Go Getcher Free On!

FINALLY!!

My Boyfriend’s Back is free on Amazon.com.  After a whirlwind ride in the UK, with my rank on the best-sellers list climbing to #2 in humor, #16 in fantasy/paranormal romance, #63 in all romance, and currently #77 in all categories, I’m THRILLED to see my US readers get their free download.

Currently #13 on the best-sellers in humor—thanks!  Spread the word to freebie-indie-fun-loving friends!

FREE! CLICK HERE

My Willing Suspension of Disbelief is Suspended

Well, it has finally happened. I, a huge fan of fantasy fiction, have been broken. My willing suspension of disbelief (with apologies to Coleridge) has been indefinitely suspended… can you believe it?

Saddest of all, it was a pair of former favorites who killed it… and neither are fantasy authors.

But I have to be honest, this is getting rampant. There is a epidemic of bad writing plaguing me like a rare avian flu transmitted by the saliva of the petit north american pug finch.

No… no… old stand-by authors are phoning it in and the line is fraught with static.

Survivors of century upon century of betrayal and torture—immortal warriors who have been trained to accept unimaginable pain—fall in love and learn to trust nearly immediately with absolutely no reason to do so. Sure. K. Oh, and no backstory? Right. Oh, and an abrupt, vague ending? Excellent.

Regency rake with a full stable lifts a woman carrying an infant onto his horse to share the ride back to her place rather than putting her on another mount, or—in a jarring moment of historical accuracy and, well, fucking LOGIC—a carriage-type device of some sort… and in spite of the biting December cold, their lack of familiarity, and—erm—an infant—becomes instantly aroused and defies gravity and physics with a saddleback triple-balancer erection. Seriously? Ringling Brothers would kill for that act.

Grey eyes with emerald highlights? I want to see the wallpaper in your guest bathroom. No, I’m not shitting you. Can I come by later? I’ll bring donuts.

An ancient god who has not walked the earth or had access to any electronic media using current American cultural slang, operating a laptop without being able to read modern language or having ever seen one? Sure. Same guy has a modern shower and all the best goodies in his private chamber just off the torture wing, where he is a slave? EXCELLENT! Hey, I know another writer who is inviting me over to see her guest bathroom… you two should hook up!

Last week I read a BEST SELLING author out of a NY publisher… who made direct reference to growing roses from rose seeds.

I give up. PRESS PLAY

Three Sleeper Hits for Tween Readers

I'm asked a lot about titles for kids, since I've worked as a teacher as well as being a writer. Tweens seem to be the undiscovered country these days. I want to protect them from Twilight... but not mire them in endless pablum, either.

Here are three books I very rarely hear much about, though they are stellar reads for kids in middle grades. Frankly, I enjoy them as an adult, too.

Catherine, Called Birdy by Karen Cushman is a wonderful novel set in the year 1290. It is the diary accounting of a young girl who avoids the suitors her father picks for her by running them off with cleverness. Absolutely charming, this won The Newbury Honor. I rarely hear it mentioned, but recently finished it in one sitting with absolute delight.

If Susan Cooper has outdone this series (5 books total, also available as a collection) I haven't read it. Incredibly rich world building, and the novel has a grown up tone that respects young readers without losing them. Fantastic series-- this was my favorite title of the lot, but all of them are must-reads.

This is good vs. evil in the classic tradition, but don't be tricked into thinking it's run of the mill. Cooper is a master at taking and holding the attention, and these books are essentials for young fantasy fans.

Phillip Ardagh's Eddie Dickens books are incredibly British, incredibly hilarious, and... well, just incredible. Shortish for head-shy readers, this series will appeal particularly to boys who may dodge other books. How can you fail to fall in love with a book that opens with:

"When Eddie Dickens was eleven years old, both his parents caught some awful disease that made them turn yellow, go a bit crinkly around the edges, and smell of old hot water bottles."

Happy Christmas and THANK YOU, Amazon UK

I would like to thank everyone in the UK for making My Boyfriend’s Back a best-seller (free download e-book) across the pond! This afternoon I was #89 in overall free ebooks and #18 in free romances!

UPDATE: At this posting I'm #3 in HUMOR on Amazon UK. HUZZAH!

Amazon US is lagging behind, but my little-novella-that-could has now gone free overseas and on several other outlets.

