First a little definition - HSDS: Hypoactive Sexual Desire Syndrome - the lack of interest in sex or anything that a 'normal' person would deem sexy. The range, depending on who is doing the diagnostic profile, extends from decreased interest, to complete lack of, sexual desire. The full explanation is explored in my book Raindrops on Roses.

Second a big bunch of, 'Thank you for the compliment!' My alter-ego Rose differs greatly from me because she can think about sexy things... sometimes in multiples (Truth alert: yes, I am so equipped, thank you very much - I just don't feel like ever using it for some reason).

Using a seed idea, either from me or my hubby, I try to encourage myself to expand on it, much like any other author writes about something she hasn't really experienced first hand. When I get in trouble, hubby unfortunately is always ready to climb aboard and discuss things in rather intimate detail - at least until my brain fills and I have to bolt from the bed. Luckily, he's a guy, so he has yet to learn when to stop talking before getting himself into trouble and me scrambling from the sheets to jot down ideas.

Yes and no. Yes, meaning I'm fully functional - and I am serious about the ability for multiples. (Truth alert: HSDS occasionally limits my ability to grasp what might be TMI - sorry if I offend anyone, but I'm just answering the question honestly. I mean, I have a picture of my butt inside my first book, and I don't feel weird about it in the least since I picked it out of all my other pictures. It's a little different missing that part of your thought process.) And truth be told, with hubby, my Pocket Rocket, and sometimes little else, I'm a three minute girl.

The odd part behind it is that I don't remember I like to do it. In fact, it's quite common for me to give in to his wanting or my story-induced tingle and have it result in the following exchange while, ahem, 'researching a story:'

"It's not working!" I say in a small bit of panic.

"Can you give it more than 30 seconds?" he calmly plays his part. The jerk. Like he's done this so many times before. (Editor's note: I have. Or at least as often as she lets me.)

"But I'm just not in the mood. It's not working," I'm finding it harder to get myself heard over the buzzing sounds coming from below as I more correctly aim things - just for him, I'll pretend I like it.

"Just a couple minutes. Please? What about if I help and do this," and he disappears onto my chest.

"Nope, nothing, can I stop? It's not wo... whoa... uh... erk... ah. Oh. Um. Ah! Ah! Stop! Stop! Okay, okay, it worked, it worked, dammit, stop!" (Truth section: This quote should be deleted because it could've been recorded verbatim. Especially the last part where everything is too sensitive for any stimulation - it takes a blue moon for me to want more than one at any given time. I don't know why, I've been told if I like it, I should go for more - but it just doesn't interest me most days (Fib alert: 'most months').)

So everything works, I just don't think it will, don't remember I enjoy it, and especially don't remember to want to do it - even when prompted. Other things are more important. Although I am working at 'pretending' I'm a sexy-thinking girl - which might be helping some. Before you call BS on it, there is some research suggesting if you keep thinking you are a certain way, try to act like you are, some parts of it become a habit and eventually a part of you. And I honestly want my sex drive back, dammit. I'm tired of reading popular press women's magazines about how everyone wants to do it all the time and I'm the one left without and crying 'BS, prove it, bit...' oops, sorry - family interview. Next question please.

Sure. What do you want to talk about?

I so wish I was a fictional girl. Then I could wake up and feel 'it' like I supposedly used to. Oh, wait, I'm not supposed to talk about that abbreviation thing any more.

Yes! Randy and I have been together for a couple decades. Even though I joke about it, I love him greatly - or else he wouldn't cook for me. And I like to eat. Immensely. Especially donuts. Although he's never made me donuts - he does remember to get me one every so often - great timing, really - not frequently enough to where it's routine, but just before I start to actually ask for one, he'll come home with a small, luscious bag with one or two for me. Screw the flowers, the way to a girl's heart is through fried foods, lard, and calorie oozing goodness.

As a side note, the way to a man's heart is not the direct approach - too big of a risk you'll hit a rib. It's best to enter right below the rib cage, through the liver and diaphragm, aim for the throat and when your wrist can't penetrate any further, just wiggle around a bunch. Yes, I am a bundle of fun to be around - want to take a field trip to the farm supply store so I can show you what a horse emasculator clamp looks like?

Born and bred. The city I grew up in was giant compared to some of the neighboring towns - we had a traffic light. It only had one color - flashing 'red' - but compared to the surrounding small towns, we were big time. I've worked on the farm enough to know agriculture - and what's happened to today's small farmer and rancher - they get screwed way more often than I do. Of course, that's not saying much. I understand their plight is practically inevitable, but it's still sad for me. My dad was heart-broke when he lost the farm. Luckily I'd already made it through college and moved away to a big city (population 8,000! One multi-color actual traffic light and three flashing red ones - practically a metropolis) so I didn't have to watch the farm go first hand.

After school I started working insane hours (didn't make much money, but got in a ton of experience at 84 to 96 work hours a week (partial fib alert: that's the average work week - we actually hit over a hundred hours many weeks)). I learned to live and love all at the same time, spending a majority of those hours with Randy - we worked together in the same field.

Then he decided if we were going to kill ourselves working, why not do it working for ourselves. So I got relocated to a huge city to me - and even by definitions of the average person. Portland-Vancouver is large. Even the bedroom communities put anything I'd ever known to shame. Quite a change for a farm girl, but I adapted and survived. A few struggles along the way, but amazingly enough, we're still together and I only miss the 'dairy air' only a few times a week. (Special note: say 'dairy air' out loud - it's much more funny, then. If you still don't get it, write me.)

Six. Next question.

Yes. Next question.

Yes - and for any images used in my books or here at Smashwords, Randy shot them so we could avoid getting any releases from other photographers or artists I've work with.

Sorry. 'Yes - and for any images used in my books, Randy shot them so we could avoid getting any releases from other photographers or artists I've worked with, jerk.'

And you know that counted as a question, right? Or are you going to tell me Captain Kirk and everyone else were messed up because they split their infinitives? "To go boldly where no man has gone before" if you must know the correct phrasing. So there. Nyah. (truth alert: tongue sticking out at computer screen.)

I thought it was sort of cute using quotes about roses - revenge for the jokes while I was growing up. Not to mention it makes for a neat little double entendre in some instances and occasionally has deeper meaning for my compilations.

Obviously complete stand-alone cohesive works of fiction pack their own titles. I'm hoping by making this distinction, any fans I get will be able to know just by the title what they're getting: plays on 'Rose' for short attention spans and quick reads of short stories, otherwise you're in for the duration on a complete work.

Speaking of fans, for all three of you, thank you for writing me wonderful reviews and purchasing my books. (Final truth alert: all two fans wrote you personally, they didn't leave you any reviews - and Randy doesn't count.) (Final note from Rose: Yes, I do answer e-mail - but be forewarned, my replies go to people's spam boxes for some unknown reason. So after you write me at rose.maru@gmx.com be sure to watch for the reply - it will come (even if I don't... at least not always... well, maybe I do, but I just don't realize it. Wait, how'd we get back to that topic again?) .

So please, if you like my work, write me a review and share the love. If you know someone with HSDS or a friend-of-a-friend with HSDS, consider sharing this information with them - maybe get them a copy of my Raindrops on Roses book for their very own. You have the opportunity to do some good today - every journey starts with a quick trip to the piddle room. Wait, that's every one of my journeys, sorry.

Thank you for your time! Hugs - Rose