R. Cooper's Blog, page 17

stupid reason. bein' all...reasonable and shit.

Guys. Guys, there is drama going on. So much that I'm aware of it in my little corner of nowhere where I hide and write silly things about librarians and twinks who can't cook and gamblers and such. I'm not going to call people out, because I don't do that unless I am very, very sure of what I am saying and absolutely certain that the people involved deserve it (and that I am ready for the backlash/shitstorm that always follows), but I have been reading it all and wow, wow. Once again the internet has forgotten that it is run by Real People.

You know, Real People. The ones who read and review stories and who create websites and yes, who also write books. Those are all Things That Are Done By Real People. (And if I need to define Real People *sigh*, then let's say that they are living, breathing people, just like you or me, with responsibilities and jobs and tissue in their pocket for their allergies and sisters who bug them about getting out of the house more and some tasty tequila and lime in the pantry calling their name. Real People...with feelings. If you prick them, do they not bleed?).

The thing with this cray internets of ours is that though it *never forgets*, it also allows for a *lot* of anonymity. And it's a hell of a lot easier to do things we wouldn't do in real life when we aren't looking someone in the eye when we do it. That includes things on both sides of this particular fence, things from potentially plagiarizing (or at least possibly just being unoriginal) to flat out publicly accusing someone of something without knowing all the facts, legal or otherwise.

It's a lot like reviews to me. Years ago when I used to review, the rule was that you *could* go intensely negative if you truly felt the book deserved it, but you had to remember when you did that it had a lasting impact on both you and the author reviewed. I'm not talking sales. I'm taking about what putting out (sometimes unwarranted) negativity does to your name and reputation and what it does to someone who may or may not have written a shitty book (or done a shitty thing) but who might have learned and developed and gotten *better* if the review had been less about being funny and harsh and more about the book itself. Sure, you can call the main characters douchebags if they are douchebags, but what exactly are you adding to the debate, to the creative process, to the community you are a part of? Not to mention that the author's reaction should always be in the back of your mind. (And if I have to explain *that* I will, but honestly, *sigh* again? That means- Did you say that to shock them? To make others laugh? Or did you really feel that, and if so, why? Please 'xplain.)

Acts, words said, thoughts posted, these things all have repercussions. You might not feel them right away in imaginary, anonymous internet-land, but they exist. Stolen ideas (whether this is the case or not) hurt readers and cost authors their audience. They create a sense of betrayal that affects not just the accused or the guilty but everyone around them, including everyone in their field. And public accusations (baseless or not) are not things to be taken lightly and certainly aren't something to be done in the heat of the moment. They can ruin careers and lives and if not that, then at the very least they can ruin someone's joy in something that *should* be joyous.

So yeah, my thoughts, such as they are. A drop in a vast ocean. OR, tl;dr--the next time you are going to write or post something on the internet, imagine you are looking in the face of the person you are writing about, and imagine they are looking back at you.

Ours go to eleven!

FINISHED. Little archivist student librarian and his flirty dragon employer will make cute boyfriends someday!!!!

Anyway, to celebrate, and because coffeebuddha likes it when boys bake for other boys rather than admit their *feelings*.








"I borrowed another book."

Arthur, the dear boy, could sometimes insist upon speaking at the most inopportune moments.

It wasn't that Arthur didn't have interesting things to say. On the contrary; there were moments when Bertie would be riveted by Arthur's quiet, thoughtful comments on his work. In other moments, Bertie quite lost track of time while listening to Arthur's enchanting stories of his childhood. Arthur told stories most beautifully, with the gifts of a natural storyteller.

But Arthur would also decide to talk when speaking was beyond Bertie's current capabilities.

"Mmm." Bertie encouraged him with a startling weakness in his midsection that was becoming an increasing problem when in Arthur's presence and then nearly sighed when Arthur picked up a scone still warm from the oven and held it up without eating it.

"It was a reprint of a diary of a soldier from the late Victorian era." Arthur took a moment to lick some pale, white icing from his lower lip before he went on. Bertie did sigh, heavily and with feeling.

Arthur loved scones and he loved them sweet. They weren't the easiest thing to make to tempt Arthur into his kitchen, but they were by far Bertie's favorite simply because he, in his turn, loved watching Arthur eat them.

It, perhaps, wasn't dignified for a dragon of his lineage, or even for a grown man, but considering Bertie wouldn't touch Arthur unless Arthur indicated that he might enjoy that as much as Bertie knew he would, it was a small, harmless treat for himself.

There was more of course, he liked feeding Arthur, liked seeing to him and fussing over him and watching that confused little frown come and go on his pretty face that meant Arthur quite simply didn't understand being fussed over. Though it made him sad to think that no one had ever taken the time to properly care for Arthur, Bertie was slightly ashamed to admit that he liked that too, more than might be sensible, thinking that in some way, he might be Arthur's first.