Download it FREE here:

Amazon UK

Itunes Books

Smashwords

Barnes and Noble

Thanks SO VERY MUCH to all my readers in Ireland, England, and Scotland.

Twas the Night Before Christmas… at the Gallagher House

As a little Christmas treat and at the request of Dee—so shut up, Dee—I am including this Christmas recitation from Joe Gallagher Sr, the father of Maggie Gallagher, heroine of CRY UNCLE. Yes, it’s a teaser.

As a Gallagher family tradition, Joe sits down with the kids every year and recites his version of TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, also known as A Visit from Saint Nicholas, usually attributed to Clement Clarke Moore. It changes each year and the degree of outrage fluctuates.

Here ya go… take it away, Joe.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS AT THE GALLAGHER HOUSE

Twas the night before Christmas in the Gallagher house.
Not a critter was st--

Ok, look-- you little bastards need to sit the hell
down and shut up or I'm not reciting SHIT. Where was
I? What? Oh. Right.

Not a critter was doing shit, not even a mouse.
They had stockings hung up stuck with glitter and glue.
Just ready to be filled up by old you-know-who.
The rugrats were duct taped into their beds--
And if any of them peeked they knew we'd smack their heads.
I was in my sleeping sweats and Nana was in her mumu.
The house was stuffed with visitors, we had no more room-oo.

Like there was no room-oo for baby Jesus at the inn,
right? Right. So you little shits should be damned
grateful. When I was your age-- what? WHAT? Oh, all
right, where the hell was I?

When what did my eyes spy out in our yard
But a velvet-suit-wearing freaky old tub o lard!
No shit, with a sleigh and a mess of reindeer--
It was really too bad, hunting season was near,
One more week and hooo-eeee there'd be jingle hell to pay!

What? Oh for Chrissakes. I'm not promoting guns, you
crispy pain in the a-- OH ALL RIGHT!

Yeah... hell to pay... annnnnd...
Anyway, the deer were all fine with the bells and the sleigh.
Now I lost my place... Santa... Christmas... right.
The red-velvet tubbo was prowling the night.
You don't see a fat old man in red with white tassels
Unless he's in a gay bar getting some hassles--

OH FOR CHRISSAKES THE KIDS ARE FINE. It's a joke.
Jesus. You ruin everything. Come back here and sit down.
Tell your mother to stop wrecking Christmas. Now everybody
shut the hell up.

So yeah... he jumped to the chimney with all of his shit
But he'd let himself go and his ass wouldn't fit.
So me being a good guy, I yelled out to Kringle
"Would you knock that shit off, you'll loosen the shingles.
Get your ass off my roof and use the front door
For Chrissakes, you jackass, isn't that what it's for?"
And he climbed down with grunts and groans, and his big sack
And when he bent over I could see he had a big crack.
I think Santa, who-- it seems to me-- couldn't be dumber
Spends the other eleven months of the year as a plumber.

OH MOTHER OF GAWD-- they're fine. They're FINE. They
won't melt or need therapy, for Chrissakes, it's a
poem-- a damned traditional poem. Get away from me.
Tell your father you're fine and to get the hell away
from Grampa. For Chrissakes...

Right. Anyway, here was Santa the old red-nosed bastard
I think he'd been hitting the Christmas punch and was plastered
But I do not judge. Anyway, he was merry.
And joyful and shit. And some shit that rhymes with berry.
Anyway-- he wanted to know what you little shits wanted.
Poor Santa, his face was sad-- his eyes kinda haunted.
See-- Santa?-- he's working with ELVES, kids-- in a shop.
And the elf union called for a full-out work stop.
Santa's at the North Pole, not Japan for Chrissake.
He doesn't have the stuff that kids want him to make.
When Santa started out everyone wanted trains--
Or dolls... or blocks-- now everyone complains.
"I want an X box or an Ipoop or a gadget."
Elves can't make that shit-- and poor Santa has had it!
Ungrateful brats-- lemme tell you something, skippy--
You're breaking the heart of that old, fat elf-hippie.
He can't do it. He's an old man. He's got an elf issue.
And unions and shit you can't wrap up in tissue,
Or tie up with ribbons, or stick under the tree.
Little bastards these days want the whole world for free.
So I felt bad. Yeah, I felt Santa's pain, the old coot.
So I got him a beer and helped sort the loot.
Yeah, you know-- now I think about it, he really was lit.
He was staggering a little, the crispy old shit.
So he made for his sleigh-- blew the Gallagher joint.
He had a whole world of other brats to disappoint.
But I heard him exclaim as he flew round the bend-o
"Merry Christmas, you little assholes-- go play your Nintendo!"

