Amanda Usen's Blog, page 9

Everyone Should Do This

Okay, so yesterday I was walking up Swan Street in Buffalo being glad that it’s not cold. The wind really whistles up Swan Street, and I’ll likely be freezing my ass off in a month. The sun was out. I didn’t even have my new coat zipped. It was pretty sweet! And all of the sudden three thought bubbles popped into my head.

I’m writing a book.
I’m writing it slowly.
I’m happy.

Now, mind you, I was walking into a night teaching Introduction to Pastry Arts, and I was happy. That’s a victory in itself because I usually teach the slightly seasoned students, and we just aren’t there yet. But to be happy with maybe writing a few dozen words today? To have tinkered with a paragraph? And being cheerful? Unheard of in my previous incarnation. YAY! *ass shake* *confetti* PROGRESS!

Or my glee could have been residual delight leftover from lunch, I suppose. I made myself a pita pizza because I love cheese and carbs. Then I remembered I should really be eating salad because I tasted twenty-six pieces of pie last week in class. Really, it was a lot of pie. Apple and cream pies, G*d help me. So I took a pair of kitchen scissors and I chopped up my pita pizza and tossed it with romaine, balsamic vinaigrette, and feta cheese. OMG. It was like a pizza piadina but lazy. Or panzanella but warmer. Or fattoush but Italian! It was HEAVEN! Which is why everyone who grooves on carbs, cheese, and greens should make one. It was so good that I made another one the next day for my neighborhood BFF Melissa. I was all, “I’m sure people do this all the time, but I feel like a fucking genius! We have leftover pizza in the fridge all the time. It’s like croutons, but softer, and with CHEESE.” Melissa is very tapped in to the food blogs, and she hasn’t seen it so GUYS! MAKE THIS.

Lettuce. Warm, chopped up pizza. Salad dressing. FREAKING AWESOME.

And…things didn’t go so well in the kitchen tonight. BLARG. “Mistakes are excellent teachers” is all well and good. TRULY. But now we won’t have time in the production schedule to make BAGELS. *sob*

*deep breath*

We will make bagels once we can make a simpler dough. *nods* The process is as important as the product. Right?

So what’s the next best recipe you plan to make? Has something tickled your pickle? HAVE YOU EVER CHOPPED UP PIZZA ON A SALAD? Tell me something good! I’m hungry. :-)

 

 

Pregnant? Know the Signs of Postpartum Hemorrhage

A.K.A Seat warmers make me feel like I’m dying.

This is how much snow there was in Buffalo in 2001!

It’s the last day of the year, and I tend to get a little contemplative. Not because of that whole New Year’s resolution thing, screw that. Like I need another thing to beat myself up over. I’m practicing kindness toward myself in 2016. I am defending myself to myself like a goddamn mama bear. (Thank you so much, Jill, for sending me the link to this blog post from Midlife Blvd “Beyond Self Acceptance”. Love it. You rock.)

I get think-y at this time of year because it’s cold outside, and I have seat warmers in the car. When I turn them on, at that weird moment when the heat kicks in, I feel like I’m dying. A warm rush in the nether regions would make some people feel like they are wetting their pants, but I’ve never wet my pants as an adult. (Yet. Who am I kidding. Three kids. Pelvic floor. I’ll hit that bridge, no doubt.) But I have felt more warm blood soak my lap than anyone should.

So what happened?

Well…as a superstitious first-time mother, I skipped the postpartum hemorrhage chapter in “What To Expect When You’re Expecting.” Because I was an idiot. If you are pregnant or trying to get yourself knocked up, please be smarter than I was. Read that freaking chapter. If you have a birth partner, make them read it. Get knowledgable. That’s the first step, the second is prepare yourself to be your own advocate. Doctors and nurses don’t know everything. I really wish they did. That would be spectacular. Unfortunately, most of the people trying to care for you won’t know you. But YOU do. If something feels wrong, it very well might BE wrong. What’s the worst thing that will happen if you insist on seeing or speaking with a doctor? Someone will think you are pushy? Bitchy? A worry wart? Or maybe…healthy? Alive?

What are the signs? This is a well-written article from babycenter that explains postpartum hemorrhage in detail. Basically, excessive bleeding is the biggest sign (soaking through more than one pad an hour for several hours in a row, bright red blood for more than just a few days, passing blood clots bigger than golf balls). Some bleeding is normal after a vaginal delivery, and your nurses will let you know if yours is “within normal limits.” Unless you are me. Then you have an induced, no drugs, vaginal birth with a fourth degree tear. It takes the doctor an hour to sew up your hoo-ha. You’ve been through so much trauma the doctor doesn’t want to stick his hand up there to make sure all of the placenta detached. Guess what?

It didn’t.

Childbirth wasn’t pain. It was pressure. A metric shit ton of pressure, but just pressure. You know what hurt? My freaking back after delivery. Why did it hurt? Because I retained placenta. When you retain placenta, your body thinks there’s still a baby there that needs blood, so it keeps sending blood. My blood was clotting inside my uterus, it wasn’t spilling out between my thighs for the nurses to see. I complained of pain. They checked my pad. Within normal limits. #not

This is me in pain. I’m, like, “Baby? What baby? My back is KILLING ME!”

Also not normal was the fact that I couldn’t pee. You should be able to pee after you deliver. If you can’t, then something has swollen up, another bad sign. My nurse kept giving me water so that I would pee, but it’s super busy on holidays. I think she lost track of how much was going in and not coming out. By the time the doctor came in the next morning, my bladder was holding two and a half times as much as it should, and my uterus was full of blood clots. For me, the biggest sign of postpartum hemorrhage was PAIN. I begged for drugs, drugs I did not request at any point during delivery. Begged. My nurse wouldn’t give me anything because she knew I wanted to breastfeed. I remember tapping on the bedrail with my fingers because I needed a focus point to get through the pain. I couldn’t get comfortable. If I had a low pain tolerance, then all of that MIGHT have been “normal.” But I don’t have a low pain tolerance. If anything it’s too high, and when my poor doctor checked my uterus the next morning, he went white as my bed sheet. That’s the last thing I remember before I came out of surgery. That’s how fast they took me into the operating room for a D&C, so they could scrape out that sticky placenta.

