luck!" I ponder bribing Beth for a moment and decide against it. She's way too nice to stoop to my level of desperation. As of this writing, the synopses are written and the first three chapters are mailed. Renaissance Ball Oh. And the day just never seems to end, you say. But, the parties are the best part! Earlier in the day I watched the cover model work crew spirit the RT Fantasy Castle up from the Mandalay Ballroom to it's shiny new current home in the Silver Legacy Exposition Hall. There was a beautiful moment where they half the crew had to run up the middle stairs while the other half rode up the escalator and co-ordinate a drop under the stair overhang to prevent it from crushing up into a castle accordion. It was better than the ballet. Trust me. The Calabrian Renaissance Ball and diner was a combination costume pageant and Cover Model Talent competition. These people dress up. Wine was provided and I managed to save our bottles from the clean up crew as they prepared the room for dancing. Renee and company disappeared on the dance floor while I watched the show, sipping a glass of merlot and gossiping with Cy, a bookseller handling the Non-fiction booths for the convention. At some point, even Cy gave up on me. I was contemplative - decompressing from a very trying day. Lost in my own little island of calm as chaos whirled all around me. Of course, it couldn't last. This is the RT convention after all.   Enter, Robin Schone from the next table over. Perhaps she just hated seeing me sitting there all alone, but I couldn't pretend not to hear her happy, "Hello?" From the next table over. She came over. I stood. She read my name tag as we exchanged polite pleasantries. "I read your articles to my husband all the time!" "Thanks." I never know what to say to that. I'm not going to get into details here, mostly because they involve a lot of drinking, a lot of fun, and a complete lack of ability on my part to remember the rest of the evening. Robin introduced me to her husband, Don. That man has an amazing sense of humor. He's agreed to be the final judge in Renee and my "Hot Steamy Love Scene" competition. We're going to ahve to co-ordinate this with Ann Peach.  I spent a good portion of the evening trying to glean writing advice and Don's preferences in an effort to win said competition.   This is not cheating BTW, it's research. Renee spent the evening with the cover models. In a way, that's research too.   Robin Schone hosts an internet retreat, and several of her clan joined the party. All I can say is, this is one fun group. I may never recover. They want to read the entries too. At 2 am, 5 am my time, I gave up and crawled to my room. I left them all still partying.   Friday, October 25 9:30 AM Diva breakfast: Fruit Cup and Cheese Cake. Hosted by Robin Schone, Susan Grace, Liddy Midnight Renee Bernard and I hide in the back, pretending not to be hung over or, as Renee describes it: Fra-gee-lay. Since I know for a fact 90% of the people in this room were out bar hopping and wasted until well past 2 am – they seem to be WAYYY more energetic than is humanly possible.  Oh god. Susan is talking about the erotic senses. After about a five-minute intro, Susan hands it off to Robin Schone and Liddy.  We get to the prime hang up for writing erotic love scenes: Fear of being read by Mom. Susan interjects a personal story. Liddy returns to the subject by mentioning that her brother-in-law demanded that she send more pornography to her sister (his wife) because she was a wild woman after proof reading Liddy’s latest work. Robin asks who the aspiring writers are in the room – zeros in on the sober and conscious lady in the middle and identifies the true crux of why none of us can write a decent love scene. We cringe at the thought that Mom or our daughters will read it someday. I personally have no hang ups in that area because no one is allowed to read my stuff unless they live several thousands of miles away. Problem solved. Apparently there are no distinctions between historicals and contemporaries. People have been having sex for centuries, maybe longer.  Sex can be redeeming, erotic, growth, etc. (This from Robin Schone.) Liddy’s take? Stories are not about the plot. It’s about getting your characters together and keeping them together. (Note on typing this as they talk: I actually had an easier time following and typing the Big Brother live feeds on Real Player, but I wasn’t hung over then so I’ll just stop trying now. More caffeine is desperately needed.) It might interest you to know that the money machines in Reno give out hundred dollar bills. Yeah. That was my reaction too.  Renee seems to be paying attention. Liddy is talking about social personas. We have different personalities we put on. Eh. Me? Not so much. I’m pretty much me no matter where I sit. She’s projecting insecurities on those around her. Good device, if you have insecurities. She conveys this in her books. The lady in the middle is holding up her end by asking intelligent questions which frees me up to – ok – hold my head and squint at everyone through pain hazed eyes. Must buy The Perfume Garden. Oh thank god, the AC just kicked on. Breathing deeply.  