Man, it’s been a long time since I’ve done a book talk. I’m definitely reading less (again) this year; I need to fix that. All of you who know how big Mt. TBR is, and who know how big my wish list is, will agree.

Anyway, I wanted to check in about a fun book that wasn’t what I expected. AT ALL.

I’d been seeing Donna Lea Simpson’s Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark discussed on many of my book blogging friends’ sites. I was expecting raucous fun, laugh-out-loud humor.

What I got was a mystery with a structure that reminds me of the mysteries of old, down to gathering all the minor characters in one room on a false pretense, only to have the bad guy be revealed. Talk about a traditional structure — and a welcome one. Talk about something old that’s new again, that’s exactly what the structure of this novel becomes. Best of all, it’s well executed.

In fact, this book — about a spinster who is summoned to the side of an old friend (although I have trouble understanding WHY they are friends) and winds up helping solve a mystery, alongside the mysteriously sexy Marquess of Darkefell — is fun. It’s not laugh-out-loud fun, however. This is NOT Stephanie Plum does the Georgian period, and not just because Anne’s far from hapless. She’s not our usual kick-ass heroine, either. She is an unconventional woman for her times — and proud of it. She’s not nearly as irreverent about it as my Trevor is; it makes her immediately more likable. This is the sort of heroine you wish you were, had you lived back then.

Well-written, clever, and with a fresh voice, this is a book that seems to be a romance but is really more of a mystery with the romance tossed in like you toss croutons on a salad. Essential to the mix but not overpowering.

A sequel will be out in August 2009. A definite auto-buy for me, proving once again that while I probably wouldn’t have bought this book if there wasn’t the goodness that is PaperBackSwap, book trading sites DO inspire book sales.

More reviews of this book:
Dar, Peeking Between the Pages

Got one? E-mail it to me and I’ll add it.

Welcome to a new semi-regular feature here at The Meet and Greet! Trevor’s Word of the Moment is just that: a word that Trevor likes, that someone (like you) suggested, or that Susan and/or Trevor stumbled across and decided had to be defined as only the indomitable Trevor Fucking Wolff can do. Read on, and be sure to check back often for new words.

Covert

What a fucked-up word. Why not just say sneaky and be done with it, huh? Noooo. Gotta get that oh-so-spooky government feel in there, that sense of being a spy or some shit like that. Want to throw in some aliens, Area 51, and Roswell, too, while we’re at it?

Speaking of Roswell, I tried to go out there once when we were on tour. Eric was gonna come along, but we couldn’t find anyone to drive us, and Mitchell said he’d kill us if we hitchhiked. Maybe one day I’ll get there.

Well, okay, I gotta use this covert thing in a sentence. So I guess covert is what Mitchell and I do when we put on baseball hats and boring-assed clothes and sneak out for ice cream and hope no one’ll notice we’re us. ‘Cause, you know, we’re aliens and shit.

Check in with the other Sunday Scribblers to see how many aliens they’ve got in their interpretation of this week’s word…

I’m feeling sort of lousy this morning. Dunno why.

But since it’s Only the Good Friday, that means it’s time to put the icks behind me and dwell on … next Friday. That’s when I leave here after lunch, head over to the Akron airport, pick up my good friend Ann, and head down to West Chester, OH, and join authors Lori Foster, Dianne Castell, and a whole bunch of others for Dianne and Lori’s Author-Reader Get Together.

I heard about it last year, too late to go, but after being at the Romantic Times Convention and digging the vibe of everyone in attendance, and then hearing how much fun everyone had at last year’s Dianne and Lori’s Get-Together, I had to go this year. Having Ann is what tipped me over the edge of temptation. She’s great fun to be with.

Best of all, I’ve gotten to chat with some of the women who’ll be there, via e-mail loop. Wow. Again, there’s that creative, fun, zany vibe. I’m pysched.

Ready for the icing on the cake? There’s a book signing being held on Saturday from 2-4 (use the above link for locations and stuff). Lori’s graciously allowed us self-published authors to bring our own books and handle all financial transactions ourselves (which is the scary part. I married the Tour Manager for his math skills, you know!).

I’m bringing 40 copies. With close to 300 attendees, I’m now afraid that’s not enough.

BUT if I sell them all (and the signing is open to the public, if you’re nearby!), I’ll make a donation to Lori’s charity of the year, The One Way Farm Children’s Home of Fairfield, OH. A donation beyond what I’ll spend on raffle tickets and other goodies, that is. A donation out of my profits.

Demo Tapes. Lori Foster. Lots of folk who love books for the same reason I do: they rock.

And great company for the ride down and back.

Yep, if that’s not good, I’m Trevor’s favorite bass, the one with the cracked neck that can’t be played anymore.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am no bass guitar.

See ya in Cincy.

And check out the other Only the Good participants, will ya? Even better, come join us! Spread some good throughout the world. I feel better just for writing this. THAT is the power of good.

You’d better believe I’m over the moon about my beloved Pittsburgh Penguins returning to the Stanley Cup finals for the second year in a row. Is the second time the charm? Time will tell.

In the meantime, here’s some bits about hockey:
1. The last time a team lost in the final and returned the following year to try again was in 1984. The team? The (much vaunted) Edmonton Oilers.

2. Back then, I wasn’t the hockey fan I am now. Hell, I was trying to survive high school.

3. Then I went to Graduate school — at the same school the Penguins’ current head coach, Dan Bylsma attended. I believe he left just as I was arriving.

4. Bored in the middle of a cornfield, that January, I was able to do something that the Penguins’ first Stanley Cup years had awakened in me: the desire to play ice hockey.