I lost half the blood in my body that day. They replaced it with four units of matched blood and platelets, which apparently can’t be typed. Because nothing could go right, I reacted to the platelets at the exact moment no one, but NO ONE, could be found in the intensive care unit. One point in our favor: we’d asked what might happen if I had a bad reaction, so we knew all I needed was Benedryl. We just couldn’t find anyone to give it to me. When I stopped shaking, my husband started. The guy held our perfectly healthy eight pound seven ounce baby the entire time I was getting my D&C, pretty much convinced it was just going to be him and her forever, and THEN he had to watch me go into fits just when he was starting to relax? Poor guy!

Eventually we made it home. I love this shot.

My very relieved husband. Baby? Check. Bourbon? Check. Dog? Check. Whew!

I always thought I’d take my horrific delivery experiences and put them in a book, but you know what? It’s been fourteen freaking years, and I haven’t done it. I’m still traumatized. I’m still angry that I wasn’t informed enough to be my own advocate. Furious. I can feel my blood rising when I think about it. Because I didn’t learn my lesson. It happened AGAIN.

(Baby number two was just your garden variety obstetrical disaster. Complete placenta previa. That means the placenta sealed the exit to my uterus. Emergency cesarean at thirty-five weeks and a week in the NICU. All good now.)

But baby number three? OMG. (You’re wondering why I kept having kids, aren’t you. Excellent question. The answer? I saw my son in a vision. True story. And I’m not very bright. Obviously.) Let me tell you, there is nothing like being wide open on the delivery table at the end of a festive cesarean section in which they have just pulled out the first grandSON among seven grandDAUGHTERS. By kid number three, I knew I made funny placentas, at least. I spoke up. I begged the doctor to make sure she scraped my uterus bare. I was assured all traces of placenta were clear.

I do not think that word means what she thought it meant at that crucial moment.

My uterus wouldn’t clamp down. When the placenta (and baby) is gone, the uterus clamps down and starts strinking back to its normal size. Hospital staff encourages it to shrink by massaging it. It feels like a monster menstrual cramp and makes you want to punch them. If it doesn’t shrink, they give you a drug to help. If it still won’t shrink they do bi-manual massage, which means one hand up your hoo-ha and one hand on your belly. They massaged until my spinal wore off and I’d lost half the blood in my body again. My uterus finally clamped down, I got transfusions, and they said I was fine. #not

What it looked like the second time around. Look at all that blood going into my arm! I look blood drunk. Wheee! And OMG, that’s a 2006 cell phone in my lap! It doesn’t even flip!

In the weeks after delivery, when I complained of excessive bleeding, I was told it was “within normal limits.” When I complained of pain, I was denied a refill of my Lortab (goddamn it). When I woke up in a pool of blood, dreaming that I was pulling alien baby doll parts from between my legs, and discovered the entire space between my knees and my crotch was full of blood clots, we called 911. After a midnight, black-ops ultrasound by a plucky resident, they sent me home. Just a bunch of junk in my uterus. It happens. Even my father, a retired OB, said it happens.

I was a teeny, teeny bit smarter this time. My doctor didn’t call me to check on me after the 911 call (WTF?) but I insisted on a follow-up. And another ultrasound. And…drum roll…they found retained placenta. And I had another D&C. Six weeks postpartum. I walked around bleeding to death for SIX WEEKS. What were THOSE signs? Pain. Fatigue. A sweet smell in my discharge but I swear it didn’t smell rotten. All that middle of the night blood. (My friend Melissa cleaned it up while we were at the hospital so the girls wouldn’t wake up and see it. Thanks, man. Ewww.)

So THOSE are the signs of postpartum hemorrhage they DON’T put in the books. Oh! One more: I had trouble breastfeeding #3. By that time, I felt like a pro because I breastfed each girl for a year. But my nipples were cracking, nearly hinging and falling off, and I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. As it turns out, when your body is fighting infection from retained placenta, having trouble breastfeeding…happens. Ugh. (Pure lanolin on the nips is the only thing that helps the cracking, btw. At least it was ten years ago.)

Having babies is the best kind of fun, but it’s also dangerous. Hospitals are busy places. Let me be a cautionary tale. If reading this prevents even one person from going through any part of what I did, then my work is done. Be informed about the signs of what can go wrong during delivery (and then hopefully it won’t). Excessive pain is not normal. Make sure you can pee. If you can’t…don’t drink two quarts of water. Most of all SPEAK UP! Be loud if necessary. Being a squeaky wheel is better than possibly bleeding to death. Put THAT on a greeting card!

Sooooo…happy birthday to my Teen! She doesn’t like cake, so we half-baked a chocolate chip cookie cake and then put brownie batter on top of it and finished baking it. I’m going to pour chocolate ganache all over that puppy, and we will take it to a New Year’s Eve party tonight. I’ll let you know what degree of heaven it is.

Happy, Healthy, Whole New Year to YOU and YOURS! I love birth stories, so if you want to share yours in the comments, please do. There is nothing more fun than having babies! (Except making them…)

Damn good fruitcake!

SEDUCING THE PLAYBOY is being featured as the Christmas Steal at Entangled today.  Tell all your friends, okay? :-)

I’ve been planning on posting this recipe even though it’s a little late for fruitcake baking. However, if you still have some baking left in you, and you want to tackle a big, yummy, heavenly, totally-worth-it labor of love…make my fruitcake. I guess if you make it, it will be your fruitcake, but I’ve been baking these for so many years now I kind of feel possessive of them. In a good way. Such a good way!

