"You're not writing about spiders again."

My husband said this as he handed me a cosmo last night. (I mean the drink, not the flower.) He'd had to work extra late last night, and he likes to make drinks when he does this. He's not unlike Nick in the old black and white Nick and Nora movies this way. Not that he's out solving crimes, though.

"I can't help it," I answered. "They're in the news again."

"A lot of things are in the news again, but you don't write about those."

He's got a point. But it's close to Halloween. Besides, the pictures are so eyecatchingly ugly. The spider is huge and colorful--orange and brown with spots and stripes. There is also a spider on it's back. The smaller spider is black and red. It looks like it could have modeled for one of the creepy spiders in World of Warcraft's Duskwood. It turns out, the big spider was the female and the small spider was the male, even though they didn't look remotely related.

"Okay," I admitted. "It's more than that. They're... interesting."

He clinked his martini glass against mine. The cosmos were just out of the shaker so the paper-thin glass was coated in freezing vapors. "To my...interesting...wife."

He drank, and I followed suit. The drink was limey and sweet and it went right to my head.

"You're lucky," I told him, "to have me. How many of your buddies have wives sitting around the computer reading about..." I paused to get the name right, "Even-More-Gigantic Giant Orb Spiders, right now?"

He lifted one eyebrow as he toyed with his glass. "Umm, none?"

I took another sip. "Exactly. So how many of your buddies know that this Even-More-Gigantic Giant Orb Spider turned out to be real? How many of your buddies know that scientists thought that this Even-More-Gigantic Giant Orb Spider was extinct?"

"Umm, none?" he said again. He had my hand in his and he was kissing my fingertips very slowly. Then he said, "Is that the spider's real name? Is it really the 'Even-More-Gigantic Giant Orb Spider? Because if it is, it sounds like it was named by the Princess Bride people."

See? I love that about my husband. He knows The Princess Bride, and he knows it well enough to know the names of the wildlife within. Also, who doesn't like hand kisses?

But I don't know the spider's real name. I looked at the monitor, and despite the fact that it's oversized, the screen seems to be a bit blurry. The cosmo.

I squinted and said, "No, it's scientific name is Nephila komaci. The 'komaci' part comes from the name of the scientists involved in the search for the spider but who died in an accident."

My husband's glass was still pretty full. Unlike mine. "Why were they looking for this spider?"

I resisted the urge to take another sip. The drink is good, but I have to get up early in the morning with the kids. Hangover = bad.

"They found two moldy old specimens in museums someplace, and they wanted to know if the spiders were extinct. And," I paused here because I know something about orb spiders that was not included in this article. I want to get the details rights. "The orb spiders in Madagascar spin golden webs, and some French dude thought he could turn the spider silk into thread and weave it. But it didn't work."

"You're drunk."

I might have been but that wasn't the point and besides, if I were, it would be his fault. He made the drinks. I resisted the urge to tell him about the ancient Maya who used to groom vampire bats and spin the fur into thread and then turn that into weavings and cloth. Besides, the cosmo was doing weird things to my head, and I couldn't remember if I'd actually read that vampire bat thing or if I made it up for a book. Hmmm. Maybe someone else made it up in a book I'd read.

"I might be drunk," I admitted, "but I'm right about the orb spider. The old French dude failed, but somebody else tried it more recently. They used more than a million spiders and took more than four years but there's a tapestry at the Natural History Museum made out of orb spider silk. It's pretty," I said, "like the color of mustard."

"You're making it up," he said. "You used some strange factoid and weaved it into something weird for one of your books."

I was really glad I didn't say anything about the vampire bat fur. Which I still couldn't decide was true or not.

And then my eye caught on the last sentence of the Even-More-Gigantic Giant Orb Spider article. It was quoting the scientist and it said: Nothing about sex says males must be big.

I kid you not, the scientist said that. Out loud. To Wired.com. I know they were talking about the size of the males relative to the size of the females, but come on. Really. I couldn't have been the only half-drunk crazy person taking this sentence completely out of context. Who can say such a thing and not think of pensises? Who?

I was laughing so hard when I read it the third time, that I had tears rolling down my face.

My husband's drink was gone and he was shaking his head at me. He was laughing, too, but I think it was at me, not with me.

"Nothing..." I choked out, "about sex..." More tears streamed down my face as my husband picked me up and carried me to the sofa. "...says males must be big!"

My husband gently took the martini glass from my hand and set it on the desk, but his other hand was unbuttoning my shirt.

I was glad he didn't study spiders. He knows exactly what size everything needs to be for sex.

