The 26th of January is Australia Day. I’m an Aussie and I’m celebrating by interviewing a brilliant Australian author whose books I recently discovered. Name: Paula Houseman. Humour level: wet. (Translation—you’ll either spit your coffee or pee in your pants.) Muse: earthy.

Paula, tell us about yourself in ten sentences or less.

• I write satirical, contemporary fiction in the form chick lit and romantic comedy, with a liberal sprinkling of bad language and a teeny subtheme of ancient mythology.
• I’m a first-generation Aussie. My mother struggled to live the Australian way; my father thought he was living it because he could fart the national anthem. Dad. The patriot.
• My identity crisis was a bitch. In pre-multicultural Australia, taking an ‘immigrant’ lunchbox to school (spring-loaded with leftover lamb koftas, dolmades, cevapcici sausage, falafel and pita) was the stuff of nightmares and almost did my head in.
• I used to be ashamed of my dirty bazoo until I realised I was controlled by Baubo, the ancient goddess of obscenity. What I write/say isn’t my fault, but hellooo … it’s sacred filth!
• Like my protagonist, I’ve had business dealings with a woman who, mid-transaction, randomly volunteered that she had two vaginas; and also, with a sixty-something PR guy whose letterhead logo was a pic of himself in the naked, reclining pose of Michelangelo’s Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling (modified to have his hand cupping his wiener and nuts). This pretty much sums up the nature of many of my interactions.

What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?

The absolute scariest thing I’ve ever done is fall into the contents of my psyche. It took years for that experience to stop being so terrifying. I haven’t friended the monsters in there, but we now kind of co-exist. They don’t step on my toes; I don’t step on their creepy paws. 

And even though it’s not my idea of a good time, I now willingly dive in when life gets challenging. I write with soul and I don’t believe I could effectively do that if I don’t plumb the depths of my own. Besides, it’s in those dark, schmootz-infested reaches that my foul-mouthed goddess muse resides.

Describe your idea of the perfect romantic date.

Ralph and me. A candle-lit dinner in a swish restaurant followed by a good bit of hide the salami (at home, not at the restaurant). But here’s the kicker. Ralph’s the fictional lead male character in my novels. 

He’s sexy as all get-out, my Ralph, he of the puppy-dog eyes, chiselled jawline, subtle chin dimple and Cupid’s-bow lips. An ex-catwalk model, he’s just over six feet, buff-bodied with toned buns and guns and well-developed pecs—these, covered with a light smattering of soft, downy hair that tapers down his ripped abs towards … oh, mama! 

Ralph would never say, ‘Pull my finger’. He’d never pick his nose then flick the contents willy-nilly. He’d never drink orange juice straight out of the bottle. It’s why, if Ralph was next to me in bed, I wouldn’t climb over him to get to hubby.    

If vampires, werewolves, shifters and other paranormal creatures existed, which one would float your boat? 

Werewolves would not float my boat. I’m no fan of über-hairy blokes. A vampire wouldn’t do it for me either. As an ex-dental nurse, those inordinately long cuspids would annoy me. I’d want to drag him into the sunlight and go at them with a sanding tool. Also, I had my share of hickeys as an adolescent, and I’m wary of beings that don’t reflect. But a shifter? Yes. I like the idea of shapeshifting. I could sink my teeth into a shifter … which, I guess, would make me a perfect match for a vampire, wouldn’t it? 

Your favorite place:

The beach. As a Scorp, I love being around water. Looking at it, not swimming in it. The only stroke I’ve mastered is dog paddle, so I couldn’t swim to save my life.

What’s your favorite line/quote from your book, My Troyboy is a Twat?

His duds complemented hers—khaki tee under tight, beige overalls. The straps needed some serious lowering to overcome the unsightly moose knuckle and cut his balls some slack.

One thing your character, Ruth Roth, would never say.

‘Yes. I will fit in and do as everyone else does.’ 

(Ruth tried being a sheep for a while, but the only one she excelled at was the black sheep—a tough role for a kid, but ultimately, a cool position in adulthood.)

What are you working on right now?

I’m working on Book 4 in the series. It’s another romantic comedy, but with a difference: it has a theme of espionage. Not saying any more, though, because it’s, well, undercover work.

