Tawna Fenske's Blog, page 10

Grab me while I'm cheap & easy

What do you call it when two different publishers handling your books decide to do a sale the same week?

I feel like there should be a sexy punchline that uses phrases like "double-penetration" or "tag-team" but I can't come up with anything at the moment.

But I can give you the links for both amazing deals happening RIGHT NOW! (Er, that's assuming you read this post shortly after it goes live. If you're reading it the next day, the sales might have ended. But maybe I can offer a consolation prize of a free five-pound bag of freeze-dried brine shrimp eggs?)

OK, so first up, Sourcebooks is offering a 99-cent special on the e-book version of my second romantic comedy, Believe it or Not . This is the first time I've ever seen them do a sale on this title, and I have no idea how long it'll last (that's what she said). 

So snag it now for your Kindle or Nook. If you've already done that, consider gifting it to friends or family members with e-readers. Where else can you get a fun holiday gift that only costs 99-cents and doesn't require you to shove quarters in a slot at the adult arcade?

The second sale is even better than the first, because it's FREE. Which isn't really a sale – it's more like a giveaway, huh?

No matter, Coliloquy (the publisher of my active fiction title Getting Dumped ) is giving away the Kindle version of my first episode TOTALLY FREE. Obviously, it's a gimmick to lure new readers they hope will purchase the second episode, but who cares? It's a FREE BOOK! Those don't fall out of trees. And if they do, there's a big risk you'll be hit in the head, so obviously it's way safer to have the e-book.

In case you haven't read my previous posts on the subject, Coliloquy publishes "interactive fiction." They use the technology differently for all their books, but in the case of Getting Dumped, it's sort of like an e-book version of a choose-your-own-adventure. But with more groping and penis jokes and bulldozers and landfills a quirky mystery. Fun, right? And did I mention it's totally FREE?!?!

The Coliloquy giveaway for Getting Dumped ends at 11:59 p.m. Pacific Standard Time on Wednesday, December 5, so you'll want to jump on this one fast (that's what he said).

So there you have it. Two ways to enjoy a little cheap & easy entertainment with minimal risk of contracting an STD. Happy holidays!

Next to cozy pajamas and good wine, social media is an author's best friend

Every now and then I'm asked to give workshops to writers' groups on the subject of social media. After I've blathered for awhile about blogging and Twitter and Facebook, someone in the audience will raise a timid hand.

"It looks fun and all, but how does that sell books?"

It's a question I love answering even more than the one about how to have a steamy makeout session without messing up your lipstick (because frankly, I'm not sure about that one).

But the answer to the former question is that you have to redefine what you consider selling.

In the social media world, selling does not involve beating the consumer over the head with your product until he falls to his knees and throws his credit card at you as a means of self-defense. It involves forming connections and friendships over shared experiences, laughter, or what you had for lunch.

And because people like the idea of supporting their friends, they'll take it into their own hands to buy what you're offering and suggest their friends do the same.

If I'm organized enough to have a Powerpoint presentation prepared for my workshop, I'll show few screenshots that illustrate my point.

As soon as I saw this exchange on Twitter a few weeks ago, I knew I'd add it to my collection of favorite examples. It started with my blog post about people laughing at my new hat. I was delightfully surprised that a regular blog reader was kind enough to tweet about the post to her followers, and things unfolded from there:


And just like that, I have a new reader. Well, assuming she followed through. I've considered figuring out where she lives and peering in her windows to see if I can spot one of my books lying on the sofa, but my editor might frown on the negative publicity of having me arrested for stalking.

Oh, and while we're on the subject of social media, I also want to share this incredible video I saw last week at a marketing workshop I attended for the day job. The instant I saw it, I searched YouTube from my iPhone to find a link. I immediately emailed the link to three marketing colleagues, tweeted about it from my author Twitter account, and posted it to Facebook.

Talk about illustrating the point.

I've been Googling something besides myself

I'd been editing my manuscript for five hours straight when I decided to take a break to surf porn read mentally enriching news stories. I stumbled upon an article about a police investigation in which a suspect's Google search history was used to build a case against her.

It got me thinking. Not just about what police might conclude if they searched my browser history, but how long my jail term might be and the number of conjugal visits I'd be permitted per day.

