MWF Seeking Woman With Gun

March 6, 2013 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This week I’m working on the cover art for the sixth book of my series, and I’m wading through images that range from OMG to WTF and everything in between.

As you may have noticed, the visual theme for the Never Say Spy series is “woman with gun”. Try searching that phrase on a stock photo site. You won’t believe the range of results. Apparently there’s an enormous need for stock photos of women from all walks of life holding firearms.

Brides, women in schoolgirl uniforms, soldiers, police officers, business women, rednecks, slutty cops in lingerie, bikini models in sky-high heels, punks, cowgirls, pregnant women, pioneers, spies, pirates, Cossacks, construction workers, Muslim women, duck hunters, and female SWAT personnel are just a few of the variations I’ve found.

Wardrobe choices range from leather, lace, fur, camo, denim, and spandex to more unusual garb like plastic wrap, tartan micro-minis, hard hats, headscarves, men’s pajama tops, parkas, sailor suits, a Napoleon uniform, metallic gold body paint, and nothing but a hat.

Clearly most of these women have never actually fired a gun, though it would be fun to watch them try using those grip positions. And maybe I’m just a strait-laced old lady, but I’ve never felt the urge to shoot in the nude (or even wearing a nice conservative string bikini). I prefer to keep my tender parts covered when there are hot brass cartridges flying around. I guess I’m just a wimp.

Weapon choices vary wildly. There are the usual assault rifles, semi-auto pistols, shotguns, revolvers, and air rifles, but bananas seem to be an extremely popular choice of weapon, too. I wonder if the gun control advocates realize that these deadly weapons are readily available in every supermarket, stored within easy reach of children. It’s shocking, I tell you.

If you’re looking for more unusual weapons, there are dangerous-looking women brandishing paintball guns, water pistols, fingers, hair dryers, tattoo guns, drills, cannons, gasoline nozzles, muskets, flintlocks, nerf guns, cameras, caulking guns, or a heavy-duty perforator. If I ever write a thriller about construction workers, I’m gonna use the photo of the blonde with the hard hat and perforator. That chick’s got muscles.

And… in all the thousands of photos retrieved by searching “woman with gun”, there was one picture of a cowed-looking young guy in a shirt and tie, holding a little-bitty gun and looking apologetic. I’m not sure whether the photo was tagged wrong or whether they popped that one in there just for fun, but I got a good laugh out of it.

Which was nice, because I figured they owed me after making me look at a naked woman posing with a bleeding, severed pig’s head. No matter what you need, there’s a stock photo out there for you. Though if you need that one, please don’t tell me. I’d rather sleep tonight.

But I really can’t complain. There are worse ways to spend a day than looking at pictures on the internet while blasting my favourite tunes.

I’m off to work now…

What are you up to today? Brandishing your banana? Decapitating pigs? Do tell.

Stand Back: Brain Farts!

February 27, 2013 / Diane Henders / 40 Comments

My brain has apparently been eating ‘way too many beans lately. The brain farts are getting embarrassing.

The past few weeks I’ve been totally immersed in finishing Book 6 in the Never Say Spy series. Who knew fiction writing could cause such nasty brain flatulence? Must be all the fibre in the pages.

The other night I slid into bed and Hubby said, “Oh, are you finished in the bathroom already?”

I stared at him blankly for a moment. No, I wasn’t wondering ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?’ I wake up in the middle of the night to do that. Seriously. It’s the weirdest feeling.

But getting on with the story…

I realized I’d completely forgotten to wash my face and brush my teeth. So I got out of bed, went to the bathroom… and put on deodorant.

Shortly thereafter, I had a session with my muay thai trainer. I’ve been going to the gym regularly for quite a few years, and when I realize it’s time to go I often leap up from my computer without fully disengaging my brain. (Yes, actually, that is quite painful. Thanks for asking.) So before I leave home, I perform a short ritual similar to the Catholic “Spectacles-Testicles-Wallet-And-Watch” to confirm that I have my shorts, running shoes, gym card, and hair elastic.

Knowing I’d be distracted that day, I took extra care , double-checking to make sure I had everything before I left. So I arrived, full of pride, with the four things on my checklist. But… without my hand wraps, boxing gloves, water bottle, or shin guards. Smooth. Very smooth.

Several days later, I booked an appointment with my accountant. I had just completed a marathon 14-hour writing session the previous day and I was coming into the home stretch with the final chapters. I knew I was going to be distracted.

I repeated the appointment time to myself and to Hubby several times, beginning two days prior to the appointment. I put the appointment in my computer calendar with a popup reminder and an audible alarm. The night before, I reminded myself again: “Appointment at 11:00 AM tomorrow.” The morning of the appointment, I got out of bed and reminded myself, “I have to get up from the computer at 10:00 AM to get ready for my meeting.”

