Deidra Alexander's Blog

A while back I was invited to a party, at which I was the shortest person. In this mostly male crowd, I didn’t come above any of theirs armpits. I’m five two and they were all over six feet.  I felt like I was in a forest of moving trees.

It seemed none of the guys quite knew what to do with the wee little one, as one guy described me. As alcohol was involved, eventually insufferable giant, Jaxx said, “She’s so little, I can just pick her up.” And he did.

I, of course, responded with my evil, narrow eyed, menacing, I’ll kick your ass look and said, “Put me down.”

To which he responded laughing, “Oh, the little one’s got a temper.”

He didn’t seem to realize my knee was now in a perfect position for permanent damage. We needn’t go further, he put me down.

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I got to work and people where talking to me like I care.

I thought Holy Crap, I must have gotten sucked into an alternate universe where “I” care!

But if I’m here, the me that cares must be in my world screwing everything up. Holy Crap, suddenly I cared. Then I got so freakin’ confused I didn’t care anymore.

Okay, I’m good now.

Images courtesy Rodrigo Lazzarini.

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Whenever my fellow writers and I visit other author organizations, invariably they have us each stand, give our names and our genre. My friends always go first. They’re all sweet and genteel and wouldn’t consider saying anything untoward.

“I write regency.”

“I write inspirational.”

“I write paranormal.”

And then they come to me. You should know this, but I’ll tell you just in case you haven’t realized, I can’t be normal or demure.

“I write …. Prehistoric Erotica. I have two titles out. Once You Go Rhino You Never Go Back to Dino and Is That a Brontosaur Bone Under Your Loin Cloth or Are You Just Glad to See Me?”

This always creates a disruptive moment when cell phones are whipped out to search for the aforementioned titles with no success. So when I saw these images by Rodrigo Lazzarini, I knew it was perfect for my someday project. The Bones of Yesterday Chronicles.

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Ran into Gert again, the 80 year old chain smoking erotica author. I asked her about her work.

“Yea, I was writing erotica back when it came in brown paper bags.” She tossed the lime and salt aside and down a tequila shot straight. The only way I got her to let me interview her was to challenge her to a tequila shot contest.

I drank my shot, wincing. “So you’ve been writing about people in love for a long time?”

“No, I’ve been writing about people having heart stopping sex for a long time. Write what you know and this I know.” She blew a succession of smoke rings. “Ready for another.” She was already two shots ahead.

“Sure.” I gagged on another.

She grabbed my lime and tossed it to the bar tender. “When do you get off handsome?”

“And you’ve been successful.” I tried to draw her back to the conversation.

“It’s no Harry Potter, but I’ve gone ok. Which reminds me my next title is coming out – Gordan and His Little Wizard.”

I don’t remember much after the fifth shot. I woke up on an old sofa with lint stuck to my face.

I don’t know if I learned a lesson, other than don’t try to out drink an 80 year old chain smoking, whiskey drinking, man hunting author.

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