Blue Skies Are Smilin' On Me!

I had a blog ready for last week. It was funny, witty, entertaining, and insightful. Last Wednesday, I set my alarm for four-fifteen Thursday morning, a full fifteen minutes earlier than my normal wake-up time, in order to upload the blog post before I skipped off to work only to have internet connection issues that wouldn't permit me to publish my post.

This week I have a lousy head cold and raw, scratchy throat, so recreating my clever conversation of last week (which, sadly, is now stale news) will be a stretch.

But, in keeping with my new, positive outlook on this kooky journey we call 'life', there have been some 'blue sky' moments since I last posted. Here are some of them:

• The triplets are home for spring break.


• All of my snow has gone bye-bye!!!


• I can actually get to my shed again.


• I took the shovel, sandbags, and winter emergency kit out of my Jimmy.


• My tulips are beginning to come up.


• I'm *this* close to having all my new projects ready to begin my search for a new agent.


• I've started my new--and improved--diet.


• My birthday is next week.


• And last, but not least, I DON'T have to have knee surgery after all!

That's the 'new' me list of positive affirmations. Now the 'old' me--you know, that somewhat cynical, cup half-empty kind of gal would have chronciled the above list a wee bit differently. Here's the counter-part' to the list above as authored by the former 'bummed out Bullet Hole':

• The triplets are home from spring break so I get to cook every night. Yay.


• The snow is all gone but my yard looks like he!!.


• I took the shovels, sand, emergency kit out of my Jimmy; I can now use the sand bags to combat the flooding that is expected. Oh, and there's also snow in the forecast this weekend. Goody, goody.


• My tulips are coming up. My grass? WHAT grass?


• My projects are almost ready for the new agent search but am I ready???


• I've just started the new diet and already I'm sick of sub sandwiches.


• My birthday is next week.


• No knee surgery, but the physical therapy may kill me off anyway...

Okay. Your turn. What 'blue-sky' moments have you had since we last talked? Any postive news to share? Good luck experiences?
It's supposed to be sunny and 60 here today. After the long winter and the threat of spring floods, I'm so gonna cherish the day! Hope you can too!
~Bullet Hole~

This Is The Picture That Jack Drew...

My 9-yr old drew me this picture. It's of a clan of warrior elves, he tells me. I think it may be the coolest drawing ever. See how well-armed the elves are? BTW, you can tell they are elves because they have pointy ears. Anyway, the elves have guns, knives and bows. And yes, the guy in the middle is wearing a pistol. That is not what you think it is...I already asked.

One of the elves has a bazooka you can strap to your back. I especially like how Jack detailed the bazooka with actual crosshairs sights. Now, clearly, Jack is thinking, because the elves on the far right and left are covering the others. And they are very confident because they seem very happy.

I was thinking these were forest elves, but there is only one tree. And look how that one branch telescopes all the way across the page like that! AND it's strong enough to support the weight of two elves while a third swings away on a vine that descends magically from the heavens. Where is he going, I wonder? He should stay put, since the others are so well-armed.

I don't quite understand the elf in a bubble in the upper left. Maybe he's the archelf of death or maybe he has an invisible helicopter. But something is clearly going on there. See how the lines go up to indicate he is levitating somehow?

But my favorite part of the picture is the 3rd guy from the left. He has no weapons, so obviously, he is in charge of radio communications. He has antenna arms! I bet he'd get better reception if he was standing on top of the tree like that other guy. Of course, he is very tall. And his arms ARE antennas.

How cool is it that kids do stuff like this for us? I like this picture better than any macaroni necklace or handprint in plaster.

And that's why I'm sharing it with you.

The Assassin

Spring Time Lessons

Hey...make sure you pop over to Barbara Vey's anniversary party and leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Shut Up and Kiss Me! http://www.publishersweekly.com/blog/Beyond_Her_Book/index.php


There is no denying it. It’s spring in Houston, Texas. Yup, Certain things happen at this time of year. The most noticeable sign is that I, the little woman, the wife, with my chin tucked to my chest, my eyes held downward, automatically start walking six steps behind my much respected and adored husband.

