Sunday, September 23, 2012

Two Lips Gave Me a Kiss!

Two Lips Reviews gave Ragnar and Juliet five kisses!  Kisses are like stars, except wetter.  As a romance author, I dig kisses as a matter of course.

Icy Snow (the reviewer) really got the book and had fun with it, and frankly, that's about the best thing I can imagine!

Juliet Lawrence (of the New York Lawrences) may be the bane of her parents’ existence (and that’s why they disowned her) but she’s a damned good bounty hunter and enjoys it, especially when her prey is a handsome and hunky man. The poor dude usually never knows what’s hit him once Juliet gets him in her sights. Her current target is no exception. Ragnar Manscape has riled King William the Nefarious of new Los Angeles, and for the reward King William’s offering, Juliet just can’t wait…until she actually meets Ragnar, that is.

Her first question should be, “Why is a droolworthy guy like you on William the Nefarious’ Hit List?” Soon, she finds out the answer, and also that Ragnar is more than droolworthy. He’s also funny, sexy, smart, courageous, sexy, handsome, sexy…did I mention sexy…? Of course, he’s an alien and not human, and does possess a very prehensile tail (named Torval), and a couple of other fascinating…features…but that just makes Juliet want him that much more.

She’s in a quandary now…to turn Ragnar in to William or not. That problem’s settled for her when William’s henchmen capture both her and Ragnar and take them back to their master. Ragnar isn’t worried. After all, he’s certain that God won’t let anything happen to them, because they’re both too pretty to die.

Juliet wants more assurance than that, especially after William, who prefers to be called Bob, decides to add her to his list of a thousand concubines. Given her choice, she’ll take Ragnar, any day, tail and all. In the meantime, William the Nefarious also has Ragnar in his clutches and that just won’t do, because he should be in Juliet’s. So it’s a toss-up to see who rescues whom and if they’ll get that Happily Ever After they want or are going to end up in William…uh, Bob’s pseudo-medieval, genuine authentic stone dungeon.

I don’t know why whimsical and irreverent stories like this one appeal to me but they do, and I enjoyed this one so much, I read it in one sitting. Pick any Sci-fi adventure and this story reads like a satire of it. Juliet’s as independent as they come, brave, and thoroughly happy with her lot. Ragnar occasionally comes across as more brawn than brain but then he does something completely out of character and proves that the muscle inside his skull gets as much exercise as certain other ones. And Torval…? Let’s just say that, to borrow a quote from a certain other Juliet, a tail by any other name probably wouldn’t be as talented.

For lots of fun, some ridiculous situations and even sillier characters, a whole lotta love-making, and a darn good story, I wholeheartedly recommend Ragnar and Juliet by Lucy Woodhull. Read it and you’ll be glad you did!

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Sophomore Efforts, and the Fear of Being Farmer Ted

It's a curious feeling that comes with a second book.  Like the awkward hope that comes when you ask a dude way out of your league to the prom.  In this scenario, I am The Geek from Sixteen Candles, and the book-buying public is Jake Ryan.  And I guess we're gay...

(I'll begin by saying I'm so grateful to have curious feelings and a second book -- when I was unpublished I might roll my eyes at "published author problems."  They are good problems to have, in many, many ways -- I get it!)

I'm a mid-list author, meaning that if you ran into the street screaming about the latest Lucy Woodhull book, 99% of folks would say "who?"  Our heroine, The Geek, valiantly waves her hands in the air, begging for a couple of bucks.  In turn, I'll show you my underpants in the boys' restroom.  So to speak.  There are panties in my books, anyhow (or a lack of them -- Juliet doesn't much care for such vadge-restricting clothing.)

I'm scared no one will pay.  I'm scared that my sophomore effort will disappoint fans of the first book.  I'm scared I'll never have to worry about this feeling about a third book, which I have yet to sell.  I'm scared most of all that there are people who spend their hard-earned money on me and walk away not laughing with a spring in their step, but annoyed that they wasted their bucks or Euros.  And it will happen.  I can't please everyone, no matter how many zit jokes I beleaguer my heroine with.

