I took all the entries and wrote the names out. Put the slips in a bag, shook it up and drew. The winner of the copy of Seeing Me and the deck of Ellora's Silver Screen playing cards is:
Molly Daniels!
Congratulations Molly. If you'll email me at jae@jacquelineroth.com and let me know what format you want your book in and what address I should mail the cards to, I'll get them out to you.
I am surprisingly unsunburned today. I have very fair skin that matches my sandy brown hair and blue eyes. I can (I swear this to you, I did it just last week) burn through the car window. I'm fairly close to vampire status where sun and flaming skin are concerned. But aside from a bit of pink on the back of my neck, the one place I was assured I did not need more sunscreen, I am only a pink tinged person at the moment.
We spent the morning at the Georgia Renaissance Festival. Today was the last day and we had to miss the festival last year because I had a dislocated knee. Not something I recommend to anyone. I love looking at all the crafts and vendors shops. We have our own costumes that we use for other things throughout the year, but we always decide not to dress for the actual festival and I always regret it once we’re there.
What could we possibly use them for during the year? Well for me it’s the introduction to fairytales, folktales, myths and legends that I do for my students. I have a light blue over dress, shift and a big floppy hat that I use to dress as Mother Goose for the opening of that unit. Even at the middle school age they get a kick out of it. I also have a costume for the start of Greek Mythology that dresses me in a chiton. I’m still looking for a gold oil lamp to complete that costume as if I have to dress as a goddess I’d prefer to be Hestia. She’s my favorite of the Greek pantheon because she’s so devoted to just helping people. She never gets involved in their wars or battles. She’s sort of like the divine Switzerland. I have a WIP that includes her as a minor character.
Every year we go past the swords and staffs and every year I really want to buy one of the staff’s that has the blade on one end. I’m going to do it eventually because it’s going to be the weapon of choice for a character that hasn’t been given a story yet. She has to wait a while before she can be “born”. I also prefer the staffs in general for myself. My stepfather was a military man. He believed all of us girls should be able to defend ourselves. He taught us not just your basic self defense moves, but he also taught us to use things like throwing stars. And I learned the use of the staff from him. If you know how to use one, you can find a suitable substitute almost anywhere. That’s probably why my heroine in my first “battle scene” used a staff.
Oh, and he also taught us all how to take down a man with one finger. There’s this pressure point that if you can hit it… crying on their knees, my friends. But for legal reasons I’m not going to tell you where it is. All I need is for someone to hurt someone because they read my blog. And no, it’s not where you think though he always taught us to go for that if we could. He was very nervous about having several teenage daughters. This is the man who dragged out his knife collection and started sharpening them the first time a boy who wasn’t family or part of our neighborhood gang came over to my house. He wanted no question as to his position on things.
We did buy some interesting things today. I bought a print of Azriel-The Angel of Death. It’s this gorgeous black and white print by Ruth Thompson. She does a whole series of the Arch-Angels. My SO was more practical. Drawing on the “Catch the Reading Bug” theme of the 2008 summer reading program for libraries we ended up with a pendant and a bracelet that contain actual bugs. The bugs are enclosed in clear acrylic and have natural cording or leather straps. They are sure to be a hit with the kids this summer. I also raided the natural tea shop and stocked up for the year. The flower tea they sell is wonderful and the company doesn’t have online capability so I have to wait for the Ren Fest every year.
Taking a break from excerpts today and I don’t have any new reads to recommend. I’ve been spending my free time working on a couple of bibs. And I keep getting shot down on my suggestions for painting the new dresser. I like painting the base white to match the walls and then painting each door front a different primary or secondary color. This from the person whose house was done in purely black and white before I moved in and started mussing about and adding…gasp…color!
Showing posts with label Seeing Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seeing Me. Show all posts
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Last day of Contest
Last day for the contest to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of my usual writing spurt. Summer is when I get most of my writing done. So, I will put the names of everyone who responds to my blog this week into a hat and draw. I’ll give the winner a copy of Seeing Me and a deck of the Ellora’s Cave Silver Screen playing cards.
We went shopping at the local Goodwill today. For those not familiar with Goodwill, it’s provider of education, training, and career services for people with disadvantages, such as welfare dependency, homelessness, and lack of education or work experience, as well as those with physical, mental and emotional disabilities. People donate clothing and household goods that are then cleaned up by the workers and then sold in a second hand store. I have absolutely no qualms about second hand, be it a yard sale, consignment or second hand. Besides, after spending my first ten years after college working with adults with developmental disabilities, I know how important the community employment programs are.
We picked up a dresser for the baby’s room. We’re finally allowed to buy stuff. My SO is incredibly superstitious and had put a first trimester moratorium on all purchases. Having a friend whose little girl is about a year older than ours will be has come in handy as we’ve bought a good deal of her infant stuff —car seat, stroller etc. We have an ultrasound on Monday, but it’s too soon to tell the sex. At least I think it is. I’m planning on painting book characters on the walls of the room and the top of the dresser will be perfect to use as a changing table with the addition of a nice plastic pad and a bumper guard. Those can be easily removed when the child grows up.
While out dropping my Cavalier to be groomed today I saw one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen. We’re talking looks like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel gorgeous. Dark hair, chiseled face, light gray eyes and a rather fine backside as well. My greatest disappointment was that he wasn’t OUR server at the restaurant. My point? I saw a gorgeous guy, do I really need a point? Oh, and when I say our, my SO was with me. My “Mother of all that’s holy!” got me an eye roll and a shake of the head. Of course I explained it was purely a professional response. Such a guy would make great cover model and if I can capture his features with my words he might make a great hero in a story someday. It was pointed out to me that “Mother of all that’s holy” might fall a bit short on the descriptive front. I explained that I’m certain that you would all get it.
Tonight’s excerpt comes from Mating Stone and introduces a man so beautiful that he is sex personified.
EXCERPT:
Her eyes widened as a man stood up and looked at them. Holy hell! Mark was gorgeous. She adored Mark. Mark made her toes curl and her insides melt. But this man was beyond anything she’d ever seen before. He was desire, he was sex.
His long blond hair hung almost to his waist, flowing loosely around his shoulders. It wasn’t a brash platinum blond but shone like polished gold in the reflected firelight. His eyes were the most blue she’d ever seen, they almost glowed. No one had eyes like that unless they were retouched by special effects experts. It must be a trick of the light, she decided.
He was inches taller than Mark and wore only a neat pair of black slacks. His feet and chest were bare. Sarah felt something very warm begin deep inside her as she looked at that chest. It was tanned and smooth. The way the flicker firelight cast shadows highlighted the definition of the abs and tempted Sarah. The sharply etched muscles seemed to demand she trace them. With hands, lips, tongue, whatever was handy. He didn’t speak but watched her for a minute before smiling. Her body reacted to that smile shamelessly. He broke eye contact and shifted his gaze to Mark.
Sara drew in a sharp breath. What is wrong with you? Mark is standing right behind you and you’re ogling some strange guy. She groaned inwardly. You’re ogling his friend, a guy he called more than a brother.
Mark’s hands came up to rest on her shoulders. She turned to steal a glance at him and saw him smiling down at her. “It’s okay Sarah. Tarris often has that effect on people, men and women. He’s one of the most beautiful beings you’ll ever see.”
She flushed bright red and covered her face with her hands. Mark’s voice came from close to her ear. “He says you are beautiful too.”
Looking up she saw the smile had widened on Tarris’ face. He nodded his agreement with Mark’s words. “But you didn’t speak.” Sarah frowned.
Tarris shook his head, his lips parting to show her straight white teeth. A shiver ran through her and sank deep into the pit of her stomach.
Mark stepped around her. He grabbed his friend in a firm embrace and the two exchanged the manliest hug Sarah had ever seen. Arm still draped around Tarris, Mark turned to her. “Tarris doesn’t speak like you or I.”
“You’re mute?” she asked and he nodded in reply. “But you can hear?”
Tarris nodded again.
“Do you use sign language?” Sarah had learned a bit of finger spelling at summer camp.
The long hair caught the firelight and shimmered as the handsome head shook, the blue eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Don’t worry, he gets his point across,” Mark said wryly, tightening his arm around his friend’s shoulders. A silent laugh shook the blond man’s shoulders. Mark turned to him. “Sarah’s head is feeling funny.” The tone of his voice was as odd as the look he gave his friend. The blue eyes opened wide as if in innocent surprise but his grin twisted up his face revealing a single dimpled cheek. “Right,” Mark said. “Sarah, why don’t you lie down. Tarris and I will have a little talk while you rest.”
“Mark it’s okay, My head will be fine.”
Tarris looked at her intently and gestured toward the bed. She didn’t need Mark to interpret. He too thought she should lie down.
“I can’t just take a nap,” she reasoned with them. “In the middle of your family’s party.”
“Sarah this “party” will go on for hours. No one will notice. Lie down, my love and rest.”
I don’t…” She was halted by Tarris coming toward her quickly. He reached out and touched her hand. The world swayed and she found herself being swept up into two strong arms. The scent of his skin swirled in her head. He smelt overwhelmingly masculine. An indistinct combination of sandalwood, odd spices, a burning fire and the musky smell of a man’s neck as a woman curled her face into it in the afterglow of hot, passionate sex.
“Show off,” Mark snorted from where he’d already taken a seat in one of the chairs. “It’s probably the heat of the room, Sarah. Tarzan here thinks it should feel like Miami in August. Thankfully it’s winter or he’d be wearing even less.” Tarris smiled down at her gently and shook his head. His expression was playful and said clearly that Mark was positively silly and was not to be believed. He laid her carefully on the bed and slipped off her shoes before pulling a soft blanket from the foot of the bed over her. A charming curve to his lips, he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. His touch corresponded inexplicably with the thickening of the fogginess in her brain and her eyes felt heavy.
“Sweet dreams, Sarah-mine,” Mark’s voice sounded far away as she drifted off to sleep.
We went shopping at the local Goodwill today. For those not familiar with Goodwill, it’s provider of education, training, and career services for people with disadvantages, such as welfare dependency, homelessness, and lack of education or work experience, as well as those with physical, mental and emotional disabilities. People donate clothing and household goods that are then cleaned up by the workers and then sold in a second hand store. I have absolutely no qualms about second hand, be it a yard sale, consignment or second hand. Besides, after spending my first ten years after college working with adults with developmental disabilities, I know how important the community employment programs are.
We picked up a dresser for the baby’s room. We’re finally allowed to buy stuff. My SO is incredibly superstitious and had put a first trimester moratorium on all purchases. Having a friend whose little girl is about a year older than ours will be has come in handy as we’ve bought a good deal of her infant stuff —car seat, stroller etc. We have an ultrasound on Monday, but it’s too soon to tell the sex. At least I think it is. I’m planning on painting book characters on the walls of the room and the top of the dresser will be perfect to use as a changing table with the addition of a nice plastic pad and a bumper guard. Those can be easily removed when the child grows up.
