Wednesday, August 31, 2011
And I remember thinking -- "No, I can't hide pieces of myself from God. But I can sure hide pieces of myself from my church family--cause y'all are a bunch of Baptists, and I write about sex with werewolves."
Now, I like my church and I like my preacher and as Baptists go, my church is very liberal (we have gay people and everything). But I'm still not sure how they'd feel about the language and content of my books, and I'm not ready to find out. I try to keep that part of my life under their radar.
I'm very comfortable with compartmentalization. Consequently, I'm not a huge fan of that Zuckerman kid.
I don't hang out on Facebook often, either as myself or as Kinsey--Facebook bugs me and I much prefer Twitter--but I've friended lots of my church family, and I'm in a bunch of their groups. I will go on Facebook and talk about going to a party, or needing a drink, or having a nigh uncontrollable urge to lock my child in a closet for a few days. My church family know I'm not Baptist by belief or inclination; I attend this church because I grew up there and because Hub won't go to Mass with me. They don't expect me to behave like a "regular" Baptist. But I still don't think they want to listen to me curse like a sailor or read graphic sex scenes I wrote.
I've also friended work acquaintances, and I'm not sure how my employer would feel about my second job.
So I've told friends and family who know about Kinsey not to friend her. (I refer to my pen name in the third person. No, I don't need treatment.) (Seriously.) (Shut up.) I try real hard not to let my two lives--the life in what the geeks call "meat space," and my writing life--intersect.
For the longest time, I thought that would keep my mother from finding out my pen name--for some reason, she's always wanted to read my books. I've always known that would be a bad idea. In spite of my best efforts (I think someone squealed, she insists she just "remembered hearing it somewhere"), she discovered my books. Of course she was shocked and appalled and mortified and sickened and fervently wished she'd never read them, and all I could say was "You remember all those times I told you, "Mom, you really don't need to read my books? What I meant was, Mom, you really don't need to read my books. Next time I tell you to leave something alone, leave it alone. Geez, what are you? Seven?"
And now she wants to friend me.
I love my mom. I mean, I'm 47, and she's still my mommy. Same for my sister, who's 44. We're close to our mother, we love her dearly. But she's our mom, not our friend. We don't discuss sex with her (oh God, no). We try not to let her see us drink much, or to find out about when we do. We don't yell at our kids (much) in front of her. My mom is a bit of a prude and no matter how old we get, she still scolds us and worries about us like we're teenagers. So it's to her benefit, and ours, if we compartmentalize our lives, right? But if we become Facebook friends with her, then she sees everything we say or do on Facebook. Right now, if she wants to peek in on us, she has to physically go to our Facebook pages, and that just confuses her. So we continue to ignore her friend request, and we hope she doesn't think to ask us about it. (And yes, I know how silly it sounds for women in their 40s to relate to their mother this way. But it works for us.)
It got me to thinking, though. Don't we all compartmentalize? You're not the same person at work that you are at home. Do you want your coworkers to see the person your kids see? I, for one, certainly don't. Do you want your kids' teachers to know that sometimes breakfast is ice cream, and sometimes bedtime is after 10, and sometimes they only smell good because you rubbed them down with baby powder and body spray before you dropped them off at school? No, me neither.
So you can't say any of that on Facebook. Which seems to negate the purpose of Facebook, right? I mean, if you have to be as circumspect and discreet on Facebook as you are with all the different circles of your life, what's the point? Maybe I'll take my Facebook page private and be very picky about whom I accept as a friend. I haven't decided yet.
I'm mostly reconciled to the drastically reduced expectations of privacy we live with now; I think it's the price we have to pay for the technology that's made so many aspects of our lives so much better. But honestly, I do feel sorry for the 20 somethings who have to watch what they say and do now, for fear of losing a job some point in the future because they got drunk and stupid while in college. It's all well and good to tell people "don't put incriminating photos of yourself on the Internet!" But what about ending up in someone else's picture? Are we no longer allowed to do stuff we might regret one day? Maybe there needs to be some kind of unwritten rule that anything done before you're 24 can't be held against you by future in-laws or employers. [Note that I'm not talking about the dumbasses who post photos of their wild beach weekend and then call in sick to work on Monday. I believe that stupidity is actually a firing offense.]
