I'll be going to be blogging tomorrow at Pop Culture Divas.  Please come check me out and leave a comment!

I couldn’t be happier.  Not knowing what to expect as a first time writer, I anticipated horrors when it came to the cover, but was pleasantly surprised.

So drum roll please……

Thanks so much for all the support!

2010 is shaping up to be a great year so far.  I’ve been outlining my butt off and finishing drafts.  Keep up with my progress meters and keep the good vibes coming.  All I need now is my release date. 

How are your 2010 goals shaping up?



Trench Coat Seduction 

Any spy worth her secret decoder ring must have a fabulous trench coat in her closet.  I personally have several and love them all, but in writing my Super Agent Series, I had yet to put one of my lady spies in a trench.

Until now. Brigit Kent, the no nonsense psychologist who moonlights for Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service in my latest novel, Proof of Life (Super Agent Series, Book 3), is perfect in a trench. She isn’t a fashionista by any means, but she has deep, dark family secrets and is playing with fire when it comes to blackmailing the deputy director of the CIA, Michael Stone. While I didn’t want her hung up on clothing labels, she was part 007 and part traditional ingénue, and I wanted her to have a signature piece.

Enter the trench. With Brigit’s dark looks, I imagined her as a modern day Audrey Hepburn, using her trench to its fullest. It was sexy and classic, just like Brigit’s character, and both the coat and the woman held the perfect combination to attract Michael.

Moving to the window next to Brigit, Michael tried not to stare at her peaches-and-cream skin, or her thick, dark hair, free of its ponytail and brushing her shoulders. He tried not to examine the way her trench coat molded to her waist and flared out at her hips, emphasizing both. Her body hummed with energy and his happily tightened in response.

The trench worked as a symbol of Brigit’s growth in the story as well as a handy accessory. In the opening, she uses the trench to hide her gun and her generous curves. Internally, she’s also hiding her insecurities and family secrets. As the story goes on, the trench and Brigit take a beating when Brigit is shot at and nearly blown up in an airplane. The coat gets mended and cleaned, and so does Brigit when she divulges her secrets to Michael and saves her sister from a terrorist group.  After all that, she was ready to take more chances, and at one point, I had fun letting her pull a classic Marilyn Monroe when she attends a meeting with the President of the United States.

The trench coat still had the plastic bag over it from the cleaners. She ripped it off and shrugged the coat over her shoulders. The silk lining brushed against her skin, and she wondered if she really had the courage to go to the White House in such a Marilyn Monroe style.

Hell, what did she care? No one would know unless the Secret Service felt her up.

Through the whole story, the trench helped me keep Brigit mysterious and desirable. She needed to be a puzzle Michael had to figure out, or if not completely figure out, at least enjoy trying.

Without a knock, she burst through the door with Helena on her heels and a set look on her face. A look Michael had seen repeatedly from Ruth’s house to Ireland. The soldier was ready to take on the world.

His heart stuttered and then stopped in wonder for a split-second as he took her in from head to toe. The wavy dark curls, the baby doll eyes, the bright lipstick. The gaudy earrings, the expensive trench, the moderate heels. She was still a conundrum. Still beautiful.

The trench coat seduction works and Michael finally understands Brigit and what a future with her holds.

The future stretched out in front of him with endless possibilities. Brigit understood who he was, what he did for a living, what he had survived. She could relate and love him for all his faults, for all his regrets. She gave him hope, and most of all, she gave him back his desire to live again. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let her go. “Call me as soon as you can get away.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes,” he said, grinning again so hard his cheeks hurt. “And wear the trench. I like it.”

She squeezed his hand before pulling her own away and saluting him. “Yes, sir.”

I was thrilled when the cover artist for Proof of Life found a dark-haired model wearing a trench for the cover. What makes it even better is the way the woman is lifting the collar to partially hide her face.  While trench coats are often associated with spies, Brigit’s trench coat showcases her personality and symbolizes her internal struggles rather than turning her into a clichéd stock character, and that made her all the more fun to write!

