Lisa Hendrix

Is something in the air?  Discussions of romance book covers are suddenly all over the web.

First I popped into DearAuthor and found Cover Identification, Susan Holloway Scott’s well-illustrated overview of romance covers from the various publishers. (Lovely cover, btw, Susan.)

Then I ran into a post at Word Wenches titled Cover Conspiracy, which responds to an article in the Philadelphia Inquirer about how romance covers “say women are dumb” (the PI’s words, not mine or the Wenches!). 

And then I opened a Barnes and Noble email expecting an e-coupon and discovered instead an announcement of a new feature series at B&N.com called “Cover Story” which features the artists/art directors who are responsible for book covers (coming soon — a romance cover designer by the name of Judy York).  

All of which demonstrates how ideas propagate through by some mysterious means—which is why an editor will suddenly get five stories about singing swords and pregnant window-washers in one month (no, no one ’stole’ your idea).

And which also reminds me of the wonderful World of Longmire romance cover spoofs, which I didn’t discover today, but which still make me snort most unattractively.

Around the Hendrix household, Mother’s Day means I get to be bossier than usual…but only in the nicest way, of course. To avoid boxes of chocolate that wind up on my hips and flowers that wind up in the compost pile, I’ve taken to being very specific about what I want for Mother’s Day.  This year it was Lemon Ricotta Pancakes from a recipe that appeared in the local paper this week, a strong suggestion for Jewelry to be picked out by my daughter (who understands my tastes quite well and has since she was, like, four), and an outing to the local Arts Festival, which the city fathers wisely hold on Mom’s Day weekend so that we can force our families to join us. Otherwise, I suspect the streets would be full of unaccompanied women.

So, the pancakes were excellent. The recipe called for blueberry compote on top, but we were unexpectedly short of blueberries, so the above-mentioned daughter opted for raspberries. Superb choice. These pancakes are almost, but not quite, South Beach friendly, so I’m going to tweak the recipe a bit, and then I’ll post it here.

The jewelry somehow morphed into an FM transmitter for my iPod.  I was so excited, it didn’t even notice the lack of precious metals until much later. Usually things with cords are off-limits for holiday gifts unless I specifically ask for it — like the Dremel I requested one year. But the kids knew I’d been looking at the FM transmitters, so they suggested it to the Big Guy and the three of them split it.  Now I can listen to my RWA Workshop recordings while I tool around town or have music in “the gaps” when I travel — where we live is surrounded by mountains and far from any other population center of any size, so when we leave town, there are miles and miles with NO RADIO. Barbarous. Boring.  And now, solved, thanks to my kids!

After breakfast, and after forcibly disconnecting my son from his iPod, we trekked off to the Arts Festival. The plaza and two streets were blocked off for art booths, garden stuff, food, demonstrations, children’s activities, and the pièce de résistance, the Smudge Pot Art competition. Smudge pots are the old style orchard heaters that gave off lots of smoke to keep the trees warm when temperatures dipped below freezing (the one on the left in the pic is pretty much unmodified except for paint).  I live in orchard country, and there are plenty of them around, though they’re seldom used any more (thank goodness).

Once a year, our local artists go nuts and decorate one, using whatever techniques strike their fancy.  It’s our version of the art-cows that some towns host, and as in the case of the cows, the results range from sublime to silly. The picture is of a previous year, but you get the idea. This year, someone quilted a watercolor-style cover for the entire smudge pot, including stack. Another artist wove a multi-colored, fringe-y covering. One had an adorable folk-art chicken nesting on top. Everybody votes, and then the smudge pots are auctioned off to benefit local arts organizations. (Here’s more on the pots and the auction.)

Smudge pots are, however, are not the sort of thing I’d display in my house—even the quilted one, as beautiful as it was (sorry, didn’t get a pic).  But one of the local quilters groups (the Material Girls) was auctioning off the most amazing quilt. I never buy raffle tickets for anything, except at RWA functions that benefit literacy, but I plunked down my money today without hesitation.

Here’s the pic the Big Guy took. Even with the odd sun angle and the shadow of the overhead power line and the raffle information pinned to it, you can see how amazing it is. Click here to get to a bigger version.

I want this quilt. I lust after this quilt. I will win this quilt.

When I do, I will take a better picture of it to post here, and then I’ll redecorate my entire bedroom to go with it. The raffle isn’t until November 9, though, and I fear my fingers and toes will be cramped beyond use by then from being crossed. Will someone kindly take shifts with me?

