Goodbye for now

I don't like small dogs. I have never liked small dogs. My exposure to said dogs always included high-pitched yapping and prissy spoiled behavior. I'm a German Shepard kinda gal. Grew up with one or two my entire life. Then a Doberman. I LOVE big dogs. Ones I can throw around, they bounce back, and come back for more. 

I married into a Chihuahua family. He arrived a mere month before the Honey and I started seeing each other. I could fit this little shit in the palm of my hand. 😑 Harley was a long-haired brown Chihuahua. He was the Honey's FIRST EVER pet. 

The Honey and I dated. I lived in another city, and I would come up on most weekends and stay. This dog's feet didn't touch the ground, AND the asshole was manipulative. Apparently, as the Honey said, it's the breed. 😒 Oh. Delightful. Fuck no, that's not delightful. You're being manipulated by a DOG. He would literally pretend she kicked him, and then he would whimper, and she would pick him up with an "awwwww...did Mama hurt you?"  😶😶😶  What in the actual fuck?

Something had to give besides my gag reflex. I started saying something about Harley's bullshit. I'm like...come on! But he was her "precious puppy." 😵 One day I grabbed her precious puppy and play rolled his short furry ass across the carpet. The Honey almost flat-lined. Harley loved it. 😂  Thus, the little shit and I began to get along. I then adopted Simba, my feline son, and gave Harley a brother.

These two idiots. They played. They sparred. They ate each other's food. 🙄 They went on vacations with us. They are our kids.

But animals don't have as much time as people, which is bullshit. Simba turned thirteen yesterday. But we spent the morning at the vet with Harley. He couldn't walk anymore. Wouldn't eat. The Honey knew it was time for him to move on. 

Harley was fourteen. Would have been fifteen this summer. She held him as the vet gave him medicine to send him over the Rainbow Bridge. I had no plans to witness this, but they did it in the same room we waited in. I've never had a pet put down.

It was quiet, almost reverent. 

Quick.

That little asshole left our lives the way he came in...on a wave of love. 

Goodbye for now, Harley. It's quieter here. We think Simba is looking for you. The Honey is a mess. 

And me? Getting along like I always do. Writing down my thoughts. Airing out emotions. Working my way through a box of Kleenex. 

*******

Instant gratification

I suck at TikTok. I keep trying to make it meaningful. Working on that later today. Let's face it, you have a good three to five seconds, if that, to make your case. I ramble on like we're having a conversation. I fail at TikTok. I have to laugh.

Instagram? I do better there. I don't do anything live so I'm mostly posting videos I've already made, at this juncture. They seem to also be too long. 😕

People's expectations of immediacy have grown exponentially. Buffering is a large thing of the past, and BOY, DO PEOPLE GET PISSED if they have to experience that little inconvenience again. Waiting for food? Sweet Jesus. Customers would rather abuse the wait staff and servers than WAIT FOR FRESH FOOD. And get this:  stop signs. I drove back to my hometown the other day to grab a grandchild, and nearly every four-way stop, but two, cars rolled through them. CARS KEPT DRIVING THROUGH A STOP SIGN. Because obviously they needed to do a heart transplant and had no time to spare. 😑

Instant gratification expectation is dangerous. It's an entitled mindset. Unless it is a true emergency, instant gratification is a gift. I bought The Tortured Poets Department from iTunes, and it downloaded immediately. I watched it check off each song as it added to my library. I was grateful. I remember cassettes. 😄

Instant can be great. Chicken in the air fryer. Streaming nearly anything you want at your fingertips. Buying in the blink of an eye. Making connections. 

But please don't forget we crawled for a bit. Then learned to walk. Now we're wanting to run the Olympics when we haven't trained for it. 

It's time to appreciate the time in-between. The flavor of the food. The feel of that grandbaby or baby asleep on your chest. Lyrics that resonate with your soul. Your feline son who makes sure you're never in a room alone. (I love you, Simba. 💖)

Always writing*

...and ruminating...

Ambiance

I'm that woman. The full moon makes me want to howl and walk through the mist and fog in a flowy gown with bare feet. Toes pressed to cool dirt. Hair blowing in the breeze.  

Dreary overcast days are best for writing. The outside affects the inside. It's a wonder I don't have SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). Hell, maybe I do. Supposed to storm here today. Looking forward to it. Maybe I should move to Seattle or London. Where was that spot the Cullens lived? 🤔

When I'm irritated/annoyed/pissed, I can write fight scenes like no one's business. I can work my steam out through the characters. We're both better for it. I think it adds the realism to it. If I'm in a mellow mood, it's hard for me to work up a good mad. And when I'm het up, I'm not feeling the calmer scenes. My blood pressure tends to have a bearing. 😂 I'll often wait until I'm in a certain mood to write a scene.

Sex scenes are the same. If I've stubbed my toe, spilled my drink, and have a headache, no one is getting any. Sorry, guys. Writing sensual scenes is a mood. You can't force it. Sure, you can put A in B and lick C, but if the writer is not feeling it writing it...the reader won't feel it reading it. There are times it's the first thing out the gate and others where I squeeze them in later. But also? Chemistry.

I don't write Erotica because I need the emotional connection between my characters, and I need that connection with me. We're a team. I need them to create a bond, and I build on that. Erotic Romance will have that happily-ever-after, and that one simple thing will always draw me to write in the genre.

Mixing it up. 

I've gone to the dark side. I've learned to kill some of my darlings, and it's not a decision I take lightly. These characters are part of me. They live and breathe in me. They are my creations. But when I start writing a new book, I caution myself about the characters. Take that in. Sometimes, I don't even know who's not going to make it. 