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When I'm not writing about spiders, I'm writing action-packed paranormal romances. To celebrate the genre I like to give books away. This week I'm giving away a copy of Dead After Dark, which has stories by Sherrilyn Kenyon, JR Ward, Susam Squires and Dianna Love.

Leave a comment and I'll pick a random winner next Wednesday. And I'll do my best to write about something other than spider next week, but I make no promises!

For those of you who read my blog last week at the Aphrodisia blogsite, you'll know I'm on a science kick. In my last blog, I described how one particular spider puts a fake spider in its nest so that the predators eat the decoy instead of the spider itself.

I'm still on a science kick. In fact, I'm still on a spider kick. Maybe its the fact that it's close to Halloween, and there are spider decorations everywhere. Maybe it's the fact that it's fall, and there are spiders all over my house. Whatever it is, I don't think I'm alone because spiders are all over the news.

Yesterday, on the NPR site, I read about a vegetarian spider. Let me tell you about it...

I've got the website open, and a huge spider is filling my computer screen.

"Guess what?" I ask my husband as he walks up the stairs after a day at the office (poor guy).

He glances at the huge spider on my computer. "You're thinking of new cake ideas for Halloween?" he guesses.

"No, I--"

But he cuts me off. "You're writing a new book with a shape shifting spider!"

I roll my eyes. "That has so been done. Now listen to this--"

"What do you mean it's been done?! It's a great idea. Spiders are fiercer than wolves, and just think of all the werewolves. Who has a shape shifting spider?"

"Umm," I say sarcastically. "Marvel Comics?" I start humming the tune to Spiderman.

That stops him short. Thank god. I attribute this rare case of cultural amnesia to the fact that his mind has been numbed at the office.

"So why are you looking at a picture of a spider?" he asks.

After all the book ideas he's been throwing at me, my internet discovery seems kind of lame now. "It's a vegetarian spider," I say.

"There's a spiders that doesn't count as meat?" He starts to take off his shoes so he can't see that I'm staring at him like he's turned into spider man. "I suppose there are people who count crabs as meat, and spiders and crabs are related to each other," he says.

He thinks people eat spiders? I knew my in-laws were strange. Now, I strive for patience. Its really not one of my virtues, but I love him so it's worth the effort. "No," I tell him. "The spider is a vegetarian."

He looks across the room at the computer and cocks his head. He's really cute when he does this. I don't know what it is, maybe that I've engaged him or something. But... yum. "Is that unusual?" he asks.

I've just read the NPR article, so I am the current expert on spider diets. Ha. "Out of all the 40,000 spider species known to science, this is the only one known to eat a vegetarian diet." I really like the way the phrase '40,000 spider species known to science' rolls off my tongue. I sound like I know exactly what I'm talking about.

"What's it eat?"

Again, I am the expert. "The tips of leaves," I say. Don't ask me which leaves. "It turns out that ants like the same leaf tips." Don't ask me which ants. "Sometimes they eat the ant larva."

His shoes are off now and he's loosening his tie. In all those old movies, where the director is trying to make the hero look sexy,he has the hero loosen his tie. There's a reason for that. It makes the heroine want to loosen it for him, and I am no different. I leave the computer and walk toward him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Let me do that for you." I take the silk between my fingers, and I can feel the heat of his body radiating against mine.

"Should I be worried about what we're having for dinner?"

"Not at all." I push him down the to the bed. "'Worried' isn't the word I'd use."

************
I write action-packed paranormal romances, and my next book, SCARLET NIGHTS, comes out next month. If you'd like to win a copy, leave a comment and I'll pick a random winner next Wednesday.

Okay, so when I looked at the information I had before me, the fodder for blogging, I didn't see much. "Not much?" you ask, and I can hear the surprise in your voice. You're right. That's not exactly accurate.

I mean, there's the David Letterman thing, but to me at least, that's not very interesting. He wasn't married while he was sleeping with the staffers, and none of the staffers were complaining or have complained. They went on to win industry awards and things. One complained something like, "Hey, I thought I was the only one he was cheating on!" They complained that it was over. So that's a big story of who-cares. (Unless you have nothing better to talk about, which might be me...)

And then there's the Michelle Obama-and-her-number-of-staffers thing. I think I received like 50 e-mails telling me how over-the-top she is, how no other first lady had anything close to what she has regarding number of staffers. Except, that isn't true. Factcheck.org showed that she has two more staffers than any other first lady. Two. OMG, can we handle it. She is really taking advantage of the system, isn't she. How dare she offer employment to anyone in this economy. The nerve. (That IS sarcasm, btw.)