Such things shouldn't matter to dragons, but they did. Just as modern dragons shouldn't really think about eating anyone, but Bertie still thought of the fairy who had hurt Arthur with a certain…hunger.

In any case, once he was properly fed and greeted and listened to in these morning moments with Bertie, Arthur was an unstoppable working machine. It was both awe-inspiring and somewhat frightening.

Bertie let out another sigh that made Arthur stop in his description of his book to stare inquisitively at him. Bertie struggled to recall what Arthur had been saying—and to wipe the smile from his face. He had a feeling it wasn't very flattering to stare at his assistant with stars in his eyes. He remembered the diary, luckily, so he mumbled something and waited for Arthur to continue.

Arthur was excited, the darling, and it didn't take him long to add something else that had occurred to him in the story of the soldier, though he did stop to take a bite of his scone first. It was caramel, and Bertie had made sure to leave it dripping with icing.

Arthur was such a classic tease, unknowing of his own charms, the intelligence and drive of his mind, the width of his shoulders, the stubborn little chin, the unexpectedly fierce blue of his eyes when his deeper feelings were roused.

Oddly, Arthur seemed to consider himself unfeeling. As though he had no temper spent in defense of books and works of art or Bertie's home and had never blushed to find Bertie's eyes on him.

Bertie knew the ridiculous smile was back on his face but Arthur was absorbed in his recounting of the story and wouldn't comment even if he did happen to see. He would go momentarily silent and then lift his chin in a challenging gesture that he did not seem aware of. Arthur was a being of fire. But it was that feeling he so denied that was holding Bertie back from offering to lick the trail of sugary icing from Arthur's mouth and then ask, beg, if he could lick any traces from his throat, to be sure it was all gone.

Arthur was not a boy to take that lightly, to Bertie's daily regret, and so Bertie made scones and waited and brought his eyes up again and again and made noncommittal, hungry sounds to keep his pet talking, to keep Arthur near him, to have him close in the hopes that someday soon Arthur might look back.

"Yes, darling," he breathed it, and nearly bit his tongue when the roused blue of Arthur's eyes met his as Arthur licked a drop of sweet temptation from his mouth.

Sale notice, spreading the word.

There are two promotional opportunities for Valentine's Day at Dreamspinner. For the day itself everything at the site will be 20% off. Also there is a Hearts and Flowers scavenger hunt, with a heart graphic hidden in various places around the web site. Each time a person finds the graphic and clicks on it, they get a code for 20% off all the publications by the author whose page the graphic is hidden on. The graphics will go up tonight and will be up for the rest of the month.



That episode of The Closer is on with the actor that played Wendell on Bones. It's so sad I can't take it. Thank goodness for RuPaul's Drag Race and Being Human.


And now to think about time travel. Hmm. It doesn't have to be tragic, right? You could do cutesy or funny time travel right?

Edit: ooh also Dreamspinner is going to be starting a bookclub on Goodreads with a different theme each month (and which I think will discount codes for the books being discussed).

I'm not a genius but people think I am when I button my sweater wrong.

For those interested, I have a release date for Charlie and Will. "Play It Again, Charlie" will be out on April 20.


Now back to my dragon smut. Because those boys needs their happily ever after too.

Teh editing stage has arrived. Meanwhile, I wrote this se...

Teh editing stage has arrived. Meanwhile, I wrote this sequel-y snippet to My Man Godric for coffeebuddha last night before boys and cake make her happeeee. Warning: it's set after MMG. Also, FLUFF! LOVE! CAKE! BOYS! *aw*



"I had not thought you find you in the kitchens, my lord."

Bertie jumped at the first few warmly spoken words and hit his head on the edge of one wooden shelf. Not hard, but enough to make him wince and then sigh and think to himself that even now he could never stop making a fool of himself around Godric.

Mathilda, the Keep's head cook, only directed an unsurprised glance at him before looking beyond him to where Godric was no doubt standing and watching Bertie rub his head.

Bertie could have lifted his chin and demanded to know what was so funny that she could not meet his eye, but to do that would be to act like the sort of noble that Godric despised and in any case, Mathilda was impervious to any attempt at intimidation unless it came from Aethir himself, who would never dare.

No one would. No one made honeycake for the Harvest celebrations the way she did and only a fool would anger her and Aethir was not a fool.

Bertie was of course, but not for angering her. He turned and straightened and lifted his chin anyway, in case Godric should be laughing at him.

Godric was standing in one doorway, leaning to one side and looking perfectly at ease, which was a lie, because he was not at ease, as his color hinted. But he was smiling, a soft curve of his lips that made Bertie drop his chin and offer another sigh as he hopped forward.

