Amanda Usen's Blog, page 7

Release Day for the Come Again Series! Plus a Sexy Giveaway…

Why do YOU love sexy books?

The first romance I ever read was a reasonably chaste Harlequin Presents I found lying around while we were on vacation at Chatauqua Lake. The copyright date in the book is 1981, which means I was at LEAST nine when I read it. (OMG. My son is ten, and the idea of him reading anything like that makes me squirm! I hope that book was a few years old when I found it, even though that makes me feel like a hypocrite…)

I was soooo hooked. After that I stuck to romances or books with strong romantic elements. I tore through The Thorn Birds, the Clan of the Cave Bear books, the Outlander series, contemporaries, categories, historicals, and sci-fi. (Heinlein had some hot spots, people.) When urban fantasy became a thing, I was all over it. To this day, I will stay up waaaay too late, even though I NEED my sleep, turning pages until they do “it”.

I’ve loved romance for so long its difficult for me to put into words exactly WHY I do. I think the preference was formed before I really understood the concept. Actually, I KNOW that is true because I read a book called UP IN SETH’S ROOM by Norma Fox Mazer when I was a kid, and Seth told Finn he was “coming” and I was all, “What? Where is he going?” Bwahaha! It was years before I got it.

But…I’m going to have to say I love reading romance primarily because of the sex. So EXCITING! Life changing. Literally, sometimes, since sex can get you pregnant. It happened to me three times. And then, irony of ironies, I started hating sex because I was breastfeeding. My body was SO DRY. I’m surprised my husband survived the sex we had while I was breastfeeding our three kids for a year each. Intercourse was so painful, I wanted to go all Sharon Stone/Basic Instinct on him.

Which is part of why I found myself eavesdropping on a conversation about lubricant in a sex shop. I discovered silicone lubricant that day, and the shopgirl was so frank and fascinating, she inspired the COME AGAIN series. The books are based on the smart, sexy, strong women who work in a sex toy boutique called Come Again and their customers. They are kinky, explicit, edgy, romantic, funny, and honest.

I wrote these stories when I was desperate to get my sexual mojo back, and I left no position unexplored, shall we say. It was very good for my sex life. I did, indeed, get my mojo back, in no small part due to the research I did for the books. SoloPlay, especially! Researching sex toys for hours on end to give yourself the inspiration to dream up new ones is very stimulating. And the hijinks that go on in Chapter 10 required a dry run. As in, I called my husband up to the bedroom to see if it was physically possible. Then I sent him back downstairs to watch the kids. HA! Writers can be heartless, especially when on deadline.

I’m delighted to release these wild books, and I hope readers have fun with them! When they were originally published by Samhain Publishing, they each came with a warning, so I think it’s only fitting to include one now: Reading the COME AGAIN series might require batteries.

So Much Gratitude

So, so grateful for pie! Carbs in any form, really…

Thanksgiving Day seems like a good time to thank the people who are supporting me through my writing recovery. A comment appeared on this post from June, reminding me of how much has changed since my last book release (IMPULSE CONTROL, two years ago in January). I’m not exhausted anymore. I’m finally self-publishing. That book that was kicking my ass? Still not done, but I’m enjoying the work. That. Is. Epic. I go to yoga even when I’m busy. The house has new furniture. Sometimes I cook at home, not just at work.

The life-balance is better. It’s a practice!

I didn’t write any acknowledgements pages for the Come Again series (releasing on 11/29!) because it wasn’t part of the process at Samhain Publishing, where the books were first published. I probably could have written acknowledgements, but my editor didn’t ask me for them, and everything was new to me then. I was still learning the ropes, so I wasn’t going to suggest a new way to tie a book together.

Instead of acknowledgements, Samhain did dedications, and mine are a little out of date. Life changes, you know? But I left them as is. Once you give a book to someone, it’s theirs, too, even if it gets a new life in writer-WITSEC.

My Worst Kept Secret

Book 1

Book 2

Book 3

Book 3.5

Book 4

 

 

 

 

I’m Miranda Baker. Well…my pen name is Miranda Baker.