So then my mind turned toward something more interesting... komodo dragons. Yes, you heard me. Komodo dragons. Now here's a story that actually IS a story, at least in the twisted mind of Lucinda Betts.

Remember all of those nature documentaries that showed you deer dying after receiving a superficial scrape from a Komodo dragon tooth? The poor deer would stagger around while the narrator showed up-close slides of reproducing bacteria. According to the movie, the deer wasn't dying from dragon poison; it was dying from the bacteria in dragon spit. The bacteria was supposed to be reproducing so quickly that the deer's body couldn't fight it off, so it croaked from toxic shock.

Well, I suppose dead is dead, but it turns out that that movie was wrong. Komodo dragons do have venom-producing glands and they do have poison in their saliva. Apparently, just a little will do you.

I like this story because it's proof of my favorite heroic quality. I really like it when someone looks beyond something they know is true to find that they were (gasp) wrong. If I were studying komodo dragons, would I have been the person who decided to say, "Screw all those David Attenborough movies. I'm going rogue! I'm going to cut up this monster and find it's poison!"

I'd like to think I was. It takes a big person to admit they made a mistake, and the cold hard facts don't point in their favor.

I like that quality so much, I think I'm going to imbue my current hero with it. However, I don't think I'm going to have him cut open a Komodo dragon. That just doesn't seem to sexy, at least not at 9:00 in the morning.

****************
On a different note, Kensington Publishers and the romance world in general, recently lost one of our most beloved editors, Kate Duffy, to complications from cancer. Please, check out the NYTimes piece about her.
http://www.nytimes. com/2009/ 10/06/books/ 06duffy.html? _r=1


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While I usually give away a paranormal romance, this week I'm doing something a little different. I'm giving away a copy of THRILL OF THE CHASE by Christina Crooks. Christina's first book with Kensington is coming out in January. It's called SWEET AND DIRTY, and if you like your books explicit and spicy, you'll like her stories. Christina and I sometimes help each other out when we're in need for quick critiques, and I can tell you that this girl rocks.

If you'd like to win a copy of THRILL, leave a comment and I'll pick a random winner next Wednesday.

So I'm still on my science kick. Have you ever wondered why people curse? it turns out that throughout history and across cultures, people use naughty words. Because its all pervasive, scientists want to know why there is a subset of vocabulary that exists but is off limits.

I'm sort of thinking it's an interesting question. After all, if there were no subset, my daughter would quit telling me to watch my mouth.

So how do scientists go about figuring out the function of cursing, you ask? The answer is devious. They tested undergraduates. I think this was wise for two reasons. First, undergrads are PETA's answer to lab rats. No one is going to raid the dorms and set the students free. In fact, some segment of the population might actually want you to close the door and throw away the key.

Second, no one curses like an undergraduate. I think I learned all my best words in college, and I learned them is a variety of languages. (Actually, third graders swear pretty well too, but they're more reluctant to do it in front of grown ups. And actually, some parents might discourage their children from advancing science this way. All the same, the neighbor kid, who's in third grade, was sitting on the fence chanting every curse word he knows to my son. Neither kid could see me. My son's friend yawned and said, "Calvin, I already know all those words.)

But back to the scientists. They made the students stick their hands in a bucket of icy water. Some students had to chant a random non-foul word, like doorknob or carpet. Others had to curse. #$%%!

And what did the scientists find? That the people who swore could tolerate pain better. The cursing undergrads kept their hands in the bucket longer than the undergrads who didn't.

I wonder if this provides readers a way to differentiate authors who find writing painful from those who find writing fun. Those with a high frequency of curse words would seem to be struggling with their art.

I don't know. It sounds like a crappy hypothesis, but it does remind me of Mark Twain. His advice to some aspiring author was to change all adverbs to "damn." The writers editor would delete them all, and everyone would be happy. Of course, I think that was a less foul-mouthed culture. "Damn," is practically a tame word these days.

Goddammit.

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When she isn't trying to tone down words like flying fuckmonkeys, Lucinda Betts is a writer of paranormal romances. Be sure and check out Scarlet Nights, which comes out in November.

Leave a comment. She'll be giving away a copy of Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dream Chaser to one random commenter next Wednesday.

I like to read science blurbs in the news. Sometimes I learn more about the people around me than any new an interesting scientific fact. Today for instance, in Yahoo News, a team of scientists reports that enduring heart surgery on a full moon has no different outcome than enduring heart surgery on other days. They had statistics and everything. And they looked at the outcomes of 18,000 people. At the Mayo Clinic.