And when I have to do the deed, I completely lose my shit. I sob. I grieve. I ache. It's a fresh little scar. I mourn for the characters. It's never a simple speed bump. That's all I need you to know. It gets dark here, my friend. 

Let's slide back into the sunshine.

Books mirror lives. The ups and downs. The joy and pain. The beauty and the ugliness. 

But romance gives you happily-ever-after. 

Good vibes.

A moment to step away from what you have going on for a break.

Feels good from this side, too. 😌

Always writing*

 

 

A word? Your word? Any word?

Promises are like vouchers. They are an assurance that something agreed upon will happen. Promises, to me, are iffy. They can often depend on weather, other people, sickness, and timing. Occasionally flexing or breaking a promise may happen. Repeatedly doing so makes you untrustworthy.

Giving your word is solid. If I give someone my word, I'll be moving heaven, earth, and the Milky Way to keep my word. It's a matter of integrity and dependability. It's a sign you can trust me, and if you keep your word, I can trust you. This is a solid foundation for growth and building.

For as long as I've been in the publishing game, I'm a newbie to the conferences and book signing events. I haunt FB, TikTok, Insta, Threads, and RWA to see what suits me best. I also take geography into consideration as I don't want to drive over a day. I have physical limitations that require me to rest more often than others. I network at these events and have LOVED my table mates at all. But I digress.

There was a book event this last weekend. I'm not naming it because this isn't about driving people to this blog using the name. But I will use it as an example. This event was one I considered since it was geographically close enough for me to drive within a day. Wasn't crazy about the weather, but I was jealous of those going. 

By all accounts, it was a shitshow of monumental proportions. It had grown to over five times the size of last year but no accommodations were made for that. Authors, readers, and volunteers did not receive books, time, nor instructions. There were no ADA accommodations. No security. Influencers were treated poorly. Readers did not receive their PRE-ORDERED books from their authors and did not get to meet some of them.

Every story coming out of this event hurts me. The pure excitement attendees felt only to have some of the worst times of their lives...it can't be fixed. No apology is that big. And for the record, no apology has been issued except for a reference to "bumpy bumps". 

I have a book event in late May in Des Moines. I am EXCITED! Am I optimistic? You bet! Am I cautious? You bet! 

I have no idea what it's going to be like, but I give you MY WORD I will be there with books, smiles, swag, and space buns. Come see me!

Always writing* 

Billionaires

My thoughts on billionaires in real life is not kind. Twenty years ago, the word "billionaire" didn't exist in my every day vocabulary. Why would it? But it's become quite the popular romance trope. Trope is also a new word in my vernacular. And as I typed it, I thought to myself...isn't that the same thing as motif? After a quick Google, it basically is. Shout out to my old ass. 🥳 

Billionaires are popular in romance in right now with all sorts of different spikes on the wheel. B Mafia. B Playboy. B Secret Baby. B Marriage of Convenience. B BDSM.

The appeal is broad. We readers love our fantasy worlds. How nice would it be to have a lover who you didn't have to bargain with over groceries? You can still buy the expensive apples, and he can have beef AND pork in his meatloaf. 😲 You know all the bills will be paid on time, no late fees. You wouldn't have to cook, if you didn't want. There would be a cleaning staff. 

The billionaire? He would dote on you. Worship you. Maybe he was a little bossy, but he could bend you like a pretzel and make you like it. Experimentation is a plus. He would be skilled and show you the one-orgasm at a time method is outdated.

If there were an online application process, it would overload the servers and shutdown the internet. But make no mistake, this is what a lot of women want. And if they can't live it, they want to read about it.

I've three billionaire romances in planning stages. I've started on the first of four. Not gonna lie. I'm enjoying it from this perspective, too. 😄 

Always writing*

Glasses

I've worn glasses since twelve. Neither of my parents did. I called bullshit way back. 

Am I blind as shit without them? Why, yes. Yes, I am. I loathe the fact. Except Christmastime when I can look at Christmas lights or a tree without said glasses, and it's so damn SOFT. You guys with 20/20 and better vision don't know unless you've experienced it. But those of us who have? It doesn't make up for any of the other bullshit, but it's a MOMENT, you know?

I wear progressives now. Real cute way to say I can tilt my head a certain way and can see both near and far with ONE set of glasses. Yes, I appreciate the invention. But even more? I appreciate the fact I can take my glasses off and read to my grandchildren or read a book or watch a show on my phone without the extra eyes. But, Crystal! That's what your progressives are for! Shush your butt. I do as I want...

Hopefully, sooner than later, we will have longer vacations with the kids and gbabies. I don't want that with my glasses. I don't like anything ON my glasses. Long story. And I HAVE to have them to see. Goodbye anything with water. It's horseshit.

BUT...I wore these pain in the ass glasses yesterday OVER my solar shades to watch the eclipse. The cardboard cut into my nose, and it was extremely uncomfortable, but I wanted to see what everyone else was going to see. And I did.

The sun became a mere object as the moon slid slowly in front of it, taking its time, swallowing small pieces of bright yellow in tiny bites, not great gulps. It was a sci-fi Pac-Man eaten by a moon ghost. (Once an eighties kid...) It was Dr. Who's street lamp that always shines on the TARDIS. It was a shiny crescent moon who talked to "Bear in the Big Blue House." It was...

...a sliver of something bright, far away. A mysterious tip of a yellow fingernail shining back on a round rock determined to cover it up. Did dinosaurs look up and see only a sunny fragment before their lives changed? Did our ancestors cower or scream? Dance or sacrifice? Was it a beginning to some? An end for others? How much power had the rock? How much power had the bright?

The next dance is 2045? I'll be in my mid-seventies, if still aboveground. And hopefully, only wearing one pair of shades. 😎

Crystal*