It also sent me scrolling through my browser history to see exactly what I'd been Googling as I worked to finalize details in my latest romantic comedy. In no particular order, here are my top ten keyword searches performed Monday morning:
Dumb sex studiesPorcupine triviaFixing a bent rim on a mountain bikeBizarre sexual practicescrudités versus canapés How bicycle handlebar position affects female orgasmFacts about badgersJiu Jitsu takedowns Bankruptcy recovery  Plumbing expressions that sound dirtyI think I'm going to suggest to my editor that in lieu of writing a blurb for this book, we simply print that list on the back cover. Surely that's enough to pique reader interest, right?

So what have you been Googling lately? Please share!

Oh, and since you're dying to know about dirty plumbing terms and handlebar position impacting orgasm, here you go:

Plumbing expressions that don't mean what you think

How a bicycle handlebar affects the female orgasm

You're welcome.

When the end isn't the end

Last week, I had the giddy pleasure of typing "the end" on my current manuscript.

Well, that's not exactly what I typed.

This particular ending was a long time coming, and I'm too exhausted now to point out that I just wrote "coming."

I haven't addressed this on the blog yet, but those of you paying close attention may have noticed the third book in my romantic comedy contract hasn't hit shelves yet. Though my publisher had initially slated the release for August 2012 and I completed the manuscript in plenty of time, they suggested it wasn't the right third book for my career. I was given the option to release it anyway, or to start from scratch with a brand new book and a different release date.

My gut and my brain had differing opinions about the best course of action, and they wrestled long and hard in a pit of cherry Jello while wearing sequined g-strings and nipple tassels.

Which is how I ended up writing a new manuscript from scratch, and how I ended up sitting at my desk last week staring at those words through a blur of happy/sad tears.

Once upon a time, I thought a book deal might magically transform me into the sort of writer who'd reach the final line of a manuscript, type "the end," and immediately hand a spotless draft over to my gleeful editor. This fantasy may have also involved several male strippers and a wine dispenser mounted beside my desk, but let's not dwell.

The biggest lesson I've learned since I first accepted this three-book deal in February 2010 is that my fantasy couldn't have been more off-base if I'd thrown in a gang of monkeys clanging celebratory cymbals.

Which, come to think of it, would be pretty cool.

But that isn't reality, and I know now that typing "the end" is only the beginning. I still have an absurd amount of editing to do before I'd even consider letting anyone outside a mental institution have a look at this manuscript. After that, I'll hand it off to my three critique partners who will lovingly tear it to shreds. Once I've implemented their changes, the manuscript will go to my three longtime beta readers, who will point out all the ways my heroine is unsympathetic, my hero is a sniveling weasel, and the fact that my unclear pronoun usage makes it sound like the heroine is licking her own neck. After their changes are made, the manuscript goes to my agent for another round of feedback and polishing before she submits it to my editor.

And after all that, I know it's entirely possible my editor will say, "meh...it's not the right book for your career now."

I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know I can't let myself dwell on that.

I can choose to panic over the flogging my draft will take in the coming weeks, and the fact that it might be all for naught. Or I can choose to take this one step at a time, slow and steady, and to allow myself to celebrate milestones like typing "the end" without rolling my eyes and muttering, "far from it."

For the writers among you, how far is "the end" from "THE END?" For non-writers, what are some of the biggest lessons you've learned along the way in your chosen career path. Please share!

I have to see a man about a monkey.

Making people better and happier (no porn required!)

One of my favorite moments each day takes place between 6:30 a.m. when I wake up, and around 7:30 when my gentleman friend is roused awake by his blaring alarm and my icy hands.

No, this isn't one of those battery-powered moments (though I do treasure those). That special hour is when I crawl out of bed to throw on my wool socks and yoga pants and as many sweater layers as I can possibly don, and head out for a morning walk with my dog.

We vary our route each morning. Sometimes we walk to the park where I let her off-leash to scurry in the grass and bark until I throw sticks for her to chase. Other times we head north toward the irrigation canal, which is a lovely, flowing creek in the summer months, and a barren pit of ice and dirt this time of year.

My city isn't a huge one, but it's surprising how many people we encounter at that hour in our little corner of suburbia. Most mornings I pass two or three strangers out walking dogs, enjoying a brisk jog, or returning from a night of burgling neighborhood homes. Usually we nod hello, perhaps issue a perfunctory, "good morning" as we pass. I don't think I'd recognize any of them in a police lineup if it did turn out they burgled neighborhood homes.