The cynical part of me wonders who funded that Einsteinian project--because who looks at the lunar charts before agreeing to surgery? I mean, there must be someone out there who does, but I've never met him or her.

The fact that real scientists thought to ask this question--and spent time and money to answer it--makes me wonder if I'm walking around in a haze of unawareness. It's not impossible. For example, in the 1980's, my mother didn't know who Michael Jackson was. Every other song on the radio was by Michael Jackson, and my mother didn't know this. Maybe I'm as out of touch as that.

I don't think so. In my defense, I know who Beyonce is, after all. And Kanye West. And Taylor Swift.

On the other hand, the more generous part of me is a bit more open minded about the research. Maybe the scientists were on to something potentially important. Maybe they were thinking something like, "Well, the moon is strong enough to affect tides, so surely it could affect blood flow, and heart surgery is a delicate thing so…"

It could be true.

Really.

But it wasn't.

I've come to the cynical conclusion that the Mayo Clinic and the other researchers who participated in the project were really out to prove that month of surgery and time of surgery weren't important indicators of the surgery's outcome. The moon stuff was just attention-grabbing malarkey.

Why, you ask? I think someone suggested that avoiding surgery in August would be a good idea because that's when the doctors-in-training come into their own on the knife-holding end of things. Maybe someone said, "Don't have surgery in the middle of the night because everyone is tired." Tossing the full-moon variable into the statistical analysis of time and date of surgery would be cake.

And the whole full-moon thing caught the media's attention. It IS sexy. And the graphic of a full moon is much prettier than the graph of an exhausted doctor-in-training. (And as it turned out, neither time of surgery nor month affected the outcome, statistically. So you don't have to worry about avoiding new doctors, at least at Mayo.)


So maybe today, what I learned wasn't so much about the moon affecting medicine or even how the scientists at Mayo think. Maybe what I learned today is that when I'm avoiding my manuscript, I can really overthink a Yahoo News blurb.

*****************
When she isn't mooning about the scientific state of things, Lucinda Betts is a writer of spicy paranormal romances. If you don't believe that, check out Moon Shadow, which Road to Romance called, "...one of the best fantasy books this year."

Leave a comment. She'll be giving away a copy of What She Wants to one random commenter next Wednesday.

Kanye West is a jackass.

Everyone knows it. Even Kanye West knows it. He's the guy people invite to a shindig when they hope someone might stir up some jackassery. (It's okay, MTV. We know you need the ratings.)

But somehow, when Obama, in an off-the-record comment, calls West a jackass, it's news. Big news. That ABC guy with the big lips, Mr. Moran, overheard the comment and Twittered it. Mr. Moran wants to look like a guy in the know, and who can blame him. But then he ends his Tweet by saying, "Now THAT'S presidential."

Excuse me? Wake up and smell the Starbucks, Mr. Moran. It's 2009 and there's a dude in the White House.

Mr. Obama is so presidential that he says things like, "I screwed up." First, he used the word 'screwed.' That's cool. But second, he apologized. I mean, that's so cool, it's kewl. It's more than kewl, it's hot. It's sexy. I try to give all the heroes in my books a chance to apologize, and my heroines know exactly how to thank them.

Mr. Obama is so presidential that he wears mom jeans for the opening pitch and looks kewl—and hot. Mr. Obama oozes presidential, and he makes it look kewl.

Which brings me back to you, Mr. Moran. I'm trying to figure out exactly what you thought you were criticizing. I mean, surely it wasn't Obama's sentiment. I know that you couldn't possibly be the only American saying to him or herself, "Yeah, that Kanye West rocked the house when he ripped the mike from Taylor Swift's trembling, young hand."

Which means you must be criticizing Obama's slightly off color language. Maybe you live in a world where no one has a potty mouth. (I figure that must be either in your dreams or in Utah.)

If that's the case, I can see clearly where the problem lies. It isn't in Obama's use of the English language. (You keep saying 'screwed' and 'jackass,' Mr. President. It only makes you kewler.) The problem lies with your own kewl factor, Mr. Moran, which is on the very low end of the spectrum.

But don't worry, Mr. Moran. I have a solution to your problem. Why don't you get your hair cut like Kanye West? Even Taylor Swift thinks that's kewl. And you might try swearing a little bit. It's good for your soul.