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I’m happy to report that I have basically become inured to Paula’s humour. I almost spat my coffee only four times reading her answers. And I did not pee in my pants. Not even once. I am a rock. I did nip to the loo just before reading. But we don’t need to tell Paula that. Because that would be TMI, right? Ya, I feel you nodding.

Here’s some information about Cupid F*cks Up. It’s the second book in the series. And I absolutely LOVED it! See my review here. While you’re over at my other post, check out additional details on books one and three in this series.

BLURB

Ruth Roth is a straight shooter. Pity Cupid’s not.

Smart-mouth Ruth is an inspirational humour columnist for a popular women’s magazine. Recently divorced, she has found the love of her life. Without any help, mind you, from the little fat love god. Ruth has decided she herself is her one and only.

And she’s in a comfy place. Why wouldn’t she be? No need to yell, ‘Put the bloody toilet seat down!’ No need to hoover toe-nail clippings off the carpet.

But then a silver-tongued Prince Charming fronts up in his shiny Merc and tickles her discarded, little-girl fantasies. He tells her their love is written in the stars.

It must be a misprint!

A romance with this particular PC is not so PC. Still …

Ruth’s life plays out more like ancient myth than fairytale. And what hot-blooded woman can resist forbidden fruit?

There’s a problem, though. Ruth does not have a hot-blooded mum. Ruth has a pain-in-the-arse mum whose squawking disapproval cranks the taboo up a notch.

All the more reason to take up with the stud. But it means taking on the harpy.

Tensions mount, and even Ruth’s man can’t protect her from the trash-talking voices in her head. It looks like he can’t muzzle his own either. When an earth-shattering revelation causes him to give her grief, it makes her feel like she’s dating her mother.

Taking the kind of advice she doles out to her readers is not so easy. And Ruth wonders if this love can survive. More to the point, is it worth the trouble?

‘The hallmark of a great writer is their ability to make their characters, the situations they find themselves in, and the feelings they experience, entirely relatable for the reader. Paula Houseman did it [in Odyssey] and does it now. Sometimes in a series, the author’s writing dips and we are not as wowed by the second book as we are the first, not so here. The author has presented us with another laugh-out-loud, face-achingly funny, exploration of family and relationships.’

— The Heartshaped Bluestocking

PURCHASE LINKS

Amazon:Odyssey in a Teacup | Cupid F*cks Up | My Troyboy is a Twat

Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | iBooks | Kobo | Booktopia (Cupid F*cks Up & My Troyboy is a Twat)

SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS

Twitter | Goodreads | LinkedIn | Facebook | Instagram

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I hope she’s in superwriter mode right now. I’ve been waiting patiently for months and months for book four. When I say that, I mean at the time of writing this post, I have been waiting for exactly fourteen days. Oh, and whack an IM in front of patiently.

One last thing, because we’re celebrating Australia day…

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From which she has taken a rather hefty bite. She does this. Every single time she sends food. (See all the other bitten things in this post: Paula Houseman’s Books & Bitten Care packages.) I’m trying to stay calm about it. Not easy since Aussie pies are thin on the ground in the Kingdom of Thailand.

Have a great Australia Day. Hope you do something to celebrate. In case you’re at a loss as to how you can celebrate accordingly, let me offer some suggestions. Get a coffee and a Tim Tam and do the quintessentially Australian Tim Tam Suck (a.k.a. Tim Tam Slam). Whatever you call it, it’s damn good. Watch this tutorial in case you don’t know how to do the TTS. Throw a shrimp (which is actually a prawn) on the barbie (barbeque/grill—not the doll). Bake a pavlova. If those other Antipodeans *whispers* (the ones from that place that starts with New and ends with Zealand) try to tell you pavs came from there, just ignore them. Eat a meat pie. *sniffles* Hug a koala (or watch a video of one). Find a human Australian and hug them. Make sure you alert them first. They’re pretty easygoing but may get testy if you envelop them without warning. Or here’s a…novel idea 😉: read a book from an Australian author. How about that funny one, whatshername up there, with the suit and a penchant for biting my food.

Take care, folks. Have a good one (as we say back home). And happy reading. xx Sayara

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