Perfect Obedience A Bride's Vow

My author edition is up at Amazon and other sites. I hope you think the cover is more intriguing than the naked butt one, but there is no accounting for taste. Feel free to use your imagination if you prefer naked bondage covers, just don't buy the book. You'd be doomed to disappointment, and then you'd blame me.  Sorry, just in case this warning came too late! 



Entry to the Vampire Morgue is 99 cents

The sale is over for the Vampire Morgue.  Beware all who enter!  One reader thought it was a bad acid trip.  Another thought it caused a permanent loss of intelligence.  Don't say you weren't warned.

11,000 enter the Vampire Morgue

Over 11,000 readers enter the Vampire Morgue.  I hope they don't all hate it in there.  If you read it and hate it, remember it was free.  If you enjoyed it, I hope you will enjoy more of my books.

Fur Ball Fever reviewed

I might be banned from Amazon because I reviewed this book and mentioned the underwear men and my water fetish, and it was all the hero's fault. Or it might have been the author's!  They are reviewing my review and I am sure I am not allowed to say fetish or underwear in a review. Only I couldn't resist.





Vampire Morgue is no longer free!

enter those who dare

to a dangerous world

where no one survives human for long

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/58812

Neanderthal mystery solved by romance writer

What? You think academics should be the ones to solve the mystery of why the Neanderthals died out? They can’t even work out that no man, ancient or modern, is going to walk over glaciers to inhabit North America when he can sail down the coast. Would you walk? No, you'd follow the seals, a movable feast, a source of food and warm skins.

Let’s get back to the Neanderthals. The only people on earth who don’t have Neanderthal DNA are people who never left Africa. All the rest, everyone outside of Africa is part Neanderthal as the latest DNA results show. And even this knowledge doesn’t help an academic solve the puzzle of what happened. Why did the Neanderthals die out?

Out we came from Africa, taking the shorter route across the Strait of Gibraltar, because my ancestors could sail even if yours preferred to get all hot and sweaty walking. We end up in what would become Spain. Who do we find there? Javier B. Neanderthal and he looks mighty fine. Sloping forehead and brow ridge look good on him. He has slightly less chin than Javier Bardem but the beard disguises that. He has freshly killed a mammoth creature with the help of his brother Antonio B. Neanderthal. They invite us to dinner. Where we shall leave them all for a moment to digest, while I digress.

What makes modern humans modern? Some say it is trade, because when we appeared trade suddenly expanded. But what facilitated trade? Early modern humans were very friendly. We still like to travel, have a good meal, and get friendly. While I told you this part of the puzzle, Javier B. and Antonio B. Neanderthal were finding out just how friendly we could be. Notice how I skipped over the heavy breathing bit to protect the modesty of our ancestors. By the time we parted ways, friendliness had added Neanderthal DNA to our heritage.

That is where the academics leave us. We have now between 2 and 4 % Neanderthal DNA, which means we met and got friendly as soon as we left Africa. But that leaves out of the equation the gorgeous Penelope C. Neanderthal, who was every bit as attractive as the men. And she brought her sisters to the party with her. So when we parted ways, we had diluted the Neanderthal DNA as much as they had diluted ours.

What happened to the Neanderthals? We befriended them to death. Maybe there were a few never lucky enough to be befriended, who managed to linger on until 20,000 years ago to give themselves a bad name as failures. The rest we were friendly with, until we couldn’t tell them from us.

If you would like to see what you’d look like as a Neanderthal, you must go to this museum. Click to see some examples of the transformation.
http://www.neanderthal.de/en/visitors-info/multimedia/morphingbox/index.html

The next time you see Javier Barden, if he is not wearing his No Country For Old Men face, imagine him with slightly less chin and you being friendly. It works for me.

Vampire Morgue

paranormal novella at Amazon

The eternal being tries to kill himself in the freezer.

Calista is in the vampire morgue unable to move or speak.

How did it all go so horribly wrong?

They had me as the author.