*************
Lucinda Betts is usually an author of action-packed paranormal romances—not a political commentator. She just couldn't help herself today. She has eight books on the shelves right now, and her ninth comes out next month. She's won many writing awards, including the Gayle Wilson Award for Excellence in Writing. You can buy any of Lucinda's books at Amazon, B&N, or Borders.

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I've giving away a copy of Lori Devoti's Dark Crusade. Leave a comment and I'll pick a random winner next Wednesday.

I don't know about other authors, but I write a lot of stuff that ends up on the cutting-room floor. Some of it gets axed because it sucks. Other stuff gets cut because its the wrong flavor for a particular book.

I've been struggling with the opening chapters of a paranormal romance I've been working on, and this scene ended up on the cutting-room floor. I cut this because the book is an action adventure like Romancing the Stone and the scene was too quiet. I still like it though. It was the opening of Chapter 1. It asks that you pet it and admire it because this is as close to publication as it will ever get!

Enjoy!

With well-rehearsed lines at the ready, Rafael walked the cobblestone path to Lori's house. Huge black clouds hung above the Sangre de Cristos Mountains, and the air smelled like ozone. As he walked toward her door, one of the roses lining the walkway snared his dress pants. Lightning flashed while he tried to extricate himself.

"Shit." He'd pulled the thorn from his pants, but it stabbed his thumb. Blood splashed across the cobbles as thunder rumbled. "Damn."

As he brought his thumb to his mouth, her door opened. For a minute, her beauty took his breath away. The blue of her eyes matched the blue of her door, and the coffee-colored adobe brought out the creamy color of her skin. Even her lips matched the pink of the roses that had stabbed him.

What the hell was he doing?

"I thought I heard your car." Auburn hair flew around her face as she smiled, and wind whipped her skirt around her legs. "You're early," she said. "I'm glad you beat the storm. Happy anniversary."

"Lori--" He froze, reaching for the words he'd practiced. In his pocket, his fingers curled around the letter from the National Science Foundation. The paper crinkled in his grip.

"What's that in your pocket?" She stepped back and welcomed him into her home. Anticipation made her eyes shine. "Let me guess." She planted a kiss on his cheek, and her warm scent swirled around him. "A ring?"

"Lori." They'd been dating for a year, and they'd joked he would propose on the anniversary of the first date--which was today--if they stayed together that long.

"Wait," she said. With a small laugh, she danced to his side and pointed to a low table in the living room. "I bought champagne. I know the girlfriend is supposed to be surprised by the marriage proposal, but not everything we do has to be traditional, right? I knew you wouldn't mind."

Rafael looked at the thick green bottle sitting on ice, its gold label peaking over the top of the bucket. Lori had set heart-shaped candles around it, and two champagne flutes stood to the side. Shadows from the flames flickered across table. "Jesus, Lori." Had he ever felt like such an ass in his life?

Something in his tone must have caught her attention. "What is it?" she asked. Concern etched her fine features. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Flattening the printout, he handed it to her. "The Program Officer e-mailed this to me today."

"What is it?" She took it from him and looked at the subject header. "It's from NSF. Did they turn down your project?"

"No." Wind from the mountains howled into her foyer, and the candle flames around the champagne jerked and flickered. He closed the door. "Just the opposite."

"But..." She looked at him, her blue eyes wide and gorgeous. "This is great news, right? You'll be able to translate the ancient tablets, set up your research station in Mexico?"

"It is great news."

The candlelight made her hair gleam as she shook her head. "Then why don't you seem happy?"

The words he'd practiced had vanished, but he couldn't put his deed off any longer. "If I accept the grant, I'm moving to the Isthmus of Tehuantepec." He ran his hand through his hair, hating himself. Lori didn't deserve this. She deserved the ring. She deserved the husband and the kids and the white picket fence. "And I am accepting the grant."

"So?" She pointed to the Dom Perignon. "We can celebrate both things." The laugh she gave him seemed nervous. "Right?"

"No." The wind picked up, and the shutters rattled against the thick adobe walls. "I can't take you with me."

"Can't?"

"Won't."

Rain began to pound on the aluminum roof as she stepped away from him. "You wouldn't take me with you," she said finally. The beating rain muffled her voice. "I would go with you. There is a difference."

Accepting the criticism, he shrugged.

"How long have you known this?"

"I just received the e-mail."

"No." She wrapped her arms around her chest like she was cold. "Not how long have you known about NSF's decision. How long have you known you'd dump me if you received the grant?"

He was an ass. He knew he was. But there was no right answer for this question. Honesty would only hurt her more, and he wouldn't lie. She deserved better than that.

