L.A. Witt's Blog, page 13

Falling Skies, I'm breaking up with you.

(Fair warning, some spoilers may be ahead)
Normally, if I don’t like a TV show, I just quietly stop watching it and that’s that. Every now and then, though, a show comes along that simultaneously draws me in and pisses me off, and when the latter finally wins and I sever my allegiance to the characters in whom I’d become invested, it warrants a rant. And ranting is fun and cathartic sometimes, so I thought, hell, why not?
Falling Skies, I’m breaking up with you. It’s over. I’m done. We had a good run, you and me, and you started out with so much potential. So, so much potential. Flawed, sympathetic people. Little glimmers of hope in an otherwise hopeless situation. Progressively more enigmatic—and on occasion, intriguingly sympathetic—invaders about whom I was insanely curious.
But with time, my sympathy toward the characters has waned in favor of at best, hoping they find a cave to hide in but really not caring if they do, or at worst, hoping they step on a long-discarded rake, break their own nose in the process, get tetanus from the rusty prongs, and eventually die alone in some grotesque, agonizing fashion, but preferably in flashback or something so I don’t have to endure them for another minute. My curiosity about the aliens has waned in favor of wishing they would just win already. Or step on a rake and die. I can get behind that too.
As the thin wires suspending my disbelief snapped one by one, I started getting less annoyed with the aliens and the characters, and more annoyed with the people behind the show who succeeded in getting me invested in the story but then dropped the ball and made me consider watching The Walking Dead instead. If you know how much I hate, loathe, and despise all things zombies, that says something. If you don’t, think of me as a vegan who’s so put off by the salad you’ve made me, I’m considering having a steak instead.
One thing that’s been hammered into my head as a professional storyteller is to never insult the viewer/reader/listener’s intelligence. Color yourselves guilty, my friends, because this show has made me facepalm like few shows have ever made me facepalm. And I’ve watched bits and pieces of Jersey Shore.  With that in mind, I think every writer, director, producer, and whatever other –er that is involved in the making of a TV show like this should be required to take a comprehensive course in ballistics and ordnance before slathering their stupid all over a show that might one day be broadcast onto my television. I paid good money for that thing, and I weep every time it’s used to show me things so painfully stupid and unrealistic.
Have any of you, the staff behind Falling Skies, ever actually fired a rocket launcher? They’re a bitch to shoot. And they take, you know, practice and stuff. Hitting a moving target, especially one that’s above you and moving at a high rate of speed when you’ve only got one round to your name, is extremely difficult. I might have been able to swallow Tom firing at and hitting one of the legs of the big alien base. Hitting one of the fliers that was coming in to dock? Hitting it with such flawless timing that it didn’t just explode in midair, it continued on its current trajectory, flew straight into the base (not “into it” like it crashed into the side, but into the slot where it was supposed to land), blew up, and took out a chunk of the scrap metal building of doom? Come on.
For that matter, have any of you ever fired a gun? They, too, take practice. Especially to hit moving targets. Especially to hit moving targets when you’re also a moving target and are scared shitless. Especially to hit moving targets when you’re also a moving target and are scared shitless and are firing on full goddamned automatic.
Speaking of which, you don’t spray and pray when ammo is scarce. A fully automatic weapon can go through fifty rounds in the time it takes you to read this sentence. A hundred if you’re a slow reader. When you have to conserve every bullet you get your paws on, you switch that fucker to semi auto, and you make every shot count. Especially when firing full auto is not nearly as easy as you people in Hollywood seem to think it is, and each and every character would have to have practiced using thousands of rounds to be able to shoot that well. Waste not, want not, yo.
You also don’t use an entire brick of C4 when it’s all you have and when you’re planning on detonating it while you’re like thirty feet away. Though I suppose if you’re detonating C4 from thirty feet away, there’s no point in quibbling over how much you use, because once you set it off, you won’t be alive to use whatever you decide to conserve. Would you people watch Burn Notice once in a goddamned while or something?  
And for the love of all that’s good and unholy, was I the only one screaming at my television whenever there was discussion of bringing down the aliens’ big scrap metal structure thingy looming over Boston?  When everyone was biting their nails over how they’d be able to complete the assault as planned now that the Third and Fourth Massachusetts were MIA?  Because when you’re missing the rest of your force, how in the world are you going to get close enough to put an explosive on each of the structure’s four legs? Clearly, the solution is to divide and conquer: split our shrinking band of survivors into smaller groups, assign them each a leg, and make sure the explosives go off at the same time.
