MEN LIKE THIS Cover Reveal

Yes, it's quite large. Just how I like them.

My cover reveals, that is.

Below, I have for you the official blurb, the link to my new website (which incidentally has a link to bring you right back here) AND...

A link to my Amazon page where you can preorder MEN LIKE THIS if you are inclined to do so.

Horror author Quinn Buzzly knows all about the dark side, but when she meets actor Jack Decker, she’s moved to explore something completely different—at least on paper. With his sexy good looks, intriguing manner, and charming Irish-tinged English accent, Jack is the perfect model for her next hero. Quinn decides to spend one year in London writing a historical romance inspired by him. Until real life butts in…

 Jack’s jealous ex-fiancée sparks a media storm when she accuses him and Quinn of having an affair. But Jack knows how to play this game. At his insistence, Quinn agrees to go along with the faux romance until the chatter subsides. Then they’ll stage a quiet breakup and go their separate ways. Yet Jack is a shameless—and irresistibly convincing—flirt, and Quinn has to remind herself it’s an act. Or is it? If Jack means business, he’ll have to find the words to convince a wordsmith that their love is the real thing…

Find out more at www.roxannesmith.net

MEN LIKE THIS is due out April 14, 2015.

Thank you for reading :)

The Great Migration

This summer, I crossed the country in a caravan comprised of 3 adults, 2 children, 3 cats and a dog in a train of three vehicles. Leading the way, a massive U-Haul with all my worldly non-human possessions also towing a fourth car. Next, myself in my rugged Sierra's first cross-country trip, followed up by my younger brother who sat at the helm of the animal wagon--our Santa Fe carrying all three cats and a dog.

A three-day road experience.

My diabetic daughter became ill on day two, which meant randomly pulling off the interstate for her to jump out and have her way with the grass.

An insane trucker tried to kill us all, narrowly avoiding the Santa Fe by swerving into the median going no less than 30 miles an hour.

If the dog didn't do business in a hotel room, then a cat made up for it with a gnarly hairball.

We arrived in North Carolina late into the night and had rain the following two days while we unloaded the U-Haul (as dictated by Murphy's Law.)

Then, there was all the other stuff.

We managed this caravan with near-military presicion using walkie-talkies and highly organized potty breaks for both man and animal.

Despite the pets doing their thang in the hotel rooms, we avoided permanent damage. They were, all said, well behaved. No cat fights, great leash escapes, clawed curtains or chewed chair legs.

No one locked their keys in their car, got a flat or ran out of gas.

We planned it almost exact in regards to money, and had everything we needed and then some, which even included a few furnishing trips for our new home.

It took 3 days, several thousand dollars, more coffee than a human should be able to sustain, and no small amount of anxiety, but we did what felt like an impossible, insurmountable thing just two months ago, back in July when we all we had was a one-week vacation planned to the place we wanted to live. It was, by far, my most epic summer of recent memory.

(The exception has to be the 3-week road trip with my parents shortly after my son was born...from Wyoming to Georgia to Disney World to New Mexico and back again. Maybe this roadtripping business is in my blood?)

What did I learn this summer?

Hard does not mean Impossible.

I adore North Carolina and know with childlike certainty I've never made a better decision for my family.

And it's just as well, because it'll be at least a decade before I'd ever convince my husband to go through that again. (He had to drive the U-Haul...can't say I blame him!)

Hurting Some to Help One: A Look At Addiction

This blog post is going to run a little on the touchy side for some.

Because we're talking about addiction. And who hasn't, in some form or another, been touched by addiction?

I understand the struggle of addiction. Not because I've ever experienced a serious one, but because my life has been spent around those who have and do. Every one I'm close to, with very few exceptions, has struggled with an addiction of some kind. My small relation is cigarettes. I've smoked since I was 14, and quit two years ago. (Also, I've got a pretty serious relationship with coffee. I might rob a corner store for a cup of the sweet stuff.)