Still, she must have sensed the truth in his hesitation. "So, what?" She looked at him like she didn't recognize him. Maybe she didn't. "I've always been the consolation prize?"

"Consolation prize?"

She gestured angrily and mimicked his voice. "Oh, well, I didn't get the NSF. I guess I'll settle for the babe." The candlelight gave her hair an otherworldly glow, but the sorrow in her eyes made him look away. "So you got the NSF and now you don't have to settle for me? That's the story, isn't it?"

"Lori." He didn't know what to do with his hands. Part of him wanted to hold her, console her. But a bigger part of him wanted to... run. "I'm sorry."

"I--" A huge gust of wind shook the house, stopping her. Shaking a hundred year adobe house wasn't an easy thing to do. "I think you should leave, and I don't think you should come back."

"If I tell you it's not you, that it's me, will I sound like a child?"

"Yes." She laughed, but it was a sad sound. "You need to go. Now."

He nodded. Through her picture window he watched lightning flash over the mountains. Almost concurrently, thunder cracked. The noise was as loud as sonic booms from fighter jets, and the lights flickered off, leaving him alone with Lori in the candlelight.

For a heartbeat he sensed what the moment could have been. He could have been drinking champagne with her, making love in her warm bed while the crazy storm raged around them. They could have shared an oasis of safety and pleasure in a sea of ferocity.

Then the lights flickered back on.

He was a jerk.

"You have more of those?" He pointed to the candles. "In case the lights go out and stay out?"

"Rafael, don't try to take care of me now." She'd wrapped her arms around her chest again, and the anger was gone. Was she about to cry? Jesus. "Just go."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Of course I will." She gave him a curt nod. "Mandy will come over, and we'll drink that champagne ourselves. Without you."

Rafael nodded. Mandy lived next door. She could walk over, even in the storm. "I am sorry," he said as he turned the knob. "Don't be alone tonight, okay?"

"Quit it, Rafael. I'm no longer yours to worry about."

She shut the door behind him.

And as he walked to his car, he knew the fact that she wasn't his any longer should have filled him with remorse--but it didn't. Instead, it filled him with relief. The sky opened just then and doused him with icy rain. He stood and savored it for a minute. The freezing water tasted just like... freedom.

*********
For those of you who are new to my blog, welcome! I write for Kensington's Aphrodisia line--hot paranormal romances with kickass heroines and heroes who are worthy of them. I also use twisty plots and lots of magic.

My newest book, WHAT SHE WANTS, was released at the end of June. My next book, SCARLET NIGHTS, comes out in November. You can buy any of my books at Borders, B&N or Amazon.

I like to celebrate the best books in paranormal romance. This week I'm giving away a copy of Jayne Castle's OBSIDIAN PREY. RT gave it 4.5 stars! Woot! This is what RT says about it: Castle does her usual marvelous job of keeping the action moving and the romance sizzling. Congrats, Ms. Castle!

Leave a comment, and I'll pick a random winner next weekend.

So, I’m looking through a book called FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE SEX: 101 SENSUAL ACTS NOT EVERYONE SHOULD KNOW HOW TO DO. It covers things like pretending to be a virgin, making women think your penis is bigger, and making women think your penis is smaller. Ho hum. But then I come to one that catches my eye: making a Spanish Fly.

A Spanish Fly, it turns out, doesn't involve buying airline tickets for Castilians; it involves bugs. I grin. The book is like the kinky version of ANIMAL PLANET.

I read on. The Spanish Fly isn't a fly. It’s a beetle, and it doesn’t just live in Spain; it lives all over the Mediterranean. The first step of making this famous aphrodisiac is: "Catch your beetle. Look for an iridescent emerald green beetle commonly found on olive trees and honeysuckles."

This project is sounding better. I mean, forget the part where you actually have to catch bugs; you get to go the Mediterranean and play in the honeysuckles. Nice.

The second step isn't hard: "Kill and dry beetle."

I don't like killing things, but if I just catch a bunch of beetles and let them free in my home, they'll find themselves dead and dried up in my windowsills, like the other bugs.

The third step: "Grind it in a pestle and mortar until you have a fine powder. It should be a yellowish or olive brown color and bitter to the taste."

Okay, wait a minute. Going to the Mediterranean was one thing. Tasting dried squashed bugs is another.

But, a girl has to suffer for her craft. Maybe I could bring myself to take the tiniest taste of smashed bug. The people on Survivor eat cockroaches. I'm as tough as that. I am. Really.