While out dropping my Cavalier to be groomed today I saw one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen. We’re talking looks like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel gorgeous. Dark hair, chiseled face, light gray eyes and a rather fine backside as well. My greatest disappointment was that he wasn’t OUR server at the restaurant. My point? I saw a gorgeous guy, do I really need a point? Oh, and when I say our, my SO was with me. My “Mother of all that’s holy!” got me an eye roll and a shake of the head. Of course I explained it was purely a professional response. Such a guy would make great cover model and if I can capture his features with my words he might make a great hero in a story someday. It was pointed out to me that “Mother of all that’s holy” might fall a bit short on the descriptive front. I explained that I’m certain that you would all get it.
Tonight’s excerpt comes from Mating Stone and introduces a man so beautiful that he is sex personified.EXCERPT:
Her eyes widened as a man stood up and looked at them. Holy hell! Mark was gorgeous. She adored Mark. Mark made her toes curl and her insides melt. But this man was beyond anything she’d ever seen before. He was desire, he was sex.
His long blond hair hung almost to his waist, flowing loosely around his shoulders. It wasn’t a brash platinum blond but shone like polished gold in the reflected firelight. His eyes were the most blue she’d ever seen, they almost glowed. No one had eyes like that unless they were retouched by special effects experts. It must be a trick of the light, she decided.
He was inches taller than Mark and wore only a neat pair of black slacks. His feet and chest were bare. Sarah felt something very warm begin deep inside her as she looked at that chest. It was tanned and smooth. The way the flicker firelight cast shadows highlighted the definition of the abs and tempted Sarah. The sharply etched muscles seemed to demand she trace them. With hands, lips, tongue, whatever was handy. He didn’t speak but watched her for a minute before smiling. Her body reacted to that smile shamelessly. He broke eye contact and shifted his gaze to Mark.
Sara drew in a sharp breath. What is wrong with you? Mark is standing right behind you and you’re ogling some strange guy. She groaned inwardly. You’re ogling his friend, a guy he called more than a brother.
Mark’s hands came up to rest on her shoulders. She turned to steal a glance at him and saw him smiling down at her. “It’s okay Sarah. Tarris often has that effect on people, men and women. He’s one of the most beautiful beings you’ll ever see.”
She flushed bright red and covered her face with her hands. Mark’s voice came from close to her ear. “He says you are beautiful too.”
Looking up she saw the smile had widened on Tarris’ face. He nodded his agreement with Mark’s words. “But you didn’t speak.” Sarah frowned.
Tarris shook his head, his lips parting to show her straight white teeth. A shiver ran through her and sank deep into the pit of her stomach.
Mark stepped around her. He grabbed his friend in a firm embrace and the two exchanged the manliest hug Sarah had ever seen. Arm still draped around Tarris, Mark turned to her. “Tarris doesn’t speak like you or I.”
“You’re mute?” she asked and he nodded in reply. “But you can hear?”
Tarris nodded again.
“Do you use sign language?” Sarah had learned a bit of finger spelling at summer camp.
The long hair caught the firelight and shimmered as the handsome head shook, the blue eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Don’t worry, he gets his point across,” Mark said wryly, tightening his arm around his friend’s shoulders. A silent laugh shook the blond man’s shoulders. Mark turned to him. “Sarah’s head is feeling funny.” The tone of his voice was as odd as the look he gave his friend. The blue eyes opened wide as if in innocent surprise but his grin twisted up his face revealing a single dimpled cheek. “Right,” Mark said. “Sarah, why don’t you lie down. Tarris and I will have a little talk while you rest.”
“Mark it’s okay, My head will be fine.”
Tarris looked at her intently and gestured toward the bed. She didn’t need Mark to interpret. He too thought she should lie down.
“I can’t just take a nap,” she reasoned with them. “In the middle of your family’s party.”
“Sarah this “party” will go on for hours. No one will notice. Lie down, my love and rest.”
I don’t…” She was halted by Tarris coming toward her quickly. He reached out and touched her hand. The world swayed and she found herself being swept up into two strong arms. The scent of his skin swirled in her head. He smelt overwhelmingly masculine. An indistinct combination of sandalwood, odd spices, a burning fire and the musky smell of a man’s neck as a woman curled her face into it in the afterglow of hot, passionate sex.
“Show off,” Mark snorted from where he’d already taken a seat in one of the chairs. “It’s probably the heat of the room, Sarah. Tarzan here thinks it should feel like Miami in August. Thankfully it’s winter or he’d be wearing even less.” Tarris smiled down at her gently and shook his head. His expression was playful and said clearly that Mark was positively silly and was not to be believed. He laid her carefully on the bed and slipped off her shoes before pulling a soft blanket from the foot of the bed over her. A charming curve to his lips, he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. His touch corresponded inexplicably with the thickening of the fogginess in her brain and her eyes felt heavy.
“Sweet dreams, Sarah-mine,” Mark’s voice sounded far away as she drifted off to sleep.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Light at the End of the Tunnel
Two more days left on the contest to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of my usual writing spurt. Summer is when I get most of my writing done. So, I will put the names of everyone who responds to my blog this week into a hat and draw. I’ll give the winner a copy of Seeing Me and a deck of the Ellora’s Cave Silver Screen playing cards.
Luke sat up slowly and lifted his hand. He opened his palm. In the center lay a rough cut, bright red stone. It glowed and vibrated in his hand. The pulse that moved through him made his body stir. He heard a voice in the back of his mind whisper his name. Lifting the roughly heart-shaped gem he looked into it and saw a raven-haired siren with bright blue eyes gazing back at him.
“Oh shit,” Luke closed his eyes. This was not happening. This could not happen. That stone. He’d not come here seeking it but there was no mistaking it. He felt her somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt her body against him though she wasn’t there. He smelled her on his skin. The woman had been real and in his hand lay the proof of it. In his hand lay his mating stone.
Him? The man his own brother referred to as Lucas “screw the whole world and everyone in it” Ursine? And that was when he wasn’t pissed at him. But how? To whom? He had to see the Oracle. The Oracle would know. He looked at the stone again. A ruby? He searched his mind for an explanation. Why was he holding a July stone? Bears didn’t give birth in July. As Weres—shapeshifters whose bodies were tied to the animal whose spirit they shared, in their case the bear—they too had “seasons”. Late fall and winter were the birthing months. Spring and early summer the months of conception.
This meant only one thing. She wasn’t one of his people. There were few species in this world with whom a Were could mate. They could mate with the angelus, winged creatures humans often mistook for divine beings. Though rare, they could also join to the fey, a varied group of little creatures that humans called faeries or gnomes. And humans. And since the woman who had just given him the most intense orgasm of his life didn’t have wings and she had full, lush, mouthwatering curves it could mean only one thing. His destined mate was a human.
Luke glared angrily at the red stone. “Just my fucking luck.”
The last day of school for my students finally arrived today. Every year it seems that the students just don’t believe that we teachers are just as happy, if not more so, as they are to have the last days arrive. I love my kids. I really do. But by this time of the year we are all sick of each other. I know parents have to have their kids a lot longer than we as teachers do, but there are a couple of key differences I’d like to point out. First of all, I didn’t birth them, adopt them or take on the care and raising of them. (My editor would point out that I should say rearing and not raising, but this is my blog and I don’t have to follow publisher’s style here.) Since they are not my children I don’t have that deep rooted love of them that you have as a parent. I like your kids, I love your kids. But I don’t have that parental chip that makes me LOVE your kids. Secondly, your children do not have to sit in one place for seven hours and be quiet at home. Imagine a road trip with your child that lasted for 7 hours each day over 180 days. That might be a more appropriate analogy.
The last day of school went rather well this year. With a few notable exceptions, the students did a great job keeping it together until they loaded on the buses. The first of the notable exceptions occurred sometime last night. When I drove up to school this morning I was greeted by yards upon yards of waving toilet paper handing from trees, bushes, the building, and pretty much anything that stood still. Slogans from one of the rival middle schools were scrawled on the sidewalk and backside of the building. (A clever ruse to fool us into thinking the vandals were not our students.)
Now rolling (as spreading toilet paper all over the place is called) is vandalism and it’s wrong, boys and girls. But I have to admit to laughing as I drove into the parking lot. There was something so quaint and innocent about the act that surprised me considering how worldly-wise so many of our kids are. So several of us early birds grabbed garbage bags and went out to start cleanup. Many hands made light work and we chatted and laughed a bit as we cleaned up. It was wrong, but something about the act reminded me that we were dealing with children, with babies in many ways.
I received a group personal apology from the culprits later that day that I kept a stern and imposing face for. But as I looked at their faces, most very sincere, I was grateful to them for reminding me that there are still seeds of the innocence of childhood trapped inside their pubescent bodies. I think it put me in much more of a mood to deal with end of school silliness today than I might otherwise have been.
But I can’t quite start singing school’s out yet. I have a few more teacher days to go.
I’ve had a reviewer and a couple of readers comment recently about the hero in Seeing Me. You see he doesn’t have a name. At no point in the story do I give the actor in question a name. My decision seems vindicated by the response I’ve gotten which all came from people who got why I didn’t name him. I wanted the reader to be able to see whoever, whatever “type” they found most appealing into the role. Are you a Harrison Ford lover? See him in the part. George Clooney? Yep, could be him. Johnny Depp? Orlando Bloom? Or even my friend Llew’s favorite Sean Bean? Yep, could be him.
Who did I see in the role? That I’ll never tell.
Today’s excerpt comes from the July release Lovers’ Stone. Luke Ursine is the brother of Mark Ursine whose story was told in Mating Stone. Luke is your typical bad boy, a full on alpha male who loves to play the Dom. While standing watch for a family member who was searching for his mating stone in the clan’s sacred caves, Luke falls asleep only to be awakened by the sound of someone calling his name.
EXCERPT: Caution. Some adult language and content.
Luke rose and walked slowly to the archway and stopped. Each of the other twelve corridors led to rooms that held stones. A male picked the path whose stones corresponded to the birth stone of the female he hoped to mate with. Only one stone in the tens of thousands that filled this mountain would support the mating of a particular couple. Supposedly if the mating was not meant to be, he would not find the stone. Wade had searched through hundreds of gems to find the right one. He’d told Luke it had sung to him the minute he touched it. Wade said it had glowed and the face of his future mate had appeared in its depths. More, it had vibrated in such a way that he’d become instantly aroused and his need to join with his mate had burned like a fire in his body.
But this center corridor, this thirteenth passage was one that was never used. It could not be entered except by those who were called. And to Luke’s knowledge no one had been called down this path in so long what lay at its end had become legend. An oasis of lovers’ stones the lore said. A collection of stones from each of the caves but they were more than just simple mating stones. These stones were for those Weres who were tied to another by destiny. The two bound by a lovers’ stone were destined for more than mating bliss. Theirs was to be a great life-long love. To Luke it sounded like more than legend. It sounded like bullshit.
The mist swirled around him and Luke’s legs carried him of their own volition through the arch and down the narrow tunnel. There were no torches here, only the glow of the golden fog lit his way. He heard the voice call again. “Where are you? I can’t see you.” It was a woman’s voice.
