Not Tonight Dear...I Have Malaria...

In an effort to teach my kids that life exists beyond their technology-ridden, middle-class, midwest lifestyle, we've been watching the Travel Channel's program: Tribal Life - Meet the Namale. The Namale tribe lives on the island of Vanuatu in the South Pacific. The men wear only a penis sheath made of grass (called a nambas - if you're interested) attached to a g-string. The women are topless and wear grass skirts. And they live in - you guessed it - grass huts. They live off the land and the kids actually do consider sticks and frogs interactive toys (see last post) and they refuse to adopt a modern lifestyle.

My kids are fascinated with the show and I like it too. But I've learned that some things are universal. See the young man in the photo above? Well, he's married and for the first time, he and his bride were going to attend a all-tribal bash where the women and men dance (jumping up and down in itchy, grass skirts and penis sheaths). They spend seven years getting ready for this party. The groom was really excited to go. Unfortunately, his young bride had a bad headache. (No, this isn't the universal part yet.)

So, he went without her - expecting her to catch up later (I know it sounds familiar, but not yet...wait for it...). Unfortunately for the young woman, she developed a fever and had to be evacuated to a hospital where it turned out she had malaria.

Cut back to the party, where her husband has a sad face and he says, "My wife didn't get to see me dance. I wanted her to watch me dance." (This is it. Go ahead and say 'I knew it!')

Yup. That's right. His wife has #$#$%&*! MALARIA and all he can think about is that he won't be able to strut in front of her. Malaria! Unless I'm wrong - she'll suffer bouts of this illness on and off for the rest of her life! But no, our proud peacock of a husband cares only that she didn't have the chance to gaze at him in all his glory.

I think this is something that starts in men very young. My seven-year-old son, since he could talk, has said nothing but "look at me!" over and over and over and over...well, you get the idea. Either I have to watch him do the same sommersault in the living room twenty times, watch him swim in the pool ad nauseum, admire his video gaming skills or watch him to see how much he eats - it drives me nuts. My daughter isn't the same way. But for some reason, boys insist on being watched all the time, and unfortunately turn into husbands who insist on being watched all the time. What the hell is up with that?

And while it was good to know it happens everywhere, from the jungles of isolated islands to industrial nations - it isn't any less annoying. The only difference here, is that it's too damn cold to wear a grass penis sheath. And I think that's a good thing.

"The Assassin"

Electrifying Experiences and Retractions

Breaking NEWS!!!

WINNER...WINNER.

Blackroze37, you have won a copy of Lori's book. Please email me your address to www.christie-craig.comCC
January 15, 2008 2:05 PM


NOTE: Please pop over to Rachael's blogspot, http://booklover07202.blogspot.com/ to read an interview and post a comment/question for a chance to win a autographed copy of my book. Also check out: http://www.themotivatedwriter.com/ where yours truly was interviewed.

This last Saturday, I got a real electrifying experience. I got the rare opportunity to come face to face with a Houston Police officer’s taser gun. Let’s just say, I nearly wet my pants. Before you jump to any conclusions, no I haven’t been arrested again. Well, not yet anyway. Though, take my advice, be careful about pissing off police officers.

In my case, it’s not just any police officer. It’s Duke Atkins. Remember my cop in a pocket who came and blogged for us? Yeah, he’s the one. He’s the badge-toting, taser-pointing officer I’m referring to. And I have . . . well, in his book, I’ve committed a crime. And since one of my crimes is a second offense, well, he’s out for blood. Guess I’m back to dodging the law again.

In my defense, well . . . Okay, I have no defense. Not for one of the crimes. Remember when he blogged? Remember how he spoke about me . . . misspelling his name? How my little typo inadvertently prevented him from being some super spokesperson for the HPD? Yeah, well, guess what. You know his name, Lt. Duke Adkins, appears in my acknowledgements page of Divorced, Desperate and Delicious? Yeah, I did it again. I put a “d” where the “t” was supposed to go.

