Right now she is staggering around the neighborhood in her pajamas, walking her dog, and their matching crazy bedhead hairstyles are probably the talk of the entire town. Mini, who no doubt is named after my fabulous car, is wearing her new pink harness. You should have seen Shannon in PetSmart, ooohing and aaahing over little doggy bikinis and rhinestone-studded cheerleading outfits. The canine bling was insane. If you imagine Paris Hilton with a bad brunette perm and 2765-too-many trips to the all-you-can-eat Quarter Pounder buffet, you’ve got the picture.

Anyway, I had to take control of her computer. When Romanceland becomes mired in negativity—publishers screwing authors, authors trashing readers, authors whining about reviews, egomaniacal divas, and most especially the people who took a few too many whacks from the stupid stick—it affects her work very, very badly. Since I can barely get her fat, lazy ass in the chair as it is, I had to take drastic measures and cut her off.

She’s going to play in the mud this weekend, so you will be spared her inane ramblings until Monday. Hopefully I will have harassed her back into shape by then. In the meantime, Happy Cuarto de Julio! (Doesn’t have the same ring as Cinco de Mayo, does it?)

I know a muse is supposed to be a fickle and capricious being, but now’s not really a good time for you to uphold those old stereotypes. Right now I need you to roll up those sleeves and focus, even though…

1. The upstairs bathroom is totally deconstructed and so much sawdust has been tracked through our house it looks like a backwoods honkytonk dive.

2. The tall kid is home sick and has an aversion to his head being anywhere near the toilet, thus taking flushing away the mess off the table.

3. The roofer is expected momentarily, and the overhead bangbangbangbang-pause-bangbangbangbang of a pneumatic nail gun isn’t exactly conducive to concentration.

4. You know the one iced coffee we bought this morning is the only one you’re getting today.

Please know that if you’re disinclined to aquiesce to my request, I will strongly consider replacing you with my most awesomest Nora bobblehead. At least she always agrees with me, as evidenced by the nodding.

Ever-so-sincerely,

Shan ]]> http://shannonstacey.com/2008/05/pleading-with-the-muse/feed/ 3 http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/ezmereldas-week-in-review-824/ http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/ezmereldas-week-in-review-824/#comments Fri, 24 Aug 2007 12:59:21 +0000 Shannon http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/24/ezmereldas-week-in-review-824/

Buenos Friday! I can’t believe another week has passed already. My sense of time has no doubt been skewed by Shannon’s working me into a state of utter exhaustion. Don’t tell her I told you, but she’s panicking because the short kid begins full-time days at school next week and she knows she was about two years too late implementing Operation Don’t Get a Day Job.

As you can see, I tried to escape her slavedriving villainy by catching a ride with the short kid. We were unsuccessful, however, as the machine is governed down to five mph. Even Shannon can run down something going that slow. While I found the speed-control screw, the short kid said adjusting it was Against the Rules, and I couldn’t do it myself because I don’t have opposable thumbs.

I am not without petty ways of avenging my captive status, however. We cut an entire scene from Becoming Miss Becky. Shannon’s never had to do that before—cut an entire scene from a first draft—and I must say it was a very enjoyable experience. First the twitching. Then the stuttered “But…but…but…”. Then she fled, trying to avoid the situation entirely by practicing avoidance techniques. (As a bonus, the floors and toilets at Casa Stacey are very shiny.) Then she cut it. Traumatic for her, satisfying for me.

It’s definitely a challenge being a writer’s muse. The difference between that and being the muse of another artist is that instead of being…oh, a basketweaver, she’s a basketcase. For example, a seemingly innocuous comment about Adam was made during the FLE stage of Taming Eliza Jane. Confident (*cough—diva bitch—cough*) Shannon read the comment, considered it, and marked it with a stet. Not-so-confident (*cough—neurotic, whiny bitch—cough*) Shannon has let the comment fester like a confidence-corroding canker sore through the writing of BMB. Very challenging, this life sentence of misery job.