The mornings are chilly this time of year, so I bought myself a new hat two weeks ago. The hat is wool, and features a large animal face complete with eyeballs, ears, a protruding nose, and an odd tuft of hair on top. I love my hat very much, and felt toasty-warm the first morning I put it on.

My dog and I set out like any other morning en route to the park. Partway there, we crossed paths with a woman wearing Lycra pants and high-tech running shoes. As we passed on the sidewalk, she laughed.

"Morning," she said, and continued on with her jog.

I didn't think much of it until we arrived at the park. I let Bindi off-leash and started my usual stroll around the wood-chip path circling the soccer field. Halfway around, we encountered a shaggy young man with a skateboard and holey jeans on the brink of sliding off his non-existent hips to reveal his shamrock boxers.

He looked at me, grinned, looked at my dog, then looked at me again. "That's a really great dog," he said.

"She is," I agreed, watching her trot obediently to my side in case Mr. Saggy Pants decided to beat me with his skateboard. She barked once, then scurried into the bushes in pursuit of an imaginary squirrel.

We continued on our way, not encountering anyone else until I stooped to re-leash my dog at the edge of the park. A young mother hauling a stroller and a panting golden retriever halted at the edge of the grass and pointed at me.

"Look, Austin," she said in a sing-song voice. "See the hat?"

I'm not sure whether Austin was the dog or the toddler, but I smiled and waved and said a quiet "ah-ha" to myself as I continued on my way.

The hat. That's the reason everyone was so smiley and friendly. I thought about it all the way home, delighting in the fact that something so small and ridiculous could prompt such a cheerful response from strangers.

There's a quote I've seen floating around the interwebs from time to time:

"Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier."

It's credited to Mother Teresa, so I won't even joke about ex-rated ways to leave someone better and happier, or the fact that she said come. 

I love the idea of this even more than I love my new hat. What a simple thing it is most of the time to bring a tiny spark of happiness, good cheer, or humor into a stranger's day. How much lovelier would the world be if we all made an effort to do this at least a few times a week?

When I returned home from the walk, my gentleman friend was still asleep. As my good deed for the day, I refrained from putting my cold hands on his warm and dozing body. I suppose I could have come up with other ways to spread happiness, but we both had to go to work.

How do you make an effort to leave others better and happier than before you crossed paths? Can you think of a time someone else has done that for you? Please share.

And feel free to laugh at my new hat. I encourage it.

And for that, I'm grateful

At the start of November, pals across various social media channels like Facebook and Twitter began posting things for which they're grateful. I assume there's some connection to Thanksgiving, though it's possible everyone I know was infected by a rare virus that causes spontaneous gratitude, self-reflection, and anal leakage.

Not wanting to be left out, I've decided to share a few things that make me very grateful.

I'm grateful for my fellow-writers. I don't care if you're published or unpublished, if you're a longtime personal pal, or someone I've never met outside the online world. What I love most about the entire community of writers is the fabulous support among the tribe. Very few writers achieve success and say, "see ya later, suckers." There's always someone ahead of you on the career ladder who's still reaching back to offer a helping hand, a word of advice, or a glass of wine. Or even encouraging tidbits, like this post I spotted last week on Facebook at the precise moment I needed someone to remind me, "you are not the only writer who spends 95% of her time feeling like she has her head up her butt:"


I'm grateful for love and romance. Without these things, my career as a romantic comedy novelist would be going very differently. So would my personal life, which took several crazy turns in the last few years with my unexpected divorce and equally unexpected new relationship with my gentleman friend (celebrating 20 months together this Thanksgiving, thankyouverymuch). My gratitude for this relationship overwhelms me whenever we spend time together cooking dinner or walking the dog or working to make sure our new home reflects the best of both of us. Incidentally, this is what you get when a singer with a masters degree in theater and a fondness for whimsy creates a dining room with a romance author with an English Lit degree and a shared love of plants and animals:


I'm grateful for family. I'm thankful beyond words to have loving, caring, charming, funny, intelligent parents who've supported me every step of the way throughout my 38 years on the planet. And for my kid brother, who remains one of my best friends in the world, despite the fact that he occasionally defeats me when we play "name that butt rock tune in three notes or less." And my grandparents, two of whom are still alive and kicking (my grandmother kicking much more solidly since last week's total hip replacement, which I'm grateful went very well despite a drug reaction that caused her to be briefly possessed by Satan).

