Kate Rothwell's Blog, page 6
May 23, 2014
stuff
Chickens are smarter than I suspected and they have definite personalities. This is bad news for me because I really love their meat. But the more creatures I meet and get to know.....sigh.
I wonder why more back-yard farmers don't end up vegetarians. I'm talking about the people who name their critters and hang out with them one on one. Big factory farms--not so much. I bet you push any creature into a large enough herd and there aren't individuals any more so they stop being real. The creatures all together turns into something that makes noise, poops and moves, a walking unharvested crop--horror novel time here because that probably includes people. (Mmm. New York lunch crowd takes on a more sinister meaning.)
And what about all those words like "harvesting" and "culling"? The military has nothing on farming for the euphemisms.
Oh. My. God.
Not only am I turning into a vegetarian, I'm apparently turning into one of those sorts. EEeeiiiiii!!! I better go eat a steak or something.
*****
In that last post I was Author C by the way. People have asked me who author B was and man, I'd tell you all, but Author A said it was bad enough that I put this out there, she didn't want any more information to go out. Not my secret and I've done enough.
Why did I write that? A fit of temper. Maybe Author B will recognize herself and be ashamed? I sure hope so.
A's argument was that B must be very busy and can't see to everything herself.
My answer is hogwash.
I might buy that she's busy but I've actually met some successful authors and I can say bullshit (or hogwash) with emphasis and a sneer.
For instance I've met a few authors who has reached greater success than B, but still manage to say "yay" and "congrats!" to people or even help them out. I'm thinking of someone like Kristan Higgins who actually is friendly even when it's not necessary. She hasn't adopted that Gracious Grand Dame manner that authors occasionally acquire when they meet success and move in with it for a few years.
I don't mind the Gracious GD manner, btw, but it is pretty funny to run into when you knew the author before.
I've met K H a few times, maybe six, but she still knows who I am (although not getting names or faces isn't really something I should be sneering about since I can barely recognize the people I live with). She doesn't owe me any favors, not like B owes A. I didn't know her before she became successful. But I know without a doubt that if I asked her for help and she turned me down, she would do it personally and maybe even with style.
And yeah, being really busy is a side-effect of success and I expect those people don't have time. But plenty of big names have manners and as far as I'm concerned that's defined as being nice--perhaps even going out of your way on occasion--with people who can't do anything for you and have no power over you.
Clearly that goes double for people whom you knew before and who helped you back when they weren't so powerless. Freaking ladder climbers are one thing, pushing away the people who propped that ladder up for you? Gah.
I wonder why more back-yard farmers don't end up vegetarians. I'm talking about the people who name their critters and hang out with them one on one. Big factory farms--not so much. I bet you push any creature into a large enough herd and there aren't individuals any more so they stop being real. The creatures all together turns into something that makes noise, poops and moves, a walking unharvested crop--horror novel time here because that probably includes people. (Mmm. New York lunch crowd takes on a more sinister meaning.)
And what about all those words like "harvesting" and "culling"? The military has nothing on farming for the euphemisms.
Oh. My. God.
Not only am I turning into a vegetarian, I'm apparently turning into one of those sorts. EEeeiiiiii!!! I better go eat a steak or something.
*****
In that last post I was Author C by the way. People have asked me who author B was and man, I'd tell you all, but Author A said it was bad enough that I put this out there, she didn't want any more information to go out. Not my secret and I've done enough.
Why did I write that? A fit of temper. Maybe Author B will recognize herself and be ashamed? I sure hope so.
A's argument was that B must be very busy and can't see to everything herself.
My answer is hogwash.
I might buy that she's busy but I've actually met some successful authors and I can say bullshit (or hogwash) with emphasis and a sneer.
For instance I've met a few authors who has reached greater success than B, but still manage to say "yay" and "congrats!" to people or even help them out. I'm thinking of someone like Kristan Higgins who actually is friendly even when it's not necessary. She hasn't adopted that Gracious Grand Dame manner that authors occasionally acquire when they meet success and move in with it for a few years.
I don't mind the Gracious GD manner, btw, but it is pretty funny to run into when you knew the author before.
I've met K H a few times, maybe six, but she still knows who I am (although not getting names or faces isn't really something I should be sneering about since I can barely recognize the people I live with). She doesn't owe me any favors, not like B owes A. I didn't know her before she became successful. But I know without a doubt that if I asked her for help and she turned me down, she would do it personally and maybe even with style.
And yeah, being really busy is a side-effect of success and I expect those people don't have time. But plenty of big names have manners and as far as I'm concerned that's defined as being nice--perhaps even going out of your way on occasion--with people who can't do anything for you and have no power over you.
Clearly that goes double for people whom you knew before and who helped you back when they weren't so powerless. Freaking ladder climbers are one thing, pushing away the people who propped that ladder up for you? Gah.
May 19, 2014
Wasn't this the plot of a movie starring Joan Crawford?
No, I'm wrong. It's Bette Davis. Thanks for the title, Edie and Denise. The rest of you, guess the movie this vaguely echoes. Careers and roles aren't actively stolen....but still reminiscent, okay?
Let us say that a few years back, Author A got a note from a fan who wrote about how much she enjoyed the author's work. There's some back and forth and the fan asks author to look at her manuscript.
The author did read it and made some suggestions--quite a few as she recalls, although the manuscript was pretty freaking good and the author said so in reviews she left everywhere once the book was published.
