I come to you today with a spoiler. Sort of. Awkward Stuff, the third book in my Girl Stuff series, comes out Tuesday (7.26), and if you find first-kiss-pacts-gone-horribly-wrong even mildly entertaining, this is the one for you!!

I’m not about to summarize the plot. Plot summarizing is right up there with conversations that begin with, “I had the craziest dream last night.” Suh-noooozer.

What I am going to do is leak the dedication in Awkward Stuff because it sums up the comedy of errors that is my life.

First: Allow me to present the dedication in Crush Stuff, the book that came before Awkward Stuff.

For my crush, Wyatt, who fed me, loved me and supported me while I wrote this novel. (I hope we’re still together by the time this publishes. If not, I might have to name book three Awkward Stuff.) 

Do you see where I’m going with this? Now for the dedication in Awkward Stuff:

As some of you might have gleaned, I dedicated Crush Stuff to my crush, Wyatt. Cute, right? Wrong. In said dedication, I wrote, “I hope we’re still together by the time this publishes. If not, I might have to name book three Awkward Stuff.” And, well, see the title of this book?

YOU: Does this mean you and Wyatt broke up?

ME: That’s so sweet of you to ask. And, no. We’re still going strong.

YOU: So what gives, Lisi? You wrote—

ME: I know what I wrote. My editors and I ended up liking that title, so we went with it.

YOU: Well, that’s awkward.

ME: Sure is. No one does awkward like I do. I literally wrote the book on it.

Enjoy!

Xoxo 

For those of you who care about my personal life (shout-out to my stalkers), Wyatt and I are still together. Does he appreciate it when I dress like my characters?

Me as Massie Block.

Well, that’s a whole other story.

xoxo – Lisi

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Hello friends and potential stalkers,

School is out and the sweet smell of SPF is in the air. This means two things:

1. Some people will not get sunburned.
2. Summer crush season is AWN!!!

In The Pack, Sadie Samson’s crush on Beak is instant. The moment her inner lion picks up his scent in the woods, she knows he’s the one.

“It was an inviting smell. Sensitive and smart, friendly but serious. It was like a grape scented eraser.”

And Sadie hadn’t even seen him yet!!! (#Pheromones)

When she spots Beak’s sun-bleached hair, ketchup-colored lips, and the c-shaped scar on his cheek–BAM! Sadie feels her attraction.

“He made her insides feel bubbly and animated, like the mist that dances over a freshly poured soda.”

How would you describe the crushing feeling? Post your answer in the comments section below. The best one will win a signed copy of Claw and Order.

For those of you opting out of crush season in pursuit of personal development, take this quiz from Girls’ Life to find out what kind of pack leader you are. And if you’re not interested in crushes OR personal development, put on some mirrored sunglasses, tape a Do Not Disturb sign to your forehead, and listen to the Claw and Order audiobook.

Should you choose to reject all of my offers, well, you’re on your own.

xoxo Lisi

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The sign on my office door says, “Careful Or You’ll End Up In My Novel” It should say, “Careful Novel Or You’ll End Up In My Life.”

“I know the wedding planner at the Montage,” I told him. “I’ll hook you up!” So what if his budget was tight. Jules Valentine was a hopeless romantic. She’d make it work.

Needless to say, Ryan was thrilled and stretched me for an extra long time that day.

After our session, I searched for Jules’ number on my phone and was shocked when I couldn’t find it. Seconds later, that shock cooled and hardened into terror. Because I had just realized that Jules Valentine was not my friend. She wasn’t even alive. She was a character in The Dirty Book Club. Yes, she was a wedding planner, but not at the Montage. Pretend Jules worked at the also pretend Majestic.

How did this Dirty Book Flub happen? I’m too lazy to research it, so here’s my theory: 

You’ve heard writers talk about “being in the zone” right? It sounds pretentious, I know, but it’s a real thing. It’s that coveted locked-in, hyper-focused feeling we get where writing feels less like thinking and more like listening. On these RARE days, my brain seems to be dictating the story and my only job is to get it all down. Distractions fall away. Self-doubt is bound, gagged and stuffed in the closet. The Starbucks application in my desk drawer remains blank.