When I looked at the clock next, it was 11:15. Much grovelling ensued.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson. But no.

Only a few hours later, I was heading out to the gym. Not because I’d remembered it; simply because it’s muscle memory after all these years. I can’t count the number of times I’ve arrived at the gym and begun my workout only to wake up and go, “Shit, I didn’t feel like doing this today. I was going to skip it…”

Anyway, I was getting changed before I left home and I forgot to put on my bra. Fortunately the bathroom is upstairs, and by the time I got downstairs it had become uncomfortably obvious that I wasn’t being supported in the manner to which I am accustomed.

My final draft should be finished and out to my editors/beta readers this week, after which I’ll be able to return to a state that passes for normalcy (at least for me). I shudder to think what other gaffes I may commit in the interim.

I think it’s time to get a T-shirt: “ Beware: Brain Farts. Keep back 15m.”

Anybody else suffer from brain flatulence? And please tell me I’m not the only one who wakes up wondering “Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?”

* * *

I’m doing another Goodreads giveaway this week: Two signed copies of Never Say Spy are up for grabs. Follow this link to enter the contest!

Flash (Non)Fiction: Labyrinth

February 13, 2013February 13, 2013 / Diane Henders / 19 Comments

I just got back from a week’s holiday on Vancouver Island, and I thought I’d post something a little different for a change. Thanks to Sacred Circles, Healing Hands for the inspiration of the labyrinth at the Milner Gardens and Woodland, Qualicum Beach, BC.

_________________

Labyrinth

It doesn’t fit my preconception of a labyrinth.

It’s about fifteen feet in diameter, a shallow muddy path worn into the brilliant green rainforest moss. A few stones lie in the middle.

I stand beside it, my cynical eye tracing the route from entrance to centre. It’s probably a trick; a series of dead ends to confound those foolish enough to attempt it.

But it’s simple. Around and back, a couple of reversals and a turn.

The sign says I may walk the labyrinth to meditate, experience feelings. That there’s no “wrong” way to walk.

Why bother? I already know the route and there’s nothing remarkable at the end. The concentric paths are narrowly spaced. Walking in circles would be a waste of time. I’d look like an idiot.

I stand outside the labyrinth looking in.

Imprisoned by ego. Unwilling to court ridicule. Too old for magic.

I turn to walk away.

I stop.

Turn back.

This is silly. It’s cold and cloudy and starting to rain. It’s just a patch of dirt and grass.

And yet it holds me.

When did I become so jaded?

How often have I hovered on the outside, unwilling to step forward and risk disapproval?

My boots squish softly on the wet ground as I skirt around to the labyrinth’s entrance. I mustn’t reject the established way.

Compelled to the path, I place my feet carefully within the narrow tracks, walking back and forth; around and around like a fool who can’t see that the destination is only a few feet away.

But it’s not about the destination.

I complete the final turn and stand looking down at the stones on the ground. Just a few ordinary stones. No discernible pattern. No reward.

But it’s not about a reward.

Freed, I step lightly, respectfully, straight across the labyrinth. I place my feet on its paths, but I am no longer constrained by its direction.

I stand contemplating my journey for a moment before I turn, smiling, to rejoin the world.

I Love A Guy With A Big Deck

January 16, 2013 / Diane Henders / 40 Comments

As you may know, I’m a toolaholic. Most men are eager to show me their tools, and in fact, they frequently invite me to play with their tools whenever I want.

I’m old-fashioned, though. As much as I love tools of all shapes and sizes, I really prefer not to handle any but my Hubby’s. After all, when I’ve got a top-quality tool at home, why would I go out looking for anything else? You just don’t know where other men’s tools have been.

The other day the conversation turned (again) to tools, and Hubby showed me his deck. You’d think after nearly fourteen years of marriage it would be old news to me, but what a surprise!

He had gotten one of those deck enlargement kits.

I know, I know. I used to be a sceptic, too, but now I’ve seen the proof. This kit really worked. He used to have a much smaller deck. It was nice and rigid and it worked well, but everybody knows size does matter. So he paid the money and got the kit… and now his deck is huge!

When he showed it to me for the first time, I couldn’t keep my hands off it. After I’d fondled it for a while, he asked if I had any ideas about mounting it.

Boy, did I.

But we were worried we might not be able to use his new deck safely because it’s so big.

We were right. We had some difficulties with the fit. And stability was an issue. Even though it was big and stiff, it tended to shift sideways without warning, particularly if any significant force was applied. And it was positively dangerous under vigorous use. Slow and smooth was the only workable option.

We agreed that even though the big deck was impressive, it really wasn’t working as well as his original small deck. But we both liked the idea of the bigger deck.

