Memorable, emotional, tender...what causes you to go back for more?

Fellow Angels, I know for me there has to be some kind of connection between a story and I. Otherwise, it gets put off to the side, ignored or only read when I am bored and can't find nothing else. There haven't been many of those, but there are a few. I'm not going to name names because that would be rude, but if you want to email me then I will divulge those names/books. On the other hand, there are many, MANY books that I have read and re-read time and again.

I believe that the emotional impact of the story is what gets me. The twists and turns that the h/h go through to finally get together pulls me in every time. I also love sexual tension. It has to be done precise and clean and you know it has been done correctly when the impact of the h/h fulfilling their relationship (and it isn't always the fulfilling of something sexual, it can be a kiss or something a bit bigger) is enough to cause tears to fill your eyes.

Whether it is paranormal, contemporary, historical or suspense, certain elements have to be there for us to enjoy these stories. And there also has to be memorable moments, either a simple sentence or one scene that takes up three pages and makes you love the book instantly.

I have condensed a few of mine down for your enjoyment. And these aren't all of them, heck, I wouldn't have room to list all of my favorites! Enjoy them and let me know some of yours!

HUGS
Trish aka Wackycajun

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Clayton Westmoreland, 9th Duke of Claymore

Whitney, My Love

"Several months ago in Paris, a lovely young woman accused me of 'pretending' to be a duke. She said that I was such a poor 'impostor' that I really ought to choose some other title to which to aspire - some title that would suit me better. I decided there was only one other title I wanted: that of her husband...Believe me, my first title was far more easily acquired than the second, and of far, far less value."

Stephen Westmoreland
Earl of Langford
Until You, Judith McNaught

Her eyes fluttered open, and he tried to smile, to tell her he loved her, but his chest was constricted with emotion, and there was an unfamiliar lump in his throat as he looked at their clasped hands on the pillow.
He had never held a woman’s hand at a time like this in his life.
He had never thought of it.
He had never wanted to.
Until Now.
Stephen bent down to kiss her, he closed his eyes and swallowed, and tried to tell her again what he felt, to explain that he’d never known there were feelings like this, but the emotions were still too raw, and he was still out of breath. All he could manage to say was, “Until you...”
She understood. He knew she did, because her hands tightened convulsively on his and she turned her face and kissed his fingers.

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Hardy Cates
Blue Eyed Devil, Lisa Kleypas

“Nick’s not worth going to jail for,” I said.
“I don’t know about that.” Hardy stared at me for a moment, registering my uneasiness. His expression deliberately softened. “The way I was brought up, ‘he needed killing’ is an airtight legal defense.”
***
“Feel good?” I whispered.
Hardy shook his head, struggling to breathe. His face was flushed as if with a high fever.
“No?” I asked.
“Felt good a half hour ago,” He managed to say, his accent slurry like he’d just done about ten tequila shots. “Fifteen minutes after that it was the greatest sex I’ve ever had, and right about now...I’m pretty sure I’m in the middle of a heart attack.”
­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­________________________________________________________
***
Smooth Talking Stranger
Lisa Kleypas

“You can’t stand between a Texan and his power tools. We like them. Big ones that drain the national grid. We also like truck stop breakfasts, large moving objects, Monday night football, and the missionary position. We don’t drink light beer, drive Smart Cars, or admit to knowing the names of more than about five or six colors. And we don’t wax our chests. Ever.”
**
While Jack and Ella are putting together a crib…
“Can you do meatloaf?”
“Yep.”
“Marry me, Ella.”
I looked into his wicked dark eyes, and even though I knew he was joking I felt a wild pulse inside, and my hands trembled. “Sure,” I said lightly. “Want some bread?”
***
And later in the story…
“You may not know this, but the other time I asked you to marry you, the night I put the crib together, I meant it. Even though I knew you weren’t ready.
God, I hope you’re ready now.”

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And there is one other scene that I remember well. The ‘staring’ scene in Renee Bernard’s, Revenge Wears Rubies is one that is steamy, sultry and very memorable. I can’t list it here because it is lengthy, but the page numbers are…70-73.

Dancers Can Be Theraputic

Watching 'Sexy' Males Leads to Better Chicks, Study Says

Love that headline.

