Lucie Simone

Happy Endings

2012-01-30T10:31:00.000-08:00

If a story ends on a happy or hopeful note, does that make it “fluff?” Are cynicism and a bleak or melancholy tone required for something to be considered “intellectual?” If you happen to enjoy reading romance or Chick Lit, does this make you superficial and vapid?

I can’t deny that Hamlet is one of the greatest tragedies every written, but let’s not forget that Shakespeare was considered low brow in his day. Appealing to the masses with sex, violence, and bawdy humor, his plays were often considered a guilty pleasure. Yet today, we hold up the Bard’s work as literary masterpieces, and indeed they are. But not because everybody dies at the end. Because his stories were rich with drama, humor, suspense and damn entertaining.

I studied drama in college, which covered everything from Eurpides to Eugene O’Neill. And you know what? There were a lot of happy endings and humorous, “pastoral” plays mixed in with those great tragic tales. And they were every bit as popular and as revered as the dramas that we now consider superior to comedies.

I have this theory that just because something is humorous, it is instantly considered “less than.” How often are comedies nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards? Melissa McCarthy’s nomination for her side-splitting role in Bridesmaids caused quite a stir. Why? Was it not a brilliant performance? Does she not deserve accolades for her talent? No. Because it was funny. And we all know, if something’s funny, then it can’t be important. Especially if it was a woman who made us laugh. (But that’s an argument for another day!)

I happen to love comedy. And when it comes to reading materials, it’s pretty much all I can stomach. I have one of those minds that absorbs and internalizes everything. So, reading a depressing memoire, which aside from Jen Lancaster’s, they pretty much all are, I nearly collapse into a state of deep remorse, unable to shake the misery of someone else’s tragic life. Thus, I choose to read Chick Lit and Women’s Fiction almost exclusively.

This is not to say that Chick Lit and Women’s Fiction don’t cover serious topics. Many do. The difference is, you don’t feel like slitting your wrists at the end. At least I don’t. I can handle any subject matter you throw at me, just deliver it with a wisecrack and a happy ending, and I can close the book knowing that all is okay in my world.

In a time when the evening news is filled with real life tragedies, both at home and abroad, I need to escape into a world where happy endings do exist. Where I can forget about the 10 car pile-up that killed dozens just yesterday morning. Or the fact that young men and women die in combat fighting a war they don’t understand. Or that children across the globe go to sleep hungry every night. In a world where tragedy is an everyday occurrence, I need to laugh and to love and to hope for better days ahead. Even if it is all fiction, its impact on my heart is real. And I’m a better person, a happier person because of it.

Ciao,
Lucie

Friday Flashback Flick

2012-01-20T11:25:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Friday Flashback Flick! I'm going to pick a favorite film from back in the day to highlight each Friday (or as many Fridays as I can remember to do it!), and this week's movie is Chances Are starring Robert Downey Jr., Cybill Shepherd, Ryan O'Neal and Mary Stuart Masterson. If you haven't seen it, you must!

Cybill Shepherd plays a pregnant woman whose husband is killed before their baby is born; once he gets to heaven, he begs for a chance to come back to her and his unborn child. The twist is that he returns in the form of Robert Downey Jr., boyfriend to Cybill's daughter (Mary Stuart Masterson). When the daughter brings him home from college, he gets his memory back--and starts coming on to her mom. And wacky romantic high jinks ensue!

I can't tell you how many times I've seen this film, but it never gets old. Robert Downey Jr. is adorable and Cybil and Ryan are in perfect form. Check it out for a fun trip back to the late eighties!

Ciao,
Lucie

Winning Reads!

2011-12-30T09:55:00.000-08:00

2011 hasn’t been an easy year for me. My mom passed away in March at far too young an age and I lost another dearly beloved soul in November. Two terribly sad events in a fairly short time span. So, I’m ready to put this year behind me. But, luckily, there was one part of my life that was very rewarding in 2011. Books! I had some sort of crazy book-winning mojo and ended up with a whopping eleven free books! Below are my winning reads of 2011.

The Orphan Sister by Gwendolen Gross
I was super lucky to get an advanced reader copy of this book from the Goodreads 1st Reads giveaway & wow was it ever good! Right from the first paragraph, I was hooked. Beautiful prose sucked me in and the characters became living breathing human beings I cared about and eagerly wanted to get to know. Dealing with subjects like identity, self-purpose & family secrets, this was a story I could really sink my teeth into. Well-crafted with superior writing style, I highly recommend this book to fans of women's fiction authors such as Sue Miller and Laura Dave. I'm definitely looking forward to Gwendolen Gross' next book!

Seeing Me Naked by Liza Palmer
I won this book thanks to Book Sparks PR turning me on to the giveaway Liza was having for new Twitter followers. And I’m so glad I did because I really adored this book! Liza captured perfectly the complexities of love, both familial and romantic, and expressed beautifully how one's personal goals can often become muddied and mutate as one grows up. Beautiful story with lots of charm and a heroine I was rooting for from page one.

Good-bye to All That by Margo Candela
Technically, I won this book in 2010, but it was my first, so it deserves a spot on this list. And Margo is a wonderful author whose work I truly admire. And as a resident of Hollywood, I can say with some authority that this book totally captures what real life is like in Tinsel Town. Full of dreams and frustration! I'm actually looking forward to a sequel!

A Summer in Europe by Marilyn Brandt
Thanks to a Girlfriends Book Club giveaway, I got my hands on an Advance Reader Copy of this book. I was terribly excited to win because Marilyn was one of the first friends I made in the Twitter-verse and she is a total sweetie! This novel is a great escape for armchair travelers. I've visited many of the places featured in the book and it was fun to see them through another person's eyes. The trip helps Gwen, the main character, develop & evolve as a person, which is how my own travels affected me. The book moves at a leisurely pace, and there's a romantic element that truly leaves you guessing the whole way through the story.

Build a Man by Talli Roland
Thanks go to the girls at Chick Lit is Not Dead, and of course, Talli Roland, for this fab free book! Talli is fast taking over the Chick Lit scene with three popular books under her belt and a reputation for writing super funny, fabulous stories. So, I was thrilled to get a copy of her latest release. She was also sweet enough to offer her Christmas novella, Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts, as a free download for the holidays, so I snapped that puppy right up, too!

On Folly Beach by Karen White
I have Samantha at Chick Lit Plus to thank for the opportunity to read On Folly Beach. I’ve never read any of Karen White’s books, so this author is totally new to me. But judging by all the 4 star reviews on Goodreads, I’m sure to enjoy it!

Queen of Babble by Meg Cabot
I won this book as a raffle prize at the East Valley Authors Annual Writing Retreat where I taught my workshop, Yoga for Writers. I read Meg’s Size 12 is Not Fat a couple years back and loved it. She has such a fun writing style that you can’t help but love, so I’m really looking forward to diving into this one!

Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin
I was so excited to win this copy of the ever popular Chick Lit author, Emily Giffin, from a giveaway by The Chick Lit Bee. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I haven’t yet read any of Emily’s books. There just isn’t enough time to get to all the books in my TBR list, but I’m pretty sure Emily’s sales are doing just fine without my help. Tee hee!

The Brightest Star in the Sky by Marian Keyes
This book was part of my raffle prize at the East Valley Authors retreat and the main reason I sunk all my raffle tickets in the bag for it! I adore Marian Keyes and have read nearly all of her fiction. So, when I saw this was up for grabs, I had to have it! And, lucky me, I got it!

Dracula in Love by Karen Essex
It’s almost ridiculous that I won this book, perhaps even serendipitous. When I was in seventh grade, my English class read Bram Stoker’s Dracula and I absolutely fell in love with it. Since then, I’d watched practically every Dracula movie ever made and even got on a non-Dracula vampire kick for a bit. But after college, I’d had enough of vampires (no Twi-hard here!); however, when I saw this book had come out, I was instantly drawn to it. Despite having ditched fang fables, Dracula still holds a place in my heart. And thanks to a giveaway hosted by steampunk author, Suzanne Lazear, I now have Dracula on my shelf once again.

The Icing on the Cupcake by Jennifer Ross
Again, thanks go to The Chick Lit Bee for winning this read. I love the recent trend in Chick Lit stories to feature baking and recipes as part of the heroine’s hobbies and/or professions. And who doesn’t love a good cupcake? In fact, it’s probably due to this wave of food-themed books that I’ve started baking more. That, or Food Network. Either way, it’s all good!

So, how about you? Did you win any books in 2011? Which ones?

Happy New Year!
Lucie

Holiday Yummy

2011-12-22T12:00:00.000-08:00

I'm sharing my favorite holiday recipe at Chick Lit Central today. Stop by and share your favorite holiday food memory for a chance to win a copy of Hollywood Ending.

Happy Holidays!
Lucie

Humiliation of de Feet

2011-12-14T09:42:00.000-08:00

I am a yogi, and as such, I spend a lot of time looking at my feet. Yoga is practiced barefoot, after all. And when you’re dripping with sweat, your hair is yanked into a soaking wet ponytail, and make up, perfume & jewelry is foregone altogether, you want something about you to remain pretty for those 90 minutes. At least I do. So, I make sure my feet, on display for all in the class (and sometimes right in another student’s face) to see, to not just look pretty, but healthy. How do I do it?

I don’t spend money on weekly pedicures, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t have the kind of spare cash for that. I have a slight obsession with nail varnish, however, and luckily for me, it’s an affordable addiction. Rarely do I sport a naked toe, and never publicly. These days, I’m all about sparkle and recently acquired six new festive colors for the season: OPI’s Meep Meep Meep (sparkly deep red), Meet Me Under the Star Ferry (sparkly dark purple), and Pink Before You Leap (sparkly pale pink), as well as Revlon’s Girly (shimmery lavender), Downtown (shimmery, icy blue), and Fierce (shimmery, metallic grape). Check ‘em out at your local beauty store.

But there’s more to keeping your feet looking good than nail polish. There’s also exfoliating and moisturizing to be done. For exfoliating, I’ve been using a pumice foot scrubber once a week forever, and it works wonders. But when it comes to moisturizers, I’ve tried them all. I was always on the hunt for the next best foot crème to make my feet baby soft, but was often disappointed in the products. Until recently, that is. I discovered Aveda’s Foot Relief, and it is now my foot moisturizer of choice. What makes this product so effective is that it exfoliates as well as softens. So, I use my pumice foot scrubber even less. My feet have never looked better!

So, for the foot freaks out there like me, I thought I’d share my secrets to pretty, peep-toe-shoe perfect feet. Just because it’s boot weather, that doesn’t mean you can’t pamper those tootsies. By the time spring rolls around, you’ll be ready to hit the red carpet in a pair of strappy sandals, eliciting foot envy from all your peers!

Ciao!
Lucie

Who Needs Mistletoe?

2011-12-01T10:10:00.000-08:00

My holiday short story, Who Needs Mistletoe? is being featured at The Chick Lit Bee in their short story contest. Stop by for a quick bit of holiday cheer & be sure to leave a comment to let The Chick Lit Bee know what you think!

Who Needs Mistletoe?

Happy Holidays!
Lucie

Chick Lit is Not Fluff

2011-09-26T12:20:00.000-07:00

Recently, an author created a huge stir by announcing that she was leaving her publisher because they were not marketing her books to the right readers. She referred to their covers being targeted toward a Chick Lit audience, claiming that they misrepresented the more serious and substantial content. As a result, a storm of controversy about Chick Lit overtook the subject and Chick Lit readers and bloggers came out in droves to support the genre. The author has since claimed that her words were twisted by the media and that she in fact enjoys Chick Lit.

Chick Lit has been around for a good long time. And ever since the genre first exploded onto the scene, it has been at the center of controversy. In fact, a lot of authors have taken offense at their work being called “chick lit,” as if the term itself were intended to be derogatory. I don’t think people sat around thinking about how to label this particular genre in a manner that would offend and demean women. It was a cute name that stuck. And even now that the publishing industry no longer refers to the genre as “chick lit,” but as “humorous women’s fiction,” the subject of sexism and anti-feminism still abounds.

You can read my essay on why I believe Chick Lit is Feminist Fiction at Bitch Lit here.

I can think of no other literary genre that gets as much flack as Chick Lit. Sure, literary types often look down their noses at “genre” fiction such as Sci-Fi and Mystery as being less than, but only Chick Lit is derided as not only being inferior but also for contributing to the detriment of the feminist movement. Really, nothing could be further from the truth. And anyone who touts such, surely hasn’t read much Chick Lit.

Just because a book is packaged to appeal to women, doesn’t mean it isn’t well-written or worthwhile literary fare. Having a pastel colored cover doesn’t mean the content is little more than cotton candy for the brain. It simply means that the subject matter, whether it’s about dating or depression, is conveyed in a light, humorous tone that is intended for a female audience between the ages of 16 and 100 (who’s to say I won’t still be reading Chick Lit at 85?). The glossy covers, the upbeat colors, the whimsical title art all serve to portray the tone of the book. And I believe that’s what sets Chick Lit apart from other types of “women’s fiction.” For me, it’s all about how the subject matter is handled. The style of writing. The voice. The tone.

Is that the problem? Because it’s humorous? Chick Lit focuses on real issues facing real women in a modern society. Just like many "literary" books. The difference is, Chick Lit does it with a sense of humor.

And to anyone who still believes that Chick Lit is all fluff, I beg you to please pick up any book by Marian Keyes. My favorite is Sushi for Beginners. But if you’re looking for some really serious Chick Lit, try Ms. Keyes’ This Charming Man. That’ll forever change your opinion on how “fluffy” Chick Lit is.

Ciao!
Lucie

Growing Pains

2011-09-07T10:49:00.000-07:00

A little over a year ago, I started growing my hair out. I had an adorable pixie cut, which I loved, but I’d had it for a while and needed a change. Plus, I saw a photo of Keira Knightley’s fabulous bob and had to have it.

Unfortunately, going from a pixie to a bob is no easy task. But after eleven months of suffering through grow-out, I’m nearly there! Will post a pic when I am fully and finally there.

Since the age of 13, when I first cut my long locks to the nape of my neck, I’ve had a fickle relationship with hairstyles. I am not one of those women who wears the same cut for decades. I would simply die of boredom. Instead, I have a two-year pattern in which I grow my hair out and then chop it all off. And since the age of 13, I’ve had every length, every shade, every style you can imagine. I’ve had pink hair, purple hair, blond hair, curly hair, straight hair, short hair, spiky hair, long hair, wavy hair, and even no hair (shaved my head a ala Sinead O’Connor due to the fact one too many bleach jobs was causing it to disintegrate)!

But now that I’ve gotten my hair to my chin, I’m tempted to get it to my shoulders, and maybe even past my shoulders. This means more growing pains. More months of gazing at my locks in the mirror and cursing my plan to grow out when I could so easily chop it all off into a quick and easy pixie do. As it is, I’m spending about 10 minutes styling my hair. I know that doesn’t sound like much, especially when there are women who spend an hour or more primping their wigs. But, I’m the kind of girl that likes things to be quick and easy while at the same time being stylish. This goes for my clothes and make up as well. And a pixie fits that bill perfectly. Long hair, though, requires lots of blow-drying. And I’m fairly impatient.

So, what do you think? Should I push on and keep growing? Or should I just make do with the bob for another year?

Please Be Seated

2011-08-22T16:59:00.001-07:00

I don’t know about the rest of the U.S., but in Los Angeles, movie theaters are increasingly switching to assigned seating. This means that you must order your tickets well in advance in order to make sure you get a seat, and that you and your friend(s) can actually sit together. At first, there was only one theater in L.A. doing this, and that theater was more of an independent film sort than a big blockbuster house. However, over the past couple of years, the practice has spread to bigger, more mainstream theaters such as AMC and Pacific.

And, at first, when assigned seating was limited to the artsty-fartsy Hollywood theater, I wasn’t bothered by it. The ticket prices were a few dollars more than at other theaters, but that also meant the joint wasn’t crowded with teenage boys spewing coke and hormone-spiked idiocy. But now that this style of ticketing has taken over the mainstream houses, I find myself highly irritated by it.

My biggest complaint is that if you are out with a friend and suddenly feel like going to see a movie, you just might be out of luck. Twice this has happened to me when a friend and I wanted to check out a flick. We arrived in plenty of time to buy two tickets, but found that because the seats were assigned, we could either risk a neck injury or wait to see a later screening . You see, everyone is afraid of getting stuck in the front row, so they buy their tickets hours or even days ahead of time. So, by the time we got around to even deciding we wanted to watch a movie, the only seats left required a neck brace for proper viewing.

My second complaint is that sometimes you don’t like the people you’re sitting next to. With this same friend, when we were forward thinking enough to buy tickets in advance, we got stuck—not once, but twice—next to a couple of elderly patrons who were so deaf they couldn’t hear the soundtrack and kept repeating (LOUDLY) to each other what was being said on screen. But because our seats were assigned and the theater was sold out, we couldn’t move. Had we not had assigned seats we would have taken one look at the duos and known we were in for an unpleasant experience and quickly switched seats.

My final complaint is that, yes, the ticket prices are more expensive. Can you imagine paying $16 for a movie? Well, that’s about what it costs at these theaters with assigned seating. And I usually don’t complain about prices. I figure I’m getting a lot of entertainment for my buck. But once you creep over the $12 mark, you start to wonder what exactly you’re paying for. The ability to pick my seat before I arrive at the theater? That’s worth about a nickel to me.

So, now I really try to avoid these theaters altogether and frequent the old-fashioned festival seating type. And you know what? The ability to make a last minute movie pick on the spur of the moment far outweighs any benefit that might come with assigned seating.

How about you? Does your town or city have these theaters? What do you think of them?

Ciao!
Lucie

The Waterdance New Blurb

2011-07-29T15:03:00.001-07:00

The Waterdance is coming to Nook and Kindle August 1st! Check out the new blurb below:

Nikki Thompson’s got a top job in finance, a fabulous best friend, a posh loft in downtown Los Angeles, and a hot Italian sports car. What she doesn’t have is a life. Spending all her time hunched over her desk analyzing the stock market hasn’t done her butt or her heart one bit of good. And when an intimate Watsu session has Nikki falling fast for Ricardo, the sexy massage therapist charged with unkinking her knots, she impulsively jets off to an exclusive spa in Costa Rica to chase after him. But there’s more to Ricardo than Nikki knows, and going after his heart just might end up breaking hers.

Paper or Digital

2011-07-28T10:05:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I bought an iPad, which has really changed my life. I’m no longer working my thumbs to nubs on my phone, trying to keep up with social media. I rarely turn my desktop computer on (unless I have to actually do some real work). And I now have millions of ebooks available at my fingertips. But you know what? I still prefer print.

After I got my iPad, I downloaded a few ebooks to my Nook and Kindle apps, but I haven’t managed to finish even one of them yet. Oh, I’m glad I bought them. They’re waiting for me whenever I have a few minutes to pull them up while standing in line at the market or when I’m stuck on a four-hour flight with no onboard entertainment. But when it comes to actual focused reading where I set aside time to visit the land of make-believe, I always turn to my print books.

The truth is, I just like the feel of print books. I love the weight of them in my hands, the smell of the paper, and the ability to easily flip back and forth through the book. I also really love looking at them. Yes, just seeing them and their pretty covers lying on top of my nightstand gives me a thrill. They’re a visual reminder of the wonderful worlds I get to visit. And the mere sight of them alone is enough to make me stop whatever I’m doing and take in a few pages. Ebooks just don’t have the same affect on me.

This is not to say that I don’t like ebooks. They definitely have their advantages. Portability being a big one. As well as the fact that they’re relatively less expensive than their print counterparts. But when there’s a book that I really want to read, that I’ve been chomping at the bit to get my hands on, I’m still going to choose paper over digital. For instance, I desperately want to read Maine by J. Courtney Sullivan (LOVED her debut, Commencement!), which is available in hardback for $24 or ebook for $13. Even though the ebook is nearly half the price of the print version, I’m going to shell out my hard-earned cash on that fat hard copy just so I can cradle it in my arms like a newborn babe, breathe in its crisp fresh-from-the-presses scent, and gaze longingly at its beautiful cover every time I walk by it. And when I’m finished with it, I’ll set it on my bookshelf where it will wink at me, dolling out sweet little reminders of the heavenly experience I enjoyed while reading it. Ah, love. Sweet, sweet love.

So, how about you? Have you foregone print altogether, or do you still hold a place for paper in your heart like I do?

Ciao,
Lucie

Noises Off

2011-07-26T09:26:00.000-07:00

I joined a couple of friends for dinner Saturday night at a hip and trendy restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. I was excited to experience this eatery that’s been getting lots of buzz lately. And indeed, when we arrived, the place was packed. We had to wait an hour for a table, but luckily snagged a spot in the bar area where we could wait comfortably (rather than standing for an hour on a marble floor in high heels). We ordered drinks and appetizers and chatted while scores of people milled about us. The atmosphere of the restaurant was more like that of a club, with music blaring, women wearing mini-dresses and hooker shoes, and colorful cocktails swirling in martini glasses. And the incessant din of everyone screaming at each other.

I don’t get this new trend in dining. Well, I say “new,” but it’s been going on for years. I’m talking about the sheer volume of noise that accompanies a meal these days. I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly like having to yell across the table to my dining companion. It’s one thing if you’re in a club and dancing and drinking and you’re already loud and obnoxious, but when you’re trying to eat a gourmet meal and have a conversation with a couple of good friends, it’s really annoying to have to practically burst a vocal chord when trying to catch up your best pal on all the events of your life.

What I don’t get is why restaurants are not designing their spaces with acoustics in mind. This particular establishment I was patronizing was housed in a former bank. And it seems they did little to reconfigure the space. High ceilings, marble floors, and white walls surrounded rows of tables and little else. There wasn’t even a piece of art hanging on the walls. And I understand minimalist design. But this was more like bare bones design. It reminded me of an upscale cafeteria, only noisier.

So, the food was good, the company was great, but the overall experience was disappointing. Leaving a restaurant half deaf from sound decibels you’d normally find at a rock concert should not be the standard in dining. But these days, it is. Isn’t anyone else bothered by this? Or am I just a cranky old fart?

Ciao,
Lucie

Try, Try Again

2011-07-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was giving a woman a private yoga lesson. Her biggest challenge is balancing. Seriously, it’s amazing she doesn’t walk in circles with her lack of centeredness. So, when I wanted to put her through a series of challenging balancing poses, she balked. She couldn’t do it. She knew even before trying them that she’d fall out of them. And you know what? She probably would. But that’s okay. Because balance isn’t something you achieve overnight. It takes time to develop. And most importantly, it takes a willingness to do it.

So, I showed her how to modify the poses, slowly getting her to let go of her fears and trust that her body will respond positively. And she did it! All it took was for her to stop saying “I can’t,” and start saying, “I’ll try.”

I believe it was the great Yoda that said, “Do or do not. There is no try.” Clearly, he didn’t practice yoga. There’s a whole lot of trying in yoga. Trying to keep your back leg straight in Crescent Pose, trying to get your heels to touch the mat in Downward Facing Dog, trying to lift your ass off the floor and balance on your palms in Scales Pose. Because this stuff can be really hard. And yoga is a practice. That means most people won’t get it right the first time. Most people have to keep coming back to it over and over again before they can hold a pose in proper form for five breaths. And the great thing about yoga is that one day your practice might be perfect, but the very next it’s complete garbage. That’s the beauty of yoga. Humility is built right in!

In that sense, life is a lot like yoga. If you want to accomplish something, you have to at least try to do it. You just might fail. But at least you tried. You didn’t just walk away from a challenge. You faced it head on and it won. But maybe you keep trying. And maybe one of those tries succeeds. So, instead of Yoda’s “do or do not” philosophy, I prefer the mantra, “try, try again.” Because sometimes you first have to fail in order to succeed.

So, what is your biggest challenge?

The Measure of Success

2011-07-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

Last week, I posted about goal-setting versus dreaming. This week I want to talk about the meaning of success. Once you’ve set your goals and come up with a plan to achieve them, it’s also important to determine how you will define success. In my previous post, I advised that goals be thought of as actions, not numbers or “things” to strive toward. In this way, your goals are more manageable and you are far more likely to achieve them (and stick to them). And achieving your goals equals success, right? Or does it? That depends on how you define it.

