Nina Foxx's Blog, page 7

What Not Waxing Redux...or Author Talk on Tour

I reposted an article that a friend of mine shared yesterday--about a woman trying to wax herself, and it reminded me a of a blog I wrote back in 2007--an account of me doing the very same thing! I have a ton of friends who can tell stories about the time they tried to save themselves 75 bucks by trying to remove their own hair. Most times, the outcome wasn't so good. After doing it myself for quite awhile, I decided to try various waxing salons. A few times, I might have been better off doing it myself. Back when I was at FDU, I read this piece (much revised) at a student workshop session, and watched as the men in the room cringed. This was something they could not imagine. One of my professors lived in Copenhagen, and after my session, we talked about how American women were obsessed with hair removal in a way that the women in Copenhagen were not. We preferred smoothness to hair everywhere, but that is all good. (He read a piece that same day that told of the inability to micturate...(Now THERE's an obsession(...) That being said, here's my story:

Last year, while on the Femme Fantastik Tour, we got to talking about hygiene while we were trapped in the car for hours.  We talked about hair.  We talked about nails and of course, we talked about bikini waxes.  Brazilian waxes were made famous (in my world) by Sex in The city.  There was one hilarious scene where Carrie went to get waxed and was surprised when they took it all off.Now if you have ever shaved to get ready for bikini season, you know what a pain it can be and if you get in-grown hairs, its just ugly--for weeks.No surprise, I wanted to wax.  The Femmes and I swapped stories about getting the deed done, and they laughed at me when I told mine.I didn't go to a salon.  I was too shy to expose my who-who in that manner."I do it myself."Their mouths dropped open in disbelief.  "The whole thing?""Yup," I told them.  "Brazilian.""Doesn't that hurt?"I paused a minute to think about it.  "Not really.  Childbirth was much worse.  Of Course it gets a little uncomfy if you leave even the tiniest bit of wax there.  You know, later, it sticks to your undies."Then they wanted to know the logistics.I told them how you put one leg up on the counter,etc etc.  I may not have been the most flexible cheerleader back in college, but every little bit helps as you approach old bird status. After I explained the logistics, they closed their mouths. I was a hairless goddess in their eyes.Time passed and I didn't think anymore about it until I moved (to San Antonio ) and I spotted a new shiny salon.  I decided to try a professional wax to get ready for swimsuit season.Seems reasonable, right?It was, for two visits.I was a little nervous about it, I mean, there ain't that many people that get that up close and personal with my ahem, but the woman I saw put me at ease and made me comfortable.  Before long, we were laughing and yucking up a storm, while she had her fingers you-know-where. She told me about her first male client that wanted a brazilian.  He was a male model and she had to just hold her nose and do what she does.She about split open from laughter when I told her I did it myself, but she was a professional and knew what to use in what spots to leave me smooth as can be with a minimum of discomfort.So imagine my surprise when I walked into the salon for a touch up and she wasn't there.I should have known something was wrong because the other times I went she was always waiting for me.  Today, I had to wait for her, twenty minutes.And when she emerged from her room, it wasn't her, but another woman that I'd seen working at the salon before--but not waxing.I was a tad apprehensive, but I said "What the hell, its just a wax, not a haircut."I didn't even run screaming from the room when she shut the door behind us and then...she turned on the radio.Odd, since normally the other lady left the room quiet with dimmed lights. (She used a spotlight to see what she needed.)"Trying to muffle my screams?" I quipped.She laughed, but I had no idea what was coming.I lay on the table."What did so and so use on you?" she asked. Another clue.I told her. pointed out the right container.And we got started.She spread the wrong kind of wax in the wrong places.  I was prepared for it to be so warm that it was just on the edge of uncomfortable.It wasn't. In fact, it was sort of just lukewarm.Hmmm.I didn't know that cold wax is just as bad as wax that is too hot.She pulled.Uh oh.  Instead of a quick rip, she pulled slowly and in threes.I winced.She'd discovered a new form of torture that probably wasn't against the Geneva Conventions."Um, think you can do that faster?" I asked, wiping back the tears that sprang to my eyes.She apologized and started in again.Turned the radio up."I'm going to switch waxes."  I nodded then pressed my eyes closed.  She spread thick purple stuff everywhere it shouldn't have been.Practically waxed my what-not shut.I let her tug a little, screamed and then I sat straight up on the table like Carrie did on Sex in The City."I'm so sorry," she said, over and over.  "I don't do this all the time. I hope you come back.""Like Hell," I said.  "This is an absolutely Nina moment." It was, because only I could find myself in this predicament. Anyone else would have walked out when things seemed amiss. Curse that damned positive worldview I tend to wake up with. I wasn't even mad at her.  I just laughed at myself. I'd had my share of run-ins with wax.  Did I tell you about the one where I removed my eyebrow?She wanted to finish.  I obviously couldn't leave with one less hole than I'd come in with, but I wasn't letting her near me.  She was not a waxer.  She was an expert in inhumane torture."How about this? I will do it myself."I asked for the tools I needed to free my Wilhelmina."Scissors."She apologized after each request and meekly handed me what I asked for."Baby oil.""Sorry.  Sorry.""Tea Tree Oil.""You know, I think this is gonna be free.""No shit." I said. " I need a towel. And a mirror."She turned around while I got more up close and personal with myself than I have been since childbirth and cut my way to freedom.When I finally emerged from the room,the salon was absolutely quiet. No one made eye contact.They'd heard my screams, the names I'd called her and my curses (which I left out of this blog).My manicurist slipped me a number under the table.  She told me how to find the wax lady who'd left.Moral of this story?Sometimes, a do it yourself job is just A-OK.I'm reasonably sure I'da never waxed my whatnot shut.