Really, guys? Seriously? Look, I’m no physics expert, but that structure looked awfully top heavy to me. Kinda thinking you could do some pretty substantial damage – and maybe have enough manpower to get in and out alive – by blowing up two, even one, of the legs instead of all four.  I mean, the aliens are totally giving you one here. They’ve set the game on easy by erecting a giant, top-heavy structure out of motherfucking scrap metal, and you’re still insisting on blowing up all four legs?
But it's not just tactical and weapon-related stuff that makes me put a forehead-shaped indentation on my coffee table. Would someone please show me to the rule that says every baby born in a post-apocalyptic setting must be breech? Seriously. It’s become such a cliché, as soon as I realized a character was pregnant, I was like “breeeeeeeech, guaranteeeeeeed.” And lo and behold. Seriously? But then you guys took it a step further. Not only was the baby conveniently and precariously ass-down, there just happened to be someone in the group – someone who happened into the room – who’d helped with an external version when his own daughter was breech. While I was watching that episode, I was making little flowers with duct tape and chopsticks, and I swear I almost jammed chopsticks into my own eyes just to make it stop.
Speaking of jamming things into body parts to make it stop… I’m cool with aliens having weaknesses. Making them invincible is kind of lame. The fact that the Skitters are vulnerable to gunfire makes me happy, because while it doesn’t quite level the playing field, it’s enough to make the conflict a bit less one-sided. I can deal with that. Or I could until it turned out their Achilles heel is having something jammed into their mouth/nostril/eye socket/AC power outlet/whatever it was in their face, which promptly gives them a concussion, knocks them out, and if done hard enough or with something sharp, kills them. Sigh. Really?
And while we’re on the subject of Skitters… are they incapable of counting? I know they can keep track of their little broods of harnessed children, and if one goes missing, they kill the rest. Yet when Hal makes his ballsy entrance so he can rescue his brother and the other kids, pretending to be one of them, the Skitter doesn’t—not when it’s leading them into the room to sleep for the night, not when it’s settling over them like a hen over its eggs (props for that part, though – it was flawlessly creepy)—notice that it now has seven in its brood instead of six.
Moving right along. Under stressful circumstances, people do stupid shit. We get it. But I’m starting to wonder how this particular band of misfits survived the initial invasion long enough do the stupid shit they’re doing now when that kind of stupid shit has the potential to make them all very, very dead even when they don’t have aliens breathing down their necks.
If I can sum up any part of a plot with the words “but then by sheer coincidence” or “but he just happened to…”, then color me annoyed. Coincidence is lazy storytelling. Drink some coffee and try again. I mean, how nice that Weaver decided to go batshit crazy and have a drunken breakdown, and then conveniently finds his wife’s glasses—while mechs are closing in on them—and suddenly realizes she must still be alive, and therefore he’s got his mojo back and stops being a dumbass right when his dumbassery would have gotten both him and Tom killed. Convenient indeed.
Sort of like when Ricky goes running back to the aliens because he misses them. I’m actually good with that part because I like the creepy mind control morphing-into-aliens stuff they’re doing with the Skitters, harnesses, etc. I like that bit. What I don’t like is when Ricky goes prancing off to rejoin the aliens, but then promptly tells the aliens what the humans are doing, and after the aliens—who now have the information they needed—ditch him, Tom just happens to find him just in time to learn that the aliens now know what the fuck is going on? That makes me want to jam icepicks into my ears.
Further, the Boston area is freaking huge. Especially when you add in a lot of the surrounding, non-urban areas. Plus, if you've ever tried to find someone in a forest -- am I the only kid left who played in the woods as a kid and got lost once in a while? -- you know it's REALLY FUCKING HARD. Reduce the population in this massive, partially forested environment to a few hundred, and the odds of happening across someone, particularly someone you are specifically looking for in between trying not to get yourself killed, are so astronomically slim, that when Hal just happenedto see his brother with some other harnessed children, I rolled my eyes so hard I actually saw my own brain.
What finally did me in was when Tom went on board the alien spacecraft. There was so much WTF from that moment forward, I can’t even fit it all into my skull.
I could go on, but I won’t. In short, your technical shit is all kinds of jacked up. Your people are doing stupid crap. Things are conveniently happening for the sole purpose of increasing tension and drama, but they’re succeeding only in making the characters look stupid and the story less believable. In the world of fiction, particularly in the world of romance, there’s a term for characters who behave the way these characters do. It’s TSTL.  Too stupid to live.  Generally not a term that should be assigned to humanity’s last hope and the rugged band of people who managed to survive a full-scale alien invasion, you know?
So I’m done with you, Falling Skies.
And when the Mayans come back from Saturn to do battle with the Freemasons in December, I seriously hope no one involved in the production of this show is part of my mismatched little band of stubborn survivors. If you are, don’t expect me to share my Twinkies with you.