Oh, I’m not being subservient; there really isn’t a submissive bone in my body. Don’t get me wrong, I respect my husband, and love him, but my six-steps-behind spring march isn’t due to any of that. It stems from pure shameless self-preservation.

You see, I live in the very wooded area of Houston. And this time of year brings out an onslaught of critters—some nice, and some not so nice. The arrival of the clay-colored Robins is a sure sign that old man winter has given up the good fight and gone into hiding. Last weekend, I sat at my desk and watched a possum and her two babies march across my backyard patio. Included in this onslaught of critters are the mosquitoes, aka the hungry little bastards. Oh, then there are the snakes, who never fail to sneak into the house and get the cats all riled up. But honestly, this blog isn’t about Robins, possums, mosquitoes, or snakes.

It’s about one of biggest fears. And I’m not talking about the fear that George Clooney will show up on a bad hair day, when the girl’s aren’t supported and I’m still wearing my soon-to-retire “Hot Stuff” nightshirt. Nope, I’m talking about the creepy, crawly eight-legged beasts. I’m talking my all-time feared enemy: the spider.

And because we live in a wooded area, with lots of trees, and lots of bushes, these Texas-size arachnids just love to build their webs, stretched across the walking paths of my front yard. So, whenever we arrive home, I wait until hubby starts through the paths, his much respected and loved six-foot-two frame clearing away any spider . . . or web. Nevertheless, these eight-legged spring-time beasts aren’t limited to just the paths in my front yard.

It happened four nights ago. It was late, and I was checking email in my office one more time before I hit the sack. When I went to leave the room, I saw it. It was huge, freaking huge. It was ugly. The thing had hair growing on his butt! And it had built itself a honking hotel-size web right outside my French doors. Obviously, the light in my study attracted enough insects that the blood-sucking twerp thought it was the perfect place to call home.

With chills running down my spine I hotfooted it upstairs. In a screechy voice I told hubby, “You gotta job to do! There’s a spider, the size of a baseball (Yes, I exaggerated a bit, it was only the size of a golf ball on steroids) taking up residence right outside my French doors. You gotta evict the sucker.”

He promised me that he would take care of the situation first thing in the morning. Having faith in my man, and believing him when he promised the spider wouldn’t find its way in the house, up the stairs, and down the hall to crawl in bed with me, I agreed to let the eviction notice wait till morning.

Now, let’s fast forward to the morning. “It’s not here,” hubby said when I had dragged his butt downstairs to do his job. “You must have imagined it.”

“Please,” I told him. “I’m a romance writer and I have much more important things to use my imagination on than a freaking hairy-assed spider.”

“Well, maybe he heard you scream about eviction notices and packed up his web and left.”

I couldn’t deny that the spider was gone. But the next night when I went to cut off my computer, I saw it again. Same place, same ugly spider. Hair still growing on its butt. Running for help, I got the same song and dance from hubby. “Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow. I’m in bed. Let the guy live another night.”

Much to my dismay, the next morning was a repeat of the morning before. I knew I wasn’t crazy, but the fact remained the spider wasn’t there. Obviously, the thing was nocturnal and he took his web with him when he left. Hubby didn’t seem to buy it.

Now, let’s fast forward to the next night. Oh, yes, this is where it gets fun. Hubby was taking out the garbage, via my office door, and I was putting away some groceries. Do you see where I’m going with this?

Now according to hubby, he swung the door open and was mid-step, too late to stop, when he saw the thing.

I heard a knock coming from the office and I thought hubby was playing with the cats. But then I heard him yell for me. Of course, I went to the rescue. He stood right inside my office, running his hands through his hair, and the look on his face--panic. Now let me stop here and explain. Hubby isn’t normally afraid of spiders, but remember this thing was huge, ugly, and had hair on its butt!

Hubby looked at me and said, “Do you see it?” At that point, I didn’t have a clue what he meant.

