Dear Friends and Family,

Can you believe another year has gone by? And what a year it’s been. You all may remember that I wrote last year’s Christmas Letter from the Folsom Correctional Institute for Women. (Click on link to read.) That letter generated interest from the TV Show DESERVED TO DIE, which is about women pushed to the brink by husbands, mother-in- laws, rude people on cell phones, snotty clerks, all the usual things that send women over the edge of sanity every single day. They wanted to tell MY story.

“APSIRING ROMANCE NOVELIST KILLS HUSBAND WITH VIAGRA.”

If you missed the episode, they’ll run it again on Valentine’s Day. Anyway, they told my story, including the fact that I had no idea my rat bastard of a husband was taking Viagra. So when he came home late one night, all sweaty and complaining of chest pains, I got out his Nitroglycerin.

Then he died.

My prints were on the Nitroglycerin. And even better, my husband used MY name to order the Viagra online.

The trial was just a formality. Everyone was sure I’d planned to kill my husband by giving him the dangerous combination of Viagra and Nitroglycerin. They insisted I tricked him into taking the Viagra and then I knowingly gave him the Nitroglycerin and coldly watched him die. They insisted it was revenge because he was paying attention to young, slimmer, more attractive women. So I killed him with Viagra in revenge. That episode of DESERVED TO DIE was wildly popular.

Now here’s where things get interesting because that show caught the attention of an organization called D.O.R.A. (Defense Of Romance Authors). D.O.R.A. is a multi-national organization of romance writers who pool their resources to defend romance authors unfairly persecuted for their belief in happy endings (in books).

And they wanted to take my case! D.O.R.A. dispatched private investigators, computer experts, journalists, lawyers…all of whom were romance writers too. In days, mere DAYS, they proved that I did not order the Viagra.

The computer expert was able to retrieve on my laptop a deleted email to a Britney Scanke. Britney Scanke is a gym mom known for wearing words like “Juicy” on her Pilates-toned ass. Which proves right there she’s trailer trash, right? Evidently she was also having an affair with my rat bastard of a husband. The email read, “Britney, I ordered the blue pills so I can please you all night long! Can’t wait!” The idiot signed his name, sent the email and then deleted it.

Once they found the incriminating email, the private investigator went to work, meeting up with Britney and striking up a friendship. In hours Britney spilled the whole story to her. Yes, she was sleeping with my husband, yes she had suggested Viagra and they had planned together to order the Viagra on MY laptop with MY name. They thought it was funny that I read and wrote romance but didn’t know my own husband was out sleeping around. The private investigator pointed out to Britney that she had known I was innocent and let me go to prison anyway.

Britney pointed out that she didn’t give a damn. She thought it was my own fault for reading and writing those trashy books and being naïve enough to believe in happy endings. If I’d been paying attention to my own life, this wouldn’t have happened.

See what I mean? Trailer trash.

My D.O.R.A. Dream Team were outraged on my behalf. While the lawyer romance writers began filing legal papers, the journalist romance writers pushed the story that I was another innocent woman railroaded by the justice system because I chose to write books with a happy ending. Then they rallied all the other romance authors to campaign on my behalf, and long story short, my conviction was overturned.

I am a free woman! I’ve written my autobiography, about how I was persecuted because of the way I chose to live my life—as a believer in romance and happy endings (in books). And how my sisters in romance rallied together and showed the justice system and the world the power of romance! Right now, the book is getting interest from agents and things are looking good!

That is all my news for now. All and all it’s been a good year.

And P.S. to Britney (Juicy Ass) Scanke. Guess what? I don’t just believe in happy endings, I make them happen. How do you think the computer expert knew to look for that deleted email? Romance writers are a lot smarter than you think.

Merry Christmas! And May 2009 be full of Happy Endings!
Just A. Joke

A bit of news: You all know the first book in my paranormal series, BLOOD MAGIC comes out February 24th, but now I have a title and release for the second book. The title is SOUL MAGIC and it will be out November 2009. Pretty cool!

SOUL MAGIC is due in a week. One week from today. I have it fully drafted and I’m editing and polishing until my eyes bleed and my brain cramps. (Do you think my editor will notice if I’m a little over my word count? Just a few thousand words? Okay ten thousand?)

Naturally, I’m a little bit distracted. For example:

1) I lost a week. A whole week. I discovered this quite by accident when my agent e-mailed me and closed by saying, “Have a nice Thanksgiving.” I read that and got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Thanksgiving wasn’t for two weeks so why was she saying that? I grabbed my calendar and realized that Thanksgiving was THE NEXT WEEK. I lost a whole week and my book is due December 1st. Crap.

2) I walked around for five minutes after taking a shower looking for my towel and discovered it ON MY HEAD.