5. I spent so much time at the campus Ice Arena that I liked to joke I got my Master of Fine Arts degree in ice hockey.

6. (It’s actually in fiction)

7. All that time on the ice, in the locker rooms, hanging around the pro shop and the Zamboni room crew inspired a novel.

8. I actually landed an agent for that novel. Clearly, he wasn’t the world’s best agent.

9. Every now and then I think maybe I’ll put it out from under the bed and revamp it.

10. But we’re all having way too much fun with Trevor and the band. How does ice hockey figure into a rock band’s life?

11. I’ve spent many Penguin games sitting in the stands (we have the second-best seats in the place, I’m convinced of it. Who’s got the best? The players) trying to figure that out.

12. My fictional town of Riverview is home to a baseball team, The Otters. Maybe a hockey team ought to move in, too?

13. While I debate (and your input is quite welcome), join me in cheering on my Penguins, will ya?

Let’s go, Pens. I want to dance with Lord Stanley again.

I’d like to remind everyone that this Sunday Scribblings prompt does not necessarily reflect the views of Susan. Only of Trevor, since this is in his point of view.

They’d been summoned to dinner. Trevor fucking hated being summoned, even if Sonya had tried to soften the blow by making pot roast. She’d made sure Trevor knew that was on the menu. After all, no one summoned Trevor Fucking Wolff. Not if they actually wanted to see his ugly mug.

Bribery with pot roast, however, was completely acceptable.

“Boys,” Patterson said after dinner but before dessert.

Mitchell burped, turned red, and immediately said all the polite shit that Sonya liked so much.

Patterson ignored him.

Trevor waited.

“You’re both eighteen now,” the elder Voss said. “You know what that means.”

“You said we didn’t have to move out until we’d graduated, Dad!”

Patterson chuckled. “This is a lot less painful than moving. Unless the country goes to war.”

Mitchell drew back in his seat. Trevor reached for his cigarettes, then reminded himself he wasn’t allowed to smoke in the house. Even though he had the feeling he was about to need to. Maybe even something stronger, more soothing.

“You need to register for selective service,” Patterson said. He put the forms on the table. Where he’d just pulled them from, Trevor didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. If he wanted anything, it was for those stupid pieces of paper to go away.

“No can do, powerful legal guardian,” he said. He shook his head slowly from side to side, exaggerating the motion as much as possible. “I am what you’d call one of those conscientious objector people, ready to bolt for Canada.”

“What do you object to?” Patterson asked. Trevor admired his patience; if he’d said that to Hank, it would have been a quick left followed by two rights. And another shirt with too much blood to bother trying to wash. Not to mention what would happen to his nose. Again.

“All of it. Cutting my hair. Saying yessir to an asshole. And guns. I object to guns.”

“Maybe what you need is to be taught to use a gun properly.”

“Why? Planning on sending me back so I have to use one again?”

Mitchell cleared his throat. “Dad?”

Trevor looked at Mitchell. Blondie had turned a new shade of white; now, he looked like something fresh out of Sonya’s washing machine.

“Do you… do you really think…” Mitchell swallowed so loud, Sonya turned and looked at them.

Or maybe, given her proud smile, it was just coincidence. But it gave Mitchell enough gumption for some of that color to come back into the guy’s face.

“Thinking’s bad for your health,” Trevor said. “That’s the only good thing about the military. They don’t let you think. They turn you into mindless automatons who can’t do a damn thing for themselves except maybe, maybe wipe their asses when they take a dump.”

Patterson leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.

Mitchell mirrored him.

“Trevor, I spent many years in the military, and I can promise you that’s not true. In fact, if I weren’t doing my present job, I’d still be a military man. Our military’s important. It’s part of what makes this country so great.”

“I don’t care. I still object. They come after me, I’m outta here. Canada, get ready. Trevor Wolff’s on his way. I’m not killing for anyone, hear me? And fuck anyone who says I’ve got to.”

“What if you could serve without killing?”

“Yeah, right. Like they let you do that. Like they’d let me do that. Fuck, no. They’d take one look at me and tell me I’m the unit’s crazy SOB who lives and breathes just to kill and I’d better suck it all up and be a good little soldier boy and do it. Who fucking cares what Trevor wants or thinks? It’s for a greater good than one fucked up, beat up kid.”

“Mitchell?” Patterson asked as Trevor stopped for a breath.

That was, of course, Trevor’s cue to stuff it and shut the hell up.

In response to dear old dad, Mitchell the idiot uncrossed his arms and pushed at his hair. It was starting to be long enough to sit on his shoulders; at last, he looked sort of cool when he shoved it out of the way. “You know, Dad, I want to see the world one day. I just…” He looked at the piece of paper on the table and, again, swallowed loud enough for them all to hear it. “I just thought I’d do it with a band.”

Patterson patted Mitchell’s hand.

Trevor stared at their hands. Some stupid photographer somewhere probably totally dug that picture they made. Family love. Ahh, how sweet it was.

Trevor wanted to gag.

“Son,” Patterson said, “the chances of this country needing to use a draft are very slim. Registering is the law, and it’s one I’d like to see you both not break.”

Trevor peered at the form. If Mitchell was…

No, he told himself. Doing things only because someone else was? That had to be the world’s stupidest reason for doing anything. A man should stand up for what he believed in.

He’d come scarily close to killing a man once. He’d come scarily close to being killed. More than once.

There was no way anyone was handing him a gun and inviting him back to that Hell. No fucking way. He’d sooner be a Canuck.