So we got creative. A minor surgical procedure reshaped it to make the tool fit snugly but comfortably in the aperture. Then we added some extra supports so the deck wouldn’t collapse even if I got careless about how and where I placed my piece. And he could push as hard and fast as he wanted.

It took a bit of extra effort to get everything working the way we wanted it, but in the end we were glowing with satisfaction. Now Hubby’s got the biggest deck of any guy I know. I can use it as often as I want, and it never fails to stand up to even the most enthusiastic use.

I’m so excited, I just have to share the before and after pictures of Hubby’s deck:

Original tiny deck

New huge deck

Yeah, it’s a bandsaw deck. Jeez, what did you think I was talking about?

If, like me, you can’t get enough big decks, here’s one of my favourite comedy routines: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQ7Ue5emo6I

Anybody else like big decks?

And Then It Got Ugly

January 9, 2013 / Diane Henders / 45 Comments

I used to be able to count on spammers to tell me what a marvelous writer I am. Every day I’d get dozens of compliments about my wonderful colour schemes, my mastery of writing, and my expertise in the subject area. To the spammers, I was a demigod.

In fact, I was so good I even got compliments from beyond the grave: “You are an excellent wrteir even if I have thought your writing seems sad sometimes! I am so glad you are honest! The truth will set you free, is true! I love you and I am so blessed to be your Mom!”

Wow, thanks, Mom. I’m amazed at your mastery of the keyboard even after you’ve been dead for thirty years. Does this mean you’re coming for Sunday dinner?

Okay, so I was pretty sure that last one was from a spammer, but still. It’s flattery, right? It’s all good.

Only lately I’ve noticed a subtle and disturbing change. I mean, I still get “an amazing article dude” and “This really designed my day” and “Wow, fantastic blog fmroat!”. That’s all fine and dandy. But some of the comments are veering into ambiguity: “This blog is just as well cool to become missed”.

Um, thanks… I think…

Or how about this one: “A hilariously complex write-up”. Is “hilariously complex” a good thing or a bad thing?

But a couple of weeks ago, the comments took a turn for the worse: “My brother suggested I might like this website. He used to be entirely right.”

So what are you trying to say? He was always right before, but this time he was wrong and you hated my website?

And then it got ugly:

“I have to say that Im really unpisresmed with this. I mean, sure, youve got some very interesting points. But this blog is just really lacking in something. Maybe its content, maybe its just the design. I dont know. But its almost like you wrote this because everybodys doing it. No passion at all.”

And

“Hello, you used to write magnificent, but the last few posts have been kinda boring”

And

“of course like your website however you have to test the spelling on several of your posts. Many of them are rife with spelling problems and I to find it very troublesome”

And

“why throw away your intelligence on just posting videos to your weblog when you could be giving us something informative to read?”

Wow, what a tumble from my previous exalted position. I guess that’s just the price of fame. Sooner or later, your fans turn on you.

Spammers never fail to make me laugh. It’s fine if commenters respectfully disagree with me, but I can’t believe these idiots think I’d leave gratuitous insults posted, or (even more improbable) that I’d click on a link attached to an insult.

Isn’t spamming all about getting people to click on your links?

Repeat after me: S-T-U-P-I-D; stupid.

But despite the chuckles, I must say I’m unpisresmed with the trend. Someday it’ll be “Click on this link or we’ll send Guido and Luigi over with the baseball bats”.

The day I get that comment, I’m outta here.

Is anybody else still getting spam love? Or are the spammers turning on you, too?

Fifty Shades Of Leverage

September 26, 2012 / Diane Henders / 29 Comments

My fifth book, How Spy I Am, is finally out (phew), so of course I immediately thought of Fifty Shades of Grey.

What, you don’t see the connection? Bear with me…

First, a disclaimer: I am one of the (apparently) tiny minority that hasn’t read Fifty Shades. I likely won’t, for several reasons:

1) I read the first pages on Amazon and didn’t get swept away by it.

2) I’ve read some well-written BDSM erotic romance novels by authors whose blogs I follow, but reading was more an act of loyalty than anything else. BDSM just isn’t my flavour.

3) I almost never read any type of romance, though I make an exception for Fallen Arches – Novellas of Broken Romance over at Curmudgeon-At-Large. They make me swoon. (It’s probably because I can’t breathe between paroxysms of laughter).

So, Fifty Shades? Probably not for me.

But.

I’m impressed by the number of people who are leveraging Fifty Shades. Suddenly there are flocks of books titled “Fifty Shades of (fill in the blank)”. There’s even a website titled “What to Read After Fifty Shades”.

Love it or hate it, Fifty Shades has made a shitload of money, and everybody wants a piece (if you’ll excuse a cheap but irresistible double entendre).