In the second book of the Long Shot Romance series, tentatively entitled Relapse in Paradise, addiction is featured heavily.

I have two characters with two polarizing views. One I get, one I'm having a hard time justifying.

The struggle here is the battle between helping loved ones, being there for them, and offering support versus enabling and allowing that addiction to be a part of your life, too. Because you cannot get that close without being affected. You have to get your hands in there. It's like a mud pie. There's no way to do it without getting dirty. 

To help, to be there for someone and enforce a lifestyle that promotes sobriety and allows precious little room for a slip, is more than making rules. It's coming to terms with what to do when those rules are repeatedly broken. Without consequences, (in any arena, not just in this particular situation) there's no incentive for an *addict* to fight the good fight.

---When I say "addict" I'm referring to both drugs and alcohol. An alcoholic is an addict, but I understand most people don't use this term in relation to someone with a drinking problem. I do, for the sake of using a single word to encompass all. Also, I use the term "sober" to mean "not high," not as it relates specifically to alcohol.---

But at what point is enough enough?

At what point do you decide to put your life ahead of a loved one's addiction?

At what point does removing yourself from the situation become the right thing to do versus a selfish decision?

Can you stamp it with a due date? What if it takes months? What if it's been three years? Do you give them five? Do you give them forever?

Say I have a loved one who's an alcoholic or addict living with me because I offer an environment with little opportunity to fall off the wagon. However, to have that person in my life means to have them around my kids, in my home, a part of my everyday routine. When they do fall off the wagon, I'm not the only person affected. My whole family is subjected to their episodes. Routines are disrupted, stress and strain are put on the people dealing with the addict (who's high and probably doesn't really give a shit...because they're high.)

And for anyone who's ever been around a drunk person when they're sober...Well, imagine it in your home. Imagine it in the middle of the week, when you and your spouse have to work in the morning. Imagine children waking up for school at 7 am and being confronted with a drunk/high relative.

To me, it would seem like you'd be choosing the addict's attempts at sobriety (not their continued, actual sobriety, or there'd be no conflict) over your own family's best interests by allowing situations to arise in a home that the children wouldn't otherwise be exposed to. How would you go about explaining to your kids what's happening?

It's times like these when someone who's fighting to help an addict keep it together might question whether it's worth it.

Does it depend on the addict?

If you're dealing with someone who wants it, who's truly fighting to become permanently better, then a little more forgiveness might be in order. Because addiction is a real thing, a legitimate disease. Retained sobriety is something they must continually fight for. This I know, because I still want to light a cigarette occasionally. Sometimes, it's seeing someone chain smoke on TV. Other times, it hits me out of the blue for no apparent reason.

However, if it's basically a countdown to the next possible opportunity for that person to give in to their addiction (despite the rules, despite the turmoil, despite the consequences), then perhaps letting that person live their life is all you can do.

Asking they live it elsewhere, in my opinion, is justifiable at that point.

In my book, I've included both types of people. One who sacrifices their own ideals and lifestyle to make a difference in an addict's life (while not making much of a difference), and one who chooses not to put themselves at the mercy of another's poor life decisions.

Your comments and opinions are welcome, as always.

A Place to Shine

I'm writing book two in my Long Shot romance series with a determination found nowhere else on Earth.

In July, my husband and I are taking the kids on our annual vacation road trip to Tennessee. We love it. We adore it. We want to move there and live on a mountainside farm in Cade's Cove.

My lofty goal? Complete my first draft before we leave on July 4th.

How in the hell am I going to write a 68,000 word document in that amount of time?

Allow me to explain:

2,000 words a day.

10,000 words a week. (Weekends off so I don't lose my shit)

7 weeks = 70,000 words.

I know. That's a buttload of words to write in a day. But I'm a lucky, lucky girl (depending on when you ask me how I feel about staying at home...sometimes I feel more constrained and less lucky.)