Thanks to Nana for inviting me to guest blog today. In celebration of Proof of Life releasing this week, I’m giving away an ecopy of the story to one lucky reader. Just post a comment or a question and I’ll add your name to the hat.

Misty Evans is an award-winning, multi-published author of CIA thrillers and paranormal comedy. Visit her at www.readMistyEvans.com or join her Yahoo! Group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group

There are some things I love about getting older.  That’s right, I said love.  Okay make that one thing.  Wisdom.  Wisdom to know not to take some things so seriously. Wisdom to not be in debt.  Wisdom to know that some dumb guy not reciprocating feelings is a matter of taste and not because he thinks I look like a purple Snuffleupagus.

Other than that, you can take the rest.  The suddenly sagging parts. The five extra pounds you can’t ever seem to get rid of, no matter how many miles you put on the treadmill.  The gray hairs you either pluck out with a vengeance or dye as if each strand is a symbol of your dwindling youth.  The weird dimple in your ass you can’t seem to get rid of no matter how many squats you do.

As a former athlete, I always swore that as long as I kept working out, I would be one of the few to escape cellulite.  In my twenties I figured as long as the gray hairs in my head were buried far in the midst of my think black hair, I needn’t worry about them.  In my youthful naiveté, I thought as long as was armed with the right Vicki’s lingerie, I could counteract the effects of gravity. 

But one day after my thirtieth birthday, I got out of the shower and looked in the mirror.  My body looked the same as it always did….almost.  There were some gray hairs at my temple.  Nothing a trip to the salon wouldn’t fix.  Was it me, or were the girls not as perky.  Oh well, I could get another bra with better support.  No need to be alarmed.  And then I turned around and saw it.  My booty.  It wasn’t as I last remembered it.  Sure, it was still firm…..ish.  I ran and worked out and did squats.  But it wasn’t as I remembered it.  And to make matters worse, there was now a funny looking dimple in my left thigh that looked remarkably like cellulite.  What?  How could this be?  Where had the bounce quarters off of it booty of 16 gone?  Somewhere over the years it had been replaced by its ‘in shape but certainly not bounce worthy’ booty of my thirties.  When the hell had that happened?

On my way up to Carmel this weekend, as I waited for my flights I came across two distinctly difference creatures.  One, with her lined skin, kind voice and toddler bouncing on her lap was as familiar to me as chocolate chip cookies and old dusty books.  The other with her Botox and Collagen injected face, perfectly smooth and surprise frozen skin, murmuring to the toddler in the seat next to her that he mustn’t call her grandma but instead call her Judy.  Two very different women, they looked different, acted different, so far on the opposite sides of the spectrum.  Which one would I be? 

Now I never thought I’d be one to want to age gracefully.  I figured I’d be kicking and screaming the whole way.  Living in Southern California It’s easy to see the products of plastic surgery and not even blink twice.  Adverts for the latest plastic surgery procedures are on television every day.  I’ve always been a proponent of if you don’t’ like something, then fix it, but am I ready for the plastic parts the frozen smile and the forever surprised eyebrows?  God only knows.  One thing I’m certainly not ready for is the Brazilian butt implant.  Yes, women are inserting something into their buts to now have the booties of Brazilian women.  Do I want my sixteen year old ass back that badly?  Maybe that’s a step over the line.

In Ghana there is a saying: “You too go grow.”  Not surprisingly you always find some elder woman muttering this under her breath to some sassy young girl who has not a care in the world and inhales chocolate like it’s religion.  I’ve always thought the saying was mutterings of bitter old women in search of their sixteen year old booties.  But maybe I was wrong.  There’s inevitability to age.  You can greet it happily with open arms, but who wants to do that?  Or you can line up for your Brazilian booty implants.  Either way you’ll have some wisdom and like it or not a couple of wrinkles.  Are you going to spend your life worrying about how to stave off crow’s feet or are you going to live every minute of it.  Soak it up and enjoy it?

A few years ago, DH and I stumbled across a Roller Derby match while on a date night. Imagine our surprise when the tween at the counter asked us if we were at the roller rink to skate or for Derby. We stared at the tween, then at each other, then back at the tween and declared with gusto “Derby!” I felt like there should have been some music or fanfare to signal our initiation into a world so outside of our daily ho-hum lives but as it turns out, we didn’t need the fanfare, Derby itself was enough.