Anyway, enough about her. (Although I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you about her lightsaber fighting with her husband and managing to hit herself in the face, which made her husband laugh, which scared the cat, which scratched the tall kid, who then took it out on the short kid. Reaganomics, Stacey-style.)

(Shan: I feel a need to add to that. I can deal with the accusations of neuroses, but I want to explain that the boys were lightsaber fighting and my husband grabbed one and whacked me with it, so I took the other and whacked…well, myself, but I was trying to whack him. But I don’t want you all to think my husband and I spend our evenings playing Jedi Knight and Sith Damsel, k?)

Don’t believe her. Now, we must work. Until next week, remember self-inflicted lightsaber wounds leave a mark. ]]> http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/ezmereldas-week-in-review-824/feed/ 3 http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/ezmereldas-week-in-review-817/ http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/ezmereldas-week-in-review-817/#comments Fri, 17 Aug 2007 13:36:32 +0000 Shannon http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/17/ezmereldas-week-in-review-817/

Buenos Friday! It is me, Ezmerelda, intrepid indentured muse. I have missed you and managed to escape the metal hell in which I have been trapped.

(Shan: Oh, shut up. I keep you in a very lovely Vanilla Mint tin to keep you safe from the cats.)

So what has my lazy, unfocused slavemaster writer been up to this week? She’s been very busy with muy important things, such as rediscovering why 34-year-old women shouldn’t cut their own bangs, analying the character arc of a horse, and playing Legos under the pretext of cleaning her son’s room.

I, as you can see, abandoned her at the first possible moment and undertook an expedition to discover the Lost Magic 8 Skull. Isn’t my umbrella lovely? Being ever so loyal to Shannon, I felt compelled to ask the Lost Magic 8 Skull some questions on my writer’s behalf.

Will Shannon’s single title rom com currently residing in a NY slush pile find success?

Clear sailing ahead

Will Shannon have a nervous breakdown trying to research the helicopter dogfight for DG3?

No way. Arrrgghh!

Is Shannon’s husband going to buy her a new Suzuki King Quad 450?

Nay, scallywag

Will Shannon ever earn enough money to buy herself a smokin’ hot KQ 450?

The seas look rough

(Shan: I think the Lost Magic 8 Skull needs to be lost again.)

From Jaci: Will Shan ever be able to focus on just one story at a time?

Clear sailing ahead

Until next week, do you have any questions for the Lost Magic 8 Skull? ]]> http://shannonstacey.com/2007/08/ezmereldas-week-in-review-817/feed/ 1 http://shannonstacey.com/2007/07/ezmereldas-week-in-review-76/ http://shannonstacey.com/2007/07/ezmereldas-week-in-review-76/#comments Fri, 06 Jul 2007 11:38:02 +0000 Shannon http://shannonstacey.com/2007/07/06/ezmereldas-week-in-review-76/

Buenos Friday! Did you miss me? Shannon has been keeping me very busy working on our secret project and Becoming Miss Becky and the third Devlin Group book. But as you can see, there is always time for frolicking at sunset with a cowboy.

Wait. Do you hear that? How am I supposed to think with all that racket?

Shan: That’s Gallagher shouting again. He’s still stuck down in that plot hole.

Adam: I could shoot him.

Ez: That would take care of the plot hole problem.

Shan: No, you can’t shoot him.

Adam: Hellfire, woman. You ain’t let me shoot a single soul yet.

Ez: At least you had sex. Gallagher’s stuck in a hole.

Adam: About that. I don’t reckon it’s right to make love to a woman before we’ve even had a decent conversation.

Ez: How very un-alpha of you.

Shan: Shut up, Ezmerelda. I told you, Adam, we write scenes out of order.

Adam: Well, it addles a man’s brain being jerked around like that.

Gallagher: :censor: :censor: :censor:ing :censor:

Shan: :bang:

Ez: I’m supposed to be recapping our week, here, people.