Obviously, these are just a handful of the many, many things filling me with gratitude right now. What are YOU thankful for right now? Please share!

Four years ago...

Tuesday night, I picked up my phone and texted a single word to a friend:

feed!

She laughed. I know this because she was sitting two feet from me when she got the message.

It's an inside joke that started four years earlier on election night when she sent me a jubilant message about the outcome of a particular campaign. This was only the second text message I'd received in my life, and my effort to type f**k yeah did not go as planned.

In case you're wondering, my first text exchange was with the same friend who sent a note to ask if our boss had arrived at work yet. I replied moss. It was supposed to say nope.

My texting skills have changed a bit since then, as has the rest of my life. I thought about this Tuesday as my gentleman friend and I sat on the sofa drinking pumpkin ale and laughing with my texting friend and her husband.

Four years ago, those two weren't married.

Four years ago, I was across town at another friend's home watching election coverage and drinking some wine my then-husband and I had just brought back from Spain.

Four years ago on another side of town, my gentleman friend and his then-wife opened a bottle of champagne to toast new beginnings. Three months later, they separated.

Four years ago, my agent and I were 10 months into our working relationship with no clue we'd endure 15 more soul-crushing months to land a book deal. And we'd wait 15 long months beyond that for the first book to hit shelves.
Bindi & me at Oregon's Painted Hills. Incidentally, my
gentleman friend snapped this on one of our first big
outings together.
Four years ago, my dog Bindi – my trustiest, most faithful friend through my divorce and beyond – wasn't born yet. Back then, the two dogs who'd shared my life for a decade were still alive and well.

Four years ago, I had no idea that divorce, disappointment, and death waited on my horizon.

But I also didn't know I'd experience the exhilarating joys of falling in love again – with writing, with pets, and with the guy who now shares my home and my six-pack of pumpkin ale.

As I watched the election coverage last night, I couldn't help but wonder what's in store for me in the next four years. What's waiting in my future that I can't begin to imagine right now?

I can't know for sure, but I can know this – I'm ready for it. Bring it on.

And pass me the pumpkin ale.

Stephen King says I can't snuggle my pets today

I arrived home late last night after four days in Portland working a convention for the day job. Events like that are particularly draining for introverts like me, and today I want nothing more than to unpack my suitcase and crawl into bed with a good book and a few pets.

Or all six pets, if I can arrange it:

A rare moment captured by my gentleman friend – all five cats plus the dog gathered on the bed for movie night. For the record, we don't sleep like this.Alas, there will be no snuggling with my pets or my gentleman friend or even random strangers today. I probably won't even have time to unpack my suitcase, which means I'll spend the next week sniffing the armpits of dirty shirts and convincing myself I can get away with wearing them one more time.

I'm in the home stretch on my current manuscript, and I need every moment of writing time I can possibly get. Even if I don't feel like it. Even if I'm exhausted. Even if I have a strong sense that my sleep-deprived brain is producing scenes that read as though they were typed by a dyslexic third-grader with a sugar-buzz and six missing fingers.

Which is why I really appreciate this graphic someone posted on Facebook a few days ago:


Thank you, Mr. King, for the reminder that writers keep writing no matter what. Even on days they'd sooner pierce their own genitals with a rusty fork.

And on that note, I'm off to write a love story.

How do you keep going when it's the last thing you want to do? Please share!

The value of being a year-round slut

Saturday night, my gentleman friend and I attended a wild Halloween party that included two live bands, fire dancers, tightrope walkers, and vouchers for unlimited adult beverages.

Because we're losers highly sophisticated introverts, we sat on a couch in the corner all evening and watched people.

"Do you notice a theme with a lot of the female costumes here?" he asked about an hour into the party.

"You mean the fact that everything has a slutty twist?" I replied. "Slutty vampire, slutty cat, slutty Wonder Woman, slutty witch, slutty giraffe–"

"Where's the slutty giraffe?"

I pointed out the group with the African Safari theme, and we both sat quietly for a moment and pondered the idea of a slutty giraffe.

"Is it more politically correct to say sexy instead of slutty?" I asked.

"When did you start caring what's politically correct?"