Step four is the most difficult: "The beetle contains up to 5 percent cantharidin by weight, so you need to use less than 1.2g to avoid giving a fatal dose. If determined to risk poisoning and death, make a tincture by soaking a minuscule amount of powder in alcohol, then dilute this tincture repeatedly to achieve a concentration of around 1 part per million. Take 1 ml of this with plenty of fluids."

Wow. So I need like a scale and beakers and things. If I dredge up memories of college chemistry classes, I can almost imagine doing this. Eww. It’s almost worst than eating bugs.

I need help with my project.

"Wait," my husband says after I give him the details. “You’re doing all this to make an aphrodisiac?”

“Yes. A Spanish Fly.”

“And you’re using a chem lab for the final step?” He gets this delicious crinkle in his forehead when he uses this tone with me. "Really?"

“I think I have to," I say. "It's imperative."

Then he smiles. He’s so focused, it’s a little frightening. “Lucinda,” he says. “If you put on that lab coat and those horn rimmed glasses of yours." He moves closer to me. "And you put your hair up in that bun…”

“What?” I pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“That’s all the aphrodisiac I need.”

Which is why he bought the book for me.


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For those of you who are new to my blog, welcome! I write for Kensington's Aphrodisia line--hot paranormal romances with kickass heroines and heroes who are worthy of them. I also use twisty plots and lots of magic.

My newest book, WHAT SHE WANTS, will be released at the end of this month. My next book, SCARLET NIGHTS, comes out in November. You can buy any of my books at Borders, B&N or Amazon.

I like to celebrate the best books in paranormal romance. This week I'm giving away a copy of Heather Graham's DUST TO DUST. This is what RT says about it: Graham' skill as a story teller has never been more apparent. RT must have meant it too because they gave her 4.5 stars. Congrats to Ms. Graham!

Leave a comment, and I'll pick a random winner next weekend.

So, scientists have the Noble Prize. Journalists have the Pulitzer. Geniuses have the MacArthur award. Poets get to be the Poet Laureate. Authors of literature vie for the Booker. Authors of kids books aim for the Newberry. What do romance authors get? The RITA.

What is the RITA? It's an award sponsored by RWA (the Romance Writers of America), and it comes with a little statue not so unlike the Oscar. How does an author win the RITA? Well, she or her publisher or her editor sends something like five copies of the book to Texas, where they distribute the book to judges. The judges read all the books and score them, and the top dog wins the prize. One of the nice things about the RITA, which is also not unlike the Oscar, is that they have a lot of categories. Romantic suspense, contemporary, historical, YA, paranormal, etc., each competes against similar books, so a lot of RITAS are given away each year.

In March, everyone who had a horse in the race finds out if they finalled. Finalling is good. It might even be great. Maybe it isn't as great as winning, but most of authors would be very grateful to final. (I know I would be!) In July, at the big RWA conference, the powers that be announce the winners in each category.

I'd like to say I read all of the RITA nominees, but that would be a lot of books. But since I write paranormals myself, I read eight of the RITA nominees in this category. It was a pleasurable month, reading those books. Some of the authors were new to me, like Susan Grant. Others were already favorites, like Gena Showalter. Out of the pile of eight, I had two favorites. Here is the list of eight:

Dragon Wytch by Yasmine Galenorn
Penguin Group USA, Berkley
ISBN: 9780425222393
Kate Seaver, editor

Mine to Possess by Nalini Singh
Penguin Group USA, Berkley Sensation
ISBN: 978-0-425-22016-0
Cindy Hwang, editor

Moonstruck by Susan Grant
Harlequin Enterprises, HQN
ISBN: 0373772599
Tara Parsons, editor

Seducing Mr. Darcy by Gwyn Cready
Simon & Schuster, Pocket
ISBN: 978-1416541165
Megan McKeever, editor

The Darkest Night by Gena Showalter
Harlequin Enterprises, HQN
ISBN: 0373772467
Tracy Farrell and Margo Lipschultz, editors

The Healer by Sharon Sala
Harlequin Enterprises, HQN
ISBN: 978-0-778-2544-4
Leslie Wainger, editor

The Undead Next Door by Kerrelyn Sparks
HarperCollins Publishers, Avon Books
ISBN: 978-0-06-111845-6
Erika Tsang, editor

Thunder Moon by Lori Handeland
St. Martin’s Press
ISBN: 0-312-94918-9
Jennifer Enderlin, editor


My two favorites? MOONSTRUCK and SEDUCING MR. DARCY. I don't think I could have picked my preferred of the two. They were both delightful in different ways, and both authors are now on my auto buy list.