“See what?” And then I did see it. Not the hairy-butted spider, but the spider web hanging from his ear. I looked outside and spotted the garbage strewn all over the back patio, then I looked back at my much panicked hubby. “You believe me now, don’t you?”

He barely nodded, because he was way too busy dusting off his jacket with one hand, while trying to get the web off his ear with the other, all the while shaking his head like wet dog. “Do you see it?” he asked turning in circles.

Being the wife I am, loving the man like I do, I only backed up five or six feet.

“Crap,” he said. “That thing was huge.” Now he thinks it’s huge, huh? “Do you see it,” he turned around again. “Crap, where would it go?” He stepped closer to me, still shaking his head as if to dislodge the spider from his hair. I of course took a step back. “What’s a spider’s instinct? What will he do?” he asked.

“Bite,” I said. Hey, he asked and I was only being honest.

My words led to him yanking off his jacket and slinging it to the floor. Then he started dusting himself off and shaking his head again. When he did his next turn, I saw it.

“There! On your leg.” Of course, I took a few steps back. Don’t judge me until you see one of these things.

Hubby grabbed the bag I held in my hand and knocked the freaking huge thing to the floor and stepped on its hairy butt. Then he looked up at me and said, “See, nothing to it.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared. I knew he was trying to collect his machismo by acting cool. I decided not to remind that he was almost acting as bad as me, but neither was I gonna stay completely silent. “Maybe next time you’ll believe me.”

He grins, and in his sarcastic voice said, “Probably not.”

I stood there for a few seconds. Then I smiled.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I turned to leave, but he must have seen it in my eyes.

“Oh, crap,” I heard him say. “You’re gonna blog about this, aren’t you?”

Now where would this man get an idea like that? So there you have it. Spring time lessons from the Craig Household. How is your spring going? Are you feeling spring fever? Have you ever seen a hairy-butted spider?

This weekend, I went back to my old blog (the one I never post on anymore) and took a look at some of my old posts. I realized that back when I had more time, I was funnier. So anyway, since most of you guys at Killer Fiction didn't read my blog back then (except Tori - die-hard fan extraordinaire!), I decided I would pick through and share some gems from my past with you. Some of them I found highly entertaining because of the differences in my life - then and now. This is from 2005, when I was still a CFO, working the corporate America machine:

Okay, I came to the stark realization the other day that I'm high maintenance. Now, some of you might say "so what?" And others who already knew me might say "and this is a surprise why exactly?" But I was a bit dismayed and more than a little disgruntled because I don't want to be high maintenance. High maintenance is for beautiful women with perky boobs that never fall with age. High maintenance is for women born and married into high society. Women who can fold napkins into swans and know sixty different ways to apply eye shadow depending on occasion and lighting.

I'm a tomboy. I raced motorcycles, for goodness sake, and have a collection of power tools that make most men drool. If you needed new fork seals on your motocross bike or a new deck off the back of your house--I'm your gal.

High maintenance? Surely that wasn't me.

But alas, the tags in my clothes didn't lie.

Once again, what had been a fantastic sale on every outfit in every color that I liked was about to turn into a laundry nightmare. I'd already gone through my "dry-clean only" phase, and since I'd managed to locate a really good (and relatively cheap) dry cleaners, that hadn't been a problem. The "wash separately and hang to dry" was a little rougher because it actually required me to do something domestic, but I still managed to lock myself in the house one day out of the month or simply limit my wearing of the outfit to once or twice a year. But these new tags, they were going to be a real problem.

"Hand wash only."

Hand wash? Hand wash?! Hadn't it been like 100 years or so since we scrubbed clothes on a rock? And why did it seem I was only drawn to items with this type of tags?

And that's when it hit me - I was high maintenance.

