Making fun of Fabio covers is like taking candy from a baby. A tall, blond, muscular, grotesquely be-titted baby. So today, we decided to switch to another punching bag entirely. Behold, the gallery of horrors towards which John D’Salvo has lent his visage. If ye be wise, avert your eyes.
Ahem. Indeed, I hear the Hot Buttsecks can sometimes result in a lot of windiness. *koff*
My question is, what is he so savagely hoping for as he peers into the wacky-ass aqua mist surrounding his canoe? Is he spearing for extra saline implants that he can use to augment his assets? Or is he looking for some indication--ANY indication--of his alleged Native American ancestry?
And he has a bleeding rose in his crotch. I know if it burns when you pee, it’s time to see a doctor, but if your schmeckie turns into a thorned blossom and weeps blood? I don’t know what kind of doctor to call for that mess.
Follow which moon? The moon of her cleavage, the moon of his plumber’s crack? Come on, he must have one with pants that tight. Maybe it’s the cleft moon of his impossibly ripped arms. I think his musculature is about to rip his skin in half. Ouch.
After spending the weekend in the Smart Bitch Clinic for Amnesia, I awoke to find a slew of submissions to our “publishing imprint,” WHA? - Why Heroines with Amnesia? (The answer, of course, is why NOT?) But since I do not remember much beyond how to make coffee, change diapers, and empty the dishwasher (and shop for name brand clothing of course!) I have to leave it to you, our Smart Bitchery, to decide the winner of our query contest.
So without further ado, here are the entries. Please send your votes for the best Amnesia storyline query to Sarah and Candy by Thursday, February 23, midnight PST. The winner will be announced Friday (and the fabulous prizes will be announced, too, once I remember what they are).
Entry #1
I’m a serious bitch with a jaded past. Do I count sheep before I go to sleep? Hell no, I count lovers. A few days ago had an amnesia moment and forgot one man’s name, but could still see his face and hear his voice. Bingo, his name’s Dennis. Now there’s just one man on my mind who writes me toe curling e-mail I won’t share with anybody but my sister.
Characters: A to Z?
Theme: Men
Conflict: Getting to my soul mate by April Fool’s day.
Entry #2
This query is for my novel - Forgetting Frank. I suspect the word count will run to at least 200K as I am a fabulous writer with a lot to say.
Lulabelle Andrinosolous is busty brunette with a talent for blowjobs and making chocolate cake. Her boyfriend Frank Smith is fast with his fingers, and rakes in the cash at the local casino. When Lulabelle trips over Frank’s bowling ball, she hits her head on a convenient marble table - forgetting the combination to the safe where Frank’s winnings are. Not only that but Lulabelle has forgotten she’s a vampire, and runs into trouble when she bites the UPS man.
Frank must get Lulabelle to remember the combination to the safe in the next forty-eight hours so he can use the cash to pay off a gambling debt, or the local mob boss will cut off his fast fingers and feed them to the fishes. This is an offer he cannot refuse.
Things are complicated further when Lulabelle’s secret love child, Bob, arrives to confront his mother about his abandonment – only to find that she has no idea she even had a secret love child. Bob is furious and curses his mother to never regain her memory.
Poor old Frank must race against the ticking clock to break the curse, remind Lulabelle who she is, which involves a lot of blow jobs so she remembers how good she is, figure out the combination of the safe, pay off the mob boss, and remember to call his mother on her birthday.
The theme is obviously a very powerful picture of how money saves lives, and forgetfulness will remind you of who you really are. Written in the Point of View of Frank’s bowling ball, I think you’ll find the story powerful and engaging and urge you to request a full.
Entry #3
Author: Marcia (blog)
Proposed Title: The Vampire’s Secret Baby
Proposed Length: 50,000-75,000 words
Summary:
The Patient
She woke up in a hospital. She didn’t know her name. She didn’t know who she was or where she came from. All she knew that she was hungry. And kind of fat. And she craved something liquid and salty…
The Doctor
Dr. Trevor Hapgood fell in love with the beautiful raven-haired amnesia patient as soon as he saw her. As he worked with her to restore her memory, he became increasingly aware that she was returning his looks of passion, and soon they were locked in a feverish embrace. All was bliss until she bit him. Because she was carrying…
The Vampire’s Secret Baby
They were two unlikely lovers, brought together by crazy circumstance. What would happen when the patient regained her memory? Would she totally succumb to the dark forces growing inside of her? When the vampire who impregnated her infiltrated the hospital, a fatal showdown took place, and just as the patient remembered her name--- Alicia Wentworth-Biggs--- and her true identity, she would be forced to choose between the evil (but sexy) creature of the night who fathered her fetus and the charming, innocent doctor who loved her. Who would she choose? And what about her baby? Would it become a monster? Would she have to give the vampire partial custody? In the end, only Alicia could decide, with a little help from Trevor…
This book, filled with chills, thrills, tears, and the occasional laugh will astound readers with its daring new vision. Never before have paranormal romance, medical romance, and secret baby romance met in such an Earth-shaking way!