Most of the time I feel like a loser, twirling my tassels on them thar Interwebs, dancing to try and get one new reader to take a chance on me amongst the well-established and wonderful romance authors out there.  I Tweet, I blog -- I've even crossed over into my personal hell, Facebook.  Ugh.  The things I do for love!

But then I think to myself... all those fancy authors like Julia Quinn or Tessa Dare had to start somewhere, too, right?  They must have had that feeling of being a total nobody, building up their audience a person at a time.  Maybe they still get that terror with each and every new book.  I hope I get to find out one day, typing my eightieth book as I sit on my porch by the sea, while my monkey butlers serve me mimosas made with unicorn tears, because I am so rich from my sales.  (In this scenario, I write all my books while drink on unicorn mimosas.  Not all that different from today, except now I'm drinking 40s from the corner store, and they are served by my cat, who is crap at it, frankly.)

Until then, I guess I'll keep shining up my pasties.  Or straightening my head gear.  And flirting with Jake Ryan, even though he's on the other side of the cafeteria sitting with Eloisa James.  They look so cute together!

Farmer Ted never gave up, and neither should we.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

It's Here! RAGNAR AND JULIET 2: CONCUBINE BOOGALOO is ready for launch!

Hooray!  I'm proud of this one, and I hope you love it as much as I do!

I'm over at Persephone Magazine with an interview and book giveaway to kick off the festivities! So stop on by and comment to win not just CONCUBINE BOOGALOO, but the first RAGNAR AND JULIET, too!

EEP EEP EEP EEP EEP EEP EEP EEP EEP!  (<- That's Gallodican for "Holy crap, my book is out!")

Buy CONCUBINE BOOGALOO at Liquid Silver Books, Amazon, or  If you don't have a dedicated eReader, no problem!  You can read eBooks on your computer, handheld, or phone. Check out my guide.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012


You've been itching to read a sneak-peek from my new book, haven't you, naughty aliens?  Well, here it is!  (Oh, and if you've not read the first book, RAGNAR AND JULIET, yet, check out "Books and Reads" above for a ample of that one.)

The setup:  Juliet, her ex-boyfriend and always-buddy Erit in tow, must obtain a transport ship with which to rescue concubines from that horrid man voted Best Nefarious King Ever by Villains Magazine, King Bob the Poorly Muttonchopped of New Los Angeles.  They travel to the second moon of Sproxula in search of a ship...

Chapter 7  

Le•git•i•mate Busi•ness•men (n): Guys who always know the best place to get a pulled-pork sandwich. 

The second moon of Sproxula was famous for its lack of notoriety. As in, most folks weren’t aware Sproxula boasted a moon, much less two. It stood to reason that most people just didn’t care. Except when they needed to borrow a ship with certain, special features: ability to thwart tracking and sensor devices, lightning-quick speed, and a snazzy paint job.

“What is this moon called?” Juliet asked Erit. She tied the belt of her faux-fur jacket with a harrumph; this place was covered in the sort of pea-soup mist that dampened your bones and ruined your favorite purple platform suede booties. She’d already had one shoe disaster this week—two was just irresponsible.

“It doesn’t have a name.” Erit, arm around her waist, navigated them through the single lane of the town, er, village, er, rickety assemblage of iron shanties to the end of paved walkway. He seemed to know the way. She’d wait until after to thank him. This place didn’t look terribly promising.

A large, rusting ship hangar stood forlorn in the fog, like a wallflower in a particularly pathetic ballroom. A sign reading “TOILIT PIPES ‘N’ SUPLIES” hung optimistically on the front.

Erit pounded on the door three times. The right side of the unfortunately-spelled sign swung free and arced downward. “It’s the pendulum on the pit,” Juliet whispered. Erit snickered.

The door creaked open, inch by inch, horror-movie style. “Which is the code word, then?” gruffed a deep voice in the Collective’s tongue.