Of course, it should have occurred to me before. I mean, the dry clean only and wash separately should have been an indication of things to come, but they were really only scraping the surface. Thrown into a whirlwind, I thought about the things I'd purchase over the years--the suede winter shoes (and I live in a state where winter consisted only of rain), the 6-inch stilettos with no grip on the bottom (and marble floors in my office building), the hairstyle that required an entire roll of aluminum foil and three hours of professional help to maintain, the jewelry with hooks that I couldn't work with those darned acrylic nails (not to mention the acrylic nails!) and the real kicker – the shower curtain that was "dry-clean only." WTF!?

But then what are the options?????? Polyester in 105 degree weather? Cotton that must be purchased two sizes too big and ten shades too dark so that it still fits after shrinkage and remotely resembles any shade but gray? Broken, chipped nails? Hair pulled back in a ponytail, with (gasp) GRAY ROOTS!?

Blasphemy! The style gods would rebel. My friends would laugh. My checking account would probably appreciate the increase, but really, was financial stability worth looking like a refugee?

So high maintenance it is and with pride.

The moral of this story--Don't shy away from what you are, ladies. Embrace it over a spa pedicure while drinking a $6.00 latte' and playing solitaire on your $700 smartphone.

BTW - I updated it a bit for the smartphone reference. :) It used to say "pda."

Thank God, I'm a technical writer with a casual dress code. Jeans and a polo shirt - all machine washable - with tennis shoes, are now standard fare!

Deadly DeLeon

Oscar Fashion

I’ll admit, that with the baby so fresh and new, I haven’t been to the movies in awhile. Long enough that I hadn’t seen any of the nominated movies this year. (Though, my Netflix cue is now full!). So, while I did watch the entire Oscars plus pre-show, you can guess what I was really watching for. Yup. The fashions. As I explained to The Man, the Oscars are the Superbowl of fashion. And this year there were clearly some people who deserved to victory dance in the end zone and – sometimes even more fun to watch – those who fumbled hard. Here’s my list of fashion fabs and flubs:


Sandra Bullock: Fab!
Love her slinky, sophisticated metallic look. It match perfectly with little Oscar. The only minor flub in this outfit is the lipstick. Is that magenta? Puce? She would have been MUCH better off going with a muted pink or a really bold red. This somewhere in between color is a no-go for me.


Charlize Theron: Flub!
With the economy in such a slump, apparently Charlize decided in lieu of a boob job, she’d just circle them with rosebuds. As one commentator very subtly pointed out, “This dress draws attention away from her face.” Yeah, ya’ think?


Queen Latifah: Fab!
This is color is gorgeous, and the dress has just enough bling to pop without being gawdy. And the cut – SO flattering! Even though the Queen has made herself a spokeswoman of “big girls” everywhere, she honestly is more like the average sized woman. And her curves look amazing in the is dress.


Vera Farmiga: Flub!
Ruffles, ruffles, ruffles. And in hot puce no less. Any hear that? It’s the sound of her stylist being fired.


Elizabeth Banks: Most Fab!
My favorite dress of the evening! A picture doesn’t do it justice. You have to see it in motion as she fairly floated down the red carpet. Subtle, feminine, and very old Hollywood glamorous!


The Hair: Biggest Flub!
The rain plus huge tents plus massive body heat equaled probably the worst hair on record for the majority of women there. Did anyone else notice that every woman with an up-do had the most horrible fly-aways and frizz? I swear their hair grew three feet from the time they stepped from their limos to the time they reached their seats. Even worse? No one backstage was fixing it before they took the stage! Seriously, did you see Sarah Jessica’s hair? I love that woman, but someone totally needed some hairspray. And gel. And a straight iron.

So, what were your picks for your favorite (or least favorite) looks?


~Trigger Happy Halliday

Gender Confusion and Other Things...

Sgt. Assassin Does Baghdad

Only 2.5 months until Tom comes home! I can't believe it's been a year already. How the hell did I survive? Here are a few thoughts about his impending return...

- I've become a dude. Some kind of mother/father amalgam weirdness. Need proof? Conor, Louis' older brother, told me the other day, "Leslie, you're more one of the guys than some of the guys in my class." I asked him if that was a compliment. He said, "Oh yeah!" Well, it's nice to know...I guess...