Unfortunately, those zone moments don’t happen until my deadline is looming and I am writing around the clock. And both of those things were happening when my flub took place. The more hours logged, the more I was drawn into my fictional world and away from my real one. I lived inside my settings and became my characters. I had to see through their eyes and think their thoughts. So the good news is, this could have been worse. I could have thought I was Jules Valentine and handed poor Ryan my card. And no, he doesn’t train me anymore. I started working with Luke Hobbs*. Have you seen those biceps?

xoxo Lisi

*Google it.

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1) Swimsuit models didn’t buy boobs. Flat was where it was at and that’s much sexier if you ask me. I am wondering what that pepperoni-shaped object is on her chest, though. If only sunscreen had a stronger presence in the 70s.

2) $1 was taken seriously. The value of books was not.

3) That $1 had more “nutrition” than everything in this picture combined.

4) Photos weren’t shopped. Model’s faces moved when they smiled. Pores and facial elasticity were socially acceptable.

5) This cigarette ad is my favorite. Not only is the hunk one inch away from setting his shag on fire, and not only do the tracks on his cord look like they’ve been raked in a Zen garden, but there is something in this photo that defies all logic. Can you figure out what it is?

Try. Really try.

TTYW,

Lisi

(Their cigarettes are lit but no smoke. Man, the ’70s were a magical time.)

The post Boobs, Bucks, and Cigarette Butts: What I learned from a 1970s magazine. appeared first on Lisi Harrison.

Romance, like tequila, often brings out the stupid in us. We become impulsive, idealistic, and short-sighted under its intoxicating spell. So if you want to avoid the painful hangover reality often brings and enjoy the warm buzz of romance for years to come, keep the following five things in mind. 

1   Know the difference between love and infatuation. Love feels safe, peaceful, and kind. Infatuation feels like insecurity, obsession, and a panic attack at 35,000 feet.

2  Handle your own finances. Never give that power to your partner. If you are a stay-at-home parent and don’t earn an income make sure you have access to the accounts and understand what’s coming and going at all times. If not you will feel vulnerable, resentful, and inferior. Is accounting fun? No. It’s worse than a pap smear. But imagine where you’d be without pap smears. Not in a healthy romantic relationship, that’s for sure.

3 If you are considering marriage ask yourself this: Do I see myself growing old with this person? Like really old. Like walkers and oatmeal-on-the-lips old? When I experience a debilitating loss will they comfort me or shut me out? And say I poop my adult diapers. Will they be laughing or shaming? If you don’t see patience, kindness, and laughter in these scenarios you’re making a terrible mistake.

4  When your Valentine is bummed don’t ask if you can do anything to help. Just show up. Sometimes a hug is enough.

5 If you want to be loved, be loveable.

Happy Valentine’s Day, today and every day after.

xoxo Lisi

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Should we ever find ourselves at the same dinner party, wine and conversation flowing, you will inevitably hear me ask,  “Is anyone worried that one of our enemies will hack into our power grid and turn off our electricity?  I am. And if it happens we will be cave people because we are helpless without our devices!”

Every time I bring this up (ah-lot!) I expect an emotionally charged consensus. After all, the fact that we are WAY too dependent on technology is impossible to dispute. And since technology is WAY too dependent on electricity and electricity goes out, we’re sitting ducks. But no one bites. Instead, guests start clearing dishes and bathroom lines form. My guess is that no one wants to talk about it because a technology apocalypse is out of our control. So I choke down my paranoia and soldier on.

And then it happened.

Yesterday morning at 9:00am my power was shut off and remained off until 6:00pm because SoCal Edison was drilling on my street. Just like that my world went dark. No phones, laptops, tablets or TVs. No lights, flat-iron, or refrigeration. I couldn’t blog, tame my frizzy hair, ice my swollen knee, or keep up with anything resembling 2018. I was forced to day-read, write with a pen, and nap. Much like driving with my left foot it felt awkward, but exhilarating.