Entry #4
The “Who the Hell are those Triplets?” series presents:
Blank on the Bayou
Length: 50,000 Folksy, Simple Words
They say, “Forgive and Forget”...but did they mean everything?
She doesn’t know where to turn. Or who to trust. In fact, she doesn’t know anything at all. Jade (...or is that really her name?) is in fear for her life. She’s been told she was in an accident that made her lose her memory--but can she believe Clint, the tortured ER doctor with the piercing blue eyes? Or was she born without a memory, a severe case of XWHY Chromosome disease, as the sexy redheaded neurologist Layla is suggesting? And if Jade was in an accident, why does no part of her body hurt--except her heart?
Now a lanky Texan cowboy appears by Jade’s bedside at Louisiana General Hospital (at least, she thinks it’s Louisiana General Hospital) with baby triplets in his arms, claiming they’re hers. But are they? Or could the triplets really belong to her half-sister, Prissie…who may not be her half-sister at all?
Only Emeril, the tall Cajun PI her father has hired (…or is that man really her father?) can help Jade find the answers. When her father asks her to honor the promise he made to her dead mother by eating dirt while engaging in sexual acts with four different men simultaneously, Jade is torn between family loyalty and her attraction to Emeril, the cowboy, the doctor, and the redheaded neurologist--none of whom are the four men her father has designated to help her fulfill the old vow.
Jade snaps. She flees from Louisiana General in nothing but a scanty lace hospital gown that doesn’t quite tie together properly in the back. Emeril shoves her in his pickup truck under some tools and fodder bags, and they hit the road while he curses in sexy bad French. But the cowboy and his triplets are hot on their heels, and so are Jade’s father and the four men he’s picked.
Emeril takes Jade to his wizened grandmother’s shack on a dark bayou, hoping voodoo might bring back Jade’s memory. His grandmother’s powers find the truth: Jade’s past hides a terrible wrong she must forgive.
But at that moment, her pursuers corner them in the swampy alligator-infested shack.
Jade’s downer past and her perky future are suddenly revealed in a raging climax of gunfire, bluesy Cajun rhythms, diapers, and sensuous bayou dirt.
Entry #5
Proposed Title: Song of the NyQuale
Summary: Natalie Conner has always prided herself in being a strong, independent woman who would never go through with marriage. However, her career as a magazine writer is turning stagnant and if she doesn’t turn out something new, she’ll be fired. When Natalie finds out that Brent Cocham, the son of an insanely wealthy hotel and resort mogul is throwing an engagement party at her favorite bar, The Chilly Tumbler, Natalie decides to crash the ceremony for a chance at interviewing Brent. She disguises herself (since reporters and papparazzi are not allowed at the engagement party) as “Sherri Amour”, a hanger-on of the Cocham family. At the party, Natalie (as Sherri) becomes the object of desire to a ditzy bartender with a killer bod. He serves her his specialty drink, NyQuales (cocktails made of NyQuil, vodka, Five Alive citrus punch, and ginger ale), which make Sherri Amour loopier than Anna Nicole at the American Music Awards. The rest of the night becomes a blur.
Natalie/“Sherri” wakes up the next day, slightly hung over, in an apartment that’s not her own, and unable to figure out who she is, where she is, and how she got there. In bed next to Natalie/“Sherri” is none other than Brent himself, who wants “Sherri” as his “secret girlfriend”. “Sherri” doesn’t know, since she doesn’t know who she is or how she ended up in bed with Brent, but after Brent gives her his Oreo treatment (i.e., spreads her legs open and licks her “creamy center”), “Sherri” decides that being the mistress to someone who can please a woman that way. Meanwhile, Jodi Jegglers, Brent’s fiancée, is freaking out over how ill-prepared the wedding is so far. What’s worse is that Brent hasn’t spoken to her since the engagement party. When Jodi drives up to Brent’s apartment, “Sherri” makes the mistake of answering the door. Jodi breaks off the engagement (and the pending wedding) with Brent after slugging “Sherri” in the face. “Sherri” comes out of her amnesia and finds Brent crying over her. Now “Sherri” has to choose whether she should be a proud, independent woman or arm candy to one of the richest men in the world.
Entry #6
Daphne Dranklushy-Merlot is fleeing from her dastardly uncle, Lord Erasmus Flaggellickly, when her coach-and-four overturns in a torrential downpour, plunging her and her heaving bosom into Cracklebrains Fjord. The water is rising in the wreckage, but Daphne is blissfully unaware, having been knocked unconscious in the accident. The screaming horses draw the attention of the Baron Buttswilder, who comes to Daphne’s rescue.