-I outweigh Sgt. Assassin. "Hey!" He tells me in an email, "I've lost like 40lbs and am comin home svelte and studly for you!" I tell him he can borrow my clothes, since I've gained 10-15lbs from stress eating while he's gone.

-My 11-yr. old daughter can make dinner! I came home to find she'd popped a frozen lasagna in the oven and it was almost done. "Look!" She said excitedly, "I even set the digital timer on the microwave!" She points to the countdown. "We have a timer on the microvave???" I ask in shock. She did a great job too. Well, except the lasagna was face down on a cookie sheet...but who's complaining?

-Bassett hounds do not consider the woman of the household to be a replacement for the alpha male. On the good side, this is the one reference to me being a woman in this whole blog. On the downside, I have 70lbs. of stupid dogmeat that won't listen to me and gets into the garbage, pantry and countersurfs on a daily basis.

All of this tells me one thing. I need a girly, spa, purse shopping spree when that man gets back. And he'd BETTER tell me I look thin!

The Assassin

Giving Birth to a Book

WINNERS! WINNERS! Because I had so many post, I'm giving away two ARCs, Advanced Reader Copies, and two of my older releases. THE FIRST PLACE WINNERS TO RECEIVE AN ARC: Chelsea B and RobynL. The second place winners to receive a copy of one of my older releases are Kerribookwriter and Sally F.

Please email me at christie (at) Christie-Craig (dot) com. Sally and Kerribookwriter please let me know which book you would like. And thanks to everyone who played.

Next Tuesday pop over to Barbara Vey's blog http://www.publishersweekly.com/blog/Beyond_Her_Book/index.php and post for a chance to win an ARC. Also in May I will be doing contests every week to give away an ARC.

CONTEST: Leave a comment to win an advanced copy of Shut Up and Kiss Me.

You may have heard writers say that our books are our babies—that seeing a book through from the first sparkle of inspiration to the actual publication—to where you can actually hold that book in your hands—is much like having a baby. I should point out that some of our babies stay in the oven a heck of a lot longer than nine months. That said, here’s sort of how I compare publishing to birthing. Oh, I should warn you upfront, this may get graphic. Hey, anyone who’s ever given birth knows how graphic that can be. Right?

First, did you notice I compared birthing to publishing, and not writing? Why? Well, because writing is only part of the publishing process. Ahh, the writing, or I should say the initial writing, the oh-my-God-I’ve-got-a-great-story stage. It’s then when a writer can’t get to her computer fast enough. She’s breathing hard with excitement. Her body is tingling with anticipation. Her focus is 100% on her story. She feels so good. She’s on fire. Her words flow from her finger tips, and she doesn’t even contemplate stopping. Oh, no. She’s doing this. She’s going all the way this time.

Ahh, yes, the initial writing is what I refer to as the conception stage of publishing. And by conception, in case you missed all those metaphors, I mean sex. It’s the really fun part of making a baby, or in this case, making a book. Well, it’s the fun part when everything goes right. Hey . . . most of us has gone fishing and didn’t get a bite. Or entered a race and didn’t arrive at the finish line. Gone gigging and didn’t get a frog. Well, writers can get all turned on by an idea, but when they get down to actually doing the deed—I’m talking about the writing—well, the plot goes limp, the hero, or heroine just doesn’t stand up to our expectations. It can be very discouraging.

A smart writer will be honest when it’s not working. Needless to say, writers are human too, and we are often tempted to just fake it. Faking it always gets a girl and writers in trouble. Seriously, screaming “yes, yes, yes,” when there’s no real motivation for the story makes for a very boring first scene. And some new writers, myself included, have been known to keep faking it chapter after chapter.