For example, there are a lot of authors jumping on the indie bandwagon these days with the advent of ebook technology and the relative ease with which it is to self-publish. And people are making real money. But there are also scores of people not make much money at all. And with the publishing industry in such flux, it’s really hard to know what one individual author really can achieve. One writer’s millions (Amanda Hocking) does not a criterion make. Most authors are not going to upload their ebook and see massive sales overnight. Maybe not even for months or years.

So, for those who have had modest to meager book sales, I suggest you do not compare yourself to the likes of those few Kindle millionaires that are making headlines. Instead, define what success means to you. Does it simply mean making your book available for the public? Does it mean garnering positive reviews? Does it mean being able to quit your day job?

Once you’ve figured out what it means to achieve success, it’s time to set about making it happen. This is where those goal-setting lessons come in. If success equals good reviews, figure out the steps it takes to get them and go after it. And just as in setting and working toward small goals, such as pitching your book to 5 book bloggers a month, it’s important to also set the bar for your successes. With a goal of pitching to 5 bloggers a month, perhaps landing 3 reviews per month should be the expected outcome.

It’s important to make your definition of success personal. Just like when goal-setting, focus on how achieving your goal will benefit you – not how others will interpret it. Because when it comes to measuring success, it’s really easy to compare yourself to the big money-makers and become discouraged or feel as if you’ve failed. But if you’ve defined your own measure of success, the only one you have to answer to is yourself.

So, what does success mean to you?

Good luck!
Lucie

Summer Love

2011-07-12T11:02:00.000-07:00

There are many things I love about summer. Trips to the beach, sundresses, strappy sandals, watermelon martinis, bright and sparkly nail polish… I could go on and on. But one thing I didn’t used to love about summer was the lack of quality television. When I was a kid, summer TV meant reruns of Mork & Mindy and Three’s Company. But today, summer is the season for sexy, funny, and even visionary television. My top picks of the summer:

Drop Dead Diva began its third season in June, and it is every bit of the summery fun one would expect from the premise: Zany model, Deb, is killed in a car crash, but before she gets to heaven, she hits the “return” button and is hurtled into the body of recently deceased Jane, a plus size, brainy lawyer with a decided lack of fashion sense. Brooke Elliott is pure charm as Jane, and I love how she exudes wit and beauty and solid legal prowess with a flip of her glossy black hair.

Damages returns exclusively to DirecTV (luckily I have DirecTV) for its fourth season this week, and I cannot wait. This show features powerhouse performances by Glenn Close (an acting legend) and Rose Byrne, along with amazing guest stars such as John Goodman. Glenn Close’s Patty Hewes is brilliantly badass. As evil as they come, she stops at nothing (not even murder) to win her cases. Rose Byrne, as Patty’s reluctant accomplice, fights for the little guy while fighting to keep her integrity.

Breaking Bad has been breaking all the rules since its debut. Gritty and gripping, this show features Bryan Cranston as Walter White, a high school chemistry teacher with inoperable lung cancer who turns to cooking meth as a means to secure a financial future for the family he will leave behind when he dies, and Aaron Paul as Jesse Pinkman, Walt’s former student and current partner in crime. These two need each other to survive, yet their dysfunctional relationship will surely bring about their demise.

If you haven’t yet checked out any of these fabulous shows, I urge you to do so. But you gotta start from the beginning! So, get them on DVD, and in the meantime, set your DVR to record the new episodes!

What are your favorite summer shows?

Ciao!
Lucie

The Waterdance Cover

2011-07-10T10:52:00.000-07:00

Below is the new cover for THE WATERDANCE, coming to Nook & Kindle August 1st!

Dream On

2011-07-05T09:08:00.001-07:00

What is the difference between a dream and a goal? In my opinion, a dream is something you desire that is so lofty it’s impossible to reach in real life. However, a goal is something you strive to achieve. Something you apply yourself to in order to obtain it in real life. If you spend your time dreaming of future achievements rather than goal-setting, you might find that, in the end, all you’ve done is build castles in the sky. And as much as I love daydreaming, doing nothing but that is a big fat waste of time.

So, how do you turn your dreams into your goals? First of all, decide what your dream is. Do you dream of owning your own business? Buying your first home? Losing thirty pounds? Whatever it is, spell it out. Be specific, but don’t limit your possibilities. By this, I mean don’t develop a laundry list of criteria to meet. Instead, focus on what your goal will mean to you. How will achieving your goal change your life?

For example, if you make a statement like, “I plan to lose thirty pounds by October,” you might be limiting yourself to only that type of success. Instead, describe your dream in terms of how achieving it will make you feel. Something like, “I plan to feel stronger, have more energy and look sexy in and out of my clothes,” doesn’t limit you to only losing thirty pounds. Sure, if you lose the weight, you’ll probably be stronger, have more energy and look sexier. But if you make your goal more about how you’ll feel rather than achieving some rigid number, you may find that you meet or even surpass your goal more easily.

The next step is to research what it takes to accomplish your goal. Put the time in to come up with a real plan, one that is manageable in a reasonable period of time. Don’t set goals so far out into the future that you’ll lose track of them while trying to achieve them. Instead, set baby goals that lead up to a bigger goal. So, if your goal is to feel stronger, have more energy and look sexier, figure out an exercise and nutrition plan to achieve that. Then set small goals designed to get yourself there.

Again, don’t focus on the number. Focus on actions that will get you the results you’re looking for. Maybe meeting your weight loss goal means cycling three times a week paired with two yoga classes while limiting processed foods. Then focus on achieving those goals each week, rather than striving to lose 2 pounds each week. You probably will lose 2 pounds, but if you’re only focused on the number, you can easily lose sight of the real benefit.

And once you’ve met your goal, celebrate it. Own it. And then set another one. Because we all have dreams, but unless we make plans to reach them, that’s all they’ll ever be.

So, what are your dreams?

Cover Story

2011-06-19T22:31:00.000-07:00

I'm currently trying to come up with a new cover for my novella, The Waterdance, which I'll be re-releasing in August for Nook & Kindle, and it is one tough job! Personally, I think cover art is very important and has a big job to do. It has to be visually interesting and reveal some insight into the story while conveying the tone of book. So, I take this stuff really seriously.

When it came time to design the new cover for my A Taste of Italy re-release, I knew exactly what I wanted. I sent some photos to my graphic artist and gave her a description of the scene I wanted to portray on the cover. And with a little design magic, we came up with a stunning cover that I absolutely adore. See Before and After pics below:

Before

After

But now I'm stumped! I need some new inspiration. So, I foresee myself perusing book covers non-stop for the next few weeks until I find something that sparks my imagination. But that's okay because I love looking at book covers! How about you? Are you a sucker for a great book cover like me? What are some of your faves?

Ciao!
Lucie

Hollywood Ending Excerpt

2011-05-30T09:31:00.000-07:00

Below is an excerpt from my debut novel, Hollywood Ending, coming to Nook and Kindle June 1st!

Chapter 1

“Nothing too hard. Just hand jobs,” said Roka, an older Iranian student whose designer wardrobe was as rich as her accent. “Is good for to keep me busy. I practice English.”

“Uh, actually, you don’t want to call what you’re doing a hand job,” Trina quickly replied.

“No? But is job with hands. I put shoes out and purses, and I only use hands,” The fifty-something siren waved her bejeweled hands in the air. “No brain work.”

“Yes, but we don’t want to say hand job. That, uh, has another meaning.”

Gazing around the sterile, white room at her mixed assortment of students, Trina Stewart contemplated explaining the meaning of masturbation to them. An uncomfortable situation to be in, certainly, but one would be surprised at how often she had to face this kind of decision at work.

Teaching English as a Second Language was not exactly what she’d envisioned doing when she first arrived in Los Angeles nearly a decade ago. Nor when she’d enrolled in one of the nation’s best film schools. But ten years in Tinsel Town, and she was no closer to her dream job now than the moment she’d first laid eyes on the famed Hollywood sign.

That freaking sign. God, how it irritated her. It just sat there, day in and day out, clinging to the mountainside, taunting her, mocking her and her Hollywood dreams. She was starting to hate that damned sign and the way it glared at her whenever she looked at it. Reminding her of just how terribly unsuccessful she still was. Lately she’d been entertaining some not so savory plans for that sign. Plans that included a blowtorch, spray paint, and a wrecking ball. If she could just get rid of that friggin’ thing once and for all, maybe she would even find a job. A proper Hollywood job. And considering she’d just graduated from a prestigious film school with a Master of Fine Arts, no less, one would think it not such an insurmountable task.

“What kind of job is hand job?” Roka asked, and Trina’s mind slammed back to the task at hand.

“Okay. Well, it’s not actually a job. It’s a sort of sexual activity.”

“Ooh. What kind of activity?” Roka’s eyes lit up, and she pulled out her notebook.

“A hand job is slang for, uh, well, when you use your hand to, you know.”

Roka leaned forward in her chair, and, Trina noticed, so did her other students. Eagerly anticipating the explanation, they sat perched on the edge of their seats, eyes fixed on Trina. Roka was not a timid woman, so Trina wasn’t worried about offending her. But the rest of the class was made up mainly of young Asian girls whose traditional parents may not have appreciated the kind of education Trina was providing them.

“Yes? What do I do with my hand?” Roka pried.

“You grab, er, stroke --”

“What is stroke?”

“All right. I’m just going to show you.” She made what she believed was the international symbol for jerking off.

Roka screwed up her brows. “Gamble? You throw dice?”

Apparently, it wasn’t as widely known as Trina had thought.

“No. Masturbation!”

Trina jumped up from her chair and wrote it on the whiteboard in huge black letters. Roka dived into her electronic dictionary, frantically clicking in the letters just as Kyoko, Trina’s sixty-year-old Japanese boss walked in with a teenage Japanese girl hooked to her arm.

“We have new student, Trina. What are you teaching today?” Kyoko glanced at the board. “Mas-tur-ba-tion. What is that?” Kyoko may have run an ESL school, but she was hardly fluent herself.

“Oh, hand job!” laughed Roka heartily, the remainder of the class tapping away at their keys.

Instantly, Trina turned her attention toward the new student, “masturbation” still hanging on the whiteboard behind her and a fine blush coloring her cheeks. “Who’s this?”

“This is Naoko. Her parents are getting divorced and she is here until they can decide where she will live, but she has upset stomach.” Kyoko raised her hand to her mouth and whispered, “Diarrhea.”

Trina smiled at the poor girl. Kyoko had a penchant for giving out too much information.

“I told her to drink some green tea, but she is afraid it will make her go diarrhea again,” Kyoko confided.

She also gave advice, usually involving the healing powers of green tea or some sort of ancient Japanese concoction.

“I leave her with you. You teach her about mas-tur-ba-tion. Okay?”

Kyoko departed swiftly, leaving Naoko standing in the middle of the room. Trina pulled out a plastic chair and invited her to join the rest of the students at the table. Her downcast eyes revealed a world of information to Trina. She was like all the other Japanese girls who came to her class. Timid, scared, lonely, and desperate. And dumped in a city halfway around the world from all her friends and family.

Trina knew exactly how she felt.

How to Lose Your BFF

2011-05-17T12:13:00.000-07:00

I saw Bridesmaids this weekend and enjoyed it not only because it was freaking hilarious, but also because it really hit home with me.

In Bridesmaids, Annie’s best friend Lillian is getting married and she asks Annie to be the Maid of Honor. However, as Annie steps into the role, she discovers another (wealthier, more beautiful) friend of Lillian’s is one-upping her at every turn and threatening to come between them. Annie is failing at everything. Her business, her love life, and now she’s even on the verge of losing her best friend since childhood.

While I haven’t had exactly the same experience as Annie, I did lose a very close friend once because of a bachelorette party. And for reasons that I still don’t fully understand.

Once upon a time, I was poor. Like barely-able-to-put-gas-in-my-car-to-get-to-my-low-paying-job poor. At the same time, my best friend of eight years got invited to a bachelorette party of another girlfriend whom I’d never met. The party was a weekend in Vegas, and she invited me to join in on the fun. At first, I was totally excited and looking forward to a girls’ weekend in Vegas with my BFF. But as the trip got sorted out, the price got higher and higher. Renting a pool cabana, a spa day, a fancy dinner out, and a night at a strip club that cost $50 just to walk in the door.

I couldn’t afford it.

My BFF wasn’t rich by any means, but she was richer than I was. And while the weekend probably only would have cost me about $500 total, that was more than a week’s pay at the time. But I still wanted to go. So, I suggested that I not attend the spa or go to the strip club (because that just seemed gross anyway), but that I’d do everything else. Unfortunately, it was an all or nothing deal with my BFF, and she invited me to not go at all. Or, she gave me an “out,” as she put it. I didn’t see it that way. I, unfortunately, saw it as her choosing her wealthier friends over me. Whether that was true or not, I don’t know.

But we didn’t communicate again for over a year.

I called. I emailed. I sent her a card. I did everything short of showing up on her doorstep with a dozen roses. But I got no response. I had been dumped. It was devastating.

I did the only thing I could. I moved on.

So, when I got her email a year later apologizing for cutting me out of her life, it was really too little too late. My hurt had healed, and I’d made other friends closer friends. I didn’t need her anymore. We exchanged a few emails, but that was it. The magic was gone.

It was a tough lesson to learn, and I’m not even sure what the lesson was. Don’t let Vegas come between you and your BFF? Or maybe, she wasn’t really my BFF after all. Maybe she was my BFFAW. Best Friend For A While. Because it takes two to make a friendship work.

Have you ever lost a BFF?

Mad About You

2011-05-03T10:59:00.000-07:00

I’ve been reading Marian Keyes’ This Charming Man, and I gotta tell ya, that is some of the darkest Chick Lit I’ve ever read. I’ve been a fan of Ms. Keyes ever since I picked up her book, The Last Chance Saloon many years ago. She has always crept into the darker side of life, exploring alcoholism, depression, abuse, abandonment, etc, and always doing it with a big splash of laughter. But with This Charming Man she goes further than ever before, delving into the psyche of obsessive love, depression, alcoholism, sexual abuse, and even the strain of caring for someone with a mental disease. And she does it all while managing to pepper the subject with enough witty prose that the reader doesn’t fall into despair along with the characters.

I’m glad to see Ms. Keyes tackling such heavy topics, and especially glad that she retains her classic Chick Lit style while doing it. Her talent is boundless, clearly, but what makes this book even more powerful is that I know she’s writing from the heart. Marian Keyes has made public her own battle with alcoholism and depression, and even though she’s not shy about it, I can understand how hard it must be to not only reveal it, but to retell it in a narrative form. Reading This Charming Man is like getting the opportunity to poke around inside the head of someone whose actions are unfathomable, yet uncontrollable. Because I’ve often been in that position, unable to understand why a person can’t stay sober or can’t look at the bright side of life.

My mom, who passed away on March 19^th, 2011, was an alcoholic and suffered depression and Bi-Polar disorder. For nearly ten years, I looked after her as she battled her demons. Invisible demons that I couldn’t see or understand. At times it was infuriating. Other times it was debilitating. And still there were times when it was humiliating. My friends all had parents who looked after them, not the other way around. But the worst part was not being able to relate to her. I’ve never had a drinking problem. I’ve never had mood swings. I’ve never been so depressed I wanted to kill myself. And I just couldn’t figure out why she just didn’t have the willpower or strength to overcome her problems. But that’s because I don’t have a mental illness or suffer from addiction.

As hard as I tried to empathize with my mother’s plight (and believe me, I tried, spending several years in therapy to maintain my own sanity while managing hers), it wasn’t until I began reading This Charming Man that I could really comprehend the struggles of a depressed alcoholic whose actions made no sense to a sane, healthy person. Told from several different view points, This Charming Man reveals the inner workings of a mentally ill mind and the impacts it has on friends and family.

If you have anyone in your life who suffers from addiction or mental illness, I highly recommend This Charming Man. It might not solve your problems, but at least it will help you understand them better.

Ciao,

Lucie

A Taste of Italy Excerpt

2011-04-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt from my short story, A Taste of Italy, now available on Nook & Kindle for only 99 cents!

          The dewy morning air was cool against my skin as I stepped down from the train and onto the platform. Florence. Finally. After twelve hours’ travel from Paris in a less-than-fabulous first class cabin that rocked and swayed with every turn of its wheels, or so it seemed, I had finally arrived at my destination. Spending far too many sleepless hours being tossed around like a pair of panties in a spin cycle, I was thrilled to be on solid ground and desperate to get to my hotel. All I wanted was to take a hot shower and curl up in a warm bed that didn’t threaten to heave me over the side every three minutes.
    I inhaled deeply and marched through the train terminal and out onto the empty cobblestoned streets of Italy’s famed Tuscan town. At seven a.m. on a Saturday morning, much of the city was still asleep. Or, at least, I would have been. And judging by the quiet of what my tour books had promised was a bustling metropolis, I figured the townsfolk had to be sleeping off the remnants of a festive Friday night.
          I made my way over to a taxi stand and waited for a car to take me to my hotel, which was strategically located off of Piazza del Duomo, home to Florence’s grand cathedral, Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. Or, as most people called it, the Duomo. My guidebooks assured me that it was an impressive sight, and from my position at the train station, I could even see the top of its adjoining marble tower. But according to all the Florentine travel reports I’d read, the massive dome, engineered by the famous architect, Brunelleschi, was the real spectacle to behold. But without a taxi to get me there, it appeared I would have to hoof it if I wanted to actually see it.
          Vehicles were restricted within the City of Florence to public transportation and motorscooters, so I had expected to grab a taxi upon arrival. It seemed the cabbies were all still tucked away in their beds, though, and I was going to have to find my hotel on foot.
    I pulled out my guidebook and turned to the map of Florence. It was simplistic, but indicated the location of the Duomo and the street where my hotel resided. I set off in direction of the city’s center, dragging my wheeled luggage along the cobblestones behind me.
          Narrow streets curved and twisted, and it was hard to know exactly in which direction I was headed. And with the Duomo’s tower disappearing behind tall stone buildings that resembled fortresses more than residences, I was quickly lost in a sea of medieval architecture. If only I had not lost my smart phone in the bowels of the Paris metro two days earlier. With that trusty little sucker, I could have pulled up the GPS. But I had to go and lose it, which meant I had to rely on my wits and my pre-techno-gadget skills.
          Finally, after a good half hour wandering aimlessly past a multitude of fashionable (but closed) retail stores like Prada, Gucci, Fendi and more, I happened upon a florist filling his cart with roses and other floral delights. I asked him for directions, using the limited Italian vocabulary I could recall from my college days spent studying romance languages. Luckily, spotting my luggage, he realized I was a tourist and spoke slowly enough that I could follow his instructions to my albergo, a former Medici family residence six centuries old that was converted to a hotel in World War II.
          I shuffled off, dragging my bags and my now very tired body toward my destination. Suddenly, the tall buildings fell away, and I emerged onto Piazza del Duomo. The sun shined brightly on the massive cathedral’s pink and green marbled exterior, and my jaw dropped open just slightly as I craned my neck to take in the entire façade of the structure. Huge, ornate bronze doors marked its entrance, and I moved closer to get a better look. Adorned with intricately depicted vignettes of the Madonna’s life, I marveled at the artistry of them. I wondered, briefly, how many Florentines passed by this doorway everyday without even a glance.
          I lifted my gaze up beyond the marbled structure to the crowning glory, Brunelleschi’s magnificent octagonal dome, situated at the rear of the cathedral. It was indeed as impressive as I’d read. And from the description on my hotel’s website, I knew that I could view the dome from my very own room. A place I desperately needed to find, I realized, as a sudden wave of exhaustion fell over me.
          I exited the square, finding the road that led to my eagerly awaited bed, anxious to catch up on some sleep so that I could discover Florence’s treasures unencumbered by fatigue. Passing by a florist’s shop, I spotted the door to my salvation, a small neon sign indicating “no vacancy” in Italian.
          When I’d booked my trip to Florence, finding a hotel proved to be a much greater difficulty than I had expected. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one interested in visiting! Everything was booked for months in advance. And this trip of mine was more of an impulse getaway than a well-thought-out vacation with an actual itinerary.
          Inspired by the sun-drenched tales of Tuscan romances and stories of jaunty Parisian affairs, I had set out, foolishly, on a journey that I’d hoped would be filled with titillating adventures with handsome European men all wining and dining their way into my heart (and hopefully my pants).
           I was fairly deluded when I’d come up with this plan.
          Having spent the last five years of my life slaving away in the corporate tax world, climbing up the ladder and fulfilling all my career goals, I had been so focused on work that I’d barely had time for martini nights with my girlfriends, let alone dating. And I’d gotten pretty fed up with the severe lack of fun and romance filling my days, so I decided something needed to change. But having been so buttoned-up for the last half decade that even my vibrator was feeling deprived, I knew it was going to take a major adjustment to kick-start my love life.
          Unwilling to wait for a boyfriend to come along, sweep me off my feet, and invite me to Paris on a dreamy holiday, I just packed my bags and went in search of my own romantic adventures. Plus, I had just turned thirty a couple of weeks earlier, and what better birthday present could I give myself than a romp through Europe’s most illustrious cities?
          Carly Simpson, I’d promised myself, you will not come back to L.A. without at least one good European shag.

Forbidden Fruit

2011-04-20T10:32:00.000-07:00

Isn’t it always the case that as soon as you go on a diet, you start craving cream-filled donuts, despite the fact that you rarely ate them before? The mere fact that they are now off limits fills you with a desperate need to indulge.

I’ve discovered that relationships can be the same way. Once someone is deemed “unavailable” he or she then becomes all the more desirable. But, ladies, the truly forbidden, and perhaps the most tempting, are the unhappily married. But just because he’s miserable doesn’t mean you should be, too.

Say, you’re friends or co-workers with someone that you find attractive, but he’s married. No brainer. He’s unavailable, so you don’t waste your time trying to develop something romantic out of the relationship. But then one day he confides in you. He tells you he’s miserable in his marriage. Keep in mind, he’s telling you this as a friend because of the many years you’ve been acquainted and he feels comfortable enough to express his personal frustrations. At least, that’s all you can assume. You cannot assume he’s telling you this because he’s secretly been in love with you for ages and desperately wants to run away with you. That might be the truth, but that isn’t what he’s telling you.

So, what do you do? Nothing. Listen. Be a shoulder. But do nothing. This is his problem, and he has to be the one to solve it. No matter what you think is best for him (and you), you have to keep your opinions to yourself. Now, perhaps you’re hoping he’ll divorce her and strike up a romantic relationship with you. It’s okay to hope for that, but until he actually does it, you got squat. Don’t fool yourself into thinking this unhappily married man is anything more than a friend until he has extricated himself from his marriage. Because he may never do that. And if you indulge your fantasies and take up a romance with him before he’s free to really be with you, you are knowingly entering into an unfulfilling relationship. And that’s just stupid.

Be smart and think of your heart. Sure, he’s looking more delicious than those cream-filled donuts ever did, but he’s still bad for your health. If you can fight the temptation, you may find that someone even yummier (and with less baggage) is right around the corner. But you may never meet him if you indulge your married man. So, do yourself a favor and step away from that donut!

Ciao!
Lucie

Going Global

2011-04-18T14:33:00.000-07:00

I love to travel. Exploring new cultures, experiencing new adventures, discovering new vistas. It’s all about opening myself to a new perspective.

I first traveled outside the U.S. by accident when I was thirteen. I was on a road trip with my grandparents, visiting distant relatives along the east coast, when we decided to take a day trip to Niagara Falls. My grandfather was driving, bebopping to a jazz station while my grandmother read. I was in the backseat watching the scenery whiz by my window. I wasn’t paying much attention to the road signs, but when I saw the exit for Niagara Falls speed by, I figured something was amiss. Apparently, my grandparents weren’t paying much attention either. Suddenly, we were at the Canadian border and my grandpa was scratching his head with wonder. But never one to pass up an opportunity, we motored on into Canada and worked our way over to the falls.

