For the RomCon blog, I wrote a post about one of the few true-life stories in my books. This particular story involves my husband, his economy-size tubs of lotion, and way too many rolls of paper towels near his computer and bed. Enjoy!
I wrote a bunch of blog tour posts for the release of my second Lovestruck Librarians book, My Reckless Valentine. Unfortunately, when those posts went live, I was too sick with bronchitis to share them. But I’m on the mend now, so here they are!
I wrote this first post for the USA Today Happy Ever After blog, and in it I discuss the joys and drawbacks of claiming a geeky man—a man like my husband, and also like the hero of My Reckless Valentine. Enjoy the references to both Excel and vibrators!
I’m in the midst of writing Driven to Distraction, the fifth book in my Lovestruck Librarians series. Near the beginning of the story, a prior heroine and hero get married in a ceremony attended by all their friends.
Fun, right? Except that, for the life of me, I couldn’t seem to get a handle on that chapter. For a full day, I attempted to imagine various aspects of the scene: what the bride would wear, what vows the groom would make, the flowers, the cake…
None of it inspired me. At all.
I really wanted any fans of this hero and heroine to feel satisfied by the wedding, but I couldn’t get the words on the page.
Then it finally occurred to me: Apparently, in fiction as in real life, I don’t really give a damn about weddings. Love, yes. Weddings, no.
As a child, I never made Barbie marry Ken. My Barbie, despite the permanent arch of her feet and the disturbing holes in the sides of her head—the better to accommodate high heels and earrings, respectively—led an independent life of adventure. Well, maybe not adventure. But she could claim sole ownership of a luxurious Dream House and a shiny Corvette.
My Barbie even boasted some skimpy lingerie. Poor Ken never saw any of it. As far as I was concerned, Barbie’s staid boyfriend did not meet her needs. Too young to attribute Barbie’s dissatisfaction to Ken’s eerily smooth nether regions, I simply decided he was boring. And so Barbie remained single, glamorous, and happy, even after I gave her a haircut suitable for asylum inmates.
My husband grew up in Sweden and moved to the U.S. about a decade ago. His command of English is excellent—not only because he’s an intelligent man, but also because Swedish kids learn English at a young age. However, we still run into occasional issues. Last night, for example, the following exchange occurred:
Me: “I’m working on the author bio for my Goodreads page.”
Husband: “Is it about me?”
Me: “Um…no. It’s about me. ‘Cause I’m the author. I mean, I mention you and everything, but it’s not really ABOUT you, per se. Don’t you think that question’s a little…I don’t know. Conceited?”
Husband [shaking his head, exasperated]: “No. I meant, ‘Is it like your ABOUT ME page on your website?”
Me: “Oh. Yeah. It is. Sorry.”
Husband: [grumbles; stomps out of the room]
My point: It may sound glamorous to marry a Swede, but it’s not all gummy fish and massages on demand and sniffing each other’s lollipops. Sometimes, the language barrier is difficult. Or so he tells me every time he says something irritating.
Husband: “I must have misspoken. As you know, my English skills are dubious.”
Me [stares suspiciously]: “Hmmm.”
Husband: “Rudimentary, even.”
Me: [grumbles; stomps out of the room]