We’ve moved on somehow to historical research. I just realized that Susan has all of her books set up on the table on display. Robin asks Susan if she’d ever been tempted to cheat on the historical research. Susan takes over the talk and tells us all about her favorite horror story involving a copy editor and a mangled French phrase. I can sympathize here because I know for a fact, no one is more anal about the French language than the French. I mean that. No one. I once had a French teacher who yelled at me because I kept asking her what the words were in French for certain things. She said – and I’ll never forget this by the way -- she said, “French is not our way of speaking the English language! Sometimes there ARE no words in English to describe a phrase in French.” I took this to mean that somehow the French are more astute observers of the world than the English and are more skilled at describing what they observe. I actually wanted to know how to say “hangover” in French because, at the time, as I am now, I was hung over. She finally took pity on me and said, “A la poin.” Direct translation? Your hair hurts, or something to that effect.  God my hair hurts right now. Damn Robin Schone and her Happy Retreat Merry Maker Clan. I want to stop here and count how many times I just used the word had. Wait a sec. Be right back. OK 4 so far. Lee Emory would be extremely annoyed. This is my new goal. Take note: If you tell me what annoys you, I will oblige whether you are there to appreciate my efforts or not. Robin’s husband just referred to himself as the “love crash test dummy”. This is so never going to see the light of day in any print magazine. As I hobble to the back of the room to get coffee, a drink I despise but strangely require right at this moment, Susan takes over the floor -- again.  Stragglers arrive and the room feels crowded now. Or, it could be the heat off the coffee; which I’ve hyper injected with ten sugars. Feeling slightly better now. Renee is dieting and uses only two sugars and one cream. I add my ten empty sugar packets to her two sugar packet pile. Shhhhhh. The audience is asking and answering their own freaking questions. That sort of describes a discussion but this really isn’t a discussion so much as a soul cleansing session on releasing your guilt over loving to read and write erotica.  Obviously, Susan did not get nearly drunk enough last night. She has pretty much carried the entire hour and a half. I am beginning to like coffee.  Now we have shifted to testimonials about how Robin’s books have saved the marriage of many conservative Christians. This is actually kind of fascinating to me and if I had real neurons firing in my head yet, I would probably join in at this point. I chug down the rest of my coffee.  Confessional time. Now the conversation turns to how to introduce the subject of sex to our sons. I’m not an expert by any means, but I think 16-year-old boys have one goal and one goal only, getting laid. I plan on handing my son all of Robin Schones’ books for a how to and will consider my work in that area done.  The morning session ends. I go back to my room to throw up. Friday, October 25 10:30 AM I don't have the slightest idea what I did during this time period. If I remember, I'll put it in. Friday, October 25 2 PM Aroma Therapy With Jeanne Rose The smoke in the casino and the hangover drove me into the aroma therapy session. As soon as I entered the room I could feel my bones melting and my stomach settling. It was heaven. Fragrance brings back memories. Coconut scent causes hypertension. Not from a real coconut but the synthetic scent. Smell the true oils and compare them to the synthetics. Masoia is coconut essential oil and aggravates the mucus membranes. Hospitals are using mild essential oils such as Lavender. Soft to Spicy. Lavender has different levels of scent. Scent fits into the sensory apparatus like a key – olfactory mucosa have tiny little slots like miniature key holes. The small molecules of odor drop into these holes and lock into them – filling up different olfactory receptacles. Waft, don’t draft. She passes around the lavender oils from mildest to strongest and asks us to give the scent a descriptive word:  Bulgaria Organic – smells citrusy to me (vanilla is an aphrodisiac. So is Lavender to men.) France Organic Mayete – Woodsey, floral and fruity California Organic – Flowery, Herbal Tasmania Organic – pungent Spicy Croatia Organic – spiciest, closer to Rosemary Use the softer lavenders to promote erection in men. I stare over at Rene to see if she is taking notes. If not, I am so going to use this in my hot scene. She’s taking notes. Jeanne says men prefer natural odors, not like Josephine refusing to take a bath two weeks before Napoleon returns for a visit, but close. The French are weird about smells and language. But we knew this already. Peppermint, Rosemary and basil – stimulate creativity. Add Lemon Balm or Linden flowers to herbal tea to reduce hypertension and stimulate hair growth. I never knew certain teas make one hairy. Interesting. Make essential oil mixture and massage a few drops into your scalp and wait for an hour until they volatilize. I ponder the word “volatize” for a moment and consider it for one of my steamy sex scenes. Linden flowers and red clover are a PMS cure. Neroli aphrodisiac oils, Jasmine, rose, true vanilla, ylang ylang.