I remember being awed by Mother Nature’s fury and beauty. Clouds of mist floated up from the waterfall, thick and cool and almost ethereal. The sound of the rushing water crashing into the river below was deafening and lyrical at the same time. The dizzying height from which we viewed the spectacle was terrifyingly tall and made mere humans seem like nothing at all. But those things aren't what I think of first when I recall my trip to Niagara Falls.

A Canadian couple was playing with a little French poodle, tossing a frisby back and forth, and all I could do was worry that the disk would go flying over the stone wall, and the dog would leap over the barrier and plummet to its death. It didn’t. But after all these years, the image of that pooch catching the frisby between his teeth as the falls roared wildly in the background is still my most vivid memory of the entire experience. Why? Because I wasn’t simply admiring nature’s wonder, I was invested in the outcome of that little pup’s story. I was worried about him. I cared about him. I wanted to rescue him!

Flash forward a couple of decades, and I continue to find stories in my travels. My own experiences, good, bad and funny, have found their way into plotlines for my novels and short stories. A Taste of Italy, available on Nook and Kindle April 25th, is inspired by my trip to Florence where I had heaps of trouble, lots of rain, and one nasty hotel clerk. Unlike the main character in my story, however, my trip didn’t end on a romantic note. So, I hope to one day return to Florence and finally experience the romance that Tuscany is so famous for.

Do you have any favorite travel stories? What was your best vacation? Your worst?

Ciao!
Lucie

Oh, The Horror!

2011-04-11T10:50:00.000-07:00

Ever since childhood, I’ve loved scary movies. My brother and I would stay up late on Friday nights to watch the weekly horror show presentation on TV, usually pretty tame fare, but with the lights out, a bowl of popcorn and our imaginations, it was the scariest fun two kids could have in their own living room. My tastes have matured, and the likes of 1950s creature features no longer really thrill like they used to. But luckily for me, Hollywood has managed to keep churning out scary flicks good and creepy enough to keep me awake at night (and often in fear of monsters in the closet!).

But my neighbor and best friend with whom I shared my passion for scary films moved away a month ago, and now I have no one to go see horror flicks with me. Surprisingly, few of my friends dig them. The guys say they aren’t really scary and the girls don’t have the desire to spend 90 anxious minutes in the dark with their hands over their eyes. I get it. Horror isn’t for everyone. But I can’t do horror alone, either.

I DVR-ed The Ring the other day, and every time I pull up my list of saved shows, I look at it longingly. I really want to watch it, but I’m afraid to watch it alone. Mind you, I’ve seen it a couple times already. And let me just say, it haunted me. I couldn’t look at my TV for weeks without picturing some deformed dead girl crawling out of it. Seriously, I was spooked!

But most scary movies have that effect on me, which is why I never watch them alone, and they usually have to be followed up by a comedy to get the spooky storylines out of my head. But I love them anyway. Despite the terror that infiltrates my psyche and has me seeing ghosts in mirrors and vampires on the other side of my window, I can’t keep away. So, sooner or later, I am just going to have to suck it up and press play on The Ring. I might have to keep the hall light on for a while, though…

How about you? Do you like scary movies? Which are your faves? Do you go for supernatural storylines, or do you dig slasher flicks? My faves: The Exorcist, Rosemary’s Baby, Poltergeist, The Shining, Nightmare on Elm Street, Psycho, The Silence of the Lambs, The Changeling, Alien, and The Serpent and the Rainbow. Chills guaranteed!

Ciao!
Lucie

A Taste of Italy - New Blurb!

2011-03-30T20:31:00.000-07:00

New blurb for A TASTE OF ITALY. Available SOON on Nook and Kindle for only 99 cents!

Carly Simpson is in desperate need of a romantic interlude, but her plans for a hot European getaway in Florence, Italy turn cold quickly when her own inhibitions leave her ill-equipped for the Tuscan town’s passionate temperament. Greeted by a grumpy hotel clerk, a sea of love-struck couples, and one too many pawing lotharios, she nearly gives up all hopes of ever finding romance, let alone love. But just when she resigns herself to a life of loveless melancholy, and Florence has practically broken her spirit, she discovers that love is actually a lot closer to home than she ever imagined. And that Italy is meant to be savored.

Emotional Cutting

2011-03-27T07:10:00.000-07:00

I have long had an obsession with hair. Ever since I was a kid and my granny would braid my hair at night so I'd wake up with a thick head of natural waves. My hair was down to my waist, luxurious and glossy. The color of roasted chestnuts. But then, when I was 13, my family moved and I was no longer close enough to my granny for her to braid my hair. So, what did I do? I took my allowance, hopped a bus to the mall, and walked into a hair salon where I had the stylist chop off all my hair to the nape of my neck. I cried for days at the loss of my lovely locks. My parents didn't understand why I'd done it. Hell, I didn't even know! But that single act changed my relationship with my hair forever.

Since that fateful day, I've used my hair to express myself. Growing it out, chopping it off, coloring it, bleaching it, perming it. Whenever I got bored or frustrated with some aspect of life, I'd change up my hairstyle. I'd discovered that it was one of the fastest ways to change my appearance and my attitude. Sure, sometimes I would regret my decisions. Like the time I'd bleached my hair so badly that it disintegrated in my hands and I had to shave my head. But that experience taught me a good lesson. First, that unlike Sinead O'Connor, I do not look good bald. Secondly, that everything is temporary.

These days, I treat my hair with a little more respect. I no longer bleach it, perm it, or cut it myself. But last week, I suffered a loss that I felt right down to my roots. Literally. My mother passed away on Saturday March 19th. I was with her in her last moments and watched as the life quickly slipped out of her. My brother and sister-in-law flew out to help with arrangements and provide me with some much needed support. But the night before they left, my grief overcame me. Alone in the bathroom, I stared at my reflection. I had been growing my hair out for six months - a reaction to a miscarriage I'd had last summer - and my hair was very close to reaching my goal length. With some trepidation, I picked up a pair of scissors and made one click slice. Bangs. I instantly felt a sense of relief. But it wasn't enough. I needed a new perspective. I needed some brightness.

Two days later, I was in my stylist's chair with foil on my head. Highlights. Just what I needed to lift my spirits. But instead of making me happy, I felt the loss of my mother more acutely and spent the remainder of my appointment fighting off tears. My stylist, a total sweetie, wouldn't let me pay for her services. This wasn't the first time she'd done that. When I miscarried and came in for a haircut, she didn't charge me then, either. At Christmas the year earlier after a bad break up, she'd cut my hair as her gift to me. But I was surprised and touched at the generosity in gifting me with free highlights. But this is why she has been my stylist for 10 years. Because she understands my obsession with hair and why changing it is a form of therapy for me.

So, has it helped? I don't know for sure. But I do know my mom would like my new highlights. Because she understood my obsession with hair, too. And she'd know they were done in her memory. Rest in peace, Mom. And may you always have good hair.

Love,
Lucie

Intellectual Property - What's It Worth?

2011-03-14T10:36:00.000-07:00

I just purchased a new iPad2 over the weekend. Woot! This means that I can not only browse the web (along with a multitude of other functions), but read ebooks as well. To be honest, I have been slow to embrace the ebook, despite having had 2 previously published. But they are catching on like crazy, and since I own a small press, I figured it was high time I invested in an e-reader. I just went one step further and plunked down a load of cash on a giant, glorified smartphone. So, I downloaded apps for the Nook, the Kindle, and iBooks and set about browsing bookstores for a fab e-read.

I have heard a lot of e-readers complaining about the price of ebooks being too high. That they should be discounted down to $2.99 or less across the board. The thinking behind this being that there are no printing costs. Well, sure, but Nathan Bransford highlighted the true cost of paper in a recent blog post quite plainly, and going digital doesn’t equal a huge cut in production costs.

Mr. Bransford’s post discusses a lot of the costs associated with publishing a book, so I won’t describe those here. Instead, I want to highlight the non-tangible costs. I’m talking about the months or years an author spends writing a book. Think about it. Authors put a lot of effort into writing a story. So, when you buy a book, you aren’t really paying just for the cost of producing the book. You’re paying for the author’s intellectual property. The hours of entertainment you get from reading a book is really what you’re buying. Not the paper it’s printed on or the pixels it’s displayed in.

Now, when thought about it that way, I bet there are plenty of stories you’d be happy to pay 8 or 9 nine dollars to enjoy, right? And I’m as big a bargain hunter as the next girl, so I love scoring a cheap read – especially if it turns out to be not only cheap, but also fabulous. Who doesn’t love a steal? But let’s not forget what we’re paying for when we buy an ebook. We’re paying for the story, the experience. The laughter, the tears.

The intellectual property.

Happy reading!
Lucie

P.S. The book I bought? Romantically Challenged by Beth Orsoff for $2.99. Huzzah!

A Taste of Italy New Cover

2011-03-08T13:41:00.000-08:00

I really love the new artwork for the re-release of A Taste of Italy. Look for it on Nook & Kindle for 99 cents soon!

Ciao,
Lucie

It Takes Two

2011-03-01T11:10:00.000-08:00

Being a writer of chick lit (or humorous women’s fiction as we are now told to call it), I spend a lot of time thinking about relationships. The relationships my main characters have with their friends and with their significant others. These relationships and their evolving natures are born out of my experiences, my research, and my observations of others. And lately, I’ve come across a pattern. The “cop out.”

So, what is the “cop out,” you ask? In a nutshell, it is when one half of a relationship fails to put in the necessary effort to nurture the relationship - and freely admits to that failure - forcing the other half to either accept their partner’s inadequacies or end the relationship. This “cop out” places all the responsibility of the relationship on the other partner. If it is to survive, then one half of the pair must accept a less fulfilling relationship while the other goes about his or her business secure in the knowledge that he or she has been honest about his or her level of effort and is no longer at fault when the relationship fails.

Case in point: me. I met a wonderful man about a year ago and we sparked like an old Christmas tree parked too closely to an overloaded electrical outlet. Our first date lasted 18 hours. Our first kiss launched rockets into other galaxies. Our first make-out session bordered on public indecency. And our first time was so full of passion we nearly ignited the bed.

And then life got complicated. The relationship was placed under a lot of strain. My partner was under pressure to placate members of his family and to meet financial obligations. As a result, he made less and less time for me. Even when I needed him most, he wasn’t there for me. Basically, he just stopped showing up. He always had an excuse, but after several weeks of being stood up time and time again, I could no longer accept this kind of behavior.

So, when I told him of my unhappiness about the level of effort he was putting into the relationship, he told me that I deserved better, but that he couldn’t do any more and if that meant losing me, so be it. Clearly, I was not a priority in his life. But he wasn’t ending it. He didn’t tell me that he didn’t want to be with me. In fact, he told me the exact opposite. He loved me. But he wouldn’t ask me to wait for him and he would understand if I wanted to date others.

But I didn’t want to date others. I wanted to date him. The man that I met all those months before. The man who made me feel loved and adored. Not the man who didn’t have time for me. Or the man that wouldn’t make time for me.

And so I left him. And now I’m dating again. And now, aside from looking for a smart, sexy, funny man, I’m looking for a smart, sexy, funny, responsible man. A man who will share in the work that is a relationship. Because it takes more than one person to keep a relationship alive. It takes two.

Ciao,
Lucie

To Each Her Own

2011-02-28T10:07:00.000-08:00

Last night, The King’s Speech took home four Oscars: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor & Best Original Screenplay. Let me start off by saying that I thought The King’s Speech was a first rate film. Great performances, great story, great directing. It was a delightful film all around, and I always enjoy period pieces. But for me, I thought Best Picture and Best Director should have gone to The Social Network.

As much as I enjoyed The King’s Speech, and I do feel Colin Firth deserved to take home the Oscar, it just didn’t resonate with me like The Social Network did. Perhaps because I could relate to David Fincher’s film in a way that I couldn’t with The King’s Speech. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am about as far from young-geeky-billionaire as you can get. But the film created an emotional connection with me that The King’s Speech just didn’t. And there really isn’t any one thing I can attribute that to.

That’s the way it goes. Some people will love one film/book/TV show/Song and others will not. I can’t tell you how much I loathe romantic vampire stories. To me, vampires are supposed to be terrifying creatures to fear, not lust after. But again, that’s just me. And with the raging success that is the Twilight series, I am obviously of the minority in that regard!

It’s all subjective.

Did you watch the Oscars? Did your favorites win?

Ciao,
Lucie

Tell It, Sister! Using Voice-Over Well

2011-02-15T16:21:00.001-08:00

Last week, I posted a review of The Chicago Code in which I stated that using voice-over in a script is the first sign of a weak screenplay (or teleplay). And I still hold firm to that belief. But, like I also noted in last week’s post, sometimes it works. In shows like Dexter and Scrubs, the voice-over adds to the story an element that would otherwise be missing. Now, I want to highlight another show that uses it very well. Glee.

First of all, Glee is a TV musical. This in itself sets it apart from traditional storytelling. The cast break into song every 6 to 8 minutes, so the audience is used to following a narrative that often wanders into dream-like territory. Adding character voice-overs to the storyline then doesn’t seem so disruptive to the flow. In fact, in Glee’s case, I think they add more to the story than if they were absent. Why? Because the voice overs are “voiced” by each uniquely loveable character.

Let me back up to The Chicago Code, which did essentially the same thing. Four or five characters in the story gave us a narrative in their own voices to provide mostly back story. One of the reasons it was so jarring for me was that I didn’t particularly like any of the “voices.” They were flat, and at first, I didn’t even realize they were the characters talking. I actually thought there was some omniscient narrator filling us in on stuff the writers didn’t feel like weaving into the dialogue. I quickly figured it out, but then was merely distracted by it.

Glee, on the other hand, infuses the voice-overs so well that viewers probably aren’t even aware of them. Most importantly, though, rather than using the device to catch up the audience on the back story, it’s used to express the thoughts the characters are each having in that moment. This mirrors very closely what happens in first person POV novels. We may get tidbits of back story, but more importantly, we’re getting the characters’ reactions to the situation they’re in. What they’re thinking, what they’re feeling, and how they’re interpreting the events unfolding around them. And it doesn’t hurt that all the Glee characters have really strong individual voices. Even if you closed your eyes and were completely tone deaf, you’d still know who was speaking by the language they use, their patterns of speech, and the content of their commentary. For instance, no one is going to mistake Brittany for Rachel. Ever.

So, I guess voice-over isn’t always such a bad thing. Just as long as it’s done well and not done just as an info dump. In other words, if you’re gonna tell it, do it with attitude! Tell it, sister!

Ciao,
Lucie

Good Cop, Bad Cop

2011-02-08T19:26:00.000-08:00

Being a huge fan of Shawn Ryan's The Shield, I was eager to see his latest creation, The Chicago Code. If you had the chance to watch The Shield, or even Terriers, you witnessed some amazing cop-related drama, rich with authentic (authentic sounding anyway) dialogue, astoundingly twisty plot turns, and deeply developed characters. So, as you can well imagine, I had very high expectations of The Chicago Code. Unfortunately, it was missing something for me. Or rather, it had something extra that I felt it shouldn't. Voice-over.

When I was in film school, I was taught that using voice-over in a screenplay is the first sign of a weak script. And, in most cases, I believe that philosophy holds true. There are exceptions to every rule, of course. For instance, a show like Dexter uses voice-over exceptionally well. Dexter is a highly unusual character whose thought patterns are wholly abnormal, and without getting into his head and hearing his interpretation of events, the show would be just another cop drama. Another exception was the TV show Scrubs, in which the main character often narrated the story in a dreamlike stream of consciousness. His "voice" was so entertaining that it added a hilarious layer of comedy to the already very well written story. But what these two shows have in common is that the voice-over was seamlessly woven into surrounding dialogue and action. It served to connect the audience to the characters telling their stories. The Chicago Code doesn't do that.

In The Chicago Code, the voice-over is used as an info dump. And in the book biz, this is considered bad, lazy writing. Sure, narration is used as exposition, but it has to be written very carefully, very stealthily so it simply washes over the reader without shouting BACK STORY at high volume. And the thing is, I can't figure out why they even bothered. Almost everything that was revealed in the voice-over, was also revealed in dialogue and action - stealthily. For example, did we really need a two minute jaunt down memory lane for the rookie cop to tell us how her policeman father was killed on duty and her uncle, who was also on the job, took her under his wing? No. Because it was woven into the dialogue quite plainly for any attentive viewer to pick up. Every bit of back story described in the voice-overs was mentioned in the dialogue, revealed in character actions, and told visually. Television is, after all, a visual medium. And it takes a skillful writer to tell a story with as few words as possible. But given Shawn Ryan's previous work, I was really surprised to see this device show up at all.

I will continue to watch, and I'm hoping that this element will work itself out because, otherwise, I enjoyed it.

Did you happen to catch the premiere? What did you think?

More Thoughts on Eat Pray Love (The Movie)

2011-01-28T10:28:00.000-08:00

On Tuesday, I revealed why I didn’t want to watch (or read) Eat Pray Love, but I didn’t really tell you what I thought of the film and why I’m glad I did finally succumb to temptation and rent the DVD.

Being set in Italy, India and Bali, you just couldn’t go wrong photographically if you tried. The backdrop for Julia’s journey of self-discovery was truly inspiring, which I think lent a lot to the story. In fact, it was integral to the story. Sure, she could have had her transformation raising pigs on a farm in Iowa, but would we have been nearly as interested in it? I doubt it. Part of the appeal of the film is in the visual feast that Eat Pray Love conjures up. Ryan Murphy, director of the film and whose work has generally been perceived as dark and edgy, made the most of this with his cinematic style and lyrical portrayal of the story in the setting.

The film opens on Julia Roberts riding a bike leisurely down a rural dirt road, thick green flora on all sides. Except for the costuming and the expression on Julia’s face, this could be a scene from a film set in the Vietnam War had Mr. Murphy not also made some other important choices. The music is not dark and brooding, but light and ethereal. The camera glides alongside Julia as she pedals to her destination like it’s floating on the wings of a butterfly. And when the tropical paradise is finally revealed, his camera lens opens up to provide a breathtaking view of the locale. In other words, he is very consciously enticing his viewer with the luscious scenery, leaving us no choice but to leap into the story with him.

The film is peppered with similarly glorious images: Julia dining al fresco in Rome, Julie meditating in a quiet and colorful garden in India, Julia standing at the edge of the ocean in Bali. But my very favorite series of images occur during and after a wedding ceremony Julia attends in India. Bright jewel tones pop and gold glitters against an earthy backdrop, the scene a mixture of festivity and sadness. As a reluctant Indian bride embarks on an unfamiliar path, Julia wanders down memory lane. We are transported back in time, removed from the dusty gold-hued land and bright purple, red & green saris to a cleaner, crisper, cooler time and place. Julia, in her sophisticated white bridal gown, is filmed amidst the bluish-grey color palette of the banquet hall where her wedding reception takes place. The light filters in through heavily curtained windows as her groom offers her his hand for their first dance. But when the music comes on, it is not the soft, romantic melody she’s expecting. Instead, it’s Kool & The Gang’s Celebration, to which her new hubby busts out a few disco moves and twirls her into his arms. Now, personally, I would have loved such a silly song for my first dance, but that isn’t what Julia’s character wanted. And in her mind we travel back to the present where she and her now ex-husband slow dance arm in arm to Neil Young’s Harvest Moon. The sun is at that point in the sky where it gives everything a golden halo effect, and surrounded by the warmth and vibrancy of that glow, she can finally let go of the past. Now that right there is some seriously thoughtful filmmaking. Beautiful.

Having gone to film school, I can really appreciate the little things – the subtle cues that lighting, costuming, and scene and sound design provide that tell the story that isn’t in the dialogue or the action. Adapting a book to film is a true talent, and even though I haven’t read the book, I suspect most fans of Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir were pleased with the result. Regardless of how well it captured Ms. Gilbert’s message, it succeeding in capturing a time and a place beautifully. And for me, that was enough.

Ciao,
Lucie

Thoughts on Eat Pray Love (The Movie)

2011-01-25T11:45:00.001-08:00

I was reluctant to watch this film (and read the book) for many reasons. Being a writer, a yogi, and having traveled to Italy many times (Rome, Naples, Venice, Florence, Siena, and Milan) I couldn’t imagine Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir living up to my own experiences or the expectations I would have of such similar fare. And the truth is, it didn’t. But not because my adventures were any better or any more significant, but because they were mine.

I had other reservations, however. I’ve written about my own travels (A Taste of Italy and The Waterdance) in fictional form, and the reason I fictionalized my tales was because I felt my own experiences were too personal and too intimate to share with the world at large. Not that I would feel embarrassed by them, but rather, I thought doing so would be pretentious and smack of hubris. Who was I to espouse the philosophies I’d cultivated through my foreign explorations – both external and internal? Why would some woman in Chicago or San Francisco care how my visits to the Roman Forum and the ruins of Pompeii inspired and influenced me? So, to eliminate the hubris that would certainly come from the telling of my personal journeys, I wrapped them in a romance. Oh, my philosophies are there – hidden beneath the drama, the comedy, the angst, and yes, the sex. But because they aren’t laid out in a memoir of self-exploration, they have less opportunity to offend. To the point, they did not say, “I traveled the world and discovered this about myself, what have you done?”

So, when I learned of Gilbert’s memoir, I was immediately repulsed. The nerve this woman had telling the world her story! How dare she be so immodest! And how dare Penguin publish the work of such a relentlessly self-absorbed egomaniac. The gall!

And I vowed never to read it. Which I still haven’t.

But when the book found its way onto the silver screen, and images of Gilbert’s epic journey teased and taunted me from bus benches and billboards, my curiosity started to get to me. But I still held out. Even when it was finally released on DVD, I resisted. My resolve finally crumbled, however, a week ago while perusing the shelves of my local video store. There it was. The image of Julia Roberts seated on a bench in Rome licking the last of her gelato from a spoon. Something I’d done a half dozen times. And so, I picked it up. I took it home. I popped it in the DVD player. And I watched.

At first, I was quite thrilled that I had in fact waited so long to see it. I had been right all along. It was garbage. Boring, pretentious, familiar. And Julia Roberts was, as I usually found her, annoying. But that was before she set off on her journey. Once she landed in Rome, I was sucked into her tale. I’d traveled alone to foreign locales before, and I understood her feelings of isolation and recalled the thrill of making a connection with someone new. And when she visited the ashram in India, I too revisited my first experience at a yoga retreat in the mountains of Northern California, initially finding my surroundings and my compatriots utterly unfamiliar and strange. But as the retreat progressed, so did my understanding, and eventually, my acceptance. Just like Elizabeth’s.

By the time Julia had made her way to Bali, I was in love. Not with the movie, or with Julia, or even with Javier Bardem. No, I was in love with Elizabeth Gilbert’s brazen audacity. Where I resisted telling my personal experiences, she shared hers. Shamelessly. And to the world’s delight. She proved that a woman can tell her story to the masses and they will devour it. If nothing else, Eat Pray Love made the world take note of a woman’s presence in society – as storyteller, as reader, as a voice to be heard. And to that, I say bravo!

Plus, I now want to go to Bali.

Ciao,
Lucie

The Zit That Ate Hollywood

2011-01-19T11:26:00.000-08:00

You know, I really feel that I am just a tad too old to still be dealing with zits. It’s true that I haven’t sprouted any wrinkles yet, but can’t there just be a period in your life when your skin is completely flawless? Actually, I recall the years between 26 and 28 as being pretty good in terms of skin condition. I had this milky white complexion with nary a blemish. Then 29 hit, and all hell broke loose on my face. Literally. I had developed a condition called Rosacea in which my skin reddened and developed a scaly texture. It was horrific and took a full year of treatments including topical gels and antibiotics to rid me of it. Doctors don’t fully understand what causes it, but they do know what can trigger flare ups. Spicy foods, acidic foods, heat, sunshine and stress.

Since my bout with Rosacea, I’ve been practically militant about my skin. Slathering on SPF 45 daily, gentle exfoliation weekly, spa facials when my wallet can handle it, and investing a small fortune on Bare Minerals, the original mineral based make-up that miraculously hides flaws and evens skin tone while still looking and feeling natural. And these efforts do not go unnoticed. Frequently, I am complimented on my skin and asked what my secret is. And I never hesitate to share my methods for looking this fabulous.