So, that was the planned portion of my day.  Once we got home, I plunked down to take a nap, eat BLTs (yum), and then fired up the computer while I watched some of the Eureka marathon on SciFi Channel, which I enjoy a great deal (any excuse to watch Matt Frewer—and Colin Ferguson isn’t too shabby, either).

And that’s when I discovered that IMMORTAL WARRIOR is now available for pre-order on Amazon, a lovely surprise, even if the cover and the rest of the info aren’t up yet.

So, all in all, a great day. Please share what you did today, whether you celebrated Mother’s Day or not.

I’ll be back later this week with something more “writerly.”  Have fun ’til then.

(Rose graphic courtesy Pat’s Web Graphics)

A virtual blanket of roses to the brave, beautiful Eight Belles, lost today after placing second in the Kentucky Derby when both front ankles shattered during the post-race gallop.

My heart goes out to the jockey, trainer, owners, exercise boys/girls, and all who knew and loved her.

…and I cannnot tell you how pleased I am with it.  The initial idea came from my editor, and then the terrific Art Department at Berkley put it all together. Between them, they’ve captured the feel of the story perfectly.

This is always the most exciting part of the process for me, next to the day the finished book lands in my hand.  It used to be that we never saw the art until we got the cover flat. Now we get preliminary artwork, then the finished covers, via email.  We still get the actual cover flats, which are front, back, and spine printed all on one sheet, with a fold-over that includes information for the sales reps to use (quotes, reviews, previous sales info, etc.). But although it’s fun—and useful—to have them, the thrill comes when you first get to see the art with the title font and how they’ve put it all together.

And honestly, is this young man a hunk, or what? To get a better look at that six-pack,  check out a larger version here.

Yesterday I received an email from a new fan who had discovered Runaway Bay on her bookshelf (she’s not sure how it got there) and enjoyed it.  I answered, of course, and we traded a couple of rounds of email.  Then, yesterday afternoon, she sent me this:

This is Abigail.  Here’s what her mother had to say:

I know this looks like a staged photo but what makes it so great is that it absolutely is not. I had your book on the table and she picked it up. I thought it was rather serendipitous that the same day I correspond with you my daughter gives me this unexpected opportunity for a great photo. 

Now you have photographic proof that your writing appeals to all ages. I think I will keep her away from the love scenes for as long as I can though. I promise to stop crowding your email, this pic was just too cute to keep to myself. 

Okay, I know she should be reading Pat the Bunny, but I can’t help grinning like a fool.  Thanks to her mom, Brooke, for giving me permission to post.

a) the Universe’s way of mocking us.

b) here, baby, and don’t pretend it isn’t.

c) a fun new book by Sheila Roberts.

d) motivation to finally lose a few pounds.

e) all of the above.

Answer:  e, all of the above.

I spent a pleasant Sunday morning reading answer c), Bikini Season, the latest from Sheila Roberts, author of last Christmas’s delightful On Strike for Christmas.

What a treat!  By the time I closed the book, I felt like I’d made five new friends, plus had regained motivation to get back onto the South Beach Diet that helped me take off ten pounds last winter.

Roberts takes us back to Heart Lake, WA, where the members of a local cooking club have realized they’re all starting to pile up health and emotional issues related to weight. They decide to keep the club together as a support group and learn to cook healthy. Unfortunately, the various men in their lives have, shall we say, less than helpful reactions.

Every word of this book rang true, from the candy gifts one loving husband insists on giving his dieting wife, to the emotional eating another woman has to learn to overcome.  If there’s a woman who hasn’t been there, done that, bought the t-shirt…well, I want to send her a pencil. (You’ll have to read the book to get the reference, ’cause I ain’t gonna tell.)

But this book isn’t just about weight.  It’s about goals, being honest with yourself, asking for what you need and want, and knowing you’re important.  Sheila Roberts has another romantic women’s fiction winner here, full of humor, truth, and wonderful women’s friendships.  Buy this book for yourself, and share it with the women you love.

Okay, my science geek side is showing a little in these last couple of posts.  I have a bachelor’s in Biology. It’s part of what makes me a kick-ass researcher.

I found the following posted on the Facebook Wall of sister romance author Liz Fielding.  It’s an interesting test of how your mind works.  If you can read it, you’ll understand the test.  If you can’t, never fear — I’ve translated it after the jump.  And if you’re a writer, well, don’t send in a manuscript written on this principle unless you just adore rejection letters.