3) I noticed that a box of rice was in my cupboard upside down. I fixed that by turning the box over and dumped out half the contents on the floor and all inside the cupboard. Some moron opened the BOTTOM of the box. Sadly, that moron was me.

4) I bruised the heel of my palm. Don’t ask. I’m just brain dead. Note to self—next time, use a mallet and not your hand. Idiot.

5) I had a nightmare that I told my editor I get the new proposal in at the same time as my book. I woke up in a cold sweat and almost threw up before I realized it was a dream. I couldn’t go back to sleep.

To clear my mind, I sometimes visit Distraction Sites like: http://www.thequeerofallmedia.com/shirtlesshotdudes/index9.htm

GRRR, For some reason I couldn’t get a hot fireman picture here!

Or this http://icanhascheezburger.com/

more animals

Okay your turn! Do you do dumb things when you’re distracted? Or is it just me? Do you have any Distraction Sites you’d like to share?

This isn’t one of my light blogs. Generally, I like writing light, fun blogs. But this morning, I finally gave in and read this story about an eight-year-old boy who killed his father and another man.

I have been purposely ignoring this story because I knew I’d get angry and upset. This is not about gun control—this is about our kids and who is responsible.

Is an eight-year-old child responsible? Does he really understand what he’s done? Does he comprehend that death is forever? They have so little impulse control at that age, and kids have “magical” or “wishful” thinking. Something like, “If I think hard enough about brownies, there will be brownies when I get home from school.” They are still sorting out fantasy from reality. How do we hold an eight-year-old responsible for murder?

And then there’s the story of the boy in Massachusetts whose father took him to a gun show and let him try to shoot an Uzi. The boy lost control of the weapon and killed himself.

My 19 year old son was so furious. This is my son who is seriously considering police work and he does NOT have his mother’s aversion to guns. “Isn’t there a law against letting a little kid fire an automatic weapon?” He was baffled as hell.

I told him a sad truth. “We can’t make laws for everything asinine, outrageous possibility out there. Who would have thought someone would let an eight-year-old child handle an automatic weapon?”

Who’s responsible? Not the eight-year-old boy. Of course he thought he could handle the weapon. He also probably thought he could drive a car or fly an airplane.

And the boy that killed his father and another man? How do we hold a child responsible? I remember when my middle son was two, we were out front and I looked over at him and saw him toddling down the driveway with the big hedge clippers his dad used. My blood ran cold. I could picture him falling on those clippers! And how did he get them? Well that was our fault, we kept them on a low shelf in the garage and it hadn’t occurred to us he’d pick them up.

But of course he did! He saw daddy cutting the bushes, and he wanted to be like daddy. He was imitating his father. I remember this so vividly, how the entire world slowed down as I tried to get to him from across the yard. I told him to stop where he was, and thankfully, he did. I got to him and grabbed the clippers, my heart racing and blood pounding in my ears. I put the clippers on a high shelf then scooped up my little boy and hugged him.

I didn’t blame him, HIS DAD AND I WERE AT FAULT. My son was fine, but all the color drained out of my husband’s face when I told him. The two of us walked through the garage that night looking for items at kid level like that.

My point is this—my son was imitating his dad with the hedge clippers. All three of my sons did that, and at eight, they still imitated the things their dad did. But their dad didn’t give them dangerous things. I don’t even think he allowed them to mow the lawn yet at that age, or at least not by themselves. He sure as hell wouldn’t have given them a gun.

My question is simply this: Why are we treating our CHILDREN like ADULTS. We give them cell phones in elementary school. We give them free access to the Internet. We buy them SUVs they can’t handle at sixteen. We make “stars” out of fifteen year old and shamefully sexualize them as early as ten years old.

We give eight year olds a gun. We wouldn’t be pondering the question of holding an eight year old responsible for these two murders if the kid hadn’t had the gun.

What are we doing?

Growing up, I begged my mom to let me be Samantha from Bewitched. I was the youngest of four kids, and a “surprise” at that. My parents were wonderful and loving, but frankly, they were tired of the whole kid thing, and totally past stuff like finding just the right Halloween costume. But one year, I nagged my mom until she bought me a boxed Bewitched costume. Do you all remember those pressed plastic masks with the piece of elastic across the back? And then the plastic jumpsuit thing that was supposed to look like your favorite superhero?

Or in my case, my favorite super heroine?

That was NOT the costume I wanted (although I never told my mom that). I wanted that long black dress Samantha wore when she was up in the clouds with her mother and other assorted witches.

But hey, I got a lot of candy and in those days, candy made up for everything!

Many years later, I met a really cool guy, except that he only wore ONE Halloween costume—doctor scrubs. And this was BEFORE doctor scrubs became hip. I believe we still have those scrubs, because you never know when a costume emergency might arise.