My real name is Amanda Usen…but Baker is my “maiden” name, and Miranda is close enough to Amanda that if someone calls to me at a conference, I’ll turn around. That’s why I picked it. Since I was teaching high school SAT prep classes when these books were published, I thought it best to keep my kinky imagination camouflaged under another name. I also thought I could write enough books to fuel two careers…bwahahaha! If you’ve been following the blog, you know how that ended. A big, fat, burnout. And then some phoenix action…

Sadly, Samhain Publishing, the lovely company who bought all my Miranda Baker e-books, is closing its doors, and I got the rights back to the books. I’d intended to self-publish the books as soon as I got them back, but it seemed like such a HUGE undertaking. I procrastinated until Molly O’Keefe, a wonderful author-friend, basically grabbed me by the cheeks and said I was being silly for wasting time, G*d bless her. She also gave me the name of her formatter and her cover artist, just to light a little fire under me. I really love that woman. I think she’s a Jedi because I’m pretty sure I filed the paperwork for Balancing Act Press the next day.

Going, going…gray?

So I’m writing this book. You know, the one I’ve been writing for-ever. I’m also planning a bat mitzvah (fast approaching in 2 1/2 weeks!), and I’m teaching at night. So it probably isn’t the best time to decide to get serious about self-publishing, but it does follow my pattern of keeping myself buried in projects. As my husband pointed out a few years ago when I was complaining about being so busy and stress-y, “You like it like that.”

My first multigrain loaf. A little flat. Needed more salt. But pretty!

So instead of being all tired about it, I’m embracing the chaos that comes with being a linear thinker in the middle of four big projects (at least). I am thinking, “Look at all the stuff I’m getting done!” instead of my former, “OMG I have so much to do.” I am not skipping yoga. I am remembering to eat. I am taking my vitamins. My sourdough bread-baking is going well. In a moment of holy shit epiphany the other day, I realized I do yoga, bake artisan sourdough bread, and my hair is turning silver. I’m becoming the woman I always wanted to be.

Jessica Topper. Truth: Before I met her, I used to stare at her hair. I think it is the color of courage, and I want it.

I won’t lie. The hair is giving me a bit of pause. I’m not ready to be gray, even though my beautiful mother has been silver as long as I’ve known her, even though my gorgeous friend Jessica Topper rocks her salt and pepper locks, even though I stop women with great gray hair and tell them how amazing they look. (When I can do it and only seem slightly strange, that is.) I just…I can’t…and yet, I am. I don’t understand why I’m so conflicted about my hair. It’s HAIR. I’m not vain. I clean up well, but I spent most of my time peacefully au naturel. Sometimes I forget to look in the mirror before I leave the house to run errands.

I have to assume I’m afraid of taking the step from siren to matron. I don’t like it what that says about me or how it makes me feel, but I can’t deny it. Is this how the old-people-don’t-have-sex myth got started? Because of gray hair? Or, horror of all horrors, gray pubic hair? I don’t doubt my husband’s devotion to me, but I do fear he won’t find me as attractive if I continue down the silver path. His preference for my brown hair has been stated. So has his deep and abiding love and his respect for my choice. It’s my call…

Me and my mommy!

This was supposed to be a post about the book and conflict avoidance. Right now I’m re-writing a scene where the heroine realizes the hero has done something pretty damn unforgivable to her. As written, her internal dialogue goes something like this, “I should be mad at him, but I’m just sad and sorry for him.”

No, girl. You should be mad at him. Really mad. Kick his ass mad. Or at least throw him out of your kitchen mad.

I have no idea what that has do do with my hair, but I’ll re-write the scene. Right after I call my mother.

Anybody out there have emotions on the subject? I know I’ve brought it up on Twitter before and gotten some great responses. This hair hesitation has been going on with me for a long time! As always, commenters will be entered into my seasonal/quarterly/solstice/equinox giveaway of a gift certificate to The Ripped Bodice. (International winner would have to make do with Amazon)

Where did Monday go?

The winner of the $15 gift card is bn100, so expect an e-mail from me!

Fall Equinox

Hello, friends!

Yesterday, at 4:02 pm EDT, day and night balanced, and fall officially began! Which means it’s time for my seasonal giveaway! I’m offering a gift card for $15 to Amazon, B&N, or The Ripped Bodice. (Amazon only for International entrees.) To enter, leave me a comment here or on one of my last  few blogs: The Sonic Egg that Saved My Sanity, Be The Happy Ruler of Your Pile of Scattered Poop, Oh, Darling, Worry About Your Heart. Not Your Butt, or Bring it on, Fall!

What should the topic of your comment be? How about the best thing you did, large or small, this summer? It’s the little things, people, it really is. Except when it’s the big things. Those are great, too.

My family visited Watkins Glen Farm Sanctuary for my daughter’s 13th birthday because she wanted to hug a pig. Then I made this graphic. I’m not very good at making graphics. That’s ok.