Exceprt from A Letter For My Mother, By ME....Submit yours!

Charlenne,

The doctors say that it won’t be long now. Your son just called and told me. I have to say that I didn’t expect to be sucked down the long tunnel of dread, and I certainly didn’t expect the tears. I haven’t spoken to you in a month or so. That’s mainly my fault. Since I split with your son, I don’t call as much. I think it may have been a little uncomfortable for you, too, because you don’t call me either, not like at first.

As young women, we are often told what type of relationship to expect with a mother-in-law, and unfortunately, we often believe it. That’s where we started, in that place that every mother-in-law-daughter-in-law dyad is supposed to begin, midway between disdain and respect and halfway to fear.

Over time, we both figured that each was going to stick around awhile, so we had to get past the paper cuts and passive-aggressive behaviors that we inflicted on each other regularly. You would always be his mother and I would always be the mother of his children. No matter what we did or wished, our families would be linked forever. We learned that no matter what our differences were, there were some ways that we were alike, whether we liked it or not, and that there were some lessons that each of us had for one another.

We lived together for a brief time, and you told me things I knew you hadn’t told anyone else, not even your own daughters, and you saw right through my designer-clad tough façade enough to call me out when I was hurting and break it down for me when I let injustice pass. Some of the things you said were not encased in pretty words to soften the blow, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t the truth. I had to learn that you had been where I was just starting to go. Time had taught you how to carry a burden with dignity, a lesson you were trying to pass on to me whether I wanted it or not.

I bitched, but you taught me a lot of things, and for this, I want to thank you. Some of the lessons were small. Although I acted like I was appalled, I know that you can use lipstick as blush in a bind. People used to do it all the time and just because new stuff hit the market, it doesn’t make that untrue or even bad. Thank you. And it’s true that it’s cheaper to take my lazy ass to the post office to mail packages rather than go to the local shipping store. Thank you. Tuesday Morning does sell the BEST high-thread-count sheets at the cheapest prices. I will have sweet dreams many nights because of you. Thank you. I admit that Crisco works on baby eczema. You told me years before I read it in a fancy parenting magazine. Thank you.

