Come join me at the 20th Annual Festival of Women’s Authors, February 1, 2014

If you will be in the SF Bay Area on Saturday, Febrary 1, 2014 (and are a woman), come join me and three other local authors for lunch, author presentations, and book signings at H’s Lordships on the Berkeley Marina. Proceeds benefit students and the local community.
Joining me will be these three wonderful authors:

Patricia Bracewell, author of the critically acclaimed historical fiction Shadow on the Crown

Kelly Corrigan, NYT bestselling author of Lift and The Middle Place

Anjuelle Floyd, a reader’s favorite, author of  The House and Keeper of Secrets

For more information and to register, please visit the Berkeley/Alameda YMCA. I guarantee it will be interesting and fun!

World’s ugliest tat… And edits done


I went to a very cool holiday party and THIS was the least ugly tattoo I could get. It is getting better looking with age, kinda weather beaten from the shower. In a few mor days all that will be left is the big yellow teeth. But Underdead with a Vengeance should be out before then. Some people use an hour glass to hit a deadline. I’m using an ugly temporary red dragon tattoo. I think my way will sweep the nation.

My Sister’s Wedding–yes, the beloved “sisty ugler” in all my book forwards. ;)

One of our friends blogged about my sister’s wedding and it is what I would want to write so I’m just stealing her wonderful blog.

It’s a lot more interesting than my account of the wedding, which even after a month is still pretty much, “[happy sigh!] They’re so happy. [Sigh!]” (It’s all still just pure sappy emotion (no, I am NOT apologizing for it!) so there’s no proper grammar to be had.)

Here’s our friend’s MUCH better account of it, from her blog, “Chronical’s From The Dating Wars”. (We’re dying for pictures, still. Her wedding photographers are great, so we’re willing to wait.  (Sorry for the rhyme.) This photo is from my cousin Heather who made us all very happy by posting photos off her camera the next day. It’s my dad walking my sister down the aisle.)

Okay, enough of me. On to the good blog:

Labels and the Perfect Wedding

I’m finally dating a man who calls me his girlfriend.

This is new territory for me.  I’m used to commitment-phobes.  I once dated a man who, after six months, referred to me as his “very, very, very very good friend.” I dated another who said that one couldn’t just call someone a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, that you had to come to some kind of consensus about it all, that it took time, and that we had only been seeing each other for a year.  And, I’ve had many bad dates that really went nowhere.  So putting a name on anything is a huge development for me.  And, here I am with a man who is secure enough and committed enough in our relationship to give me a label.  What a feeling!

A couple of weeks ago, we both attended one of the biggest labels of all- a wedding.

The wedding was at a beautiful winery in the wine country.  The bride is a good friend of mine; the bride’s sister/maid of honor is a good friend of mine, and their Dad is a good friend of mine.   My boyfriend came along for the party.

The weather was perfect.  Sunny, warm but not sweltering, breezy at first but the wind eventually died down.  The setting was spectacular;  shuttle buses picked us up at the parking lot of the winery, and transported us up to the top of this magical hill, where everything was set up:  a place for the service, lots of comfy chairs and couches with a bar nearby, tables for dinner, a dance floor with a DJ.  Even the bathrooms were perfect, at least on the women’s side, because inside was a huge case full of anything you might need- hairspray, bobby pins, safety pins, double tape, feminine protection, breath mints, Kleenex, hand creme, etc.  You name it, it was probably in there.   The view from the hilltop was amazing; 360 degrees of rolling hills and vineyards stretching away into the distance.

The ceremony was perfect.  Just long enough to be meaningful, but thankfully not a full-blown Catholic Mass,  which, when attached to a wedding can take several hours.  The bride was absolutely gorgeous, and when I saw the way she and the groom looked at each other I started to cry. 

The whole day was perfect.  The service, the wedding dress, the bridesmaid’s gown, the wine, the food, the cake and gelato, the coffee. 

The groom got up and made a speech about how peaceful and beautiful our surroundings were, and how his bride made him feel like that at the end of every day, no matter how crazy it had been and how much his head was spinning.  And if we should find a person like that, we should hang on to them.

When the groom made his speech, there was a collective sigh from the entire assemblage.  The women all sighed, because it was quite possibly the most romantic thing any of us had ever heard.  The men all sighed because now they all had to live up to impossible standards; the ante had been upped.
My boyfriend turned to me and held my hand.

As the twilight descended, lanterns came on, and a roaring fire was started in the fire pit.  Lots of dancing.  The party went on until long after dark.  It was the best wedding I’ve ever been to- in fact, it was perfect.

I saw the father of the bride yesterday.  He asked after my boyfriend, remarked that he seemed like a really nice guy, wanted to know his intentions, and was I planning to move in with him soon?