Do I sound old? I probably sound old. For the most part, I think the 21st century is way better than the 20th. I like technology--I couldn't have either of my jobs if it weren't for the Internet and all the technology that accompanies it. I just wish we had a little bit more control over how much people see of us, and over who gets to see what.
Does that make sense?
If my mother finds this, she's going to be so hurt...
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Guest Bloggers A. Catherine Noon and Rachel Wilder - Ladies Writing tha Buttsecks: M/M from a Female Perspective
It’s the ultimate fantasy: women reading about men having sex with… other men.
Susie Bright, in her excellent book THE SEXUAL STATE OF THE UNION, makes the point that she believes one of the next taboos to be broken is anal sex. I would add to that, that I think the next taboo in heterosexual ladies' erotic literature to be broken is male/male romance. It startles me that there are so many women reading and writing it, and that the target audience of this literature is not, in fact, gay men - but women.
I'm certainly not a sociologist, and I'm sure there are gay men that read literature written by women about gay men. I'd love to have a gay man or men read my stories and tell me if I got it “right.” But my coauthor and I write for other women, at least in terms of who our idealized idea of our reader is in our heads. Remember Victorian novels that would address “Dear Reader”? When we do that, we imagine a woman reading our stories, following our characters, and watching their trials and tribulations.
What’s interesting about writing male characters is getting the reactions “male”. It’s tricky to create a character that doesn’t read as female with a male name. For example, if we have a character that likes to talk about his feelings, is concerned about his looks, and cries at the drop of the hat, then chances are he’s not a believable guy. But guys aren’t all football-watching, beer-guzzling tractor drivers with ten gallon hats, either. Or at least not the ones that romance readers want to see portrayed. So how to figure out the middle ground?
For us, it starts with trying to get a feel for the person that is our character. We use a lot of graphic images when we’re writing, “casting” our characters as though we were working on a movie. We use Pandora online radio to create stations of music that fit our characters, and write character sheets that pull together the information and vital statistics about them. We try to make them as real to us as possible, so that we can get a feel for how they would react in a given situation. For example, if you work for months with a person, you tend to get a pretty good idea of how they’ll react when the copier runs out of paper, when the bathroom is out of order, and when the company schedules a picnic.
Getting gritty and remembering to throw in some cussing as well as having the characters not talking about issues and ignoring them instead, was a change. There’s nothing like a grunt or well placed “Fuck!” to get a point across in dialog. On the practical side of writing, especially when it comes to sex scenes, it is important to keep the “who is doing what to whom” straight as too many “he’s” can lose the flow and make the reader say “Huh?” But writing the naughty sex scene is the icing on the cake of male-male romance. There’s nothing like a quick and dirty blow job in an alley that most female characters would go “No way, Jose” to.
It was fun writing BURNING BRIGHT, because we got to play around with different kinds of people: military guys dealing with becoming shapeshifters, contrasting with a well-educated doctor and the son of a privileged family who grew up sheltered and cherished. All of these elements contributed to the behavior of our characters and, we hope, made the story that much more plausible.
A. Catherine Noon is an author and textile artist based in Chicago, Illinois. Rachel Wilder is an author and image consultant in Las Vegas, Nevada. Together, they love to write stories and create worlds for readers to explore and enjoy. To learn more about them, please visit their website.
Monday, August 29, 2011
A while ago, I wrote a blog post about how we romance writers are a lot more forgiving of female characters than males. We’re willing to accept full-figured heroines, but the hero had better have abs like Beckham. Judging from the comments, baldness was also a no-no, although a shaved head would perhaps be acceptable. And woe betide the poor schlump who couldn’t hold down a decent job. In other words, while we’d accept real women as heroines, when it came to the hero, we wanted the fantasy.
I thought about this the other day while I was reading an article about on-line dating services. It turned out the two things that men were most likely to lie about on their personal profiles were their income (understandable, I guess) and their height. Hmmmmmm.
So now I’m wondering—have I ever read a romance novel where the hero wasn’t a literal tower of strength? And I can’t think of a single one right off the top of my head.