She got a chance to beta-read another of the fan's manuscript, that one needed more work. By the third manuscript, however, the fan had an editor and an agent and didn't need more feedback. She was also now Author B.
That was the end, except for a congrats note here and there, liking posts on facebook--that sort of thing. They were supposed to meet up at a convention but Author B doesn't have a minute available on her schedule and they just don't do more than wave and blow kisses at that conference or the next.
Author B's dance card is full because now she is a big name author, getting bigger all the time. She hits the lists.
Author A is puttering along, not doing badly but not hitting any lists. She decides to take her career more seriously and this means PROMO HELL. She writes a note to Author B asking her if she would be willing to read an Author A book and perhaps give her a pull quote. Or if that's a nuisance, remember how she wrote that note saying she liked Author A's book? Author A was self pubbing it now. So maybe she could provide a quote about that one?
She gets a form letter back from Author B's assistant about how the Author B doesn't have time to read or provide quotes. Author A sends another note a "wow, an assistant! glad you're doing well!" note (or so it's reported) and gets no response . . . other than an unfriending on facebook.
Two days later, Author A gets a newsletter from Author B asking for her fans to be sure to write reviews if they love her latest book.
"Were you tempted to hit the two-star review thing over at Goodreads?" Author C asks.
"Of course not. I would never do that. I might not buy the book though."
She's a vengeful type....not buying the book, forsooth. Author C simmers a while then asks,
"Can I call her out? Or ask her about it? I remember you helping her, so I know this hap--"
"No."
"Well, when she wins a big award, we can sit at a table and glower at her, a la Bette Davis at the end of All About Eve"
It's a date.
Let us say that a few years back, Author A got a note from a fan who wrote about how much she enjoyed the author's work. There's some back and forth and the fan asks author to look at her manuscript.
The author did read it and made some suggestions--quite a few as she recalls, although the manuscript was pretty freaking good and the author said so in reviews she left everywhere once the book was published.
She got a chance to beta-read another of the fan's manuscript, that one needed more work. By the third manuscript, however, the fan had an editor and an agent and didn't need more feedback. She was also now Author B.
That was the end, except for a congrats note here and there, liking posts on facebook--that sort of thing. They were supposed to meet up at a convention but Author B doesn't have a minute available on her schedule and they just don't do more than wave and blow kisses at that conference or the next.
Author B's dance card is full because now she is a big name author, getting bigger all the time. She hits the lists.
Author A is puttering along, not doing badly but not hitting any lists. She decides to take her career more seriously and this means PROMO HELL. She writes a note to Author B asking her if she would be willing to read an Author A book and perhaps give her a pull quote. Or if that's a nuisance, remember how she wrote that note saying she liked Author A's book? Author A was self pubbing it now. So maybe she could provide a quote about that one?
She gets a form letter back from Author B's assistant about how the Author B doesn't have time to read or provide quotes. Author A sends another note a "wow, an assistant! glad you're doing well!" note (or so it's reported) and gets no response . . . other than an unfriending on facebook.
Two days later, Author A gets a newsletter from Author B asking for her fans to be sure to write reviews if they love her latest book.
"Were you tempted to hit the two-star review thing over at Goodreads?" Author C asks.
"Of course not. I would never do that. I might not buy the book though."
She's a vengeful type....not buying the book, forsooth. Author C simmers a while then asks,
"Can I call her out? Or ask her about it? I remember you helping her, so I know this hap--"
"No."
"Well, when she wins a big award, we can sit at a table and glower at her, a la Bette Davis at the end of All About Eve"
It's a date.
May 1, 2014
Me too!
Sandrine tagged me. (and now I'm reading a description of her latest book -- oooo la la!)
I signed up to be part of the How Do You Work blog tour.
1) What am I working on right now?
Bonnie and I are working on another m/m historical and it's my turn to write a chapter. This one has scenes set in early 2oth century Paris so that'll take some research. I just searched for old photos of Parisian rooftops. Mmm. Pretty.
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I asked someone what I should say about this. "Your books are better," she said. "Or, no, wait. Maybe you should say it's more character driven."
"More character driven than...?"
"Than whatever they're reading right now."
"They're reading this blog."
"Fine, then stick with 'my books are better.'"
3) Why do I write what I do?
Because it's often a lot of fun and I can't think of anything better to do.
4) How does my writing process work?
I whine a lot, play a game of solitaire, and eventually I write words. Two days a week I go to a cafe and sit across from someone else who's a freelance type. We keep each other from too much websurfing.
Here's a picture of her with an oven mitt. I took it because that day she was wearing two pairs of glasses. I'm not sure why the mitt is there -- and like I said, I took the picture. The phone added it--Barnes and Noble's cafe doesn't have mitts floating in the air. The glasses are just one two of those things that happened. Or so she said.
She's about to stop playing Farmville to work. I'm opening my document and off we go. WORKING.
Most of the time I work on the couch in my house. Here are my coworkers there:
AND NOW !!!!! I've tagged Jamie Schmidt and the often-tagged Anna Bowling.
Learn about Jamie K Schmidt's writing process here. And here's her book that will be out the 27th of May.Anna's article is here. And here's her cover!!
April 27, 2014
Great Kate: Kate Rothwell’s Historical Romances by Anna Bowling
Great Kate: Kate Rothwell’s Historical Romances by Anna Bowling
here we are, the ultimate bit of promo!
here we are, the ultimate bit of promo!