"Why wouldn't I be in the kitchens?" He stopped short of Godric with a move that was nearly a curtsey and which left his skirts and borrowed apron swishing around his ankles. Godric's smile seemed to grow, though perhaps it was Bertie's imagination.

He did not mind, whichever was true. He loved to dream on Godric smile and he loved Godric's real smile and he could not seem to get enough of it. He would cover himself in flour and sticky honey and fermented grain mash and all manner of spices and wear an apron and hit his head everyday if it made Godric smile sweetly at him.

Perhaps not hit his head, Bertie adjusted his own thought, not everyday. In any event, Godric only inclined his head to greet him and Mathilda as well.

"Because there is much to do in these kitchens with your brother and his retinue at the Keep, and you would not wish to get in the lady's way."

Calling Mathilda a lady was blatant flattery. Bertie had not thought Godric capable of it and gasped at him for a moment before sweeping forward again. He remembered the honey coating his clothing and stopped just in time to spare Godric's own clothes.




He put his hands on his hips but he knew he did not look very fierce.

"I am learning Mathilda's secret for making her honeycake, oh treasure of my heart."

After all these months, almost a year, of having Godric to himself, Godric still paused in momentary embarrassment at Bertie's openness in adoring him. He twitched, as if he wanted to look to gauge Mathilda's reaction but her chuckle must have been enough of an indication because Godric kept his eyes where they belonged--leveled right at Bertie.

"And why is that, my lord?" he asked seriously in a graveled voice to make Bertie swoon.

Bertie suddenly and maddeningly lost his ability to speak. He leaned forward, swallowing once or twice as Mathilda cackled knowingly at him the way she probably did to every scullery maid and cooking assistant that came in looking for secrets to please their men.

Godric, in that way he had of anticipating nearly everything there was to anticipate, leaned forward at the same moment, meaning that if Bertie ducked his head he could whisper into his beloved's ear. It was not a chance he wanted to waste. He wet his lips.

"Tomorrow there will be balefires and music and wine and honeycake," he murmured and felt a surge of frustrated heat when Godric nodded but clearly did not understand his meaning.

Why should he understand? Bertie whined silently to the gods. It had been Bertie who had dreamed of sharing the Harvest revels with Godric for years, not the other way around. It had not been Godric using the images of what might someday be to comfort himself during the long months of winter and Godric's absence and the knowledge that everyday they were apart, Godric was in danger and he could do nothing for it. And it had not been the careful vision for the future that Godric had allowed himself after Godric had returned to him injured and unwell and spent months walking on a crutch to spare his broken ribs and healing flesh.

Just the same, he could not be sure that Godric had not guessed and was simply teasing him with what the people of the South called humor.

"I need all to go well this year, Godric. Perfect wine and sweetest cake and the best music, for there will be dancing," he went on, taking his time to savor the words and the glancing touch of his lips against the shell of Godric's ear.

"Dancing?" Judging from the way Godric echoed him and flinched, he had not guessed at Bertie's real meaning at all. He looked alarmed and went a shade paler. He did not mean to clutch at his side, as he obviously thought about pain; it was a gesture he couldn't help. Bertie had seen it many times since Godric and Aethir had triumphantly reentered Camlann after months of battle but each time he witnessed it, it was a struggle not to grab Godric close and squeeze him tight.

If it would not have hurt Godric more, he was not sure he would have been able to stop himself.

But Godric was standing before him now, after having walked from the stables where he had been looking over horses with Aethir he was standing there, not out of breath and not too pale and with no crutch in sight.

Bertie grinned.

"Dancing," he repeated slowly. Mathilda cackled again, but only nervous and shy Southerners would pay her any attention at a moment like this. "With the dark wines and rich cakes and lively music, should we not dance?"

He did not know if Godric's stillness now was from embarrassment at the idea of taking part in the Keep's wild festivities or worry over his ability to dance, but either way, Bertie had to respond to his distress.

He stepped in, sparing a second's thought for the gooey mess of cake ingredients all over his apron that were now also all over Godric, but then he bent his head to lay it at Godric's shoulder, gently, gently, so as not to cause pain.

Not that Godric seemed to care about pain when they were alone and this close, but Bertie thought it right that he should care.

"Dancing." He could not keep the pleasure from his voice. He did not feel much like moving though his first batch of cakes should be ready soon and he was not at all sure of how they might taste or if they would be as hard as rocks.

"In any way that will not hurt you, Godric." He inhaled, and instead of horse and stables detected cloves and nutmeg coming from the oven. It made the air sweeter but it was not the oven warming Bertie's blood; that was the heat of Godric's cheeks as he listened to Bertie's crazy words.

"Perhaps we will dance like this. A new style, pressed close together. Just like this." It was not so different than what would go on in the fields after the dancing tomorrow. Not so different at all.