Kindle http://www.amazon.com/Vampire-Morgue-ebook/dp/B00507FRLU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1310735629&sr=8-1

honeymoon snakes

We had just arrived in Greece on our honeymoon, and we were listening to a talk about the resort. Did not expect to hear a warning about snakes. As in, be careful when you walk about at night in case there are snakes on the paths. Half the audience freaked out, some got up and screamed in panic.

No, no, don’t worry, they are only in the hills, she lied.

The next day, I was sunbathing completely covered up, trying to keep the wasps away from me. I don’t know about you, but wasps and nakedness do not go together for me. At this moment in time I was only worried about the wasps. The earth had not moved yet.

I looked at the sea, admired a stand of tall ornamental grass, and cooed over the cute kitten playing nearby. It suddenly pounced into the tall grass, to emerge with a snake in its mouth. Which it ate head first, with snake wriggling until the cat was halfway down it. Then cute cat put the rest of the snake on the steps to our cabin.

There were snakes in the grass, and rats everywhere else. Mostly, the rats were squished on the roads. I stopped counting after a hundred, there were thousands on the road to the town. The hotel dog had some of his dinner stolen by a rat as I watched. A bowl of food was placed in front of the dog. A large rat bounded along, grabbed a piece of meat and ran off with it. The dog didn’t even bother complaining.

Then, that night, or the next one, memory is a blur from checking under the bed numerous times to make sure we were alone. The earth moved. It sounded like a train approaching, getting louder and louder. Then the shaking began. We clung to one another, and I hoped my mother wouldn’t have to claim me like that, looking debauched and dead, and squished like the rats on the road from the falling roof.

Roof stayed on. In the morning, the resort manager said not to worry because those metal rods sticking up through the roof were to keep it on in earthquakes. Not that metal thingies had calmed the Greek guests, who had all rushed outside in various states of undress.

Not us. We were waiting for the tsunami, and I was silently promising to never have sex again (in Greece) if I survived.

What can I say, I lied. And then there was another earthquake and that was it for me.

Except, I forgot to tell you about the forest fires. Fire crept down the hillside behind the resort after the first earthquake. We lounged on our chairs and watched the water bombers scoop up seawater to put it out. Not a good day for swimming, so we just watched the planes and the cute cat catching snakes for dinner.

the earth moved

The earth moved on my honeymoon. You would think that would help when writing love scenes.

In my first manuscript, I kept the the hero and heroine waiting to consummate their passion. Someone was reluctant to go there and it wasn’t them. When I finally released the hero (after we’d made a pact in which he could do as he liked, as long as I could keep my eyes closed) he went on for forty pages. Do not expect to read it. It is hidden in a drawer, from which moans break out in the dead of night.

To be honest, the mechanics of A, B, and C are much the same for everyone, aren’t they? And if that isn’t right, don’t tell me about your X, Y, and Zs. I don’t want to know--not wanting to raise expectations in my readers, or my husband.

Rule number one of writing love scenes is don’t let your characters shed their characterization along with their clothes.

Rule number two is take Angela Knight’s workshop on writing love scenes and don’t ask me for any more rules.

I always write love scenes with my eyes closed and I have no idea what anyone is actually doing, unless they fall off the bed or trip when getting out the bathtub. That is my story and I am sticking to it, just in case my mother is reading this. Some of my favorite books have no sex in them at all. But I didn’t write any of those.

The earth moved on my honeymoon. Yes, I’m going to let it all hang out here. The earth moved literally. It was appropriate at the time, but scary as hell. We had earthquakes, forest fires, and snakes on our honeymoon. But the earthquakes were weird, as if someone was watching. It happened twice! And after the first time, I was leery of going to bed again. When we got home, a long way from earthquake prone Greece, there was an earthquake early the next morning. Whoever is in charge of earthquakes has a sense of humor, and I wish he’d stop watching me. Paranoid? Me? I hope the earth moves for you and then you’d have more sympathy.

dancing back to the Regency

Not that my historical characters were happy to see me.  They are moaning all over the place, complaining about the time I have taken to write Vampire Morgue.  I said, I was sorry to keep them waiting.  But even the heroine is complaining about the love scenes.  No neck biting allowed.  Hero must suffer unrequited passion more than she does.  No time or space travel.  Well, of course, I had to agree.  Hero must be more naked than she is.  Her list goes on.  I said, she can have it all as long as I can keep my eyes shut.