NOW AVAILABLE: The Healing and The Dying

Book 2 in the Tooth & Claw series,  The Healing and The Dying , is Now Available on Samhain, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. Additional links will be listed here as they are available.


(And don't miss Book 1,  The Given and The Taken !)

Doing the right thing could destroy everything…

 Levi, Ian, and Darius escaped death-by-wolf-pack by the skin of their teeth, but they’re not out of the woods. The wolves are relentless. Help from humans? Not likely. Their only hope is a vampire commune in remote western Canada—if they make it in one piece. Even then, there’s no guarantee they’ll be offered sanctuary. 

First challenge is to get there. Sunlight is deadly. Money is dwindling. Police and wolves alike are on the hunt. 

 Worse, Levi hasn't recovered physically or emotionally from the accident that broke several of his bones and killed his best friend. He desperately wants Ian or Darius to turn him, which would heal his wounds, speed their escape, and sever his last tie to the wolves that made his life hell. 

 Yet Darius hesitates, caught between his desire to help his lover, and fear that once this is all over, Levi and Ian will have no use—or desire—to keep him in the picture. And that’s assuming they all make it to the end of this alive… 

 Warning: Contains two vampires and a werewolf who would really like to just sit down somewhere and lick their wounds, but are too damned busy stealing cars, avoiding sunlight, eluding police, arguing, jumping off roofs, and plotting new and innovative ways to weasel past customs. Oh, and plenty of scorching hot sex between three very, very dirty boys.

Updates N Stuff

I meant to cross post this from my other blog, and apparently forgot. So...here it is!
(Blogger and I seem to be having some issues relating to formatting. We're currently undergoing counseling to sort out our differences, but until then, there may be some extra spaces and such between paragraphs. *le sigh* Workin' on it...)


Good lord, I have really been remiss in updating either of my blogs this year. I really do try to keep them updated, but generally prefer not to do so unless I have something to say that might actually be of interest to people. Lately, that's been the type of thing that can be contained in a tweet:

"And Holy Ned, props to those of you who write ‪#historical‬ on a regular basis. This is my 1st, & it's kicked my butt. My hat's off to y'all." 

"Blarf. I think I've deleted almost as much as I've written today.‪#amwriting‬ ‪#AmEditingAsIGo‬" 

"Good lord. WHY can I not spell "spectators" today? I've had to type and re-type it like 6 times every time I've used it. ‪#amwriting‬"

Those are actual tweets. Seriously folks, if you're not following me on Twitter, you are missing some insanely deep thoughts. Tru fax. Get thee to Twitter and follow me, yo! (Or not. Can't blame you if you don't. The important stuff gets posted here too. But Twitter's good if you want to catch me occasionally tweeting stuff so random you'll be certain the hamster in my head has been smoking crack again.)


Anyway, long story short: I've pretty much had my entire face to the grindstone recently, especially the last month and a half or so. Naturally, I haven't had much time to update, and most updates would consist of "been pounding keyboard...keys starting to break...need caffeine...spatula..." and other such nonsense. 


But! For the first time since, like, this time last year, I can honestly say that I am caught the hell up. I've still got a couple of deadlines looming, but one book is in the editing stage and the other isn't due for a long enough period that I can catch my breath a little. And that means I can post a lengthy, rambly update here, and with any luck, start posting a bit more regularly about things that are actually interesting. Like... traveling. And my cats. And writing. And whatever shenanigans my husband and I are getting up to that will probably result in us being exiled from Nebraska sooner or later.


August is creeping up on us like a creeping creepy thing, and that means I'll be chewing through my tethers and flying to New Orleans for Authors After Dark!  If you're planning on attending, I'll be hanging out with the Riptide Publishing crew, and I will be signing as both L.A. Witt and Lauren Gallagher at the book signing. If you're there, stop by and say hello!