This whole height thing seems to be a generalized social taboo. Consider the number of vertically challenged actors who have done love scenes standing on boxes or required their leading ladies to go barefoot (Alan Ladd and Tom Cruise leap to mind here). Politicians go to great lengths not to be photographed in a way that shows them to be less than statuesque. Even spindly rock singers often avoid being photographed next to the towering models they seem to favor.
And yet in real life I’m not sure this is quite as big a deal as we pretend. The average male height in the USA is five foot ten inches (although some sources say five foot nine) rather than the six feet society seems to aspire to. And I guess everybody knows six-footers who are a) uncoordinated or b) out of shape, along with shorter guys who can bench press a couple hundred pounds. Height, in other words, is really no indication of studliness. And if the yardstick here is the man’s ability to protect his partner, would you rather be accompanied down that dark alley by the six-foot-two-inch couch potato who’s never seen a gym or by the five-foot-niner who has a black belt?
And yet we romance writers continue our love affair with tall guys. I’m as guilty as anybody here since my Toleffsons are all over six foot two. For me, part of this fascination with height comes from the fact that I’m a tall woman myself—five-foot-eight, well over the national average of five-foot-four. But my hubs tops out at five-foot-eleven, so he’s not up there with the Toleffsons (and yes, I’m nuts about him—we’ve been married a long time).
Now one might speculate that this fascination with height is a stand-in for the size of another part of the male anatomy, and it’s probably true that tall guys will be in proportion in other parts as well. But remember the other mythical markers of male size: feet and noses. Those don’t depend on height at all. A man who’s under six feet could still have more-than-adequate equipment. I know of one legendary country singer who’s under six feet and legendary for more than his music, my dears.
So what do you think, people? Are you willing to accept romantic heroes who aren’t up there in the stratosphere as long as they’re muscular and cute? Or is that six-foot-something height a non-negotiable part of the total package (so to speak)?
Thursday, August 25, 2011
First a big THANK YOU to the Nine Naughty Novelists for having us on the blog over the last few weeks. It's been a blast! And second....
THE WINNERS ARE.......*insert drum roll*
kog - wins the gift certificate
elaing8 - wins the International Heat tote bag
If you ladies could contact me on rhian AT rhiancahill DOT com I'll get your prizes to you.
Thanks also to everyone for commenting and helping decide the Naughty or Nice status of the International Heat members. I think it's obvious that we're all a little bit naughty and a little bit nice. The perfect combination in my opinion. *grin* And don't forget you can keep up with all our naughty and nice adventures over at the International Heat blog.
Her darling husband (husband! She had a husband!) looked up at her sad exhalation. "What is it, my duckling?"
She waved a delicate hand about, indicating the room. "It is just that I am sad to say goodbye to our little love nest," she said. "I shall miss being tucked away from the world, just the two of us. Colin and Julia."
"Er, Julia and...Westley." She still did not quite understand his insistence on being called a different name. He had a perfectly good name of his own, after all.
But it was important that a wife do what she could to keep her husband happy. (Husband! She had a husband!)
"Thank you, my dearest." He took her hand and kissed the knuckles, sending a frisson of desire through her. "I shall miss our personal space as well."
She smiled. At least he'd stopped calling her that other woman's name. And, heaven forbid, the name of his ferret. She still wasn’t sure what exactly a ferret was, but she was quite sure she would not be pleased with the comparison once she did figure it out. Honoring her husband's (HUSBAND'S!) quirks was one thing; giving over her own right to keep her Christian name was another thing altogether.
She was willing to be as docile and subservient as he wanted, but that was a line she'd never cross.
"But it is time for us to return to the real world," he continued, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow and turning toward the door. "We have duties. I think. Do we not?"
She looked at him curiously. "But of course, milord," she said. "You have your responsibilities as the Duke, which you have been training for since childhood."
"Quite right," he mumbled, inspecting the doorframe with an air of indifference.
"And I have quite neglected Ward," she added.
"Oh, no, my pigeon!" Colin-Westley stopped dead in the middle of the room. "You are no longer responsible for anything related to the nursery. You are a duchess, after all!"
Julia blinked. She supposed he was right. No longer a governess - with their marriage, she'd traded in all those responsibilities for the life of a duchess.
What were her new responsibilities, anyway? She frowned. Likely hiring a new governess would be one of them.
Poor Ward. He would miss her terribly.