But about three days ago, I felt a bump forming on my face. Per my usual routine, I treated it with an anti- blemish product that usually works wonders. This particular pimple, however, has not responded too well to my eviction notice. In fact, this zit has parked its butt about a half inch from my nose on my right cheek and is quickly erecting a skyscraper on my face. Seriously, I feel like I could start driving in the carpool lane and no one would question me with this monstrous thing bulging from my cheek because, clearly, it deserves its own zip code!

And the worst part is, I can feel it. Actually feel it! The damn thing is that huge. I’m telling you, it weighs more than my cat, but isn’t nearly as cute or cuddly. And when I turn my head, I almost topple over like a college co-ed drunk on cheap wine coolers and light beer.

So, before this face-eating zit drives me to extreme measures, such as donning a veil or attempting a homemade zit-o-plasty procedure, tell me good people, how do you eradicate a stubborn zit? What are your secrets to flawless skin?

Ciao!
Lucie

Stylish Blogger Award

2011-01-18T19:05:00.000-08:00

I was recently given this "Stylish Blog Award" by Books Etc. How cool is that? It's one of those pass it along type awards, so I am happy to accept it and pass it along.

Here are the rules:

1. Thank and link back to the person who awarded you this award.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Award 15 recently discovered great bloggers.
4. Contact those bloggers and tell them about the award!

7 Random Facts About Me
1. I was born in the same hospital as the King of Pop, Michael Jackson
2. I started writing my novel, Hollywood Ending, in 2003
3. I finished writing Hollywood Ending in 2009!
4. I love horror flicks! My faves are ghost stories and scary vampire movies
5. I am a certified yoga teacher registered with Yoga Alliance
6. I have been a vegetarian since January 1, 1999
7. I went to the same high school as Julia Roberts

15 Bloggers I'm awarding:
1. http://chicklitcentraltheblog.blogspot.com/
2. http://chicklitbee.blogspot.com/
3. http://chicklitisnotdead.com/
4. http://www.chicklitclub.com/
5. http://chicklitreviews.com/
6. http://chicklitplus.com/
7. http://divasbookcase.blogspot.com/
8. http://gofugyourself.com/
9. http://www.lorisreadingcorner.com/
10. http://www.kirstygreenwood.typepad.com/novelicious/
11. http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/
12. http://stephthebookworm.blogspot.com/
13. http://thecurvyfashionista.mariedenee.com/
14. http://silversolara.blogspot.com/
15. http://www.trashionista.com/

A Low-Down Dirty Dog

2011-01-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

This story featured on Jezebel about Pick Up Artist, Gunwitch, who claims to have bedded 120-150 women from all walks of life and is accused of shooting a woman in the face, is a good example of why women must kick those dirty dogs to the curb – and NOW. A few years ago, I was fascinated by VH1’s show, The Pick Up Artist, because I was amazed at how horridly the men treated women. And even more amazed that they managed to pick up any women at all with their boorish behavior! These so-called Pick Up Artists prey on women with low self-esteem, which is a fairly common trait among young women these days. They insult or dismiss their female targets in an effort to get the women to seek their approval, essentially promoting unhealthy relationships and severely effed up psyches.

Luckily, not all men are like this. There are still a few gentleman out there seeking honest, healthy relationships with strong, centered, beautiful women. But ladies, it’s up to us to become those strong, centered, beautiful women. And it’s up to us to put those nasty misogynistic Pick Up Artists out of business.

The first step is learning to love yourself, wholly, flaws and all. This takes a lot of practice, but is the only way we can have healthy relationships with anyone else. Because how can you expect anyone else to love you if you don’t even love you? Sure, there will always be stuff you don’t like, but they don’t make you a terrible person (you know, unless you’re a gun wielding misogynist). Give yourself a break and a hug. And the next time some dirty dog talks trash to you, toss your drink in his face and turn your back on him. He’s the one with the problem, not you.

Ciao!
Lucie

This Isn't The Biggest Loser

2011-01-05T11:22:00.000-08:00

I know it’s tempting to attack the new year with gusto, ticking off your goals three or four at time. But that kind of pace can lead to burn out pretty quickly. So, instead of rushing head first into January with a to-do list that could lead to stroking out in mid-sprint, pace yourself. Especially when it comes to meeting your fitness goals.

The return of NBC’s The Biggest Loser is always inspiring and often leads many Americans to adopt a healthier lifestyle, which is awesome. But keep in mind that you are not competing against anyone. You also aren’t working out six hours a day with a screaming exercise guru in your face and a customized and highly monitored food plan at your fingertips. The Biggest Loser may be “reality TV,” but there’s nothing realistic about it. Twenty years of devouring fitness mags and 12 years practicing and 2 years teaching yoga, has taught me that slow and steady win the race. So, if getting fit is part of your new year’s resolutions, I would like to offer a few words of wisdom.

1. Just Do It! That infamous Nike slogan is as simple as it gets. Don’t analyze things to death. Don’t wait until you’ve lost ten pounds (yes, people actually attempt to diet off the weight before hitting the gym so they don’t look fat while working out!), you’ve found the perfect exercise outfit, you’ve cleaned out the kitchen cupboards (usually by consuming everything in them) or whatever other excuse can be conjured up to avoid the treadmill. Just Do It!

2. Start small. If George W. Bush was in office the last time you saw the inside of a gym or fitness studio, you’re going to need to ease yourself back into the habit. Or maybe you’re starting up a fitness regime for the first time. In these cases, you can’t just throw yourself into it with reckless abandon. That kind of thing leads to injuries, and in severe cases, a heart attack. Seriously.

3. Try new things. The main reason people give up on meeting their fitness goals is because they don’t like exercising. For instance, I HATE running. There are few things more unpleasant, in my opinion. So, I don’t run. Ever. Well, there was that time I sprinted through Chicago O’Hare Airport to catch a plane, but you get my meaning. Instead, I get my cardio on a bike, which I love. I also don’t like weight training, so I build my strength and endurance through a disciplined yoga practice. But that’s just me. Maybe you’ll love running, or kickboxing, or tai chi, or yoga, or spinning, or salsa dancing. But you’ll never know if you don’t try. So, get out there and explore, experiment, and expand (your horizons, not your waistlines!).

4. Be patient. Losing weight and getting fit doesn’t happen overnight. It takes dedication and consistency. Which is why the first three items above are so important. It takes 21 days to establish a pattern of behavior. Commit to a three week fitness regimen, and by the end of it you’ll begin feeling the benefits of a stronger heart, healthier lungs, and leaner muscles, and you’ll have established a routine that has now become a habit. And then just keep supporting your new, healthy habit by recommitting to it every week.

In good health,
Lucie

Things 2010 Taught Me

2010-12-31T10:30:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of 2010, and frankly, I'm glad to see it go. Aside from publishing my book, it was a pretty crap year. I had heartbreak galore, unexpected health problems which led to high hospital bills, and a close family member in true peril. Luckily, I've come out of it fairly unscathed. But also, perhaps, a little wiser. Here are a few things 2010 taught me:

1. Your path is not set in stone. You always have a choice of which road to take. But sometimes, the better choice is also a painful choice. Don't be afraid to hurt a lot now, to feel happier in the future.

2. You can get back up on that horse. Maybe life throws you a curve ball and totally knocks you off your game. It sucks, but you can pick yourself up and start again. The starting line might look a bit different the second (or third) time around, the track may have more hurdles, and the roar of the crowd cheering you on to the finish line may have thinned, but as long as you remain determined, you can do it.

3. Failing is okay. The best thing about failure is learning from your mistakes. We wouldn't have the light bulb if Thomas Edison had given up after his first few failures, would we? So, don't let falling flat on your face keep you from doing what you dream of. Fail, and fail gloriously!

4. Your loved ones love you even when you're a cranky bitch. Just don't let that grouch overrun your life to the point you're ready to move into your own garbage can on Sesame Street. So, learn to recognize when you're going too deep and then have a heart to heart with someone who can lead you out of your trash bin. You might not be able to break into a raucous chorus of "Can You Tell Me How To Get To Sesame Street?" but I bet you'll be able to crack a smile.

So, as I say good riddance to a rather crap year, I take these lessons into 2011 with me. Even if I have another heartbreak, another failure, another setback, I know I will be prepared to handle it. Because the trials of 2010 made me a stronger woman. And that makes me happy.

Happy New Year!
Lucie

A Cut Above

2010-12-19T07:48:00.000-08:00

I am obsessed with hair. Seriously. The way some women love shoes, I love hair styles. I practically drool over pics of celebs on the red carpet, a mixture of envy and admiration filling me with a desire to run to my stylist the next day, pics in hand and a new adventure in hair in mind.

What I love about hair is how it can completely transform your look and lift your spirits. It doesn't take hours in the gym too boost my image confidence. All I need is 30 minutes in my stylist's chair.

But loving hair like I do means being fearless. It means being brave enough to chop off all your hair in an instant, knowing that if you don't like it, you may be stuck growing it out for months. Luckily, I'm not the only brave girl out there. This year a number of ladies bit the bullet and sheared off their long, lovely locks in want of a new image. And I say bravo! Below, my faves:

Big Love star, Gennifer Goodwin

Harry Potter's Hermione, Emma Watson

Blue Valentine's Michelle Williams

Wall Street's Carey Mulligan

I salute these brave and beautiful ladies for their bold hair decisions! Daring and darling all at the same time. And having sported many a pixie do in my day, I know how hard it is to grow out. (In fact, I'm growing out my own pixie right now). But sometimes you gotta throw caution to the wind and just do it! You never know how your decision to buck tradition may affect you, or inspire those around you. Go for it!

Planting the Seeds of a Passion

2010-12-07T09:23:00.000-08:00

It was eleven years ago this month that my grandmother, Jeanette, passed away. I had moved to Los Angeles five years earlier and didn’t see her again until her funeral. I’d kept in touch over the phone, through the mail, sending holiday and birthday cards before her passing, but I had really lost her when I moved to Los Angeles. I didn’t really have time to listen to her ramble on about my cousins, who were all at least a decade or more younger than me. And since most of my early years in Hollywood were spent struggling to pay the rent while juggling a fulltime job and graduate school, I didn’t have the money for a visit either. Over time, Grandma became less and less of a presence in my life. But the greatest impression she has left on me, the fate-filled trait she bestowed upon me, was her passion for reading.

My grandma was a kindergarten teacher, a gardener and an avid reader. My most vivid memories are of her sitting in a big, comfy chair, a reading lamp over her shoulder and a book in her hands. She had a penchant for mysteries and the ability to block out every distraction as she delved deeper into the worlds between the pages of her books. My brother and I could be clanging and banging all around her with a game of pick-up-sticks or jacks or a raucous round of Chinese checkers, but as long as no one was in danger of losing a limb, she rarely looked up from her novels.

And she also instilled in me a passion for words. Starting with Peter Rabbit and Curious George, she encouraged me to read and wonder at a very early age. She bought me books on vinyl (yes vinyl!) such as Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan and other stories of fantasy, which I would listen to with rapt attention and awe. Soon, I graduated to Nancy Drew and Judy Blume, and Grandma was always there with her library card to support my habit.

Over the years, my reading tastes evolved and matured, while Grandma continued to enjoy the likes of Agatha Chrisitie’s murder mysteries and Sue Grafton’s alphabet series, snuggled up in her cozy reading chair finding complete satisfaction in the unraveling of a puzzle. Though I didn’t quite take to her love of mysteries, I feel I owe my love of the written word, at least in some part, due to her. She was quiet in her efforts to feed my passion, but when I look deep down, I know that if it weren’t for her, I probably wouldn’t be the reader and writer that I am today.

I didn’t start writing my first novel until four years after her death, but I have a feeling Grandma would be pleased. And even though my novel might be a little too racy for her tastes, I think she would appreciate the world I spun with my words, the fantasy that unfolds for my imaginary characters and the fact that I know the difference between lay and lie. In my mind, I imagine her sitting beneath the warm glow of her reading lamp, the bright green and blue cover of HOLLYWOOD ENDING resting gently in her hands, a smile on her face.

Rest (and read) in Peace, Grandma.

Love,
Lucie

My Annual Holiday Spread

2010-12-01T16:13:00.001-08:00

I love this time of year. Holiday songs. Festive decorations. Sparkly party dresses. Champagne brunches. Sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. It is a feast for all the senses! But for me, the one sense that usually goes overboard is Taste. As much as I love the holiday season, I dread “my annual holiday spread.” You know, that extra bit of flesh that begins to bust the buttons on your favorite skinny jeans as you pack more sugar into your diet the six weeks leading up to New Year’s than you have all year.

Last year, I managed to keep my spread under control by sweating it off in spin class. This year, though, I’m trying a more holistic approach. Of course, I’m still exercising because that is already integrated into my life. But instead of gorging on every cookie, bonbon, and pie I come across, I’m learning to “honor my hunger” per the nutritional guidance of Evelyn Tribole and Elyse Resch in their book, Intuitive Eating.

And so far, it’s working. I am not restricting myself by any sense of the word. If I want a piece of fudge, I have it. But I make sure I really want it first. I don’t eat it simply because it’s there, as was my usual habit. And I savor it. I no longer scarf down a handful of chocolates that, frankly, weren’t all that fabulous anyway, and instead choose to eat only the most delicious of treats and take the time to really enjoy them. I don’t have my hand in a cookie tin while watching Elf or keep a candy dish filled with red and green M&Ms on my desk while I work.

These days, I’m letting my body tell me what it wants. Because according to, Tribole & Resch, my body knows what is good for it and will make the healthy choice. Even if that choice is a piece of pecan pie. Now, of course, I have to do things consciously. I have to realize I’m eating a decadently rich dessert and make the most of it. Instead of inhaling it within the span of a thirty second commercial, I allow the treat to seduce my every sense. The aroma, the texture, the visual appeal, the flavor are all given their proper respect and savored.

So, that’s really the trick for me this season. Savoring those holiday goodies. And you know what? I think all of life should be like that, don’t you?

Ciao!
Lucie

Thanks for the Prose

2010-11-22T16:33:00.000-08:00

This week, as Americans gather around festive feasts with their friends and families to give thanks for the blessings in their lives, I’d like to take a moment to reflect on some authors who’ve inspired me over the years.

E.B. White – When I was a kid, I read and re-read Charlotte’s Web with the kind of enthusiasm most children have for cotton candy and funnel cakes. The adventures Charlotte and Wilbur shared, the bond they developed and the self-empowerment they fostered still influence me today, although, on a much more subtle level, I’m sure.

Edgar Allan Poe – In my tween years, I was drawn to the macabre literature of Poe whose prose was as lyrical as his stories were dark. I attribute my love of thriller and horror flicks to this guy, although I can no longer read his books because they give me nightmares!

J.D. Salinger – What teenager didn’t read The Catcher In The Rye? Oh my gosh, I think I read this book fifty times in junior high, thinking that Holden Caulfield was the only other person on the planet who truly understood the melancholy of the teenage mind. To this day, I still recall this story whenever I see a certain swear word etched in the cement.

Ayn Rand – In college, I decided it would be worthwhile to read the classics. You know, those books everyone tells you are great, but don’t really appeal to your sense of “pleasure reading.” Well, I was so wrong about The Fountainhead! For me, this book was a complete page-turner. I couldn’t believe what those characters were getting up to and found myself desperate to find out who would get the girl in the end! Whenever I’m writing, I try to keep my plot as twisty and fast-paced as Ayn Rand’s brilliant novel. I don’t think come anywhere near to her level, but her work inspires me to try harder.

Helen Fielding – Bridget Jones’s Diary was my introduction to chick lit, and it completely changed my life. I’d always loved books, but when chick lit came along, I’d finally found a generation of writers who were telling stories I could relate to and who were doing it with a hell of a sense of humor, too. It was only a few years later that I started writing my own chick lit novel.

Marian Keyes – Chick lit wouldn’t be the same without Marian Keyes. Her stories are humorous and fresh, but deal with tough subjects like alcoholism, depression, and abuse. Whenever anyone criticizes chick lit for being “fluff,” I just direct them straight to Sushi for Beginners or Watermelon or Rachel’s Holiday.

Anna Maxted – Helen Fielding gave birth to a new genre of literature with Bridget Jones’s Diary, but Anna Maxted perfected it with her debut novel, Getting Over It. With a first person P.O.V. that read like stream of consciousness, but wasn’t lacking in direction, plot or suspense, this book kept me laughing from page one all the way to the end. Simply brilliant.

Tracy Chevalier – Most widely known for being the author of the Girl with the Pearl Earring, Tracy Chevalier took my heart with Falling Angels, her historical fiction novel set during London’s Suffragette uprising. Using multiple first person P.O.V., this book blew me away on so many levels. It was brilliantly written, emotionally charged and packed with drama.

Anna Godbersen – My love of chick lit and historical fiction were beautifully combined in Anna Godbersen’s The Luxe series set in turn of the century Manhattan. A story in which money, lust, love, and betrayal are all simply fodder as Manhattan’s elite celebrate engagements, new businesses and allegiances while some plot to escape and others plot to destroy. Juicy good stuff!

So, what authors or books have influenced you over the years?

Ciao,
Lucie

Some Like It Hot

2010-11-17T14:48:00.000-08:00

My debut novel, Hollywood Ending, has gotten a couple of really nice reviews recently, one calling it “a hot, steamy romance,” and another noting it is a bit on the “racier side of chick lit.” This makes me giggle a little because I actually cut out a bunch of sex before sending it off to the printers. What remains is the sexual tension, the allure, the romance, the lip-biting anticipation of some serious bedroom business. And it seems to be piquing readers’ interests!

My two previous short stories, A Taste of Italy and The Waterdance, were technically erotic romances, though very tame in terms of erotica. In each, there was only one sex scene, and while they are explicit, they’re pretty vanilla. In fact, they’re considered “sweet” erotic romances. So, when it came time to write the love scenes for Hollywood Ending, I originally included all the sexy details one might expect of my work after reading my other stories. But right before sending the manuscript to the book editor, I slashed three thousand words of eye-popping, pulse-pounding sex, sex, sex!

Why change tactics for my debut novel? Well, it just didn’t feel appropriate. The short stories I’d written before were centered around the main characters overcoming past issues and personal hang-ups and learning to let go of their preconceived notions of sex and love in order to grow. So, the sex was a part of the character arc for each of them. In Hollywood Ending, however, the main character’s hang-up isn’t sex-related, but love-related. She has to overcome a particularly painful loss in order to take a chance on love. She doesn’t have any problem enjoying sex, but it’s what comes after the sex that she needs help with.

But my brand is “smart, sexy, funny fiction,” so I could never strip all the sexy details from my stories. Instead, I decided to amp up the desire, and leave the rest to the reader’s imagination. Apparently, I succeeded in finding just the right level of steam. Personally, I like to read stories that have just enough lust to get your heart racing, but not so much to make you blush. I’d like to think that if you were reading Hollywood Ending in bed, you might be inspired to snuggle a little closer to your honey when you finish a chapter, rather than having take a cold shower.

But that’s just me. I know there are plenty of readers out there who like it hot, hot, hot with every juicy detail spelled out on the page and others who like to close the bedroom door altogether. I think Hollywood Ending offers up a happy median between the two. I leave the door open just a crack and then slip a do-not-disturb sign on the doorknob before it gets too juicy. You know what I mean!

So, how do you like it?

Ciao,
Lucie

Home For The Holidays

2010-11-09T14:46:00.000-08:00

I don’t always get to visit my family during the holidays. I moved to Los Angeles in 1994, leaving behind most of my family (my mom followed me out to LA in 2001) in Georgia and Indiana. Over the last 16 years, I’ve managed a trip to either the Midwest or the Southeast every so often to visit for Thanksgiving or Christmas. But recently, my family members started branching out even further – to Louisiana and one of the Carolinas (I can never remember which) – and now orchestrating a family reunion is even more difficult. Additionally, this year, I’ve spent my entire travel budget on publishing my book, Hollywood Ending. So, I’m staying home this holiday season. Home being Tinsel Town.

Of course I get to join my mother for a festive dinner on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but there’s still plenty of opportunity to succumb to bouts of loneliness when you’ve got several stretches of days off and no loved ones to spend them with. However, I have a plan.

Luckily, many of my friends here in the City of Angels are native Angelenos. Unlike the majority of the population, who generally exit the city come Thanksgiving and Christmas with a swiftness only the likes of an apocalyptic event could rival, they’re staying in town, too. So, the Saturday following Turkey Day (or if you live in my house, Tofurkey Day), I’m hosting a fondue night for my girlfriends. There will be proseco (the Italian version of champagne) flowing, cheese bubbling and girls giggling all night long. Now, if that isn’t a sure cure for the holiday blues, I don’t know what is.

My plans for Christmas aren’t exactly ironed out yet, but I’m sure I’ll find a way to celebrate the season in style - even if that only involves my sofa, a cup of mulled wine, and a Sex and the City marathon on the tube. If I’m lucky, I’ll convince someone to join me on the couch.

What are you doing for the holidays?

Ciao,
Lucie

Hollywood Ending Winner

2010-11-07T16:45:00.000-08:00

Thank you all for leaving your tips for staying focused! The winner of the contest is Gabriela Lessa! Yay Gabi! Thanks for participating!

NaNoWriMo Begins! Everybody Write!

2010-11-01T15:27:00.000-07:00

It’s a common misconception (usually among non-writers) that writers write because they enjoy it. Let me get this clear here and now. Writing is hard work. And yes, it is far more enjoyable to write than to, say, sell auto insurance, but that doesn’t mean it’s an all out funfest. It is still countless hours spent sitting on your butt, staring at a blank document and slowly, ever so slowly, adding thousands and thousands of words that somehow come together in a cohesive and compelling story. And more often than not, all that work goes unnoticed and unpublished.

So, if it’s so much work with so little reward, why do I do it? Because I can’t NOT write. Lord knows I’ve tried. I’ve quit for months at a time, abandoning my projects in search of a simpler life, spending my time with my friends and on my hobbies without a single thought on writing. And then, out of nowhere, it will hit me. Maybe it’s a billboard I see on my way to work, or a woman reading the nutrition label on a can of peas in the grocery store, or a particularly vivid dream, or an unusual experience while traveling. Whatever the source, my response is always the same - a story, a character, a scene - something pops into my head, and I simply must stop whatever I’m doing and write it down. And for days and weeks I can think of nothing other than this story I’ve latched onto like a dog gnawing away on a tasty new ham hock.

But herein lies the problem. Once all that juicy new meat is cleaned from the bone, I lose interest. Because, low and behold, there’s a tender pork loin within reach and I want to spend my time chewing on that instead!

It’s a problem I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I am easily distracted. And in an era of Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, and the like, it takes a colossal effort for me to stay focused on one story long enough to write it from beginning to end. Take a look at my website. On the Bookshelf page you’ll see that I have 3 published stories available and am currently working on four other projects – all in various stages of completion. And those are only the ones I’ve posted on my site. I have a notebook full of others I plan to write.

So, how do I manage to get anything done these days? Focus. Exercising a consistent and concerted effort to keep working on one story at a time. Now, that doesn’t mean that I ignore those sudden bursts of inspiration that strike. No. I still write them down. But then I turn my attention back toward my current project. Slowly and deliberately, I put one word on paper and then another and another until finally, I’ve got a whole bunch of them strung together. Pages and pages of them, all adding up to a coherent and compelling story.

And I suspect that other writers also suffer from this affliction. Hence NaNoWriMo. November is National Novel Writing Month, and to celebrate and encourage my fellow writers, I will give away one copy of my debut novel, Hollywood Ending, to one lucky writer. Just leave a comment telling me how you manage to stay focused long enough to get to The End.

Good luck!
Lucie

Hurts So Good

2010-10-28T21:15:00.000-07:00

As you may know, I am a yogi. And as a yogi, I understand that sometimes you have to get comfortable with discomfort. Yeah, that first down dog of the day is hella hard, but ten minutes into your practice and you are fully aware that downward facing dog is actually a resting pose. You just have to get over that hump, push through that wall and trust that your body will support you. Remind yourself that you are strong and you will get through it. And when savasana comes and you can finally rest, sinking into your mat and allowing your unencumbered thoughts to drift into nothingness, you know all that suffering at the beginning was worth it.