Now go to bed.

Happy Holidaze

I love tacky Christmas displays.  No… you don’t understand… we’re talking LOVE. Thus it is that I share with you, gentle reader, the best of the best.

Enjoy…

Don’t join in these reindeer games… please!

At least he didn’t go down the chimney…

Just in case you can’t see us from way up there in that sleigh…

Redneck Advent Calendar…

And a crafty use of those empties! BEER TREE!!

Fahrvergnügen down at the mobile home… GO BAMA!

Have a Holiday Filled with LAUGHTER.

An End to the Truant Pen in 2012

I was away for a few weeks, and I’m only sorta-back. Know what I discovered? Writers have gone nasty.

My return was marked by endless snark, shots fired across many a bow, and more amazon-is-evil, indies-have-no-talent-or-clue, NY-is-the-devil, and cetera.

Is this the best we can do? Jesus Christ on a Cracker, I hope not.

In general I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. In the past I have, trying to be funny, submitted a yearly list of demands. (I know… I’m adorable.) This year I am going to get resolute for a change. And I’m challenging all my friends who are writers to join me:

SHUT UP AND WRITE IN 2012

Waddaya say, friends? 2011 saw the rise of the direct publishing movement; it saw the death of Borders; it saw Nook-Kindle wars; and it saw the end of some friendships for me. Why? Because it became a daily rant from one writer or another about why publishing free books was either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid, but nobody was supposed to say so. We got passive-aggressive “here is why the opposing opinion is utter crap, but please understand, I don’t mean to say it’s crap.” We got “indies have no right to use the term indie, no offense, but they aren’t real indies, WE are the real indies, and everyone else is an asshole, but we’re going to use the term ‘misguided’ to avoid saying anything we actually think.” We got “I am an editor at X house and therefore know more than you, so here is why NY is not afraid of you at all, little direct publishing sillies, which is why we harp on how unimportant you are every fucking day, hahahaha, why would you think I’m nervous, you insignificant creature?” We got “NY publishing will be gone by 2012 and here are fourteen reasons; I should know, I sold a bajillion copies of the following book you’ve never heard of on Smashwords.”

We got full of ourselves, wrapped up in bullshit, and really off the goddamned track, katz n kittenz.

So my plan for 2012, once I heal from the latest surgery and get my galleys back from the formatter I (reluctantly) hired… is to SHUT THE HELL UP AND WRITE. Take it away, Sir Phillip.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay;
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows;
And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite—
“Fool!” said my Muse to me “look in thy heart, and write!” --Sir Philip Sidney

Bailey’s Irish Cream NO BAKE Cheesecake

My bestie Allie Kelly made this for us and OMG you have NO IDEA how marvelous!!!

NO BAKE—yep, I said it!  And when I called she was kind enough to send me an email with the recipe so I could copy and paste.  Crazy easy.

Bailey's Irish Cream Cheesecake
*Allie Kelly's recipe

small pat of butter for greasing pan
6 oz. box of chocolate wafer cookies
4 tablespoons butter, softened
8 oz. semi-sweet chocolate
8 oz. milk chocolate
3/4 cup powdered sugar
12 oz. cream cheese (1 1/2 cups, or 1 1/2 8 oz. packages)
1 3/4 cups heavy cream
3 or 4 tablespoons Irish cream liqueur

Line the bottom of an 8-inch spring form pan with parchment paper. Smear the sides and paper with butter.

Crush the wafers in a plastic bag. Empty into mixing bowl with butter; mix and press into the bottom of the pan. Chill for about an hour.

In a double boiler, melt chocolates til they are just smooth. Allow them to cool to warm/room temp, but be careful not to let the chocolate begin to get firm add the liqueur and mix it well through. Beat the sugar and cream cheese until smooth, set aside. Whip the heavy cream until peaks form. Fold together the cream cheese and whipped cream, then gently fold in the chocolate and liqueur mixture. Blend together well.

Spread the filling into the pan and smooth out the surface. Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours.  Garnish with chocolate or any other decoration!