Okay, before I get to the really great stuff, let me do some blatant plugging of myself…

First off, Amy at chic Book Reviews did an awesome review of The Demo Tapes. Again, here was a reader who didn’t know what to expect, who opened my book with some trepidation, and… fell in love with Trevor and Mitchell. Of course.

Amy’s also giving her copy away, although it pains her to do so. If you want to enter yourself — it’s a signed copy, folks. Makes a great gift! — here’s the link.

Secondly, I’ve mentioned the upcoming Bridgewater Book Fest before. I’ll be there, signing Demo Tapes — and let this be the official announcement: I’ll be debuting Demo Tapes: Year 2! — so I wanted to point you to the website. Recognize anyone’s name???

Okay. That’s all good, right??

RIGHT???

I’ve got better.

You see, a public library director in the Southern ‘burbs of Pittsburgh has been chosen to chair the Newberry Medal committee. The article ran in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette on Wednesday and I’ve been itching to brag about Ms. Cynthia Richey. Local girl does good.

This isn’t the first time Ms. Richey’s been part of the Newberries, and it’s not the first for local librarians to get the nod, either. I do believe that my local library’s head children’s librarian was on the committee awhile back.

And yes, this makes me think of the Weekly Geeks question which asks you to take a literary tour of your hometown. While there’s so, so much more to Pittsburgh’s literary scene, this is something worth bragging about.

What’ve you got? Join Only the Good over at Shelly’s place, will ya? Good news is always a good thing.

A few weeks ago, I introduced you to Mona’s Middle Eastern Eats. I had so much fun creating this new restaurant in Riverview that I wanted to explore it further. So… here goes.

1. Mona’s is actually owned by Steve Greenblatt, who grew up in Hackensack, New Jersey.

2. Steve was identified in first grade as being of gifted intelligence.

3. Sadly, Steve was adopted by parents of average intelligence, who assumed that their boy would be fine.

4. Steve graduated in the top 100 of his graduating high school class of 839 and went to college at Columbia University. His major was listed as Undecided.

5. Junior year, Steve dropped out of Columbia without having ever declared a major.

6. He found his way across the country and landed in Berkeley, CA. Tune out, drop in, dude.

7. A rich Marin County woman found him in a bookstore one day three years later and took him home. She needed a pretend son for an upcoming trip to the Middle East.

8. So Steve went.

9. Steve found his calling, at last.

10. Upon returning to the Bay Area, the Marin County woman proved too smothering. San Francisco wasn’t big enough for the two of them.

11. Steve made his way to Riverview. Went to work in a homeless shelter, where he lived. Nights, he went to the library and read cookbooks. He smoked a lot of weed. And he dreamed.

12. A return to the Bay Area was brief. It lasted long enough for Steve to milk the Marin County woman for the start-up costs for his dream.

13. And Mona’s Middle Eastern Eats was born.

Be sure to leave me a comment so I know you were here. And then, it’s off with you to visit all the other cool Thirteeners out there!

It used to be that if you wanted tickets to a show at All Access, you either stopped by Guitars by Gus or at All Access. You handed over the ticket price and walked away with a ticket. An actual, honest-to-God, printed up ticket. All professional and shit.

Springer knew he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like the way All Access had signed on with TRA. He’d heard from damn good sources, folk who’d stop in after they finally kicked the last drunks out, that they hadn’t wanted to use TRA at all. Problem was, they didn’t have much choice. No one did anymore. Not if you wanted to sell tickets to things.

He guessed he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten the early word about tickets going on sale a day early. He’d sat down at nine-thirty, getting up at nine so he could be awake after another all-night shift filled with plenty of coffee and not nearly enough pick-me-ups of the illegal variety. He’d made his TRA account, gotten his brand-new credit card approved and on file. He hadn’t wanted to get a card; Springer preferred cash. He’d seen too many people come into the store and hand over credit card after credit card, hoping one of them would be approved so they could buy their groceries. Credit cards got people into trouble. Springer didn’t want to be one of them. This card was for a twenty-dollar ticket. Nothing more.

Credit was the only way to get tickets, and dammit, he was going to be there. Everyone was talking about Deadly Metal Hatchet. About how cool The Hatchet was. About how they were doing this show here in Riverview, their first time this far North, as a thank-you to ShapeShifter. Rumor had it they’d be opening for ShapeShifter on their next tour. Given that the guys in ShapeShifter turned out for shows all the time, it was certain they’d be there.

Springer knew it was stupid, but he wished he’d be able to hand Eric a demo of his own one day. First he needed a band, then the cash to make a demo. Not to mention the music. But he could dream. And besides, musicians needed to go out and hear other musicians. They needed to sit and dream about when it’d be his turn up there.

Right now, there was no dreaming. Just a lot of pushing the F5 key, waiting for the screen that he’d use to buy the tickets.

And then, it happened. The dreaded white page with the little box near the top. Connection Interrupted.

He’d been disconnected from the TRA site.

He couldn’t buy the tickets.

For half an hour, he clicked on the button, getting more and more frantic.

And then he got through. One ticket, twenty bucks. It was his. They were charging his credit card … Two hundred eighty bucks? What the hell?

He looked more closely. Somehow, all those F5s had loaded seven tickets into his cart. For a second, he thought about buying them and scalping them. With his luck, he’d probably get caught and thrown in jail. Besides, what if he got stuck with them? He wouldn’t have two hundred eighty bucks for months.

Springer logged out and logged back in. Ten more minutes of Connection Interrupted. And finally, one ticket in his shopping cart. He hated the whole shopping cart idea; cool people didn’t use carts. They loaded up their arms and dumped everything on the belt.

The ticket price caught his eye just before he pressed the confirm button. Forty bucks?