I saw a recipe for Pumpkin Cheesecake Snickerdoodles by The Recipe Critic on FB and made them in class as a demo. They were damn good. One thing I changed to make my life easier: I rolled the dough into balls, jammed my thumb ALMOST all the way through the center, used a pastry bag to fill the center (leaving a little room), and pinched the dough shut over the ball. Then I flattened the ball. I would not have had the patience to do it any other way. Once you go pastry bag, you don’t go back.

What do you do with the pie scraps (you can’t re-roll) from a dozen students when you are ALL sick of eating pie? Make hand pies and fill them with the soup your kids won’t eat! I could’ve inhaled a dozen of those suckers. Note for next semester: Would’ve been better with a thicker filling. Beef stew?

I also revived my starter, Baby Mac, from his winter’s sleep and started baking again. Twenty years ago, I bought Nancy Silverton’s BREADS FROM THE LA BREA BAKERY cookbook, read it, and was like, holy crap, it takes two days to make bread? You have  to WHAT? With what? HOW? Well, now that I’ve been teaching for almost a decade, I think I’ll give it another shot. I made this cinnamon apple bread from our textbook last week. Definitely room for improvement, but look, Ma! No commercial yeast! Baby Mac is aliiiiiive!

Basically, I’ve been working a lot. How about you? Tell me something good, large or small, and I’ll announce a winner on Monday!

Xoxo and have a good weekend,

Amanda

Bring It On, Fall!

Even bread is happy about school starting.

Happy last day of August! That means I’ll be doing my fall giveaway soon (gift card to Amazon, B&N or The Ripped Bodice). To enter, leave me a comment here or on one of my last  few blogs: The Sonic Egg that Saved My Sanity, Be The Happy Ruler of Your Pile of Scattered Poop, Oh, Darling, Worry About Your Heart. Not Your Butt.

Meanwhile I’m eating fruit salad with a skewer because my son made it. It’s shish kabob culinary performance art, apparently, and I want to encourage him in his culinary adventures. This is to make up for all the times when he was younger, and I threw him out of the kitchen when he wanted to “help.” We’re going to call it reverse psychology and say that it worked. He’s ten, and he just made fruit salad, scrambled eggs, and toast (for me, too) while I shopped the clearance sale online at JCP. Then he unloaded the dishwasher without being asked. I am pinching myself. Seriously.

Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and fist bump all you parents out there who are/have getting/gotten kids back to school this year. And for anyone for whom fall means starting new things. My pastry arts community college teaching semester started two nights ago, and it was a huge relief to begin! OMG. I spent a good bit of the summer creating comprehensive course guides for both of my classes so I won’t have to go in early every day to make copies for quizzes, lecture notes, recipes, etc. AND most of my kids’ school supplies have been purchased. AND the second child’s bat mitzvah planning is underway, and I have successfully surmounted a freaking TYPO on the return address envelopes. *face palm*

Breakfast of champions.

The first thing we baked in class was chocolate chip cookies, and they were largely successful. They were so good, in fact, that I was able to sell most of them in the cafe. I also brought some home. They got the thumbs up from the neighbors drinking beer in my driveway and my kids. My son said they were awesomely “crispy around the edges and soft in the middle.” It cracks me up that my kids can critique baked goods, but I guess it isn’t surprising. They are far from cobbler’s children when it comes to cookies!

The innocent victim.

While the beer drinking and cookie eating was going on, a visiting neighbor’s dog crapped on our lawn. Said neighbor loves his dog and posts many pictures of her on FB. Now…my husband is full of mischief. A few weeks ago, he captured a picture of the much-loved dog taking a poop on her own lawn and posted THAT on FB – and tagged our neighbor, of course. So when the visiting dog pooped on our lawn last night, it was absolute karmic hilarity!

Naturally, when the neighbors left, my husband went looking for a box. He wrapped up that pile of poop, waited until the neighbors went to bed, and put it on their lawn. That’s normal, right? Do other people do that sort of thing? Does this go on in your neighborhood?

Regardless of the payback that is undoubtedly coming our way, I’m excited about fall. And, seriously, does your spouse do that kind of shit?

Oh, darling, worry about your heart. Not your butt.

Hi! Man, it’s hot in Buffalo, NY today!

Since I’m taking off on a writerly jaunt tomorrow, I cleaned out the car. I even vacuumed it. While I was getting under the passenger seat, and my butt was hanging out and up-in-the-air for all the construction workers building my neighbor’s new patio to ignore, I had a deep thought.