It started because my father has everything, and I could never figure out what to get him for Christmas or his New Year’s Eve birthday. We share a love of books–for example, he introduced me to both Tolkien and the Outlander series–but every time I bought him a book, I struck out. I can’t even remember how many different books I bought him, and then quietly stole out of the basement the next year. But I struck gift gold with fruitcake.

Fruitcake lovers are a unique breed. Maybe you have to be brought up with it, as my father was. His mother’s fruitcake is, of course, the best. I will never top it. Unfortunately, she passed away a good twenty years ago. I named my daughter after her, so her name lives on lives on. Unfortunately, her fruitcake recipe does not.  Many years ago, I found an old-timey recipe in Richard Sax’s book CLASSIC HOME DESSERTS, and gave it a shot. My father loved it! And I’ve made fruitcake every year since. A labor of love, indeed! This fruitcake is Christmas to me. It’s the intoxicating smell of warm, buttery dried fruit soaked in brandy. It’s the search for the perfect gift for someone I love.

I’ve tweaked Mr. Sax’s recipe a bit because I like more fruit, less lemon, less time in the oven, less cheesecloth. Oh, fine, I’ve tweaked it until it’s nearly unrecognizable to anyone but me! However, I mention the book because I love it, and you might love it, too. A last-minute Amazon Prime gift for the home baker on your list? If your holiday baking is done, keep this recipe on tap for next year. It’s a delicious, delightful, holiday tradition in-the-making!

Grandpa Baker’s Holiday Fruitcake

(makes seven mini-loaf pans or two regular-size loaf pans)

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1 pound unsalted butter, softened

2 1/4 cups sugar

6 large eggs, separated

I separate my eggs with my hands. Less chance of breaking yolk on the edge of the shell. Egg whites won’t whip up with any kind of fat in the bowl, so be careful!

1 Tablespoon vanilla

1/2 pound golden raisins

1/2 pound dried cranberries

1/2 pound prunes, cut into pieces the size of raisins

1/2 pound dried apricots, cut into pieces the size of raisins

1/2 cup crystallized ginger, diced into tiny pieces

Use any kind of dried fruit that suits your fancy. I like a variety of colors!

1 pound walnuts, chopped

pinch of salt

2 cups brandy, as needed

1.Preheat oven to 235

2. Line pans with parchment so that the ends overhang the long sides of the pan. Then cut a strip to line the short sides. I’ve discovered it likes to stick to the pan, and lining both sides makes it MUCH easier to get it out without cracking the top. Spray lightly with pan release.

I spent a lot of years lining them like this before I discovered lining both sides works better.

MUCH BETTER.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3. Toss 1/2 cup of the flour with cut-up dried fruit.

I’ve heard tossing it with flour will keep your fruit from sinking in the batter.

4. Sift remaining 1 1/2 cups of flour with the baking powder. Set aside.

5. Cream the butter and sugar on medium-high until pale, light, and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks one at a time. Then beat in the vanilla.

Pale, light, and fluffy!

6. Lower the speed to slow and beat in sifted flour mixture. Mix only until flour disappears.

7. Add dried fruit mixture. Combine.

8. Add walnuts. Combine.

Abort! Abort! (Not really.)

9. At this point, I exceed the capacity of my Heavy Duty Kitchen-Aid mixer and have to transfer the very thick batter to a bigger bowl.

It’s all good now. Gotta have some room to work.

10. Wash your mixing bowl well to eliminate all traces of butter fat, and then whip the egg whites with the salt until they hold a nice shape/medium peaks/just past soft peaks. Do not beat them until they are stiff. If they are stiff, it’s hard to fold them into the batter.

This will work.

So will this.

11. Fold 1/3 of the egg whites into the batter. Then fold the rest of the egg whites into the batter. The first time I did this, I was very skeptical. The batter is super thick, and whipped egg whites are…not. However, once you get everything combined, the batter becomes a little more friendly and manageable. The egg whites make it nicer, I promise!

12. Divide the batter among 7 mini loaf pans or two regular loaf pans. Or any permutation of pan you desire, although I would not pick an intricately designed pan. As I said, it likes to stick.

13. Bake for about 3 hours at 335. Seriously. They take forever, and your house will smell amazing. Mostly I judge by color. I take them out of the over, stare at them, and wonder if they are done yet. Then I make my husband look at them, and I ask, “Do they look done?” Mostly he says “Yes,” and follows up with, “Can I eat one now?” I poke them a few times, and if they feel firm, I declare them done.

Done looks something like this.

14. Cool in the pans for 15 minutes, and then ease them out using the overhanging edges of parchment. Cool completely.

15. Baste them with brandy. My father insists I wrap his in cheesecloth and baste it a few more times through the cheesecloth over a period of weeks, so I do that for him. For the rest of the legion of fruitcakes, I put them in individual Ziploc bags and baste them a few times without the cheesecloth. Does the cheesecloth make a difference? Probably. Dad says it’s slimy without it. I disagree but am willing to humor him!

16. Store them in the refrigerator and baste them with brandy once a week for a couple weeks.

17. I highly recommend eating one while it’s warm. :-) I always give the kids a warm one before I baste it with brandy. Especially this year’s brandy…

The secret ingredient in my fruitcake.

Merry Christmas and Happy Fruitcake!

Just the facts, ma’am straight-up recipe no pictures version:

 

Grandpa Baker’s Holiday Fruitcake

(makes seven mini-loaf pans or two regular-size loaf pans)

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1 pound unsalted butter, softened

2 1/4 cups sugar

6 large eggs, separated

1 Tablespoon vanilla

1/2 pound golden raisins

1/2 pound dried cranberries

1/2 pound prunes, cut into pieces the size of raisins

1/2 pound dried apricots, cut into pieces the size of raisins

1/2 cup crystallized ginger, diced into tiny pieces

1 pound walnuts, chopped

pinch of salt

2 cups brandy, as needed

1.Preheat oven to 235

2. Line pans with parchment so that the ends overhang the long sides of the pan. Then cut a strip to line the short sides. I’ve discovered it likes to stick to the pan, and lining both sides makes it MUCH easier to get it out without cracking the top. Spray lightly with pan release.