Oh, all right. In the interests of fair disclosure, it's from an article in the July 29 National Geographic about "mating success of the Houbara bustard, a sandy-colored desert bird found throughout parts of northern Africa and Asia."

The French study (oh, those French !) found that female birds that watched male birds dance were stimulated and produced healthier chicks. What's this 'dance' like?

The male birds run around in circles and throw back their heads.

The actions of the males sound familiar, hummm? Running in circles with their heads in the air to show off?

No, I'm not really taking digs at our luscious other halves. Well, perhaps a tiny one. :>

Even if we females are not in the chick-producing mode, sexy dancing men can still lead to stimulation--and other things. To get our positive energy flowing, here's a glance at some sexy dancers, part of the Chippendales. I really don't know why they're standing in the water in that first picture, but who cares, right?

The one with long blond hair is Kevin Cornell. Check out his website for more pix of him and the others. http://www.kevincornell.com/

Marathoning vs Writing

When I tell my fellow writers I just ran a marathon, they look at me like I’m crazy. I’m here to tell you that running a marathon is a whole lot easier than writing a book.

I can take any of you and turn you into a successful marathon runner. All you have to do is commit six months of your life to the training, be willing to work hard, sweat profusely, and lose a few toenails along the way. What do you get out of all of this? Pride in yourself. Statistics say that only .1 percent of the world population has ever run a marathon. Why? Because it hurts to run 26.2 miles. It’s daunting. It feels unobtainable for someone who has never run a mile. But, it can be done by anyone in reasonably good health. Anyone!

The same can’t be said about becoming a successful author. No matter how hard you work, how much sweat you profuse, or how many toenails you’re willing to lose for the cause, no one can guarantee that they will get you a traditional publishing contract.

You can become a marathon runner in six months but the average writer takes ten years to find a measure of success. A marathon runner loses weight while in training. A writer gains weight while in training. A marathon runner gets to socialize with others as they train. A writer sits in their cubbyhole alone pounding on the keys. A marathon runner gets a medal when they're done. A writer gets a book review – it might be good, or it might be bad.

So, why would anyone choose to become a writer when it’s harder than running a marathon and the success rate is less? Well, I can’t speak for the rest of you, but I can speak for myself. I write books because it’s a passion I can’t ignore.

Why do you write books?

And while you’re thinking about this and contemplating running a marathon, now that you know you can, let me leave you with a few pics of some famous marathon runners. Enjoy

Lisa Wells

William Baldwin ran the New York Marathon

The bare asses are running a marathon in France

David Elliot ran the Boston Marathon

Striving for Excellence

Since my first few books deal with elite athletes, specifically of the gymnastics variety, I thought I would post my choice of inspirational athletes. These people inspire me on so many levels. Physically, I know the amount of hard work it takes to get a body looking like this. For a time, I aspired to achieve this state of bodily perfection. I was, after all, an elite athlete myself once upon a time, long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away... For a time after I got married and had kids, I maintained my pursuit of physical perfection only to finally realize that I just didn't have that drive anymore. Exercise is a part of my daily routine, but I gave up the dream of having a dream body. Why? Because I'm striving for excellence in other areas of my life, namely, my marriage, raising my kids, and my writing career.

So, why am I posting about these individuals? For me, it's not just about the outer package, it's what's on the inside, too. Although their bodies may be a work of art, it is their pursuit of excellence in their chosen arenas that amaze me. It is their dedication that I admire. It is their positive outlook on life that I want to emulate. The state of their physical bodies is a by-product of their pursuit of excellence. One of them, I'm privileged to know on a personal level. So, without further ado, may I make introductions...


Dara Torres: At age 41, she was the oldest female Olympic swimmer ever. In her career, she's won 12 Olympic medals and 4 gold. In the 2008 Beijing summer Olympics, she won silver in the 50m free style. And besides those amazing arms, her greatest accomplishment - being a mom while doing it.







Kyle Shewfelt - Canadian Olympic gymnast and all around cutie who won gold for his floor routine at the 2004 Olympic Summer games in Athens. I met him once when he attended an event in Manitoba. Okay, so spandex doesn't do much for anybody, but along with that sculpted physique, he's got cute curls that couldn't be shown in the second photo. The second is when he's waiting to receive his gold medal.