The thing is, we're constantly being spoon-fed writing advice. It's all over my Facebook and Twitter feeds. An item that pops out at me every time, the one bullet on the list that stands out with the most meaning is:

ALLOW YOURSELF TO SUCK. Now that I'm forcing myself to write on this insane timeline, I'm having to practice this constantly. I feel like it all sucks. There's no tension between my romantic counterparts, the humor isn't there. In short, it's falling short.

By whose standards, though? No one has read the 11k words I've plopped down. Right now, I'm the only judge. I don't have time to pause and twiddle my thumbs in worry that it isn't good enough. I'll have months upon months to fix things--it's called editing, and it's a joyous thing. For me, getting the story down is the hardest thing. Editing is easy. I can mold something that already exists. Conjuring up an emotional, connecting story out of blank space on a Word document is damn hard, though.

Damn hard.

Anyway, I'm talking location today.

I did this crazy thing with my last novel, and put my characters into a setting in which I have little to ZERO experience. I've never even flown over the Atlantic, let alone been to London. I have no British friends to call upon, either.

I had to do the research and the legwork with my main male character, especially. Can't have a British guy putting on tennis shoes, can we? No, we can't. Because Jack Decker wears trainers. He won't answer his cell if you give him a call but will answer his mobile if you ring him.

I had to learn how to order coffee. I had to learn just how English are english muffins. (Turns out, they're not.) There was a crash course in both bacon and common insults. It was fun but also time-consuming. Hugely time-consuming.

I told myself to get smart.

If you were going to chose the setting of a novel, what would you choose? Somewhere you've visited, somewhere you've lived? Hey, I live in Roswell, New Mexico, famous in its own right. Plenty of environmental juiciness.

Alas, I've got better up my sleeve.

I chose Honolulu for book two. I chose to make my character a tourist. I've been a tourist in Honolulu, so I should have this down. Another fabulous insider trick? My brother was stationed on Oahu for a while. Met his wife there, in fact. So, my hero who happens to be a local...I can make him legit, too, with things one might not find on the Internet. Things you might need to live there to know. All I have to do is call and harass my brother every time I need clarification.

My setting for book three is Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Why?
Because it's well-known. An interesting place. But also, I lived there for seven years. Both my children were born there. I've personally experienced the highs and the lows of being a local.

I'm excited about this. I'm excited to write scenes with utter confidence that I know what the heck I'm talking about instead of praying I'm not making an ass of myself and embarrassing the indigenous people.


The bonus, of course, is getting to relive my Hawaii vacation from three years ago. Something about Hawaii stays with you after you've left. It's a beautiful emotion, and I get to use it in my novel. I have a feeling book two is going to be very close to my heart.

And now, if you've stuck around this long, I do have some news to share. Estimated publication for book one, Men Like This, a Long Shot Romance, is the end of March, 2015.

It's quite a long time from now. BUT, rest assured I'll remind you often that it's coming, and share what I'm able to as it comes. This very day my signed contract should be arriving at the Kensington office in New York. (Even typing those words is a surreal experience.)

So far this morning, I'm a tad behind schedule, but nothing's so important I can't stop and give a little update.

As always, thanks for reading!

Fear and Goading

It's been awhile!

But I have a really awesome excuse. Well, I have a partly awesome excuse that accounts for a small amount of my absence, and then the Sims to blame for the rest of it. I'm a multifaceted woman, and one cannot eat on writing alone. Sometimes, a little mindless gaming is in order.

The phase is over, however, and today I'll start Chapter One on Book 2 of my Long Shot romance series, the very same one I received an offer on from Lyrical Press.

Yes, you did hear right! I sold my book and a little extra besides.

And I'm terrified!

I'm selling a product I haven't created yet, and that's scary. There's a million or so what-ifs I can't get into here because this is a place of light and love and positive thoughts, but I swallow--one of those Adam's apple-bobbing swallows of apprehension and fear that make a big gulp noise--every time I look at a calendar and do some date-math.