Thank you for being the kind of grandmother that you were for my children. I had to learn to let you live in the space where you were comfortable. Thank you for baking a trillion dozen cookies with the girls even though I objected. I said that my kids couldn’t have sugar and your lips said okay, but you were already firing up the oven. I know now that those early cookie lessons were also lessons in togetherness as well as lessons in math. Your love of the cookie-calculus will be carried on in your granddaughter, and I will make sure that she doesn’t forget the real sugar (not Splenda) and knows what salted butter does to a cookie recipe.

You told me stories of your youth, and I acted embarrassed, but those were things I needed to know. You pushed me to be a better mother to my kids, to think outside convention and to demand respect from myself and from the men in my life, your son included. You reminded me that degrees don’t make you smarter, just more educated, and that sometimes, plain old wisdom and not a textbook will get me to where I need to be.

I thought that when I broke up with your son, I was breaking up with you, too, but you didn’t believe that. You didn’t lose my number and didn’t even change how you acted towards me and reminded me that my children were still your grandchildren and I was still your daughter, whether I wanted to be or not. Mothering doesn’t always come from the person who is biologically your mother, and not everyone’s mothering is the same, but that doesn’t make it bad or not valuable. You urged me to keep my kids first and after you grilled me about what I wanted, you let me know that you were even woman enough to welcome whomever I let into my life next, into yours, too. If they made me happy, you would allow it.

I’m not sure when you’ll go. The doctors don’t know everything. Theirs is not the master plan. You were always strong-willed and definitely lived your life your way. You told me that many times, so I suppose you will go when you get good and ready. Good for you. The joke’s on them, isn’t it? You made me a promise a few years ago that you would let me know where you landed, and I know you will stick to that. I always have appreciated your stick-to-itive-ness, and I know this time won’t be any different. I will welcome your message, and won’t be afraid. Your presence in life challenged me to be a better me, so I can’t imagine that your presence in death will be any different.

Thank you, Charlenne, for being a part of my village of women. I didn’t expect to love you. I know now that the people who love you don’t always have to make you comfortable. Sometimes, it is their job to make you examine yourself and your truths and shake things up, helping you to divine your path. You helped me to divine mine. I’m honored to have shared almost twenty years of your life.

Nina

Nina Foxx is an award-winning filmmaker, playwright and novelist. She writes as both Nina Foxx and Cynnamon Foster and has authored eight novels, contributed to several anthologies and co-authored a text on writing. Nina and her younger brother were raised by a single father in New York City.

copyright 2014 Nina Foxx Used with permission

A Letter for YOUR mother

I'm really excited about this next book, A Letter for My Mother. This is an annthology of essays collected from my writer and film friends. It features work by many of the big names you know, writers such as Victoria Christopher Murray, Reshonda Tate Billingsley, Zane, Carmen Green, Tannanarive Due, plus some writers you may not have heard of. The book is due to be released in a few days, and because of the participatory nature of this project, I wanted to invite you, the reader to participate as well. So, from now until Mother's Day, I challenge you in the same way I challenged the writers that have contributed to this book.

I will open my blog to your posts for that time period. Reach deep down and write your own letter to your mother or mother-figure in your life and tell them something you never could before. Mother-Daughter relationships aren't always pretty, but they almost always teach us something. What has your taught you? Tell us here.

A few caveats: You have to find something positive to say. You retain the rights to your work and it will only be used here on the blog. That's it. To get you started,I will posting introduction to the book. Next week, I will post my letter.

I want to hear from you. We all do. Give your mother the best gift imaginable for Mother's Day.