April 6, 2014
Goodbye but wait a sec...no, maybe....not? yes?
I woke up this morning and realized I don't want to be a writer anymore. The lack of positive human interaction, the sensation that I'm running as fast as I can and going backwards. It's too painful. This time I mean it.
I'm done. Except....
Well, except the story I'm working on now needs an end, and maybe I can make it a little more interesting. And didn't I say I'd sign on for another book with Bonnie? There aren't any plots knocking around my brain, but can we think of anything that's more fun? No? I didn't think so.
Okay, maybe I'll just try a bit longer. Maybe it's time for another all or nothing push, whatever the hell that means.
Let's reach for either an all in or an all out choice here.
And if it's out, then maybe don't dribble into nothing. Put up a closed sign like Sarah Daltry. I don't know Sarah Daltry or her books or her situation. Someone on facebook linked to her last post and I followed. That's it. I'm not that interesting in the pile-on/response/hyper-response of what was going on before that post. Here's the thing: she seems to be turning off the lights, closing the doors behind her, and actually, purposefully moving on. If it's not a cry for attention or hoping someone will stop her..no clue. But taking her at her word she's apparently made a choice, declared the end is here.
I never do that. No bangs--whimpers are my endings. You have to admire someone who can actually pack up and call it a day. I wonder what would come next.
For her sake, I hope this will help move her onto a more positive path. I hope she isn't putting on a show--that she really isn't waiting on the other side of the curtain, waiting for a response from an audience that went home. I hope she left the theater and is out enjoying the quiet sunshine. I hope she has something even better up next--and that she's abandoned all that baggage in the empty place she left behind.
I'm done. Except....
Well, except the story I'm working on now needs an end, and maybe I can make it a little more interesting. And didn't I say I'd sign on for another book with Bonnie? There aren't any plots knocking around my brain, but can we think of anything that's more fun? No? I didn't think so.
Okay, maybe I'll just try a bit longer. Maybe it's time for another all or nothing push, whatever the hell that means.
Let's reach for either an all in or an all out choice here.
And if it's out, then maybe don't dribble into nothing. Put up a closed sign like Sarah Daltry. I don't know Sarah Daltry or her books or her situation. Someone on facebook linked to her last post and I followed. That's it. I'm not that interesting in the pile-on/response/hyper-response of what was going on before that post. Here's the thing: she seems to be turning off the lights, closing the doors behind her, and actually, purposefully moving on. If it's not a cry for attention or hoping someone will stop her..no clue. But taking her at her word she's apparently made a choice, declared the end is here.
I never do that. No bangs--whimpers are my endings. You have to admire someone who can actually pack up and call it a day. I wonder what would come next.
For her sake, I hope this will help move her onto a more positive path. I hope she isn't putting on a show--that she really isn't waiting on the other side of the curtain, waiting for a response from an audience that went home. I hope she left the theater and is out enjoying the quiet sunshine. I hope she has something even better up next--and that she's abandoned all that baggage in the empty place she left behind.
March 11, 2014
I like dogs but I don't get this one
This is my first small dog. The others in my life have ranged from medium to hefty.
If I met this dog on the street, I'd think yuick, ew, no way. Sure she's kind of cute, but that chihuahua personality is just obnoxious. SO very yappy. She barks at much larger dogs, barks at people, barks at nothing in particular. She has a special "intruder alert!" bark she saves for when I'm the only human at home and I'm in the shower. Asshole dog. Probably knows I'm still freaked by Psycho.
At the vet's office she has to wear a muzzle and last time they decided that wasn't enough to protect them from her wrath and wrapped her in a freaking towel, covering her face so she wouldn't see who was touching her.
She's not very bright either. When she gets outside, she takes off, operating on a few neurons that allow her to run and to bark (although I admit it's easier to follow that way--follow the sound trail of yapping) but not think. She's a terrible judge of danger and ignores cars and attacks huge dogs. It's a wonder that she managed to survive on the streets--which she did for a few weeks at least.
Clearly, she's a bad-tempered and stupid little animal. And here's the thing: I adore her.
She follows me around and frequently hops along on her back feet and paws at me with her front. It's sometimes painful and usually annoying to get pawed at for no reason. BUT when I go into a room and she's not at my heels, I go looking for her, because hey, she's supposed to be there. When she pulls that hop/hop/paw treatment on other people, like our neighbor she loves, I feel a tad betrayed.
She's gotten out a couple of times--raced off down the block, with me huffing and calling after her. I have an emergency stash of special treats just in case that happens again. Every time she gets out, I panic and feel terror. What if I can't catch her this time? I get a flash of a bleak future without yapping and it's all I can do not to burst into tears.
I've had this strange repulsion/love relationship with this dog for over a year and I still don't get it. Why do we put up with each other? It reminds me a little of that very basic attachment with a baby. Strong and completely insane. The goddamn thing isn't even always reliably house-trained.
Could there be a biological imperative for women of a certain age to bond with small yappy dogs? Even if we don't like that sort of dog, we end up with one? The day I got her, I'd planned to pick up a mid-sized model at the pound, but our old big dog liked this pup. Yeah, it's my other dog's fault.
The one saving grace: I only use the cutesy wootsy aww snookums high-pitched voice with her when we're alone. For now. Maybe that voice--like the baffling presence of this dog in my life, and the even more baffling power she has over me--is inevitable.
How did I end up like this? Argh. Couldn't tell you at the moment. The UPS truck is here and I can't hear myself think over the yapping.