That being said, what kind of Debbie Downer gets their first publishing contract and quivers in self-doubt without also being really, really, ridiculously astounded and happy?

One huge difference this makes in my life is that I'm now working.
Not just sitting at my computer all day in a self-made cloud of importance that has to seem totally pretentious to everyone around me.
Now, it's a J-O-B, sucka! I get to write off my laptop and $130 I spent on random office supplies on my taxes next year! Woot!

No, but really. It's awesome to say this is what I do. Officially. I don't have to keep calling myself a writer because I'm not technically an author. (Holy shit, I'm an author!) I was never one of those writers convinced I would make it big or be the next wonder-hit from nowhere. I'm content with an ebook contract, content with getting my microscopic amoebic foot in any door at all in traditional publishing.

Are you ready for what comes next?

Oh, man, I don't think you're ready. It's like a really long Grammys acceptance speech, except you'll find no wrap-it-up music here.

Because besides my agent, the only person I named specifically in my announcement Facebook post (did that cause me some grief), there are others responsible for getting me here. I didn't do it alone.

Spencer is my little broham 'n' cheese who gives me a hard time when I'm not writing, and I think I finished my book because of him. I'm almost certain of it. Just imagining his voice goading me into being productive is apparently some kind of trigger in my brain. My other little broski, Spencer's less pretty twin named Dakota, is the rivalry trigger. We both have these lofty, grand ambitions and I have to be more rich and famous than him. I HAVE TO. All three of my brothers, including the really old one, Jesse, will talk plot with me, and that's not fun for everyone.

It really isn't. Not everyone wants to hear you talk about your damn book. Let alone give legit feedback after you've rambled for an hour about your theme.

My mom was so pissed I didn't mention her in the Facebook post. Nevermind she's getting the dedication. Last night, she said my book was the BEST book she's ever read. And I believe her because she's my mom, and that's why moms are fucking awesome. Of course my book is the best one she's ever read. Just by virtue of me writing it.

(One time my daughter accidentally printed about 15 copies of the exact same page at school. Because she's a genius, she stapled them all together and named it The Same Page Book. It's the best book I've ever read.)

Yes, there are others. I have countless friends and relatives that have been there. Some have literally listened to me babble for hours, others I don't abuse to quite that level, but none of them ever made fun of me or doubted me, and that's all I ever really need from anyone; a chance.

I'm wasting precious hand strength on this blog. I hope I don't forget this place in my trying times ahead, knee-deep in shit-shoveling and a tired fear of failure that will cling to me like a bad smell in the months to come. I'll recall this place of light and free speech, and crawl back to give you updates and whine.

Thank you for reading.

Furry Banana Hammock, Anyone?

I just want to start by saying wow.

Sexism is alive and well. It's no secret. It's bilateral, on both sides of the fence and somewhat not entirely tangible. There are lines so fine they're practically invisible until some idiot trips over them.

I'm doing the foundation work for my first Fantasy novel. Naturally, I've been reading much of the genre lately and following many of the authors I read and like on Twitter. They all seem to know each other, which is kind of cool. I follow them all and feel only slightly voyeuristic as their conversations about the industry fill my feed. It's interesting, engaging and I really like it. I'm learning a lot.

Like how the older generations of well known Fantasy authors don't like women and minorities funkin' up the genre, for one. These are the "good ol' boys" of the industry, acclaimed, award-winning authors. There was some blow-up about the cover of SFWA magazine (issue #200) that was tore to shreds (figuratively and maybe even literally, I suppose) in which a sexified female warrior is standing over what appears to be a yeti on a snowy mountainside in basically a shiny gold bikini.

And I get it. It's ridiculous.