Most of my life, my conservative mother has tried to get me to be more meek, less talkative and all around more ladylike. With their short skirts, shredded tights, no fewer than six tattoos apiece, and t-shirts emblazoned with names like “Steely Jan,” “Slamurai,” and “Bonnie D. Stoir,” there’s nothing meek or ladylike about the Derby girls. I felt an immediate kinship with these hell’s angels on wheels. They weren’t your typical female athletes. They were somehow way fiercer. Zipping around the tracks on a mission to destroy their opponents, often sending unsuspecting or inexperienced Jammers skidding to the crowds, they came to play.

The objectives are simple…ish. Get your Jammer around the opposing team’s blockers on the track twice to score. For more detailed rules, check out: http://www.derbydolls.com/sd/aboutus/index.html. As a Jammer it’ll help if you’re quick, sneaky and completely fearless.

It’s not your mother’s Derby where 70’s chicks zoomed around the tracks intent to search, destroy, and maim and torture, though there is a little search and destroy, after each of the matches both teams head out for drinks and food together. The idea and objective being chick camaraderie and education about the sport.

I immediately wanted to become one of them. Leave it to DH to point out that I could barely skate and my temper would probably keep me in the penalty box the whole match. *Blush*

In a world where society tells young girls if they’re not your typical pretty skinny cheerleader, that something is wrong with them, Derby provides a new home and way for all those who ever felt out of place, to fly…and maybe get out a little aggression.

DH came up with a Derby girl name for me if I ever learn how to skate properly: “Black & Deck Her.” Somehow he thinks it’s appropriate.

What would your derby girl name be?

For most of my life I’ve wondered what I was supposed to be doing with my life.  I had always been told to do what I was passionate about.  The only problem was, the only things I was truly passionate about were books. 

Ten years ago I read Bridget Jones’s Diary and had my Oprah ah-ha moment.  I loved Helen Fielding’s seemingly easy blend of humor and touching moments mingled with misadventures that could only happen to Bridget.  I wondered, “What if I could do that?” 

Like so many newbie “have a lot to learn” writers, I said things like, “How difficult could it be?”  An adorable heroine, sexy hero, a cute meet, sprinkle some acerbic wit and bam, you have a book.  God, I had no idea.  Who knew I needed plot, characterization, some magical writing and heaps of luck?

After several failed attempts at gluing a haphazard plot together for my first book, I got myself some craft books.  Make that lots of craft books, joined RWA, signed up for every class I could get my hands on, and found the best critique partner that a newbie like me deserved or could ask for.  She’s been patient, but honest.  Tells me what I don’t want to hear, encourages me to be the best writer I can be and I’m so honored to call her a friend and one of my favorite authors, Misty Evans.  If you’ve never read her, you’re missing out!

Over the years I’ve met some amazing writers.  Women who pour their hearts out onto the paper.  Those who plot, those who pants it.  All of them hustling towards an impossible goal while traversing the land mines of day job, significant others, kids and personal lives.

Because now, 10 years later, two completed manuscripts, over a hundred rejection letters and experiences I wouldn’t trade for a pair of Prada pumps, (Let’s be honest, I might trade the experience for some Louboutins),  I know what work goes into being a writer.  The pain, pleasure, joy of it.  The sweat and the literal tears.  I’ve literally had my dream come true…

Now what? 

PS.  I plan on having a big ol’ bonfire with those rejections.

What dreams are you working toward?

Think about it. Reality TV shows are steeped in Frienemy tradition. So are the chick flicks we love so much. Real Housewives of whatever city, 13 going on 30, Bride Wars. Pick your poison. No matter what, we can all pick out the toxic component who talks about people behind their backs. Why do we do allow these people into our lives? Why do we tolerate their toxic behavior? Do they find us? Or do we draw them to us?

I like to think I stick up for myself. But to be honest, through the years I’ve always had more than one friend that’s always made me feel small and insignificant. And I always wonder why and how the hell I let someone like that into my life.