"Good point," I agreed. "For the record, I don't see slutty as a derogatory term. In the right context, I see it as synonymous with sexually empowered."

"Duly noted."

A moderately slutty ninja, and Dexter the serial killer.We studied the crowd some more, more acutely aware of the number of women who'd seized the chance to appear in public wearing their bras. To be fair, I spied several men wearing bras as well.

"I think it's sad," I said.

My gentleman friend shot me a startled look. "How is it sad?"

"Women should be proud to be slutty all year-round," I said. "Not just Halloween."

"I think I saw that on a Hallmark card."

"It's true," I said. "I write romantic comedy, so it's not like I set out to deliver some big moral message with my writing. But if there's one soapbox issue I feel passionate about, it's that women shouldn't be afraid to be open about sex. To be able to approach it with enthusiasm and pride and a whole lot of humor."

Awhile back, someone asked me if there's any subject or theme I'd never write about in one of my books. Though I never like to say never, I don't believe I could write a romance novel with a sexually naive heroine who magically discovers her inner slut under the careful tutelage of the wise and experienced hero.

It's a theme I've read many times in romance, and I always have trouble wrapping my brain around it. I don't deny there are plenty of women – and men, too, for that matter – who are raised to feel shameful or embarrassed about their sexuality.

I can't relate.

In the little utopia that exists in the back of my romance author brain, there's a world where people of all ages and genders are comfortable with their bodies and all the magical things they can do. A world where everyone can embrace their inner slut 365 days a year.

Admittedly, that's not as inspiring as Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech, but I'll take it.

How do you plan to celebrate your slutty self this holiday season? Please share! And please let me know if you find that phrase on a Hallmark card. I'd like to buy a case full.

The moments that leave you panting

Tuesday afternoon, my gentleman friend came home to find me in a disheveled state. My hair was tousled, my clothes rumpled, my cheeks flushed, and my pulse racing.

No, he didn't catch me doing something illicit. He needed to come home at lunch for that.

But he did discover me in the midst of one of the most breathtakingly giddy parts of my writing process. It generally occurs around the 70,000-word mark when I know I've hit the home-stretch and all the loose threads finally start coming together.

(Let's all pause here and giggle about "coming together" being an integral part of concluding a romance novel).

According to my contract, my romantic comedy titles should be around 80,000-90,000 words. I tend to fall a little short of that on a first draft, and add at least 5,000 words once my critique partners and beta readers finish beating me up.

That means I have roughly 10,000 words left to write. More importantly, the plot holes that have been gaping at me for months look less like craters and more like shallow crevices that are a true pleasure to fill.

(Who wants to make the crevice-filling joke?)

In all seriousness . . . oh, who am I kidding? I write romantic comedy, why would I be serious?

But in reality, this home-stretch of writing is one of the rare and precious times I don't feel like a complete disaster as an author. Writers often divide themselves into two categories – the "plotters," who carefully plan out their plot points prior to starting a book, and the "pantsters" who fly by the seat of their pants with no plan at all.

I am a pantster. I am the worst kind of pantster in that I honestly have no earthly idea who my characters are or what they'll be doing for 85,000 words when I begin a book. I could feed you some line about how this free-spirited approach lets my creativity flow more fluidly, but that's a lie. The fact is, I'm a pantster because I'm too damn lazy to plot a book beforehand.

Which means I spend an awful lot of time fretting that I've just written myself into a corner. If you saw an early draft of any of my books, you'd notice at least a hundred instances of "XXXXXX" where I've marked things I need to return to because I have no idea how to complete the thought.

But honestly, that feeling of cluelessness is worth it so I can enjoy the rush that comes when things finally, finally start to gel. When I can go back and begin lacing in red herrings and character traits and details I omitted during my first stumbling trek through the story.

Few things are more exhilarating than seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and knowing I might get there walking upright instead of crawling on all-fours through a pile of broken glass.

(Anyone want to take the all-fours joke?)

Years ago when I first discovered the thrill of this stage in the writing process, I dubbed it, "the audible clicking of puzzle pieces." There's this moment where I truly believe I can hear those crooked jigsaw parts falling into place, and it's the best sound in the whole wide world.

If you're a writer, do you have a favorite stage in the process? For the non-writers among you, can you relate to the giddy feeling of hitting a turning point in your life or your career? Please share!

I'll be fiddling with my puzzle pieces and giggling like a giddy kid.