But so is Conan the Barbarian. It's unrealistic, but you could argue that the entirely Fantasy genre falls under such a category. Perhaps I'm supposed to be offended but I'm not. If a 'roid raging half-naked man with biceps like mead barrels is the hero, then what's wrong with an aggressively FEMALE female being his counterpart? I grew up in the 80s. I've seen He-Man in his furry banana hammock and chest harness fight in all sorts of inclement weather, his bulging thighs impervious to the heat of lava and the chill of snow. To me, there is feminism and then there's being offended for the sake of being offended. Question is, if the cover of the same issue featured a half-naked man, would anyone find it offensive?

Seriously, look at this guy. I'm actually a little suprised by his sensible footwear.

Sexifying a woman isn't sexist anymore than sexifying a man. The cover of that issue is no different from the cover of THOUSANDS of romance novels. That is equality. Women like beefy men showing the hollows of their hips, men like women in shiny gold bikinis slaying mountain trolls. What's the problem? I very much doubt a man would look at a cover of a bare chested male with a snowy background and cry foul because, "He must be freezing! Your sexist agenda sexualizes this man, and now he's very, very cold because of you!"

The thing is, I do consider myself something of a feminist. I wasn't raised to be a housewife. I happen to be one, and it chafes a little bit. I have three brothers. I'm their equal in competence and intelligence, and a couple of them might agree I'm slightly their better in one or both of those areas. A shiny gold bikini on a mountain doesn't offend me. She slayed a fucking yeti, that's all I see. That's powerful, that's strong, that's fearless. Would I personally dress more sensibly? Of course. Then again, maybe it's a matter of pride, like how some football players refuse to wear sleeves in freezing conditions. If He Man can say fuck the elements, why can't a woman? If she was wrapped up tight in furs and blankets next to a shirtless barbarian, would we claim she was being shown as less capable, less raw, more needy? 

See, in my view sexism isn't a physicality thing, it's mental thing. I don't care if the character is fully-clothed or running around buck naked. Is she smart? Is she capable? Is she respected and intelligent, or a dumb little chit? Can she keep pace with the men, is she valued for her abilities? Those things matter to me. Is she in constant need of saving, or does she get herself out of a tight bind? So, the lady's wearing an impractical, sexy outfit...don't care. She slayed the beast and there isn't a man standing next to her taking the credit. That is cool. That is equality.

Some women find power in their sexuality, some don't. Women argue amongst themselves over the issue, which is ridiculous imo. We're not a single blob. We're individuals. Find your power, whether it's in your mind or in your body, in your art or your beliefs. Saying a woman should be treated according to the clothes she wears is in itself sexist. The brightest female scientist may enjoy scandalizing short skirts while the blankest among us lives in a conservative pantsuit. (Not a Hillary Clinton joke, I swear.)

Whether I'm in lingerie or a snowsuit, I am who I am. I am smart, I am capable, I am able.

And I also happen to look real snazzy in a shiny gold bikini.

Spare A Rose, Save A Life

So. Diabetes.

Diabetes of the Type 1 variety is this incredibly frightening autoimmune disease people get, often confused with Type 2 diabetes (an entirely different animal) that is especially horrific and terrible and painful when it happens to children.

My child was diagnosed at age 6. Let's just say, for the sake of the fact that this isn't biology class, that without insulin injections, a Type 1 diabetic will eventually (the Internet argues with itself over how long, exactly) slip into DKA (diabetic ketoacidosis) which happens to be fatal.

My personal journey with this disease is a tale of heartbreak for both my family and my wallet.

Without health insurance, a small vial of insulin is over $100, depending on your brand, and only lasts a single month. Plus, my daughter uses a long-lasting insulin, AND she requires an extra vial for her school. Oh, and there's the cost of the other supplies:  syringes, which can only be used once comfortably, a meter that uses upward of ten test strips a day, test strips that can cost $70 or more for a 50-ct. box, depending on your meter. There's the supplies you don't need everyday, but do need:  lancets for your poker, Ketostix for checking urine for ketones, and the ourageously expensive Glucagon pen, a diabetic's version of an EpiPen. They're about $350 per pen and have to be replaced yearly.