"Come, my dear," Westley-Colin said, steering her toward the door again. "We must return to Netherloin and share the delightful news of our nuptials."
Oh, yes. Netherloin. The idea of telling Willoughby and Lady Chastity that they'd eloped filled Julia with dread. But with her husband (yes, HUSBAND) by her side, she could face anything.
Westley, pretender to the, well, not really throne, was it? The seat? Yes, that would do - the seat of Netherloin, would have been happy to wait another day or two.
His time with Julia at the quaint little country inn had been truly delightful, in more ways than one. Mostly under the bedcovers. But duty called, and he was ready to respond.
Also, he was a little hungry.
And the kitchens at Netherloin were one of his favourite things about being a duke.
The carriage turned onto the long, winding road to the estate, bumping and shuddering over the rough terrain. First order of business, Westley decided, was to have the road repaired.
Or perhaps just add new springs to the carriage. That might be less dear.
Suddenly, the carriage pulled to a precipitous halt, causing his duchess (he had a duchess!) to tumble off her seat. Landing with a most unladylike “Oof!”, she glared up at him as if her current position was his fault.
Which, as far as he could tell, it was decidedly not.
Murmuring gentle words to her, much as he would have calmed Brigid in a similar state (and he certainly needed to locate his darling ferret as soon as he returned to Netherloin. Why, she must be quite as hungry as he was!), he reached down a hand and tugged her off the floor. Returning her to the cushion next to him, he said, “Allow me to determine what has interfered with our progress, dear,” and opened the carriage door to look out.
It was a most confusing scene that greeted his gaze. His driver was in a heated argument with a young boy who looked rather familiar.
“But I must speak with his Grace,” the child protested loudly. “’Tis a matter of life and death.”
Westley frowned. That certainly did not sound promising.
“Ward?” Julia poked her head out of the carriage directly below Westley’s arm and stared at the lad. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Trying to save –" Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sound of thundering hooves as some of Willoughby’s men rode up the drive. As far as Westley could tell, Ward heaved a sigh at their appearance, which made no sense at all, for what boy didn’t love a man in uniform upon a fancy steed?
The lead horseman drew to a halt in front of the carriage and sketched a bow. “Your presence is requested at Netherloin,” he said haughtily.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Westley replied. “That’s where we were headed, after all. Lead the way, my good man.”
He ducked back into the carriage, bringing Julia with him, and after a pause Ward leapt in after them. Once they were all settled (he and Julia on one cushion, Ward on the one opposite) Westley tapped the roof of the carriage and the driver set them in motion once again.
“How exciting! An escort back to Netherloin.” Julia reached across the carriage and patted Ward on the knee. “And you coming to greet us as well. Thoughtful of you, my dear.”
“It wasn’t thoughtful, it was –“
“But how did you all know we were returning today?” Julia looked at Westley-Colin with an exasperated smile. “Did you set all this up, my duke-ling? A welcome home to remember?”
“No, my dearest, it was not my idea. Though I wish it had been, now that I see the delight on your face.” He winked at her. “Delight I have not seen since last night, when we tried that one thing with the feather and the –“
Julia coughed loudly. “Not in front of the children, husband!” She nodded sharply at Ward, even while her inner voice crowed once again about how excellent it was to have a husband.
“You are married?”
She looked over at Ward, who did not seem nearly as enthusiastic about their nuptials as she might have expected.
Oh, well. Perhaps he was just saddened at the loss of his governess. Poor soul.
“Please do not be inconsolable, dear Ward,” she said, patting his knee again. “Do not fret. I will still visit you in the nursery when I can. And I am sure your new governess will be almost as nice as I am.”
“That’s not what I –“
“Of course, I shall be far better dressed by then,” she added brightly. “For the wife of a duke must be clothed in the first stare of fashion.”
“And so you shall,” her darling husband interjected. “As long as we have the money for it. Which I am not quite sure we do.”
“Oh. That does present a difficulty.” Julia pondered on it for a moment. “Well, you are quite clever, my husband. I am sure you shall come up with something.”
He squinted thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could return to my former profession,” he mused. “Just for a short while, until we are comfortably settled.”
“You see!” Julia clapped her hands and bounced on the carriage cushion. “I knew you would come up with a plan.” She frowned. “Wait, what profession?”