He logged out and back in, getting frantic. It was well after the time the tickets had gone on sale. They’d be gone fast. But forty bucks for one ticket? No way in hell was that right.

He fumbled for his cell phone. Trinity was going to get her own ticket. Long story why.

“Forty bucks?” Trinity asked. “Do you believe this shit? TRA, man. I fucking hate them.”

“I get why.”

“Let me try two… see if it’s cheaper… Holy fuck, it’s more!”

“You can get through? I keep getting disconnected.”

Just then, Dad yelled up the stairs for him. “Your grandmother needs you. Stat!”

Springer curled his upper lip. Dad cleaned bed pans. He had no reason to use words like stat. But he did; he thought they made him sound smarter.

“Let me finish this, Dad,” he called through the closed door. “One second and I’m Grandma’s all day long.” Grandma napped every day after lunch. She liked it when Springer stretched out on her couch while she laid down in her bed; she said it made her feel safe. She’d made noises about Springer coming to live with her because we all knew that those home invasions never happened where there were young kids in the house. Not that a young kid who worked the late shift would be around when most home invasions happened.

“Now!” Dad thundered up the steps.

Springer told the computer to charge his credit card.

Connection interrupted.

He screamed and dropped the cell phone, Trinity still on the line, into his coffee cup. Dad came running.

It wasn’t just TRA that Springer was disconnected from.

Time for some Sunday Scribblings! Be sure to see what the DISCONNECTED prompt inspired in others. And gang? Leave a comment. Let them know you were by.

It’s been awhile since I did a Booking Through Thursday question. I’ve been able to resist them until now…

Here’s the question:

Are your eyes bigger than your book belly? Do you have a habit of buying up books far quicker than you could possibly read them? Have you had to curb your book buying habits until you can catch up with yourself? Or are you a controlled buyer, only purchasing books when you have run out of things to read?

With 526 books (not including what’s on my nightstand and in my book club bag, so 560 isn’t out of the realm of possibilities) sitting here, waiting to be read, you bet I’ve got a small book problem.

It comes from two places: one was the flood of credits and trades I got when I began online trading. I had books here that I’d kept for years, not sure how best to set them loose on the world.

And then, I won a sweepstakes, where everyone sends a book to the winner — except for the winner (who doesn’t know s/he has won until the books start arriving), who sends one to a decoy.

That was three years ago when I won that sweepstakes. I’m still working on reading those books.

*sigh*

All of you who know me from Win a Book, THIS is why I rarely enter the contests I post about! I shall get through this pile. I really shall. Granted, it was easier when I was reading 12 books a month, but … I’ll get there.

It’s been one of those weeks. Again. I seem to be having more of them.

1. Trevor would tell me to change it. Just… change it. Believe me, if I could, I would.

2. In the hoopla that’s been this week, I forgot to announce the winner of Colette Gale’s Bound By Honor. Let me do that now.

3. That’d be Janel, as picked by Opening Act #2 (pick a number between one and nineteen, babe. Nine? Okay. Thanks.)

4. Since my massage yesterday, I’ve been walking around with Whiplash stuck in my brain. Huh. How about THAT?

5. Ahh, the Golden Age of Hetfield (use that Whiplash link to see what I mean). Yum.

6. Mitchell’s still cooler.

7. And hotter.

8. I spent a big chunk of Wednesday on Demo Tapes — Year 2. You’re going to like it.

9. I’ve been too busy to really devote the proper time to ANY of my fiction, but I’m aiming to have Demo Tapes — Year 2 done before the Bridgewater Book Fest in September.

10. I’m not listed on the website (sniff), but I’ll be there, copies of Demo Tapes in hand. That’s why I want Demo Tapes 2 to be done by then.

11. I have a bunch of Trevor-rich outtakes ready to go. And a few to finish. I miss Trevor. In his own way, he keeps me sane.

12. I have this goofy idea that’s totally Trevor-inspired. Now all I need is the time to implement it. You’re going to love it.

13. Okay, off to it. Be sure to leave a comment so I know you were here! And if you’re not seeing me in your feed, be sure to update the link. We switched WordPress platforms and the feed might be messed up. Or not. Like I said, it’s been one of these weeks!

DMH, for those of you who haven’t met the other band around this joint, stands for Deadly Metal Hatchet. They’ve had lots of adventures, but this… this is essentially (although no one knows it yet) the origins of the Deadly Metal Hatchet.

Sheila paced circles in the vast waiting room. Really, a person could get lost in here. A smart person wanted to get lost in here. There were nooks, there were crannies, there were areas with TVs and areas without. Through it all, Sheila clasped her hands together and tried not to think. Only to keep moving, as if keeping moving would affect the outcome.

In her wake, a trail of tissue crumbs landed, barely visible even against the dark carpet. The tissue was in her knotted-together hands; she’d forgotten it was there.

The accident was the day’s worst so far. The boy was lucky to have his leg still attached and maybe he’d have been luckier if it had just ripped free.

That thought alone made Sheila gag. But there was more.

Broken ribs, collarbone. A dislocated shoulder. Road rash galore. Definitely a concussion, hopefully no brain bleeding, hopefully no internal bleeding or organ damage.

Scans, surgery – and no real way to pay for it.

When she next passed the volunteer desk on her endless rounds, the brunette waved her over. “This is Mr. Bergen, from billing. He needs to speak to you.”

The brunette volunteer showed them to another cranny, one Sheila hadn’t noticed yet. It was actually a room, but it was dark. Or it felt dark. It didn’t matter. Sheila knew what was coming. Knew she didn’t have insurance. Knew that asshole deadbeat who’d done this to her didn’t have any business being on a motorcycle in the first place, let alone would take even the slightest little bit of responsibility or involvement after this.