We are a typical middle class American family. While the financial hardship was no easy burden, it also wasn't enough to make us homeless, or (I shudder to even think) force us to go without my daughter's medication.

I have this thing where my brain likes to go explore every coulda-been that ever coulda been...what if we lived 100 years ago? Insulin was barely becoming available to the public in the 1920s so, yeah, I would've lost my daughter. Or what if she'd been diagnosed but we lived in a third-world country? A place where clean water and basic medical treatment are luxuries. I imagine what hell that would be, watching it happen and feeling utterly fucking helpless. It stops my heart to think it, and to know without really wanting to admit that it happens, probably every damn day.

So, when this Spare A Rose, Save A Life thing started popping up on my Twitter feed, I felt like here was something I could do to ease my anxiety. 5 bones, a month worth of insulin. A dozen roses is equal to entire year of life for some kid somewhere with a mother like me who's doing more than realizing how bad it could be, she's living it.

Go here and be awesome.
And check out #sparearose on Twitter
 http://www.p4dc.com/spare-a-rose/

One rose, one month of life. A dozen roses, a year of life for a child with diabetes.

Darn the motherlickers

There's nothing can put a smile on my face quicker than recognizing someone as relatable.

I'm in an odd bracket of society. I'm a young mother with older children, tattoos and a potty mouth. I write and paint but I'm not artsy. Totally don't get poetry. It's cool when it rhymes but that's about all I can say for it. Finding people with whom I have things in common is difficult.

It isn't easy to find another twenty-something mom who has the time to play Skyrim and also care that the MMO they're developing is only taking time away from Fallout 4, which seriously, come the fuck on, Bethesda, I'm waiting. Or one who knows what Bethesda is, for that matter, and thinks it's the perfect name for their next dog.

So, it's maybe (to you) a bit odd that certain things give me warm, fuzzy feelings when I witness them in other people. Sometimes, those people smile back and don't think I'm too weird.

Chuck Taylors. Yes, shoes are a viable tool of judgement. The whole socks with sandals fiasco is proof enough, but I'll throw crocs in the pot just as a friendly reminder.

If you have tattoos, I relax a little bit. We have, in the very least, a single thing in common. I like ink, you like ink, let's discuss ink.

Anyone who expresses love for the Tenth Doctor. It means you're a legit fan, into the show before Hot Topic started mass producing "I <3 <3 the Doctor" buttons. (Hell, yeah, I bought one. After Peter Cabaldi takes over the young folk won't care anymore, and then where will I get my Doctor Who buttons?)

People who don't take shit too seriously. I almost didn't double check how to spell Peter Cabaldi's last name, but a typo on the Internet is the seed of discord and chaos among writers and the self-righteous alike.

People who take the right things seriously. Like eating on my couch. That's a brand new couch, yes, it is a big deal and GET OFF MY COUCH TO EAT THAT SHIT.

Finally, the biggie. People who use BAD WORDS.

Cursing, swearing, cussing, whatever you call it, it has grown into one of the most taboo things in my life. I'm 28 and still copping shit from my mom for my overuse of a few particular words. My own husband cringes sometimes. (I smile when this happens.) I forget to curb my tongue when the kids are around 9 times out of 10. (This is when I cringe.)

With all this cringing going on, it's hard not to relax and breathe easy when someone else drops a bomb, particularly of the F variety. It's lovely. It's defiant. It's utterly meaningless because it's just a goddamn word, and don't get me started on goddamn because that's a whole different blog. Maybe the god I'm referring to is Zeus. And even if it's not, WHY DO YOU CARE? Around these profanity spewing members of society, I feel understood. I feel accepted.

So, yes, I feel a special kinship with anyone who lets their tongue fly and doesn't give a damn who cares, whether it's in social media or a novel. Hell yes and thank you.

I'm not alone in this world of judgemental doodie heads and motherlickers.