I’m raising young women, and it’s a life goal of mine to raise them to love their bodies whatever shape they become. Last night I snapped a photo of my daughter and I lounging on the couch reading. She looked at it and said, “I look fat.” I stared back at her, a half-dozen responses rolling through my brain. What was the right one? How am I supposed to know? I spent decades hating my body, and sometimes I still think I’m fat.

I can’t remember what I said to her, but that moment must have kept rattling around in my mind because I found myself wondering how my healthy ass looked while I was upside-down vaccuuming my Jeep. Because there is such a thing as “fat”, (is obese a more PC word?), and if a doctor suggests you should lose weight, you should probably do it, if s/he is a good doctor. But you should do it for the health of your heart, not the size of your ass.

I will tell her that next time.❤

 

Be the Happy Ruler of Your Pile of Scattered Poop

I was so excited the other day, I posted this on FB.

I’ve been writing this book for-fucking-ever. No, really. And I got to a point where I could see the end. I couldn’t believe it. The whole reason I wanted to write the book was because I wanted to end it in a certain way, and I’m at 60K, and it’s time to write the end. I was elated, and THEN…

I stalled.

Because I can’t write the end until I edit the parts I just rushed through. I’ve lost the thread. I don’t know who my characters are or what they want in those hurriedly-written scenes. This is my process: I write and write, and then I figure out what I’ve written until I can write again. Of course it took me a couple of days of beating myself up for not making any progress to realize this. And, as my friend and fellow writer Jessica Topper pointed out, this is just my process with this book, but whatever. This is why I decided to finish the damn book before I did anything with it, so I could take all the time I wanted to make it fun.

Ceasing being hard on myself for not meeting my own wildly unrealistic expectations is more difficult than finishing the book. I can finish the book. I know I can. But can I do it without making myself and everyone around me miserable? THAT is the question. Because the real accomplishment is living each moment of a very busy day/week/month with kindness, caring, and humor.

Which is what I decided, oh…a year and a half ago and forgot. AGAIN. Oh, wait, make that two years because I wrote this in July of 2014. *Head kitchen table*

Don’t you wish you could have an epiphany and make it stick? I do. I swear I’ve been learning the same thing over and over every five minutes for years. I kind of thought I’d have my shit together by now, but NOPE. Nope, nope, nope.

What the hell…maybe nobody does.

I’ve been pondering the fact that I tend to put myself down first in order to beat everybody else to the punch. Whether it’s a new cake I’ve designed at work, a finished manuscript, a lesson plan, a list of completed tasks, or WHATEVER, I’ll point out what’s wrong with it instead of what’s right. I ignore the good stuff and take to heart all the criticism. My inner child believes I do this because nothing SHE ever did was good enough. She suggests it’s a form of self-protection. Judge thyself harshly, and the judgement of others will hurt less. 

It doesn’t work.

Guess what? All judgement is not created equal. Critics have their own issues and inner-children driving them to behave badly. It’s possible, even likely, that their opinion has nothing to do with you. So you shouldn’t let it ruin your day or send you into a shame spiral of self-loathing. Because their opinion doesn’t matter. You know why?

Here’s the tricky part: you aren’t trying to please them. Not really. You’re trying to please yourself, and if you’ve already decided you suck, then you can’t ever do a good enough job because you will always find your flaws. Vicious cycle. I know I’m not the first one to say these things, but I’m living them. Maybe you are, too.

If so, I offer you this: You are not one thing. You are many things. Some of them are AMAZING and some of them are flawed. The flaws are FINE. They make you likable and approachable. It’s okay. No one sees you like you see yourself. They see the good stuff before the bad. Crazy, right? It’s true. Try it. Reject the voice inside telling you you’re not good enough. CHOOSE to be happy with yourself and your work.

It might feel like the most subversive and daring thing you’ve ever done. It might make you cry. You might have to do it over and over. You might even have gray hair and still be doing it. You might despair of ever getting your shit together and keeping it together. But none of that shit matters. It never did. Be the happy ruler of your pile of scattered poop and go forth spreading kindness, caring, and good humor…to yourself…and then the WOOOOOORRRRRLD!

(And yes, in case you are wondering, the song “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with meeeeee…” is running through my head right now. It’s a nice break from “Cool Rider” from Grease 2.)

All commenters will be entered into my fall giveaway of a gift card to Amazon, B&N, or The Ripped Bodice, so let’s talk about the things that hold us back and how we jump, tunnel, fly, and run around, under, over, and through them.