I think the same is true with life. Take love, for example. I'm sure everyone of you knows the heartache of a failed romance. But you have to be willing to fail in order to succeed. Most of us are going to suffer a lot of heartaches in our lifetimes. I've lived through plenty. But each one has taught me something about myself. Each one has brought me just a little closer to that one relationship that won't fail. And each one should be valued for those lessons. Because without suffering, we can't appreciate happiness.

So, the next time you find yourself struggling with a difficult position, whether it's on your yoga mat or off, push through. You will survive. You will be stronger. You will be smarter. And you will know all that pain and suffering was worth it.

Ciao,
Lucie

Size 14 is Not Fat

2010-10-26T11:59:00.000-07:00

You know, nothing irritates me more than mean-spirited journalism, especially the kind that accuses “overweight” people of being repulsive, such as this Marie Claire article entitled, “Should ‘Fatties’ Get A Room? (Even on TV?).”

What repulses me, in particular, about this article is that the blogger clearly has no clue what leads a person to become overweight. She states, “obesity is something most people have a ton of control over” and then proceeds to advise her obese readers how to lose weight with the same stale diet advice every fat person already knows – eat more fresh food, avoid sweeteners, get 30 minutes of exercise a day, etc, as if losing weight all came down to what you ate and how often you exercised and has absolutely nothing to do with your genes, your socio-economic status, your culture, your environment, and so on.

As a pleasantly plump and healthy woman (I am a vegetarian, a certified yoga teacher and spin 3 times a week), I take great offense at the notion that if I only ate less and exercised more, I’d lose weight. I have been relatively the same size since I was 15 years old. I come from a long line of women you might describe as “hearty.” And I’m proud to be just that. I may have more junk in my trunk than most of the women portrayed in film or on TV or lying across glossy centerfolds, but that doesn’t make me any less fabulous.

I say it’s about time we see more “fatties” making out on TV. Because, whether anyone likes it or not, we aren’t going anywhere. Thankfully, some TV execs agree, like the producers over at Lifetime who brought us Drop Dead Diva and at Showtime who cast Gabby Sidibe in The Big C and at The Style Network who introduced us to Ruby.

Stay tuned! Soon enough we’ll see more plus size people on our airwaves, magazines and the big screen. Because, as I stated in my previous post, the average size of the American woman is 14. It’s only time that the entertainment & fashion industries start catering to us.

A Little Fluff

2010-10-25T15:24:00.000-07:00

This weekend, one of my friends was treating me to dinner for my birthday and somehow we got on to the subject of cats. Being a self-professed cat lover, having raised many a feline in my day and current owner of two adorable fluff-muffins, I felt fairly knowledgeable on the subject. But his comment that he didn’t like cats because they have a “sense of entitlement” totally threw me. I’ve often heard people criticize cats for being aloof and for basically not being a dog. But not liking them because they have a sense of entitlement?

“This is a cat we’re talking about here, Jason. Not an Ivy League MBA candidate with a heritage dating back to the Mayflower.”

“I know. And I know how ridiculous it sounds, but I can’t stand the way they think they own you. That they’re entitled to get whatever they want.”

And then Jason proceeded to tell me how he chose to deliberately ignore his roommate’s cat, which then made the cat desperate for his affection. Ultimately, he broke down and let the cat into his heart, falling victim to its seductively sinister feline ways! And then he added, “Just like a woman.” Because he couldn’t remember when exactly the cat had gotten under his skin, but realized one day that it had all but moved into his room - hiding its catnip in his closet and stowing its ribbons in one corner of his sock drawer. The cat had laid claim to Jason’s territory and there was nothing he could do about it, short of moving out.

“Well, that’s just its way of showing you it loves you. It could be worse. If it were a dog, it might’ve crapped on your lawn.”

The Morning After

2010-10-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday was not only my birthday, but the release day for my debut novel, Hollywood Ending. It was a glorious day filled with cheery emails, beautiful flowers, delicious meals, scrumptious cake, one sweaty power yoga class and lots of hope for a new year full of expectation. And today I woke up with a hangover roughly the size and shape of Cleveland. But not from excess sugar and alcohol in my system. No, this hangover is more of the reality-setting-in type.

It is quite a wonderful thing to have a book published, to see your name plastered on the front of a glossy book cover and know that contained within its bound pages is several years’ worth of passionate writing and rewriting and editing and re-editing. And I highly recommend the experience. But what does it all mean? Does this finally mean I am an “author” as opposed to merely being a “writer?” If you ask certain writing organizations, the answer to that question would be a big fat NO. Does it finally mean I am successful? Have I actually reached my goal?

Honestly, the only one capable of answering that question is me. Yes, I believe I am an “author,” regardless of how my novel ended up getting published. And yes, I have reached one of my goals. But am I successful? Sort of. I really think success is relative. I wrote a book, I published a book, and hopefully enough people will buy it and like it so that I can publish another one. But would an editor of a big publishing house think I am a success? I doubt it. But I can tell you this. I am damn proud to have accomplished this goal. A writer’s path is a long and twisty one. I’ve passed many milestones on my journey, and I know there are going to be more along the way. I’ve just got to keep focused on hitting that next mile marker. Finishing my next book.

As they say in Hollywood, “You’re only as good as your last picture” – er, book!

Ciao!
Lucie

Print in the Digital Age

2010-10-14T11:28:00.001-07:00

As a new indie publisher, and a self-published author, I had to make some choices when I embarked on my new publishing venture. To ebook or not to ebook? I chose not to ebook. Yet.

There is a lot of buzz these days about the rise of ebooks, which is usually accompanied by warnings of caution against ignoring the digital market. And the popularity of ebooks is indeed growing. In fact, according to the Association of American Publishers, ebook sales increased by 172.4 percent in the last year. But, what most folks don’t realize is that those sales account for less than 10% of total book sales.

As an author, of course I want my book available in every format, in every country and in every language. But I am not just an author. I am also a publisher spending my own very hard-earned money to put my book into the hands of readers. So, I have to think like an investor. I know that paperback sales far, far outweigh digital sales. So, given my limited budget to produce the book (formatting, cover art, book cover design, etc.) and market the book, I have to use my money wisely. I have to plunk my dough into the one format most likely to provide the highest return on my investment. Paper.

Now, if I had scads of money to invest, I would simultaneously publish in print and in electronic format. But I don’t. I have a few thousand dollars. So, my book must first perform well in print, and hopefully even make a profit, before I can consider releasing a digital edition. Because ebooks may cost less to produce, but they sure aren’t free. And when you’re digging under couch cushions looking for any spare change to add to your publicity budget, even a few hundred dollars is out of reach.

So, you see, I’m not a luddite refusing to surf the digital wave. I am a publisher making tough decisions in an even tougher industry. But hopefully, my investment will prove worthy, and I will be able to release an electronic edition of Hollywood Ending in a few months. Until then, I hope you will enjoy the printed version. A lot of hard work went into creating it. And a few trees sacrificed their lives for it.

Ciao!
Lucie

A Year in Review

2010-10-12T11:11:00.001-07:00

In seven days I will be, uh, a year older. As I reflect on the past year, I am really quite amazed that I didn’t suffer a stroke, jump off the nearest tall building, or stab someone repeatedly. It’s been, to say the least, a rough year.

Professionally, some very good things happened. I finished (meaning all revisions, editing and polishing) my manuscript after six long years, during which I’d abandoned said manuscript many times to write other things. But I couldn’t let it go. And when it was finally time to introduce it to the publishing world, it was rejected. Many times. And the majority of those rejections came with glowing praise, telling me that my voice was fresh, my story was entertaining, and my characters were fun. But no one thought it had a chance in hell of getting published. So, actually, that was all pretty disheartening.

Personally, I had some really high highs and one very low low. I learned in the spring that I was going to have a baby. It was a complete surprise as I’d in no way been trying to conceive. But, after getting over the initial shock, I was thrilled and dubbed my unborn child, Little Star, because I knew it would grow to be the light of my life. But two months later, I miscarried. Not only did I miscarry the baby, but I had complications. During a routine procedure to evacuate the embryo, I hemorrhaged. I only learned afterward how close I had come to losing my life. I was in the hospital for 72 hours for rest & recovery and to receive blood transfusions. It was, to say the least, terribly traumatic.

So, after having the publishing world reject my manuscript and my body reject my Little Star, I was profoundly sad. The two greatest things I’d ever produced were never going to see the light of day. I didn’t know how I would ever smile again. Eventually, I found my way out of the deep depression I’d fallen into with the help of some wonderful friends and a good therapist. And a couple of months ago, I decided that I needed to focus again on something I loved. Something I created. Something I nurtured for six long years. My manuscript. I wasn’t going to let a handful of agents keep that baby from entering the world. So, I formed my own small press and embarked on a journey.

Much like a mother setting her child off to school, it’s time to let my baby go out and mingle with the rest of the kids on the playground. Hollywood Ending hits bookshelves on October 19th, my birthday. I thought it would be a fitting release date. Though the publication of my book can never fill the void left in my heart when I lost my Little Star, it is at least one small step in finding my footing again. Being able to put all my energy into something that grew out of me, grew from something as small as an idea to a full-fledged book, gives me assurance that nothing I do, nothing I create, is worthless. Because at the very least, it is a part of me. My heart. My soul. My blood. My sweat. My tears. A lot of tears.

Ciao,
Lucie

With Leigh Court, History is HOT!

2010-10-07T20:37:00.000-07:00

Please welcome my special guest, Leigh Court! Leigh writes historical romance of the highly steamy variety, all of which score high marks from me! I have already had the pleasure of reading her latest tale, and trust me, high school history lessons were never this much fun. I'm sure I would have paid much closer attention if they had been! Here, she discusses her research for her new release, Conquerer Vanquished. And one lucky commenter will receive a copy of Red Sage's Secrets Volume 15 Anthology featuring Leigh's sexy Victorian romance, The Disciplinarian. Read on!

Lucie and I both have a fascination with Italy. Her short story “A Taste Of Italy” was a wonderful read, and definitely deserved to win the “Best E-Book” prize at the New York Book Festival. But while Lucie loves modern Rome, I’m drawn to ancient Rome. Given that particular fascination, it was only natural that I set my latest historical novella in 52 B.C., just as the Roman Empire conquers Gaul (ancient France). And because CONQUEROR VANQUISHED is a romance, of course my hero had to be a powerful, Alpha-male commander of a Roman legion, who meets his match in the newly conquered French healer, Solange!

Here’s the setup:
>>Leonidas Danae Vorenus, commander of Rome’s prestigious Sixth legion, is ordered to establish a strategic outpost in Gaul after its surrender to Julius Caesar. But on the way to his new post, Leonidas is seriously wounded in an ambush. Only one person can save his life, and she’s his sworn enemy.

Solange is a healer. She values every life, even if it belongs to one of the hated Romans who’ve just conquered her land. Bound by her duty and now by her new position as a subject of Rome, she is obliged to tend Leonidas.

But the relationship between conqueror and conquered soon evolves into much more. Their forced intimacy ignites an unexpected attraction, and prompts the two enemies to look beyond the reason for their hatred to explore the powerful emotions simmering just underneath.<<

Oooh, don’t you just love those powerful, Alpha males who are brought to their knees, er, I mean, brought to their senses, by love? I know I do!

Since any good historical story needs to be grounded in reality, I did a lot of research for this one. Most of the information I found on ancient Rome is common knowledge, but I did uncover some fascinating, little-known facts:

- Roman soldiers baked their own bread to eat while on campaign. Every group of eight soldiers had an iron skillet that folded away in their pack just for that purpose. A soldier's daily grain ration was about 3 ½ pounds, and the army docked their pay for the grain they were given. Imagine if our army leaders charged soldiers for their meals today!

- Roman soldiers were forbidden to marry, but if they were already married when they enlisted, that was okay. You might think this rule would be a problem for a romance between my unmarried Roman commander, Leonidas, and the woman he loves, but you’ll just have to read CONQUEROR VANQUISHED to see how Leo skirts that particular issue!

- Most of our system of measurements came from ancient Rome. A Roman foot was 11.65 modern inches, a Roman mile was 5000 Roman feet (compared to our modern 5280 feet), and a Roman hand (4 inches) is still used today to measure the height of a horse at the shoulders. Fascinating stuff!

- A typical Roman fort was basically a small, self-sustaining, walled city, with a network of roads that connected several buildings including a house for the Commander, several barracks for the soldiers, stables for horses, a granary, kitchens, a smithy, even a hospital (if needed). With its high rampart walls and wide dirt moats, it was an almost-perfect, defensible stronghold.

- Since my story is a romance, I also had to research ancient Roman weddings. I was amazed at how many traditions of our modern weddings can be traced back to Roman times! Take the wedding cake, for example. After an ancient Roman ceremony, an offering was made to their main god, Jupiter, which usually consisted of cake. Once the priest had made the offering, this cake was eaten by the bride and groom, and then shared with wedding guests. Many more of our modern wedding traditions come from ancient Roman times, including carrying a bride over the threshold!

I enjoyed researching the ancient Roman empire almost as much as I enjoyed writing CONQUEROR VANQUISHED, and I’d love to know what you think of it! You can take a peek here or here. This Roman setting is a departure from my previous two Victorian romances, but I’m obviously drawn to the past, when men were noble, and lived for honor.

What about you? Do you prefer modern men or historical men? Leave me a comment, and one winner will receive a copy of my sexy novella “The Disciplinarian” in the Secrets Volume 15 anthology from Red Sage Publishing.

My thanks to Lucie for letting me visit today!

Thanks, Leigh, for stopping by and sharing your story!

Bad Guys (& Girls!) I love

2010-10-05T19:23:00.000-07:00

I'm a nice girl. I'm thoughtful and considerate. I'm quick to offer assistance and an encouraging word. And I'd rather make you laugh than cry any day. Maybe that's why I absolutely love fictional characters who revel in the bad! But I love them even more when their bad behavior is all for a good cause. Below, my top picks for best bad guys (and girls!) who do good on television.

Michael Chiklis' portrayal of Vic Mackie on F/X's The Shield was mind-blowingly bad. He murdered a cop, then blamed it on a drug dealer whom he also killed. He robbed the Armenian mob. He blackmailed City officials (including his captain). He cheated on his wife. He bullied his fellow cops. He was corrupt to the core. A bad guy like no other. But audiences loved him. I loved him. Why? Because he had some really redeeming qualities. First, he was really good at getting the really bad guys behind bars. Second, he loved his kids, two of whom were autistic. And third, he had your back. You knew you could count on Vic Mackie to get you out of any jam. You just had to trust him and his methods.

Glenn Close is no stranger to playing bad girls. Fatal Attraction proved that. But she really dishes out the dastardly on F/X's Damages as civil litigation lawyer Patty Hewes. She expertly weaves a web of deceit all designed to get at the truth - and often at the expense of someone's life. As ghastly as she is to her co-workers, family, and friends, we'll still root for her because the bad guy she's up against is even worse. We know the only way to get him is to do it Patty's way.

Michael C. Hall's turn as serial killer Dexter Morgan on Showtime's Dexter is absolutely riveting. He is methodical, brutal and merciless as he dispatches bad guys who've managed to escape prosecution from the law. But he's also a loving brother and father who wants nothing more than to protect his family. Just like Vic Mackie and Patty Hewes, he's doing good by being bad. And we love him for it!

There are so many great bad guys (and girls!) doing good on TV. Who are your faves?

Ciao,
Lucie

Yoga Banishes Writer's Block & Writer's Butt

2010-09-30T11:03:00.000-07:00

You may not know this, but I am a seasoned yogi. I’ve been practicing since 1998 and even got certified to teach yoga in 2009. I do a little teaching on the side, but with a full-time day job and a burgeoning writing career, it can be a little hectic, so yoga is more of an avocation than a vocation for me. But maybe one day I can give up the stuffy government gig that pays my bills and devote all my time to yoga and writing. Oh, if only!

In the meantime, I use yoga to not only keep my body in shape, but to keep my mind sharp. And both of those make for a happy writing life. Any writer will tell you that a lot of her time is spent sitting on her butt. Staring at the computer screen, clicking away at the keys, gazing out the window waiting for inspiration to strike, and so on. And if you’ve got a desk job, too, that’s even more time on your ass. And all that sitting isn’t very healthy. A sedentary lifestyle can lead to all manner of problems, not the least of which is boredom.

Most everyone in the free world understands that exercise is a good thing. And any kind of exercise, from walking to snowboarding, is going to make you stronger, healthier and happier. But the benefits of yoga are especially helpful to writers. The physical practice of yoga (known as Asana) was originally invented thousands of years ago to help yogis meditate – for hours. Imagine sitting on your butt, cross-legged, hands palms-up on your thighs, eyes closed, back straight, and your mind an open vessel to receive enlightenment. Achieving enlightenment takes a lot of time. A lot of meditating. And yogis were having trouble with the physical demands. All that sitting around takes a toll! So, some smart fellows came up with some very effective moves, named them after animals and characters from the Bhagavad Gita, and Asana was born.

Asana is what is practiced in yoga classes all across the globe. It is actually only one small aspect of yoga, but it’s certainly the most popular. And not only does it build strength, flexibility and balance, but it also helps settle the mind. So, whenever you find yourself struggling with writer’s block, try taking a yoga class. You just might discover that next plot twist while lying in Savasana (corpse pose – done at the end of class), or figure out why your heroine keeps going down one road when you’re trying to steer the storyline in another direction while your thighs are burning in Virabadrasana (Warrior pose).

So before your butt starts spreading beyond the edges of your ergonomically designed desk chair, get down to your local yoga studio or pick up a DVD at your local megastore and see what takes shape. You might develop a well-honed manuscript and manage to banish writer’s butt at the same time!

Ciao,
Lucie

Premier Picks

2010-09-28T09:04:00.000-07:00

Last week was “premier week” for just about all the TV networks. Plenty of new shows hit the airwaves, and my DVR was working in overdrive to record those that piqued my interest: Hawaii Five-O, The Event, Detroit 1-8-7, Bleep My Dad Says, Undercovers, Blue Bloods, Outsourced, The Whole Truth, Outlaw, and so on. Unfortunately, there were only a few that I’ll be DVRing again.

Out of the bunch, probably only Detroit 1-8-7, Undercovers and Outsourced will get a repeat viewing out of me. Originally, I had thought I would continue to record Hawaii Five-O and The Event as well, but when the time came to push the record button last night, I didn’t. I guess I just wasn’t compelled enough to stay with these characters. Not that I didn’t like them or their storylines. Rather, I just don’t have enough time to watch them.

So then, why will I stick with Detroit 1-8-7, Undercovers and Outsourced?

Detroit 1-8-7 ended with a cliffhanger that is forcing me to watch the next episode because I must find out what happened, which is a dirty trick if you ask me. But The Event had a doozy of a cliffhanger, too, so why wasn’t I compelled to watch that one? Honestly, it’s because that storyline looked a little too crazy to try to follow routinely. Like if I missed one episode I’d never be able to catch up. In fact, I never watched Lost for this same reason. Also, Detroit 1-8-7 endeared me to the character whose fate I must discover. The writers did a great job making him very sympathetic, and I was rooting for him. Whereas with The Event, I didn’t really care too much about any of the characters. The only thing compelling was the fact that something bizarre was going down, and I didn’t know what. In the end, I didn’t care enough.

Undercovers will get a repeat viewing simply because it is pretty to look at. Beautiful people running around Europe looking sexy and stylish. Yeah, I’m there. I love travel-related storylines. Even wrote a few myself! (See A Taste of Italy & The Waterdance on the sidebar!) Give me a series where I can visit Paris, Madrid and Moscow all in the same hour, and I’m a happy camper. But more than that, it was just fun to watch this pair of spies kick some bad guy ass and then get it on in the sack. Sometimes, keeping it simple is the best way to hold my interest.

Outsourced is lucky to have a prime spot on NBC on Thursday nights, which includes Community (one of my absolute faves), 30 Rock and The Office. So, it’s in good company. But I also thought this was a clever take on ethnic diversity, on cultural differences. Seeing America through the eyes of a group of quirky Indians highlights the ridiculousness of much of our ways. But it also celebrates the fact that we have the right to be ridiculous. We are America! We can manufacture stupid products like a pair of fake breasts that play Jingle Bells or a stuffed deer head that sings Sweet Home Alabama. And other Americans will buy them! Free enterprise! Free speech! Let freedom ring! Oh, and it’s funny. I laughed A LOT.

So, those are my picks for the fall season. What are yours?

Ciao,
Lucie

Chick Flick Pick

2010-09-20T18:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve decided to start a “pick of the week” post (not sure I’ll manage it every single week, but I’ll do my darnedest!), and this week’s pick is one of my favorite so-called “chick flicks.”

Before Sunset is the follow-up film to the romantic indie flick, Before Sunrise, that was released in 1995. It starred Ethan Hawke & Julie Delpy as two strangers who meet on a train and spend twenty-fours exploring the streets of Vienna and falling in love. The film ends on an ambiguous note, leaving the audience wondering if these two young lovers will ever meet again. This film quickly garnered cult status among young women as one of the most romantic tales ever spun. And I don’t disagree. It was a fantasy every girl in my college dorm wished would happen to her, including me. But its sequel, Before Sunset, has earned a special place in my heart. And even more than with Before Sunrise, I really do fantasize about this story manifesting in my life. Why?

Because it’s real. It’s raw. It’s hopeful. It’s romantic. It’s possible.

Before Sunset picks up nine years later in Paris and takes place in real time (as closely as possible) spanning a little under an hour and a half before the sun sets on the City of Lights. After nine years apart, we meet Ethan & Julie at a bookstore where Ethan is appearing with his novel, a re-telling of their infamous night in Vienna. These two wander the streets of Paris, lighted by a golden late afternoon glow, catching up over conversation that begins with career updates and twists and turns and winds its way around to sex, love, and romantic relationships. We follow them as they stroll through gardens, glide atop Le Seine in a tourist boat, and drive through rush hour traffic in an SUV. And even though the film consists almost entirely of talking heads, it is one of the most compelling stories I’ve ever seen.

It feels like a conversation I’ve had. It feels like a relationship I’ve had. It feels like a heartache I’ve had. And, most importantly, it feels like a hope I’ve had. (Still have). The hope to meet someone special. The hope to have something deep and meaningful with another human being. And the hope that, eventually, we all find our way back to love despite having gotten sidetracked (or sidelined) a few times. And whenever I suffer a heartbreak, it is this film I turn to. It is this film that gives me hope. It is this film that lifts my spirits.

Because it is not a whimsical fantasy.

There is no charming prince sweeping a fair maiden off her feet. There are no crazy plot twists contrived to threaten our lovers. No goofy best friends to interject harebrained theories. No overt declarations of love. No wildly over-the-top romantic gestures. Just sincere expressions of the plain, unadulterated heartache we’ve all been subject to, and the eternal hope that keeps ticking along in our hearts and minds that one day, some day, hopefully soon, we will find our love.

And because this film ends on an ambiguous note, as well, I am left with a sense of wonder. But a wonder that tells me I do believe in love. And that eventually it will find me, too.

So, if you haven’t seen it yet. By all means, rent it!

YAY for YA

2010-09-16T16:44:00.000-07:00

I must confess that I have fallen head over heels in love with Glee. And it only took two episodes. And it isn’t really because I can “relate” to the singing teens. I mean, I left high school behind a long time ago. The only time I ever run into anyone between the ages of 13 and 18 is when I make the mistake of driving by the local high school that’s between my bank and Starbucks. It’s sort of like making a trip to the zoo. I sit in my car at the stop sign, patiently waiting for them to get their unfathomably slow selves across street (really, these people should be fit enough to sprint across!), and study their curious behavior with the eye of an anthropologist. That is, until I can sneak my way through the intersection before another gaggle of giggling girls (I love alliteration!) decides to discuss the latest Ashton-Demi scandal while cavorting around a pothole.

So, what is it that I do relate to? My guess is that it’s just a well cast, well written show that knows how to handle its genre with aplomb. And just because it revolves around a teenage storyline, doesn’t mean it isn’t fit for adults.