3. Toss 1/2 cup of the flour with cut-up dried fruit.

4. Sift remaining 1 1/2 cups of flour with the baking powder. Set aside.

5. Cream the butter and sugar on medium-high until pale, light, and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks one at a time. Then beat in the vanilla.

6. Lower the speed to slow and beat in sifted flour mixture. Mix only until flour disappears.

7. Add dried fruit mixture. Combine.

8. Add walnuts. Combine.

9. At this point, I exceed the capacity of my Heavy Duty Kitchen-Aid mixer and have to transfer the very thick batter to a bigger bowl.

10. Wash your mixing bowl well to eliminate all traces of butter fat, and then whip the egg whites with the salt until they hold a nice shape/medium peaks/just past soft peaks. Do not beat them until they are stiff. If they are stiff, it’s hard to fold them into the batter.

11. Fold 1/3 of the egg whites into the batter. Then fold the rest of the egg whites into the batter. The first time I did this, I was very skeptical. The batter is super thick, and whipped egg whites are…not. However, once you get everything combined, the batter becomes a little more friendly and manageable. The egg whites make it nicer, I promise!

12. Divide the batter among 7 mini loaf pans or two regular loaf pans. Or any permutation of pan you desire, although I would not pick an intricately designed pan. As I said, it likes to stick.

13. Bake for about 3 hours at 335. Seriously. They take forever, and your house will smell amazing. Mostly I judge by color. I take them out of the over, stare at them, and wonder if they are done yet. Then I make my husband look at them, and I ask, “Do they look done?” Mostly he says “Yes,” and follows up with, “Can I eat one now?” I poke them a few times, and if they feel firm, I declare them done.

14. Cool in the pans for 15 minutes, and then ease them out using the overhanging edges of parchment. Cool completely.

15. Baste them with brandy. My father insists I wrap his in cheesecloth and baste it a few more times through the cheesecloth over a period of weeks, so I do that for him. For the rest of the legion of fruitcakes, I put them in individual Ziploc bags and baste them a few times without the cheesecloth. Does the cheesecloth make a difference? Probably. Dad says it’s slimy without it. I disagree but am willing to humor him!

16. Store them in the refrigerator and baste them with brandy once a week for a couple weeks.

17. I highly recommend eating one while it’s warm. :-) I always give the kids a warm one before I baste it with brandy. Especially this year’s brandy…

 

It isn’t Christmas without…

Visit Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews for the recipe for this Very Merry Cranberry Cocktail!

BOOZE! To find out why, go here. :-) I’m visiting Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews today because my friend Sharon asked me to write a little something about my holiday traditions. Since I’m a Protestant who went to Catholic school and then married a Jew, things get wild and wooly around the holidays. Mostly because of all the fruitcakes I make, but that’s not the recipe I’m sharing today. That one’s next.

Four layers of Ultimate White Cake filled with whole cranberry filling, frosted with vanilla bean buttercream, and garnished with sugared cranberries and a white chocolate bow!

But first, please visit Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews for my Very Merry Cranberry Cocktail! I honestly can’t remember which came first, the desire to create a cocktail for the Guilty Pleasures blog or the need to come up with a new cake for the patisserie case at Wegmans, but I killed two birds with one stone with those gorgeous sugared cranberries. Three, if you count the fact that they make a great snack. I even put them in my daughter’s lunch and labeled them “magic berries.” They are seriously yummy. Sweet on the outside and tart on the inside. (Anyone else identify with that description? The next time I have to describe myself I’ll say: I’m a string of sugared cranberries perched on the rim of a martini. Sounds about right these days. Ha!)

Moravian Sugar Cake

In my Guilty Pleasures post, I mentioned that it isn’t Christmas without Moravian Sugar Cakes. I first shared the recipe on Stella Ex-Libris’s blog a few years ago, the real from-scratch-with-mashed-potatoes-to-keep-it-moist recipe. However…I always cheat. So did my mom. And my grandmother, who actually WAS a Moravian. (As I understand it, the Moravians were a small sect that split off from Catholicism before the Protestant Reformation. They settled in Winston Salem, NC, and, mysteriously, Hope, IN, which is where my grandmother lived.)

Back to the cheating…

I use Pillsbury Hot Roll Mix! It’s super-easy, especially if you have a mixer. (The dough is kind of sticky.) Follow the directions on the box. If you want round sugar cakes, divide it between two 8″ or 9″ round pans. Proof it. Poke it. Top it with melted butter and cinnamon sugar (the more the merrier!). Then bake it! Your house will smell cinna-mazing! The cinnamon sugar collects in the dimples in the dough, and when you pour melted butter over it, it makes a salty-sweet cinnamon goo that is THE BEST THING EVER.

For those of you who appreciate a bit more technicality in your recipes, here you go:

Moravian Sugar Cake (Pillsbury-style)

(makes 1 13X9 pan or two 8″ or 9″ pans)

The Cake:

One box Pillsbury Hot Roll Mix

The Topping:

1 cup packed brown sugar

1 Tablespoon cinnamon

½ cup (one stick) butter, melted (I use salted.)

The Method:

Follow the directions on the box all the way through step 4.

5. Place the dough in a buttered bowl, turn to coat with butter, and cover. Let rise until doubled, about 1 hour.

6. Butter your baking pans. Divide the dough into two pieces if you are making rounds. Keep it in one if you are making a 13X9 pan. Lay it in the pan(s) and encourage it to cover the bottom(s). Cover and let rise for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, combine the brown sugar and cinnamon for the topping.