The Path To Hotness

     When we are young, our parents often tell us things that we don't understand or that make no sense to us until much later in life, things like anything worth doing is worth doing well, or nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. I confess that my parents didn't tell me that one, but I have learned it to be true over my 11 week long journey to fit.
    I embarked on my new health challenge at the beginning of the year, and except for one lone glass of wine with friends, a planned one, I have stuck to it. I have not missed one of the 66 exercise sessions, or 11 dietitian appointments. I walked and run countless miles (unless you follow me on fitbit; the actual number is there for you to see and me to gloat over). I'm sure I have east coast friends who are staying up late because they are afraid that I have a three hour jump on them and might out step them when they sleep. (Girl, stop jogging in your 600 square foot apartment! You are disturbing the neighbors below you). I've endured weekly weigh-ins whose anticipation leave me so anxious and afraid that I might not have not lost anything and have taught me a new meaning of "dressing light". I have even sunken to the level of weighing my clothes on weigh day to see which outfit is lighter and hoped that no one noticed that yes, I do, in fact, wear the same outfit every Tuesday.    I have seen my body change in good ways, easing back into muscular, my run time improve from "barely scraping through the 5K" to "Hot damn, I'm actually running and I can't hear what you're saying because you are now behind me and I will see you at the finish line." What has not happened is that I have not awakened so sore that I wan't to call my trainer something that his mother did not name him. 
Until now. 
(I have, however, told him I hate him on many an occasion. He just smiles. He's young and I'm not paying his mortgage. He might not even be listening. I will check for earplugs next time).     I've experienced some soreness, and I'm sure the trainer was trying, but nothing like this morning. My hips felt as if they were going to fuse in place and my upper abs were so sore I didn't want my husband to even lay his arm across me. I opened my eyes and I was so stiff that  for a minute, I was sure that I had been tied to the bed over night by miniature torture people, a la Gulliver's Travels.     On such a spring like day, I'd been contemplating wearing a cute outift that I couldn't have gotten into two months ago without looking like one of those people in those People of Walmart pictures. Once I finally got out of bed, I tired to burn the pain away in my shower, (It only has two settings. OFF, and 2nd degree burn), then slipped into my outfit. I really did. I slipped into it. I even tucked my blouse into my skirt instead of wearing it on the outside. And didn't look like a sausage, either. A victory, yes, but I still couldn't move.        I pushed through my morning routine, as just as I went down the steps to leave, my husband leans on the banister and says THE WORDS that make it all worthwhile. "You're looking hot today."Let me write it again. "You're looking hot today." No modifier. Not kinda hot. Not sort of hot. Just "Hot". 
Alright now! 
To some, a husband telling their wife that she looks hot is no big deal. It's a big deal to me. Mine tells the truth. Kindly, but he still tells it. And its far better than the compliment (sort of) my teen daughter gave me. She said "Mom, you hips are bigger than your middle now." That's just crazy. I still haven't' figured out what she was trying to say, because if you have seen me, you know that if my waist was EVER bigger than my hips, I wouldn't have been able to fit the the door in my house, even if I turned sideways. I would have known, because, as I mentioned, my husband tells the truth.
His simple statement changed my outlook and made me think differently. His words triggered an aha moment for a tidbit of wisdom that if I hadn't heard before, I should have.
The Path to Hotness May be fraught with Pain. I will admit that the statement is kind of Siddartha-esque, but one man's nirvana is another person's hotness.
I'm not going to cuss my trainer tonight. I'm sure there are other things he would rather be doing.  I'm not even going to cuss at him at the unholy hour of 7AM on Saturday. (I still have no idea what makes me think that time made sense, besides, I am paying him.).I am, however, going to keep going for one more month. Twelve more pounds. I have lost twenty six so far, and it looks good OFF of me. It feels good too.