“That’s the problem,” Ward said, a note of desperation in his voice. “They know about—“
“Err…” Westley-Colin snapped his mouth shut and gestured out the window of the carriage. “Look, our very own welcoming committee!”
“Oh, my goodness,” Julia said, leaning past him to gawk at the gathered crowd. “How excited they must be, to welcome back their duke and new duchess!”
“You have no idea,” Ward muttered, slumping back in his seat. “If only you had let me talk, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
Julia patted him fondly on the head. “Oh, what silly ideas you have, Ward! Don’t you know that children should be seen and not heard? We can see you, quite well indeed, and have no need to hear you.”
“I give up,” Ward said, tossing up his hands in defeat.
Julia nodded approvingly. “That’s better, dear.”
The carriage drew to a halt in the center of the courtyard, where indeed a crowd had gathered. Julia was surprised and not a little touched that even Lady Chastity had turned out to greet them. How unchristian of her to think the lady would be still angry at the turn of events that had taken her husband away and given him to Julia, she mused. Clearly, she had set aside her disappointment to do the neighborly thing.
Their driver alighted and opened the carriage door, and Colin-Westley gestured at Ward. “Would you like to disembark first, young man?”
“Oh, no,” Ward muttered, sinking back into the corner of the carriage. “You go right ahead.”
“Very well.” Westley leapt down from the carriage, cutting quite a dashing figure as he turned and swept a bow towards the crowd. “Good day, my fine people! I have a surprise for you that I daresay you will be thrilled about. May I present to you Her Grace, the Duchess of Earl?”
Julia blushed as she put her hand in his and stepped down from the carriage. “I know some of you may be shocked at the news,” she began. “But true love does conquer all.”
“There he is!” Willoughby’s voice rang out over the courtyard. Julia stared up at him, atop the stairs to the entryway.
Really, that was quite rude, to interrupt her Speech of Triumphant Return in such a gauche manner. Didn’t everyone already know Westley-Colin was standing right in front of all of them? Honestly.
“Guards! Seize him!”
Julia’s mouth dropped open as she was rudely elbowed aside by a rather large man in uniform, who grabbed one of her husband’s arms. The other was held firmly by another large man.
“I say, chaps,” the Duke said, tugging ineffectually at his captors. “This is a passing strange way to greet your lord and master.”
“You are no lord and master,” Lady Chastity called out over the murmurs of the crowd. Her face was a twisted mask of bitterness and glee. “You are an imposter!”
“What?” Julia turned to her husband in astonishment . “My dear, refute her immediately!”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Which was also passing strange, as he did so love to talk. And talk. And talk.
“He cannot,” the uncle said with a sneer. “Because it is the truth, isn’t it, Westley?”
The Duke clamped his mouth shut again.
Julia leaned in, her eyes wide with shock. “How does he know your pet name,” she whispered fiercely.
“He is no Duke,” Lady Chastity continued in a shrill voice. “He is just a man who looks like our dear departed Duke. He has taken poor Colin’s place in the hopes of inheriting what belongs to another man.”
“What are you saying?” Julia stepped closer to her husband, or as close as she could get, what with him being surrounded by the uncle’s men. “My beloved Westley – I mean Colin –is no imposter!”
“Aha!” Lady Chastity pointed an accusing finger at Julia. “She knows!”
“His true name!”
Julia glanced up at her husband helplessly. Why was he not denying these baseless accusations?
He would not meet her eyes, instead scuffing his toe in the dirt and whistling. Whistling! At a time like this!
The uncle took a step towards them. “This pretender, this vile usurper, has taken advantage of his cunning likeness to the true duke and stepped into his place in Colin’s absence. He is no duke, but a highwayman – the dread Highwayman Roberts!”
“What?” Julia pressed one hand to her trembling mouth. It could not be true!
On the other hand, it would explain so many things…
“And what has become of the missing duke, hmmm?” Lady Chastity stomped delicately across the courtyard and stood in front of Westley – Colin – whatever his name was, hands on her hips. “What have you done with my loving fiancé, you horrible fiend?”
“I didn’t do anything to him. I’ve never met the man!” Westley-Colin clamped his mouth shut as awareness of what he’d just said descended. “I mean…”
The crack of a hand across his face echoed loudly around the courtyard, stunning everyone into silence.