Hero is now complaining I type too slowly.  Don't ask.  All my heroes complain about that.  I think they have organized a union.  Next, they will be picketing my desk.  I hope they wear clothes, or I won't get anything done.

seven things about me you will wish you didn't know

Hmm, mind is a blank.  That's One.

Space aliens have never really talked to me, but maybe that is a good thing.  What if they were foodies, doing an Eat-Around-the-Galaxy tour.  Do not want the last word I hear to be, Delicious!  Two.

I do not think about naked men all the time.  Why do people always think romance writers do that?  I mean, who could, all the time?  Ridiculous!  Just because I find time in my busy day to visit the men's underwear department, now and then, does not mean I do it all the time.  Three.

Men do not think about sex all the time, they lied when they answered that question.  But romance writers do have to think about it.  Nothing wrong with that.  Sometimes, afterwards, I smile and think that went well.  More often, I complain and say, why do I have to do all the work, why can't you two think of something to do that no one has done before!  Sometimes, I sit pensively and wonder if there is another word for that, what were they actually doing, and if they are as exhausted and sweaty as me.  Oops, forgot that horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow--not sure where that leaves me.  Four.

I ride a bicycle but it can be embarrassing because I tend to breathe heavily on the uphill bits, like a woman glowing with passion.  I have startled men, who wonder what is happening as I peddle furiously up a slope, sounding like half of that old French heavy breathing sexy song.   I have taken to singing it as I go, an attempt at heavy breathing disguise, so anyone listening will think I want to sound like that.  The song got banned in many countries, and went to the top in Britain, which only goes to show something but I'm not sure what.  Five.  (No I'm not going to give a link, you must corrupt your own morals.  I get in enough trouble singing it.)

Only two more to go.  I hope you aren't glowing with anticipation.  It can only go downhill from here.

Mind is a blank again.  Must be recovering from Four and Five.  Can I call this Six or is that cheating?

Seven!  At last!  If this went on any longer I'd run out of things to tell you.  Writing isn't easy because characters will never do what I tell them to do.  Sometimes, they sulk and refuse to go there and do that.  Sometimes, they have a brilliant idea, and I wish I'd thought of it.  Sometimes, they wander around naked.  I tell her, Go put some clothes on!  When she has gone, I talk to him.  Just talk!  Remember, the sweaty glowing bit was in Four.

Melanie Robertson-King awarded me the Versatile Blogger award, which is where I got the idea for telling you seven things about me.  But let's not blame Melanie for any of the above.  I daren't even claim my award. 

She has a fun blog called Celtic Connections.  http://www.melanierobertson-king.com/wp02/

Donald Trump, another vomit story

Why don’t I own real estate like Donald Trump?  I was too cheap to buy another how-to-get-rich autobiography by him.  The Art of the Deal was fascinating enough, even though I never got to read it all.  My son was very small and he wasn’t feeling well.  Thought it would be a good idea to show him the picture of Donald when he was little.

Oops!  Vomit all over the book.  That explains why certain tall buildings are called Trump Towers, not Maggie Spires, which is much better name and not boring at all.  If I decide to write murder mysteries, I might use it for a pen name.

stealing fries

This is an embarrassing story.  I was at the best hamburger joint in town.  Alone.  There was a man in front of me in the line, waiting for something.  I gave my order, hamburger and fries.  The fries were put in front of me and I did something very bad.  I ate one.  Then I ate another.  It was only then that I noticed the man beside me was breathing weird.

What I should have done was apologize, but he fled with his fries before I could get a word out.  I should have bought him another portion, but I was afraid if I approached him again, he’d think I was after another.  Now I always sing this to myself, whenever I go there.

To the tune of The Gambler, sung by Kenny Rogers.