So You Want to Become a Writer: Tools of the Trade for Beginners Guest Post by NiKolas Baron, from Grammarly

So You Want to Become a Writer: Tools of the Trade for BeginnersYou’ve decided that out of all the other professions you could choose, writing is right for you. You want to compose beautiful prose and enter the minds of your readers to enrich their imagination. But where do you start? What do you need? What are the best writers using to enhance their writing skills? In an age of endless technology, there are millions of online resources. But what some beginning writers forget about is the actual written word: books. There are many books out there that writers need to have. Now, let’s not rule out Kindle electronic books; just because there’s no paper doesn’t mean it’s not a real book. Also, think about the entire writing process. What do you need to start out? What’s your writing style? What do you need to give you that last push at the end to finish your novel? What do you need to market, promote, or publish your work? What writing contests are available for beginning writers? There are tons of resources that will help answer these questions. Let’s discuss a few below:Beginning writers sometimes miss out on a few of the basics. They’ve read all the books, seen all the articles, been to the conferences, and applied to the contests, but they forget about the simple stuff. A good writer, in particular a beginning writer, needs to have a dictionary and thesaurus. It doesn’t matter if you prefer paper, electronic, e-reader, or online format—a good dictionary and thesaurus are necessary. There’s going to be a time where you want a better word or you’re tired of using the same word over and over again and you’ll reach for your handy thesaurus. Or there might be a time where you’ve chosen a word, but on further investigation with your handy dictionary you find its meaning is the exact opposite of what you intended. When starting out, it’s never a bad idea to start with the basics.Another meaty beginner’s staple is a good library. All good writers are also good readers. Know why? Books can teach you so much about style, dialog, themes, plot, setting, character arcs, what not to do, accents, and pretty much anything about writing. There’s an infinite amount of knowledge to be gained from others' work. A good library is not only a good reference tool; if you’re feeling uninspired, a treasured book can help remind you why you love writing. Having a ton of books around can also help with plagiarism. For me, I get so ingrained in my work at times that I reference material I’ve read before and think it’s my own. If it starts sounding too familiar, I can easily leaf through a few books and find out if I’ve committed any plagiarism. Whether you’re looking for inspiration or confirming you haven’t made an error, a healthy library can only help build your writing skill database.Already finished writing your first piece? Now what to do? Proofread, edit, cut, fix grammar, punctuation, and spelling, look for synonyms, and check for plagiarism. Grammarly is an excellent resource to utilize. If you’re just starting out, cost can be an issue. By using a free online resource like Grammarly, you can save money and time. Grammarly also has tools that help identify your most common errors and teaching tools that can expand your writing skill set. It’s also a quicker resource to use for checking for plagiarism than leafing through your library. If you’re looking for an overall comprehensive writing resource, Grammarly fits the bill.Last but not least, Writer’s Market. Writer’s Market is everything you’re looking for to start your writing career. That includes contests, agents, MFA programs, publishers; everything. Every list I’ve ever seen for a writer’s tools, whether the writer is a veteran or newbie, includes Writer’s Market as the lifeblood of writing. It’s a necessary resource to have if you wish to find an agent who represents your style of work, an MFA program specializing in your talents, or a publisher who typically publishes material like yours. It’s also a great tool to look through to get a feel for what the writing world can encompass. As a beginning writer, it’s important to know all of the resources out there to help you. Writer’s Market has any and all resources you could possibly imagine.For as many writers who exist, there are an equal, if not greater, set of resources to use. Picking the right tools from the start saves time and money, but also teaches you crucial rules while you’re just starting to hone your skills.
By Nikolas Baron
Bio:Nikolas discovered his love for the written word in Elementary School, where he started spending his afternoons sprawled across the living room floor devouring one Marc Brown children’s novel after the other and writing short stories about daring pirate adventures. After acquiring some experience in various marketing, business development, and hiring roles at internet startups in a few different countries, he decided to re-unite his professional life with his childhood passions by joining Grammarly’s marketing team in San Francisco. He has the pleasure of being tasked with talking to writers, bloggers, teachers, and others about how they use Grammarly’s online proofreading application to improve their writing. His free time is spent biking, traveling, and reading. 