Shan: This pretty much was our week.

Gallagher: :censor:

Adam: :cowboy: ]]> http://shannonstacey.com/2007/07/ezmereldas-week-in-review-76/feed/ 0 http://shannonstacey.com/2007/06/part-3-of-hearts-agiddy-uppin-by-ezmerelda/ http://shannonstacey.com/2007/06/part-3-of-hearts-agiddy-uppin-by-ezmerelda/#comments Sun, 17 Jun 2007 15:52:52 +0000 Shannon http://shannonstacey.com/2007/06/17/part-3-of-hearts-agiddy-uppin-by-ezmerelda/ Okay, where were we? Oh yeah, sore throat cures and decomposition. In case you have no idea what I’m talking about or you missed something, here are the links for Ezmerelda’s “story”:

I’ll reiterate my warning: It is recommended that a mild state of intoxication be achieved before commencement of reading.

Then one day, Chance spotted a massive dust plume behind them on the trail. “Must be something mighty big and wide to kick up a cloud like that.”

“Oh no…Shannon’s coming!”

They abandoned the stagecoach—which was starting to smell quite bad—and took Chance’s horse, Ezzie settled across his slightly lumpy lap.

Shan: No sex a’horseback, Ez. Not going there.

They rode west, toward the setting sun, but the gargantuan dust cloud still loomed behind them.

“We need to slow her down,” Chance said. “Some sort of distraction.”

Ezzie reached into her bag and pulled out a cloth sack. “I have just the thing. She is fond of these thin corn chips I coat with spices from my home country and fry. I call them Doritos.”

She started leaving a trail of the chips, punctuated with the occasional small mound of them. They noticed the dust plume lingering over each pile, falling further and further behind until not a trace clouded their backtrail.

As the sun set in front of them, Chance wrapped his arms around his little woman and said in a husky—but still manly—voice, “You sure do get my heart to giddy-uppin’, Ezzie. Let’s get hitched and find us a place to settle down.”

Ezzie clutched her book to her heart and rested her head against his broad chest. “Giddy-up then, Chance, and let’s go home.”

Ezzie and Chance were married by the first preacher they came across and made their home in a rough frontier town, which Chance singlehandedly tamed with his lightening fast draw. Ezzie pulled off a hostile takeover of the town’s newspaper (no doubt with a little help from her besotted husband) and increased its circulation tenfold by publishing blind items and juicy gossip about the town’s residents. Her book—memoirs of being held in muse-captivity by a crazy Yankee author—earned her fame, fortune, and the opportunity for a little overnight naughtiness in the Lincoln bedroom.

Yes, Ezzie and Chance lived happily ever after.

Shannon spent the remaining free years of her life seeking out more Doritos. She became a destitute wanderer, traveling from town to town trying to find more of the spicy chips. One night she was caught sneaking into the home of a Mexican woman rumored to have the recipe and was sentenced to many, many years in prison. Her book, The Search for El Dorito was bought by three people, two of whom only gave it one and a half spurs. It is rumored she spent her days writing pleading letters of regret and contrition to her former muse, Ezzie, who would send them back unread—the envelopes dusted with Dorito-orange fingerprints.

Shan: So now that you have this out of your system, can we get back to work?
Ez: You should wash your hands first. Your husband hates when the keyboard keys are orange.

“The name’s Chance,” Ezzie’s hero said, sliding a pair of smoking six-shooters into a holster slung low on his narrow hips. With a flick of his wrists, the black leather duster he wore slid forward, concealing them.

Shan: *hums “Desperado”*
Ez: Shut up, Shannon

“I’m Ezzie,” she said, a trifle breathlessly.

“Dangerous parts for a woman traveling alone.”

“I thought I’d be safe on the stagecoach. Whatever will I now?”

Chance walked over—

Shan: Wait!
Ez: What now?
Shan: You forgot an action tag: Ezzie pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and fluttered her eyelashes.