At a party a couple of weeks ago, DH asked me why girls were so hard on each other. “Aren’t you supposed to be friends?” My answer unfortunately wasn’t a simple one. I could have cooked it down to one word, jealousy, but is it never that simple. Competition, jealousy, good old fashioned mean spiritedness. I wish I knew.

Through my life, I’ve known some amazing women. Strong, brilliant, confident women who would die to protect me and jump to my defense at a moment’s notice. I’ve been lucky. If you’ve been lucky, make sure you tell those friends how grateful you are for them. And if you have a Frienemy, let her know you have her number. As my mother would say in her GhanaianAmericanBritish accent “Tell that small girl that you do not tolerate nonsense!”

Our friends should up lift us, provide a shoulder to cry on, give us hugs when we lose a job, let us borrow the perfect shoes for a hot date, and form a militia when a man does us wrong.

As for our Frienemies, I suggest you listen to my mother. Or maybe if you don’t want to listen to moms, you’ll listen to Chris Rock when he says “I told you that bitch crazy!”

Go on. Admit it. You have at least a couple.

For some it’s food, for others it’s television, for the rest of us, it’s Alexander Skarsgard from True Blood.....erm, maybe that’s just me. But come on, have you seen that man? All of a sudden I have an affinity for Swedish men. Yum.

Years ago, I had a friend who warned me to never put myself in the position to have people judge me. In my youth, I thought that meant towing the line in public and always presenting the best version of myself, never giving anybody any reason for pause. We all tow the line from time to time forcing our guilty pleasures into the closet.

But why must we hide our behaviors or the little secrets that make us interesting?  Those very same behaviors or secrets are exactly why people love us. Are they so bad they need to be swept under the carpet? So hideous that we need to wait till our husbands are gone before we dare to perform them? No. Potentially embarrassing, maybe. Incomprehensible? Almost always. Brain numbing? Hell, yes.

I’m not willing to hide anymore. And to prove it, find my guilty pleasures/single behaviors /dirty little secrets below. Promise you won’t judge me too harshly? No, really, promise before you keep reading.

Did you pinky swear? Here goes.

1. I crumble Oreos into cookies and cream ice-cream and eat it straight out of the tub when I think no one is looking.

2. I sometimes double dip

3. I eat chicken with ketchup

4. I suck the marrow out of chicken bones (I think you have to be African to understand the joy of this one)

5. I eat McDonald’s cheeseburgers – I know, I know

6. When hubby’s not home I turn up the music and pretend I’m on American Idol. Yes, I even do judges comments. I do a decent Randy Jackson impression.

7. Sometimes I pretend I’m on America’s Best Dance Crew and dance around the living room with the puppy as my “Crew”

8. I sometimes act out scenes from my books dialogue and all

9. I dance spontaneously to songs only I can hear.

10. I watched Knight Rider. No, not the cool 80’s version with a bare-chested Hasslehoff, but the crap 2008 version.

11. Reality Shows. Specifically, yes, I’m naming names: Real Housewives Atlanta and New York, NYC Prep, Rachel Zoe Project, Miami social, Oh screw it, pretty much anything on Bravo.  Don’t judge me!

12. So You Think You Can Dance

13. BBC’s Mistresses

There I said them. Well, not all of them. God forbid you all have that kind of ammunition. As I get older, I think back to my friend and her piece of advice. I now realize the underlying truth in her statement. I need to treat all of my life as if I’m dancing and no one’s watching. Once I can let go of caring what people think, I’ll truly be free and no one can judge me.

What’s your guilty pleasure/little secret? C’mon, I can’t be the only one to share.

For my birthday, dear hubby took me to Magic Mountain. I felt like a kid again. Rode every ride, screamed like a four year old on a sugar high – there were plenty of four year olds to measure against. We rode and rode and rode, sometimes we rode twice back to back. Hubby even won me a prize.

But somewhere between the watered down slushy lemonade, mounds of cotton candy (what exactly is cotton candy anyway), afore mentioned screaming four year olds, and happy adults yearning for a thread of their childhood, I noticed something was different than I remembered.