7. Melt the butter for the topping. Then dimple the dough with your fingers to create deep pockets. Spread the brown sugar and cinnamon topping over the top of each cake, then drizzle the melted butter over the topping. As it bakes, the butter and sugar will sink into the pockets, creating deliciousness!

The Drizzling!

The Dimpling!

8. Bake at 350 for 25-30 minutes, until it begins to get brown around any tiny edge that might not be covered by the topping. I tend to overbake them, and then complain about it, so watch them carefully. If your pans are shallow, place something beneath them to catch the drips. These cakes love to rise, and the topping might need somewhere to go.

9. Cool briefly and serve warm. Mmmm…Christmas!

The Eating!

Do you have a favorite Christmas/Holiday thing? What is it? Please share so we can all be sentimental with you! Speaking of sharing, thanks to all of you who shared perspective, experiences, and encouragement after my Not failure. Not the death of  dream blog. I’m not alone! Neither are you. We will get through this grown-up-life-thing together with kindness to ourselves and each other and with as much grace as we can muster. When grace isn’t possible, we will forgive ourselves for showing our butts and celebrate getting through it. Period.

It’s not too late to get in on the candy giveaway if you have something you’d like to share. :-)

Happy Monday! Happy drinking, baking, and eating! I love you guys.

 

Not failure. Not the death of a dream.

I think I can talk about this now without crying.

Last year, I got a job. A job that pays every week. At Wegmans, a grocery store.

A little history: Since 2008, I’ve had lots of part-time jobs, but I considered myself a full-time writer. In July of 2010, I sold my first erotic romance to Samhain Publishing. A few months later, I signed a two-book deal with Sourcebooks for SCRUMPTIOUS and LUSCIOUS. I was psyched! I felt talented, validated, and optimistic about writing paying the bills some time in the future. I did it!

Uh…

Kind of. I should change my Facebook status to “It’s Complicated with Publishing.” Writing has payed some bills. It has its ups and down, and some would argue that the benefits of the writing life are intangible. That great reviews from major sites in the romance industry (which I have gotten), new friends, achieving a life goal, and just being able to call myself an author, are enough payment. For some personality types, I bet they are. But I internalize the downs and shrug off the ups. If I were writing myself as a character, that would be a huge flaw. I’m working on it. But that’s another subject. I need writing to make money so I can feel like I’m doing a good job. Or, at least, I thought I did. More on that in a second.

A little more history: SCRUMPTIOUS was well-received, but not a breakout success. LUSCIOUS, poor LUSCIOUS. I love that book. LOVE IT. But I don’t think it has even earned out its advance. I can’t bear to check. My HOT NIGHTS series with Entangled got a lot of attention from readers and the publisher (so cool!). In fact, SEDUCING THE PLAYBOY was chosen as a Holiday Steal this month. It’s on sale for .99. That is definitely an up. Entangled choosing to feature one of my books is delightful. (So if you haven’t read it or think one of your friends would like a stocking stuffer, now is a great time to buy it. :-) It will make you feel like you did when you had your first hard crush.) My latest Entangled book, IMPULSE CONTROL, came out last January, almost a year ago. It’s still selling strong, thanks to the monthly releases of the rest of the Men of the Zodiac series, but I was already out of time when it released. In fact, I’d been working at Wegmans for two months.

I needed to earn a solid, dependable, weekly paycheck. Because of the grueling, physical nature of foodservice work, that meant I was going to be tired, too tired to devote as much time to writing as I needed to in order to make it in the romance writing business. Consistent and frequent releases are crucial. Yes, I know other people have full-time jobs and do it. But this is me. I was already tired. Beaten down. Oh God, I felt like such a failure! I still do. (But I’m fighting it with self-help books.) I wrote eleven books (if you are counting, I also released several erotic romances under another name) and had SUCH high hopes for them! I kept writing, slogging, and pushing, while working two part-time jobs. For five years, I was rarely, if ever, not working. Getting a job at a grocery store felt like giving up. Failure. The death of my dream.

I know it sounds melodramatic. I don’t care. I don’t think I’m a special snowflake. The events of the past five years (And any writers out there will know it wasn’t five years. I got published in 2010. I started writing in 2005.), had proved the opposite. I wasn’t special. I was just another struggling author.

Which brings us to now. Did I quit writing last year? Nah. I have a series idea that won’t let me go. I’m thinking about self-publishing them when I get the first three books done, edited, edited, proofread, formatted, covers… Oy ye gods it makes me tired to think about learning another profession! So I’m just writing. I’m calling them “slow books,” like “slow food,” get it? I’m taking my time getting them to the table. I can’t just publish them one at a time, either. Book One has a big ass cliffhanger. Now THAT would be professional suicide. I’m working on my platform. One of the self-help books I’ve read is Kristen Lamb’s Rise of the Machines: Human Authors in a Digital World. You’ll be seeing more from me as I work on my blogging muscles. More recipes, too. Less writing equals more cooking. And eating, so there’s been more yoga this year. Going to the gym requires an incentive bigger than food, so I buy myself books. I’ve read a lot of books this year. I can buy books because my weekly paycheck means we can pay the bills. I’m not in a constant money panic anymore. Does this sounds like a bad life?

No. It’s good. Very good.

It’s been shocking as hell to discover I’m happier writing less. When you’ve built your identity as a writer for a decade, it’s a big what the fuck moment to realize you may have been barreling down the wrong road. I say barreling because maybe I should have been walking. When you walk, you can effortlessly hold hands with your kids. You can chew gum. You can play an instrument…I’ll stop there because I could abuse the hell out of this metaphor. :-)

I’ve been thinking about direction. I’m not the only one because I came across this blog: Why Some Dreams Should Not Be Pursued. And this one by a debut author: Being Good At Something Doesn’t Mean You Should Do It. Food for thought.