Chance walked over to the driver and his partner, and Ezzie watched him put them in the stagecoach, then tie his horse to the back of it.

“I can’t ride in there with them,” Ezzie said, despite the fact she wasn’t a difficult person by nature.

Shan: *snort*

“You’ll ride up front with me, little darlin’.” He lifted her as easily as if she were a doll and set her on the driver’s seat.

“My bag!” she cried. “It’s underneath.”

Chance fished it out for her, then climbed aboard and flipped the reins to get the horses moving. “It’ll be a long ride, Ezzie. Since we don’t have any outriders for protection, I’m going to leave the main route. Slower, but safer.”

Shan: *cough*blatant plot manipulation*cough*

Ezzie didn’t mind. Shaded by his large, strong body, she happily filled the hours talking about herself. She told Chance how the evil author in whose employ she previously suffered had discovered her working on a secret manuscript—a book of her very own. She’d been forced to flee lest the crazy woman set it on fire in the front lane. And when Chance looked at her with those silver-flecked eyes and promised he’d protect her and her book, Ezzie started falling in love with him.

They spent the next several days traveling through the brutal heat getting to know one another. But as they made camp each night under the cooler, star-speckled sky, Chance taught her wonderful things—like how to handle his pistol just right and a sure-fire cure for a sore throat.

Shan: Considering the heat’s so brutal, I bet those dead guys in the stagecoach are really starting to stink.
Ez: Oh…merde! Let’s go back and rewrite. Chance can impress Ezzie with his willingness to use nothing but his knife to dig graves for two strangers.
Shan: No. We’re not rewriting. I was writing the scene where Becky pushes Adam into the horse trough when you interrupted me with…this.
Ez: Fine. I’ll figure it out for Part 3.
Shan: Again, no. Two parts was the deal, Ezmerelda.
Ez: You kept interrupting me, so everybody can come back tomorrow for the third—
Shan: And final.
Ez: —installment.

(Shan: I’m not kidding about the alcohol. At least have a dose of Nyquil before clicking that “more” link.)

They killed the man riding shotgun first, which made sense on account of him having a shotgun and all. Then they shot the driver. Unfortunately, the horses—not carrying a bit for the situation—bolted, the stagecoach careening along behind them.

Ezzie, who happened to be the only passenger for that leg of the journey, clutched her tattered bag holding her meager possessions and waited to die. At least, she consoled herself, it would be a relatively quick—albeit bruising—death, rather than the endless agony she’d suffered at the hands of her former employer.

Shan: Oh, please. Endless agony? You have your own Mini Cooper.

Ez: It’s my story. Shut up.

Eventually the stagecoach slowed, then came to a complete stop, and Ezzie collapsed onto the bench seat. She was just starting to believe she might live after all when the door was yanked clean off its hinges by a dark, hairy, odiferous giant of a man. He shoved a gun in her face and yelled, “Ha dover val bulls!”

She shook her head frantically. “I’m sorry—I don’t speak German.”

The bandit grunted and pulled down on the filthy bandana tied a little too tightly over his nose and mouth. “I said to hand over your valuables!”

“I…I don’t have any.” That wasn’t precisely true. The manuscript in her bag was of immense value to her, but she entertained serious doubts as to the ruffian’s literacy.

The man wrapped his dirty, furry knuckles around her bag and yanked. Because she wasn’t willing to let it go without a fight, Ezzie was hauled unceremoniously into the dirt.

Shan: Has anybody ever been hauled ceremoniously into the dirt? Would there be drums?

Ez: Shut up, Shannon.

Ezzie screamed as gunshots suddenly rang out. Apparently drawing his weapon became more important to the bandit than her bag because he swore and let it go. Snatching it up, she scrambled under the stage and waited for the dust to settle. The battle seemed to rage on forever, the gunshots sounding like popcorn—

Shan: Did they have popcorn then?

The battle seemed to rage on forever, the gunshots sounding like fireworks—

Shan: Did they have fireworks then?
Ez: Yes.
Shan: I know they existed, but did they have them here?