Sheila wanted to grab those paramedics, the ones who’d saved her oldest boy’s life, and shake them until they explained why the hell they hadn’t let that asshole bleed to death right there, on the spot where he’d tried to kill his kid.

She was afraid the answer would be that the asshole had gotten up and walked away. Just that easy. Just like that wasn’t his flesh and blood there on the pavement, his son’s blood spurting everywhere, his son’s leg… oh, Fozzy’s leg…

As the billing man droned on, Sheila hugged herself around the middle and bent in half, fighting that sudden wooziness that smacked her in the face the way the road had smacked her son. The way it had reached for Fozzy’s leg, trying to claim it like an unpaid bill.

The hospital’s finance man — what had the brunette said his name was? Mr. Bill or something? — touched her back. He looked concerned, but Sheila straightened her shoulders and unballed the tissue from her hand.

There was nothing left. Nothing to wipe her watering eyes with, nothing to dab at the wet corner of her mouth with.

“Mr…” she started.

“Bergen,” he said. “And if you can’t pay it all at once, I understand. Healing your boy takes precedence over payment. We can work something out.”

Sheila put her hand on his arm. “I’ll find a way. I’ll come work here and empty trash cans if I have to, but if you people save my son, I’ll pay every last penny back.”

Mr. Bergen cleared his throat.

Sheila removed her hand. Little white crumbs clung to his arm hair, remnants of Sheila’s tissue.

He pretended to ignore the crumbs, rolled his shirtsleeve down. As he fumbled with the buttons at the wrists, Sheila licked her lips and knotted her hands together again. She tried to remain sitting, but couldn’t.

“We’ll be in touch,” Mr. Bergen said.

Sheila licked her lips again and nodded. “I’ll make good on this. I will,” she said. Add the hospital and the cost of it to the list of things she’d have to face. She’d have to call her lawyer and see if he could help. Last time she’d had money problems, he’d told her to call. Maybe he knew of a way to lean on the asshole, too. Maybe he’d be able to shut off these stupid visits. Maybe he’d be able to squeeze blood from a stone and pay off the hospital fast. No matter how reasonable they said they’d be, they never were. They didn’t care if a family ate or not. They just wanted their money.

Sheila was already working two jobs. She didn’t know where more money could possibly come from. Fozzy couldn’t work, not for awhile. Not after this. And Curt wasn’t old enough yet.

All that had to wait. First, she needed to know Fozzy was okay.

Sheila left the little cranny of a room and resumed pacing the vast waiting room. When she passed the front desk, the brunette offered her a new tissue.

This was inspired, if that’s the right word, by this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, Healing.

I’m giving away a copy of Colette Gale’s Bound By Honor. Go to the actual post for entry.

Even though it’s almost 2:00 and the first time I’ve sat down at the computer ALL DAY, and even though the whole week has been like this, full of little nuisances that have made me utterly fed up and crazy, there’s still been a lot of good to talk about. A lot of it has happened online, too.

First off, Colette Gale stopped in for a Featured New Release spot. She offered to send a book to one lucky winner, so if you like your Robin Hood steamy and sexy, drop on in to the contest post and enter yourself.

Speaking of Colette, Bound By Honor was waiting for me in my much-maligned PO Box (that’s a Win a Book joke!) when I stopped by after my morning workout. I can NOT wait to read it. Tomorrow, as I have Penguin tickets tonight.

Yeah. Penguins. Won the game Wednesday night. Definitely a good thing.

But WAIT. There’s more.

Reverse to Monday before we can dwell on what the Pens will do tonight (when last seen by me, they were eating lunch. But that’s another story.). Dar at Peeking Between the Pages reviewed the Demo Tapes. Tuesday, she had me stop in for a cool guest blog. Be sure to read the comment trail, not just the post itself. Yes, I AM just like you! Feel free to knock me around if that ever changes!

And lastly, the one thing I managed to do this morning before realizing I had to take my car in for service was find this. It’s another review of The Demo Tapes, over at Bookish Mom Reviews. Rebekah has invited me to return for a guest blog or interview; I’ll be setting that up soon.

Yep. It was a week full of needing new brakes (ouch!) on my beloved sports car, of getting stuck in construction zones, of a kid who didn’t make himself visible to his sibling, causing Mom to freak out when #2 said, “Where’s #1? I didn’t see him in bus line or on the bus.”

Yeah. You know what I’m saying. All those little things.

And a lot of great literary talk. Let’s focus on the literary stuff. Check out all those links. You’ll feel as good as I do.

Now, let’s go Pens!

Last week, for whatever reason, I thought it would be fun to write about Trevor’s favorite foods. You guys seemed to have fun with it, too, so when my good friend Wylie asked me to list Mitchell’s favorite foods this week, it seemed like a great idea.

1. Potato chips. Notice how often he’s eating them? Sheesh. The man loves his chips. Don’t try to steal them, though.

2. Tomatoes, charred on his grill.

3. Pan-seared fish, such as snapper or swordfish (thanks, Ann!). Best when prepared with a fruit salsa of some sort, heavy on the lime juice.

4. Anything grilled. Anything. Even things you thought couldn’t be grilled. He’ll try it.

5. Fruits and vegetables. Yep, Mitchell loves ’em. He’ll gladly sit down to a meal and find it’s a heaping salad. (Meat optional.)

6. He’s always the first to devour the backstage veggie tray, especially when it’s got cauliflower and red pepper on it. He’ll munch the pepper slices like they’re potato chips.

