It’s taken almost four weeks from the time I won the contest to where I am now—which is almost finished. There’s a ream of paper, a new ink cartridge and a priority mail envelope ready. Then we’ll see if WB is ready…or rejected.

Aside from adverbs, I forbid myself to ever type the word “blush” again. What’s your bad writing habit? What drives you crazy when you read?

I try to leave out the parts that people skip. ~Elmore Leonard

We all love a tortured hero. This poor guy looks perplexed. Pained. Puzzled. Positively pensive. Just for fun I thought you could write my blog for me. Has Caterina kicked him to the curb? Has he lost his car keys? Killed his cat? Tell me what he’s thinking.

And check the Vauxhall Vixens this weekend when we unveil the very first of our historically hot heroes. You can decide if he is worthy to walk with into the pleasure gardens!

Okay, so I’m a crusty curmudgeon when it comes to technology. I learned to type (such as I do—it’s the old hunt and peck method with about four fingers) on an old Royal upright typewriter whose “e” key stuck. I didn’t get an electric typewriter until college. Fifteen years ago I had to get my kids to help me turn on the computer when it was time for me to send out the minutes from the hospital auxiliary board I was recording secretary for. I still don’t know half the functions of my Word program. Are you getting the picture? I’m clueless. A woman of a certain age. But not dead. Thus I’m now on Myspace and Facebook after much professional prompting and the sudden flurry of writing friends. See the Cyberspace Spots link on the sidebar.

I know all about the networking, blah blah blah. I confess I don’t really like either face-space. Pop-ups and ads are excruciatingly annoying. It’s hard to define yourself by favorite movies, inspirational quotes and who you’re tossing Mardi gras beads to. My kids are horrified I might read their pages. Two of my daughters helped enhance my Myspace page anyway the other day, hating the boring floral wallpaper I picked and the cello music—but hey, I used to hang boring floral wallpaper. I used to play the cello. If I’m branding myself, I’m just a boring flower-loving ex-cello player who happens to write romance novels. And I’m way cuter than the lady above.

I find my blog-hopping and blog-writing (Three? Who thought that was a good idea?) time-consuming enough without further diversion. So right now I’m not sending any invitations. However, I’m accepting them (and so are the Vauxhall Vixens), so let me put up your little avatar. But don’t hug me or poke me or otherwise try to find out my favorite Johnny Depp movie because (lowers voice so Hellion can’t hear) I haven’t liked Johnny Depp since 21 Jump Street. I told you I was old.

Are you a little lemming like me? Any tips for networking? Do check out the fabulous slide show and musical program Ely put up on V V’s Myspace page—get a luscious Vixen fix!

The first full-length book I worked on was Bride by Midnight, a Cinderella-ish historical. A snowstorm strands a desperate-to-marry young man, Sir Harry Chalmers, and Cynthia Elling, who is traveling to London with her stepmother and two empty-headed stepsisters. Fortunately the inn they were stuck in was right across the road from a church, he has a special license, and Cynthia becomes Lady Chalmers just in time. By midnight, in fact.

How many times have you read the stranded-by-a-snowstorm story? Probably lots. It seems pretty lame to me now. And quite frankly, I don’t think BBM will ever make it to a bookstore near you in my lifetime. I worked on winter imagery some, but after rereading the manuscript, not nearly enough. I did write “sugary snow.” Somewhere the windows panes were frosted. Living in Maine, you’d think snow and ice descriptions would come easy. The fact is, I dislike winter intensely. I’d much rather write about summer, as I did in this passage from my current languishing-because-I’m-revising-something-else WIP, Mistress by Midnight (I still am fixated on midnight, apparently):

They were in the field once again beneath the hot sun, his long-discarded hacking jacket tossed beneath them. Her skirts were rucked carelessly, uncomfortably. He smoothed the stiff fabric with impatience, his hands brushing against the curve of her belly. The scent of fresh cut hay clouded his senses. The rich dark soil pillowed soft beneath his knees. He heard the insistent buzz of insects spreading life from bramble to berry in the distance. But soon there was nothing in the natural world to divert him but her body, her own scent, her cries, the sun-warmed heat of her skin. In their haste there were still too many layers of clothes between them, but nothing had the power to stop this summer storm or bring them down to earth. Not Con’s duty, not Laurette’s innocence, not even, when it came to it, his marriage.

Okay, so it’s more about the sex than a weather report. *g* But I’m now consciously trying to use the seasons to my advantage. Hello Lisa Kleypas. Fall’s my favorite time of year (being an October baby). What’s yours? How do you use the seasons when you write, or do you think about them at all? Do you prefer indoor or outdoor sex scenes (in fiction, people—I’m not that nosy!)?