He’s insisting on a retraction, but I did come up with an alternative. I mean, it’s only $100 to change your name, they might even give him a bargain since all he would only be changing is one letter. Heck, I’d even throw in ten or fifteen bucks to help pay for it.

He didn’t like that idea. (Did you know tasers make this gawd-awful noise?)

And now, my second crime. Well, Duke came out to speak at my autographing about women’s safety. He called me in advance and asked if he could use my purse for the demonstration. He explained that during this little show-and-tell, my purse’s contents would be spilled on the floor. Now, this is the crime I do feel I have a defense.

I mean, pluuueeese! He never should have trusted me. Never! You should have seen his face with the red bra, sexy panties, a pair of take-me-home red high heels, a few condoms, and an entire pack of loose tampons hit the floor in front the audience. What was funnier was seeing him pick them up and put them back in the purse. (Did you know that tasers don’t really have to be recharged for a second use?)

Anyway, under the influence of shock therapy, I’m offering Duke a retraction. (Or I guess I should say, under the threat of shock therapy, he took off the bullet thingy (see why I need him to write police stuff?) that actually sends out the electrical currents, before he showed us how the gun fired.) Anyway guys, this fine-example of a police officer’s name is Lt. Doke Atkins. Now, don’t get that messed up.

Crime Scene Christie

Let Me Introduce You To Lori Wilde

Allow me to introduce Lori Wilde. But first, let me say the joke is on Lori this time. You see, she decided to blog about me, but what she didn’t know was that I can post my blog on top of hers. Ha! Turn about is fair play. So let me tell you about Lori.

As she says in her blog, we sold about the same time -- way back in the dark ages -- and while I failed to sell my second book in the following years, many, many following years, I watched her from afar as she went on to sell book after book to a variety of publishers. I remember the first time I saw her after what I perceived to be my failure and her success. A whirlwind of insecurities chased butterflies in my gut. Would Lori view me as someone who hadn’t stood the test of time?

The warmth that came from Lori’s smile was anything but judgmental, and through the years she has been a constant source of inspiration. Lori’s love and drive to constantly improve herself, her eagerness to offer a helping hand to any writer, including her top-rated classes and workshops, well, they not only make Lori a great person, but a wonderful writer.

I learned so much from Lori, both from workshops and reading her novels—studying them to see how she does it and devouring them for wonderful characters and unique plots. Lori is the author of 39 books for three major publishers. I haven’t picked up her latest book yet, Once Smitten, Twice Shy, but you can bet I’ll be picking it up this weekend. Check out Lori’s website at http://www.loriwilde.com/

On a side note, I'm guest-blogging at the Debutante Ball this weekend, so if you'd like to come over for a visit I'd love to see you! It's at http://www.thedebutanteball.com/

Also, don't forget to post a comment on this blog and let Lori know you would like to recieve a copy of her book. Today... one lucky poster will win a copy of Once Smitten, Twice Shy.

Thank you, Lori, for coming to play with us at Killer Fiction.

* * *

When Christie first asked me to blog on her website, I was honored. Then I thought, “what in the heck am I going to blog about?” Then it hit me. I’d blog about Christie.

Except that I know how humble she is and how she might be too embarrassed to post my blog. So if you’re reading this, you know I convinced Christie to take credit where credit was due. If you’re not reading it, at least Christie knows how I feel about her.

Christie and I first met at a conference in Houston in 1995. (Yipes, has it really been that long?) We both had our first books out from Silhouette Romance. We were green as green could be, eager and wide-eyed and so happy to have finally achieved our dreams of writing a novel. We thought we had the world by the tail.

Shows how ill prepared we were for the harsh reality of publishing.

Christie was already an accomplished nonfiction writer and photographer. I was a registered nurse. I was fortunate. I sold my second book six months after my first one. Christie was not so lucky.

It wasn’t from lack of trying. She did everything she knew how to sell that second work of fiction. Me? My luck held out for eleven books before Silhouette Romance politely told me to go away.

Then Christie’s nonfiction career took off in a big way—she’s written hundreds of articles for all kinds of magazines--but it also took her focus off fiction. However, she never stopped wanting to sell another novel.