Not the nostalgia, not the excitement. But somewhere between childhood, puberty and the constraints of adulthood, a hierarchy had been imposed - the hierarchy that comes with money.

Gone are the days where everyone, Rockefeller or Oliver Twist, had to wait patiently in line for their turn. Now, like in the rest of life, money talks. With enough money and a handy dandy Flash Pass, you can bypass the lines by setting appointments for each ride. And even amongst the “moneyed” elite there are class distinctions. Those with a standard Flash Pass and those with a Gold Flash Pass, a sort of new money, old money class distinction. With a Standard, you could set your appointments but they were based on current wait times so if the current wait time is two hours, your appt will be two hours away. With a Gold Pass, you can set an appointment in the next five minutes.

As we bypassed each line, teeming with eager thrill seekers, I couldn’t help but dance as I waltzed by. After all, I was now in the special club. I wanted a Flash Pass for life. We rode several rides over and over again, picking and choosing which ones were the coolest.

But then I thought about it. Has the joy of amusement parks been ruined forever? Am I destined to be bored or worse, not want to go, if I can’t have a Flash Pass? Can a smattering of privilege make the normal and every day enjoyment seem somehow mundane and boring?

Would I have had fun without the Flash Pass? Sure. But would I have been exhausted and perhaps a little cranky after waiting in line for hours? Probably. But could I have enjoyed the rides more because of the value of time I spent waiting for them. Unfortunately, yes. I would have made sure to squeeze full enjoyment out of every single ride. Instead of my blaze attitude about which rides were best and worth going on again.

Would I get the Flash Pass again, hell yes. I’m not crazy. I know a good thing when I see it. But I do promise to feel a twinge of guilt at the socioeconomic implications.

I am a Romance Writer. There I said it. I have nothing to be ashamed of. My writer friends, we’ve all been there, at some dinner party, some BBQ, some Bat Mitzvah when someone asks what you do.

Do you proclaim loudly that you write Romance?

True Story - Party Conversation, Last Month:

Evil Judgy Woman:“Oh, Nana, what do you do?”

Me: “Some nonsense about day job.”

Dear Hubby: “Don’t be modest, Baby.” Then grins and adds, “She writes Romance.”

Evil Judgy woman: Crickets. Not the cheery summer bunch that at least chirp with some frequency and volume, I’m talking about the odd late fall cricket – you know the one who got lost on the way to wherever crickets go for the winter. He was the lone chirper and even he had a sore throat. After a moment, she closed her mouth, then said, “What with like Fabio on the cover? Heaving bosoms and everything?”

No, I did not bitch slap her, though the urge was strong. No, I didn’t channel my African roots and cuss her out within an inch of her life. Though I could almost picture my 86 year old grandmother doing so.

When did Romance start being a dirty word? If one more person asks me what it’s like to write chick porn, or says something like “You seem so smart, what’s the appeal?” Or worse. “Must be easy right, you just follow the formula, I really might have to channel my grandmother and whoop some disrespectful ass.

When did Happily Ever After become a four letter word? I have a theory that because romances are stories about women and for women, the intellectual establishment wants to downplay their importance and credibility. I write Romance because I love a love story, I love watching two people’s lives unfold and watching them form that bond. I love the idea of love, the hope of love, the nervous energy of it.

Romance readers and writers don’t live hollow existences hoping to live some kind of voyeuristic fantasy life through our books. We are professionals, mothers, teachers and yes, even some men (gasp). Like other writers, we agonize over correct word choice and sentence structure, hooks, and plotting with mythic structure.

And let me point out that in our struggling economy when the publishing world is scrambling to stay afloat, Romance is one genre that’s thriving. Check out this New York Times Article: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/08/books/08roma.html

And because these ladies say it better than I ever could, feel free to check out the Smart Bitches blog: http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/index.php They say it all.

I urge the non-romance reader to look beyond the heaving bosoms and purple prose of the old school Romance. Look beyond what you know to be Romance. Get rid of your misconceptions and enjoy a love story. You might just surprise yourself and have some fun.

Have you hugged a Romance writer today?