If I met this dog on the street, I'd think yuick, ew, no way. Sure she's kind of cute, but that chihuahua personality is just obnoxious. SO very yappy. She barks at much larger dogs, barks at people, barks at nothing in particular. She has a special "intruder alert!" bark she saves for when I'm the only human at home and I'm in the shower. Asshole dog. Probably knows I'm still freaked by Psycho.
At the vet's office she has to wear a muzzle and last time they decided that wasn't enough to protect them from her wrath and wrapped her in a freaking towel, covering her face so she wouldn't see who was touching her.She's not very bright either. When she gets outside, she takes off, operating on a few neurons that allow her to run and to bark (although I admit it's easier to follow that way--follow the sound trail of yapping) but not think. She's a terrible judge of danger and ignores cars and attacks huge dogs. It's a wonder that she managed to survive on the streets--which she did for a few weeks at least.
Clearly, she's a bad-tempered and stupid little animal. And here's the thing: I adore her.
She follows me around and frequently hops along on her back feet and paws at me with her front. It's sometimes painful and usually annoying to get pawed at for no reason. BUT when I go into a room and she's not at my heels, I go looking for her, because hey, she's supposed to be there. When she pulls that hop/hop/paw treatment on other people, like our neighbor she loves, I feel a tad betrayed.
She's gotten out a couple of times--raced off down the block, with me huffing and calling after her. I have an emergency stash of special treats just in case that happens again. Every time she gets out, I panic and feel terror. What if I can't catch her this time? I get a flash of a bleak future without yapping and it's all I can do not to burst into tears.
I've had this strange repulsion/love relationship with this dog for over a year and I still don't get it. Why do we put up with each other? It reminds me a little of that very basic attachment with a baby. Strong and completely insane. The goddamn thing isn't even always reliably house-trained.
Could there be a biological imperative for women of a certain age to bond with small yappy dogs? Even if we don't like that sort of dog, we end up with one? The day I got her, I'd planned to pick up a mid-sized model at the pound, but our old big dog liked this pup. Yeah, it's my other dog's fault.
The one saving grace: I only use the cutesy wootsy aww snookums high-pitched voice with her when we're alone. For now. Maybe that voice--like the baffling presence of this dog in my life, and the even more baffling power she has over me--is inevitable.
How did I end up like this? Argh. Couldn't tell you at the moment. The UPS truck is here and I can't hear myself think over the yapping.
March 9, 2014
Tina Donahue's new book out in two days
Tina's one of those generous people who helps other authors -- she's had me as a guest on her blog. Now she has a book coming out March 11 -- so hey! I'm sponsoring her today.
STOLEN DESIREBOOK FOUR – OUTLAWED REALM SERIES
EROTIC PARANORMAL
Her freedom depends on one man. A criminal in his realm…
Outlawed Realm, Book 4
One minute, Paige Ross is outside a Seattle bar, grieving a failed engagement. The next, she jerks awake in a weird, candlelit room with velvet walls, black silk sheets, and a man who motions for silence.
Paige has little choice but to trust the powerful stranger who promises a way out of what looks like Satan’s brothel. And pray his promise to keep her safe is as real as the heat burning in his eyes. Banished from E2’s ruling elite for supposed crimes against the realm, Zekin risks everything to rescue those brought to E5 for the guards’ carnal pleasure. Paige will be leaving this inhospitable realm of fire and ice—if he can somehow forget the way her trembling body melts in his arms.
Safe—temporarily—in an underwater world populated by strange creatures, Paige’s sexual awakening explodes into an unquenchable need that consumes them both. But the guards will be looking for her. And Zekin’s plan to send her home is a dangerous journey she cannot—will not—take without him.
Warning: Scorching-hot sex and loads of aching tenderness between a drool-worthy hunk who’s determined to do the right thing and a woman who’s not about to give him up.