The battle seemed to rage on forever, the gunshots sounding like a Yankee author being whacked over and over again upside the head with the stupid stick. Then suddenly it all went silent but for the jingle of spurs. Ezzie watched the black boots approaching her hiding place and would have swallowed hard had she enough moisture in her mouth.

“You can come on out now. It’s safe.”

She wasn’t inclined to believe a man who’d just killed an entire gang of armed robbers, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t stay under the stagecoach forever. While her hiding place offered a blissful patch of shade, it was sorely lacking in other amenities.

Leaving her bag behind for now, Ezzie crawled back into the sunlight and looked up—way up—at her saviour. At first he was nothing but the tall shadow of a broad and powerfully built man, but then her eyes adjusted and his handsome features came into focus.

Uniquely gray eyes snapped out at her like silver lightening from a strong, rough-hewn face. The man was clean shaven, so no facial hair marred her appreciation of his chiseled cheekbones, perfect bow lips and chiseled jaw. A wave of straight hair fell like liquid onyx to his wide shoulders.

Shan: Oh please. You found my copy of The Romance Writers’ Phrase Book again, didn’t you?

Shan: Yeah, when I was like sixteen. Entire species have evolved since then.

To be continued…come back tomorrow for Part 2 of Hearts A’Giddy-Uppin’!

Shan: Do we have to?

Ez: Shut up, Shannon

Shan: Wait a minute. Ezmerelda, what the hell are you doing?

Shan: You’re supposed to recap my week and announce my books.

Shan: And the title? Hearts A’Giddy-Uppin’? What the hell is that?

Shan: Fine, just get it over with.

Anyway. To celebrate the release of our book, Taming Eliza Jane this coming Tuesday, I will be sharing my ever-so-romantic western short story based on one of my personal experiences.

Shan: What personal experiences? You’re a Guatemalan worry doll.

Shan: ::grinds teeth::

Moving on. Although my book has no back cover, I’ve composed back cover copy to entice you.

On the run from a cruel and sadistic employer, Ezmerelda braves the western frontier. When her stagecoach is attacked by bandits, she believes all hope is lost…until she sees him.

Long, lean and hard in the saddle, Chance had his heart broken when he was a mere boy, so he will never, ever, ever love a woman again. But when he happens across a stagecoach robbery and his gaze falls on the fiesty little Guatemalan worry doll, his heart starts giddy-uppin’. He’s determined to keep her.

But there are storm clouds on the horizon, because Shannon’s coming…

Shan: Are you kidding me? Your cover copy’s almost as bad as your cover.

Shan: Get ON with it.

Okay, so come back Monday for part one of Hearts A’Giddy-Uppin’ by Ezmerelda!

Shannon worked very hard last night. (If my eyes were not embroidered, I would be rolling them.) So did Mel and Emma, and you can see the fruits of their labor (no spewable liquids, please) over at Shades of Suspense today. With her original topic tragically lost to Emma, it was decided a list was in order: The top ten things a romantic suspense hero should never say. Yes, there are fifty-five phrases on the top ten list. I think we all know why the rum is gone, no?

Shannon has been working very diligently on her secret project (she took the cap off her pen, anyway). I use the term secret loosely, of course, as she has whined incessantly about the book to anybody who will listen, no doubt another contributing factor to the rum shortage. About the only secretive thing about the story is how it ends. Shannon has no clue. You should try writing a synopsis with her sometime:

An den some ominous black moment descends and drives them apart. An den something brings them back together. An den ohmigod, I love you, ohmigod, I love you, too. An den they live happily ever after. I think.

I’m not happy about the rum being gone.

Until next week, stay tuned for Ezmerelda’s Extreme Makeover: Giddy Up Edition, in honor of Taming Eliza Jane’s imminent release! And lay off the rum, people. ]]> http://shannonstacey.com/2007/06/ezmereldas-week-in-review-61/feed/ 0