Juliet turned to Erit. Erit’s brows shot upward. The voice waited, breathing noisily. The uninvited guests stood there, eyeballs akimbo, until Juliet said, “Money?”

“Right you is, Miss.”

Juliet nodded and tried to appear quite confident to the disembodied voice in the toilit hangar.

The door whooshed open and out popped a little man who was no more than three feet tall. The weak sunlight got a boost from his suit—a jaunty affair in stripes of mauve and teal with an English tab collar. Erit’s own duds of lime green seemed positively demure by comparison. The stranger’s outfit went surprisingly well with the short, white fur that covered him from head to (presumably) foot. A dashing pair of sparkly pink and white spectator shoes hid those particular appendages.

“Where did you get those shoes?” Erit exclaimed.

The man did a sort of bobbing bow and ushered them inside quickly. The cramped front room contained a row of toilets from end to end. They perched against the back wall almost atop one another, and were covered in a thick layer of dust. It was like a wood-paneled outhouse for an exhibitionist family.

“I see you is a chum of exacting taste,” said the man to Erit. “You in the perfect place. And, may I comment, you shoes, Milady, is the grawborth’s teeth.”

Juliet smiled and stuck her leg out at a jaunty angle, assuming the grawborth’s teeth to be a good and cute thing. She suddenly worried that her faux-fur jacket would be insulting to the man, as if she sported an approximation of his mother.

“I go by the name Ipwoth. Mr. Ipwoth if you is so inclined. First thing I must inquire: Is you a plumber, then, or persons of the Collective government?”

“Plumbers,” Juliet and Erit blurted out in unison.

“Naturally.” He eased next to the center commode and tapped his foot. Juliet spied the edge of an almost-invisible floor button. She tensed. “If you would be so kind, my associate, Mr. Hamrock, will kindly check you for unfriendly accessories.”

Another gent sauntered in—this one with ginger fur and a white beard. His beige suit was not nearly so special as Ipwoth’s, however. Hamrock frisked them both and, finding nothing, tipped his porkpie hat before leaving. Juliet’s shoulders fell, and she smiled at their host.

Ipwoth rocked on his heels. “What can I do for you attractive gent and lady today?”

“We need a … toilet, Mr. Ipwoth,” Erit said.

“Yes, yes. We have many a fine toilet to rent here.” Mr. Ipwoth walked over to one in the middle and patted the top. Dust ballooned into the air and settled over his shoulders. Juliet resisted the urge to give him a good fluff on the head to dislodge the debris in his fine fur.

Erit elaborated. “Definitely a fast toilet.”

“With a large commode, one capable of servicing at least five hundred people at one time,” Juliet added.

Mr. Ipwoth stroked his short, brown beard. “Go on.”

Erit rocked on his heels. “It needs a … flusher not readily detectable to … that is to say, a quiet flusher. And a built-in descrambler for any waste traveling between sewer systems.”

“Non-traceable manufacture number, I would guess,” Mr. Ipwoth said.


Mr. Ipwoth bobbed a nod. “Have you considered a privy with a cloaking device? For those times when you might want to go number two in complete privacy.”

“I do enjoy a private number two,” Juliet said.

Erit gave her a bow. “She’s quality, through and through.”

Juliet presented him with a saucy wink. “Oh! The toilet needs extremely large and capable pipes so it can shoot waste with great accuracy to blow up other latrines.”

“I never rent a commode without a big pipe, Miss. Why, your bathroom could get overrun.”

This might have been the strangest conversation about toilets she’d ever had. But not the dirtiest.

Their dapper host shuffled to the far wall (two feet over or so) and knocked twice on the wood. The entire thing flew upward to reveal the rest of the enormous hangar. Ships of every sort filled it, and many of Mr. Ipwoth’s species bustled about, working diligently.

He led them to a massive transport vehicle that read “Qzzashdetx and Qzzashdetx Plumbing.” Bright yellow with orange stripes, it featured a cartoon insect with three stingers wielding a plunger.