Excerpt:
Thick gray clouds rolled above them, heavy with more snow. A sliver of bluish-white light poured through a gap in the cloud cover, as though the moon were trying to bleed through. Its rays swept across the land, which shimmered in the frail glow, sparkling like thousands of diamonds. The effect lasted only a moment, and then the light receded, with shadows once again taking over the hostile terrain.As though that worried him, Zekin increased his already fast pace, pausing only once to shove her clothing into a snowdrift, burying it.Why?Paige wasn’t able to ask. She struggled to keep up, gulping air. It should have been icy, hurting her throat, but wasn’t. The transparent mask no doubt heated it. How was that possible? Desperate for answers, she cried out, “Where are we going?”Zekin looked over. “A colony where you’ll be safe.”Paige dug her fingers into his hand. “Where are we? What is this place?”“E5.”What in the hell was that? A government installation where scientists conducted classified studies and had pleasure slaves on the side? That made absolutely no—Wait a sec. Suddenly, Paige recalled Zekin mentioning E1 when he’d first come into her room.“I’ll do all I can to bring you back to E1,” he’d promised her then.Instinctively, she held back. Just as quickly, Zekin yanked her forward.“Don’t fight me,” he warned, “or you’ll end up like the others you saw outside the guards’ outpost.”Paige shivered so badly, her voice shook. “Did those bastards throw the bodies out there after they murdered those people?”“Only some. The others they pushed out there to die.”“Why?”“They weren’t useful any longer.” Again, he glanced over. “When one of the guards found you and brought you here, they got rid of the other woman. That’s what they do when they tire of females from your realm, or the pleasure slaves they haven’t already killed.”Paige was about to pepper him with more questions. Instead, her mind snagged on one word—realm.“You mean country?” Maybe she’d been wrong about his nationality. It wasn’t Greek or Middle-Eastern but Russian. Could be this was Siberia. In a weird sort of way, that made sense. “Is that what you meant—my country? The USA? America?”He regarded the landscape past her. “We have to hurry before the other guards return and see us.”Paige couldn’t imagine how that was possible. The material covering them was the same tint as their surroundings, making them virtually invisible…unless the guards had some kind of special eyewear, like night-vision goggles, that allowed them to see what the naked eye couldn’t. “How far is the colony?”“Past that body of water.” He gestured toward what appeared to be an enormous frozen lake ringed by drifts.As Paige scanned the area beyond it, searching for some sort of building, a flock of birds flew over the lake. At least she thought they were birds. Their thick feathers were an ashy white, their wingspans enormous, like nothing she’d ever seen. They flew in an odd formation, not the usual V pattern, but in a perfect circle. Paige couldn’t help but stare at the phenomenon. How in the world did they do—A thunderous crackling sound interrupted her thoughts, and the again screeching wind.She flinched. Zekin released her hand and moved in front, his body pushing hers back, shielding Paige as something shattered the ice from beneath the center of the lake. Within seconds, a creature pushed through, hurling its milky body upward. The waves that followed it froze instantly in the raw air, the ends of the water curled over like a fine crystal sculpture. As massive as a blue whale, the creature surged from the lake, a horn protruding from its snout, no doubt what pierced the ice. With blinding speed, it penetrated the circle made by the birdlike creatures.Shrieking wildly, they scattered, but it did no good. The whale-like thing swung its monstrous head back and forth, gulping several of the creatures before gravity pulled it back down to the water. A thin sheet of ice formed instantly, hiding its exit. Harsh winds toppled the frozen waves as easily as if they’d been a house of cards, then pushed them against the snowdrifts, returning the scene to the relative calm of a few minutes before as though none of the carnage had occurred. Paige continued to hyperventilate. What kind of fucking nightmare had she stumbled into? Was it possible she’d been drugged and was hallucinating? If not… Aw crap, she didn’t want to think about that.“There’s nothing to fear,” Zekin assured. “The thing has had its fill for the moment. It won’t harm—”Her embrace stopped him. She clung to Zekin, her face pressed against his back, praying he wouldn’t push her away. “Don’t leave me, please,” she begged.Her fiancé, Johnny, had done that, calling off their wedding after she’d worked so hard on the plans and getting him to want her. He never apologized. He’d just told her the score, saying they could still live together. As if she’d want that. Before he’d bugged out on her, her mother and then eventually her father had also left. She’d had no one for too long and by God, right now, Paige needed the warmth of Zekin’s body, the security and comfort of his size to preserve her sanity. To give her hope that they’d both get through this.“Please,” she repeated.
Available for preorder from: Samhain - Amazon - B&N Release: March 11
Other books in the Outlawed Realm series:
Unending Desire – Book One Illicit Desire – Book Two Shameless Desire – Book Three
About Tina:
Tina Donahue is an award-winning, bestselling novelist in erotic, paranormal, contemporary and historical romance for Samhain Publishing, Ellora’s Cave, and Kensington. Booklist, Publisher’s Weekly, Romantic Times and numerous online sites have praised her work. Three of her erotic romances (Adored, Lush Velvet Nights, and Deep, Dark, Delicious) were named finalists in the 2011 EPIC competition. The French review site, Blue Moon reviews, chose her erotic romance Sensual Stranger as their Book of the Year 2010 (erotic category). The Golden Nib Award at Miz Love Loves Books was created specifically for Lush Velvet Nights, and two of her titles (The Yearning and Deep, Dark, Delicious) received an Award of Merit in the RWA Holt Medallion competition (2011 and 2012). Take Me Away and Adored both won second place in the NEC RWA contest (different years). Tina is featured in the 2012 Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market. She was the editor of an award–winning Midwestern newspaper and worked in Story Direction for a Hollywood production company.
Email: tina@tinadonahue.comWebsite: http://www.tinadonahue.com/ Blog: http://www.tinadonahue.com/blog/Twitter: http://twitter.com/tinadonahueFacebook: http://www.facebook.com/tina.donahue.75FB Fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/TinaDonahueBooksTriberr: http://triberr.com/tinadonahuePinterest: http://pinterest.com/authortina/my-books/Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/tinadonahueMy page at TRR: http://erotic.theromancereviews.com/mypageprofile.php?location=tinadonahue
C
STOLEN DESIREBOOK FOUR – OUTLAWED REALM SERIES
EROTIC PARANORMAL
Her freedom depends on one man. A criminal in his realm…
Outlawed Realm, Book 4
One minute, Paige Ross is outside a Seattle bar, grieving a failed engagement. The next, she jerks awake in a weird, candlelit room with velvet walls, black silk sheets, and a man who motions for silence.
Paige has little choice but to trust the powerful stranger who promises a way out of what looks like Satan’s brothel. And pray his promise to keep her safe is as real as the heat burning in his eyes. Banished from E2’s ruling elite for supposed crimes against the realm, Zekin risks everything to rescue those brought to E5 for the guards’ carnal pleasure. Paige will be leaving this inhospitable realm of fire and ice—if he can somehow forget the way her trembling body melts in his arms.