In the book world, we call this type of genre YA, or Young Adult. And for me, that term usually brings back memories of V.C. Andrews and Sweet Valley High. Not necessarily my cup of tea these days. But I have picked up a few YA releases that I’ve absolutely adored. The Luxe series by Anna Godberson is a fave, and I am desperate for her to release her next book. And let’s not forget Meg Cabot’s Princess Diaries series. Brilliantly witty and fun, her writing style is like crack for me. And millions others I presume, judging by her overwhelmingly successful career.

Though I am more drawn to reading (and writing) stories about women in their twenties and thirties as they struggle with career issues and boyfriend dilemmas and all the other fun things that come with adulthood, I do manage to squeeze in a YA here and there. I’m sure it has less to do with the intended age range and much more to do with the writing.

So, actually, YAY for good writing!

Brit Lit?

2010-09-15T16:14:00.000-07:00

The US publishing industry is quick to tell us that Chick Lit is dead and gone and never to be seen or heard from again. Okay, then why do I keep discovering new authors and books that would certainly meet my definition of chick lit: literary fiction about the lives of young urban women who are discovering themselves in career and love and usually going about it in a truly hilarious manner? A quick gander at my bookshelf might hold the clue.

About ninety percent of the novels stacked in piles next to my overflowing bookcase are penned by British authors. Yes, some of them are bestsellers whose careers were established at the beginning of the Chick Lit trend: Marian Keyes, Carole Matthews, Sophie Kinsella, etc. But I’ve also just picked up a few new (to me at least) authors such as Holly McQueen (loving her debut novel, Glamorous Double Life of Isabel Bookbinder ), Jill Mansell (just finished her international bestseller, Rumor Has it) and Harriet Evans (A Hopeless Romantic, still waiting patiently for my review, but it has moved to my nightstand for quick access after I finish Holly McQueen’s novel). And the thing is, in the UK, these novels aren’t categorized as Chick Lit. They’re all grouped together under the heading, Romantic Comedy. So, maybe it’s just this pesky label that died and not the brilliantly witty tales of young women coming into their own as they grow up and take on the responsibilities that come with entering the professional world, falling in love and having a family.

I understand that there was a glut of Chick Lit back at the turn of the century, and some of it wasn’t all that hot. But the readers are still reading this stuff. So, why say it’s dead? Perhaps it’s because what’s all the rage and topping sales right now are tales of tortured teenage vampires. That’s all fine and dandy, but soon enough that genre will be deemed dead, too, despite the fact that Stephanie Myers will still be earning advances large enough to feed a third world nation for two years straight.

Every genre has its bust, but that doesn’t mean it’s dead. That just means the readers who love that genre are not going to accept some poorly written knock off by an author jumping on the bandwagon just because it’s hot.

I know this because I’m still here and still eager to dive into the latest “romantic comedy” that miraculously finds its way to my nearest bookstore despite the fact that it is 100% dead and buried.

Ciao,
Lucie

Not So Gleeful for Musicals

2010-09-08T16:32:00.000-07:00

Unlike the rest of America, it seems, I have thus far avoided watching the much-touted Fox show, Glee. Why? Well, I have an aversion to musicals. Let’s just say I witnessed one too many Shirley Temple flicks as a kid. I blame my granny (god bless her). She absolutely adored those old black and white films where people suddenly burst into a dance number in the middle of a bank because their house is being foreclosed on and the only thing they can do is sing about it. Let me tell you, even as a four-year-old child, I found this utterly ridiculous. When does that ever happen? Ever?

Okay, so I have trouble suspending my disbelief. But that’s not the only reason I avoid musicals like I do John Sayles films (honestly, few things on earth are less compelling to me than his long, drawn-out snooze fests). Mostly, I don’t like the songs. They just strike me as really silly. And not in a giddy sort of silly way. As in a I-can’t-believe-an-adult-wrote-this sort of way. For instance, I forced myself to watch Phantom of the Opera once (I got forty-five minutes into it before having to shut it off). I was hanging in there, doing my best to appreciate the costumes and scene design and even the lead’s singing ability. But then came a scene in which the delivery of a letter was the subject of the song. A letter! And not even what was in the letter, but just that one was delivered! I had to end it right then and there. I couldn’t even be bothered to find out what was so vital about the letter. Honestly, they had to write a song about that?

So, I have little patience when it comes to musicals. Mostly, I fear I’m going to hate the music, and then I fear that there will be little story to back up the music to hold my attention. But every once in a while, a rare thing comes along. A show that features music I actually know and like and a good story to go along with it. Moulin Rouge was one. Mamma Mia was another, along with a little known indy musical called Camp. And Bob Fosse produced a few that I quite dug back in the day, too. All That Jazz, Sweet Charity, and Cabaret, for example.

But on the whole, I do my best to avoid musicals. Oh, sure, I sat through (and even enjoyed) Johnny Depp’s turn as the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. As his number one fan (and not in a scary Stephen King kind of way) it’s my duty to watch all of his films. But generally speaking, you will not catch me willingly seeking out any form of musical theater for my entertainment. Which is why I avoided Glee for a full year. Until last night when I finally decided to see just what the hell everyone is raving about. And you know what? I liked it!

What makes Glee different from Phantom of the Opera and the rest of its ilk? The fact that it knows musicals are silly. Silly fun to be had when combined with great writing, good songs and a stellar cast. Actually, I was rather struggling to connect with this show until the kid in the wheelchair (I still don’t know character’s names yet) fantasized a kick ass dance number to one of my eighties faves, Safety Dance. From then on, I was hooked.

But really, it’s the premise that makes this show work for me. Because these kids are in a glee club, they have a real reason to be bursting into song. So, it doesn’t strike me as utterly ridiculous they suddenly start belting out show tunes or launch into a tap dance routine. I can understand why these particular people would do that, whereas the cast of Phantom of the Opera just looked silly singing over the arrival of a letter.

So, if like me, you'd been avoiding Glee for fear it might resurrect childhood memories of Shirley Temple and her Good Ship Lollipop, do yourself a favor and give it a shot. I bet you won't hate it.

Ciao,
Lucie

Hollywood Ending Has a Home!

2010-09-03T07:38:00.001-07:00

I am happy to announce that my novel, Hollywood Ending, has finally found a home with new small press publisher, Simon and Fig! Release date is scheduled for October 19th! And don't ya just love the cover?

Ciao,
Lucie

Love Some Rom-Com

2010-08-25T11:11:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Jezebel for alerting me to an interview with Drew Barrymore in which she defends rom-coms. She states, “I need them at the end of a crap day – a nice happy ending and a fairytale.” Well, yes, indeed. They are quite good for that. But romantic comedies get a lot of grief for being unrealistic and are often blamed for holding back the female gender by promoting fantasies of Prince Charming-like heroes rescuing the heroine from a dull, loveless life. But, outside of Disney films, when does this scenario ever occur?

My favorite rom-coms are about real women trying to get along in life, making a success of herself, and yes, falling in love (even if reluctantly) along the way. Who can’t relate to that? My personal love life has been wrought with rom-com worthy storylines as I’ve come up through my twenties and thirties. As I’ve struggled to attain professional success, form lasting friendships, and find a boyfriend who doesn’t completely suck. Well, truly, my life IS a romantic comedy. It just doesn’t have an ending (yet, and hopefully not for many, many years!). Just like those books with the pretty covers, my life has had a series of ups and downs, laughs and tears, girlfriends, guy friends, gay friends, and boyfriends. And maybe one day a husband and perhaps a kid or two. And hopefully, my life will also have a happy ending. I think it probably will. Because that’s the kind of person I am. I believe in happy endings. And for those less than happy moments, I have thousands of gloriously inspiring romantic comedies to cheer me.

Long live the Rom-Com!

Ciao,
Lucie

We Are Women. Hear Us Roar.

2010-08-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

Despite how you may feel about the film or book, Eat, Pray, Love, its box office success and bestselling status prove at least one thing: stories about women by women for women sell. Earning $47.1 million after only 2 weekends is no small feat for a film that lacks explosions, teen vampires, and oppressed alien civilizations. I’m not saying there isn’t a place for those types of films and books. I’m just saying that there is a place for every genre, every voice. Unfortunately, Hollywood and New York are loathe to venture beyond the tried and true and seldom dare to blaze a new trail. Not that stories by women for women is by any means new. The Bronte sisters? Jane Austen? Louisa May Alcott? All long dead and still doing gangbusters at the bookstore and the box office.

So, ladies, what does this mean? It means we must continue to voice our opinions, to make ourselves heard. We must support stories about women, stories by women. And maybe one day soon, a “chick flick” that rakes in $50 million won’t be such a surprise to Hollywood. Maybe female authors will start earning advances equal to that of male authors. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get the respect we deserve and the dollars that go along with it.

Ciao,
Lucie

Good Riddance to Bad Boys

2010-06-28T16:30:00.000-07:00

Sandra Bullock’s divorce to legendary bad boy, Jesse James, was finalized today in what, I think, is a warning to all leading ladies. As an author (and reader) of romance, I am fully aware that the bad boys in fiction rarely compare to their real life counterparts who spend their days and nights breaking hearts left and right. I have dated my share of them, and I can tell you from firsthand experience that they generally don’t change their ways. Once a bad boy, always a bad boy.

This may not be a popular theory since we ladies are forever hoping that love will win out and that sexy rascal with the motorcycle between his legs will throw away his philandering ways and fall head over heels in love when the right woman comes along. Because, every once in a while, it does happen. As the movie, He’s Just Not That Into You, taught us, there is an exception to every rule. You just gotta know whether or not your situation is the exception. But odds are, it isn’t.

So, I really gotta hand it to Sandy for realizing she wasn’t the exception and getting out of a bad relationship before it got even worse. But really, if A-List movie star and mega beauty Sandra Bullock wasn’t the exception, what woman is? Not Elin Woods. Not Hilary Clinton. Not even the late Princess Diana. When you think about it, the odds of being the exception are pretty damn slim.

So, ladies, let’s just keep romanticizing those bad boys between the covers of a novel, and not between our sheets. Your heart will thank you for it in the end.

Ciao,
Lucie

My Mother's Smile

2010-05-09T08:01:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to get this essay published for about 4 years, but I have yet to see it happen. So, I figured, in honor of Mother's Day, I will publish it here for all to read. Warning, it isn't exactly something you'd find in a Hallmark card, though it was truly written from the heart.

I never imagined that one day I’d end up dumping my mother on the steps of a seedy hotel on Los Angeles’ skid row three weeks before Christmas. But that can happen when you’re the child of a mentally ill parent.

Up until a little over a year before that bleak night on skid row, I’d believed my relationship with my mother had always been a healthy one. As a little girl, I loved to see my mother smile. I adored her sense of humor, the silly games she would play with my brother and me, the lackadaisical attitude she had toward authority and housework, and the way that I could always talk to her openly about whatever problem I had. Looking back now, though, I realize that I had managed to block out all the bad times, like the time she first attempted suicide. I was eleven years old, and although I clearly remember my father breaking down the bathroom door to find her passed out and bleeding from two gashes on her wrists, the paramedics hauling her away, and even visiting her in a mental institution where she remained for several weeks after that failed suicide attempt, I simply chose to ignore the dark moments and the smile that wasn’t there.

I think it was her ability to smile that kept her from careening over the edge into insanity when I was child. No matter how bleak life appeared for her, she always managed to find something that would turn up the corners of her mouth. Whether it was a joke my brother would tell her, or a flying leap my cat would make, or watching me lip sync Lucky Star into my hairbrush, there was always something that would lead her away from the darkness hovering at the cliff’s edge, an edge that was always within sight.

Living in a small college town in Indiana, surrounded by friends and family, and working as a much-loved nurse in a convalescent home, my mother had plenty to smile about. But after my father was laid off from his job as a warehouse manager at the local coal mine when I was in high school, we moved to a suburb of metro Atlanta now most widely known for having produced Julia Roberts. The transition was hard on my mother, having to make new friends and being so far away from her loved ones. Her faith in my father, tenuous at best, began to plummet.

My parents divorced when I was in college, and I believe that was the beginning of the end of my mother’s smile. The divorce was her idea. She’d had an affair with her physical therapist, a man who epitomized everything my father wasn’t: sexy, confident, and successful. And he made her smile. After suffering a slipped disc and undergoing back surgery to fuse her vertebrae, my mother was sent to this man in order to aid in her recuperation. But instead of healing her, he’d preyed on her, on her fragile mental health, on her desperate need to smile. But he soon tired of her, and left her for another woman in need of a smile.

My mother then proceeded to jump from one disastrous relationship to another, always with a man equally as desperate for something to smile about as she was. Unable to find a genuine smile, one made from the sound of a child’s laugh or the sight of a rabbit stealing away with a neighbor’s prized rose clenched between its teeth, she began looking for it in drugs and alcohol. Having moved across country from Atlanta to Los Angeles once I graduated from college, I was unaware of my mother’s growing desperation for a smile and the roads she had traveled in search of one.

It wasn’t until she met Carl back home in Indiana that her quest for that evermore evasive smile got her into trouble. They met at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. She was instantly attracted to his tall, muscular build and dark skin. And even though he’d served twelve years in prison for murder, she felt he had a gentle spirit. Her smile was beginning to reappear. Unfortunately, my family and I had less faith in Carl’s gentle spirit, and feared that her insatiable need to smile would ultimately lead the two of them down a dangerous path. We were accused of being bigots, racists, and snobs, all of which, if you knew anything of my family, were about as far from the truth as you could possibly get. My maternal grandfather was an art professor and successfully instilled in all of his offspring a liberal, rebellious outlook on life. We embraced the unusual, the subversive and the downtrodden. But apparently our inability to embrace my mother’s felonious boyfriend was tantamount to treason. Perhaps to spite us, she and Carl moved in together, effectually isolating herself from the rest of the family. Her smile went into hiding. Eventually she and Carl moved to Georgia where they’d hoped to find that reclusive smile of hers.

Late one fall night back in Georgia, my brother received a phone call from my mom. She’d lost all hope of ever tracking down her long-lost smile and had called to “say goodbye.” She and Carl had made a suicide pact and were going to kill themselves. The moment she clicked off, my brother did what he was trained to do: call the police. Since her failed suicide attempt when I was eleven, many other threats had been uttered or scribbled. He’d been through the drill many times.

When the police arrived at my mother’s home that autumn night, they found her with a large kitchen knife in her hand, blood on her nightgown, a wound on her thigh, and her sleeping boyfriend with a gash in his arm. She and Carl were ushered off to the emergency room where their injuries were treated swiftly, and Carl denied being part of any suicide pact. Instead of locking my mother up in a mental health facility, she was taken into custody and charged with attempted murder.

I think my mother was actually more shocked by this than anyone else. Prior suicide threats always ended with a seventy-two hour lockdown in a hospital psych ward where she was monitored and released when the psychiatrists determined that it was nothing more than a cry for attention, or simply, a much needed break from the routine of daily life. But this time, she found herself locked inside a cold cell at the local correctional facility with absolutely no sign of her smile anywhere.

I was finishing my master’s degree in Television Production and working intermittently, so a few days after her incarceration, I flew to Atlanta to visit her. I hadn’t seen her since my grandmother’s funeral nearly two years earlier, and what I found didn’t even resemble the woman I had known all my life. After checking all my belongings with the guard, I was ushered into a large room made of cement block walls. At one end of the cold space was a row of stools placed before several thick, glass partitions. When my mother took her seat across from me, I could hardly believe my eyes. She was wearing a blue sweatshirt and cotton pants. Her hair had been bleached some time ago and her brown roots were showing. Her cheeks were red and covered with broken blood vessels. Her nose was bulbous and pock-marked. Her eyes were desperate and pleading. But it was the thin line that used to be my mother’s smile that clenched my heart.

She didn’t understand why the officers had arrested her. She couldn’t comprehend the crime she was accused of, or why the nursing home had fired her when they learned of her arrest. She was a doomed woman, helpless and hopeless. I tried to put a positive spin on things for her, and for myself. I tried desperately to coax a smile out of her. I told her that this had to be a blessing in disguise. Perhaps it would be the one thing that got her on the straight and narrow. Perhaps she would stop drinking, and start going to therapy. Perhaps she would stop looking for her smile in empty whiskey bottles and dangerous men, and instead, find it deep down inside herself, tucked away somewhere safe and sound. But ultimately, nothing I said could evoke her smile.

Accomplishing little on my trip, I returned home to Los Angeles where for the next eleven months I would listen to her cry over the phone, read her desperate letters, and silently hope that her suffering would end so that I could go on with my life. I would sit in my cozy apartment on my plush sofa and think of my mother lying on a small cot in a cold cell. Guilt consumed me, but I didn’t know why. It wasn’t my fault that this had befallen her. I didn’t put the knife in her hand, pour the whiskey down her throat. And yet, I felt responsible somehow. I didn’t learn until several years later, with the help of a therapist, that my reaction was typical when considering the relationship I’d had with my mother my entire life. From early on, I’d assumed her pain and suffering as if it were my own in an effort to lessen hers, all the time trying to make her smile. But at the time, I was unaware of the psychology behind my despair. All I knew was that if she could just smile, so could I. That’s why I invited her to stay with me once she was released.

When the District Attorney finally made a deal with my mother’s court appointed legal counsel, she was released from jail with a sentence of ten years probation. She was relieved with the decision, but terrified of what lay ahead for her. She had lost everything she’d ever owned. Carl had long ago absconded with anything she’d owned of value. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the few hundred dollars my grandfather had placed in her account in jail. Yes, even jail isn’t free. If you want an aspirin, you have to pay for it.

My brother picked up our ill-fated parent from jail and drove her to a hotel where she would stay until heading to the airport the next day. My grandfather paid for her hotel room and her airfare, though I had to argue with him on the hotel. He’d wanted her to go to a shelter. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than getting out of jail and going straight into a shelter. She deserved at least one night of comfort after her ordeal. She needed an environment conducive to a smile. I also feared that being forced to stay in a homeless shelter would make a very bitter end for her eleven month rehabilitation, leading her back to drugs and alcohol. Apparently, my worries were all for naught. When my little brother took our mother to dinner, she made no hesitation in ordering a Long Island Iced Tea. “You haven’t learned anything, have you?” he said to her.

Armed with a pack of cigarettes and very little else, my mother boarded a plane bound for sunny days ahead in Los Angeles. When she arrived, I noticed that her hair had grown long, and that she still had remnants of the blond bleach job she’d gotten over a year earlier. And her lips were still as thin and straight as a swizzle stick. Los Angeles wasn’t going to be kind to her.

Within a week, I had taken her to my stylist and had her hair cut and color corrected. I helped her buy a few key pieces of clothing. I directed her to a local mental health organization. I took her to AA meetings. All was looking up. But still, there was no smile on her face. If freedom couldn’t make her smile, what could?

And then one night, her mouth changed form a straight line into a downward pointing semi-circle. I came home from rehearsing a play I was producing in Hollywood to find several paramedics in my apartment. She’d called 911 and told them she was suicidal. The paramedics informed me where they were taking her, and I debated following them. I felt betrayed – by her and that damned smile that we now both needed so desperately. I’d taken her in when no one else would. I’d clothed her. I’d styled her. I’d fed her. And still the smile eluded us.

Weeks crawled by as she continued to drink and paramedics continued to arrive at my door. It seemed nothing could resuscitate that smile of hers, and mine was beginning to disappear as well. I came to dread going home, to loathe being in her presence. I found solace at work and with my friends, but I knew that I couldn’t go on in this fashion. I had to have my home back. Maybe her smile was long gone, but mine still had a chance. If I had peace in my home, I could smile again.

I felt guilty. This was my mother, after all. She had given me life, done her best to raise me, and was at least partially responsible for my developing into a strong, intelligent and ambitious woman. But she wasn’t the same woman I’d known as a child. She no longer laughed. She no longer smiled. All she did was drink.

One cool, California night three weeks before Christmas, I was standing on my front porch talking with my neighbor when my mother arrived, drunk and belligerent, three hours after I’d dropped her off at an AA meeting. She fell as she climbed the single step into my apartment. My neighbor helped her to her feet, but she didn’t thank him. Instead she plopped down on my sofa and proceeded to hurl insults at the two of us. Embarrassed by my mother’s untoward comments, I asked my neighbor to leave us alone. It was at that point I told her she had two weeks to get out.

Unfortunately, my mother was so inebriated that she’d blacked out, and the following day she had absolutely no memory of our argument and her impending eviction. Somehow I found the strength to tell her in plain words that she was simply ruining any happiness I had in my home and that she had two weeks to find another place to stay.

An hour later we had her clothes packed and were driving down Beverly Boulevard toward downtown Los Angeles. We’d found a hotel that was only seventeen dollars a night. It was located in the heart of skid row. Homelessness, drugs, and prostitution hung around the hotel like a cheap polyester shirt. There was no hope of her ever finding a reason to smile in a place like this.

I was absolutely torn. The guilt of dropping my mother off on skid row ate away at me, though I knew I wasn’t truly responsible for her predicament. She chose to leave my father. She chose to drink. She chose to stab her boyfriend. This terrible event was simply a consequence of her actions. I couldn’t be to blame. But I felt that I had failed. I had tried to give her a reason to smile, and I couldn’t find a single one.

During the next five years, my mother transitioned from the seedy hotel to a shelter run by nuns, to a twenty-eight day program, to three different sober living houses, and for a short time, she even had an apartment. She has been in and out of mental health facilities, hospitals, and rehab centers. And never once did a smile cross her lips, not until the day a scrape with death tossed her back from that dark cliff’s edge she always walked.

She had gone in for another back surgery, but this time, she’d contracted a lung infection. She was in ICU and had tubes jammed into every orifice. She had to be kept sedated due to her level of discomfort. There was one machine to breathe for her, another to feed her, and several more that dinged and chimed and lit up like slot machines hitting the jackpot. The sight of her in this condition pained me, not because I might lose her, but because if she did die, I knew I would be the only one at her side when it happened. My brother was in Georgia, my grandfather and her two sisters were in Indiana. No one but me would be there when she passed. I looked at her gaunt face, her withered body and felt all the lonely emptiness contained within her.

Three long, weary, tear-soaked days later, my mother was finally able to breathe on her own. The tubes that had been stuffed down her throat were removed. She couldn’t speak due to the breathing tube having been pressed against her vocal chords, but she told me everything she needed to with her grateful eyes, a squeeze of her hand, and small upturn at the corners of her mouth. A smile.

Currently, my mother resides in a sober living house in North Hollywood. She’s been sober for at least one solid year now, and each day is a struggle. I still have my moments of anger and resentment toward her for all those years she spent in search of her smile, for all the desperation I felt in searching for it, too. But on the days when I take her to lunch or shopping for a new pair of jeans, if I’m watching closely, I can see it. It flicks across her face quickly, darting up at the corners and then back down into a grim, straight line. It’s still there. After everything. My mother’s smile.

Vocab Rehab

2010-04-06T15:25:00.000-07:00

As your resident Feminista (Fem-in-ees-tah: a feminine feminist – and yes I made it up!), I make it my duty to keep my friends abreast of issues facing the modern woman. And on the agenda today is the subtlety of sexism in our vocabulary.

Every day, certain terms and phrases are bantered about left and right by progressive, modern men and women with little regard to the sexist sentiments those words propagate. The worst part is, most of the people using these words don’t even realize they’re sexist (the words, not the users). Recently, I was so incensed by the use of the term “high maintenance” that I entered into a 24 hour email war that almost ended a near decade old friendship. I was so angry that I couldn’t even see straight. Luckily, though, we were able to put aside our hurt feelings and patch things up. After all, some things are more important than feminist theory (but not much!).

The thing is, this term, “high maintenance,” seemed perfectly genderless and inoffensive to my friend. And probably to many reading this. The 1989 film, When Harry Met Sally, popularized the term “high maintenance” as used to describe someone who is particular. But in reality, this term was coined to describe a highly emotional, needy and hard-to-please person - more often than not, a woman.

Harry: There are two kinds of women. High maintenance and low maintenance.
Sally: Which one am I?
Harry: You're the worst kind. You're high maintenance, but you think you're low maintenance.
Sally: I don't see that.
Harry: You don't see that? Waiter, I'll begin with a house salad, but I don't want the regular dressing. I'll have the Balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the Salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce, on the side. On the side is a very big thing for you.
Sally: Well I just want it the way I want it.

