The Four Year Rule
Hello! And thanks to Delilah for hosting me today!
Excuse my excessive use of exclamation points today, my book just came out this morning and I’m pretty excited. I mean, I know as an author I’m going to be excited about every book, but this is my first book in my first series, and it’s about something I really love.
I know, looking at me you’d never guess I like a little ink, would you? I knew at a young age, probably around fourteen, that I wanted tattoos. Thankfully I did not share this almost certain knowledge with my parents. They’re still reeling from a very recent revelation that I have tattoos. And by recent, I mean they found out about a month ago, and I’ve had them since I was twenty-one.
There’s something about tattoos, the expression of art and personality on one’s very skin that’s always fascinated me. I knew from an early age what I wanted my first tattoo to be, but at about sixteen, I recognized that I was young and stupid and prone to making rash decisions. Somewhere in that time period I came up with a rule.
The four year rule.
It’s simple really. I have to want a tattoo for four years before I get it. My reasoning has always been that if I can settle on an image for four years with only minor tweaking, it must be something I really want and will be happy with in the long run. A big part of this is also getting an artist who can not only execute what I want but also bring it to live on the skin.
To date I’ve gotten five (or seven depending on who you ask) tattoos. With the exception of one, the four year rule has held steady. The one that was not planned in detail was planned in spirit. I don’t suggest people get matching tattoos or names typically, but my brother and I did get matching tattoos located on our under arm. A very sensitive place!
So what tattoos do I have? I have what’s called a backpiece, one big tattoo that stretches from my hips to my shoulders. A half-sleeve, which is a single tattoo that goes from my shoulder to just above my elbow. My sibling tattoo that’s about the size of my palm. In the picture above you can see my two pair of tattoos. I have Hebrew on each shoulder, and in the hollow on each shoulder I have half of the claddagh. Each tattoo means something. I’m a fan of doing tattoos that mean something or tell a story. It’s always fun to be approached by a complete stranger interested in the stories on my skin. I guess in a way, ink was the first medium in which I published a book.
I have quite a few in the works for the future. I want to get my left half-sleeve done, and a smattering of smaller tattoos, only two of which have met the required four year rule. So who knows, maybe next year I’ll be sporting some new ink?
So what about you? Do you have tattoos? Do you like them? Do you want them?
Tell me about your tattoo dreams! One commenter will win an ebook copy of my book, Under His Skin.
It can never be said that Sidney Bristol has had a ‘normal’ life. She is a recovering roller derby queen, former missionary, and tattoo addict. She grew up in a motor-home on the US highways (with an occasional jaunt into Canada and Mexico), traveling the rodeo circuit with her parents. Sidney has lived abroad in both Russia and Thailand, working with children and teenagers. She now lives in Texas where she splits her time between a job she loves, writing, reading and belly dancing.
Toe-curling kisses and enough sex to fill a weekend were all Pandora wanted from a fling with her teenage crush. She’s never forgotten how he played the knight in shining armor to her damsel in distress. She’s ready to say thank you in several naughty ways, so long as she can walk away when it’s over with her heart intact.
A man moving on from tragedy…
Brian has no intention of allowing the feisty tattoo artist to leave him after one taste. He hasn’t had enough of her inked curves. The packaging might have changed, but Pandy is the woman he hasn’t been able to excise from his memory. He’s ready to put together a new life, one that includes her. But he’s not the only one vying for her attention. Someone else wants her, dead or alive.
Pandora swirled the glass of Tuaca and downed it in three gulps. The smooth brandy slid down her throat and sent warm fuzzies coursing through her body. She couldn’t get drunk fast enough.
A weight settled against her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut, chanting, No, no, no! Read the rest of this entry »