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Safe—temporarily—in an underwater world populated by strange creatures, Paige’s sexual awakening explodes into an unquenchable need that consumes them both. But the guards will be looking for her. And Zekin’s plan to send her home is a dangerous journey she cannot—will not—take without him. Warning: Scorching-hot sex and loads of aching tenderness between a drool-worthy hunk who’s determined to do the right thing and a woman who’s not about to give him up.
Excerpt:
Thick gray clouds rolled above them, heavy with more snow. A sliver of bluish-white light poured through a gap in the cloud cover, as though the moon were trying to bleed through. Its rays swept across the land, which shimmered in the frail glow, sparkling like thousands of diamonds. The effect lasted only a moment, and then the light receded, with shadows once again taking over the hostile terrain.As though that worried him, Zekin increased his already fast pace, pausing only once to shove her clothing into a snowdrift, burying it.Why?Paige wasn’t able to ask. She struggled to keep up, gulping air. It should have been icy, hurting her throat, but wasn’t. The transparent mask no doubt heated it. How was that possible? Desperate for answers, she cried out, “Where are we going?”Zekin looked over. “A colony where you’ll be safe.”Paige dug her fingers into his hand. “Where are we? What is this place?”“E5.”What in the hell was that? A government installation where scientists conducted classified studies and had pleasure slaves on the side? That made absolutely no—Wait a sec. Suddenly, Paige recalled Zekin mentioning E1 when he’d first come into her room.“I’ll do all I can to bring you back to E1,” he’d promised her then.Instinctively, she held back. Just as quickly, Zekin yanked her forward.“Don’t fight me,” he warned, “or you’ll end up like the others you saw outside the guards’ outpost.”Paige shivered so badly, her voice shook. “Did those bastards throw the bodies out there after they murdered those people?”“Only some. The others they pushed out there to die.”“Why?”“They weren’t useful any longer.” Again, he glanced over. “When one of the guards found you and brought you here, they got rid of the other woman. That’s what they do when they tire of females from your realm, or the pleasure slaves they haven’t already killed.”Paige was about to pepper him with more questions. Instead, her mind snagged on one word—realm.“You mean country?” Maybe she’d been wrong about his nationality. It wasn’t Greek or Middle-Eastern but Russian. Could be this was Siberia. In a weird sort of way, that made sense. “Is that what you meant—my country? The USA? America?”He regarded the landscape past her. “We have to hurry before the other guards return and see us.”Paige couldn’t imagine how that was possible. The material covering them was the same tint as their surroundings, making them virtually invisible…unless the guards had some kind of special eyewear, like night-vision goggles, that allowed them to see what the naked eye couldn’t. “How far is the colony?”“Past that body of water.” He gestured toward what appeared to be an enormous frozen lake ringed by drifts.As Paige scanned the area beyond it, searching for some sort of building, a flock of birds flew over the lake. At least she thought they were birds. Their thick feathers were an ashy white, their wingspans enormous, like nothing she’d ever seen. They flew in an odd formation, not the usual V pattern, but in a perfect circle. Paige couldn’t help but stare at the phenomenon. How in the world did they do—A thunderous crackling sound interrupted her thoughts, and the again screeching wind.She flinched. Zekin released her hand and moved in front, his body pushing hers back, shielding Paige as something shattered the ice from beneath the center of the lake. Within seconds, a creature pushed through, hurling its milky body upward. The waves that followed it froze instantly in the raw air, the ends of the water curled over like a fine crystal sculpture. As massive as a blue whale, the creature surged from the lake, a horn protruding from its snout, no doubt what pierced the ice. With blinding speed, it penetrated the circle made by the birdlike creatures.Shrieking wildly, they scattered, but it did no good. The whale-like thing swung its monstrous head back and forth, gulping several of the creatures before gravity pulled it back down to the water. A thin sheet of ice formed instantly, hiding its exit. Harsh winds toppled the frozen waves as easily as if they’d been a house of cards, then pushed them against the snowdrifts, returning the scene to the relative calm of a few minutes before as though none of the carnage had occurred. Paige continued to hyperventilate. What kind of fucking nightmare had she stumbled into? Was it possible she’d been drugged and was hallucinating? If not… Aw crap, she didn’t want to think about that.“There’s nothing to fear,” Zekin assured. “The thing has had its fill for the moment. It won’t harm—”Her embrace stopped him. She clung to Zekin, her face pressed against his back, praying he wouldn’t push her away. “Don’t leave me, please,” she begged.Her fiancé, Johnny, had done that, calling off their wedding after she’d worked so hard on the plans and getting him to want her. He never apologized. He’d just told her the score, saying they could still live together. As if she’d want that. Before he’d bugged out on her, her mother and then eventually her father had also left. She’d had no one for too long and by God, right now, Paige needed the warmth of Zekin’s body, the security and comfort of his size to preserve her sanity. To give her hope that they’d both get through this.“Please,” she repeated.