“Not exactly subtle,” Erit said.

“Ah, but who would think you were up to anything but plumbing in such a vehicle? Er, toilet?” Mr. Ipwoth continued on, listing the features of the ship and finally naming a price. Juliet put on her haggling face. Ipwoth began panting and making cute, wide eyes at her. She gave in on the two weeks’ rental. No wonder the adorable bastard could afford such snazzy suits.

“Although you look like a fine, upstanding miss,”—Ipwoth ogled her coat critically—“I must insist on a large deposit, in case the plumbing you perform is of a semi-legal nature.”

Juliet fluttered her hands against her chest, as if her cleavage was the source of all of her illicit intentions and she must cover it. “Of course.”

They shook on it, and Juliet deposited a wad of Collective currency. Just call her Lady Qzzashdetx. She gave Mr. Ipwoth another fifty percent and said, “I’m sure you can forget we were ever here.”

“Quite,” he replied. “All plumbers looks alike to me.”

Next week, I'll be blog-hopping (or blopping) all around them thar Interwebs giving away copies of not just CONCUBINE BOOGALOO, but the original as well (what a deal!), so stay tuned here for info!

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Yup -- You Suck, Everything Sucks, Even Sucking Sucks. What now?!

When you doubt yourself -- WRITE.

When writer's block sits on your face, and not in the fun way -- WRITE.

When you fail so hard it leaves a bruise -- WRITE.

When your cat has more Twitter followers than you -- WRITE.

When you're rejected... for the third time today, on your birthday -- WRITE.

When your Amazon sales rank falls to a number so large you have to sideways scroll to read it -- WRITE.

When you don't even have a freaking Amazon sales rank -- WRITE.

When your agent says, "Who are you, again?" when you call -- WRITE.

When a one-star review gets the name of your main character wrong -- WRITE.

When you hate your day job -- WRITE (and maybe name a horrible character after your office nemesis).

WRITE. WRITE. WRITE. Just write.  It's the only thing you can actually DO, and it's the only cure for the shoulda, whoulda, shits.

It's hard.  It's all so hard.  (And not just because I write romance. *Rimshot*  Heh heh... rim.)  But you've got to go back to the fundamental truth:  Nothing happens if you don't write.  Rejections don't turn into contracts without work.  Failures are temporary as long as you do more work.  Self-doubt is drowned out by character voices having their own adventures, and their derring-do will rub off on you.  Even The Dreaded Block can be cured by putting your metaphorical butt to that grindstone and just scribbling crap until the well of awesomeness flows again.  It may even cure my penchant for terrible mixed metaphors... someday.

So what are you doing?  Reading this garbage?  Go write your own!  Or write non-garbage, as is your wont.

My point is: WRITE!

Monday, August 13, 2012



Ain't it pretty? Thank you to the wonderfully talented Lyn Taylor for her artistry.

This baby drops August 27th from Liquid Silver Books.  Below is a blurb about this sci-fi rom-com adventure featuring hot alien men (with tails) and the bounty-hunting floozies who love them.  If you think it sounds like your cup o' tea, check out the "Books & Reads" button above to read a sample from the original, RAGNAR AND JULIET,  now on sale at many fine, major retailers.