I also think about failure. All the time. It’s a thing. I know it’s in my head, but it doesn’t matter. Thinking and feeling are different planets, and I FAILED not to cry when I was writing this. It’s so bizarre. Despite success in my grown-up jobs, I focus on the negative. What the actual fuck? Who does that? I mean, I’m writing this blog, trying to be honest and lay it bare, and a little voice keeps digging at me about my comma and parenthetical statement abuse. I should really look up the rules and get it right, right? But I’m too lazy. It will only be a “good” blog if it’s perfect, right? I should make it look easy, like I’m not struggling. God, I hate being vulnerable. (But I love Brené Brown. And no I’m not going to figure out how to make the accent mark thingie in her name. Yes I am. Out of respect for her worthiness. LOL.) This crazy criticism is what goes on inside my head. All the freaking time. In fact, I took a break from writing this blog to do the dishes because I couldn’t figure out an engaging ending. I want to hear from you, so I need to make you want to share your crazy with me. Are you a little on the nuts side, too? Are you hard on yourself? Have you ever barreled down the wrong road? What did you learn? What did you break? DID YOU SURVIVE?

As incentive to hold my hand on the crazy road leave me a comment, I will offer you candy. Seriously. I’ll draw a name from the commenters, and I will ask you for your favorite candy-type thing. I will buy it at Wegmans, the greatest grocery store on the planet, and I will mail it in time for the New Year. Straight up. Candy for crazy.

It’s best to have failure happen early in life. It wakes up the Phoenix bird in you so you rise from the ashes. –Anne Baxter

Will you share your pretty ashes with me, please? I’d love to hear from you! :-)

 

 

 

On Freaking Process a.k.a. Fail. Bounce. Write.

Buy this book. It’s 2.99 for Kindle, and worth it even if, like me, your pants get hung up around your ankles.

I’ve been trying to become more of a plotter than a pantser. Really trying this time. I’ve read Libbie Hawker’s book TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS: Outline Your Books For Faster, Better Writing four times. And it all makes sense. It really, truly strikes a deep cord in my brain. I did what she said and filled out flaws and goals, and it felt awesome until BAM. I hit a wall. Months ago. It’s like I get so many pieces into place, and then I can’t get any further until I write the scenes. It’s as if I know it will change when I write it down. I can’t shape any more pieces until the people actually do, say, and feel. Until *I* feel my way through it. (This may explain why I’m not good at chess.)

So I stopped trying to outline, and I wrote a synopsis instead. None of my books have actually resembled their synopses by the time I got done with them, but I was determined this time. I wrote a complete synopsis. It got a little wiggly at the end, but it still felt like a victory. A synopsis is kind of like an outline, but with more words, right? I felt like I’d earned the right to put on my writing pants and drive in my comfort zone.

I decided to write 1660 words a day, so I could finish a rough draft in mid-October, just in time for the Western New York Romance Writers retreat. I’d dig in and edit like crazy all weekend. So I did 1660 words a day for 12 days and BAM. Hit another wall.

I’ve always compared my pants-ing process to an iceberg. I can only see the tip. The rough draft is all the other stuff emerging. I can’t see it until I write it. And even then it’s crap until I edit the hell out of it. I have these characters and these plans, and I write all this shit, so much shit I get lost in the middle of it, like I did in September, and think to myself, “Jesus Christ, where the hell am I? What is this? This is shit.” And I stop writing. BAM. Wall. Helloooooooo.

But before I started my plotting kick, and before I abandoned it and started pants-ing again, I acknowledged something. This is the book I will regret if I don’t write. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I’ve put it off because of other contracts. It’s been back-burnered for so long there are things growing in the pot that are fascinating. This world is huge and deep. I can’t give up, or I will hate myself. I don’t have a choice, not if I KNOW I’ll lie on my deathbed and think about that book I was afraid to write. Hells to the NO.

So I started editing. And it’s coming together. I’m discovering things. Things that will work in later books. I see what I meant to write but couldn’t quite make out while I was in plotting or pantsing headspace. I’m walking on the top of my walls.

And I know all this stuff. I’ve been a member of the Romance Writers of America for ten years, writing longer than that and published since 2010. I’m a craft workshop junkie. I love Candace Havens’s Fast Draft Workshop, Laura Baker and Robin Perini’s Discovering Story Magic, Michael Hague’s Story Mastery, and the aforementioned TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS! I am slavishly devoted to Kristen Lamb’s blog Warrior Writers. I know I’m supposed to take what works for me from any writing advice and abandon the rest. I’m a firm believer in “Butt In Chair.” You must do the work. Work until the muse shows up. Work when she (or he) doesn’t. And STILL I am surprised by what a headfuck the process is for me. STILL I think plotting is a superior, less time-consuming practice. STILL I fear this is easier for other writers. STILL I’m learning new things about my writing brain. I like the idea that my brain works best in editing mode because it frees me up to continue trying to plot and write sucky synopses. It allows me to puke out rough drafts. Maybe I’ll wake up in ten years and have a more streamlined process. I can always hope! But until then I’ll just keep coming at my walls from a different angle until I get up and over.

So what’s my point? I’ll let you know after I edit this. Just kidding. (Not really.)

My point: I’ve finished eleven published manuscripts under two different names. I can finish and polish a book. But it’s never easy for me. Maybe all those other writers are just making it LOOK easy on FB and Twitter. Maybe I’VE made it look easy, but it’s NOT. I’ve been reading romance novels since before I understood the birds and the bees. I understand story on an instinctive level. I know when it’s good, and I know when it works. And Libbie Hawker’s Pants-off approach makes total sense to me. But you know what? I CAN’T DO IT. My brain rebels. But I’ll try it with another book. I can’t tell you how many times during the past ten years I’ve heard a writer who wants to be published has to be persistent. Because of all the rejection, you know. However, I’m learning it’s even more important to be RESILIENT. To bounce back from failing. Failing to write. Failing to plot. Failing to not eat all the chocolate pretzel pie in the house. Failing to not beat myself up when I don’t hit my daily word count.