He heard nothing but the voice. Not even his inexplicably bare feet made a sound on the stone floor. He took turn after turn following the light that pulled him along. Abruptly the fog rose to the ceiling just in front of him taking the shape of a doorway through which he could not see. He heard her calling again. She was looking for someone. She was looking for him. The realization lifted something inside him. He stepped through a large bank of the golden mist and found himself in a vaulted chamber. In the center of the room was a shimmering pool surrounded by large low pallets filled with cushions and pillows. Directly across from him an identical doorway had formed. Before it, watching him with large frightened eyes was a woman. Her long black hair was loose and flowed down her back. The blue eyes glowed so brightly for a moment he considered that she might be a succubus but dismissed the thought. No creature could have gained entrance here except those who were like him. Only another Were could have entered the cave, let alone this most sacred place. Or that was what they’d always been told.
The woman was dressed in a long, red satin nightgown with thin straps that barely contained the full breasts that threatened to overflow the bodice. Her hips curved in a way that made a man long to run his hands over them, to hold tightly to them as he thrust inside her. The pull she seemed to be exerting over him was stronger than any desire he’d ever felt. Screw mating stones, just looking at this woman was making him hard.
[…]
He opened his eyes slowly and they focused on a large vaulted ceiling painted with gold and silver celestial patterns. He was instantly awake. He wasn’t in the outer room. He wasn’t sleeping on the bench. He remembered in a flash of panic. He was in the inner chamber lying on a soft pallet of cushions. The forbidden inner chamber. He lay there listening to Rand’s voice but not hearing it. Because beyond the inconvenience of being in a chamber that was supposed to be off limits, beyond the fact that he was lying there naked was the fact that he could feel something cool and hard clenched in his left hand.
Luke sat up slowly and lifted his hand. He opened his palm. In the center lay a rough cut, bright red stone. It glowed and vibrated in his hand. The pulse that moved through him made his body stir. He heard a voice in the back of his mind whisper his name. Lifting the roughly heart-shaped gem he looked into it and saw a raven-haired siren with bright blue eyes gazing back at him.
“Oh shit,” Luke closed his eyes. This was not happening. This could not happen. That stone. He’d not come here seeking it but there was no mistaking it. He felt her somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt her body against him though she wasn’t there. He smelled her on his skin. The woman had been real and in his hand lay the proof of it. In his hand lay his mating stone.
Him? The man his own brother referred to as Lucas “screw the whole world and everyone in it” Ursine? And that was when he wasn’t pissed at him. But how? To whom? He had to see the Oracle. The Oracle would know. He looked at the stone again. A ruby? He searched his mind for an explanation. Why was he holding a July stone? Bears didn’t give birth in July. As Weres—shapeshifters whose bodies were tied to the animal whose spirit they shared, in their case the bear—they too had “seasons”. Late fall and winter were the birthing months. Spring and early summer the months of conception.
This meant only one thing. She wasn’t one of his people. There were few species in this world with whom a Were could mate. They could mate with the angelus, winged creatures humans often mistook for divine beings. Though rare, they could also join to the fey, a varied group of little creatures that humans called faeries or gnomes. And humans. And since the woman who had just given him the most intense orgasm of his life didn’t have wings and she had full, lush, mouthwatering curves it could mean only one thing. His destined mate was a human.
Luke glared angrily at the red stone. “Just my fucking luck.”
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Decline of...Something.
I’m still offering a contest to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of my usual writing spurt. Summer is when I get most of my writing done. So, I will put the names of everyone who responds to my blog this week into a hat and draw. I’ll give the winner a copy of Seeing Me and a deck of the Ellora’s Cave Silver Screen playing cards.
I have to admit that in recent times I’ve been very happy about my quiet little life. But I’ve also become very worried about what is happening to our society and the way that we are showing increasing disrespect toward our fellow human beings. I’ve been more and more sickened by the feeding frenzy that seems to surround individuals who choose to entertain others as part of the way they make a living for themselves and their families.
Yes, I know that when someone becomes a celebrity there is a certain amount of give on the degree of privacy you can expect. If you’re at a public event, someone is going to take your picture. But I’m fairly certain that no where in the contracts of the actors, actresses and musicians of the world are there clauses that say that they give up the right to be human beings and have real lives. They have jobs. Jobs just like the rest of us. I teach children. My dad manufactured cars. My mom was a nanny. Some people carry the mail. Some people fix our cars or computers or sell us things at the local grocery store. None of us gives up our rights to privacy because of our jobs. For the celebrity, their jobs are to make a product that we can view or listen to that will bring entertainment.
Recent photographs of Angelina Jolie have made news because they were topless. But the way I heard the story the woman was inside off a balcony of a house she was staying in when someone caught her with a high power telephoto lens. Excuse me. She wasn’t outside at a topless beach. Then, feel free to click away. She was in the confines of a house where she had an expectation of privacy. If Joe next door took his telephoto lens into his back yard and took pictures of you as you undressed in your own home he’d get arrested. The photographer who photographed Jolie gets paid.
Why do we find it acceptable to strip away someone’s right to be treated with dignity and respect (and trust me there are a lot of other people I’d rather be making this argument on behalf of than Jolie)? I’ve seen two partial episodes of the television show TMZ while waiting for the next program to begin. I was sickened and horrified. During one segment, again on Jolie and her partner Brad Pitt, the photographer was filming them with their sons getting into their car. One of the men present could be clearly heard to call the boys “adoption lottery winners.” That is crude, cruel and crass. Now it’s okay to make their small children the butts of our jokes and to demean their family?
I worry about what this says about our society. How little respect we seem to have for each other’s humanity.
STORY BIT FOR TODAY…
In honor of the blog topic above it just seems right to post another excerpt from Seeing Me. Seeing Me is the story of a new author who is attending her first convention. She is pleasantly surprised to be on the panel with Him. He is a box office star who finds himself under attack by one of the writers on the panel. Cara jumps to his defense and finds that she has his attention along with the attention of everyone in the large ballroom.
When she’s asked to come upstairs for a private signing, she’s stunned to find out it’s for Him. But a slip of the tongue just may ruin any chance she has of getting to know Him better.
EXCERPT;
He sat down next to her and lifted his glass. He took a swallow of the contents then leaned back. “I asked you up here because I wanted to ask you to sign your book for me.”
“You’ve really read my book?” The words and the accompanying incredulity landed between them with an almost audible thud.
He frowned. “Yes. Didn’t my assistant tell you that you were being asked up to sign your book?”
“Yes, but...”
“But you didn’t figure someone like me had read it.”
“No. I never dreamed someone like you would have read it,” she admitted. She was pulling a large sip from her own glass when he stood up and walked away toward the windows.
“I see. You’re surprised that someone like me would even attempt to read such a work. I might muddle through a script alright, but real books are something else.”
She stared at him in shock. “I didn’t say that. That’s not what I meant.”
“Right.” He turned to face her, the orange rays of the sun backlighting him, a golden corona forming about him. His face was blank, a calm practiced look of boredom, but his eyes seemed to be alight with something more. His voice, when he spoke again, betrayed the bitter edge of anger. “It’s fine. I’ve heard it before. Actors are just parrots, right? They look pretty and showy and repeat whatever lines they are taught but understanding those lines is beyond them. We’re just a bunch of ridiculous boys and plasticized bimbos who drink too much, party too much and make way too much money for standing around playing pretend like a bunch of preschoolers. Look, I’m sorry I got you out of your reception.”
“Wait a minute,” she stood up. “That isn’t what I meant and I certainly never said those things. It seems to me that if anyone is jumping to stereotypes here, it’s you. I’m a writer so I must be self-important and egotistical? I must be absolutely certain that every word that falls from my pen is pure genius? Someone’s ego is involved here but I don’t think it’s mine.”
He just looked at her, his brow creasing, slight confusion etched on his face. The hurt was still in those dark eyes, and it was as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was really hearing the words she was saying.
“Look when I said I didn’t expect someone like you to have read my book I meant I didn’t expect it would even be noticed by someone like you. It’s an obscure piece of drivel by an unknown author who only got invited today because she’s a local girl. Hell, if I hadn’t been a volunteer for this convention for the last few years no one here would have given me the time of day.” She wanted him to believe her. Wanted it badly. For some reason it mattered a great deal that he believe she hadn’t been demeaning his intelligence. “I can’t believe any of those people today actually took time out of their lives to read my book, let alone someone like you who has people pulling him in a hundred directions every minute of the day.”
He pursed his lips and his head dropped. Silence filled the room for a long moment as he stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m a bit raw from that confrontation downstairs. You might be surprised how often I get that. Not just what that guy said, but the whole thing. I was a marketing tool today. A new and improved product. Bright and shiny, tell your friends. I was being used to sell this conference, to sell the books of every person on that panel. When you first start out it’s sort of cool, look at me and the power my face has. But after a while it gets old.” He lifted wary eyes to hers. “I’m sorry. I made assumptions that were incorrect.”
She simply nodded. The truth in what he was saying was overwhelming. He was right. Every person there today had treated him like the leggy, breasty bimbo who points to the new model of car and says, “Pretty.” Her included. All she had seen was Him. Her first thoughts, if she were honest with herself, had been about the exposure and the attendance this panel was likely to get. Okay, not really. That was her second thought. Her first thought had been that of a giggling fourteen-year-old teenager who was just told she was going to meet her idol. The great movie star whose presence seemed to turn something inside her to jelly. No, not jelly, lava. Red-hot, cascading, chocolate flavored, lava. Sudden thoughts of the possible uses for warm liquid chocolate filled her mind along with the image of herself lapping up said chocolate. Her face, and everything else, grew even warmer.
He stepped toward her. “The truth is I asked you up here for two reasons. One, because I did read your book and I liked it. I was thrilled when I learned today that you’d be on the panel. I hoped at some point during this conference you might sign it and maybe we could talk about it. I decided to ask you up here to do just that because of what you said down there. Not that you took my side, but that you called the guy out for his hypocrisy.” He let a slow grin slide over his lips, “That and the fact that those were some of the most original metaphors for sex I’d ever seen. Not to mention the accompanying illustration.”
She hadn’t believed it possible, but she flushed even more and he lowered his head. He looked down and then lifted his eyes to hers. The move gave his face a sweet, naughty little boy expression that stirred something inside her. “What do you say? Now that we’ve already had our first fight, do you think we could sit down and talk about your book?”
I have to admit that in recent times I’ve been very happy about my quiet little life. But I’ve also become very worried about what is happening to our society and the way that we are showing increasing disrespect toward our fellow human beings. I’ve been more and more sickened by the feeding frenzy that seems to surround individuals who choose to entertain others as part of the way they make a living for themselves and their families.
Yes, I know that when someone becomes a celebrity there is a certain amount of give on the degree of privacy you can expect. If you’re at a public event, someone is going to take your picture. But I’m fairly certain that no where in the contracts of the actors, actresses and musicians of the world are there clauses that say that they give up the right to be human beings and have real lives. They have jobs. Jobs just like the rest of us. I teach children. My dad manufactured cars. My mom was a nanny. Some people carry the mail. Some people fix our cars or computers or sell us things at the local grocery store. None of us gives up our rights to privacy because of our jobs. For the celebrity, their jobs are to make a product that we can view or listen to that will bring entertainment.