Sometimes the biggest risk a lady can take is not battling an evil planetary emperor with questionable taste in muttonchops, but baring her heart to the alien she loves.  And his tail.
If you’re a bounty-hunting floozy with a stellar rack, what do you do when an evil despot is hell-bent on your destruction?
Stage a coup of his planet, of course.
Juliet Lawrence’s plans for defeating King Bob the Nefarious are going better than her relationship with hunky alien ship captain, Ragnar Manscape.  Oh, the sex is great.  His pecs and their laughs are top notch.  The meeting with his parents goes … somewhat worse.  It’s always a bad sign when your boyfriend’s folks choose the family spider over you.
The secret Juliet’s been keeping from Ragnar doesn’t help—uncomfortable conversations about “feelings” are not her forte. Fortunately, Juliet has lots of time to plot the downfall of King Bob’s intergalactic concubine slave trade once Ragnar unceremoniously dumps her.
Can Juliet defeat King Assface with the help of her computer genius ex-boyfriend Erit, their flying toilet, and her brand new nun habit? Will Ragnar leave Juliet to the space wolves or go along with her crazy plan to topple a government using hair pins?  And can Juliet really have it all while maintaining bouncy, manageable hair?  Find out in RAGNAR AND JULIET 2:  CONCUBINE BOOGALOO, the sequel to RAGNAR AND JULIET, the book Just Erotic Romance Reviews called “… delightful! This book definitely goes in my re-read stack to keep me warm this winter!”

 You can add R&J2: Concubine Boogaloo on Goodreads here.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

I Never Can Say Goodbye, Book

How do you break up with your book?

As in:  How do you finish that puppy, sit on your hands, and shove it out into the big, bad world?

I've just sent my second book to the publisher for the last time before publication.  And I'm about to finish my final polish on a contemporary romantic comedy to submit to a brand new pub.

I'm having to break up with two of my best friends at the same time.  And they're perfect!  But they can't be, right?  Nothing is perfect.  Is there a typo?  A name screw up that we all missed?  A dangling plot point?  A flaccid joke?  (A flaccid hero?)  A plotzing participle?  GAH!

I've read RAGNAR AND JULIET 2: CONCUBINE BOOGALOO (and I'm guessing here) four thousand and seventy-eight times. Approximately.  Could be more.  Several beta readers have read and critiqued it.  An editor has been through it several times.  So has a copyeditor.  My cat yakked on it once, so even her input has been received.  My husband didn't yak.

Intellectually (yes, I have intellect -- why do you ask?) I know that I've done all I can do.  I know there's a mistake in there.  Ther alomst alwyas is, yu kno?  Humans are flawed people who invented stirrup pants -- we can't always get it right, not matter how freaking hard the committee tries.  So I take a deep breath, or fifteen, and hit "send," praying that the thing I missed ain't a Titanic-sized disaster.

For my contemporary, I've gone through my long, arduous edit process, let the beta readers have a go, as well as the cat (butt-licking was her only note this time).  My final process is to print the MS and read it start to finish out loud.  (FYI, there is no better way to catch small and large errors than by doing this -- trust.  It takes a long time, but it's worth it.)  Once I'm done, I'll marry it to its query letter and hit send.  Oh, wait -- not just hit "send."  I take deep breaths, say a prayer to my deity of choice, grab my stuffed duck, and do the quack dance* in front of the laptop while I click "send."  Yes, this is my process.  It's not the most dignified, I imagine, but I abandoned dignity when I took up the pen.  I settle for "the misunderstood nobility of weirdness" now. Quack.

* If you would like to prefect the quack dance (don't ask the origin -- it's better if you don't know), it requires a lot of quacking, a stuffed animal, flapping of arms, as well as a certain musical styling.  If you're new to it, try Barry Manilow.

After it's all done, I try super hard to not think about it -- to bury myself in the next project.  It totally works, too.  I never think about the publisher reading my stuff, or worry if they hate it, or speculate that I'll die, sad and lonely, clutching my backlist check of $.01 and Googling myself only to find a Wikipedia article under my name reading "Lucy Woodhull was a crackpot of no importance.  Invented the quack dance, noted only for being childish and an insult to ducks."  Nope, I never worry that I accidentally pasted BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS in the middle of Juliet's most very super emotional scene with Ragnar, which really only has a little to do with butts.  NO WORRYING HERE.  THIS IS A WORRY-FREE ZONE.  NO, I'M NOT CRYING, YOU'RE CRYING.

Writers, how do you let it go?  Do you ever?  Do you quack dance (or similar)?  How do you type "the end" to one and then move on?  I mean, without booze.