Well, most everyone.
“I say, that was quite uncalled for,” the maybe-fake-duke protested. “What did I ever do to you?”
She snarled at him, “My name is Lady Chastity. You killed my fiancé. Prepare to die!”
The uncle, now descended from the stairs, stood in the center of the courtyard and raised his hands. “It is my contention that this man disposed of the true duke in order to deceive us all and take his place. Therefore, he shall be placed under arrest until such a time that he can be sentenced to hang for murder. Guards, take him away!”
All Julia could do was watch in horror as her husband, the man she loved, was summarily marched into Netherloin, likely to be placed in the dungeon. But who was that man? Was he Colin, the duke she’d loved from afar for so long? Or was he truly an imposter?
The crowd began to disperse as the excitement faded, Lady Chastity sweeping into Netherloin on the arm of Uncle Willoughby. Finally Julia was alone.
Or almost. For once the crowds had disappeared, Ward crept out of the carriage, slipping to his governess’s side.
“Oh, Ward,” she said with a sob, resting one hand on his shoulder. “What an absolute disaster! How am I to bear it? If only…”
“What?” He looked at her askance.
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I just wish we could have had some warning that this was going to happen.”
Ward made a strangled sort of sound, causing Julia to narrow her eyes at him.
Really, he needed to stop grimacing like that or his face was going to freeze that way.
To be continued...*****
A Word to you, Our Dear and Gentle Readers: If you enjoyed this small offering, please do us the honor of returning to grace our humble blog with your presence one week hence, when we shall be delighted to bring to you the next installment of our little saga, which is to be entitled, Siblings Reunited, The Forces of Phisicks O'erturned.
And please partake of our Love’s Savage Contest. Leave a comment here or go to our Facebook page (link in the column on the right) and quote your favorite line from this week’s episode to be entered in a monthly drawing for a giftcard at the bookstore of your choice and a grand finale drawing for a signed e-reader cover.
The Naughty Nine
To read from the beginning: Love's Savage Whiplash Prologue
To read Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
|By carlapryor Photobucket|
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Thanks so much to the Nine Naughty Novelists for having me here today! I love the work of so many of the NNN authors and frequently fangirl squee over Kelly, Juniper and Erin. Right now, I’m knee deep in reading Just My Type by Erin Nicholas, who’s rapidly becoming one of my favorite writers. But Erin, can you please, please put a warning on your books not to start them late at night? This is the second book of hers I haven’t been able to put down until the wee hours!
An an erotic romance writer, I’m in the sexy business. Every time I sit down at the keyboard, I have to consider my own personal comfort zone and what the characters I’ve created demand. Some of them turn out to be kinkier than I planned (okay, most of them) and I can either fight them or let them have their own way. Over the years, I’ve learned fighting them is usually a losing proposition and often, for me, results in a story I’m not happy with. If my characters aren’t driving the bus, more often that not the story comes to a dead end.
Even though I try to let my characters do their own thing, sometimes they want to do things I’m not comfortable with as a writer. (And yes, non-writers would ask how can that be, since I’ve created them, but that’s a subject for a whole other post.) For example, I have a vampire duology of books I need to get back to. The first book’s been done for almost two years, but needs some polishing before it gets sent out. Originally I balked at writing the second book, because where the characters were clearly heading—a m/m/f/f foursome and the intermingling contained therein—was beyond my comfort zone at that time. I couldn’t reason my way out of it, because hell, they’re vampires. They don’t live within society’s constraints and they didn’t give a fig if I wasn’t ready to write a foursome. Luckily that particular development doesn’t take place until the second book...and also luckily, I’m no longer vexed by writing foursome action. I’ve written things in the past two years I never thought I would. If someone had said to me back then that one day I’d be writing a series about a voyeurism club, I would’ve said no freaking way. But I do, and I’m enjoying the heck out of writing it.
Now I’m trying something that’s even scarier to me as a writer. For the past couple years, I’ve been building my brand as an erotic romance author...and now, finally, I’m trying to write a hot contemporary that will be still sexy, but a lot softer. I’m freaking nervous! I’m the kind of girl who tends to write harder-edged stuff. Though my work’s definitely romantic, I’m wondering how I’ll fill pages without hardcore sex. But the time’s come for me to find out. I’m still working on numerous erotic projects, but my muse was getting angsty about trying something new. So here I am.