Available for preorder from: Samhain - Amazon - B&N Release: March 11
Other books in the Outlawed Realm series:
Unending Desire – Book One Illicit Desire – Book Two Shameless Desire – Book Three
About Tina:
Tina Donahue is an award-winning, bestselling novelist in erotic, paranormal, contemporary and historical romance for Samhain Publishing, Ellora’s Cave, and Kensington. Booklist, Publisher’s Weekly, Romantic Times and numerous online sites have praised her work. Three of her erotic romances (Adored, Lush Velvet Nights, and Deep, Dark, Delicious) were named finalists in the 2011 EPIC competition. The French review site, Blue Moon reviews, chose her erotic romance Sensual Stranger as their Book of the Year 2010 (erotic category). The Golden Nib Award at Miz Love Loves Books was created specifically for Lush Velvet Nights, and two of her titles (The Yearning and Deep, Dark, Delicious) received an Award of Merit in the RWA Holt Medallion competition (2011 and 2012). Take Me Away and Adored both won second place in the NEC RWA contest (different years). Tina is featured in the 2012 Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market. She was the editor of an award–winning Midwestern newspaper and worked in Story Direction for a Hollywood production company.
Email: tina@tinadonahue.comWebsite: http://www.tinadonahue.com/ Blog: http://www.tinadonahue.com/blog/Twitter: http://twitter.com/tinadonahueFacebook: http://www.facebook.com/tina.donahue.75FB Fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/TinaDonahueBooksTriberr: http://triberr.com/tinadonahuePinterest: http://pinterest.com/authortina/my-books/Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/tinadonahueMy page at TRR: http://erotic.theromancereviews.com/mypageprofile.php?location=tinadonahue
C
March 3, 2014
wishful thinking
Q:
Why the new look?
A:
1. Nicholas said the old blog design was hard to read.
2. I'm stuck on this story. Only 2k words in and I am stuck. This is a fine method of procrastination
but mostly because.
3. Spring! Spring! Spring! The foot high piles of snow and arctic air be damned. Spring is a thing that will exist. Soon-ish. I hope.
Why the new look?
A:
1. Nicholas said the old blog design was hard to read.
2. I'm stuck on this story. Only 2k words in and I am stuck. This is a fine method of procrastination
but mostly because.
3. Spring! Spring! Spring! The foot high piles of snow and arctic air be damned. Spring is a thing that will exist. Soon-ish. I hope.
selfie
The older I get, the less often I look in the mirror, and the more often I shrink away from cameras.
Just now I was trying to get a picture of the dogs and hit a button that flipped the view around. From cute little pup to--bam--doughy-faced, double chinned me.
The loathing I felt when I saw that image took me by surprise. I've clearly done a good job hiding from myself because that sight really was a shock. God, she's hideous. I looked at myself and saw all the fat blobby ladies I felt scorn for through all those early, more attractive years of my life. God. I'm not talking about a mild hmm that feature can change or maybe less of a chin. It was the entire thing, details and big picture, that I loathed.
It was rather amazing how much I disliked that image. This isn't going to work, I thought. I can't walk around feeling that much disdain for me.
Anyone else, sure--as in, someone else can feel that way about me. Or I can feel that way about someone else, although, of course I wouldn't, not anymore. Thank god I outgrew that kind of insta-judgement. I had to, amirite? Or I'd kill myself, no lie, or never leave the house again.
Okay, this has to stop, and I spent ten minutes staring at that image. trying different angles. Holding the phone up, holding it down. Staring, staring, looking for something worth admiring. I guess the smile's nice. After a while, all that staring allowed me to shift from both admiring or loathing. The image just.....was. That's what I want to aim for, some kind of acceptance
It's me. That's the package of meat that I'm stuck with. I'm not going to manage to the self affirmations but at the same time there is no point in indulging in loathing. I'm going to memorize the features again. I'm going to remember that it could be worse. The trick of remembering how unfortunate other people are (He has no nose!) always works on me.**
And then I'm going to go back to avoiding mirrors and cameras
And no, this isn't me begging for someone to tell me I'm beautiful, because I wouldn't believe anyone who did. I have eyes. Judgey, critical eyes that won't be lied to.
Besides, after all these years, my brain can and will provide the feminist talk about internal beauty, and I can give myself the Stop Buying The Dumb Standards talk, I can remind myself that appearances are not important. That I'll be dead in ___ years anyway.... I can do all sorts of conversations to put this selfie moment into some kind of perspective. But really. Even after the ten minutes of truth time, my eyes just roll. Even after I deliver the Get Over Yourself stern talk to myself, there's still a corner, somewhere in my vain brain saying whoa, that's not me.
____
** and I'm sure someone with no jaw would sleep better knowing they've helped insecure middle aged ladies adjust to their changing appearance.
Just now I was trying to get a picture of the dogs and hit a button that flipped the view around. From cute little pup to--bam--doughy-faced, double chinned me.
The loathing I felt when I saw that image took me by surprise. I've clearly done a good job hiding from myself because that sight really was a shock. God, she's hideous. I looked at myself and saw all the fat blobby ladies I felt scorn for through all those early, more attractive years of my life. God. I'm not talking about a mild hmm that feature can change or maybe less of a chin. It was the entire thing, details and big picture, that I loathed.
It was rather amazing how much I disliked that image. This isn't going to work, I thought. I can't walk around feeling that much disdain for me.
Anyone else, sure--as in, someone else can feel that way about me. Or I can feel that way about someone else, although, of course I wouldn't, not anymore. Thank god I outgrew that kind of insta-judgement. I had to, amirite? Or I'd kill myself, no lie, or never leave the house again.