At some point the nonfiction wasn’t satisfying her creative urges and she started writing fiction again. I would see her final in contest after contest after contest and she still couldn’t break back in. My heart ached for her. I knew it wasn’t from lack of trying or from lack of talent. The winds of publishing simply weren’t at her back.

And then Christie, who had been holding the faith for so long, broke through in a big way. She sold FOUR books in one day. You know the saying about when it rains, it pours? After a drought so long she thought she might need to buy stock in the Sahara Desert, the dam broke and Christie was showered with good luck.

Christie is a shining example of never give up, never surrender. She’s an inspiration. She’s perky and petite and persistent. Not only that, but she’s wickedly funny. If you ever have the honor of meeting her in person you’ve got to ask her to tell you the story about the cowboy and the mattress in the middle of Houston traffic. Warning…you might split a stitch laughing.

Her sense of humor and her kindness are reflected in her books. If you don’t yet own a copy of Divorced, Desperate and Delicious, what are you waiting for? Everyone needs a good laugh and Christie Craig provides it in spades. She went through a lot to get this story to you, don’t leave her hanging.

I'm giving away a copy of ONCE SMITTEN, TWICE SHY. Randomly drawn from anyone who posts in the comment section that they want one. Drawing to be held on Monday and the winner announced in the comment section.

I’m in love!!

Yes, you heard that right. I’m in love… with my new niece! My little sister just had the most gorgeous red-headed baby girl yesterday afternoon. 8 pounds 1 ounce of perfect wiggling, warm, pinkness. She and mom are both doing just fine and hopefully coming home from the hospital today. In the meantime, I’m hanging out in their rustic (read: sketchy internet so I may be MIA the rest of the day) mountain town of Tahoe, freezing my keister off in the Sierra Nevada snow. Will post pics of the little bundle as soon as I can download them!

Until then, have a look at the video book trailer I was working on before I got the call and high-tailed it up to the mountains. It’s for my upcoming March release, Alibi in High Heels. Let me know what you think!



~Gemma "Trigger Happy" Halliday (the new Auntie!!)

Deadline Countdown and the Fine Art of Procrastination...

Okay. First off. Let's get real here. The above image is not an accurate depiction of my writing process or persona. Well, except for the overflowing wastebasket. I use a computer not a typewriter. And the last time I wore a skirt anywhere was--well, to tell you the truth I can't remember the last time I wore a skirt. I don't think I even own any skirts other than the denim ones I occasionally wear during summers. In fact, as I type this post I'm sitting in my rather cluttered office wearing a purple and neon green fuzzy fleece set that features the dwarf, Grumpy, on the pants and shirt. On my feet are hot pink and purple fuzzy slippers and I'm drinking my coffee (decaf, remember?) from a Winnie the Pooh mug. So much for the glamorous life of an author.

Authors always seem to be on a deadline. The alternative would be--well, unemployment--so most of us don't grumble about it. Mine is March 1st. It's my seventh book for Dorchester. Now generally I'm not a procrastinator. In fact, I turned in my previous six books ahead of schedule. Some well ahead of schedule. But I'm having difficulties getting the words on the pages this time around. And it's really not my fault. Honest. Let me explain and you can judge for yourselves. And bear in mind these are not 'the dog ate my homework' excuses. It's just the way it is. And the way I am.

First off, I've outed myself on this blog (and others) as a political junkie. I take the role of citizen/voter and Iowa's role in the nominating process very seriously. So, naturally, I do my homework. I check voting records and listen to candidates. That takes time. Time away from writing. I figure since I'm fortunate enough to live in a country that permits me to write and read what I like, I need to do my part to make sure we retain those rights and the many others we enjoy and often take for granted. The January 3rd Caucus came and went but then there was New Hampshire and now we have Michigan and there's South Carolina and Super Tuesday and... Okay, you get it. Note to Kathy: GET HELP!!!

Secondly, as I've also explained, I'm the HOH for my family. I have triplets who just turned eighteen. Enough said on this point.