So the new boyfriend and I get invited to a Halloween party. And I think—awesome! I am not going in some stupid store bought costume, or a throw-together thing. For the first time in my life, I went to a real costume shop. I actually got a pretty cool costume, although to this day I’m not sure what I was supposed to be. Sort of a cross between Jeanie and the Chiquita Banana girl, I suppose. It was fine…

But that’s not my favorite.

The next year was another party. This one was one week before our wedding. We had a lot to do, and I decided, hey, I’ll just go as a witch.

For some reason, being a witch seems to come easy to me, LOL!

I bought a wig of long black hair, bought some black material and whipped up a dress with flowing sleeves and high slits in the long skirt. Although I’m not sure those slits weren’t planned—I can’t actually sew well and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t using a pattern. I just…winged it. (Hmm, that’s kind of how I write my books too!)

That costume was a HIT. Everyone thought I was Elvira AND/OR a witch. I believe there was some serious debate about that question…all in fun. We partied the night away, drinking, dancing, laughing…it was a blast. The next week, my husband and I got married, and then for many years, my husband kept a blown up picture of me from that night in the garage over his work bench. All the neighbors wondered if he was crazy hanging a picture of another woman there.

They were always surprised to find out it was me. Then once they knew it was me, they were surprised they hadn’t seen it.

What’s interesting is that the costume wasn’t perfect, it had many flaws. I was certainly not a hot babe, I never was. I’m average looking. But that night, I was someone else, and everyone around me bought into my “character.” It really wasn’t the costume, but the FANTASY that made the night so much fun.

And that is what is so compelling about writing stories—I get to keep living the fantasy. Of course, now I’m writing about witches, almost coming full circle from those days of watching BEWITCHED and wanting so much to believe. As a writer, I know it’s called suspending disbelief, but then, when I was six years old, I simply chose to believe in magic.

So now it’s your turn to share—what was (or is) your favorite Halloween costume? And tell me, do you think candy still makes up for life’s disappointments?

I have been thinking. In these dire economic times, perhaps we should diversify in our careers a little bit.

For instance, I saw one of the cable news shows had brought on the actor Kelsey Grammer as a financial expert. Clearly, Mr. Grammer is diversifying since his profession is acting, not finance.

Then I saw a “tease” on the Internet from some expert on the “How To Keep Your Boyfriend From Cheating.” Being an inquisitive sort, I thought, I have got to see this (okay, yeah I was procrastinating but I like to call it research).

The advice, and I’m paraphrasing here, was basically, “Girls, call your boyfriends before they go out for a night with their friends. That will remind them they have a girlfriend and they won’t tend to stray.”

That’s the advice? THAT???? An EXPERT came up with that advice?

So I thought, I can be just as much of an expert consultant as these folks can! And so I am trying out my new Diversified Career here. Introducing…

Authentic Advice from the Lyon’s Lair.

That would be me—Jen Lyon. (Authentic?—Jennifer Lyon is not even my real name!)

To get started, I invited a few people to email me (cough-I-made-them-up-cough) their burning questions and I am advising them with Authentic Answers Straight From The Lyon’s Lair.

Dear Jen,

My boyfriend keeps buying me romance novels. I mean the steamy kind of romance novels. He thinks we should read them together. Do you think he secretly wants to be a cover model?

Signed: Confused.

Dead Confused,

You’re not confused, you are a TWIT. I suggest you let this guy go and take up the hobby of collecting cats. And give your boyfriend the address to my lair, I’d be happy to read the steamy romance novels with him.

Roaringly yours,
Jen Lyon
**

Dear Jen Lyon,

My friend is getting multiple book deals and I haven’t sold my masterpiece yet. It’s not fair! She’s a skank who writes smut. But she’s making money and people are fawning over her like she’s SOMEBODY. I try to tell people all about what I’m writing, how my work writhes with the angst and agony of Real Life. And yet, this skank is lunching with editors and taking meetings with agents while they ignore me! What should I do?

Signed: Devine Word Smith

Dear DWS,

Send me your friend’s name and the title of her books! I wanna read me some smut! The nights get really long in the Lyon’s Lair and smut is a good way to pass the time.

Roaringly Yours,
Jen Lyon
**

Dear Jen Lyon,

Do you have any diet advice?

Signed: Skinny Wannabe.

Dear SW,
Buy bigger clothes and buy more wine. The more wine you drink, the better you look. Also, I suggest baking cookies, cakes and brownies for all your friends. Get them fat. Then give them wine and they’ll tell you how great you look. Works every time.

Roaringly Yours
Jen Lyon
**
So what do you think of my plan to diversify my career?