I’ve heard I need to develop a thicker skin so many times I’ve lost count. Guess what? It ain’t gonna happen. I’m 43. This skin is wrinkling, not getting thicker. But goddamn I can bounce back in there when life has taken me out of the story for so long I don’t remember what’s going on. I can bounce when I fail to plot, write, and synopse (I just created a new verb!). I can re-flate. I can get UP.  And bounce at my walls from a different angle. Because they are MY walls. I made them. I can break them.

And so can you.

Embrace the bounce. Stop being hard on yourself. Failure happens. Don’t keep yourself down when it does. BOUNCE. Get back in there and do the stuff you want to do. Regret sucks worse than failure. You CAN do hard things.

But if you want to bitch about how hard it is to do the thing you want to do, feel free to use the comments section. I’m here! I’m up. I’m down. I’ll encourage your bounce. Let’s encourage each other. :-)

Get Wicked!

It’s a Halloween Blog Hop with Entangled Publishing!

What’s my treat? Or trick? It’s BOTH! I have a ton of amazing books to give away to one lucky U.S. winner! (International winner will receive a $20 gift card to B&N or Amazon.) The books are the treat! What’s the trick? They are all gently read and autographed to me. Do you know how hard it is to wait in line at a book signing and ask the author not to put your name on the book because you know you will probably read it and give it away? I always cave and tell them to sign it to me. Don’t judge me. I don’t want them to feel bad. But I have a ton of books. And not a lot of room. I’d love to send a big pile of them to a good home. I promise I enjoyed them all! I waited in line for them, read them, loved them, and now I want to share the love! Another trick: They won’t all be used or autographed. I also have doubles…like BETTER WHEN HE’S BAD by Jay Crownover. My RWA roomie didn’t want that one, but you do! You really do! :-)

Leave me a comment to enter. All comments will receive a reply! Tell me anything: what you are going to be for Halloween, your favorite thing about the holiday, your favorite candy, your best Halloween costume when you were a kid (mine is a tie: a unicorn and a baked potato. My mom made AWESOME Halloween costumes for me!), what your plans are for the weekend, something naughty you did recently, something great that happened, ANYTHING! Let’s talk. It’s been a crazy month, and I’m lonely!

And be sure to visit the rest of the authors/bloggers/awesome people offering tricks and treats!

Click here to see the rest of the sites offering prizes!

Jessica Topper Rocks

Once upon a time, my daughter made a friend at Temple, and I set up a playdate. (Actually, Jess probably coordinated the details…) But what transpired after that has been a great gift in my life: a new author friend to love! If you haven’t read a Jessica Topper book, you should. I always come back to two things when talking about Jess’s work – beautiful words and deep characters. She creates worlds for her people, not just the one they share, but individual histories they bring to the story. In SOFTER THAN STEEL, her latest release, these histories include an iguana named Banana Louie, an orange ribbon, a misericorde tattoo, crippling panic attacks. a drunk dad, and two heartbreaking ghosts (it’s not a ghost story, but if you read it, you’ll know who I mean). And yoga and rock and roll, of course.

You can hear Jess’s fantastic voice in the blurb:

Buy from Amazon, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, Google, Books-A-Million

Under the liberating guise of his alter ego ‘Riff Rotten’, Rick Rottenberg has circled the globe playing sold-out shows and sampling the universal delights that fame and fortune allow a rock star of his caliber. But he can no longer ignore the panic attacks plaguing him with increasing regularity. Not knowing where else to turn, Rick finds himself turning a doorknob – entering not only into the spiritual world of yoga, but into a retro world of rock music he had long abandoned as well. Revolve Records reminds him of why he picked up a guitar in the first place, and he hopes that Evolve Yoga – and its sexy owner – will help him forget everything else.

Swearing off musicians has been Sidra Sullivan’s mantra ever since a charismatic singer with a bad case of LSD (Lead Singer Disease) blocked her chakras and closed off her heart. The last thing she wants is another huge ego in tight pants hanging around, consuming her time and attention. But when Rick makes an offer to save her family’s historic Lower East Side building in exchange for her help, she begrudgingly makes an exception.

As she works him up to more challenging poses, he begins to wear down her walls of protection, challenging her to see him in a different light. She, in turn, teaches the steeled, seasoned rock warrior to soften his stance and find strength from within. But when a rock and roll power play threatens to disrupt the delicate balance that has grown between them, Sidra must decide whether to follow her head and fight, or to open her heart and fly.

Sidra and Riff became so real to me I felt as if I could slip inside their skins. I was having an awful week, working something like eight days straight at the bakery, and I spent most of my free time reading SOFTER THAN STEEL. Topper world is a wondrous place to be. My favorite moments are when her hard rock heroes hit the stage. As a long-time member of the inner world of the music biz, Topper’s command of rock vocabulary is absolute. Jess is also a lifelong metal head, an Iron Maiden devotee of the highest order. She lives it. She writes it. She owns it. Meet Jess Topper…

Jessica Topper is an ex-librarian turned rock n’ roll number cruncher. She can trace her love for the written word back to age three, when she memorized Maurice Sendak’s “Chicken Soup with Rice” in its entirety.

After her daughter was born, Jessica left the Manhattan library world and began working for her husband’s music management company. He offered her a part-time bookkeeping job so she could “stay home for the baby’s first year” and pursue her dream of writing.

The baby is now thirteen, and Jessica has been working her full-time, sold-her-soul-for-rock-n-roll job as Office Manager for veteran jam band moe. ever since. She may have traded in books for bookkeeping, but the written word is never far from her mind, or her heart.

Jessica lives in upstate New York with her husband, daughter and one ancient cat. You can visit her at www.jessicatopper.com.

SOFTER THAN STEEL is the third book in her Love & Steel series. It can stand alone, but I recommend starting at the beginning with the book that blew my socks off when it was only half-written. Jessica Topper is that good. Enter her music world with LOUDER THAN LOVE. Keep going with DEEPER THAN DREAMS. And then enjoy: SOFTER THAN STEEL!