So which book won the RITA in the paranormal category? SEDUCING MR. DARCY did! Congrats to Ms. Cready. The book rocked. The heroine was a science geek and gave her ex's lover poison ivy on her ass. It had the hottest game of scrabble I've ever read about. And I actually wished I could see a living passenger pigeon.

To help Ms. Cready celebrate, I'm giving away a copy of her book this week. Enjoy!

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For those of you who are new to my writing, I pen hot paranormal romances with kickass heroines and heroes who are worthy of them. I also use twisty plots and lots of magic.

My newest book, WHAT SHE WANTS, was just released. My next book, SCARLET NIGHTS, comes out in November. You can buy any of my books at Borders, B&N or Amazon.

Leave a comment, and I'll pick a random winner next weekend.

Best,
Lucinda

I love words. I love hard words and cool words and words that people used a long time ago and new words.

When I was younger I loved complex words. I remember impressing a seventh grade teach with the word "deleterious," as in "inbreeding can allow the expression of deleterious genes." The teacher was so amazed she called me a genius for the rest of the year.

That love backfired when I came home from college and used "ubiquitous" in an every-day sentence. "Look at those ubiquitous fireflies," I said, pointing at the bug-filled garden one hot summer night. My dad sort of sneered at me and asked me who I was trying to impress.

Well, him, of course. I was trying to impress him. But I guess I just made him feel stupid, and that's never a good thing. Even now, my critique partner has to ax the words I've collected along the way but no one else knows. She made me ax "vitreous humor" and replace it with "goo" in WHAT SHE WANTS. I tried to argue it was a technical word, but she stuck to her guns and won that argument. "People aren't reading your books to learn new words!" she says. "They want the story. Don't get in their way." Well, she's right.

To get my word fix I like to hang out at freerice.com. (Warning, if you like vocabulary tests, this is one helluva addictive site.) Like, did you know a "paraph" was a "flourish after a signature"? That a lever 45 word or so. Last winter I was playing so much that I could hit 60 in about 10 minutes. I tried just now and got stuck on "stickle." It doesn't mean "jeer." It means "argue stubbornly." That's a level 45 word. "Pleach" means to braid. A "pleasance" is a garden.

So when Merriam Websters came out with their list of new words, I read the list with unseemly interest. Would there be words on it I didn't know? "Locavore" is a good one. Everyone knows "carnivore" and "herbivore." I like to add "gramnivore" to the list. A gramnivore is an eater of seeds, like goldfinches. A locavore is someone who eats locally grown foods.

"Earmark" and "carbon footprint" surprised me. Those weren't in the dictionary before this year? Well, I guess the Obama McCain presidential elections provided an education regarding earmarks. And I can't remember learning what a "carbon footprint" is. It seems like we've been hearing and watching reality shows where the geeks go and figure out carbon footprints for forever.

Other words cracked me up. "Sock puppet" and "frenemy" and good for laughs. In fact, you can set up a sock puppet identity on Myspace to see what your frenemies are saying about you behind your backs. I know you're supposed to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. What do you do with your frenemies?

I did find words I didn't know. "Haram" is an Islamic word for forbidden. I suppose that's what most of my books are. They come with a nice warning anyway. I didn't know what a "zip line" was, either. It's a cable suspended above an incline to which a pulley and harness are attached for a rider, if you want to know.

I heard that one of the words that didn't make the new list but that might make it next year is "prepone." According to NPR, it's a word from India and the best way to define it is by giving its opposite, which is postpone. Believe me, if you look at the lateness of this blog, you realize there isn't a lot of preponement in my life. "Postpone" is more appropriate, and the nice thing about it is that everyone knows what it means.

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I might be late posting my blogs, but my books hit the shelves right on time. For those of you who are new to my writing, I pen hot paranormal romances with kickass heroines and heroes who are worthy of them. I also use twisty plots and lots of magic.

My newest book, WHAT SHE WANTS, was just released. My next book, SCARLET NIGHTS, comes out in November. You can buy any of my books at Borders, B&N or Amazon.

I like to celebrate the best books in paranormal romance. This week I'm giving away a copy of Jacquelyn Frank's RAPTURE. This is what RT says about it: The steamy passion Frank is know for takes on an educational edge as the abused heroine discovers her powers. RT gave this book 4.5 stars! Congrats, Ms. Frank!

Leave a comment, and I'll pick a random winner next weekend. At least, I'll try. I promise no preponement!

Best,
Lucinda