Daphne regains consciousness at the Baron’s posh estate, but has left her memory on the banks of the fjord – they don’t call it Cracklebrains for nothing, you know. Bereft of even the slightest inkling of who she is and with her wits not altogether unscrambled (causing some confusion in her conversation), Daphne must fight to reclaim her memory and her identity.
The wickedly handsome, dim-witted Baron has a quandary of his own: does he search for the identity of the buxom siren he pulled from a certain death or does he simply claim the sensuous beauty for his own, more earthly desires? The blonde Baron is not even sure what a quandary is, but whatever it is, he’s got it bad.
Meanwhile, Lord Flaggellickly is advancing his evil plan to make his niece’s money his own. He bribes a mute, baseborn housemaid to pose as the missing heiress, planning to wed her to his deplorable son, Sir Chancey-Bon-Dancey of WhackyBoombaLackey.
Here is a sampling of Daphne’s dilemma (page 89):
“Hunky blonde guy, who am I? And more importantly, where is my Coach bag? I mean, where’s my couch? Conch?” Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right word.
The Baron thought. Naturally, this took a while, and “Girl” started to hum. “Stop that infernal racket! Well, ‘Girl’ – or should I call you ‘Lady’? – I have no bloody idea who you are, but I do know saving your life entitles me to some sexual favors from you for my trouble.”
She, too, gathered her thoughts, and fifteen minutes later, she screeched, “I shall not lie with you, you pissy, pale person. Not even if you had the jockstrap.... the cockstrap...no, that’s not it, ummm...the cockstand of Colossus, whoever he is!”
“But, Girl, who would know?” The spate of semi-intelligent conversation from his chiseled lips momentarily silenced her, and the Baron took the opportunity to kiss her soundly. Struggling against him, she shoved away from his rock-hard physique. “I don’t like origami or chicken feathers or Odor-Eaters Cushioned Insoles, you crouton! Hand me at once! I mean, stop, drop and roll!”
“What we have here, Girl, is a failure to communicate. Now, strip off those rags and let me see your body. I’ve plans for it, and they don’t include clothing...or chicken feathers.”
Entry #7
Please consider my contemporary sports-related inspirational romantic suspense thriller, FROZEN IN TIME, for publication in your new Why Hero(in)es with Amnesia (WHA?) line.
During the 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics, the family of perky Mormon Sariah Smith hosts the equally vivacious Swedish athlete Garth Hunfridssonssonsson, the “Pride of Páarp.” A romance blooms between Sariah and Garth, fueled by the excitement of the Games and their shared love of reindeer sweaters. Sadly, Garth loses his memory in a freak curling accident. He forgets both his love for Sariah and his talent for the sport. Garth returns home to pursue his brand-new dream of leading the Swedish beach volleyball team.
Unable to get the Scandinavian scamp out of her mind, Sariah travels to Rio de Janeiro to watch Garth compete in the World Beach Volleyball Championship. A life in curling has left him ill-prepared for long hours in the sun, and he lands in the hospital with heatstroke.
Luckily, Sariah is fluent in Portuguese due to her mission work in Mozambique, and she translates for Garth in time to avoid an accidental prostatectomy. Though Garth’s amnesia and failure on the volleyball court have turned him into a sullen, arrogant cad, in his radiant blue eyes Sariah sees a spark of the innocent imp she once knew.
When Garth recovers, he and Sariah hit the trendiest Rio dance clubs, where he spurns her for a bevy of Brazilian beauties. Hurt, she indulges in her first Coca-Cola, and the caffeine surge dissolves her inhibitions. Her super-freak dance moves--combined with her knee-length skirt and long-sleeved polo shirt--make her the hottest new thing in Rio. Even as she basks in the attention, Sariah pines for the simple joys she and Garth once shared—root beer floats, long walks in the snow, and indoor turtle racing.
Right-wing Marxist guerillas (trust me on this) kidnap Sariah to raise ransom money for their Amazonian free-market commune. Rather than fear for her life, she welcomes the opportunity to minister to the poor and convert the unenlightened.
Will Garth remember himself in time to save Sariah--armed with only a small horsehair broom--before she falls for her suave yet sensitive captor Eduardo, in a tragic and ironic case of Stockholm Syndrome? Or will their love remain forever…FROZEN IN TIME?
Entry #8
A Wedding to Remember
Louise is going crazy getting ready for her upcoming wedding. Her mother, Harriet, a fretful status seeker, has invited hundreds of people, and Louise is dealing with a huge list of wedding chores. Meanwhile, Michael, Louise’s high-flying financier of a fiancée, is no help at all. In fact, he seems to be worrying about something. Louise is starting to wonder if she made a mistake in agreeing to marry him.