Okay, this has to stop, and I spent ten minutes staring at that image. trying different angles. Holding the phone up, holding it down. Staring, staring, looking for something worth admiring. I guess the smile's nice. After a while, all that staring allowed me to shift from both admiring or loathing. The image just.....was. That's what I want to aim for, some kind of acceptance
It's me. That's the package of meat that I'm stuck with. I'm not going to manage to the self affirmations but at the same time there is no point in indulging in loathing. I'm going to memorize the features again. I'm going to remember that it could be worse. The trick of remembering how unfortunate other people are (He has no nose!) always works on me.**
And then I'm going to go back to avoiding mirrors and cameras
And no, this isn't me begging for someone to tell me I'm beautiful, because I wouldn't believe anyone who did. I have eyes. Judgey, critical eyes that won't be lied to.
Besides, after all these years, my brain can and will provide the feminist talk about internal beauty, and I can give myself the Stop Buying The Dumb Standards talk, I can remind myself that appearances are not important. That I'll be dead in ___ years anyway.... I can do all sorts of conversations to put this selfie moment into some kind of perspective. But really. Even after the ten minutes of truth time, my eyes just roll. Even after I deliver the Get Over Yourself stern talk to myself, there's still a corner, somewhere in my vain brain saying whoa, that's not me.
____
** and I'm sure someone with no jaw would sleep better knowing they've helped insecure middle aged ladies adjust to their changing appearance.
March 1, 2014
ten years of publishing
Pick a year, any year of the last ten and I'll have had a similar conversation a few times that year, most often talking to another writer at a party.
This one writes poetry. I write romance.
She says in a friendly, pleasant way, "I suppose it's kind of easy because it's formulaic."
I've heard those words often enough before: easy and formulaic.
She seems interested, so I have an answer. I'd say yes, there are expectations--but I'd call it a structure rather than formula and there's structure in most stories. Yes, the genre is about romance-- but hey relationships and growth and change--isn't that interesting and the focus of many, many novels? Yes, it usually includes an HEA but then again most genres have some kind of framework. Mysteries=crime committed, end includes exposing perpetrator yada yada yada. Even with poetry...You expect a particular pattern. Right?
About that claim of easy? I don't bother with that one. I think we've got that one covered when we both talk about finding particular words that strike chords.
Okay, she's cool. We talk some more. She says she doesn't "do" romance. Does she do Austen? Does she do these popular titles. Yes, yes, she does. Yay! We have talked. We are good.
I go looking for wine, she goes to find a friend. We meet again. She introduces me to her friend as Kate who writes sexy bodice rippers.
Hey, it's cool. I sure didn't lie awake grinding my teeth. I rarely do about this topic. I'm not on a rant for once. It's not even one of those comments followed by *SMH* or *sigh*. It's life. I don't mind this stuff because it's not personal. Unless you act sneering or dismissive with your attitude--and not just use those easy, formulaic words about romance--I'm not going get pissed off. She didn't really sneer. People usually don't, not to my face.
But it does get a teeny tiny bit old.
I publish this as a public service, a warning:
If you ever DO meet a romance writer who's having a bad day, or drunk too much wine, or gotten a bad review....and you mention formulaic or bodices or what-have-you AND she decks you, it's probably because she's heard practically nothing else when she mentions what she writes.
You've been warned.
Generally speaking, I think the "my books are my beloved children" thing is creepy. But in a sense, I get that kind of possessiveness about my genre, just like I do about my kids. I can whine about my kids, but if you complain about them? Oh no. No. Way.
This is how I feel about romance to a less vicious degree. I'm allowed to sneer and mock my genre. People who don't write it or read it? Not really interested.
This one writes poetry. I write romance.
She says in a friendly, pleasant way, "I suppose it's kind of easy because it's formulaic."
I've heard those words often enough before: easy and formulaic.
She seems interested, so I have an answer. I'd say yes, there are expectations--but I'd call it a structure rather than formula and there's structure in most stories. Yes, the genre is about romance-- but hey relationships and growth and change--isn't that interesting and the focus of many, many novels? Yes, it usually includes an HEA but then again most genres have some kind of framework. Mysteries=crime committed, end includes exposing perpetrator yada yada yada. Even with poetry...You expect a particular pattern. Right?
About that claim of easy? I don't bother with that one. I think we've got that one covered when we both talk about finding particular words that strike chords.
Okay, she's cool. We talk some more. She says she doesn't "do" romance. Does she do Austen? Does she do these popular titles. Yes, yes, she does. Yay! We have talked. We are good.
I go looking for wine, she goes to find a friend. We meet again. She introduces me to her friend as Kate who writes sexy bodice rippers.
Hey, it's cool. I sure didn't lie awake grinding my teeth. I rarely do about this topic. I'm not on a rant for once. It's not even one of those comments followed by *SMH* or *sigh*. It's life. I don't mind this stuff because it's not personal. Unless you act sneering or dismissive with your attitude--and not just use those easy, formulaic words about romance--I'm not going get pissed off. She didn't really sneer. People usually don't, not to my face.
But it does get a teeny tiny bit old.
I publish this as a public service, a warning:
If you ever DO meet a romance writer who's having a bad day, or drunk too much wine, or gotten a bad review....and you mention formulaic or bodices or what-have-you AND she decks you, it's probably because she's heard practically nothing else when she mentions what she writes.
You've been warned.
Generally speaking, I think the "my books are my beloved children" thing is creepy. But in a sense, I get that kind of possessiveness about my genre, just like I do about my kids. I can whine about my kids, but if you complain about them? Oh no. No. Way.
This is how I feel about romance to a less vicious degree. I'm allowed to sneer and mock my genre. People who don't write it or read it? Not really interested.