Sidney Crosby - born in Nova Scotia, Halifax, Canada.

You Americans may have him in the NHL, but we Canadians get him back for the Olympics to win Gold! He was the Pittsburgh Penguins first draft pick back in 2005 when the team won the special lottery draft. He was 18 at the time. From what I understand he's an all around nice guy, and he's Canadian, so I had to post him. And what woman doesn't like a man who can handle his stick?






Kary Odiatu - co-author of "The Miracle of Health", motivational speaker, certified fitness trainer, Pro fitness athlete, Fitness Universe winner, mother of 3 and long-time friend. Kary and I go way back - she hired me once upon a time to coach for her, then I became her boss, and eventually we moved on to other phases of our lives. Kary continually amazes me with her high energy, positive attitude and commitment to fitness and health. Her and her husband were the first people to encourage me to publish my work.














Blaine Wilson... Oops! Sorry - I was wiping drool off my chin before it hit the keyboard. I had to post this man. He is perfection personified from his sculpted physique, the bit of scruff on his face, right on down to his very lickable tattoo. But I digress - Mr. Wilson won 5 consecutive national titles in his 22 yr. gymnastics career. He just missed the bronze medal at the 1999 World Gymnastics Championships by .001. My gymnasts and I used to drool over him back in the day, and from what I gather, these days he books speaking engagements. His fee: $5000-10,000. I'm thinking of taking out a loan, but I'm not sure his wife would appreciate me booking him for a private event. ;)





If I had time and space, I'd post 10 other photos - those of my fellow Ass Cheek Angels. You ladies amaze me daily with your humor, your drive for excellence both in your writing careers and daily lives, and with the gift of your friendship. To think that back in July, I was looking for a party to go to so I could stay awake to make my early flight home. On that fateful night, the Ass Cheek Angels was born and I got so much more than a good time. My life is truly blessed. Mwah!

These Are Not My Pants. . .

These Are Not My Pants. . .

It began as any other Saturday night before Halloween.

Children screaming, late babysitter, 36-year-old mother of two facing the age-old question, “Is this costume too slutty for me?” By the time hubby and I calmed the rugrats and made it downtown, I'd already grown distracted by the myriad of household chores left undone and the page-long grocery list left ungathered. Was I too old for this? Too boring? Was it a mistake to try to hit the hard-core social scene again? After all, the last time I went out and partied like it's 1999, it was, well, 1999.

I had nearly decided to bail when an extremely hot twenty-something guy dressed as a shirtless boxer handed me a Jello shot.

“TKO, beautiful,” he said.

“Thanks. Hey, don't you host the Bible studies group at my daughter's old pre-school?” I asked, to which he responded by putting on a shirt.

I stood alone, staring at the wobbly green “beverage” in my hand. Not that there's anything wrong with green gelatin, mind you, it's just that last time Jello shots were involved, I woke up queasy in Algiers wearing gold lamé pants borrowed from a bi-curious Brazilian male underwear model. And contrary to what my grandmother always said, it is not true that a woman can never have enough gold lamé in her closet. Brazilian male underwear models on the other hand. . .

Ah, but hark, sweet sanity! There is yet the matter of dear hubby.

Dressed as Han Solo, he nursed his beer in a corner, doing the white-man's-overbite as he discreetly danced the Humpty Hump alongside my friend Dorsey's husband. As you might imagine, the party life of a married, mid-thirties Springfield dweller is far diminished from that of a single, twenty-something New Orleanian. Saturday evening, for example, I spent a great deal of time worrying about the long-term hearing damage caused by repeated exposure to Eminem, and rather less time making out with Brazilian B-list celebrities. And, unlike the Jello shot debacle of 1999, it didn't take an act of Deus Ex Machina to end the party. I drank, I had some nachos, I sang karaoke (Britney Spears, God forgive me), then I got bored and went home. . . still wearing my own pants.

Quel dommage.

On the silver lining side of things, I did happen upon a lovely Brazilian male underwear model while “researching” my next hero.

Evandro Soldati, I raise my gold lamé party-pants in your honor. May you find a nice, Southern girl to lick your washboard abs clean of Jello shot debris.

And if you can't, well. . . I hear Springfield is lovely this time of year.