Two weeks before the wedding, Louise’s best friend Suzie throws her a shower. As Louise opens presents, Suzie’s sister, Clarice, gathers all the bows and ribbons to adorn a paper plate, which the bride will pose in at the end of the shower. Louise gets up to admire the final, and biggest, gift: a floor lamp crafted out of an tuba by Suzie’s brother James, an artist who secretly has loved Louise since they were toddlers. As Louise reaches for the bow, she brings the top-heavy torchiere down on her head.
By the time the guests get the lamp off Louise, she has regained consciousness and seems fine. Her mother urges Louise to pull herself together quickly so that the shower can go on. The young woman has no idea who she is or what she’s doing, but realizes it’s easiest just to smile and nod to appease the woman who is being so insistent. Then Louise sees the hat of ribbons and bows being brought her way and realizes that she is a bride-to-be.
Louise’s wedding preparations are considerably complicated by her amnesia, although her mother’s whining about the to-do list often provides her with useful information. Every time she’s alone with Michael and tries to explain to him that she has lost her memory, he brushes her off, saying he’s got problems of his own at work. James, contrite about the accident, is being a big help, and Louise finds herself relying on him more and more.
By the night of the rehearsal, Louise has yet to tell anyone about her amnesia and is considering calling off the wedding. Then Michael fails to show up, having eloped with Clarice, Suzie’s sister. The SEC is charging Michael with stock manipulation and he has married Clarice, his executive assistant, to prevent her from testifying against him. When James hears the news, he proposes. Louise, still painfully aware that she emembers nothing of the first 25 years of her life, tells James that she can’t marry him. As she struggles to escape his loving arms, she stumbles, falls, and again is knocked unconscious. When Louise awakes, her memory has returned, along with the knowledge that it’s James whom she has always loved.
Hear ye, hear ye. We, the Smart Bitches, hereby declare that henceforth, Megan Frampton is to be known as:
And your ladyship, if you need help adding the graphic to your site, feel free to email me. Congratulations!
A hard man is very very good to find - and I’m a house-flipping female looking for the right statuesque hard-assed man to be my partner. I don’t stand for much of that chauvanistic crap, so don’t even try it. But if you take the time to treat me like a modern lady should be, I’ll free you from your stonewalled prison and we’ll live happily ever after.
I’ve been neglecting my blog rounds something shocking, lately, so I didn’t get to read this most excellent week-old Romancing the Blog entry about character identification and HEA requirements by Rosario until last night.
Like Rosario, I keep a certain distance from the characters I read about, although most of the time, I can dentify with certain aspects of their personalities or the struggles they go through, especially if they’re portrayed sympathetically. However, my enjoyment of a book isn’t predicated on sympathetic characters, because I’ve read and enjoyed books that immersed me in the points of view of characters who were quite repulsive, such as Marabou Stork Nightmares and Perfume.
And, again like Rosario, I can certainly accept certain elements of a Happily-Ever-After in a fictional world even if they’d be anathema to me in a real-life situation. I mean, if nothing else, romance novel heroines tend to be ridiculously fecund (and happy to be so), even though personally, the thought of having children makes me want to clutch protectively at my ovaries--or at least, the part of my abdomen underneath which my ovaries presumably lie.
In short, I want whatever makes the characters happy to be in the HEA. If having kids is important to the character, then by all means they should be surrounded by boatloads. To Love a Dark Lord by Anne Stuart features a rather over-the-top romance novel epilogue that depicts of My Greatest Nightmare Ever: the hero and heroine living on a farm, surrounded by constant chaos and a swarm of children. Far from making me retch, however, I went “Awwww, the two of them seem so happy!” and sighed happily.
There are instances in which I just can’t buy into the HEA for a particular novel, but it’s usually because the author hasn’t done a good job of portraying the love relationship. Most books with characters who fight and spar constantly only to be struck with the Sudden Realization of Luuuuurve, for example, fall into this category. However, this is different and distinct from specific elements that are HEA dealbreakers, which transcend the author’s ability to make me root for the HEA, so to speak.
These dealbreakers exist, but they’d have to be pretty over-the-top. If, for example, there existed some romance novel out there in which white supremacist protagonists happily spewed racist epithets together in their HEA, I’m pretty sure I’d be deeply, deeply uncomfortable. And by “deeply uncomfortable,” I mean “wishing a stampeding herd of buffalo would crush these assclowns already.”
And that’s an important difference, perhaps: I could perhaps BELIEVE that people who are completely offensive to my sensibilities (e.g. racists, homophobes, Ann Coulter) could live happily-ever-after, but the question is, would I want them to?
So, what do you others think? How closely do you need to identify with your characters to enjoy your fiction? What are some of your HEA dealbreakers?