Here’s an excerpt from SOFTER THAN STEEL because she also brings the sexy…and never enough Topper! :-)

“Erm, luv . . . do you realize there’s a shoe nailed to your wall?”

The gentle kisses between her breasts had felt like a dream, but the vibration of Rick’s voice and his breath on her skin both warmed and awakened her.

“Yes, it’s my flip-flop.” The gorgeous guy who had shared her bed for the second night in a row was now working his way down her body. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bronzing his strong shoulders. She captured one of his curls between her fingers as it tickled its way across her tummy and lazily twirled it. “You’re only noticing it now?”

 “My mind is usually elsewhere when I’m in your bedroom, luv. As is my mouth.”

Sidra groaned, twisting his hair in her fist. “Talk about driving your point home,” she panted as his tongue darted against her tightest, most tender spot. “Oh, my . . .” His arms gripped her thighs as he lifted her.

 “I could drink from you all day, Goddess.”

Those dark eyes flicked a glance at her so intense, she nearly came on the next long lap of his tongue. But he wasn’t nearly through with her. He kissed her very tip, making her tremble and buck up against him.

He licked slow circles around her glossy core, stroking out each whimper and sigh as his personal prize. Heat spiraled in her belly, and her breasts ached. She ran her hands over them, marveling at their heaviness, before plunging her fingers into his hair. He groaned, pulling her against his mouth and sucking her sweetly.

“Make love to me.” She had never wanted anything like she wanted him inside of her now. Her whole being begged for him. “Rick . . .” She summoned, and he responded, climbing her gently, sliding kisses across her hips, her nipples, her throat, covering her with his lean, hard frame.

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Riff Rotten…

Get SOFTER THAN STEEL from Amazon, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, Google, Books-A-Million

And let’s give a shout out to GOSSIP GIRLS PR for setting up Jessica Topper’s righteous blog tour!

INDULGENCE SALE!

But not the kind you can get from the Pope, if any of you good Catholics were hoping! This Indulgence sale is books, books, books, and more books for .99. The ENTIRE line is on sale this week only. Need a little something to chase away the end of summer blues? CLICK! Delighted the kids are going back to school and want to celebrate? CLICK! Don’t want to talk on your lunch break? CLICK! Been a good girl/boy and deserve a reward? CLICK! Been a bad girl/boy and need incentive to behave? CLICK! Just love Indulgence books? CLICKCLICKCLICK!

Personally, I’m kind of all of those things right now. For the first time EVER, the school supply shopping did not give me fits. Of course, that could be because I didn’t comparison shop. My goal was to get it done without going into a folder rage, and I did. I’m on my last day of eight days straight at my part-time bakery job, and I’m psyched for a day off. My girl children want to go school clothes shopping, so I’m a little terrified. But cheerful. Because next week, I’ll be able to hear myself think without also hearing young voices ask, “What can I eat?” “What are we doing today?” “When is Dad getting home?” “Are you working tonight?” Logically, I know this doesn’t mean I’ll get any more words written in a day, but I’m going to buy myself some Indulgences and think about that later…

Happy September, everyone!

A few of my favorite Indulgences! Click to read an excerpt from IMPULSE CONTROL, Book One of the Men of the Zodiac Series!

 

Impulse Control Margarita

I’m on the road to Lori Foster’s Reader & Author Get Together! Since I put this picture on some of my swag, I figured I’d better get the recipe up. Thank goodness for my iPhone hotspot! The number of things on my to-do list multiplied all week as I packed for the con, and I THINK this is the last thing to check off. If it didn’t get done, it’s not getting done until I get home! (And if you are anywhere near Cincinnati, come see me! I’ll be signing books on Friday 6/5, From 3-5 pm!

In my latest release, IMPULSE CONTROL, the heroine mixes up a homemade margarita for her BFF. I LOVE margaritas, but I don’t love the jaw-stinging sweet and sour mix from a bottle. I think half the reason I put a margarita in the book was so that I’d be forced to come up with a recipe for homemade sour mix, and here you go! It’s great in a classic margarita, and it’s also fantastic with pineapple vodka and coconut rum. I imagine it would go well with just about anything. Confession: I lined up two shot glasses, one full of tequila and one full of homemade sour mix, and tossed them back. That was good, too. :-)

Impulse Control Homemade Sweet and Sour Mix

(makes about 3 cups)

One cup sugar

One cup water

One cup lemon juice

1/2 cup lime juice

Juice from one tangerine or 1/2 and orange

1. Bring sugar and water to a boil. Turn off heat. Cool syrup. (Seriously. Cool the syrup. And don’t do what I did. I poured warm syrup into a pickled jar, and then poured very cold lemon juice in right after it. The entire bottom of the pickle jar cracked off because it wasn’t tempered glass. I know better…but I didn’t think the syrup was THAT warm.)

2. Add lemon juice, lime juice, and tangerine/orange juice. Stir.

3. Use immediately or refrigerate. Last about a week. (Except at my house.)

Now for the margarita! Another confession: I created a perfectly lovely margarita recipe, wrote it down, drank the margarita, and lost the piece of paper with the recipe on it. However, I rely on my instincts a lot while cooking/baking/mixology-making, and here’s what I would do*:

Find a friend.

Rim two margarita glasses with salt. (Run a cut lime around the edge, and then roll the edge in kosher salt. Or pink Himalayan salt. Or whatever salt you prefer.) Add ice.

Half-fill a shaker with more ice. Pour in 3 shots of tequila, one shot of triple sec or Curacao, and 3 shots of sour mix.

Shake.

Strain into margarita glasses. Retire to the porch with snacks. Susannah served black bean and roasted sweet potato nachos in IMPULSE CONTROL. Maybe I’ll have to make that next!

*I promise I’ll whip up a batch as soon as I get home just to test the recipe. ;-)