Message From The Author

Author's Message

I hate research. It always gets me in trouble.

One time I called the marriage counselor, left a message, told her I was a writer and asked if she would be willing to talk to me about how grief over a child’s death can break up a marriage for my book Only in Texas. She called back and left a voice mail, “I’d be happy to help with your marital difficulties,” and left her info. Hubby arrived home before I and heard the message. Come to think about it, that didn’t get me in trouble; it got me red roses.

Another time I called and asked to speak to someone at poison control about how much mistletoe it would take to kill someone. It took five minutes to convince her not to report me.

Or the time I was brainstorming during a pap smear and blurted out the question to the doc, “Where could I shoot someone that wouldn’t kill them, but would hurt them really badly?” I learned the hard way: don’t surprise anyone with odd questions when they have a vice-grip-like tool up your woo-woo.

Try explaining to your neighbor, who knows you’re married and out of the baby-making business, why you’re studying the condom rack at the pharmacy.

Then there was the research for Blame it on Texas. Hubby found me sitting at my desk, shoes and socks removed, eyeing the Scrabble board, and unbuttoning my blouse.

He stopped dead and stared. Not that I was paying much attention. I was nose deep in researching a scene.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Working." I glanced up.

His right eyebrow arched. "You’re taking your clothes off.”

“It’s easier than writing them both down. It’s hard enough figuring out the fancy words. They have super high IQs and I don’t. Each letter has a point. And readers will know the point system.” I released another button.

He continued to stare. “You are not making a lick of sense.”

"You’re just not listening." Off came my blouse, and I refocused on the word. “That doesn't work.” I muttered. I looked up at my befuddled husband. “I need a word with a Q or a Z in it. Those are ten points each. And if the word is on a dark red square, it can give me a triple word score.”

His head dropped slightly as if his brain ached from trying to understand. “You’re playing Scrabble.”

“No. My characters are. And it’s taking too long to get them naked.”

I realize he’s right, I’m not making sense—to him. “It’s Strip Scrabble.”

He chuckles. “That’s crazy.”

“But you laughed and so will my readers. And it’s sexy.” I waved him away.

Smiling really big, he propped against my desk.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m staying. In case you have trouble removing the bra.”

He can be so cute when he’s being mischievous.

See what I mean? Research always gets me in trouble.

Here’s to laughing, loving, and reading.

- Christie Craig

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