Hey, you try living the life of an electronic hermit, see how sane you are! And tomorrow is NaNo's official start, so any sanity I may have had will soon be vanishing...
Picture a crazy sea lily, pulling up her roots and wandering in sea-tossed circles. That's me! Well, if you add a costume.
Hmm. Excerpts are traditional. Okay, after the jump. Moderately work-safe, but just in case. I do write erotic fiction, you know.
from "Come As You Aren't Party"--available only from the e-Garret
(Terry wanted a new guy, and she's into vamps. This Hallowe'en, she might just get what she asked for...)
The last clasp came loose; she shimmied, and satin slid noisily down her body to pool at her feet.
“Kings have died for such a sight as this.” His voice was deeper than ever, melted chocolate and burgundy. “Happily, I am sure.”
She shivered, only half hearing his words, feeling the air stir with his speech. Moonlight lent a completely superfluous air of mystery to the scene, his clothing dark and silvered, his movements by turns hid in shadow and outlined as he stalked toward her. Stalked. Yes, like…a hunting cat. Or, no, a wolf. Something. A predator.
“Delicious,” he murmured. At what? She shook her head, uncertain, and he laughed, low, soft, intimate sound. “Can you imagine what I see?”
She looked down. Eager-tipped breasts, check; gym-toned physique, still there; thong so as not to risk a panty line; thigh-highs, yes; heels hidden by the dress on the floor like some downmarket Venus’s seafoam. Not a model’s body, maybe, but a good one, healthy and fit, and she was glad he approved. So, yes, she could, she thought, imagine what he saw: what she saw in the mirror when she bothered to look. She shrugged.
“Please--” he groaned, stepped back a pace “--don’t do that. Not yet.”
She had no idea what he meant.
“I want to look at you,” he told her, breathing the words as he came near, “want simply to look awhile. You are a dish that must be savored.”
Oh, vamping again. “Savor quickly, will you? I’m cold.”
“You are anything but.” He circled her, slowly, looking; she tried not to shiver, to moan. To faint. There was something so incredibly kinky about this, her more nude than naked, him fully dressed. Not touching. Once, twice. She lost count. His pace was deliberate, as he walked around and around, his gaze steady, his murmurs...alluring. She wanted to lean toward him, like a plant to the sun, soaking in the music of his voice. The words didn’t matter, only the tone: Awe and wonder and yearning.
Yearning? Excuse me! Right here for the taking, you know. Some dim part of her remembered the rules of the game, rules she had set, but she wasn’t about to hold him to them if he wanted to touch!
He moved like a snake striking--lightning fast. One single, darting lick to her breast, and gone. Not far, just back to his circling; she hadn’t even seen him bend. She gasped, her hands clenching as she tried not to jump. Too fast for the pleasure she’d felt. Was feeling, still. Again? Yes, a second. Damn. Did I blink?
“Magnificent. The moonlight loves your skin, my beauty, almost as much as I.” He stood before her, smiling that closed-lipped smile, his eyes shining silver. “Thank you,” he whispered, and knelt.
Leather creaked, and silk whispered. But for that and the sound of her own breathing, she might have thought it a dream, a handsome stranger kneeling to her. Even with her in heels and standing, his head was even with her chest, and he took full advantage of the fact. No more snake-quick lickings; now he was slow and thorough, learning each curve full well. By the time he sucked her nipple into his mouth, she was gripping his shoulders to stay upright.
And when he held her breasts in those wonderful long-fingered hands of his, pressing them together so he could suckle both at once, she fell against him anyway. He sucked and teased and nibbled, rolled her flesh between his lips, flicked his tongue-tip across them until she’d have screamed if she’d had the breath. All she could do was whimper and hold on.
His hair brushed the back of her hand, like satin, another cool texture like his shirt, his skin. His pale, glowing-in-the-moonlight skin. His vampire-pale, vampire-cool skin. His sexy-as-hell skin, and that’s all that matters now—oh! His suckling had changed rhythm, faster now, hard, promise of things to come. “Please.”
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Hallowe'en from the Mad e-Garretteer
Friday, October 26, 2007
What Makes a Classic?
A week to go before the semi-organized insanity known as NaNo I haven't yet reactivated my account, but it's on the agenda--yes, once again, the hermit shall be NaNo-ing.
Comes the question, then: writing what?
NaNo’s rules are few, but rules there are:
**the goal is to write 50K of a single novel begun no sooner than one second into the day of Nov 1.**
So I can't pick up one of my unfinished works, I have to start something new. Usually, I go for something completely unpublishable, just for the fun of it; last year, I wrote a male-sub transformational piece. No magic, no fantasy, no romance--that is, none of my standards--just a chance to explore an experience and a character that had happened to occur to me.
I had a blast. Which is the point to NaNo. If I could find a publisher interested, you can bet I'd carve out some time to polish that manuscript!--but even without that, the story was fun to write. And that's what NaNo is about.