In all the madness and chaos, a few books have been released and a few more have been sold, so here's a quick rundown of what's new and what's coming out soon:


From Lauren Gallagher:
Cold Feet in Hot Sand Available Now from Carnal Passions
Who's Your Daddy? Available August 7th from Samhain PublishingCurrently Available for Pre-Order
 Who Compels My Strength (Part of the Switch BDSM Anthology)Anthology Available September 10th from Total-E-BoundIndividual Story Available November 19th
and
All The King's HorsesAvailable in late 2012 from Samhain Publishing

And from L. A. Witt:
The Healing & The Dying Available July 17th from Samhain PublishingCurrently Available for Pre-Order
Out of Focus Now Available in Paperback from Samhain Publishing
Nothing of a Son Part of the Forbidden Liaisons Amber PaxAvailable August 19th from Amber Allure
Conduct Unbecoming Available October 23rd from Samhain PublishingCurrently Available for Pre-Order
and
Something New Under the Sun(the sequel to  A Chip In His Shoulder )Available in early 2013 from Riptide Publishing

Also, The Closer You Get and The Given & The Taken will be available in print later this year. Details to come. At least one other title that's heretofore been available only in electronic format should be released electronically before the end of the year -- stay tuned for updates on that one.


Phew! It's been a busy year! Now you see why I've been neglecting my blog. I'm hoping to add a few more titles to that list soon, so keep an eye on this page for more details.


What's coming down the pipe? All kinds of stuff. Some more cyberpunk is brewing, I just finished my first historical, and there's loads of contemporary coming your way. Some kinky goodness, too! Oh, and some suspense! And some fantasy!  Hey, I may be caught up, but that doesn't mean I'm finished. ;)


So, that's what's going on in the land of corn and tornadoes (cornadoes?). More to come!

Your daily dose of cute.

Midget is making it very difficult to work today.  That is all.

Holy Ned, Y'all -- A Free Book!

For one week only,  Cold Feet in Hot Sand  is available FREE on Amazon! 
Yeah. Free. I know!

When her sister is left at the altar at her destination wedding, Deanna Riley hunts down the groom—her long time friend Nick Wallace—to give him a piece of her mind. She has no idea what excuses or explanations to expect, but the last thing she expects is to sympathize with him once he tells his side of the story. 

Actually, no. The last thing she expects is for the conversation to turn into…more than a conversation. And if there’s anything the heartbroken, jilted bride doesn’t need, it’s a fling between her sister and would-be husband. 

Now Nick and Deanna are desperate to atone for what they’ve done, but even as they struggle to patch things up with Deanna’s sister, they can’t deny that the unexpected night on the beach ignited a flame that refuses to die…

The Bridges of Madison County. And lightning. And cemeteries. And a rabbit.

Okay, fair warning: I spent yesterday playing with my new camera, so this post is going to be heavy on photos. 

Since Eddie and I hadn't been out exploring much recently, we had planned to spend yesterday wandering around Nebraska.  A nasty thunderstorm decided to roll in, so of course we did the only logical thing...we drove 100 miles east to Madison County, Iowa, to take pictures of the famous covered bridges.  Driving into a lightning storm, I might add, because that's how we roll, yo.

This is Iowa, about 40 miles from the Nebraska state line, where I had pulled over on I-80 in spite of my husband's insistence that this was reckless and dangerous. Whatever, dude. A girl's gotta take pictures sometimes. 
  The clouds got progressively nastier the farther we drove across the flat state o' cornfields.
   You know you're in for a wicked storm when you can see a velociraptor in the freaking clouds:
We pressed on, though, because covered bridges don't photograph themselves. 

Also, we saw wind turbines, which are cool.



Wind turbines -- some assembly required.
Do you think regular windmills like this one ever develop inferiority complexes with all the wind turbines that keep popping up?
 And a clover. With an ant on it. (I was playing with my new camera. Shut up.)
 Then there was a big sign that said "HISTORICAL MARKER UP AHEAD".  So, of course, we stopped. Apparently this was where Jesse James and his buddies committed their first train robbery.  To be fair, it looks like the train was at a serious disadvantage here. I mean, they only had like 20 feet of track, so where were they supposed to go?  I hope the railroad kept that in mind on future projects.
Anyway, moving right along, we ended up in Winterset, IA, which is home of the infamous bridges and also right around where John Wayne was born. So we met John Wayne, and Eddie did what Eddie often does.