You never eat your fries

when you’re standing at the counter

because for all that you know

they might belong to him

Chorus

There’ll be time enough for eating

when you’re sure they're yours

When Tom came home from the war

I love family stories.  If you have one you’d like to share, please do!  This one is set at the end of the second world war.  Tom had not been home for the entire war.  He'd been posted too far away.

Tom’s lovely young wife, Frances, found out when the troop train was due to arrive in Glasgow.  She knew he was on it, and she was determined to meet his train.  After getting all dressed up, she went to the station to buy a platform ticket.  The wee man, as they say in Scotland, refused to sell her a ticket to stand on the platform to wait for the train.  It’s not allowed, he said, no civilians are allowed to meet a troop train.

But Frances had waited seven long years to see her Tom again, and she was getting on that platform.  She argued, and they argued, and they had got to shouting when a young officer came to see what was going on.

Frances explained that her Tom was coming home from the war and she was going on that platform to meet him or else....

The officer said, You’d better come with me.  He escorted her to the platform.

The officer chatted with her.  How do you think you are going to recognize your Tom?

Frances bristled.  I’d recognize my Tom anywhere!

Better stand next to me and that way he will see you, said the officer

The train arrived.  The door opened and hundreds of men got out, all dressed exactly alike, all looking very similar.  Frances realized she might not be able to recognize her Tom.

Tom saw his lovely wife standing next to an officer.  He rushed over to ask her, What are you doing with him?

I am sure that was the last thing he said for quite a while.  I am sure Frances wept all over him with happiness.  When they told me the story, they laughed as they relived it.

I must confess I am an easy weeper.  When Tom came home from the war always sets me off. Must go for tissues.  If you have a story you’d like to share, I’d love to hear it.

Movie execs hate mothers

You know who you are and you should be ashamed of yourselves.  Show me one movie for children where the mother survives!  (Notice there is no question mark.  I am having a rant and I don’t want to be proved wrong.)  Mom was eaten by something in Finding Nemo, I was too traumatized to watch.  Land Before Time, a movie for little children, and what were movie execs thinking--kill Mom first!  No happy reunion with mother in the happy valley.

Don’t make me write about Bambi.  I’ll have to bill you for tissues.

And if they let you keep your mother, you are going to have to shoot your dog! 

Mars Needs Moms, have not seen the movie, but I doubt many Moms survive to enjoy life.  What is wrong with this?  I don’t like it when mothers are doomed!  I object!

safely out of the Vampire Morgue

I've been writing a novella for far too long.  It is my first manuscript in first person, first novella, and first paranormal.  After I finished, just last week, there was a quiet glow of happiness over here.

My novella has humor and suprising twists, at least I hope so.  I decided to call it, VAMPIRE MORGUE, because that is where it starts.

You can read some of Vampire Morgue here  http://maggiejagger.com/read_vm.shtml

Freddy Mercury and me

Freddy and I did not get off to a good start.  His name was taped to my forehead at a party and I was the last woman standing.  Everyone else had guessed their secret identity and they were allowed to sit down and get back to drinking, while I was standing there sweaty and desperate.  Someone threw me a hint.  Queen.

Elizabeth the first, the second, Victoria, Mary, Anne, Caroline, Catherine, Lady Jane Grey!  Somebody told me I was male, no wonder I can’t guess right!

Queen, the band!  Never heard of them.  In disgrace, I was allowed to read his name.   Everyone was sure I’d say, Freddy Mercury!  Good old Freddy, how could I forget Freddy!  But I’d never heard of him.  It was years later that I finally found out who he was.  I watched a documentary about Freddy, and I loved him from the start.

In my liquored moments, I am now apt to channel Freddy Mercury and prance about singing with him, wearing my gauzy thong underwear on my head.  (Not that they fit anywhere else.)

He died of AIDS not long after he sang for last time, and it makes me weepy to see this performance because Freddy is singing to me.
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymLiw8dnHO4&feature=relate

talking with birds and space aliens

Do we talk parrot?  No, we rely on them to speak human.  Do we talk whale?  Why not?  They are always singing to one another.  If we record dolphin talk and play it back to them underwater, they will stop to have a conversation.  When we can’t answer, they swim off thinking we are idiots.