The exchange above is clearly sexist. And yes, I do realize that a woman wrote this screenplay. However, it is obvious to the audience, if not to Harry, that he is a bitter, misogynistic, chauvinist pig. But it is his journey through the course of the film that changes his attitude towards women and love. And which provides further evidence of a woman’s patience!

But I digress. I am simply interested in bringing light to a subject that is often forgotten. We are all aware that calling a man a pussy because he doesn’t have the guts to go bungee jumping is sexist as it indicates that all women are weak and fearful. But telling a woman she’s "high maintenance" because she prefers her salad dressing on the side is equally as offensive. And really, how can knowing what you want and going about getting it be considered “high maintenance?” If you ask me, that’s just being self-reliant.

So, we can blame Harry for making this term a part of our vocabulary. But it’s up to us to use it correctly – like when I use it to describe my mother who is needy, emotionally volatile and in constant need of reassurance. But still, I prefer the term, emotional vampire.

Ciao!
Lucie

Big Fat Deal

2010-03-11T12:16:00.000-08:00

Women, and especially actresses, are often held to some pretty high beauty standards. And in Showbiz, not meeting Hollywood’s ideal can certainly jeopardize a woman’s career opportunities. This isn’t news to anyone, but because of the recent press regarding Gabby Sidibe’s Oscar nominated performance, people are weighing in on the weight debate yet again. There is no doubt that it will be harder for her to find roles because there are just so few written for plus-sized women. But in my opinion that is only the tip of the iceberg.

In Hollywood, and in much of society, full-figured women are not generally regarded as being attractive. And they are often targeted as objects of ridicule or pity. But that wasn’t always the case. You’ve seen those Renaissance paintings of pleasantly plump, half-nude beauties frolicking in gardens, clearly comfortable revealing their mushy midsections to the world at large. So, obviously, being thin was not always a measure of beauty. Somewhere along the line in the past couple hundred years, however, it not only became part of the equation, it became the formula. And being fat became unacceptable.

Again, this is not news. But I think what should be news, what should be debated is why overweight women are so often criticized while men are allowed to go about leading fat, dumb and happy lives with nary a harsh word. Why does a plus-sized male actor’s weight not garner as much press as a woman’s? And what really incenses me further is the fact that these large men are often just referred to as “regular” guys. No, they are not playing heart throbs or leading men, but no one suggests that they’ll never work again unless they drop fifty pounds. And if you turn on your TV on any given night, I guarantee you’ll find plenty of “regular” guys working in character roles as neighbors, detectives, insurance agents, doctors, what-have-you. But will you find an equal number of “regular” girls? No. Because no one wants to look at “regular” girls. Or at least, that’s what we’re led to believe.

Now, I would never consider myself a “regular” girl. I think I am an outstanding beauty with style and charm and loads of sex appeal. And that has absolutely nothing to do with my size. I am not a size two. I am not even a size twelve. And though I do struggle with my own weight, I don’t allow it to define me. But at first blush, some do.

I am actually very fit and very active. I am a certified yoga teacher, and I spin three times a week. And let me tell you, I can kick your ass. I often take great pleasure watching twig-thin women and muscle-bound men trying to keep up with me, the fat-girl, on my spin bike or in my power yoga class. So, one person at a time, I’m doing my part to change people’s opinions of overweight women.

It’s high time Hollywood started doing the same. With the success of films and TV shows featuring larger ladies in leading roles like Gabby Sidibe in Precious and Brooke Elliott in Drop Dead Diva, it’s clear that audiences are interested in seeing more “regular” girls on their big and small screens. Now, we just need more producers, filmmakers and casting directors to realize that yes, although the majority of female roles will go to skinny minnies, there is also a real opportunity to integrate plus-sized roles into the mix. Because, if you haven’t heard, the average size of the American woman is 14. But don’t ask me what the average size of the American man is because, apparently, that isn’t an issue.

When Girlfriends Get in the Way

2010-02-01T15:37:00.000-08:00

No, I’m not talking about his girlfriend getting in the way of your budding relationship. I’m talking about your girlfriends. You know, the well-meaning group of women in your inner circle to whom you spill your guts over martinis and crudités every weekend. They are your closest friends, and they only want the best for you. And that includes protecting your heart from possible plundering. But sometimes, you need to get your heart broken in order to learn the lesson life has lobbed in your lap. Other times, they may be urging you to ignore your gut about a guy and give him a chance despite the fact that your intuition is screaming, “Run!”

Unless you’ve got a couple of “frenemies” lurking in the bunch, your girlfriends are not deliberately trying to sabotage your happiness. They’re just looking out for you. And sometimes you need them to. Like when it’s clear your penchant for bad boys has become an all out obsession, leaving you in tatters at the end of each inevitable break up. At some point, you do have to grow up and start dating a man who actually wants to be in a relationship. But, that doesn’t mean you should go out with a guy simply because your girlfriends think he’s the kind of stable, reliable fellow you need in your life. For instance, he may have a steady income and yearning to get married, but if any part of you has to compromise on your core values, this is one man to cut loose.

But there are those relationships, those men, who come into our lives simply to help us grow as individuals. He comes along and teaches us what our limits are and areas where we need to compromise. Just because a guy isn’t the one, doesn’t mean he isn’t worth our time. Every man has something to offer, even if it’s just a description of what we don’t need or want.

I can’t regard any of my past relationships as failures because each of them taught me something. One of them taught me to be spontaneous and courageous in love. Another helped me define the meaning of commitment. And still another made me realize how beautiful I am despite the fact that I do not wear a size 6. They’ve come and they’ve gone, but a little part of them remains. And all those parts add up to a pretty well-adjusted woman.

So, the next time your best gal pal warns you off a guy because she’s sure you’re just going to wind up with a wounded heart, consider first whether or not a little pummeling will do your heart some good before you kick that hottie to the curb. And also keep in mind that men aren’t as predictable as we women like to think. Every once in awhile, one comes along that breaks all the rules, without breaking your heart.

Ciao,
Lucie

Lucie's Catch & Release Rules

2010-01-26T15:41:00.000-08:00

Ok, ladies. I know it sure seems like our oceans have been over-fished these days, but let me assure you that just because you’ve got a live one on the end of your hook, doesn’t mean you need to reel him in. Dating can be tough. Especially when the guy you just met seemed like Mr. Wonderful on paper (or after too many martinis), but in the harsh light of a sober reality, you discover that you’d rather stick a fork in your eye than go on a second date with him. So, to save yourself some time and a trip to the Emergency Room, here are my top ten signs you’ve snared a stinker:

1. Upon hearing you sarcastically remark that eating the deep fried pizza offered on the menu would cause you to stroke out, he laughs heartily, then says, “Wait. Were you serious?”

2. Your date tells you that his children all live with their moms. Yes, “moms.” As in more than one.

3. He tells you that his wife is sucking the life out of him and he hasn’t had sex in six months because she’s still nursing.

4. He takes it upon himself to school you in how to succeed in your business despite the fact that he has no earthly clue how your industry works. And even after you set him straight, he still can’t stop giving you completely inane suggestions.

5. He espouses a philosophy only Romulans can truly appreciate.

6. He suggests Denny’s for dinner. After all, he has a coupon.

7. When asked what party he supports, he responds, “a keg party.”

8. He asks for your thoughts on bi-sexuality. (Girl, he is not being progressive. He’s seeing if you’re either into a threesome with another woman or if you have a hard and fast rule about your man dating other men).

9. He asks you to go dutch. I don’t care what kind of state the economy is in. A man asks me out on a date, he’s treating.

10. He states that he believes in polygamy because, really, having more than one wife is the only logical way to have more than twelve children.

Now, I bet you’re thinking to yourself that I’m joking about many of the items on this list. Unfortunately, every single one of these offenses has happened to either myself or one of my girlfriends. And a couple of them occurred on the same date! And, maybe there are a few women out there who don’t mind their men catching a little back-door action on the side now and then, or even some who think polygamy is a great way to share childrearing duties, but if you’re a Nice to Naught girl, chances are, you don’t. So, cut the line and throw that flopping bottom-feeder back in the sea. Cuz I’m here to tell you that there are more fish in the sea. I promise. They may not all be worthy of mounting over your fireplace, but I bet you can find one worth taking home for dinner.

Ciao,
Lucie

The Male Point of View

2010-01-20T12:27:00.001-08:00

So, ladies, ever wondered why the hell men act like such ______(insert derogatory adjective of your choice)? Well, this blog offers some insider info on the mind of the male of the species. Readers beware, you may take great offense at the material offered! Direct all hate mail to The Male PoV!

Ciao,
Lucie

Beauty and the Beast

2010-01-05T15:22:00.000-08:00

So, it’s a new year, and I’m sure many a Nice to Naughty Girl are embracing the “new you” attitude that inevitably comes with the arrival of January. And that’s just fabulous. But Lucie is here to remind all you ladies that beauty truly comes from within.

Now, I’m not saying you should start sporting a uni-brow or ditch your collection of Mac make up. I’m just saying, let’s keep a little reality in mind. No matter how much collagen you inject into your lips, you are not going to look like Angelina Jolie. And why should you? The woman is a freak of nature. Personally, I believe she is an alien. Behold the large eyes, pointed ears and over-stuffed lips:

Nor should you aspire to the physique of Pink, who is unfathomably fit!

Her whole life is set up to sculpt those abs. If you’re like me, you don’t have 20 hours a week to spend at the gym. But a good 3 will keep your heart healthy and your mind sharp. So, do get off the couch and put a little muscle into it!

And finally, let’s not forget nutrition. Personally, I am a vegetarian, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I eat healthfully. Last I checked, Cheetos didn’t have any meat in them. So, let’s aim for an 85% healthy diet and 15% chocolate.

That’s right. Anti-oxidants! It's healthy!

So, as you embark on your “new you” lifestyle changes, just make sure not to forget who the real you is in the process. And don’t forget to have some fun. After all, what good is a great body if it can’t suck on a martini olive (among other things!) every now and then?

Ciao,
Lucie

Old Fashioned or Just Independent?

2009-12-17T10:34:00.000-08:00

I was discussing with a male friend of mine recently about my opinion on cohabitation. It may sound old fashioned to some, but I would never live with a boyfriend before getting married.

In his opinion, living with your boyfriend/girlfriend is the natural progression prior to tying the knot. A test-run, so to speak, to see if you are truly compatible. While this sounds sensible, statistics show that those who marry after having cohabited are twice as likely to divorce than those who did not live together prior to marriage.

But this isn’t really my reason for refusing to share living quarters with my boyfriend. Basically, if you aren’t committed enough to put a ring on my finger, why the hell would I give up my home, my independence, my freedom just for a “dry run.” Fuck that.

People are no longer marrying right out of college these days. Women are pursuing their careers, figuring out their paths in life, and discovering themselves all while living a single, happy existence. So, just because we meet and fall in love with some cute guy who seems pretty fab, we’re supposed to ditch our independence, give up one half of our already overstuffed closets, and start sleeping on one side of the bed for the faint prospect of what might happen someday down the road?

I don’t think so.

For instance, I live in a rent-controlled one bedroom apartment in a charming little neighborhood in Los Angeles where rents typically go for three times as much as I pay. And I’m going to give that up to share a place with a man who isn’t ready to pop the question?

Not gonna happen.

But even more than just making fiscal sense, keeping my own place means keeping my identity as a strong, independent woman. I have no one to report to when I go out at 9 o’clock on a Thursday evening for drinks with a friend, and no one to harass about leaving his sweaty gym shorts on the bathroom floor. I don’t have to compromise when it comes to furnishing my home, giving up my collection of Murano glass so that he can put out his assortment of Star Wars figurines. And I don’t have to curtail my habit of sleeping like a starfish, or singing along with Madonna’s greatest hits while I soak in a lilac scented bubble bath reading tawdry tales and eating bon bons (this never actually happens. I’m too fucking busy for that).

In a word, living alone is bliss.

And for those men out there thinking that cohabitating will ease you into marriage, think again. Living together isn’t the same as marriage. A marriage is the merging of two people into a single unit. Cohabitation is the act of sharing a place with the person you’re dating. It’s not the same.

And if you're wondering what Lucie's thoughts are on marriage, well, that's a lecture for another day!

Ciao,
Lucie

Tiger Beat

2009-12-08T15:57:00.000-08:00

Ladies, I know you’ve all been inundated with news of Tiger Woods’ extra-marital affairs and have probably been pretty ticked at the guy for stepping out on his girl. I hear ya. But I really don’t think any woman could marry a sports figure the caliber of Tiger Woods and truly expect that he would never, ever have sex with another woman.

First of all, he’s ultra-famous. Buddhist monks living in remote villages in Nepal who spend 12 of their 16 waking hours in silent meditation probably know who he is. And for some reason, women really like to sleep with famous men. It’s sort of like winning a Golden Globe for best lay of the year or something. Secondly, he is beyond wealthy. And we all know that there are those women for whom scoring a man with deep pockets is akin to taking the Gold in Women’s Figure Skating. Not to mention that when a man has that kind of money, he probably thinks he can get away with just about anything. And finally, the guy is cute. Even if he weren’t a famous golfer, had not a nickel to his name and slept in a van behind WalMart, you can bet some woman out there would pick up on the guy simply because his parents’ DNA combined to create a relatively handsome offspring. I mean, Angelina Jolie married Billy Bob Thornton once upon a time, lest ye all forget.

Put all three of those circumstances together and you’ve got about a 10% chance for fidelity. And I don’t care if his wife is beautiful. Do you think men cheat because their wives are unattractive? I doubt it. As one of my male friends said to me recently, “you can look at every beautiful woman, and at some point in her life, you’re going to find a man who is tired of fucking her.” No one is immune.

So, why speculate as to why Tiger cheated? He had the means, the opportunity, and surely the motivation. I prefer to speculate on why any woman would marry a celebrity and expect him to remain faithful for the rest of his life when few Joe Schmoe’s can even do so.

Many studies have shown (and are often touted by men as a means to excuse infidelity) that men are not biologically driven to remain monogamous. In an effort to populate the earth, men apparently have some innate compulsion to fuck everything on two legs. Ok. But we’re supposed to have evolved. There is clearly no need for men to pump their seed into every open vagina they come across. So, if Charles Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory is accurate, wouldn’t that biological need have petered out along with our appendix?

I’ll just say this. Monogamy is a choice. It is a mental and emotional commitment one makes to his or her lover. At some point, most people are going to have the opportunity to cheat. And when that time comes, he or she must ask whether or not the consequences of their actions will be worth the few moments (or in Tiger’s case, the few years) of pleasure derived from an illicit affair.

So, my advice for Nice to Naughty Girls is this: if you marry a public figure, be prepared for his infidelity. Because you aren’t just marrying a guy that the women in the PTA will be eyeing. You’re marrying a man that half the women in the country are fantasizing about. And you know as well as I do that there are those women who do not respect that little band wrapped around his ring finger. Chances are, he’s going to slip up.

And what if you marry the boy next door? In the words of Adam Sandler’s character from the film, Funny People, “it’s easy not to cheat when no one wants to fuck you.”

Ciao,
Lucie

Lucie's Latest Crush

2009-12-01T09:55:00.000-08:00

I know, you’re expecting me to say Robert Pattinson or some other Hollywood hottie that all the tweens are a twitter about. Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. Not that there’s anything wrong with the mop-haired vampire, mind you. I, however, am a grown up, and as such, am generally drawn to men with the ability to grow facial hair. And my latest crush happens to be quite good at that despite his decided lack of locks on top.

Michael Kenneth Williams is most notably known for his portrayal of Omar Little, the shotgun-toting gay stick-up man with a code of his own in HBO’s The Wire. But, apparently, he’s been flitting around showbiz for quite some time. He started out dancing in music videos in the early 90s, and then after a run-in with a razor left him scarred, portraying “thugs” in TV and Film. But, of course, I never took notice of the actor until his turn as Omar, who was my absolute favorite character in the gritty drama. And let me tell you, I was devastated when he got got! But happily, he’s been turning up all over the silver screen of late. So, even though Omar is no more, the man who embodied him so well lives on.

Where can you see him next? With Viggo Mortensen and Charlize Theron in The Road. I wasn’t all too excited to see what looks to be quite a downer of a movie, but now that I know Mr. Williams’ mug will be gracing the screen, I may just have to buck up and watch. Lord knows I’ve suffered through much worse fare just to see my favorite actors at work! Besides, the flick is getting pretty good reviews. So, really, I have nothing to lose (except maybe a little holiday cheer).

Ciao,
Lucie

Just Say No

2009-11-04T10:04:00.000-08:00

Ladies, why does Ms. Lohan look like an aging porn star desperate to hold on to her youth? Let's just say there is such a thing as partying too hard.

Finally, Playboy Features the "Everywoman"

2009-10-09T17:34:00.000-07:00

Too bad she still isn't a "real" woman...

Summer of Substance

2009-09-02T16:17:00.000-07:00

This summer, I have been indulging in some fabulous new television shows featuring some incredible, real women (i.e. not silicone-stuffed barbies in bikinis). It's high time we got the spotlight! Here are my faves:

Ruby is a plus size, beautiful woman from Savannah working hard to overcome her food addiction and get down to a healthy weight. Her battle is courageous, touching, inspiring and quite often hilarious. If you haven't seen her show on the Style network yet, do yourself a favor and check it out. I promise you will fall in love with this fabulous woman.

Another plus size beauty to grace the small screen this summer is Brooke Elliot of Drop Dead Diva fame. This show is funny, smart and 100% girlie. I simply love how Jane (played by Elliot) can be flipping her hair and squealing with joy over a Prada handbag one minute and then citing legal case precedent with expertise the next. This show marries my love of style and glamour with my passion for courtroom dramas. And I just adore Brooke! I dare you not to get hooked on this show.

And finally, though small in stature, Edie Falco packs a wallop as Nurse Jackie on Showtime's half-hour dramedy of the same name. This show is edgy, funny and sometimes down right dirty as Jackie copes with an addiction to pain killers, a demanding job, two daughters, one husband, and a lover. Need I say more? Check it out.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

2009-08-29T13:58:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles has a lot to offer its residents: the Hollywood Bowl, The Getty Center, miles and miles of bike paths along the beaches, street after street of trendy boutiques and gourmet dining, and lots of hills. Hills that sometimes catch on fire...

The photo above was taken today while traveling north on La Brea Avenue. The massive smoke cloud is from the fire in La Canada Flintridge. The photo below was taken from the courtyard of my apartment building.

Chick Lit = Rich Lit?

2009-08-13T14:12:00.001-07:00

Salon.com featured an interesting article on the revamping of "chick lit" in a world where the economy has more women worried about buying groceries than buying designer shoes. But the article seems to promote the idea that chick lit was all about the super rich living high fashion lives. Or simply nothing more than "shopping and fucking."

Huh?

What about Bridget Jones's Diary, celebrated as the "birh" of chick lit? She certainly didn't live richly, and more often than not she was worried about finding a job and figuring out who she was than affording designer duds. And then what about most of Marian Keyes' work which featured women trying to overcome divorce, alcoholism, abuse, AND still advance in their careers. These women didn't have time to worry about a pair of friggin' Manolo Blahniks.

And this is precisely why chick lit has been so villified. Because a few books focused on high fashion and folly, the rest of the genre got labeled as fluff. I dare anyone to read Rachel's Holiday or Getting Over It and call it fluff.

What makes chick lit chick lit is the voice. Youthful, (and that includes women in their 30s and 40s), defiant, and sometimes a little bit lost. At its best, chick lit is feminist literature for a 21st century woman. At its worst, it's frilly tales of clothes-whoring Paris Hilton wannabes.

I don't know why people can't see the difference.

Ciao,
Lucie

Feminism and the Modern Woman

2009-08-10T17:23:00.000-07:00

I just picked up a new book the other day, drawn to its Tiffany box blue cover, and then drawn in by the premise. Four modern women struggling with what it means to be a woman in the modern world. The voice, the eye-catching pastel cover, the promise of promiscuous women bonding over cocktails and boyfriend dramas, are all tell-tale signs of the genre formerly known as "chick lit," but now being called by any number of vague names so as not to invoke controversy.

What is the controversy? you may wonder. The misconception that "chick lit" is degrading to women. That it is nothing more than shallow tales of equally shallow women obsessed with fashion and finding a man. Sure, there were plenty of books that featured such storylines. But they weren't good examples of the genre. They were authors hopping on the bandwagon. Authors who really didn't have much to say. And those books killed chick lit.

I, for one, love the term chick lit. It defines for me the genre succinctly. Young, urban women dealing with issues of their day: men, careers, beauty and finding meaning in their lives. It was literature for a new generation. A generation of women, who, as the author of Commencement says, "have all the opportunities in the world, but no clear idea about what to choose."

I am hoping that this new work of feminist fiction is a harbinger of things to come. I have been sorely missing the fun, witty voices of modern women living lives that include sex, style, ambition and that intrepid search for the meaning of life. Because these are important issues we face everyday. Because we have so many choices to make and no clear guidance on how to make them. We can't look to our mothers for advice because they didn't have the same choices we do. We can't look to our fathers for wisdom because he has never had to face the kinds of choices we must. We can only look to ourselves for the answers. If there even are answers. Because I truly think we are blazing a trail for future generations of women. And our voices, our stories are important. But the key here is that the voice is one we recognize. The voice is our own.

Long live chick lit!

Ciao,
Lucie

American Spirit

2009-07-05T20:33:00.001-07:00

So, this Independence Day I found myself fighting off some bizarre ailment that felt exactly like a killer hangover. Only, I hadn't enjoyed the binge drinking madness that usually triggers three days of dizzy spells. And that means I missed out on all sorts of 4th of July fun. However, I did find one small consolation. The movie, Bottle Shock. This little film, which I hadn't had much interest in at the beginning, really took me by surprise. It was the enduring American spirit in this sleeper of a film that spoke to me. One small little vineyard, on the brink of failure, rose from the ashes to take the grand prize in a blind taste test against a formidable collection of French wines. I'll toast to that!

Ciao,
Lucie

An Honest Man

2009-06-23T16:53:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that the new millennium has brought with it a new kind of man. The honest man. Now, this all sounds really great, doesn’t it? A man who is forthright and upfront about his intentions. Just what every woman has been yearning for, right? Yeah, not quite.

Recently, I’ve come across a few of these honest men who’ll ask a girl out, treat her to a few lovely dinners and then drop a big, disappointing bomb on her. He doesn’t believe in monogamy. Or, he’s in a loveless marriage, but can’t leave his wife until the economy rebounds, or his Orthodox grandma passes, or his brother-in-law, the mixed martial arts master, moves out of their basement . Or my personal favorite line, he just “wants to keep things casual.”

How about telling us what’s really on his agenda. Like, “you’re cute, but I want to keep my options open just in case someone hotter than you comes along.” Or, “I feel a real connection with you, but I’m lacking in balls, so I’ll never really leave my wife, and I’ll just string you along for a few years until you’ve given up all hope of ever marrying me. Meanwhile if you start dating anyone, I’ll go into a jealous rage and mass email all your business colleagues obscene photos of you polishing my knob.” Or even, “I’m just an immature prat and can’t commit to anything beyond next Tuesday.” Ooh, what about, “I may be 38, but in reality, I’m 14 years old and the only thing more important than getting my dick sucked on a daily is playing Guitar Hero while toking a massive blunt.”

Okay, I realize the reason these guys don’t say what’s really on their minds is that they know, they absolutely know, that we women will stick it out with them if there is the slightest possibility of a relationship, no matter how distant, on the horizon. Don’t believe me? Sure. Maybe there is that small percentage of women who don’t want to be in a committed relationship (notice how I didn’t say marriage). But the majority of us do. I’m not saying we want that above all else, but I am saying we will put up with a lot when the glimmer of a good man comes on the scene.

And there in lies the rub! He’s being honest. He’s not filling our heads with fairytale-type romances. He’s coming right out with it at the beginning rather than deceiving us and then breaking our hearts down the road when we discover he’s been bumping uglies with a girl sporting Double Ds and an IQ in the double digits. So, he’s sparing us the humiliation of his betrayal. We should be grateful, right?