How to survive a teenager by breathing

Some days, Kids know how to make you scream. Or almost. They make you want to scream. Don't. Instead breathe in, then breathe out. Repeat. If I can get through mother-of-teendom doing this, it will work for you.
My teen lost her wallet. That means, no school ID, no bus pass, no driving permit. Then, she followed that up by losing her glasses. Again. Breathe in, breath out. Repeat.
I decided to go in to work late to get her a replacement permit. She shows up at my room, ready to go. or--(insert sound of screeching car here). Her mouth said she was ready to go to a place of business, but her clothing did not.
She had on shorts that might have been panties, a shirt that bared her midriff, thigh high thick socks and  over the knee boots. Oh, an a hip length sweater over that. Did I mention it is winter? But the boots, they were slamming! Clearly, she got her shoe taste from her mama.
I said, "Darling, we are going to two places of business, followed by lunch at my office. You need to put on something that shows less skin."
"Why?"
I didn't want to be bothered with the because-I-said-so-banter. I took a deep breath. "I couldn't go to work like that, so you will not be going to my office like that."
Okay, she left. Seemed to work.
Five minutes later she shows up again. She has on shorts that actually clear the curve of her ass this time.
Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.
"Darling. You didn't understand. You have to cover up. That is not appropriate."
"But you thought it was cute."
"I though the parts were cute in the summer. Not together. Sometimes, the whole is not greater than the sum of the parts."
She rolls her eyes, gnashes her teeth, but leaves again.
When she shows up this time, she has on jeans. No holes. The top is still midriff but only barely. Okay, I think I gotta take my small victory. The boots? Still slamming.
I watch her as she models in front of my full length mirror and compliment her on her shoe choice. "I really like those. I might have to snag them from you sometimes."
With a straight face, she says one word. "No."
"Huh? What?" I don't comprehend. Especially since we have an understanding that since she has no job and I bought everything, everything is essentially mine.
"You made me change my clothes, so you can't wear them."
Breathe in, out, in, out, in , out.....

Read Northern Passion TODAY!

Read Northern Passion TODAY!

How the Truth Converges

     My first memory as a child is dust and white, frilly socks. I can't remember people but I remember standing in the dust down south, and seeing my feet and those socks they put on very little girls, and being so little that I could very easily look UNDER the houses that were raised up on cinder blocks. I know now that I am remembering what used to be sharecroppers houses-turned black people's neighborhood. (I'm not that old).  I don't remember ever being in that place again.  The house changed when my grandmother moved.
     My younger brother also has memories of that place. Interestingly enough, our memories are not the same, even though we are really close together. Maybe  he saw different things than I did. He told me his memories and now I would argue that his memories are so closely interwoven with mine that they all belong to me now. Mine also belong to him. These have created a new, bigger remembrance of that place in deep Alabama.
        When I talk to my youngest, she often tells me of things she remembers that I think she can't possibly; things that happened when she was two or so, and she recalls them with the most amazing vividness. Sometimes, these are things that I know we have talked about in the family. What I can't figure out is, does she remember the event? Or is she remembering our shared recollection of it? Have we helped her rehearse those things in her mind and that helps them stick, similar to the way you remember a dream if you tell someone about it first thing in the morning, versus not?
     As a writer, a fair amount of what you produce is made up, but I would argue that  good part of it is from what you have experienced yourself and then combined it with other people's memories of events or knowledge, or re-arranged it so that it is unrecognizable. The question is, can you really tell which is which? In my new book, Momma: Gone, I used a lot of truth. My truth and my brother's truth. I also folded in the truth of other people around me, the truth as they told it to me over the years. The story hold the essence of what was, but because of how it came to be, it is fiction.
     One of the things that stuck with me after finishing that is that everyone's truth is slightly different. Someone in my family said that there are seventeen sides of the truth.  It's multi-faceted because the truth is  viewed from a slightly different angle for everyone that lives it. Where those truths converge is  the story that gets told.