XOXO,

Amanda

 

 

The Sonic Egg that Saved my Sanity

When I met my husband, he had a beagle he loved very much who lived to be seventeen-plus and took his half of the bed out of the middle, perpendicular to us, every night. When Hannibal died, it was the second time I ever saw my husband cry. (The first time was my close brush with death having our first child. That’s how much he loved that dog.) Now, Hannibal was half-blind, half-deaf, and a real pain in the butt by the time he passed. He barfed frequently and barked at nothing at all, but we loved him. (Actually, we still have him. His ashes are in the pantry, way up top, and sometimes I come across them and go, “What’s that? OH. Hey, Hanny.”)

It was a while before the kids talked us into going to the pound to get a new dog, but when they did, I fell in love with another beagle. The pound papers declared she was practically perfect in every way, and we brought her home.

She was actually a monster. She must have been abused because she peed on the floor every time my husband came home from work. She still pees sometimes when my husband’s dad comes over. Research proved that’s actually a thing. Submissive urination. Who knew dogs could be kinky?

Said papers also promised that she could hold her bladder for 8 hours at a time. I think that was code for, “My previous owner left me locked up all the time.” Which is awful. And translated into her sneaking off to pee in the SAME SPOT in the family room every time we left her alone. Um…for a couple years.

But the kids really loved her. Like, a lot. And a promise is a promise. We brought her home, by gosh, we were going to find a way to live with her, even though we are terrible dog trainers, and our house smelled of pee.

First, we started gating her (leaving her in an enclosed area with an open crate) when we left because excrement is easier to clean up off of linoleum and tile.  Now, my memory of all this is a little fuzzy because of the sleep deprivation of having three kids. I think the crating helped. Some. Since we let her sleep with us, and we still had to get up every night and chase her downstairs and outside to keep her from sneaking out of bed to poop and pee in her favorite spot. Because this is what you do when your dog trains you.

Finally, I’d had enough of that. We started gating her at night, but she’d howl, so around 2 am, one of us would get up, let her out and then let her get into bed with us. We are good humans. (This went on for about a year.)

Finally, finally, I’d had enough of THAT. We stopped getting up. So she broke down the tension gate, shit in the living room, and got in bed with us. It was very confusing in the morning. Wait…what? Stop licking my leg! Oh. Crap.

Somewhere in all this we probably gave up a couple of times and backtracked. It was just easier to get up with her at 2 am, let her out, lie on the couch until she wanted to come back inside, and go back to bed. (Yes, I know how pathetic all this sounds. I was very tired.)

I planned to buy a bark collar. A shock collar. SOMETHING.

And we also needed to get a gate she couldn’t ram. I wanted to buy an extra-long tension gate, but my husband told me he could fix the problem for two bucks at the hardware store. I was skeptical (because I’m that wife), but he came through like a champ. She can ram all she wants. This gate ain’t going nowhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The same day my husband rigged the gate, I bought THIS:

The sonic egg that saved my sanity.

When the dog barks, it makes a sonic beep that only the dog can hear, and, ideally, the dog stops barking. Ironic, right? The howling dog doesn’t like the noise! I wasn’t sure it would work. The woman who sold it to me wasn’t sure, either. Some dogs can’t associate an unpleasant noise with their howling and barking. But Layla could, and this freaking egg of amazingness changed my life. I get to sleep through the night. No one plays the “but I got up with the dog last night card.” I don’t suffer the guilt of pretending to be sound asleep so my husband will get up with her. It is bliss. (It also worked for a friend of mine whose neighbor’s dog barked outside all the time. She plopped this little sucker outside, and the problem was solved.)

If your dog is a barker, I highly recommend you try this little space-age-looking gem. I got mine at PetSmart. Amazon has them…for a higher price.[image error]

The cherry on top of this sundae of awesomeness? We bought a new king-size bed. (A life goal! Once we get a headboard, we’ll be real adults!) It’s so tall, the dog can’t get up into it! We don’t have a dog in our bed anymore! Ever! If your wondering why this is so exciting, you’ve never slept in a bed of dog hair with a scratchy paw up your butt. Now, when my husband gets up at 5 am to go to work, he lets the dog out, and then she gets into bed with our middle kid. Middle Kid loves this. I love this.

Everything in life is perfect now. Well…

Except for the carpet.

Do you have any funny pet stories? Feel free to share them or make fun of us in the comments. I can’t believe that nonsense went on for years. YEARS. Especially since it was solved in, no joke, one night. *groan*

All commenters will be entered into my fall/back-to-school giveaway of a gift card to Amazon, B&N, or The Ripped Bodice.

Pets…you gotta love ’em! (Or at least pretend you do and be convincing enough that the kids believe you.)