Recent photographs of Angelina Jolie have made news because they were topless. But the way I heard the story the woman was inside off a balcony of a house she was staying in when someone caught her with a high power telephoto lens. Excuse me. She wasn’t outside at a topless beach. Then, feel free to click away. She was in the confines of a house where she had an expectation of privacy. If Joe next door took his telephoto lens into his back yard and took pictures of you as you undressed in your own home he’d get arrested. The photographer who photographed Jolie gets paid.
Why do we find it acceptable to strip away someone’s right to be treated with dignity and respect (and trust me there are a lot of other people I’d rather be making this argument on behalf of than Jolie)? I’ve seen two partial episodes of the television show TMZ while waiting for the next program to begin. I was sickened and horrified. During one segment, again on Jolie and her partner Brad Pitt, the photographer was filming them with their sons getting into their car. One of the men present could be clearly heard to call the boys “adoption lottery winners.” That is crude, cruel and crass. Now it’s okay to make their small children the butts of our jokes and to demean their family?
I worry about what this says about our society. How little respect we seem to have for each other’s humanity.
STORY BIT FOR TODAY…In honor of the blog topic above it just seems right to post another excerpt from Seeing Me. Seeing Me is the story of a new author who is attending her first convention. She is pleasantly surprised to be on the panel with Him. He is a box office star who finds himself under attack by one of the writers on the panel. Cara jumps to his defense and finds that she has his attention along with the attention of everyone in the large ballroom.
When she’s asked to come upstairs for a private signing, she’s stunned to find out it’s for Him. But a slip of the tongue just may ruin any chance she has of getting to know Him better.
EXCERPT;
He sat down next to her and lifted his glass. He took a swallow of the contents then leaned back. “I asked you up here because I wanted to ask you to sign your book for me.”
“You’ve really read my book?” The words and the accompanying incredulity landed between them with an almost audible thud.
He frowned. “Yes. Didn’t my assistant tell you that you were being asked up to sign your book?”
“Yes, but...”
“But you didn’t figure someone like me had read it.”
“No. I never dreamed someone like you would have read it,” she admitted. She was pulling a large sip from her own glass when he stood up and walked away toward the windows.
“I see. You’re surprised that someone like me would even attempt to read such a work. I might muddle through a script alright, but real books are something else.”
She stared at him in shock. “I didn’t say that. That’s not what I meant.”
“Right.” He turned to face her, the orange rays of the sun backlighting him, a golden corona forming about him. His face was blank, a calm practiced look of boredom, but his eyes seemed to be alight with something more. His voice, when he spoke again, betrayed the bitter edge of anger. “It’s fine. I’ve heard it before. Actors are just parrots, right? They look pretty and showy and repeat whatever lines they are taught but understanding those lines is beyond them. We’re just a bunch of ridiculous boys and plasticized bimbos who drink too much, party too much and make way too much money for standing around playing pretend like a bunch of preschoolers. Look, I’m sorry I got you out of your reception.”
“Wait a minute,” she stood up. “That isn’t what I meant and I certainly never said those things. It seems to me that if anyone is jumping to stereotypes here, it’s you. I’m a writer so I must be self-important and egotistical? I must be absolutely certain that every word that falls from my pen is pure genius? Someone’s ego is involved here but I don’t think it’s mine.”
He just looked at her, his brow creasing, slight confusion etched on his face. The hurt was still in those dark eyes, and it was as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was really hearing the words she was saying.
“Look when I said I didn’t expect someone like you to have read my book I meant I didn’t expect it would even be noticed by someone like you. It’s an obscure piece of drivel by an unknown author who only got invited today because she’s a local girl. Hell, if I hadn’t been a volunteer for this convention for the last few years no one here would have given me the time of day.” She wanted him to believe her. Wanted it badly. For some reason it mattered a great deal that he believe she hadn’t been demeaning his intelligence. “I can’t believe any of those people today actually took time out of their lives to read my book, let alone someone like you who has people pulling him in a hundred directions every minute of the day.”He pursed his lips and his head dropped. Silence filled the room for a long moment as he stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m a bit raw from that confrontation downstairs. You might be surprised how often I get that. Not just what that guy said, but the whole thing. I was a marketing tool today. A new and improved product. Bright and shiny, tell your friends. I was being used to sell this conference, to sell the books of every person on that panel. When you first start out it’s sort of cool, look at me and the power my face has. But after a while it gets old.” He lifted wary eyes to hers. “I’m sorry. I made assumptions that were incorrect.”
She simply nodded. The truth in what he was saying was overwhelming. He was right. Every person there today had treated him like the leggy, breasty bimbo who points to the new model of car and says, “Pretty.” Her included. All she had seen was Him. Her first thoughts, if she were honest with herself, had been about the exposure and the attendance this panel was likely to get. Okay, not really. That was her second thought. Her first thought had been that of a giggling fourteen-year-old teenager who was just told she was going to meet her idol. The great movie star whose presence seemed to turn something inside her to jelly. No, not jelly, lava. Red-hot, cascading, chocolate flavored, lava. Sudden thoughts of the possible uses for warm liquid chocolate filled her mind along with the image of herself lapping up said chocolate. Her face, and everything else, grew even warmer.
He stepped toward her. “The truth is I asked you up here for two reasons. One, because I did read your book and I liked it. I was thrilled when I learned today that you’d be on the panel. I hoped at some point during this conference you might sign it and maybe we could talk about it. I decided to ask you up here to do just that because of what you said down there. Not that you took my side, but that you called the guy out for his hypocrisy.” He let a slow grin slide over his lips, “That and the fact that those were some of the most original metaphors for sex I’d ever seen. Not to mention the accompanying illustration.”
She hadn’t believed it possible, but she flushed even more and he lowered his head. He looked down and then lifted his eyes to hers. The move gave his face a sweet, naughty little boy expression that stirred something inside her. “What do you say? Now that we’ve already had our first fight, do you think we could sit down and talk about your book?”
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
It's a Conspiracy
I’m going to offer a contest to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of my usual writing spurt. Summer is when I get most of my writing done. So, I will put the names of everyone who responds to my blog this week into a hat and draw. I’ll give the winner a copy of Seeing Me and a deck of the Ellora’s Cave Silver Screen playing cards.
For some reason that I cannot begin to comprehend, today was Drive Up Jae’s Tailpipe Day in traffic. Every other driver was running up on me in traffic until their headlights disappeared. And I am not a slow driver. I am, in fact, one of those people who believes that the speed limit is more of a general suggestion. But I do not tailgate. It is not only dangerous it is just bad manners. Especially in rush hour traffic.
School is almost out. Three more days of kiddies. Therefore today must have been declared Drive Mrs. Roth Crazy Day as well. It seems as if everyone under the age of 15 has forgotten their common sense and really has no clue where they left it. As if today of all days the rules were suddenly not going to apply to them. Sorry, Jim-Bob, it doesn’t work that way. I swore if I had to tell D to sit down one more time in the 50 minutes he spends in my room he was not going to make it to his next period class. No I’m not threatening bodily harm to a child. I don’t need to. I have a healthy supply of office referrals and I’m not afraid to use them.
And can someone tell me when it became acceptable for the younger generation to toss the word “fag” at each other a dozen times a day? Why do you need to have it explained to you that unless you are in Great Britain and are asking to borrow a smoke, the word is just as offensive as a racial slur? I inevitably end up explaining the etymology of the term each year. For the record. The term is applied to homosexual men because during the middle ages and into the time of the witch hunts in Europe and North America men who were “condemned” of such an “unnatural” act were bound and placed in the fires that were used to burn the witches and heretics. And since the term faggot originally referred to the bundling of sticks for firewood, the term became applied to homosexual men. As I explain to my students, when you use such a term for someone, you are saying their life is so worthless and meaningless that they deserve to be burned to death as kindling for more important criminals. I usually only have to explain this once and then they start censuring each other…at least around me.
Today my copy of the August 2008 Realms of Fantasy came in my mailbox. Do not ask me to explain the rationale behind the August issue appearing in my mailbox in May, because I can’t. What I can tell you is that the ad includes my Cerridwen Press release Measure of Healing. Measure is a paranormal romance about a Were-Cougar Halfling who seeks out the only help he knows of for a young Were-Cougar child who is suffering from sever trauma. Unfortunately, the only help he can find is a human doctor whose secrets could just get them all killed. Measure of Healing is the first story in what I hope becomes a series I’ve tentatively entitled The Children of Semira. I just recently finished the primary draft of the follow-up to Measure. It picks up the story of the young Were-Wolf who shows up at the end of Measure. Her story was originally planned to come first, but Alejandro Ramirez demanded precedence and you can’t argue with Alej.
EXCERPT FROM MEASURE OF HEALING:
[Alejandro] was starving and exhausted. He’d had little time before her arrival that evening. Just enough to throw some things in a bag, gulp down a bit of dinner and be ready. He’d had to spend most of the day at his father’s office dealing with one of the more unsavory construction companies his father was forced to sub-contract with by the economic conditions.
The Ramirez family was in demand for their work on hardwood flooring and custom cabinetry. Given the nocturnal nature of his animal side, he usually spent the bulk of his days sleeping and late afternoons and nights in the workshop making the cabinets, railings and scrollwork that was ordered. He still worried that his brothers would have trouble keeping up with the orders. Eddie had promised to help but he had a job now that took him away from the family and the last thing Alejandro wanted was for his father, at seventy-two, to have to try and pick up the slack. His two oldest nephews were showing an interest in the business and were earning money for the college years that were fast approaching by working part-time but the family agreed their schoolwork came first.
He followed her down the hall. She entered a large room with a king sized bed, a dresser, night stand and large wardrobe. The furniture was a dark mahogany that matched the wooden trim running along the ceiling and floor. A wooden chair rail circled the room separating a plum striped wallpaper on the bottom and a pale mauve paint above. The wood had been laid in alternating strips of mahogany and cherry. He ran the palm of his hand over the door jam and the nearest section of the chair rail. Someone had known what they were doing. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a small stack of clothes from a drawer that she left open. He half watched her as she moved to the closet and pulled out a blanket and pillow. He walked further into the room, running his hand along the wall. Then he moved toward the bed and his palm stroked the wood.
“Stop that!” she said sharply.
Alejandro’s eyes widened in surprise. She was glaring at him with a peeved expression. “What?” he demanded.
“Stop scent marking my house. You rubbed against the wall in the boy’s room, now you’re marking this one. I swear if you spray something I’ll neuter you myself.” She stomped out of the room.
He looked up at his hand where it still lay against the wooden post of the bed. And he laughed. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing it. He’d rubbed his back on the wall in the boy’s room on purpose. He wanted Tomás to know he was there. But he’d been rubbing his palm along the surfaces of this room, her room, absently. The palm of his hand where, like the pads of the cougar’s feet and along his spine, he had oil glands that left his mark upon what he touched. His amusement faded slightly as he began to wonder at just how much about him and his kind his little doctor seemed to know. He left the room and followed his nose to find her. She was making up a bed in a smaller room. It was so small it fit only the single bed and a narrow dresser.