Then there was the revision from you know where to complete on FIANCE AT HER FINGERTIPS.

Next up? A new college term. I'm what they call a 'returning student' who is attempting to beef up a resume and credentials and make some life changes and improvements. Now, the classwork is one thing. Since I'm sort of anal about this stuff, I tend to do every scrap of extra-credit available even if I don't need to. The classes, themselves, are another thing. I walked into a Technical Writing classroom the other night to find the professor looked about twelve. Most of the students were my kids' age. Or younger. Ouch. Then there's my favorite topic: winter weather. The other night the fog was so thick I couldn't see beyond the hood of my car. Tonight's forecast (and yeah, I have another class) SNOW!

Then there's life in general: illness, grocery shopping, house cleaning,(okay, quit laughing family and friends) and things that suck you in. Examples? I got side-tracked by an on-line discussion of plagiarism recently (and no, I'm not going to delve into that delicate issue here and now). I also made the mistake of picking up one of my Victoria Holt books (I wanted to be Victoria Holt when I was growing up. I still do!) and once I read one, I was hooked, so I've started reading them all again.

There are tons of things that tempt me away from my writing lately. And I'm usually so disciplined. Yesterday 'Saint Kathy' on my right shoulder had a heart to heart with me. 'Kathy,' St. Kathy said, 'you are not going to go to bed until you have written 30 new pages. No arguments and no procrastinations permitted. Deal with it.' So, I grumbled a bit (okay, more than a bit) and then thought, 'I'll show her.' And I did. I wrote two new chapters (and it wasn't crap!) and finished before the stroke of midnight.

And today? Well, today is a different story. You see, my daughter brought me her black work pants to have a button sewed on. It took me half an hour to find a suitable button, another half hour to find my sewing kit, another ten minutes to quit sneezing from the dust accumulated on the sewing box, (Dotty Domestic, I ain't) and another ten minutes to sew the button on. Then, of course, I had to blog.

And now? Now I have this strong craving for an angel food cake with funfetti frosting.

Think St. Kathy will cut me a break today?

I didn't think so either. I can't wait until this book is done and Sinner Kathy can come out to play.

What's at the top of your 'Tempt Me' list?

~Bullet Hole Bacus~

Back Then, I Had to Walk Ten Miles to School, In The Snow, Uphill Both Ways...

First off - Congratulations Ellie! You won the purse prize! Please contact me at leslie@leslielangtry.com and I'll ship it off to you!

During break, we took our kids to Chicago for a few days with friends and their kids to see the Star Wars exhibit at the Museum of Science & Industry, the Sears Tower, etc. It was blisteringly cold in the Windy City, but a good time was had by all. Well, the kids had a good time. The adults were sleep-deprived and sore, but that's just splitting hairs, really.

Anyway, one of the exhibits in the Sears Tower (the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere, thank you very much) really caught my eye. You can see from the photo above (click on it to make it larger): It says, "Interactive toys of 1793," and it features a stick, some frogs (badly photoshopped in, by the way) and a leaf or two.

Of course, the four worldly children, aged 7 to 9 were NOT impressed. They couldn't figure out why I was even taking a picture of it. They just went back to using my cell phone to call their friends and using their digital cameras to take pictures of the skyline. But I stood there and stared at that for several minutes. In fact, I was there so long my husband thought I was having a stroke - but that's beside the point.

On the way home, as my children texted each other from their Nintendo DS (while sitting next to each other) and talked about playing Guitar Hero III when they got home, it really hit me that A)My kids didn't appreciate history or B) I appreciated it a little too much.

Now, I didn't grow up with sticks and frogs as my only interactive toys (although there was that one time with the grasshopper that kept me amused for say, oh, minutes). We had Simon, Intellivision and Atari, Baby Alive (a very, creepy Terminator version where the metal skull seemed to press against the rubber skin and make mechanical gnashing sounds while she ate), banana-seat bicycles, etc. But toys were still dramatically different.