So that’s it; I’m getting in on the act. After consulting Wikipedia to verify my accuracy, I’m going to tell you how my books are just like Fifty Shades of Grey:

I have male and female characters. Sometimes their relationships are complicated and fraught with sexual tension. See, just like Fifty Shades.
My protagonist is a confident middle-aged no-bullshit woman instead of an insecure college girl, but what the hell. Details. They’re both female.
My protagonist gets tied up every now and then. She never enjoys it, but hey, bondage, right?
The male character in Fifty Shades is an entrepreneur. I have a grandmother/granddaughter team who own a sex shop in a small town. Voila: entrepreneurs and sex. Double whammy.
Sex. Got that covered. My characters don’t intentionally hurt each other during the act, but that’s just a technicality.
A virgin. Hmmm. That could be a problem. Never mind, I wouldn’t want to be accused of being an exact copy.
Oho, here’s a good one: The characters in Fifty Shades communicate using a laptop. So do my characters. Score another point.
You may be thinking this is a little thin so far, but here’s the kicker: My main male character has grey eyes. Grey. And in Book 2, he ties my protagonist up and restrains her. Ha! Spike it in the end zone!

I’m sure there are many more striking similarities but I could only get so much from the wiki and I was too lazy to look up any more synopses. Nevertheless, I’m convinced my claim of sycophantic imitation is just as valid as everyone else’s.

So there you go. My books are just like Fifty Shades. And repeating “Fifty Shades” fifty times in a blog post works wonderfully for search engine optimization, too.

I anticipate that within days, book reviewers and avid readers will be calling my novels “the next Fifty Shades of Grey”. My book sales will skyrocket. The news media will grovel for interviews with me. Hollywood will call and beg to pay gazillions of dollars for the movie rights to my books.

Because I’m leveraging the power of “Fifty Shades of Grey” just like everybody else.

Or not.

Okay, I was just kidding around with the whole “Fifty Shades” schtick, but I actually have a serious request this week: I’m doing a survey on how readers like authors to sign books, and I’d really appreciate your opinion. There are only three quick questions over at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/K3LQS9D, and I’m giving away a signed copy of the updated version of Book 1: Never Say Spy. Thanks for your help!

Coitus Interruptus

May 30, 2012 / Diane Henders / 34 Comments

It’s driving me crazy. I’ve been trying for months, and I get interrupted partway through every time. I’m so frustrated because I just can’t finish…

The sex scene in my latest book, I mean.

My writing process borders on obsessive-compulsive. I begin by re-reading and editing everything I’ve written the previous several days, just to get back into the story. Then I write, then I edit what I’ve just written, and then I repeat. And repeat. And… repeat.

If I’m interrupted, it completely throws me. If it’s a minor interruption, I can sometimes jump back into the story, but usually I have to go back several scenes and start again. By the time one of my books is ready for release, I’ve re-read (and usually re-written) every single word at least 50 times.

How Spy I Am goes out to my beta readers this week, so you can guess how many times I’ve edited this sex scene. And I’ve never gotten through it uninterrupted.

Not. Once.

No matter how the stars and planets are aligned, no matter what precautions I’ve taken, there’s always something. A conversation that requires more input than “Mmm-hmmm”. A doorbell. An alarm.

I’ve tried working at my desk, at somebody else’s kitchen table, out in the woods, and in the car (no, I was not driving at the time). Same damn thing. I get partway through that scene, and something happens to drag me away.

I tried it in the airport boarding lounge. I figured, who the hell would interrupt me there? Nobody talks to anybody in the airport.

Wrong!

It was all I could do not to leap up and scream, “Do you mind? I’m trying to have sex over here!” Which might have been amusing, come to think of it. Maybe I’ll try that some time, just for giggles. Anyway…

Last week, I made an editing date with myself. Put all my other work aside and gave myself permission to not make supper/do laundry/whatever. I had several gloriously uninterrupted hours at my desk. I was in the editing zone. Before I knew it, I was half-way through the sex scene, thinking, “At last, I’ll get through this…”

The phone rang.

The call involved a family member and hospitalization. Fortunately nothing life-threatening, but definitely one of those calls you have to take. And there I was, left hanging. Again.

This week is my last chance. Hubby’s away on business. I’ve discharged all my responsibilities for my “real” job. My inboxes (both paper and virtual) are empty. I plan to leave my phone in the house, close the windows, lock the doors, and take my laptop out to the shed in the back yard. It’s a sordid place to have sex, but by now I have no self-respect left.

After all, what could possibly happen to interrupt me out there?

But if you see a headline about a woman who died when her garden shed was struck by lightning out of a clear blue sky, don’t look for a blog post next week.

Postscript: I was editing again after I wrote the draft for this post. Right in the middle of the fateful scene… my mouse batteries died. FML.