She looked up at him, still irritated. “What have you got in that thing?”
He frowned, “What thing?”
She stood up from smoothing the blanket and pointed at his bag where it hung from his shoulder. “What, you keep all your cash in there? The secret map to a treasure chest heaping with gold? Why are you still carrying it? What’s in there that’s so special?”
He lifted an eyebrow at the sudden return of animosity and sat it down on the floor inside the door. “Nothing special, just your basics.”
She walked passed him, picked up the bag and headed down the hall. “Hey,” he went after her, “that is mine you know.”
“Cats,” she muttered under her breath. Reaching the larger room she placed it on the bed. “Then you’ll probably want it in your room.”
Realizing what was happening, he shook his head. “No, thanks little doctor but I’m fine in the other room.”
She smiled at him with a wicked light in her eyes that set him on edge. “You don’t think I’m sacrificing a good night’s sleep for you, do you?”
“No. Now why would I think that? You’re only trying to give me the bigger room, your room.” Alejandro gestured with his hand. “You’re sleeping in here. I’ll take the other room.”
Her eyes narrowed. Brie was well aware it wasn’t exactly nice of her to deliberately confuse the poor man but all things considered it was damned satisfying. “I thought you said you were going to cooperate with me?”
“I said I wouldn’t interfere in your treatment of Tomás.”
“Well, that’s exactly what you’re doing.” Her hands rested on her hips. “I need to be in that other room. It’s closer to him, it has a vent between the two rooms that will allow me to hear him, allow him to hear me and allow my scent to reach him even when I’m not in the room.” She moved to the door. “So be a good boy and sleep where you’re told. I’ll get the rest of my things moved in the morning.” Pausing she looked back over her shoulder. “Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done. I’m going to put something on for dinner. Hope you don’t mind but I’m a strict vegetarian.” She flashed him a wicked “you’re so screwed,” grin and left.
And then more stuff happened...
For some reason that I cannot begin to comprehend, today was Drive Up Jae’s Tailpipe Day in traffic. Every other driver was running up on me in traffic until their headlights disappeared. And I am not a slow driver. I am, in fact, one of those people who believes that the speed limit is more of a general suggestion. But I do not tailgate. It is not only dangerous it is just bad manners. Especially in rush hour traffic.
School is almost out. Three more days of kiddies. Therefore today must have been declared Drive Mrs. Roth Crazy Day as well. It seems as if everyone under the age of 15 has forgotten their common sense and really has no clue where they left it. As if today of all days the rules were suddenly not going to apply to them. Sorry, Jim-Bob, it doesn’t work that way. I swore if I had to tell D to sit down one more time in the 50 minutes he spends in my room he was not going to make it to his next period class. No I’m not threatening bodily harm to a child. I don’t need to. I have a healthy supply of office referrals and I’m not afraid to use them.And can someone tell me when it became acceptable for the younger generation to toss the word “fag” at each other a dozen times a day? Why do you need to have it explained to you that unless you are in Great Britain and are asking to borrow a smoke, the word is just as offensive as a racial slur? I inevitably end up explaining the etymology of the term each year. For the record. The term is applied to homosexual men because during the middle ages and into the time of the witch hunts in Europe and North America men who were “condemned” of such an “unnatural” act were bound and placed in the fires that were used to burn the witches and heretics. And since the term faggot originally referred to the bundling of sticks for firewood, the term became applied to homosexual men. As I explain to my students, when you use such a term for someone, you are saying their life is so worthless and meaningless that they deserve to be burned to death as kindling for more important criminals. I usually only have to explain this once and then they start censuring each other…at least around me.
Today my copy of the August 2008 Realms of Fantasy came in my mailbox. Do not ask me to explain the rationale behind the August issue appearing in my mailbox in May, because I can’t. What I can tell you is that the ad includes my Cerridwen Press release Measure of Healing. Measure is a paranormal romance about a Were-Cougar Halfling who seeks out the only help he knows of for a young Were-Cougar child who is suffering from sever trauma. Unfortunately, the only help he can find is a human doctor whose secrets could just get them all killed. Measure of Healing is the first story in what I hope becomes a series I’ve tentatively entitled The Children of Semira. I just recently finished the primary draft of the follow-up to Measure. It picks up the story of the young Were-Wolf who shows up at the end of Measure. Her story was originally planned to come first, but Alejandro Ramirez demanded precedence and you can’t argue with Alej.EXCERPT FROM MEASURE OF HEALING:
[Alejandro] was starving and exhausted. He’d had little time before her arrival that evening. Just enough to throw some things in a bag, gulp down a bit of dinner and be ready. He’d had to spend most of the day at his father’s office dealing with one of the more unsavory construction companies his father was forced to sub-contract with by the economic conditions.
The Ramirez family was in demand for their work on hardwood flooring and custom cabinetry. Given the nocturnal nature of his animal side, he usually spent the bulk of his days sleeping and late afternoons and nights in the workshop making the cabinets, railings and scrollwork that was ordered. He still worried that his brothers would have trouble keeping up with the orders. Eddie had promised to help but he had a job now that took him away from the family and the last thing Alejandro wanted was for his father, at seventy-two, to have to try and pick up the slack. His two oldest nephews were showing an interest in the business and were earning money for the college years that were fast approaching by working part-time but the family agreed their schoolwork came first.
He followed her down the hall. She entered a large room with a king sized bed, a dresser, night stand and large wardrobe. The furniture was a dark mahogany that matched the wooden trim running along the ceiling and floor. A wooden chair rail circled the room separating a plum striped wallpaper on the bottom and a pale mauve paint above. The wood had been laid in alternating strips of mahogany and cherry. He ran the palm of his hand over the door jam and the nearest section of the chair rail. Someone had known what they were doing. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a small stack of clothes from a drawer that she left open. He half watched her as she moved to the closet and pulled out a blanket and pillow. He walked further into the room, running his hand along the wall. Then he moved toward the bed and his palm stroked the wood.
“Stop that!” she said sharply.
Alejandro’s eyes widened in surprise. She was glaring at him with a peeved expression. “What?” he demanded.
“Stop scent marking my house. You rubbed against the wall in the boy’s room, now you’re marking this one. I swear if you spray something I’ll neuter you myself.” She stomped out of the room.
He looked up at his hand where it still lay against the wooden post of the bed. And he laughed. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing it. He’d rubbed his back on the wall in the boy’s room on purpose. He wanted Tomás to know he was there. But he’d been rubbing his palm along the surfaces of this room, her room, absently. The palm of his hand where, like the pads of the cougar’s feet and along his spine, he had oil glands that left his mark upon what he touched. His amusement faded slightly as he began to wonder at just how much about him and his kind his little doctor seemed to know. He left the room and followed his nose to find her. She was making up a bed in a smaller room. It was so small it fit only the single bed and a narrow dresser.
She looked up at him, still irritated. “What have you got in that thing?”
He frowned, “What thing?”
She stood up from smoothing the blanket and pointed at his bag where it hung from his shoulder. “What, you keep all your cash in there? The secret map to a treasure chest heaping with gold? Why are you still carrying it? What’s in there that’s so special?”
He lifted an eyebrow at the sudden return of animosity and sat it down on the floor inside the door. “Nothing special, just your basics.”
She walked passed him, picked up the bag and headed down the hall. “Hey,” he went after her, “that is mine you know.”
“Cats,” she muttered under her breath. Reaching the larger room she placed it on the bed. “Then you’ll probably want it in your room.”
Realizing what was happening, he shook his head. “No, thanks little doctor but I’m fine in the other room.”
She smiled at him with a wicked light in her eyes that set him on edge. “You don’t think I’m sacrificing a good night’s sleep for you, do you?”
“No. Now why would I think that? You’re only trying to give me the bigger room, your room.” Alejandro gestured with his hand. “You’re sleeping in here. I’ll take the other room.”
Her eyes narrowed. Brie was well aware it wasn’t exactly nice of her to deliberately confuse the poor man but all things considered it was damned satisfying. “I thought you said you were going to cooperate with me?”
“I said I wouldn’t interfere in your treatment of Tomás.”
“Well, that’s exactly what you’re doing.” Her hands rested on her hips. “I need to be in that other room. It’s closer to him, it has a vent between the two rooms that will allow me to hear him, allow him to hear me and allow my scent to reach him even when I’m not in the room.” She moved to the door. “So be a good boy and sleep where you’re told. I’ll get the rest of my things moved in the morning.” Pausing she looked back over her shoulder. “Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done. I’m going to put something on for dinner. Hope you don’t mind but I’m a strict vegetarian.” She flashed him a wicked “you’re so screwed,” grin and left.
And then more stuff happened...
Check out the blogs on the left. Sandra Cox is running a contest on her site too for a very cool bracelet.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
More Lonely than the Maytag repairman?
Last September I attended Dragon*Con in Atlanta, Georgia. Those who know me know I love this particular convention. They draw upwards of 40,000 people each year for the Labor Day weekend gathering. It is a terrific way to feed a science fiction/fantasy appetite. There are tracks celebrating every imaginable fandom including the major movie and tv franchises, Gothic (horror), anime, music and almost anything else. The thing about Dragon*Con is that if you can imagine it, it will be there. I even set my Quickie from Ellora’s Cave, Seeing Me, at the event.
They started a YA track about four or five years ago mostly surrounding the Harry Potter craze. It has now expanded to include a wider variety of YA lit and authors including Holly Black who wrote Tithe and The Spiderwick Chronicles. And it’s something that Black said at the appearance that has me thinking today, many months later. Black said that writing was the loneliest of professions. She talked about how hard it can be to be sitting alone at your desk or in your office and just write. How you can’t meet someone for a break at the water cooler or just stick your head over the cubicle to remember that other people actually exist or get feedback.
As I sat and listened to her I thought how very right she was. Most of us write our stories in isolation or at least in a temporary isolation so we can focus on our characters and hear their voices. She talked about the importance of first readers, people who see your work before any editor does. These are the people who keep you honest. They don’t let you cheat. She encouraged people to find writer’s groups to work with for first readers or for critiques.
I agree with most of Black’s comments that day, but I’ve come to believe I missed her point originally. I have to admit, now, several months after my first book was published, I feel differently. I think writing can be the loneliest profession but that it shouldn’t be and it can’t be if it’s good writing. We cannot create in a vacuum and expect it to connect to a reader, let alone many readers.
Writing my first manuscript over five years ago was a very lonely experience. I didn’t tell anyone I was doing it, not even my SO. I did it one summer as I had all day free every day since I was on summer break from school. I hid what I wrote away and no one saw it until I had completely finished it. And you know what? I wasn’t very good. It actually was rather bad. It was a fanfiction filled with every terrible cliché of the genre. It should probably be burned to save mankind from ever reading such a horrible thing again. But I learned from the experience. I learned that I could do this.
I also ended up finding a community of people among the fanfic group that I still have very close ties with today. Many of them comprise my current workshop group and they will be positively honest about my stuff and tell me when I miss the mark. Having a community is also an empowering experience. Once I “came out” as a writer, it was a relief. When someone said, “What did you do last night?” my answer was no longer, “nothing.” I can proudly say, “Oh, I wrote last night.”