However, like in the baby-making business, if his little squiggles meet up with your eggs, things very well may start to fuse—well, that’s about chapter two in the book-making business. The plot just seems to be sticking. Not that all your insecurities have faded. This is still that time when you’re unsure if the book will go to full term. You’re scared to let anyone else read it, or tell anyone about your new idea because you’re not one hundred percent sure you are going to carry this book the whole way. Yup, that first trimester of writing is filled with uncertainty.

Now in the baby-making business, the less than pleasant upchucking stage comes a bit earlier than it does in the book-making business. It’s about mid book when you start getting that sick feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew—never mind trying to swallow it. The nervous flutters of not being able to pull off the plot starts gnawing at the lining of your stomach. Nothing you write goes down good. Half of what your write comes back up and gets flushed down the computer toilet with one button push—delete. Doubt sets in.

Thankfully, that stage passes when you start to feel the plot move. Your book suddenly feels real, alive. You get excited about naming your baby. You wonder what your baby’s face will look like. Will the cover be as beautiful as you imagine it? Will people stop you on the street to tell you how beautiful your baby is? But then it hits. . . the pressure of making your book great. The fear that it’s not going to turn out as good as you thought, that fear has you practically peeing on yourself all the time.

You’re not over that phase when the sagging stage hits. You know when you’re pregnant and your boobs start looking like overgrown eggplants? Well, the middle of the book is known to sag like that. As a matter of fact, soon, the whole book starts getting huge, the computer document starts showing signs of stretch marks, even the backend of your book is spreading. You need to stop feeding it words, but you can’t. Because if you do, that means it’s almost time for the big day, the day you write “the end.”

Oh, hell, you don’t think you’re ready for that. Because you know what comes next. Just thinking about it has inspiration and fear gushing out like a burst of water. Then it’s time, time to expose yourself, time to pull up your gown and show your hoo-hoo to every one in the room. It’s time to push your baby out into the world.

It’s time to give the book to a critique partner, to an agent or an editor. As wonderful as this experience can be, you know to expect pain—the pain of rewrites and rejections. Then comes the worry that your baby is never going to grow up to be a real novel and play on the bookstore shelves. You consider quitting, crossing your legs and just not letting it out. But it’s too late to turn back. Oh, no, your woo-woo is already exposed, you’ve told people you were writing a book, you’re committed and as scared as you are, you have this need to push yourself. So you take one of those deep breaths and you do it. You scream like a Mo Fo and you give one last push and it happens. Your baby is done. You are exhilarated and elated. Life is good. You can’t wait to get your first glimpse of the little darling as a completed book. And when you do . . .?

Sorry. Not all babies are born beautiful. Have you ever seen a new-born baby that came right out of the shoot? Their heads can be misshaped, they’ve got gooey stuff all over them, and sometimes you gotta slap them on the ass to bring some life into them. Well, our books are born the same way. An editor may say what a cute little baby, and love it like a mama, but then they drop the bomb. They tell you before they’ll really love your little darling, you gotta get it a nose job, some liposuction, and grow some hair on that thing.

Yeah, birthing a book isn’t easy. But it’s like birthing a baby. There’s nothing in the world quite like it. Because after all that, a writer forgets it’s not easy. They find themselves back at their computer, turned on by another plot idea, hoping it stands up to their expectation, praying to cross the finish line, swearing they won’t fake it, and they start working on giving life to another book.

That’s what I’m doing this week. I’m starting a new book. And my baby that just came out of the shoot? Well, I kind of, sort of, had twins. You see, next June I will have two books hit the shelves. Wild, Wicked & Wanton: 101 Ways to Love Like You are In a Romance Novel, is a humorous non-fiction book on what a woman can learn from a romance novel, and Shut Up and Kiss Me, is another humorous romantic suspense that includes skunks, fire ants and men in--and out--of pink bathrobes.

And to celebrate my starting a new book and publishing two, I’m gonna give away an ARC of Shut Up and Kiss Me to one lucky poster. Tell me about the books you are reading, or tell me a funny birthing experience of a baby, a book, or anything that brings about labor pains. Just leave a comment to be entered in the drawing. And make sure you come back tomorrow morning to see who won.