7. From the healthy to the barbecue… Big Buck’s Best Barbecue and Big Buck’s Bodacious Sauce hold a special place for him. He’s been all over the world, eaten all sorts of barbecue, and still says Big Buck’s is the best. And yes, he’s a suck-the-rib-clean kinda guy.

8. Ice Cream, of course. While he’s not as avidly sexual about it as Trevor is, there’s something about a good vanilla cone — despite the old taunts from big sister Amy about how, with his silvery-blonde hair, he looked like a vanilla ice cream cone when he wore khaki pants as a kid. (And now you know why he never wears white. ANYWHERE.)

9. Pizza. In moderation.

10. Veal. Who cares if the cow’s raised in a box, it tastes good when it’s dead and sitting on his plate, cooked to perfection.

11. French fries, especially when they’re shoestring cut. Thin and crispy, they accompany a heaping salad well. (this outtake is still in the half-finished stage. Stay tuned!)

12. Whipped cream. That’s all I’m saying.

13. Orange juice. Mitchell’s drink of choice.

Contest is now closed!

I know! It hasn’t been very long since my last Featured New Release, but this is going to be a hum-dinger of a book, especially if you like your well-written period pieces to be steamy. Better than a hot shower after sledding steamy.

The book is called Bound By Honor, and it’s Colette Gale’s third release. It hits bookshelf stores today (Cinco de Mayo!), so venture on out amidst the parties and pick up a copy. Just… don’t do a reading AT the party or clothes might go flying.

I asked Colette the famed question: What song makes you think of your book?

Here’s what she had to say:

I had a really hard time trying to figure out which song reminds me of BOUND BY
HONOR. Interestingly enough, every other book I’ve written has always had a
song associated with it in my mind.

For example, UNMASQUED: An Erotic Novel of the Phantom of the Opera‘s song was
“The Point of No Return” from the play/movie, of course. And for MASTER: An
Erotic Novel of The Count of Monte Cristo, the song was “Love Hurts” by
Nazareth. But it wasn’t so easy for this one.

But I finally decided on “Bad” by U2. I selected “Bad” because of the angst
and depth of despair in the song, and the mood of the music is raw and rough.
This book is filled with darkness and angst, along with some really hot sex
scenes–most of which take place in Prince John’s Court of Pleasure. And Prince
John is a really *bad* man! 🙂

So is the Sheriff of Nottingham, the dark, brooding Will de Wendeval. A very
bad
man who negotiates with John to have Maid Marian in his bed…instead of the
prince’s.

And then there is the charming, devil-may-care rogue, Robin Hood, who also
wants
Marian–along with any other woman he can woo into a dark corner.

There is a happy ending for those who deserve it, though! And this book is
probably the sweetest, most romantic of the three “seduced classics” I’ve
written–although there is plenty of erotica to keep me happy.

It’s the sweetest? Wow. Now I NEED to read it.

Here’s the cover blurb:

Bound by Honor: An Erotic Novel of Maid Marian
by Colette Gale

Maid Marian, now Lady of Leaford, is sent to the court of Prince John—-not to
take part in the debauchery of his Court of Pleasure, but to spy on him for his
mother. Little does she know that her secret mission will thrust her into a
whirlwind of intrigue, terror, and carnal temptations.

At court, Marian is torn between her duty to the queen and her desire for two
men: one, the mysterious highwayman the peasants call Robin Hood, and the
other, the dark, cold Sheriff of Nottingham. Given an impossible choice, she
must submit to the carnality of Prince John’s court in order to fulfill her
duty and maintain her honor. But in the end, there is only one man for whom she
will risk her life and give her heart.

Still here? Good. Colette has allowed me to jump back in the giveaway game. Leave a comment about WHY you’d like to explore the erotic side of Robin Hood and Maid Marion. This is a US-only contest, and you’ve got until next Monday, the 11th. Leave an e-mail so I can contact the winner (chosen by one of the Opening Act, at random ’cause if you think I let them near this place, you’re nuts!).

Mitchell didn’t bother opening his eyes when he staggered out of bed. He’d had no intentions of getting up yet, but Kerri wasn’t in bed anymore and since she’d ridden her bike over, it was possible she’d taken off already — without saying goodbye.

Possible, but not probable. More likely, she was as hungover as he was. Maybe worse. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing their trail of empties.

He paused when he stepped on something on the carpet just inside his bedroom. Cracking one eye open as little as possible, he looked down at it. Kerri’s bra.

He tried to grin, but settled for letting the action happen in his head; moving his face hurt too much. She hadn’t left if that was still there. So what the fuck was she doing?

“Hi,” she said when he made it to the couch and flopped down. “Ooh,” she added; he guessed she’d come near enough to get a good look at him. “You’re hurting.”

He grunted.

“I can at least open my eyes,” she said, as if he’d actually spoken.

He smirked but didn’t take the bait. His eyes were staying closed, and that was all there was to that.

“Hungry?” she asked. “Or just thirsty?”

Both, he realized, which was a surprise. Usually, when he felt like this, all he wanted was sleep.

“Here,” she said.

Eyes still shut, he reached up.

And jumped when he realized he wasn’t closing his hand around one of his many plastic convenience store cups, but was grasping the handle of a glass beer mug instead. That got his eyes open. “Where the fuck’d you find this?”

“In the cabinet,” Kerri said, gesturing over her shoulder at his small galley kitchen. “I think Hell froze over and all the plastic’s dirty.”

He took a long drink, ignoring the uncertain look she was giving him. If he hadn’t wanted her to find the collection, he’d have thrown it away. Probably should have, but it was too late now.

“Am I a spectator sport?” he asked when he’d drained the mug. Damn, it tasted better out of a glass mug instead of a plastic cup.