I started thinking about all this today as I wrote the final battle scene for my current WIP. I have no military experience and I have no clue how to go about planning a battle. My step dad is ex Air Force, but this was a land battle and he’s a bit busy lately with my mother being ill. But about couple of weeks ago I was thinking ahead to this scene as I sat at lunch. I realized then I had a military expert sitting next to me at the table. Eddie is the teacher all the kids like. He has an affable personality, he’s quick with a joke, and the kids know he always fair. He is also in the Army Reserve. He’s served in Afghanistan. He comes from a military family. Here was this perfect resource, but to use it I had to reach out and admit that I needed help and why. So I did.
I told Eddie I was writing a battle scene and drew it out for him. He looked at it and gave me detailed descriptions of how he would defend the position my hero needed to defend. I took notes on a napkin, listened intently to the why as well as the what. I couldn’t use all of what he gave me, but I could use the gist of it. Because I’m writing a fantasy, there are some things I don’t need to worry about.
“Then they’ll try to wade across the river,” he advised. I put my hand up and said, “No, they can’t. The river won’t let them.” “Ah,” he said, “it moves too fast here.” “No,” I assured him. “But the river won’t let them cross.” I explained it was magic and he simply nodded and went on. I’m not only “out” as a writer, but as a fantasy writer.
The important thing was, Eddie made me see I had to rethink the way I saw the scene happening. I saw it as a writer sees it. Big show downs and lots of cool speeches and comments from people. Very theatrical. But after listening to Eddie talk, I realized if I wanted anything resembling normalcy I’d have to rethink my vision of the battle. It sucks to learn you can’t use the cool scene in your head, but I’d rather have something remotely believable than something cool.
An hour or so later a second military expert crossed my path. Curtis is the kind of teacher I want to be when I grow up. He’s amazing. He always has a smile on his face and he finds a way to connect to the kids we teach. But Curtis was also in military intelligence during his days of service. So I showed Curtis the plan and asked him how he would attack. He pointed out that the mission would most likely be a suicide mission. I explained the bad guys had escape options that included magic and he blinked… then went on. But he had a point. If there was to be any direct hand to hand between my forces, it would be a suicide mission on behalf of the hunters who attack. There was no way they could survive the assault. Those who made their way into the village would have to die and would have to know they were going to die. But was this mission worth that? Was it something that people would get that zealous about? Curtis made me realize I had to tighten up the plot in that respect.
In addition to getting military advice, over the years I’ve had to seek advice on all manner of topics including more risqué issues. *cough* I also have great first readers. My SO will do proof reads from time to time. My friend Steve has been the primary first reader on my WIP to this point. I just posted the battle chapter with a nasty little cliffhanger for him so soon he’ll be ready to throw things at me. I do have that bit of a reputation, cliffies at the end of chapters.
But the community I belong to doesn’t stop with the writing process. I have also been blessed with a tremendous support system for what comes next. Llewellyn McEllis, one of my favorite writers and one day you will all know her name, has been there for me with constant encouragement. Britannia and Barb also have always had my back. Alison and Maureen have been my tireless cheerleaders. And then there are the froggies. The froggies are a talented group of writers who work with the same editor I have at ECPI. They’ve all been incredibly supportive.
Sometimes writing seems like a lonely profession. But no one can produce quality work in a vacuum. We all need the feedback and the support of others.
They started a YA track about four or five years ago mostly surrounding the Harry Potter craze. It has now expanded to include a wider variety of YA lit and authors including Holly Black who wrote Tithe and The Spiderwick Chronicles. And it’s something that Black said at the appearance that has me thinking today, many months later. Black said that writing was the loneliest of professions. She talked about how hard it can be to be sitting alone at your desk or in your office and just write. How you can’t meet someone for a break at the water cooler or just stick your head over the cubicle to remember that other people actually exist or get feedback.
As I sat and listened to her I thought how very right she was. Most of us write our stories in isolation or at least in a temporary isolation so we can focus on our characters and hear their voices. She talked about the importance of first readers, people who see your work before any editor does. These are the people who keep you honest. They don’t let you cheat. She encouraged people to find writer’s groups to work with for first readers or for critiques.
I agree with most of Black’s comments that day, but I’ve come to believe I missed her point originally. I have to admit, now, several months after my first book was published, I feel differently. I think writing can be the loneliest profession but that it shouldn’t be and it can’t be if it’s good writing. We cannot create in a vacuum and expect it to connect to a reader, let alone many readers.
Writing my first manuscript over five years ago was a very lonely experience. I didn’t tell anyone I was doing it, not even my SO. I did it one summer as I had all day free every day since I was on summer break from school. I hid what I wrote away and no one saw it until I had completely finished it. And you know what? I wasn’t very good. It actually was rather bad. It was a fanfiction filled with every terrible cliché of the genre. It should probably be burned to save mankind from ever reading such a horrible thing again. But I learned from the experience. I learned that I could do this.
I also ended up finding a community of people among the fanfic group that I still have very close ties with today. Many of them comprise my current workshop group and they will be positively honest about my stuff and tell me when I miss the mark. Having a community is also an empowering experience. Once I “came out” as a writer, it was a relief. When someone said, “What did you do last night?” my answer was no longer, “nothing.” I can proudly say, “Oh, I wrote last night.”
I started thinking about all this today as I wrote the final battle scene for my current WIP. I have no military experience and I have no clue how to go about planning a battle. My step dad is ex Air Force, but this was a land battle and he’s a bit busy lately with my mother being ill. But about couple of weeks ago I was thinking ahead to this scene as I sat at lunch. I realized then I had a military expert sitting next to me at the table. Eddie is the teacher all the kids like. He has an affable personality, he’s quick with a joke, and the kids know he always fair. He is also in the Army Reserve. He’s served in Afghanistan. He comes from a military family. Here was this perfect resource, but to use it I had to reach out and admit that I needed help and why. So I did.
I told Eddie I was writing a battle scene and drew it out for him. He looked at it and gave me detailed descriptions of how he would defend the position my hero needed to defend. I took notes on a napkin, listened intently to the why as well as the what. I couldn’t use all of what he gave me, but I could use the gist of it. Because I’m writing a fantasy, there are some things I don’t need to worry about.
“Then they’ll try to wade across the river,” he advised. I put my hand up and said, “No, they can’t. The river won’t let them.” “Ah,” he said, “it moves too fast here.” “No,” I assured him. “But the river won’t let them cross.” I explained it was magic and he simply nodded and went on. I’m not only “out” as a writer, but as a fantasy writer.
The important thing was, Eddie made me see I had to rethink the way I saw the scene happening. I saw it as a writer sees it. Big show downs and lots of cool speeches and comments from people. Very theatrical. But after listening to Eddie talk, I realized if I wanted anything resembling normalcy I’d have to rethink my vision of the battle. It sucks to learn you can’t use the cool scene in your head, but I’d rather have something remotely believable than something cool.
An hour or so later a second military expert crossed my path. Curtis is the kind of teacher I want to be when I grow up. He’s amazing. He always has a smile on his face and he finds a way to connect to the kids we teach. But Curtis was also in military intelligence during his days of service. So I showed Curtis the plan and asked him how he would attack. He pointed out that the mission would most likely be a suicide mission. I explained the bad guys had escape options that included magic and he blinked… then went on. But he had a point. If there was to be any direct hand to hand between my forces, it would be a suicide mission on behalf of the hunters who attack. There was no way they could survive the assault. Those who made their way into the village would have to die and would have to know they were going to die. But was this mission worth that? Was it something that people would get that zealous about? Curtis made me realize I had to tighten up the plot in that respect.
In addition to getting military advice, over the years I’ve had to seek advice on all manner of topics including more risqué issues. *cough* I also have great first readers. My SO will do proof reads from time to time. My friend Steve has been the primary first reader on my WIP to this point. I just posted the battle chapter with a nasty little cliffhanger for him so soon he’ll be ready to throw things at me. I do have that bit of a reputation, cliffies at the end of chapters.
But the community I belong to doesn’t stop with the writing process. I have also been blessed with a tremendous support system for what comes next. Llewellyn McEllis, one of my favorite writers and one day you will all know her name, has been there for me with constant encouragement. Britannia and Barb also have always had my back. Alison and Maureen have been my tireless cheerleaders. And then there are the froggies. The froggies are a talented group of writers who work with the same editor I have at ECPI. They’ve all been incredibly supportive.
Sometimes writing seems like a lonely profession. But no one can produce quality work in a vacuum. We all need the feedback and the support of others.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Meeting Carly
I mentioned a few months ago that my nephew was going to make me a great aunt. Well I was already a “great” aunt… okay, too obvious to be funny. Right.
Anyway, my younger sister’s son and his wife just recently had their first child together. He’s a stepfather to her three year old girl and a scant three months ago, they welcomed Carly Georgette. She’s positively adorable. She has a head full of dark hair, large pretty eyes and looks a good deal like her daddy.
My sister is going to spend a couple of months with them, helping with the baby. My house lies at the midway point between. So sister #1 has sister #2 bring her to my house where my nephew picked her up. And because my family can’t manage to do anything on a small scale, that means that both sisters, one brother-in-law, two nephews, one niece, one niece-in-law, one great niece and an odd boyfriend of my nieces all descended up on us.
It was worth it to get to see and hold the baby. My SO did the stereotypical “I might break her” and declined to hold the little one. This attitude will soon have to disappear as we have recently gotten the wonderful news that we are in fact expecting our own little one soon.
But I ask you, is there anything more enticing, more soothing and touching then the feel of a baby in your arms? The soft smell of baby powder and Johnson’s baby bath soap? Any thing sweeter than the sleeping face of a baby with the little lip that quivers as she dreams? Nope. And that’s why they are so dangerous. They can make you forget just how big of a responsibility they are and how difficult being a parent really is.
I still worry about what kind of parent I’ll be. I have very strong ideas about what is and isn’t acceptable in terms of how parents parent. Fortunately, my SO and I have yet to find a point upon which we disagree where this is concerned. I’m sure there will be many we just simply can’t foresee.
In other news, Seeing Me got a nice review from The Good, The Bad and The Unread.
“I wasn’t sure when I began reading this story if I was going to like it or not. “Him” is never given a name, which at first was I thought was a little strange. I have never read a book in which the hero didn’t have a name and I wasn’t sure how this would affect the story. But as I read, I found that I rather enjoyed how Ms. Edwards allowed me, the reader, to pick my own “hero” to imagine.
Anyway, my younger sister’s son and his wife just recently had their first child together. He’s a stepfather to her three year old girl and a scant three months ago, they welcomed Carly Georgette. She’s positively adorable. She has a head full of dark hair, large pretty eyes and looks a good deal like her daddy.
My sister is going to spend a couple of months with them, helping with the baby. My house lies at the midway point between. So sister #1 has sister #2 bring her to my house where my nephew picked her up. And because my family can’t manage to do anything on a small scale, that means that both sisters, one brother-in-law, two nephews, one niece, one niece-in-law, one great niece and an odd boyfriend of my nieces all descended up on us.