My mom's gonna read this and tell me how she just had a jumprope, and I'll bet you someone will e-mail me about being excited to get an orange and a lard sandwhich for Christmas, but I'm trying to put this all into perspective.

Of course toys change with technology and things are different than they were 200+ years ago. But all I can think about is some child back then getting as much joy out of that stick as my daughter got out of her Hannah Montana stage - complete with real light shows and music. It just made me wonder how my kids would fare in a third world country where they still play with those kinds of things. Then I realized that I would also have to be in that third world country with them and that kind of cancelled the idea out.

I don't really have any answers - just observations at this point. I think I'm gonna start dvr-ing National Geographic Channel's Tribal Life and forcing the kids ala-Clockwork Orange-style to watch it.

What do you think?

"The Assassin"

What's Been Neddling Me

Last Saturday was my son’s 18th birthday. And at 12:01 a.m., he gave himself a gift…one of which that I have to admit, I wasn’t all too thrilled about. Now, you have to know, he’s my baby . . . all 200 pound of his six feet two inches, even down to his size-13 men’s shoe. So yeah, I know he’s not really a baby. He’s eighteen, a big boy.

A big boy when it comes to size, but not so big when it comes to needles. Seriously, I was holding his hand just a few months ago when he got a tetanus shot. “Is this going to hurt?” he asked me. “I hate shots, mama,” he said and blinked his scared, big brown eyes at me. It didn’t matter that he was big, my maternal instinct took hold and I squeezed his hand and wished I could take the shot for him. Yep, he hates needles. Which is why, I was just a bit surprised that he got a tattoo.

Now, he told me he wanted one. He’s been telling me he wanted one for years and I simple rolled my eyes and said, “Not until you’re eighteen, buster.”

Who knew eighteen would come around so soon? Who knew I wouldn’t be any more prepared to see my baby get a piece of art permanently placed on his body? Who knew that at eighteen, he’d still think it was a good idea? Not me. If I had, I would have said, “Not until your sixty, buster!”

And when he told me he was going to get one a few days before his birthday, I just laughed. I reminded him that getting a tattoo could be very painful, (yeah, I might have exaggerated a bit) that sharp needles were involved, and that it could kill him…hepatitis C, and all, and then I blew the whole idea off. Hey…mama wasn’t there to hold his hand…no way would he go through with it, right?

Wrong.

Now, it’s not that I’m anti-tattoo, but this is my baby. I can close my eyes and still see him running naked as a jay bird across the bedroom, laughing as I chased him down to put a diaper on him I can see every inch of his little, squirming body, every bit of sweet-smelling baby-powdered skin, unmarked, un-inked, and oh so perfect.

Just this morning, he was walking from the shower without a shirt. I couldn’t help but stare at his forearm with an eagle, part of a flag, and the word “Freedom” written underneath. Oh, he’d already shown it to me, and it’s not hideous or anything, and a T-shirt will cover it up, but seeing it unexpectedly for the first time took me by surprise.

I realize that part of my dislike of the piece of body art is that I had to come face to face with the realization that my baby was really on the threshold of becoming a man. (Not man enough to get a tetanus shot, mind you, but man enough to get a tattoo.) And right then, he even looked like a man, tall, strong, his tattoo accentuating his bicep muscles, and a certain “I’m eighteen” gleam in his eyes.

As I walked away a bit disgruntled, I remembered what my mother told me when I first asked to get my ears pierced. “If God wanted you to wear pierced earrings you would have been born with holes in your ears.”

My answer back was, “Mom, that argument doesn’t hold water, because I could say that if God wanted me to wear clothes, I wouldn’t have been born naked.”

Mom was so over protective, so ol’ fashioned. But of course, this whole tattoo thing is different. Completely, different. Right?

Okay…dang it, maybe it’s not so different. But don’t you think if that he had to get a tattoo, he could have at least had the words, “I love my mama,” put on his arm?

So…here’s my question to you. How do you guys feel about tattoos? Any of my readers have tattoos? Do you like them on your men? Any parenting advice for a mama who’s having a hard time letting go of her baby?

Crime Scene Christie