During this unsettling time, nary a ding or swoosh had stolen my attention. I listened to my own thoughts instead of Howard Stern’s. And instead of responding to my ex’s latest bullying e-mail I had to sleep on it–a good thing since I’m usually quite reactive. In other words, I became a human being, not a human doing. I felt capable and adaptable. Present, relaxed, and focused. It was electrifying.

How’s that for irony?

TTYW,

Lisi

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Oprah’s declaration haunted me well into Tuesday. Not because it was so spot on, but because it felt off. Sure if speaking one’s truth means owning your true nature and living without shame, I’m all for it.

But isn’t that living a truth?

Speaking one’s truth means articulating what is true for you. And that’s not always appropriate. If I spoke my truth all the time the “powerful tool” I’d get would be a tire iron to the skull.

When it comes to truth-speaking, the real tool is discretion. Or timing. Or delivery. Or tact. Or maybe it’s not speaking at all. Maybe that tool is knowing when to shut up. To that point, last week Kiana posted this cry for help on my site:

Lisi, how do I know when to draw the line between being honest and sounding like a complete jerk?
A lot of people take my honesty really offensively and think I’m trying to bash them. For example, I was out at dinner recently and some acquaintances asked me if I liked the dish they were having. I told them it looked disgusting. Apparently I was “indirectly” insulting them on purpose…

Kiana, my friend, I can relate. For decades, sass and raw honesty were my cards and I played them often. When I did, I got laughs and assumed everyone knew I was joking. After all, I would never intentionally hurt anyone. Truly. I wrote the Clique series because I loathe brats and bullies, not because I worship them. So imagine my surprise when I hurt someone’s feelings. Forget it. Don’t imagine it. Just trust me when I tell you. I was SURPRISED (yep, the all-caps kind).

I’ve since learned to temper my truth. Not to live a lie–GAWD no–but to ask myself if speaking up will do more harm than good. Meaning: if you say someone’s food looks disgusting (your truth) it will diminish their truth (this food looks amazing) and guess who look’s like the arse?

So Kiana and Oprah, ask yourself these questions next time you want to speak:

1. Will speaking my truth have a positive impact on the person I am speaking it to? Do they need to hear this or am I being judgmental and controlling?
2. Will speaking my truth have a positive impact on me?
3. Will speaking my truth have a positive impact on my community?

If your answer is “no,” don’t speak. Silently acknowledge that said truth is yours, then tell it to your journal.

xoxo Lisi

(Wait, did I just speak my truth?)

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1. They write under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
2. They write without an outline or plan.

In all my fifteen years of authoring I have never done either. Until right now. Right now I am doing both. That’s probably why I just used the word “authoring.”

You see, two weeks ago I had knee replacement surgery.

That’s why I haven’t blogged. I thought I’d keep it up from the hospital so I brought my laptop and a Marc Jacobs bag filled with good intentions. This coming from the girl who packs gym clothes on book tour, but never works out. The same girl who used to bring homework on family vacations thinking she’d do it on the airplane.  I know. I know.

Now it’s week three and I’m at home feeling like a piñata full of pain meds. Yep. I’m tingly and spacey and drowsy. I’ve watched so many episodes of The Good Wife I’m about to open my own law practice. There are gluten-free pizza crumbs in my bra. But I refuse to let another week go by without staying in touch. So this is me, writing under the influence. It’s also me without a point, a plan, or anything meaningful to say. Usually, when I’m authoring I work off very detailed outlines. I can not, will not, let the muse drive. And yet, here she is, one hand on the wheel, the other hanging from the open window. Stereo blasting. Destination: Who the hell knows?

I tried to think of a good topic. Maybe share some of my experiences from the hospital. But come on, what a snoozer-downer, right? The whole trying to think of something reminds me of those times when I stand in front of my open closet and try to pick an outfit, but nothing jumps out. In fact, it all blurs together and looks like Lucky Charms barf. So I end up wearing sweats and I regret it all day because I feel frumpy and thick.