Don’t rush things, here.  I’m still getting used to calling him my boyfriend.


Liz again. See??? Thank you, Allyson, for saying what I wanted to say and then letting me steal your blog!

You can read more of her postings at her blog,



The copy edits are done. It’s off to the line editor for the final type-oh check.  ETA July!!! (On the off-chance anyone reading this hasn’t spent quality time in airports waiting for flights, ETA means Estimated Time of Arrival. And if you are reading that and going, “Ohhhh, that’s what that means,” I envy you.) 

Crimson has a strategy for surviving high school. Blend in. Don’t cause trouble.
It works pretty well–until her sixteenth birthday when her long-lost father shows up and all hell breaks loose.
It turns out that he is a demon king, which makes Crimson…a princess. Of Darkness.
Her castle is a sulfur-reeking cavern underground. Her Princess Training has nothing to do with tea and crumpets. Prince Charming isn’t rushing in to save her. And, to top it off, she still has to go to high school.
She can’t tell anyone the truth, not even her best friends. To survive, she will have to risk everything and use a cunning she didn’t know she possessed. And even then there’s no guarantee she or anyone she cares about will be alive tomorrow–for neither Hell nor high school comes with a manual.


Liz Jasper here again. Crimson in the Very Wrong Fairy Tale  is a YA (Young Adult) book. That basically means it’s written for teens but adults ignore that and read it anyways. At least that’s what I do. Crimson in the Very Wrong Fairy Tale is the first in a three book series. It will be available in trade paperback and as an ebook. And, yes, I’m back to writing the Underdead books now. The Underdead series will have at least two more books.

And as a special note for Father’s Day, thank you Dad for supporting my writing in your own, special Liz’s Dad way–by giving me all the reference books you can get your sticky fingers on and then telling everyone you know to buy everything I publish. You Rock. Special dinner tonight for you!


Don’t Make the Halloween Mom ANGRY!

When I was in the sixth grade, trick or treating was a big deal because I was invited–and allowed–to go with a couple of friends and stay out until late (8:30) without supervision.

We were very proud of our costumes.  My friend Shanna was a cabaret dancer. It was a very cool costume. She had a top hat and a sparkly tuxedo jacket and a leotard and fishnets. I borrowed a spider costume that consisted mostly of giant black pipe-cleaner legs. It required explanation when I rang a doorbell:

Bewildered door-answerer:  And what are you?

Liz: I’m a spider!

Bewildered door-answerer:  Ohhhh. Here. Have an extra Milky Way, dear.

But then my costumes always required explanation. I don’t remember what the third friend went as. You just can’t compete for memory space against Shanna’s sparkles and top hat and my thrill over having a real costume instead of the sort of throw-together thing my family went for.

Liz’s Mom: Here, Liz, wear this old shirt of your father’s out of the rag bin. Look! You’re a hobo!

Liz: What’s a hobo?

Anyway, we were having a great time (translation: having a good candy haul that year) when the clock ticked past 7:30. That meant the parents out trick or treating with little kids were taking their kids home. Soon we we ran afoul of a gang of 7th grade boys. Here’s a what happened: they had shaving cream and were ten year old boys.

Shanna got the brunt of it. Her sparkles were like a hundred little targets begging the boys to nail her with shaving cream.

We made it back to Shanna’s house teary and dejected.

Shanna’s Mom: Girls! You’re back early. How was the… [eyes narrow. Lips compress.] What happened.

Three girls speaking at once: They were mean! They had shaving cream! It wasn’t our fault! They just attacked us!

Shanna’s Mom [crossing to the fridge and yanking it open]: Here. Hold this. [Hands closest girl an 18 pack of eggs.] Girls, get into the car. No. We’re taking the van. [She grabs a box of something and hefts it in the van, placing it between the front seats.] Okay. Everyone buckled in? [We drive in petrified silence to back to the street. There are muffled sounds of sniveling as we take stock of our ruined costumes.] Okay. Point them out.

Shanna: There they are. Those are the boys! See? The big one still has a can of shaving cream.

Shanna’s Mom [Slams to a stop. She opens the egg carton and grabs as many as will fit in her hands and starts pelting the boys]: Get ’em!

[We grab eggs,  crowd at the back windows and hurl them out.]

[The boys run]

Shanna: Mom, we’re out of eggs. They’re running away!

Shanna’s Mom. “Hold on girls!” [Screeches forward in a three point turn and chases after the boys with the brights on.] “Take some apples!”

Shanna: Eew, these are the ones that went bad!

Shanna’s Mom [smiling for the first time]: I know.  Get ’em girls!

Frankly, now that I look back on it, I find it was very generous of Shanna’s mom to teach those boys an important life lesson at such a tender age: Always remember how you treat a girl because at some point, you WILL meet her mother!