“Why does that look like one of the mugs that All Access uses?”

“A bunch of places use these,” he said, staring wistfully at the now-empty mug.

She held out her hand for it. “Doesn’t matter how hard you wish, it won’t refill itself.”

Sheepishly, he handed it over. She’d make him pay up later for all this waiting on him, but it’d be worth it. She was a creative debt collector, which made him a willing debtor. Even when he was hungover.

Kerri brought two mugs back with her, handing his over and folding hers in two hands like it was coffee.

“So tell me,” she said, sitting down, that leg tucked under her again. “How is it that you’ve got thirteen more of these, eight of another kind, and an odd assortment of others?”

He tried to shrug.

“They just followed you home?” She raised both eyebrows; her sign that she knew the truth. As always. He bought time with another mouthful of juice, but she kept waiting.

“Sometimes,” he said, “you’re talking, you drift out from the bar to the bus and you don’t realize it’s in your hand until you’re a hundred miles down the road.”

“Security doesn’t stop you?”

“I think they’re supposed to, when we go through the stage doors, but some of those guys they hire, they’re too afraid to say hello to the band. Girls, yeah. But not the band.”

Kerri nodded thoughtfully. “And the plates? You can’t tell me those just find their way into your hands.”

“Trev,” he said. Like she’d needed to ask?

“And you’re totally innocent in this thievery?”

“About the dirty plates that show up in my bag and ruin my stuff? Yeah. I wouldn’t put dirty plates in my own bag.”

“Do dirty plates ever show up in his bag?” The corners of her mouth were twitching. He wanted to tell her she was a bitch for making him come clean like this. Really, it was no big deal.

“Course.” Big deal or no, he could feel his own mouth twitching along with hers. He smiled, pleased it wasn’t so painful this time. “The best was the fork down his boot. Took him two days to step on it. Or maybe the spoon in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, although the day he woke up and we’d shoved two mugs on his feet while he slept was pretty good. Almost had to break them to get them off, which sort of defeated the purpose.”

“Why is this suddenly about the things Trevor’s discovered?”

“Believe me, it’s a lot more fun to give than to receive.”

She cocked her head and thought. Mitchell held his breath, waiting for her to hand down judgment.

All she did was lick her lips. “Can’t wait until you teach me the tricks.”

If he hadn’t been so hungover, Mitchell would have thrown his head back and laughed. He’d found himself one hell of a woman, all right. She’d do just fine when the band hit the road.

While this was picked to fulfill this week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt, if you’d like to learn more about why I thought this fit the subject at hand, you might want to head over to my RedRoom blog, where I wax poetic about things.

For Only the Good Friday, I’ve got a doozy. Because I always assume all my friends know each other, I’m going to my usual thing and say, “You guys know my good friend Thomma Lyn.”

If you don’t know her, you should.

Anyway, Thomma Lyn’s got a new release out, via Black Lyon press. The e-book comes out today, with the paperback hitting shelves next week (but you can preorder it starting today.) It’s called Mirror Blue, and I’ll get to the blurb in a second. First, though, comes the all-important question:

What song makes you think of your book?

Thomma Lyn’s answer:

“People are Strange” by the Doors. The hero of Mirror Blue is a Vietnam vet and I mention Vietnam-era music in the book, and “People are Strange” fits with the story, too, re: Aphra, the heroine. In the beginning of the book, she feels like a stranger with pretty much everyone, even her own family, and by the end, she still is “strange” in a good way, but no longer feels so alone (Isaac’s love, and increased understanding from both his family and her own).

This was a hard one to find on YouTube, but I did the best I could. I was looking for an actual performance, maybe. Or something not fan-generated. Still, this is worth the look. Here’s the link.

And now, the blurb for Mirror Blue:

He’s her first chance at love.

She’s his last.

Free spirit Aphra Porter never thought Isaac Lightfoot would remember the letter she wrote to him years before. But by some miracle, he does. Now a successful Web site designer in her thirties, Aphra meets the man whose writing talents she’s always idolized — an encounter that leaves her spinning. No longer is Isaac a distant image, but a flesh and blood man who looks at her like no one has looked at her before.

A critically acclaimed author and Vietnam war hero, Isaac is one tough bear of a man. Faced with the physical and emotional scars of war, a relationship with a daunting age difference, and an ex-wife bent on tearing Aphra from his life, he’s about to learn that leaving the past behind and building a new life can be the toughest battle of all.

There you go! A new book to get your hands on. If you post a review of Mirror Blue on your website or blog, send me the link. To join the many book bloggers who do exactly this, I’ll link to it here.

I honestly can’t say what inspired me to think of Trevor’s favorite foods, but here you go… In no order, until the last one, which truly is Trevor’s #1.

13. bacon (see Trev wax vaguely poetic about bacon here)

12. Pickles, the sour kind that make your mouth pucker. Best when given to Mitchell right before he takes the stage. Or maybe in the middle of the set, but you’d better be ready to run really fast afterward.

11. M&Ms. Fun to pop in your mouth. Gives an idea of what it might be like to be a stereotypic rock star who pops drugs like they’re candy.

10. Pot roast. Whenever Mitchell’s mom says she’s making this for dinner, Trevor shows up. He even showers first.

9. cookies. Sonya sends the guys care packages from time to time, but every now and then, a store-bought cookie hits the spot.

8. Bananas. This is Trevor we’re talking about, after all. Same thing with uncut cucumbers and zucchini. Hey, no one ever said the boy WAS original. Just that he IS an original.