This year, I've fallen far behind on my personal goals; illness has sidelined me too damned many times, and all the bits of life that get backed up when one is sick have stolen much of my writing time and energy. So I'd really like to get at least one more submittable-quality manuscript finished this year. Two would be good. (Do I hear three?)
But it's not necessarily going to happen during November. NaNo is for fun! Some years, I've gone into it with no idea for a story; other years, I've had characters and settings; once, even a sketchy sort of outline. This year, as I often do, I have a question to explore:
What makes a classic--and how long does that label remain?
Why is "The Cold Equations" so enduring, when "Eve and the Twenty-Three Adams" is already less a warning than an historical curiosity?* What makes Nedra Tyre's "Recipe for a Happy Marriage" and Donald Westlake’s "Nackles" so very popular and so frequently, deservedly, reprinted, while Susan Casper's "Under Her Skin" remains more or less a cult favorite?
Of the stories that have endured into our time, which shall be carried into the future? And why?
Picture if you will a far-future library, with a section of "Classic Literature circa 1950-2050" What books or stories might you see? What about "Classic (Genre)" instead of the dates? Pride and Prejudice is still popular now; shall it always continue to be? Poe, I've no doubt, makes it onto the first colony starships headed Outbound, as does Shakespeare, I think. Who else goes along for that ride?
Alice, probably. What about Harry? What makes a classic, and how long before that label expires?
Next month, that question shall obtain a narrower focus, at least to me. To wit: at some minutes past midnight, when my NaNo character takes her first pixel-dust-laden breath, what titles shall she see?
I can't wait to find out!
Happy NaNo-ing!
--
pxj
*If you don't know all about Eve, you must not spend enough time with me! I rant about that story regularly.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Seen from various panes
Time for another round-up; this time it's news. What do make-up, guinea pigs, historical figures, and modern social advertising have in common? Not a thing. But here they are anyway.
1) Revlon's ancestral origins revealed?
Archaeologists are at it again, or still, tirelessly trying to decipher history from trash. Though there aren't any brand-names attached, it seems from the evidence that humans 164,000 years ago put on primitive makeup
In-context definition of "primitive"?
[Researchers] found 57 pieces of ground-up rock that would have been reddish- or pinkish-brown. That would be used for self-decoration and sending social signals to other people, much the way makeup is used now
Not so sure how "primitive" that is, me with the natural kohl and similar products, but okay. (Want to be the study author and contributors are all men?
2) Forgotten Flu Fact Found
There's recent news in the medical community: proof that flu really does spread more efficiently in winter. (I just love it when the eggheads prove things your grandmother already knew.
3) Crippen hanged on false evidence, say scientists.
So, okay, history's not my usual beat, but it was an oddly sexy case. If you like your sexuality on the dark side of dark. Now, they say the body wasn't Mrs. Crippen's after all! Man, next you're going to tell me Lizzie Borden didn't go to town with an ax!
Oh, wait...
4) You could go deaf if you keep doing that! Do you care?
The FDA's requiring a new warning on Viagra and its ilk: risk of sudden hearing loss. Of course, Viagra already had a similar warning (though it wasn't legally required), and it hasn't hurt sales any!
5) Whoa, there, little dogie!
"Little pinkie" slows down Aussie drivers
Nothing to say about this; it amused me, that's all.
6) Love that pearly glow!
I started with make-up's history, so let's end with the future of cosmetics. Or one possible future, anyway: custom-grown diatoms.
peace and x-rated joy,
pxj
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Talking about WIPs
On several of the loops where authors chat with one another and hope readers are listening, and on every loop I've found where the readers actually talk*, there's a phenomenon I'd never seen before venturing into e-:
Sharing excerpts, publicly!, of unfinished work. Not only the traditional "unedited" excerpts used as pre-release promo, but bits and pieces of things that haven't been fully written yet, let alone polished, subbed, and signed.
How soon is too soon to share WIPs** with the world?
I may not be the standard model of writer, but I'm the kind I know best; to me, a work in progress is just that. It's in progress, in flux, almost guaranteed to change! It's not ready to be shared. That doesn't mean I can't polish a few paragraphs into readability if I have some reason to, it's just...that excerpted section may not make the final cut. If there is a final cut. There may not be.
I write much, much more than I ever submit. Even assuming that everything I sub finds an eventual home (hasn't happened yet, but let's assume), that's
Do readers notice if this happens--if a WIP-excerpt never becomes anything more? Does it bother them? Do they ever feel let down, led on, betrayed? Does it seem like a tease? Cut to the chase: Would it keep them from buying the author's published work?
How do publishers feel about it? I assume that once I've signed a contract, I'm limited to the published-excerpt terms; before that, it's my own look-out. Great, yippee. But... How would a publisher react to a submission including an excerpt s/he'd seen on one or more loops? More or less favorably? What about a submission obviously related to that excerpt but not containing it?
