Ok, so maybe I am.

(Don't tell anyone I'm actually blogging twice in a row. It'll be our little secret.)

Last night, the husband and our two oldest boys got it in their heads to go picking through a couple old boxes of pictures. They came across some of mine from middle and high school. (They're really bad-picture gold. If I remember to bring them in to work to scan, I might post one or two.) Giggling, my 8 year old tells me I was a nerd.

I shrugged and told him there's nothing wrong with being a nerd. (I restrained myself from saying, "The Geek shall inherit the earth." It was a stretch. I was proud of myself.)

A few minutes later, he holds a picture up and says, "See? You look like such a nerd."

"I don't get what's nerdy about that one." I took the snapshot and examined it. "I'm in your father's barracks room, and I'm even wearing his t-shirt." I squinted at the picture, tilted it a little to the side.

"What are you doing?" the husband asked.

"I'm trying to see what book that is in my hand."

"God," he laughed. "You really are a nerd."

(For the record, it was Send No Flowers, by Sandra Brown.)

Damn, they got me good

I swept in the door after work, arms filled with junk food for the family. As I handed out chicken nuggets and fries, the husbandly type told me I had a book on the counter. Sweet! I was only expecting one book, Victoria Dahl's new one, and it even came a day earlier than the shipping estimate. With the husband going out tonight for his volunteer firefighter's meeting, I'd have a solid couple hours of quiet to read.

I sat down on the couch with my food and the Amazon package and zipped open the tab. It was the wrong book! Even worse, it was a book I already had and had read dozens of times, so it wasn't like I was getting a freebie. (For the curious, the book was The Gunslinger, by Stephen King.)

I cussed and moaned, and the husband commiserated, asking what I'd have to do now. "Email them, tell them what happened," I said. "They'll probably just send another."

I was pretty bummed. Glumly, I bit into my hamburger - which had evil pickles on it, even. Obviously this wasn't turning out to be my night.

I became aware that the oldest child was hovering over my shoulder, smirking at me. I looked at him. He looked at my bookshelf. Back and forth a few times. Finally, I got up. Inspected the shelves. (It took a minute, I've got stuff double and triple stacked on there.)

There, on its side and bottom out, was Start Me Up. They'd switched out the books!

What brats I've got in my life.

Every so often. . .

. . . I need a reminder of what I already know.

As some of you may or may not know, I got to write "The End" on the rough draft of my newest WIP not too long ago. But because I'm a member of the "shitty first draft" club, that doesn't mean I'm done. Not by a long shot.

Even though it was rough, I booted it off to my crit partners (who I <3 with enormity) and they filled my head with all sorts of nooks and crannies to flesh out.

And yet I've still been picking at it. Focusing on teeny things rather than the big picture issues I need to address. Mostly, I couldn't get past the rewrite I needed to do of the opening scene. There's stuff I didn't "discover" about the hero until mid-way through the book, and I need to layer that in too. But it wasn't moving. I'd write four words, then delete three of 'em. Couldn't figure out what was wrong.

Then I saw this post on Kristin Nelson's blog this morning.

She been at BEA and participated in a Pitch Slam. About the entries, she says, "most opening scenes had nothing at stake."

Well, shit. That's what's wrong.

Now, see, I know that. I know you have to start when everything changes, when there's important stuff going on. But somehow I accidentally wrote my opening as a "look, we're in the Old West" scene. Crappity. Oh delete, how I loathe and love thee.

Hopefully I can get to the editing with a quickness now.

These people breed?

My oldest kid's sick. Flu bug apparently, because he's puking up and got a fever. I'd say poor dude, but he's been granted special dispensation to hang out in my room all day to avoid the toddler menaces.

But I called the advice nurse at my clinic, on the recommendation of my boss, who was all "Ack! Swine flu!" (I was more "Huh. If he needs a doc appointment, I get out of work for a few hours.")

Nurse: Has he kept any fluids down?

Me: Well, I left for work at seven, but before that, no.

Nurse: Is anyone home with him?

Me: *blink. blink. wha-huh?* Yeah. His nanny.

'Cause even if someone was that bloody stupid, they'd admit it? "Oh, sure, I left a vomiting 8 year old with little self control home alone. Thought it'd make a great slap-stick adventure, ya know?"

"Cheating" heros?

I've always maintained a hero who sleeps with someone other than the heroine doesn't bother me, dependant on the situation. Primarily, the hero/heroine aren't "together." They're not dating, they're not screwing, they're especially not married. A hero who's just met the young, dumb ingenue at a ball, then visits his long time mistress that evening? Doesn't bother me. A hero who thinks his love is lost forever and futilely attempts to bury his pain in the arms of another woman? ::::cough:::DerekCravenAnyone?::::cough::: It's all good.

Being in love doesn't render a man's dick un-inflatable for all but the magical hoo-ha. Sorry, but it's true.

(On a tangent, how much would I totally love seeing the reverse of this? A heroine who meets the hero, but still keeps an appointment with her regular fuck buddy that night? Oh the brain melting possibilities of that.)

Which brings me to my current reading, a historical romance. Early in the book, before there's any real connection between h/h, the hero mentally references having recently been to a brothel. No biggie, I'm fine with that. A third of the way in, the h/h are developing a bit of a relationship, but it's not *that* deep. A couple kisses, heavy flirting, that's it.

The heroine catches the hero coming out of a brothel, and even sees him in the arms of his hooker of choice. The next day, she confronts him about this and tells him how it hurt.

And he is absolutely fucking dismissive of her. He apologizes once, and by the very next page is flouncing off, calling her frigid and unforgiving for not letting it go already. Did you catch that part about how this was less than one page after the apology? He runs away to war, and the next time he even thinks of her (like 15 pages later) his ONLY thoughts revolve around how he wished they'd had a chance to bang. Not one speck of care about her emotional or mental state, or even regret that she'd been hurt, at the very least, even if he didn't regret screwing the hooker.

You know what, dude? Take your toys and go home. I don't care. I would take a "cheating" hero over one who's disdainful of the heroine any fucking day.

I don't know that I care where the mighty wang goes. But I can never, ever believe in an HEA for a relationship without respect.

It's practically one of the entry rules

If you have a blog, you mention your Golden Heart scores when you get them. So here we go:

I only had one entry, Jazz Baby, my 1920s set book.

Judge 1: 7.8
Judge 2: 9 (Woot!!)
Judge 3: 6.5
Judge 4: 5.4 (*sob* Ok, not really, but there's a pout in there.)
Judge 5: 8.5

Final Score: 37.20

According to the letter, the cut off for the finalists was 37.80, meaning I was 0.5 away from making the grade. It also breaks down to a 7.40 average. Is this good? I have no idea. I guess I'll have to wait 'til everyone else posts their scores too, and see how I measure up.

I can tell you, it made me feel better. The letter has come on the end of a rather disheartening week of writing oriented stuff, and it managed to perk me up. I'm good with being in the second quarter for now, especially considering this was my first full-length work. (So yeah, I had a bit of the hubris in submitting it, I know. I'm nothing if not ambitious.) In a year or two, no it won't be good enough.

But for now? I think a mini-celebration might be in order.