This is where it gets problematic. Yes, he’s telling us what he is willing to bring to the table. And we are able to see that it is not enough. So, this is where we girls say thanks, but no thanks. Right? Unfortunately, most of us don’t. Most of us have already, by date number 2, fully imagined a life with this guy. We’re already invested. Already in… love? No, not in love with him. But in love with the idea of being in a relationship. And right here’s a hot prospect. He’s just not quite ready, that’s all. We just have to give him time. So, we say, “oh, I understand completely. I just want to take things slowly, anyway. Let’s just hang out and see what happens.”

But we know what happens. Nothing. He never commits. He never leaves his wife. He never grows up. And who do we have to blame? No one but ourselves. We knew going in that he wasn’t ever really going to be there. He told us almost immediately. But we thought we could change him. We thought he’d fall so madly in love with us that he’d come around sooner or later and make “us” official.

Ladies, I’m here to tell you that rarely does this happen. Don’t waste your time on this “honest” man. You’ll be more disgusted with yourself in the end if you do. Because, after all, he never lied to you. The only one doing the deceiving in this relationship, is you. And that hurts worse than anything any man could ever do.

Losin' It

2009-05-20T10:49:00.000-07:00

Salon.com featured a rather interesting article regarding the “shame” and “regret” many teen girls feel after losing their virginity, and it brought up an interesting point. “Would a girl feel quite as disappointed by her early sexual experience if it was seen as a triumph instead of a moral failure?”

I think not.

First of all, it should be made clear that losing one’s virginity is usually a horrible experience. It’s messy, painful and awkward. Now, I’m not saying that waiting until you meet Mr. Wonderful and having a special, romantic prelude with wine and roses and all sorts of storybook details of seduction isn’t going to improve the situation. I’m just saying that when it comes down to the actual act of first-time sex, it is rarely an occasion women look back upon with great joy and affection. Generally, it is something we’re glad to be done with. And, in my opinion, that first sexual experience should not be something regarded as sacred or special, for when it actually comes to pass, what woman isn’t going to be disappointed?

Rather than filling the heads of young girls with fairytale descriptions of “losing it,” we should be honest and straightforward about it. If they really understood all that comes with having one’s cherry popped, they’d probably be much more prudent about waiting until the right, sensitive and caring guy came along.

The article also discusses the peer pressure and fear of losing one’s boyfriend, as well as the addition of alcohol, as contributing factors to the regret that comes from premature de-flowering. The thing is, girls are just as sexually charged as boys. Ok, maybe they’re not as obsessed with it as those pre-pubescent boys whacking off 5 times a day, but still, they’re not repelled by the idea of it either. The problem is, it becomes highly romanticized and rarely does real sex turn out to be as great as what we imagine it will. Especially at that age.

I believe the solution to the problem is to deliver the straight dope while at the same time fortifying a girl’s self-assurance so that she doesn’t feel the need to give in to pressures just to please someone else. Teach her that sex can be a beautiful experience with the right person, but that the first time is likely to come with some less-than-fabulous experiences and so to choose the moment, the person wisely.

And above all, she should be aware that her first lover is most likely not going to be her “one and only,” and that sex just gets better with experience.

Support System

2009-05-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

I believe that beauty is within every woman's reach. All she needs is a little style to enhance her god-given assets. But what happens when style requires a degree in engineering?

With the onset of summer-like weather, I have acquired a couple of cute and flirty, low-cut blouses which hang upon my shoulders by the thinnest of spaghetti straps. But due to their plunging necklines, these blouses don't work with my strapless bras. So, what's a girl to do?

1. Go "commando" and let those beautiful girls bounce and jiggle according to the earth's gravitational pull?

2. Invest in a set of bizarre silicone, stick-on bra cups that resemble a pair of skinless chicken breasts?

3. Go all out trailer-trash and just wear a regular bra and let the straps show?

4. Return the blouses and leave the shoulder-baring shirts to the pre-teens?

I am lucky enough to have a couple of perfectly perky silver screen-worthy duos, but too many outings without properly strapping them in will no doubt lead to a pair of less-than-spectacular twins down the road. So, I'm not so sure about going freestyle. But the chicken cutlets? I imagine stripping off my cute and flirty blouse for that special hottie-du-jour only to have him freak out at the sight of a pair of smooth, nipple-free breasts. And what about when you take them off? Are your breasts sticky from the residue, like after peeling off a band-aid? Still, that has to be better than the visible bra-strap scenario, right?

Well, I have yet to give up on my hunt for the perfect strapless bra which will support my lovely girls without peeping out from under my blouse. But since I plan on wearing these sexy, skimpy shirts on my trip to the Bahamas in exactly 3 weeks, I've got some serious shopping to do. So, exactly what the hell am I doing blogging?

The Right Pond

2009-05-06T19:40:00.000-07:00

I was discussing my habit of finding unavailable or just plain unsuitable men with a friend today. Actually, I was talking about a certain person who recently made me less than happy and why doesn't he just grow up and be a man about things already, but that's another story. However, my confidant, after listening patiently to my whining for a good 20 minutes, said, "I think you're fishing in the wrong pond."

She's absolutely right. But damn if I can't find the right pond! Where is it? If you know, please tell me.

Ciao,
Lucie

Third Time's a Charm?

2009-04-23T15:24:00.000-07:00

So, 2009 started off not with me waking up in a strange cutie’s bed, hung over and resolving to never again mix port with Jagermeister, but with the flu and no one other than my cat to cuddle. This flu lasted three weeks. It was not pretty. I went through several boxes of tissues, took multiple midnight trips to the local grocer trying to find some new-fangled drugs to knock me out, and developed an unhealthy addiction to cough syrup. Finally, it subsided. For two whole weeks. And then I was hit again. This time, I was ready. Upon feeling that first tickle in the back of my throat while at my accountant’s office, I made a hasty departure and sped off to the nearest pharmacy in search of Cold-Eeze. I sucked on those things for seven days straight until my cold ultimately gave up and packed it in. Surely, I was done being sick for 2009.

Joyously germ-free, celebrating the spring sunshine, tooling around Venice and Santa Monica, downing sake and proseco, and basking in the glory of a carefree Sunday spent with friends, all was beautiful in Lucie-ville. Until I woke up the next morning feeling like some evil storybook trolls had entered my bedroom overnight and poured acid down my throat, filled my nostrils with quick-drying cement, and poked my eardrums with their tiny troll flatware.

FUCK!

How did this happen…again?!

What do Lucie and Rihanna Have in Common?

2009-03-19T14:47:00.000-07:00

Besides fabulous hair and a sexy allure, of course! Failure to display a license plate on the front bumper of our cars. This little bit of news about the pop singer struck a chord (love those puns!) with me since I found a $25 ticket on my windshield this morning for not displaying my license plate on my front bumper. You can only imagine how irritated I am that the LAPD have nothing better to do with their time than harass people about their freaking license plates. I mean, there's one on the back. That should be enough!

Normally, I am a dutifully law abiding citizen, but a few weeks ago, a guy on a bicycle (who was in the crosswalk illegaly, btw) ran into the front of my car and knocked the license off. I just haven't gotten around to fixing it yet because the guy ripped off the little do-hickey that holds it to the car and screwed it up in the process. And this means I will have to go to an auto parts store or some similar type place where fashionable people tend not to frequent. And, you know, that just doesn't hold much appeal. But it won't end there! No. I will then have to get down on my hands and knees and screw the thing back onto my car.

Really, if I had a boyfriend, all of this would be so much easier!

To Procreate or Not To Procreate? That is the Question!

2009-03-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

Salon.com had an interesting article today regarding Rachel Ray’s interview with Cynthia McFadden last week in which she thoughtfully explains why she chooses not to have children. Mostly, the article and RR’s answer received positive comments. However, one particular commenter whom I can only assume is a man, suggested that the subject of whether (spelled like weather in his comment) or not a woman has children is only controversial simply because she has a choice and a man does not.

First of all, that is a load of crap. Women are indeed the bearers of children, but a man, or at the very least, his essence is needed for contraception. Most heterosexual women do not dream of having a child alone. Sometimes she will choose to do so after she has reached a certain point in her life in which she finds herself unattached but wanting a child. Bravo to her! She is a very brave being choosing to take on the parenting of a child all by herself.

And guess what. A man can do this, too! Ever heard of adoption? Foster care? There are thousands of children in this country who need good homes and would love to be a part of any family that would open their home and hearts to them. So, what exactly does this guy mean when he says he has no choice when it comes to having kids? Looks to me like he just doesn’t want to be a dad badly enough to father a child he didn’t “father.”

But there’s another aspect to his comment that really irritated me: his statement that the choice lies with the woman alone. For one, I’m pretty darn sure that the majority of women in relationships on this planet make joint decisions when it comes to something as monumental and life-altering as procreation. Certainly, there are those neurotic nutjobs who will “accidentally” get pregnant for whatever desperate reason they may have. But generally, a sane, healthy woman isn’t going to go down that road. So then, what are her choices? Leave the man she loves if he chooses not to have children? Maybe. Or maybe she discovers that she loves him enough to accept his choice. And what of this man who has no choice? If he is in a relationship with a woman who chooses not to have kids, isn’t he faced with the same decision?

But let’s get to the heart of what really has me ticked off. History. How many centuries have women endured the role of “breeder,” existing only to provide heirs to their husband’s name? And what about those women who could not produce an heir? Or not simply any heir, but a male heir? Perhaps she wasn't beheaded as Henry VIII’s 2nd wife, Anne Boleyn, was or sent off to a convent to die alone like his first wife, but her life was surely spent in utter disgrace if not abuse. And please remember that women have only earned equality in this country 30 some years ago, and many woman around the globe are still considered their husband's property to do with as he wishes. And in some places that includes murdering her for getting raped. (Yeah, this really happens).

So, to this man who has the nerve to complain about not having a choice, I say, everyone in America has a choice. You just have to choose what it is you really want. A child? A spouse? A family? A career? Or all of the above? Just choose wisely. It isn’t something that you can easily reverse your decision on once you’ve gotten the bun out of the oven.

An Open Letter to Man-Children Everywhere

2009-01-30T09:51:00.000-08:00

Over the past ten years, I have dated a wonderfully eclectic collection of men who have proven themselves to be immature prats (you know who you are), and I have some words of wisdom for them and the rest of the men who don’t know what it means to be a real man. The next time you meet a beautiful, self-assured, independent woman who can pay her own bills and buy her own drinks, stop and ask yourself this question, “What am I bringing to the table?”

If all you’re looking for is a girl to boff once in a while, go to a sports bar and flirt to your heart’s content. If you’re looking for a woman to coddle you, befriend an old woman in a nursing home (or call your mother). If you want a woman to stroke your ego, hire a professional (you know what I mean). If you want a girl to go to football games with you, be prepared to go shopping with her (or just hang out with your boys instead).

But if you are actually interested in having a relationship with an intelligent woman who can hold her own, don’t be an ass. Don’t play games to test her patience, loyalty or how much of your shit she will put up with before ditching you. She has gotten through life thus far without your help, and she sure doesn’t need to deal with any crap behavior from the man in her life. She’s got a career to tend to, a home to manage and a full social life to juggle.

She doesn’t have time for you to:

A. Make her wait…ever… for anything. Unless you’ve been run over by a Hummer and are bleeding profusely or knocked unconscious, you have made an egregious error. Get your ass in gear and be where you said you would when you said you would. If not, she may bolt on you or, at the least, lose faith in you and eventually she will leave you anyway. Is being late really such a huge blunder? Yes. Would you be late for a meeting with your client? Would you doddle on your way to see whatever sports figure you admire signing his latest ghost-written autobiography at Barnes and Noble? Would you leave your sister waiting at a café for an hour while you preen in front of the mirror? No. Why? It’s all about respect. If you have any respect for the woman who is meeting you for dinner or what-have-you, you would not be late. If you are, you better have a damn good excuse. Otherwise, that sexy, self-assured woman you just started dating will strike up a conversation with the corporate lawyer at the next table and decide that you really aren’t all that.

B. Neglect to return phone calls. If you aren’t responding in a timely manner to your girl’s phone calls, don’t expect her to jump when you deign to finally pick up the phone and get back to her. If you aren’t interested enough in what she has to say, why are you with her?

C. Text her at 10:30 for a bootycall. Come on. This is just tacky. It will work on an insecure girl fresh out of college, but trying to get some spur of the moment nookie from a woman who has to get up at 6am for a breakfast meeting with the CEO of her Fortune 500 company? Let’s be real here. She needs to get her fucking sleep so she can be sharp. Make an actual date with this woman and she will ravage you with all the tricks in her repertoire.

D. Show up to dinner in gym shorts and an oversized T-shirt. If this woman who takes care of her appearance and has a closet full of sophisticated attire, has made a dinner date with you, be a man and put on some big-boy pants. Yes, Los Angeles is an “anything goes” kind of place and you probably wouldn’t be kicked out of a restaurant for dressing like you just came from a pick-up game, but you can be assured that the urbane woman you just started dating will.

E. Be a dick. This manifests in so many ways I would have to write a book to detail them all. But, you know when you’re being a dick. So stop it. If you want to keep this woman around for more than a few rolls in the hay, if she inspires you to clean your apartment and invest in an IRA, if she elevates your mind as well as your cock, if you want to spend Sunday morning discussing the finer points of Obama’s stimulus plan, then don’t be a dick. You will lose her.

In essence, this woman of both style and substance that you’ve recently become enamored with does not need you. So, you need to make her want you. Got it? Good. Now grow up and be a real man.

Hot Jesus

2009-01-19T18:10:00.000-08:00

**Disclaimer** This post could be construed as blasphemous by certain people. If you are one of those people, keep it to yourself. This is all in the name of fun.

I was recently discussing with a friend of mine the fact that actors portraying Jesus in movies are always really hot. Thus, Jesus must have been a hottie in his day. Below, I present my findings to support my hot Jesus hypothesis:

The Quintessential "Hot Jesus," Ted Neeley, made many a girl swoon in this musical testament.

The severely put upon Jesus, Jim Caviezel, from Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ cut quite a dashing loin cloth.

A very controversial Christ, Willem Dafoe in The Last Temptation of Christ, even got to bed Mary Magdalene. And if I remember correctly, her mother, too. That's a little icky, but it doesn't change the fact that he was still hot.

Alas, I missed seeing Christian Bale's performance of JC, but I have no doubt he rocked it. Did you see him in Batman? Hot. Just. Plain. Hot.

Jeremy Sisto went from incestuous nutjob in Six Feet Under to a laughing, dancing Christ in the film, Jesus. Unfortunately, I missed this movie, but having discovered that Gary Oldman (one of my favorite sexy men) plays Pontius Pilate, I may have to check it out.

I actually don't know who this dude is, but he came up in my internet search for hot Jesuses. And he sure ain't half bad.

I'm pretty sure Gerard Butler is not portraying Christ in this, but he looks like some sort of biblical character. And with those eyes, who could possibly resist whatever gospel he's preaching?

Okay, I know that Johnny never actually portrayed Jesus in a film, but this christ-like photo is clearly H.O.T. hot.

All right, this is a stretch since rocker Chris Cornell isn't even an actor, but is he not striking quite a hot Jesus-esque pose here?

Bigotry Abounds!

2009-01-15T15:39:00.000-08:00

The other day, I was reading my horoscope online, and I was absolutely floored by the suggestion it offered. In the context of pushing one’s boundaries, it stated “try interracial or same-sex dating.” Uh, okay. This is a truly perplexing recommendation for it seems to state that dating outside one’s own race is the same as dating your own gender. Um, I really don’t think these two things are at all alike. For one thing, no matter what color a man is, he is still a MAN. There are likely to be some differences between races such as cultural backgrounds, skin pigmentation, hair textures, etc, but no matter if he is black, white, Asian, Latino, or whatever, he is still going to have the same genitalia!

The statement also appears to infer that sexual orientation is a choice that one makes and not an innate, built in desire. Of my gay and lesbian friends, most have told me that they knew very early on that they were homosexual. Societal restrictions and prejudices may have forced them to hide their true desires until they had the freedom to express themselves, but it certainly wasn’t as if they woke up one day and decided to be gay.

Of course there have been many instances of individuals “experimenting” with bi-sexuality, usually occurring during college age years and generally when trying to discover one’s self, but those people usually pick one team to play on and stick with it. And, as I was recently reminded, there are some who truly fancy both men and women equally and should not be expected to “choose.”

But let me really get to the heart of what has me so ticked off by this flippant statement to expand one’s dating horizons. The mere fact that this horoscope author suggests interracial or same-sex dating in order to push one’s boundaries is clear evidence of his or her bigotry. He may be thinking, “gee, I’m so forward thinking!” But in reality, this person is decades behind in his/her ideology. To suggest that a white woman date a black man in order to push her boundaries, intimates that this relationship is not normal. And then to suggest that a person try dating the same sex in the very same sentence clearly indicates this author thinks homosexuality is nothing more than a flirtation with exotic behavior that can be turned on and off at will.

Personally, I have dated several ethnicities and found that race had almost no effect on our relationship. But I have never ever considered dating a woman. I have loved many women. I have found many women beautiful and attractive. But to suddenly decide to date a woman for no other reason than curiosity? Uh, I don’t think so. I don’t care if she’s Marilyn Monroe incarnate. She just isn’t going to be my “type.”

Am I being overly sensitive about this, or am I pinpointing bigotry hiding in plain sight?

Ciao,
Lucie

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-24T10:45:00.000-08:00

The Modern Girl Next Door

2008-12-18T14:21:00.000-08:00

A male friend recently asked me what I mean by “nice girls get to be naughty.” He wanted to know what kind of woman was a “nice” girl. My answer? A real woman. Not a woman who works in the sex industry. Not a stripper, nor a dominatrix, nor even a sex therapist. Just your everyday modern girl who has and enjoys a sex life. She’s not the kind of girl who sleeps with ten men in a month, who goes home with strangers she meets at truck stops, or who frequently finds dollar bills poking out of her panties. She is a lawyer, a teacher, a stay-at-home mom, or even a Senator. She is old enough to know the difference between a “catch” and a “score” and to focus on catching more than scoring. She might go to church, but she isn’t a saint. She may love to curl up with a cup of chamomile tea and her favorite Jane Austen book, but she’s also known to knock back dirty martinis with abandon.

But most importantly, she isn’t squeamish about sex. She doesn’t think it is embarrassing to talk vibrators with her girlfriends, nor does she feign innocence when her guy asks where she learned to do that with her tongue…. But she is not the kind of woman that has more than one man in her bed at a time. Nor does she own a pair of vinyl thigh-high boots. She might own a pair of crotch-less panties, but that’s because her girlfriends gave them to her as a gag gift at her bachelorette party.

So, what I’m saying is, she’s the girl next door who’s all grown up. If she isn't you, then you know someone just like her...

The Waterdance Out Now!

2008-12-09T12:51:00.000-08:00

Stop by Liquid Silver Books to read an excerpt of my latest novella, The Waterdance!

Daily Grind

2008-11-21T07:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I had the enviable task of hunting down a photo of an African American male model with chest hair for the artist designing the cover for my new novella, The Waterdance. Well, I had a lot of trouble finding a photo of almost any male model with chest hair, but I did uncover a picture of Football player Dhani Jones with a lovely scattering of black curls on his nicely muscled chest. During my search, I also came across a website called Hot Chocolate Finder. Ladies, this woman is doing us a public service. Go visit her webpage, bookmark it, and spread the word. You can be sure that I am.

Ciao,
Lucie

The Problem with Porn

2008-11-07T14:34:00.000-08:00

With a few exceptions, women generally do not find porn to be properly, uh, stimulating. The reason?

1. The women in porn generally are not treated with the same kind of respect and affection that real women get in the real world. I have seen a fair sampling of porn over the past few years and have been, for the most part, utterly turned off. In many instances the women in said porn were treated like nothing more than sperm receptacles, having no more importance than the pillow under her butt.

2. The production quality really sucks. Most of what I’ve seen looks like it was shot with a consumer grade video camera in some cheap motel. Harsh white lights, tacky bedspreads, 1970s décor, etc., etc.

3. The men are gross. Skinny guys with hairy backs and a decided lack of “face-appeal.”

4. The costumes. The women, if wearing anything, look like two-dollar street walkers with red fishnet hose and sleazy peek-a-boo teddys. But the men are far worse. I’ve even seen some pornos where the guys don’t even take off their shoes!

5. The complete lack of seduction. Pretty much everybody agrees that the largest sexual organ is the brain. So, why does porn leave seduction out of the picture? In general, a woman wants to know that she is desired. That she is not just some object to be used and tossed aside after the man has gotten his rocks off. What about the chase? The catch? The climax? Women want to watch a film in which a woman falls for a guy who is drop-dead hot, focuses all his attention pursuing her and the spends the rest of the night pleasuring her.

I’ve heard of a more woman-friendly porn industry emerging, but I’ve yet to really see anything that meets my standards. So, in the meantime, I will pre-heat my oven with saucy reads and sexy mainstream cinema. Which is just fine with me.

And if you’re looking for a little “bed-time” reading, check out my short story, A Taste of Italy. I’m sure you’ll be begging for second helpings!

Ciao,
Lucie

Fashion Advice for the Nice to Naughty Guy

2008-10-30T15:30:00.000-07:00

Guys, take no offense...but I know you wanna please the ladies in your lives, right? You know what they say. The clothes make the man.

A New book by Carson Kressley, the "Queer Eye" star, offers essential fashion advice for men and the women who love them.

But I’ve got a little advice to dole out myself. You know I wouldn’t lead you astray…

Lucie’s fashion tips for men over 30 and under 50 (before and after that you can wear whatever the hell you want because you’re either too young or to old for a Nice to Naughty girl):

No athletic shoes unless you're working out

No pleated pants unless you wanna look 10 pounds heavier

No baggy T-shirts unless you wanna look like an aging beach bum who really should have grown up and gotten a real job already

No baggy pants unless you wanna look like a fat-ass punk who’s trying to look all tough but really is just showing us his ass…and we really don’t need to see that (unless he’s Brad Pitt or something)

No baseball caps unless you want every woman to think you're hiding a bald spot even if you're not

No see-through shirts where we can see your nipples (nuff said on that!)

No ties, vests, sweaters or socks with cartoons on them (even at the holidays) unless you want us ladies to think your Mommy is still dressing you every morning

No skinny jeans…heroin chic is so 1990s

Stay tuned for Lucie’s Fashion “Do” Tips!

Signs You're On A Bad Date

2008-10-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

1. If, while sucking down your second martini, you think to yourself, Geez, I would so much rather be watching Ghost Whisperer right now.

2. If you’re date whips out a calculator when the check arrives. This is a bad sign because he a) is so cheap he has to calculate the tip to the penny; b) is so cheap he’s not only going to split the bill with you, but he’s going to add up each item individually just to make sure he doesn’t pay more than you; or c) he is a freakin’ nerd.

3. He shows up wearing shorts. Caveat – this is acceptable if you’re having a picnic or doing some other outdoor activity or if it is over 100 degrees (but those shorts had better not be made of nylon). I know some women don’t agree with me on this, but I’m standing firm. Long pants on a date, damn it!

4. His belt buckle is bigger than your mini-purse.

5. He’s wearing more jewelry than you are.

6. He asks you how you feel about bi-sexuality. There are just too many things that can go wrong here. He’s a) a rightwing homophobe; b) is imagining the two of you in a three-way with his cute upstairs neighbor, Laura; or c) imagining the two of you in a three-way with his personal trainer, Rex.

7. He’s wearing a baseball cap. Unless this is a sporting event you’re going to, a baseball cap is totally inappropriate on a date. This is not negotiable.

8. He makes a point of telling you how many models he’s dated. This is a bad sign because a) he is going to compare you to an unrealistic version of a woman; b) he thinks he’s too hot for you; c) you’re too smart for him.

9. He orders a salad with dressing on the side. Unless he weighs 300 pounds and you met him in WeightWatchers, this is not good. He’s probably an actor with food issues who teaches spinning at Crunch and spends a little too much time lingering in front of the mirror.

10. He asks the waiter how much lemonade costs. Girl, if your date can’t afford lemonade, you can’t afford to be dating him.

11. And finally, if he frequently checks/answers his Blackberry/iPhone while with you, he’s not really with you.