Godric must have had a similar thought, for he coughed.

"Aye," he admitted softly, for Bertie's ears alone, embarrassed but brave enough to try.

Bertie pulled back, but only to catch a glimpse of the redness in Godric's cheeks at what they were discussing. He grinned again.

"Of course, the dancing will never be as important as what follows after," he offered, making his voice like honey and wine and balefires combined. The music he left to Godric and the quickening of his breath as their eyes met.

Somewhere behind them, dealing with the cakes that Bertie had quite forgotten about, Mathilda laughed.

Prepare for the sniffles.

You don't understand, I have this thing where I love old movies but I have a hard time with silent movies. I don't know if it's the music or how *long* they focus on the title cards...maybe it's the casual racism...something I just can't watch them.

So despite knowing "Wings" is the first Oscar winner for Best Picture I have never watched it. Then Jane Davitt (who is awesome) went and linked to this--> First Same Sex Kiss in Cinema

and I watched it and wibbled and now I need to see this movie. Will* and I can watch it together and cry.


*Yes, Will is fictional. I know this.

Is cover art!!!!

And I need a dragon icon I think. Hmm.

On behalf of Bertie (the other Bertie, aka, Dr. Jones, dracologist and scion of two glorious dragon houses) Happy New Year! Happy Year of the Dragon!!!

I think I might buy myself a little purple dragon e-gift thing to decorate this bitch, because it's cute and because Bertie would find it amusing.

And just because I need to get back in the mood so I can finish this thing and work on expanding it:


"Can I dust while I look? Or open a window. It's stuffy in here and it's not good for the books."

Bertie's head went back and he looked affronted at the word "stuffy". This time Arthur didn't go nearly as tense as he had before. Bertie looked too pouty again for him to feel too worried.

"But I can get so cold at times, Arthur." It was the last thing Arthur had expected to hear. He looked down at his sweatshirt—it was Fall outside after all—and then over at Bertie's thin white shirt and bare feet. He possibly spent more time studying them than he should.

Bertie's lips were closing around the white paper of his cigarette when Arthur finally looked up. The tang of herbs and smoke filled the air and Arthur felt about as hot as the burning red cherry.

"So wear socks." He knew why his voice was rasping. The man had a tendency to make his throat go dry. He sucked in a long breath and thought about work, his job, looking through every page of every book in this house. "I can buy them for you if you like."

"Socks? You unromantic soul." There was amusement in Bertie's rough, rumbling voice and then Bertie took a drag from his cigarette with a flare of light and fire that was reflected in his eyes. Arthur waited, absolutely certain he was being teased, for Bertie to exhale and then lick his bottom lip. He was not disappointed.

He got his eyes up in time to await more instructions.

it's not going to suck itself!

I find it very hard to feel like professional srs writer person when just seeing potential cover art makes me squee and giggle like an idiot. But honestly, it's just amazing. And sometimes, it's stunning or too cute for words, and how am I suppose to react to that? Honestly, how????

With dignity? Psh. Fie on your dignity.

In other news. I got some pretty reviews lately and if I knew how to respond to them, I would. Though also I was always taught just not to do that. So yeah...

Charlie and Will...aka Play It Again, Charlie...is in the editing stage. Which means any day I can expect a massive file marked all over the place and though I generally don't mind changes or suggestions, my laziness will kick in and I will start to get whiny. You all have been warned.

Meanwhile, I've been reading around. What are people's thoughts on sex scenes? I find it equally balanced between people demanding moar sex moar! and less sex moar plot plz, but I'm more concerned with how required people feel it is. I am guessing it's sort of mandatory, because some stuff I've been reading has had some pretty generic and/or lackluster porn tossed in there (or I am prejudiced against any sex scene where anyone calls anyone else "baby" the whole time). There are exceptions of course, a lot of authors really do write in character sex scenes, and those are the ones I find the most interesting (read: hot).

Um...I lost my point there. I guess that I prefer thoughtful smut not boilerplate, this could be anyone, smut, but I guess not everyone has that same issue.

Though seriously, don't call me, baby. Anything but something that implies you don't remember my name.

I feel like I should end this either with something to make everyone else squee or something related to my other topic, the porn. Hmm.

meet me darlin' won't you?

I wrote today! Woo hoo!!!

I am sure it will make no sense later, but woo hoo! Yay me!


You know, not to be too like Will here, but I really do love the movie "The Farmer's Daughter". I don't care how idealistic it is. I loves it. I like love stories where two people are in love with each other but not together but aren't being selfish assholes about it.

This is completely irrelevant. But really, people should watch that movie. (Even if I can't help but think of Loretta Young as a lying liar sometimes).

Also: Why hello there sexy men in cravats You're welcome, world. You're welcome.