7. Which explains why he’ll occasionally suck a lemon. Trevor likes the lemony fresh smell (so much better than the fake smell in all those cleaners promoters like to use in their dressing rooms) and besides, the rest of the guys shudder when he does it. He’s been known to chase it with a spoonful of sugar and a big drink of water. Dissected Lemonade, he calls it.

6. Corn on the cob. Unless some idiot promoter has hired a caterer who’s turned it into mush. Corn on the cob should be firm. You should be able to sink your teeth into it, slobber all over it, lick the salt and butter off your hands, and wind up with a naked cob at the end.

The sexual innuendo you’re seeing in all that is entirely your own. This is about food, people. Not rock stars and their sex and drugs. (Well, except for the M&Ms)

5. Pancakes. A favored breakfast of the entire band. Trevor used to thoroughly douse them in store-bought syrup until Eric one day made him try the real stuff. For once, Eric was right.

4. Pizza’s always good, but free pizza? Even better. (Beware if you use this link; it’ll put you smack in the middle of Green Hair Week. You may feel lost. If so, read the entire sequence.)

3. Ice Cream — before the band gets too big (and even a little bit after), before the fans find out (and even sometimes after), Trevor likes to talk the tour bus driver into stopping at an ice cream store for a cone before they hit the road. He waxes poetic about it here. One day, I’ll write the scene where he and Mitchell dress up in trench coats and convince Kerri to be their Bond girl…

2. Root beer. Way better than the stuff the rest of the band drinks. AND it doesn’t make Trevor turn into Hank.

And the granddaddy of Trevor’s diet:
1. Meatball subs from Harry’s Hoagies. ‘Nuff said.

Now, you all just follow along with old Chelle here and no one’s gonna get hurt. Hear me on this?

‘Cause, in case you’re livin’ under a rock or some such, followin’s the big trend these days. Follow me here, there, everywhere. You be a good person and you follow along. You’re even better a person if you got lots of followers.

Follow, follow, follow.

Where are the freaky-cool trend-setters? What happened to the people who’re worthy of being followed because there’s something there that pulled you to them? Why do we gotta follow someone simply ’cause it’s cool to do so? Is this now a world where we’re all valuable just ’cause we get people followin’ us? Where we’re better people ’cause we got lots of followers?

Mr. Rogers would be so proud of us.

You gotta stop and think, boys and girls, about what all this followin’ means. Does it mean steppin’ away from your precious computer for a few hours and goin’ to see that band who’s in town special, just to play for all their local followers, the people declarin’ eternal love and devotion in a sentence or less? Does it mean downloadin’ that new song, buyin’ that new t-shirt, and braggin’ about your love for those music-makers on your chest?

It sure used to.

And because of that, bands, they did well. They made a buck or two, could afford their practice spaces and gas for tourin’ and maybe if they’d made it to a major record label, there’d be videos and other goodies like that.

But now, an indie band plays their music for free over a website or two that ain’t even theirs; it belongs to some big corporation that takes all the money while the band gets squat. Fans follow what the dudes and chicks who make the music gotta say, but they ain’t ponying up for tickets so fast. Not unless that band we be talkin’ about is a big band. Been around for years band. One-a them bands that’ll do okay just ’cause of who they are. Heck, even Deadly Metal Hatchet t-shirts are still sellin’ like hotcakes. Chelle knows. She bought two last week, all by her lonesome.

It’s the new guys, bands like Temple of the Book (read more about them here), who need yourself, in person, in front of their stage. Buy their EP. Wear their shirts. Talk about ’em to your followers. Spread the gospel; I know the readers of this here Trumpet newspaper are smart enough to know what to do.

You heard it first, and you heard it here: If you gonna follow, do it right. Do it so it makes a difference. ‘Cause if we don’t change, all we gonna get to hear is Golden Oldies. And it scares Chelle to think of ShapeShifter as a Golden Oldie. Not in this lifetime.

A Sunday Scribblings for you, more directly related to the prompt than usual for me.

I know, I know. As an author, I ought to be THE BIGGEST advocate of buying books new, as soon as they’re released. I get the whole economics of how the industry has changed, just in the eight years since I created ShapeShifter. I get it.

But as a reader, just like almost every other reader out there, my finances are limited. I can spend $27 and change for a new hardback every so often, or I can support my local libraries and see how many of the 1800+ books on my wishlist (you think I’m kidding about that number???) I can find for a buck or two apiece.

More books = more book talks from me. In theory, anyway; a girl’s gotta sit and READ those puppies!

Instead, let me gush about them some more. For now, anyway.

Even though it made the barest of dents in my wishlist, I came away from the sale yesterday with ten nice new friends. I’m proud of restraining myself to ONLY what was on my wishlist; it wasn’t easy. And since 1800+ books is, let’s face it, a lot, I’m sure there were books I overlooked, too.

Still, ten’s a nice, round number. Ten books make me happy.

Here’s what they are. The buy links will take you to Powells.com, since I’m all about buying from the independents.

George D. Shuman — 18 Seconds
Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child — The Wheel of Darkness
Christina Dodd — Scent of Darkness
Jonathan Kellerman — Gone
Harlan Coben — Hold Tight
Lorna Landvik — The View from Mount Joy
Lisa Unger — Sliver of Truth
Jonathan Kellerman (again) — Compulsion
Peter Blauner — Slipping into Darkness

And…

The prize.

The book that, if I’d had to choose ONE book, I’d have chosen…

Dalia Sofer — The Septembers of Shiraz

One of these days, I’ll write more about why it is I’m such a big advocate of buying used and online book trading. One of these days… *sigh*

Happy Reading, everyone! And check out the other Only the Good stuff out there, too.