And what happens later? I tend to write novella-length fiction, which means a fairly low word-limit for excerpts; it's tempting to use this apparent loop-hole
What's the protocol for WIP-excerpt sharing? Is there some primer for the practice, as there is for released works? What makes an author decide that yes, it's time to share--and which shared excerpts are best received? What would readers really like to see?
Is fiction like sausage, best enjoyed if you don't see the process, or more like "display cooking," where watching it happen is part of the fun?
Your humble sea-lily needs to know these things! She's got a character tied in a pretzel who's longing to show himself off a bit...
As always,
peace and x-rated joy
pxj
*And if you know any of those that accept erotic fiction, let me know! Please?
**Okay, so properly that's WsIP, but I don't know how to "say" that in my head, and I'm one of those readers who hears text. Besides, it looks funny!
Saturday, October 13, 2007
What's In a Name?
Would Chase be as sexy if he were called Run? A Midsummer Night's Dream is sexy as hell--what about June-eve Reverie?
Names might be more important in fiction even than reality; they have to convey so much to the (potential) reader...
An interesting title, they say, is among the factors that influence purchasing/reading decisions. Doesn't that make it marketing, rather than writing? --she says, hoping to off-load the task to someone else.--But, no; as with children, it's the creator's responsibility.
I hate naming stories, usually go through half a dozen versions of a title before I pick one. My recent AMP release began life as "A Phone Romance"--yeah, groan away!--before I settled on Reach Out and Touch Someone.
Not fond of naming characters, either. (Or pets, and any kid of mine would be "you" for the first half of his or her life, I'm sure.) Names are too important to be taken lightly. And in fiction, I feel pressured to find a name that will say something to the reader, as well as to me. I often try three or four names before I find one that fits.
Except for Reach's hero; his name, I had from the instant before I started to write.
His last name, that is. When an editor once referred to him by his first name, I honestly thought she had me confused with another of her writers! Bill? Bill who? Oh, you mean Muir!
For the final version, I cut the first name entirely in favor of an initial, just to make sure no one else could do this. (Though I still don't understand how she did, when the first name appeared exactly twice in the submitted draft!) The heroine latches onto the last name in an instant, because it means something. To her, and to me. And maybe to the reader, depending.
Muir. Pronounced just like it looks--which means that if you're a Scot, it's a syllable and a half something in the neighborhood of "myewer," and if you're a Californian, it's Meer. After John Muir, who's a local (and national) hero, often called the father of the national park service, and for whom Muir Woods is named.
Why is that my fictional hero's name? Because the man's a redwood walking. No, this isn't a paranormal, I just mean that he's huge and stable and large enough to climb and...and I should shut up now before I start squirming in my very public coffeehouse seat. Besides, he's Jackie's toy, not mine.
Muir the redwood.
But that's not all. I have a fondness for obscure jokes--as folks on my not-a-newsletter list the e-Garret can tell you--and there's another reason why this yoga practitioner hero has the name he has: it's because Muir studies yoga.
There's a relatively new trend in yoga teachings called "tantra," "New Tantrics," or "yoga for lovers," where the point is to use yoga techniques for sexual connection and pleasure, interpersonal connection as opposed to purely universal. Happily for me, it so happens that one of the pioneering couples of tantra share his name.
Muir. The redwood who walks like a man, bends like a pretzel, and makes love with his whole being.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Self-P(r)imping Season!
Yes, folks, even hermits sometimes feel the need to preen. Physically and virtually. What with new releases and a change of season, this seemed like the time for such things. So the blog's had its make-over, and I'm typing in a mud masque. The keyboard may never be the same.
Outside my attic window, the trees are changing their wardrobe, too--a host of lovely dramatic fiery shades--and my feline companion (not the one pictured above)is doing her coat-of-shifting-colors thing. And me? Well, beyond the temporary rather Vulcan face-coloring, I've pulled on the promo-ing suit.
Shame it isn't a better fit! Still, it's bright and shiny, and it goes quite well with pearls. I've entered a cover art contest this month, and I'm having an author day on the 13th. New releases are my favorite form of promo; accordingly, I queried a publisher just today. And I've done more posting these past few weeks, excerpts and announcements and general chat, than in a hundred normal life-in-the-e-garret days.
It feels like I should be decked out in full bling. How do other authors cope? I try to picture them happily self-promo-whoring (grills flashing and fingers flying and everything), but it's a painful idea to me. Easier to imagine writ(h)ing satin-sheeted first-draft work and bon-bon fueled fantasies...
Though, okay, I admit it: that's not what you'd see if you looked at me. Not this week, at least. I've emerged from my attic to take advantage of the fall weather, you see, going trolling for inspiration at the bonfires, enjoying the harvest fairs and season's-end frolicking. Just as soon as I do one more bit of promo, or two, or three--and when this masque is finished torturing me.
But I'll be back by the 13th! No doubt with the latest fall fashions in condoms to talk about.
What? Don't we deserve some safe bling?
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