One of the erotic projects I’m still working on is Unveiled, my series at Ellora’s Cave that centers around a voyeurism club called Kink. So far there are six books planned, and I’m currently writing book three. Some of the residents in Ely, Maryland love getting down and dirty in public. Some like to watch. And some discover they prefer closed doors, thank you very much. One of the fun things about this series is realizing that the people who are into it often aren’t who you’d expect. And sometimes the ones who seem tailor made to enjoy Kink just...don’t.
Book 2, Provoke Me, is out now. Here’s the blurb and buy link if you’re interested in checking out more:
Sometimes extreme provocation can lead to exactly what you need...
Attracted. Kelly's focus is the bookstore she manages. Sex is relegated to a list of candidates on her PDA. Only one man pushes all her buttons—her boss.
Fascinated. Spencer is determined to fight his desire for Kelly. For years they've bumped heads over the store they both love. But there's more than one reason their getting together is complicated.
Provoked. When Kelly and Spencer unexpectedly meet up at a sex club, all the rules go out the window. Suddenly there's only way this match of wills can end —naked, preferably all night long. In this battle for sexual supremacy, there are two winners—and two losers when their stubbornness leads to the very thing each dreads most.
Reader's Advisory: In a couple of scenes, Kelly and Spencer test "the more the merrier" theory.
Find the buy link and an excerpt here: http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9417-provoke-me.aspx
So now it’s your turn. What flavor of sexy works for you? Do you like all out hardcore action or do you prefer more be left to the imagination? I’d love to hear what presses your particular buttons, kinky or otherwise!
Visit Cari at www.cariquinn.com
Multi-published author Cari Quinn wrote her first story—a bible parable—in 2nd grade, much to the delight of the nuns at her Catholic school. Once she saw the warm reception that first tale garnered, she was hooked. She attempted her first romance in junior high, long before she’d ever read one. Writing what she knew always took a backseat to what she wanted to know, and that still holds true today. Cari’s genres of choice include contemporary, romantic comedy and paranormal. Recently she discovered erotic romance. Oh, how far she’s come.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Butt In Chair Hands On Keyboard.
I first heard about BICHOK from a Nora Roberts interview. It’s her secret recipe for getting books written—you keep your butt in the chair and your hands on the keyboard. I figured, if it works for Nora, maybe it’ll work for me. I always listen to the best of the best.
But Nora never mentioned anything about her butt hurting! Or her neck or shoulders or any other part of her fabulously successful self.
Recently I went in for a massage and got a lecture too. You’re in a SITTING PROFESSION, I was told. You have to take the time for real exercise, the kind that gets your heart rate up – not just fast-walking to the bathroom for pee breaks.
It’s true – I’m in a sitting profession. While my mind and imagination are off doing crazy, wild, occasionally sex-crazed things, my body is slumped in a chair. (You can skip the lecture about my posture. Been there. Ignored that.) And if I keep up with this writing career the way I want, I’ll be slumping for hours and days and years …
So how can I sit and write, and not hurt my body? I’ve already bought myself an ergonomic chair – even a desktop computer because apparently laptops can’t possibly be ergonomic. I know the proper posture, and sometimes I even deploy it. But still. All you authors and readers and anyone who puts in hours of chair time … how do you do it?
Here are some suggestions I’ve gotten:
Write at a standing station.
(That’s not me, by the way. If it were, we could skip the whole exercise portion of the lecture.)
I’m just not sure this would work for me. If you’re standing, you have to pay attention to your body to make sure you don’t fall over. I like to forget everything and lose myself in the world I’m creating.
Sit on an exercise ball.
(Again, not me.)
I may try this one, but again, there’s that whole falling over thing. And I’d be tempted to bounce a lot, which might lead to typos. More than the usual number, that is.
Write in a zero gravity chair.
So I’m open to suggestions. Right now I try to take plenty of breaks, throw in some neck rolls and a yoga practice here and there. Drink lots of water. Water helps everything, right? At the very least, it increases the number of pee breaks.
Anyone else have any wisdom to share? Nora, care to chime in?