Cna yuo raed tihs? Olny 55 plepoe out of 100 can. 

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid! aoccdrnig to a rscheerarch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno’t mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod aepapr; the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! 

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I don’t know how it came up today, but I was thinking about how eyes get described in romance novels.  They’re seldom plain blue or grey.  They’re azure, or cornflower or stone or pewter.  So my brain went off on a tangent (as it often does), and I googled eye colors.  Not much, other than articles on genetics, like this one from Discover. But then I hit Images, and there they were.  So I collected some example photos of unusual eye colors and hereby present them for your perusal.  Yep, there really are people with eyes the color of a tropical lagoon, old terracotta, or a cadet’s jacket.

(bottom photo credit — Discover Magazine online)

Okay, so I resisted.

I have adored Pierce Brosnan since his Remington Steele days. I knew he was meant to be Bond from the instant I saw him, and I celebrated when he was signed and mourned when he had to give up the role to Timothy Dalton because other Steele fans wanted a nice, tidy (and ultimately flat) wrap up to the series. However, when I saw what they did to those Bond scripts, I was actually glad Brosnan didn’t get stuck with the politically correct, safe-sex Bond of the late 80s. Face it, no one could have made those into Bond classics and my boy would’ve been dipped in the stink.

After a time, things spun back around and there sat Pierce in the wings, devastating in a tux, and all ready to make the role his own. Hot damn. I looked forward to a scrumptiously long run of PB as JB.

So when the Broccolis that Be cut his run short and announced that blond Daniel Craig would play Bond in the remake of Casino Royale, I once more mourned. More than that, I boycotted. Refused to contemplate even the remotest possibility he could be a good Bond. (I mean, really, a blond!?) Never saw the movie in the theater (one of the few I didn’t see on the big screen). But my hubby got a copy of Casino Royale for his birthday this week, and he wanted to watch it with me this afternoon. I adore my husband even more than I do Pierce, so I watched.

I was wrong.

Part of it was the script, fully true to the spirit of Sir Ian Fleming’s books (unlike the gimmick-bloated scripts that have been the trademark of the series). It always helps when the script is right, and this one is right in so many ways. But part of it was Daniel Craig: Rugged. Dangerous. Tender. With eyes that have seen too much. Bond to his very soul.

I still adore Pierce. Shoot, how could I give him up when I even used him as the model for my hero in To Marry an Irish Rogue. I even had my agent send him a copy, hoping his production company would option it for him to do. I will most definitely go to Mama Mia when it opens July 18.

But Daniel Craig is Bond. James Bond.

I’m late to the party, but boy, am I happy to be here.

How about you? Who’s your favorite Bond? What about your favorite Bond movie? Answer in comments — I’ll tabulate answers and post them at a later date.

Those may not be the first two question I ask myself when I start writing, but they’re right up there. I HAVE to know his name and appearance — hero first, almost always. Until I get them right, I cannot truly begin. Names are a huge thing for me. I can’t use a placeholder name to start out; too much baggage attaches to it, and then when I try to switch to the “real” name, I find I’m writing about a completely different person.

The title of the book is much the same, though it can wait a little while. I do have to put a good name to it sometime before I hit the end of Act I, however–usually before I complete the proposal–and I tend to obsess until I come up with something I like. I’ve had to change a couple of titles after I turned the manuscripts in, though, and strangely, it didn’t bother me like a character name change does. All I did was obsess again until my editor and I agreed to something.

As for appearance, that’s more general but just as critical. Really, a blond hero is different from a raven-haired one, and if you add a streak of silver to the raven, well you have someone entirely new. I’m not one of those people who does a collage, but I do clip images on the internet and save them. Dozens of them (more on that in another post).

What brought this up is that I got my cover art for Immortal Warrior a few days ago. It’s gorgeous, all hero all the way. Unfortunately, it’s also preliminary, so I can’t share it yet — and I did ask. Though the cover model doesn’t look anything like who I pictured while I was writing, he’s a perfectly wonderful stand in. In fact, he has replaced my original model in my mind and heart. I’ve asked for his name and will share it when I can post the cover. This boy has a chest…omigod.

So while we’re waiting, I thought you might like to see what Ivo looked like while I was writing him. Turns out, he was a dead ringer for the juicy, tortured, wonderful Captain Etienne Navarre from Ladyhawke (aka Rutger Hauer)–except he wore grey.

Sigh,