Momma: Gone by Nina Foxx

Writing What you know

I keep getting asked if what I write is real life.  I repeat-I’m not that interesting, but I have a heck of an imagination. Let’s talk Eastern Spice (Cynnamon Foster).  Of course, I am not a spy.  I am a writer.  I’m certainly not a spy that goes undercover in swingers clubs, but I did write about real places I have been in the book.  In fact, India and Japan are two of my favorites.
I always knew my characters would end up in India.  I knew that before I had ever been or put one word on the page.  I was intrigued by a story that my husband found in the paper about a woman found dead in a hotel pool where he was staying in India. In the movie in my mind, of course it was a conspiracy.  I cooked up a story and started writing. Then I visited.  I got to drive through the countryside and exchange wedding vows at the Taj Mahal, and had to go back and re-write what I had written.  I wanted the details to be as real as possible, so m6 characters see what I saw with the same wonder that I did. I liked it so much that I will go back again, and maybe my characters will, too.
Now, you ask, why Tokyo?  Tokyo is indeed one of my favorite cities.  I visited often before the earthquake and tsunami.  I studied Japanese in college.  Loved everything about the place, including the formality of ceremony of the culture, so its only natural that my characters had a stop through there, if only for a minute. (A bit of trivia…I wrote an earlier short story as Cynnamon Foster entitled “In the Shadow of the Midnight Train.  The name came from a sign I saw in the back of a taxi I took from Kawasaki station.  The anthology it was in was published by Cleis Press.). The real reason they ended up there, though, is very simple; I wanted them to fly on a sexy G-6 plane, and the range of that particular aircraft could only take them as far as Japan from the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport.  It also gave me an excuse to give them the mile high experience that so many people wish they could have.  It would have been very different on a regular, commercial flight, right?
I’ll probably have to revisit Tokyo in one of the future books, and this time, the characters will leave the airport so that I can share with you some of the things I love about Tokyo.
Eastern Spice is available here: http://www.amazon.com/Eastern-Spice-69-Degrees-ebook/dp/B00CP5LE26/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1370229429&sr=1-1&keywords=cynnamon+foster
Get it now, the next book is coming!

Writing From Real Life

Every time I talk with Book clubs, I get asked if any of the things in my books are from life.  The answer is a definitive no…and yes.
This question made me chuckle when I was writing Nina Foxx books, but as Cynnamon Foster, it makes me guffaw with laughter, because what they are really asking is if my sex life is as filled with adventure as Desiree’s or Seria’s.  Let me just say, I am wonderfully happy in that area, but no, I don’t write from my life, at least not in that sense. I actually do a lot of research—but not the way you might think.  The publisher supplied me with animated visual aids (very, very funny!).  I also read a lot of titles in the genre as well as watch a lot of late night Showtime.
In Southern Comfort, my characters are frolicking in Texas, but in Eastern Spice (release date May 3, Ellora’s Cave), they embark on a far flung adventure briefly lading in Tokyo, and they in Bangalore, India. I started writing Eastern Spice before I had actually gone to India, after my husband went and he sent me a very interesting newspaper article that he found in an expatriate edition of The Financial Times.  An expatriate had been found dead.  Her death was mysterious, and of course my active imagination ran with that, coming up with all sorts of what ifs.
I’d written quite a bit before we embarked on an adventure of our own; we went to India and exchanged vows at the most famous testament to love on earth; the Taj Mahal.  It’s a long drive from anywhere to get there. Along the way, I marveled at the flavor of India and we enjoyed and explored her.  I fell in love with him all over again there, but I also fell in love with India, all if it.  The sights, smells, sounds and its general uniqueness.
I came home from that trip and started over on Eastern Spice, now able to put real details that I couldn’t before.  So, yes, I did write from life.  The hanger upon which my story is hung is very real, but the rest is pure fantasy, one that I hope you will enjoy.
You can get it from Ellora’s Cave first, on May 3rd, and shortly thereafter on Amazon and everywhere you buy an ebook.  Let me know what you think.
http://www.ellorascave.com/eastern-spice.html