So here I am. A pain med piñata riding shotgun with a directionless muse. My respect cup runneth over for those authors who can do this and make something of it. Clearly, I can not.

TTYW,
Lisi

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Last Saturday night, while blasting the Salt-N-Pepa station on Pandora, I took one last look in the mirror before heading to a party. My hair was the right amount of tousled. My slip dress and satin smoking jacket were on point. My black Vans howled, “whimsical comfort” at the super moon. I was red lipstick ready and eager to Shoop-oop-a-doop.

Upon arrival, I was ushered onto the private deck of a beachside bar. Think bungalow’s, bartenders, a decadent spread of food, and hilarious friends. And yet, the following thoughts tsunami’ed into my brain:

So and So’s dress is more fetching than mine. I’m frumpy. What’s Her Face’s heels are so flattering. My sneakers make me look like a teenaged boy. That Girl’s makeup is so sophisticated. My gold glitter smacks of ‘unemployed art teacher’.

And on and on and on… 

Did I realize that I could admire someone else’s style without it detracting from my own? Of course not. Intellect and Reason were not on the guest list. What I did do, however, saved my sinking spirits nonetheless.

For the rest of the night I spoke and acted like I was everything I wanted to be. I said things like, “I better have another slider. I’m getting too skinny.” Then I ate a second slider. And a quesadilla. Instead of moaning about what a pig I am (not fun party talk) I went on about how I’m bulking up for winter because if one more person tell me how thin I am… I called attention to how seductive I smell, how everyone is obsessed with my beauty, and how compelling I am.

Even though I was joking, the energy inside my body shifted from heavy to light. I’m not kidding. I was suddenly buoyant. Then my friend Jill jumped on board. Soon we were cracking up and trying to out-brag each other. It was such a welcomed change from the Self-Loathing station we usually play. And the physical shift was undeniable.

So, next time your dial is set to Self-Loathe, change the station. Tell everyone how fabulous you are. You’ll feel better, you’ll get a laugh, and you’ll really enjoy that second slider. Because you, my friend, need to eat something. You’re wasting away.

TTYW,

Lisi

The post I’m Too Skinny For This Blog. appeared first on Lisi Harrison.

My proposal? I would like the American people to add a dash of No Thanks to Thanksgiving 2017 by saying nay to five toxic behaviors. If you do, I guarantee you will have five more things to be grateful for.

The NO THANKS Thanksgiving List.

1. I happen to know that there is someone in your life that doesn’t make you feel good. They have you believing you’re not good enough. That if you were only (insert) they would treat you better. You feel heavy and miserable after you hang out with them. Still, you think they’ll change. You hope they’ll change. You kind of know they won’t but you also believe that with your help and patience they will.  You are wrong. Say NO THANKS to this relationship. Decide right now that you are going to take the steps required to detach. I’m not kidding. You know who they are. Now let them know who YOU are whether they like it or not.
2. Say, NO THANKS to your devices on Thanksgiving. No social media. No texts. No posts. No checking emails. (Yes to navigation, but that’s it.) You say you’re grateful. Act like it by being present.
3. Say NO THANKS to gossip. It doesn’t matter if you dish it out or gobble it up, gossiping will make you sound like a turkey. And you’re not. You subscribe to this blog so you clearly have your finger on the pulse. Swap weird invention ideas or spirit animals or favorite excerpts from The Dirty Book Club. Play charades. Stay kind.
4. Say NO THANKS to complaining about your weight. Someone worked really hard to make all the food you’re love-hating. Eat. Enjoy. Join a gym after New Years.
5.  Say NO THANKS to worrying about what people think about you. It’s a waste of time. They’re not thinking about you. They’re thinking about themselves. Trust me.

Have a fabulous NO THANKSGIVING. I am grateful for you all.

xoxo Lisi

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