We can’t communicate with other species on this planet.  That is why space aliens leave us alone.

I must boast here.  I speak bird.  It took a while but they managed to train me.  The garden is surrounded by tall cedars, home to nesting redwing blackbirds--otherwise known as the bird most likely to peck the back of your head.  We have a pact.  They nest and I garden, and we don’t interfere with each other.  Except, I will scare away prowling cats.  They give me a heads up call, and I know what to do.

I got home one day to find my hedge trimmer guy holding a garbage can lid, loppers and a long stick.  Hold that over my head, he said, giving me the lid.  He gave me the stick, wave this about and it helps if you yell.  I explained to the birds that no one was nesting where he was going to lop.  They let him do it as long as I stood next to him.

So I was very surprised when I went out one spring to garden and was greeted by a chorus of warning cheeps.  I looked for predators.  Nothing.  I went into the shed for some tools.  Silence.  I came out to screeches of terror.  I went inside, silence.  It’s only me, I told them, as I took the saw over to a fallen cedar branch.

A female red wing blackbird flew next to me.  She landed on a branch at eye level.  Leaning as far towards me as she could get, she said, Cheep!  Cheep!  Cheep!

I explained, while she listened intently, I am only going to trim the broken branch.  I trimmed the branch.  Silence.  I started to walk to put saw back in the shed, and the birds went crazy calling to me.

I got a chair and sat down where they could see me not doing anything, hoping it would calm them.  My husband came outside to ask, what’s wrong with the birds?  And then I saw it--a fledgling crouched under the lilac shrub.  I’d walked past it many times.  It was a wonder I hadn’t trodden on it.

You see, birds have a sense of honor, of right and wrong.  No bird wanted to peck me on the back of the head, their usual method of communicating with humans who get in the way.  They hadn’t tried to mob me.  They’d sent a messenger to explain there was a baby bird on the ground near my feet.  If space aliens visit, they’ll want to talk to the birds.

how to vomit

Nora Roberts says she vomits her words on the page.  Most of us do not like to vomit.  We don't do it well and we are always disappointed with the results.

Having brought up the subject of vomit, do you know this good way to do it?  Assume the ready position in the washroom--you know what I mean--do not make me spell it out.  Oh very well, sit on it as if going to go.  Hold a large bowl on your knee.  Now you are ready for anything.

This advice came from a friend who called me the day after I’d visited her, to say the entire family was suffering from a severe, double-ended gastro.  (Double-ended means there are disastrous consequences if you are not using this advice.)  She said the ready position with bowl on knee was the best way to handle it.  She was right!

fascinated by noses

I am writing a handsome hero at the moment and I doubt he is going survive unscathed.  My heroine warns her family not to kill him until she has had his portrait painted, which pretty much means he is doomed to get some kind of damage.  Think how much more interesting he’ll look.  It won’t hurt much. 

I have always been fascinated by noses.  One snowy day in England, my father walked near a neighbour who was shovelling snow.  My father was minding his own business, intent on taking the dog out for a run on the moor.  He got whacked in the face by her shovel.  Blood everywhere!  She took him to his house, probably not wanting to get blood on her floor.

My mother returned home a short time later to find them in the kitchen still trying to staunch the blood.  “It’s awful,” cried the neighbour.  “Look at his nose!  It’s all my fault!  It looks dreadful!  I think you should take him to the hospital!”

My mother gave my father’s nose a good stare.  “Hmm,” she said, “it always looks like that.”

It was true my father had a long nose with a bump on it.  I don’t think he quite looked like the Duke of Wellington sideways.  Not everyone is blessed with a honker recognizable half a mile away across a smoky battlefield.  But he must have been close.

I couldn’t resist giving my first hero a family curse kind of nose.  Not a nose to love at first sight.  I even gave him a heroine who was used to the nose, even if she didn’t admire it.  She hated him for all sorts of other reasons.  I won’t tell you about the time he accidentally threw her in the lake, or as she tells it, how he tried to drown her.  Because that would bring up my water fetish, and I think I’ll save my confession for another post.