Lisa Hendrix

On one of the reader-oriented email lists I’m on, the group moderator (who is brilliant at starting up good discussions) recently asked what everyone thought about condoms in romance novels. She wanted to know whether the failure to address some realistic approach to birth/disease control makes a book a wallbanger or whether the mere mention of such things destroys the fantasy for which many of us read romance. As an author, I followed the discussion with great interest; even though I’m writing historicals right now, I have written contemporary romances in the past (which showed condom use, btw) and surely will again. So what, I wondered, do readers want?

As you can imagine, there were strong opinions in both camps, with one or two people quite vehement that condoms interfered with enjoyment both in books and in real life. 

But one woman came down on the other side, and did it with such clarity and passion and good humor that I asked if I could post part of her response here. She kindly gave permission, so here, from romsfuulynn:

It seems to me that condoms are part of the play, the overall experience, and part of life. Sex can involve accidental hair pulling, muscle cramps in legs, arms, etc, books that got cast aside poking someone with a sharp corner or pinching people in a bad place, falling off or almost falling of the bed (or desk or kitchen counter, or what have you), champagne, beer, coke, milk, ice water or what have you getting tipped over and flooding the field of play (it’s COLD and WET), scratchy surfaces, hard surfaces, beard burn, leg hair scratchiness, other shaved area scratchiness, chafing of almost anything, rug burn, insect bites, sand in unfortunate places, children knocking at the door, phones ringing, doors you didn’t lock, object supporting activity being insufficiently sturdy and breaking, creaking, squeaking. Not to mention being very pregnant or recently post partum.

At least I’ve never had a gun go off like one of Jenny Crusie’s heroines did.

Sex beats no sex. Hands down. (Although hands can be a lot of fun too.) Condoms are the least of it.

Yes, maybe no condom is better for a guy, but that’s life and over time, it all works out. For me, fictional sex should reflect the absurdity of life and the power sex has to overcome distractions. I don’t particularly like sex that is portrayed as dreamy or perfect - sex is better than being merely perfect, it is overwhelming.

Or maybe it’s just my husband. . .

Lucky woman. She’s been married 35 years.

What do you think?  Can a love scene that uses a condom still be romantic?  Share your thoughts on romance and real life. (Keep your language clean, please. Children may be present)

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) 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! 

Read the rest of this entry »

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.

Happy first anniversary to Barbara Vey at Publisher’s Weekly. Her wonderful blog Beyond Her Book has evolved into a must-read for fans and writers of romance and women’s fiction.

In celebration, Barbara is trying to set a new record number of visitors, and to encourage everyone to come, she’s giving away a slew of prizes from writers and publishers. To enter, just post a comment to today’s post. She’ll announce the winners tomorrow.

I followed a link from BoingBoing today and discovered the wonderful blog for PingMag, “The Tokyo based magazine about Design and Making Things.” They cover all sorts of traditional and non-traditional Japanese crafts, and how they integrate their design sense into today’s world. This specific post, Imitating Nature, about (of all things) food containers brought back happy memories of the 7 months I lived in Japan about 20 years ago.

As a participant in the first year of the Japan Exchange and Teaching Program (JET), I helped teach English at Kessennuma Nishi Koko (Kessennuma West High School) in Miyagi Prefecture. On weekends, I traveled as much as I could around northern Japan, and the beautiful bentos (lunch boxes) sold at the train stations–each station offers its own specialty and its own presentation–and the souvenir foods I carried home to my office mates always delighted me. Finding this post at PingMag was like taking a short trip back.

The JET Program, by the way, was one of the best things I ever did. I treasure every memory and heartily recommend it to anyone who has a desire to see Japan from the inside.

Lisa

Yep, our English ancestors enjoyed naughty jokes, riddles, and puns, just as much as we do. Inspired by a post by Janelle Denison at Plotmonkeys, I offer this riddle in the same spirit:

I’m a strange creature, for I satisfy women,
a service to the neighbors! No one suffers
at my hands except for my slayer.
I grow very tall, erect in a bed,
I’m hairy underneath. From time to time
a beautiful girl, the brave daughter
of some churl dares to hold me,
grips my russet skin, robs me of my head
and puts me in the pantry. At once that girl
with plaited hair who has confronted me
remembers our meeting. Her eye moistens.

What am I? (Answer after the jump….) Read the rest of this entry »