It was worth it to get to see and hold the baby. My SO did the stereotypical “I might break her” and declined to hold the little one. This attitude will soon have to disappear as we have recently gotten the wonderful news that we are in fact expecting our own little one soon.
But I ask you, is there anything more enticing, more soothing and touching then the feel of a baby in your arms? The soft smell of baby powder and Johnson’s baby bath soap? Any thing sweeter than the sleeping face of a baby with the little lip that quivers as she dreams? Nope. And that’s why they are so dangerous. They can make you forget just how big of a responsibility they are and how difficult being a parent really is.
I still worry about what kind of parent I’ll be. I have very strong ideas about what is and isn’t acceptable in terms of how parents parent. Fortunately, my SO and I have yet to find a point upon which we disagree where this is concerned. I’m sure there will be many we just simply can’t foresee.
In other news, Seeing Me got a nice review from The Good, The Bad and The Unread.“I wasn’t sure when I began reading this story if I was going to like it or not. “Him” is never given a name, which at first was I thought was a little strange. I have never read a book in which the hero didn’t have a name and I wasn’t sure how this would affect the story. But as I read, I found that I rather enjoyed how Ms. Edwards allowed me, the reader, to pick my own “hero” to imagine.
The chemistry between C.J. and “Him” is sensual and hot, but I also enjoyed watching the love story between the hero and heroine unfold. There are two very hot “fantasy” scenes where C.J. imagines both her and the hero in the scene. At first I wasn’t sure if they would impede the flow of the story, but they didn’t. In fact, they added to the story, especially since the heroine of the story is an author. Both characters were well written and the story flowed well and kept you interested. I didn’t want to put the book down.”
I’m glad the reviewer found it a positive that I hadn’t named the hero. As I was writing it, I was thinking about how a certain friend of mine and I disagree on the attractiveness of men. What is my type, isn’t hers. I wanted “Him” to be like the actor who fires the reader’s imagination. If that’s a Brad Pitt, an Orlando Bloom, a George Clooney, or whomever, that’s who He is like.
Excerpt from Seeing Me (Adult Content) :
It was all coming together. Everything she had worked for, all the years of secret dreams and fantasies, all the hidden aspirations and ambitions had come to fruition. Little Cara Jo was now C.J. Ellison, published author. The last time she had felt this rush of adrenaline had been the moment she held the signed publishing contract in her hands and stared at it in amazement.
Now, as she slid into her chair behind the long table, it was all very real. She was part of a writer’s panel. Her. Two years ago she had been one of the event’s attendees. A hopeful writer and lover of this genre of storytelling. She’d been one of hundreds of wouldbes and wannabes in a sea of painted and costumed faces at Atlanta, Georgia’s science fiction/fantasy convention that drew people from all over the country. If anyone knew how many old badges she had from this convention tucked in a drawer at home her rating on the Geek-ometer would break the gage. And now she was on a panel with some of the best known writers in the craft. As her nerves tied her stomach into knots, she wasn’t sure whether to bless her agent or curse him.
It was the big room, the grand ballroom of all places. It would be easy to swell with pride and ego except for one sad fact, or maybe it was a fortunate one. Anything she had to say would be superfluous. In fact anything any of the writers on this panel said would be virtually ignored. It was standing room only and they weren’t here to see them. They were here to see Him. One of the other writers had said it clearly as they were shepherded into place. When the conference staff had reminded them to speak into the microphones placed before them he had laughed bitterly and remarked, “It doesn’t really matter if they even turn these on. We could sit here, pick our noses and finger paint and no one would notice while the sex god himself was here.”
And He was here. There were few women in the world of any generation who didn’t thrill to the sound of his voice. Who didn’t entertain at least the briefest of fantasies about what was beneath that crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and the jeans into which it tucked. He’d taken the classic, shirt undone, bare chest peeking through look and made it his own. After he first appeared on screen in the ensemble, no other man ever looked as good in it. Even one of her lesbian friends had commented on him earlier today. “He’s pretty, all right. I don’t exactly want to sleep with him, but I do like to look at him. And with that voice he could talk to me all night.”
Cara sat in her place to the far right, the newest and least known of the group. He sat in the middle along with the author whose stories he had been translating into action for a few years now. And the show started. She was introduced and received a polite applause as did everyone else. But when the questions began, it was crystal clear the other writer had been right. These people were here to see Him.
She began doodling on the paper before her, drawing pictures and playing a word game she often played when bored. It had started between her and her giggling girlfriends in the back of a boring world history class in college. How many synonyms could she find for… In honor of the man of the hour, and the ambitions of most of the women present, she chose the word fuck. How many ways could she find to say fuck?
Being sure that the older woman sitting next to her couldn’t see the legal pad that had been provided for her by the setup committee, she started jotting. Make love…have his way…ravage…plunder… The longer the list got, the more crude it got.
Ride…fill…drive into…do…screw…bang…
Boredom numbing her brain, she was just about to hit an all time low when a particularly wheezy voice that was faintly familiar caught her attention. The thin, balding man with glasses that was standing at the microphone asking a question was a familiar face. He’d been a regular at this convention and was a frequent volunteer on the track dedicated to the legendary science fiction television and movie franchise that was so famous it need not be named. A bad Scottish accent crying out, “I can’na give ya more power Cap’n” was all that was needed for recognition. And that was one of the more obscure lines. He was also an arrogant, know-it-all jerk. What idiot gave that asshole a microphone? She brooded moodily. And since when is he into fantasy?
And damn, but the man just three places down the table from her was one to spark any woman’s fantasy. She looked down, half listening as she contemplated her list. She began to sketch absently in one corner.
“In the first installment of the series, the part that took place in space before your character became a stranded rogue mage, we were introduced to the hand held photo-plasma emitter. A friend of mine is an ex-cop and he says you handle your gun so masterfully that you must have gotten a lot of training in handling hand held weapons. Did you do any special training?”
This is your weapon, this is your gun. One is for shooting, the other for fun. The line popped up from somewhere in the depths of her pop culture awareness and she bit down hard on her lip to stop her giggle. Her eyes shifted to Him clandestinely when she thought she heard a faint chuckle in his voice as he answered.
Now, as she slid into her chair behind the long table, it was all very real. She was part of a writer’s panel. Her. Two years ago she had been one of the event’s attendees. A hopeful writer and lover of this genre of storytelling. She’d been one of hundreds of wouldbes and wannabes in a sea of painted and costumed faces at Atlanta, Georgia’s science fiction/fantasy convention that drew people from all over the country. If anyone knew how many old badges she had from this convention tucked in a drawer at home her rating on the Geek-ometer would break the gage. And now she was on a panel with some of the best known writers in the craft. As her nerves tied her stomach into knots, she wasn’t sure whether to bless her agent or curse him.It was the big room, the grand ballroom of all places. It would be easy to swell with pride and ego except for one sad fact, or maybe it was a fortunate one. Anything she had to say would be superfluous. In fact anything any of the writers on this panel said would be virtually ignored. It was standing room only and they weren’t here to see them. They were here to see Him. One of the other writers had said it clearly as they were shepherded into place. When the conference staff had reminded them to speak into the microphones placed before them he had laughed bitterly and remarked, “It doesn’t really matter if they even turn these on. We could sit here, pick our noses and finger paint and no one would notice while the sex god himself was here.”
And He was here. There were few women in the world of any generation who didn’t thrill to the sound of his voice. Who didn’t entertain at least the briefest of fantasies about what was beneath that crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and the jeans into which it tucked. He’d taken the classic, shirt undone, bare chest peeking through look and made it his own. After he first appeared on screen in the ensemble, no other man ever looked as good in it. Even one of her lesbian friends had commented on him earlier today. “He’s pretty, all right. I don’t exactly want to sleep with him, but I do like to look at him. And with that voice he could talk to me all night.”
Cara sat in her place to the far right, the newest and least known of the group. He sat in the middle along with the author whose stories he had been translating into action for a few years now. And the show started. She was introduced and received a polite applause as did everyone else. But when the questions began, it was crystal clear the other writer had been right. These people were here to see Him.
She began doodling on the paper before her, drawing pictures and playing a word game she often played when bored. It had started between her and her giggling girlfriends in the back of a boring world history class in college. How many synonyms could she find for… In honor of the man of the hour, and the ambitions of most of the women present, she chose the word fuck. How many ways could she find to say fuck?
Being sure that the older woman sitting next to her couldn’t see the legal pad that had been provided for her by the setup committee, she started jotting. Make love…have his way…ravage…plunder… The longer the list got, the more crude it got.
Ride…fill…drive into…do…screw…bang…
Boredom numbing her brain, she was just about to hit an all time low when a particularly wheezy voice that was faintly familiar caught her attention. The thin, balding man with glasses that was standing at the microphone asking a question was a familiar face. He’d been a regular at this convention and was a frequent volunteer on the track dedicated to the legendary science fiction television and movie franchise that was so famous it need not be named. A bad Scottish accent crying out, “I can’na give ya more power Cap’n” was all that was needed for recognition. And that was one of the more obscure lines. He was also an arrogant, know-it-all jerk. What idiot gave that asshole a microphone? She brooded moodily. And since when is he into fantasy?
And damn, but the man just three places down the table from her was one to spark any woman’s fantasy. She looked down, half listening as she contemplated her list. She began to sketch absently in one corner.
“In the first installment of the series, the part that took place in space before your character became a stranded rogue mage, we were introduced to the hand held photo-plasma emitter. A friend of mine is an ex-cop and he says you handle your gun so masterfully that you must have gotten a lot of training in handling hand held weapons. Did you do any special training?”
This is your weapon, this is your gun. One is for shooting, the other for fun. The line popped up from somewhere in the depths of her pop culture awareness and she bit down hard on her lip to stop her giggle. Her eyes shifted to Him clandestinely when she thought she heard a faint chuckle in his voice as he answered.
“No,” He drew the word out slowly. Cara stared at the yellow paper and listened to the answer he gave. “I can only say that it’s important to be very familiar with any prop you’re going to be using, especially a gun. You have to practice with it, hold it, let it take over and guide the movements of your hand. If you aren’t comfortable with the feel of your own gun, then you won’t be able to handle anyone else’s well.”
A nervous twitter fluttered across the ballroom. She’d love to see him handle his gun. Staff…rod…lance…penis…length…manhood…
She grinned quietly to herself. Oh, fantasies could be fun, a lot more fun than this. His hands handling his…now that would be a sight. She looked down the table at the hands that rested on the table. The white of the tablecloth blurred in her vision until all she could see were those hands. Long fingered strong hands that…
Recent good reads:
Daffodil by Anny Cook: Part of the Flowers of Camealot series, Daffodil has everything. It’s laugh out loud funny. It is Hot with a capital H. And it pushes the envelope for this series just a bit farther. Daffodil has always had her way, even when it came to the rules by which she submitted to Raulf. But now that she's been handed over to him as his property, she comes to realize just how much fun it can be to let him be in charge. Add a mix of political intrigue, fairies, dragons and the entire stock of an adult toy store to the mix and you have Cook's newest success.
A nervous twitter fluttered across the ballroom. She’d love to see him handle his gun. Staff…rod…lance…penis…length…manhood…
She grinned quietly to herself. Oh, fantasies could be fun, a lot more fun than this. His hands handling his…now that would be a sight. She looked down the table at the hands that rested on the table. The white of the tablecloth blurred in her vision until all she could see were those hands. Long fingered strong hands that…
Recent good reads:Daffodil by Anny Cook: Part of the Flowers of Camealot series, Daffodil has everything. It’s laugh out loud funny. It is Hot with a capital H. And it pushes the envelope for this series just a bit farther. Daffodil has always had her way, even when it came to the rules by which she submitted to Raulf. But now that she's been handed over to him as his property, she comes to realize just how much fun it can be to let him be in charge. Add a mix of political intrigue, fairies, dragons and the entire stock of an adult toy store to the mix and you have Cook's newest success.
Sticky And Sweet by Ashley Ladd and Alicia Sparks: Two stories in one. Ladd’s American Beauty is very funny. Macho Casanova police officer must pose as a gay man complete with evening gown and feather boa to rent a room from a woman who just might be living next door to the local chop shop. But when his landlord and her boss decide to see who can seduce him first, he just might blow his cover and lose his job. Sparks’ Better than Ice Cream has a fascinating premise. Ryan doesn’t buy that Laura’s family’s ice cream provides female customers not just taste delights but orgasms as well. But he needs to cut a deal with her for his family’s sugar and Laura needs the deal to take her business to the next level. But the idea of ice cream as a substitute for sex doesn’t sit well with Ryan, he’d rather show Laura just what she’s been missing.Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Great Escape
Seeing Me got two nice reviews. One from Simply Romance Reviews said: "...the heroine who at times exhibits a remarkably strong case of “foot-in-mouth” disease that is charming. The erotic scene is poignant for its sweetness. The hero for all his hype and reputation is endearing for his modest, almost shy personality in private. Seeing Me is an enjoyable read for those that aren’t looking for kink, but instead a satisfying romance."
And Romance Reviews TodayErotica rated it multiple O’s (which has to be good) and said it was: "An enticing short story, ..." Seeing Me is a Quickie from Ellora’s Cave.
The Great Escape.
No, I’m not necessarily talking about my escape from headgear bondage…let me rephrase that, from my medical bondage…that doesn’t work either…ah hell, I don’t mean getting this thing off my head. Though I’m counting the hours to freedom and dreading the drive back home to wash the gunk out of my head. I have my trusty hoodie ready to go. I tried a scarf, but I look like I’m smuggling something and I really don’t want to meet the Cobb County drug dogs.
By the great escape I’m referring to a tactical error I may have made yesterday. Okay, I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. I have four dogs, there is dog hair on my floor. I have paw prints on my carpet where the red clay has stained it. I don’t dust nearly as often as I should. So I got a little behind on the bird cage this week.
Yesterday I took the cage outside to clean it really well. The birds were still in it, and I cleaned it while they sunned themselves. The only problem is I think they liked their taste of freedom a bit too much. Now they are plotting escape.
No I didn’t bump my head and I haven’t received a nasty shock from my battery pack. I know the two criminals are plotting their escape. Don’t be fooled by their innocent look. Every time they think I’m not looking they start testing the cage for signs of weakness. Even now, when they think I’m busy making the clacking noises, I can see them. Pip, the blue one, is climbing the wall of the cage and pecking at the wires with it’s beak. Green-bird, yes that’s it’s name, is standing on the food dish pecking at the little door that slides up to take the dishes in and out. Earlier I saw them hanging to either side of the door pecking at it.
I’m telling you they tasted freedom and now they want out. Next thing I know they’ll be dragging their little metal bell across the bars screaming, “Let me out you stinking screw.” (Yes, my mother watched Cell Block H when I was growing up.) In fact right now Pip has started wrestling with the bell. I tell you one of them is a little birdie MacGyver who is figuring out how to blow the door off the cage with bird seed, a small metal bell and a mirror.
You know, that was two television references in the space of a single paragraph. Odd if you consider the fact that I haven’t really watched television in almost five years if you don’t count occasionally watching American Idol. I am hooked this season. I love little folksy Brooke with her whole Carol King-ish persona and David Cook. I like that he causes controversy and think he’s actually very talented. Chris Cornell can shut up. The dude from Crowded House was doing an acoustic version of Billy Jean way, way, way back.
The Great Escape.
No, I’m not necessarily talking about my escape from headgear bondage…let me rephrase that, from my medical bondage…that doesn’t work either…ah hell, I don’t mean getting this thing off my head. Though I’m counting the hours to freedom and dreading the drive back home to wash the gunk out of my head. I have my trusty hoodie ready to go. I tried a scarf, but I look like I’m smuggling something and I really don’t want to meet the Cobb County drug dogs.
By the great escape I’m referring to a tactical error I may have made yesterday. Okay, I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. I have four dogs, there is dog hair on my floor. I have paw prints on my carpet where the red clay has stained it. I don’t dust nearly as often as I should. So I got a little behind on the bird cage this week.
Yesterday I took the cage outside to clean it really well. The birds were still in it, and I cleaned it while they sunned themselves. The only problem is I think they liked their taste of freedom a bit too much. Now they are plotting escape.No I didn’t bump my head and I haven’t received a nasty shock from my battery pack. I know the two criminals are plotting their escape. Don’t be fooled by their innocent look. Every time they think I’m not looking they start testing the cage for signs of weakness. Even now, when they think I’m busy making the clacking noises, I can see them. Pip, the blue one, is climbing the wall of the cage and pecking at the wires with it’s beak. Green-bird, yes that’s it’s name, is standing on the food dish pecking at the little door that slides up to take the dishes in and out. Earlier I saw them hanging to either side of the door pecking at it.
I’m telling you they tasted freedom and now they want out. Next thing I know they’ll be dragging their little metal bell across the bars screaming, “Let me out you stinking screw.” (Yes, my mother watched Cell Block H when I was growing up.) In fact right now Pip has started wrestling with the bell. I tell you one of them is a little birdie MacGyver who is figuring out how to blow the door off the cage with bird seed, a small metal bell and a mirror.
You know, that was two television references in the space of a single paragraph. Odd if you consider the fact that I haven’t really watched television in almost five years if you don’t count occasionally watching American Idol. I am hooked this season. I love little folksy Brooke with her whole Carol King-ish persona and David Cook. I like that he causes controversy and think he’s actually very talented. Chris Cornell can shut up. The dude from Crowded House was doing an acoustic version of Billy Jean way, way, way back. But the hometown dude Michael Johns, the Australian who claims to be from Buckhead (not the town, mind you-this is a neighborhood in Atlanta) has got to go. He’s the guy who ends up singing on the Love Boat because he can’t get any other gigs. He annoys the crap out of me and if he tries to do one more Queen song Freddie Mercury is going to rise up out of his grave and smite the dude.
Anyway. If I think about it, it’s odd that I don’t watch television any more. My family could not function without a television. It was the center point of our family. Tonight we watched this, tomorrow night it was that. And heaven help us on the nights the Dukes of Hazzard was on because you had to tiptoe around so my stepdad could hear it.
Anyway. If I think about it, it’s odd that I don’t watch television any more. My family could not function without a television. It was the center point of our family. Tonight we watched this, tomorrow night it was that. And heaven help us on the nights the Dukes of Hazzard was on because you had to tiptoe around so my stepdad could hear it.
Even now the tv runs night and day as long as someone is awake. It is a constant drone in the back ground. Recently on a visit it was driving me crazy. Everyone was in the dinning area playing cards so I turned it off. About ten minutes later someone looks up and says, "What's that noise." I swear it was straight out of a sitcom. They actually made me turn it back on even though no one was watching it. My mom said the quiet was creepy. I know I'm so adopted.My stepdad and I bonded over television. We were both Trekkers, the only thing we had in common back then. We could sit down in peace and watch reruns of the original series and The Next Generation. This was our truce, our neutral territory in the war. A war that lasted until we both realized that in fact we were pawns in a much more devious game. Neither of us were generals, we were hostages in my mother’s Machiavellian quest for supremacy. Divide and conquer.
It worked until we saw through her plan. Together we now make her pay for her treachery. It’s amazing how much damage a second universal remote can do. Not to mention technology she can’t figure out. “You want to watch what, Mom?” I say innocently. “Well I know the tv guide says it’s on, but look for yourself, this is the right channel it’s not here.” *evil laughing ensues*Don’t feel sorry for her! Do you have any idea how many times she’s made us watch the Barbara Streisand version of A Star Is Born? Do you know how many Elvis movies she’s tortured us with? I get nauseous just thinking about Charro.
Friday is the deadline for the contest. I’m looking forward to going through the entries. The contest is to celebrate the release of Mating Stone by Ellora’s Cave. The hero of Mating Stone, Mark Ursine is a Were-Bear as is his twin brother Luke the hero of the upcoming July release, Lovers’ Stone. The Ursines present their lady loves with stones rather than engagement rings. For Mark and Sarah it’s an amethyst. So to win the 17” freshwater pearl and amethyst necklace here’s what you need to do. Write a brief answer to the following question and send it to ElyssaWrites@aol.com with “Mating Stone Contest” in the subject line. I’ll pick the best response as the winner, and two honorable mentions to receive smaller prizes. The winning entries will appear in my blog on April 13th.In Mating Stone, Mark falls in love with Sarah. Sarah, a young human woman who has no idea that Were’s even exist beyond novels and movies. Strictly fictional. As a human woman, how do you react when Mr. Yummy tells you he’s the one with claws and may just leave fur on the sheets? So tell me: What type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?
Friday, March 21, 2008
Better Late Than Never
I was recently bemoaning fact that I'd not thought to run a contest in conjunction with the release of my first Ellora's Cave novella, Mating Stone. Well, it was pointed out to me that it isn't too late, especially since I wanted to do similar contests for the upcoming July release as well.
So, here it is, the new contest for Mating Stone, just in time for the release of my Quickie, Seeing Me. Seeing Me is about two people who see past the hype to who the other really is.
Now the Contest:
The hero of Mating Stone, Mark Ursine is a Were-Bear as is his twin brother Luke the hero of the upcoming July release, Lovers’ Stone. The Ursines present their lady loves with stones rather than engagement rings. For Mark and Sarah it’s an amethyst. So to win the 17” freshwater pearl and amethyst necklace here’s what you need to do. Write a brief answer to the following question and send it to ElyssaWrites@aol.com with “Mating Stone Contest” in the subject line. I’ll pick the best response as the winner, and two honorable mentions to receive smaller prizes. The winning entries will appear in my blog on April 13th.In Mating Stone, Mark falls in love with Sarah. Sarah, a young human woman who has no idea that Were’s even exist beyond novels and movies. Strictly fictional. As a human woman, how do you react when Mr. Yummy tells you he’s the one with claws and may just leave fur on the sheets? So tell me: What type of Were is Mr. Wonderful and how does he break it to you?
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