Then it was on to the bridges.

It was windy yesterday, so this one was leaning pretty heavily.
  Say "Ahhhhh..."
 "I AM A BRIDGE. I AM MADE OF WOOD."
All the bridges had a lot of graffiti inside. I was rather amused by this one:
Where you find bridges, you should not be surprised to find rivers...
 Speaking of not being surprised, we also found Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep scandalously making out next to a bridge.
 And of course, the storm was still brewing rather mightily, which made for some kickass backgrounds and lighting...

  Some black and white, just 'cause.
 Totally loving the skies yesterday:
 Now, we were in an area full of old, small towns, and there was a storm going on. Clearly, there was one thing we HAD to do.

Check out the old graveyards.


Because really, what else is there to do on a day like that than stand in the middle of an old cemetery and take pictures of lightning?
   Graaaaaaaves....
  Bunny!
  I actually did manage to get a few good lightning pics, too. You may have to click on them to see the lightning bolts, but they're there:

 And my husband got the best lightning shot of the day:
  Wicked cool clouds. A cornfield. And a lightning bolt that's really hard to see but is definitely there.
 At the end of the day, we had some really badass pictures.

And a very, very dirty car.
Where will we go next to cause mischief and mayhem? Stay tuned...

So apparently I'm no fun.

I don't drink.

Well, okay, on very rare occasion, I will imbibe, but when I say "very rare" I am not kidding. That's why I get ridiculously silly after a single drink: my tolerance is virtually nil.  And when that drink has three shots in it instead of the anticipated slightly-less-than-two? Anyone who saw me the second to last night of RT this past April can probably testify that it's quite a sight.

But in general, alcohol and I are little more than passing acquaintances, and this, apparently, means I am "no fun." Even though my aversion to the devil's sauce makes me a built-in designated driver, I am clearly a dark cloud of boooooo hanging over any get-together. It's not like I turn up my nose at other people drinking. I don't have some religious or health reason that keeps me from partaking.  It just ain't mah thang, yo.

The thing is, I don't really like alcohol. Beer and wine both make me gag. Mixed drinks are wonderful except for that rather unpredictable habit of suddenly and without warning making my internal organs feel like they're full of knives. I don't get sick, it just hurts. A lot. That, and the feeling of being intoxicated is, quite honestly, rather unpleasant. I'm a control freak, and feeling like I'm no longer in control of my faculties is significantly more alarming and terrifying than fun.  Oh, and there's also that one occasion in my younger days when I decided to actually get trashed, and that evening's festivities culminated in a much older man telling me that he wanted me to go home with him and that I looked like his fifteen year-old daughter. Ew.

So, rather than spending the evening either doubled over, on the verge of panicking, or terrified I'm one drink away from being hammered enough to let some lecherous creature touch me, I simply...don't drink.

"But that's no fun!" a friend said not long ago. "How can you not drink?"  Or, more to the point, "How can you stop at only one? Don't you want to have fun?"

Quite honestly, as I've observed others over the years, I've long wondered why people do drink, especially those that do so heavily. It's not that I turn up my nose and think someone's less of a person for drinking, I just honestly cannot fathom the point of it all, particularly when it goes beyond "a drink or two with dinner" to "Drinking" with a capital "D".

I mean, seriously?

Think about it.

What exactly am I missing by not purchasing ten dollar beverages, behaving in ways that wind up on YouTube or Facebook, hooking up (were I single) with people I wouldn't have touched without beer goggles, having to rely on someone else to get my drunk carcass home because I can't drive, vomiting at any point in the evening, and then waking up wishing for sweet, sweet death because Advil won't touch this headache?  I swear, from high school onward, whenever I've heard people talking about nights o' boozing, whether it's a party or just out at a bar, there's always someone who passed out somewhere and woke up wishing they hadn't, someone who became physically ill, and everyone wound up feeling like hell the next day. Then of course there's the apologies to designated drivers, party hosts, spouses/partners, and friends who were on the receiving end of out of control behavior, lewd advances, and a digestive tract that's violently shifted into reverse.

That kind of "fun" simply isn't appealing to me. And besides, I make enough of an ass of myself when I'm sober.  Believe me, I do not need any chemical help.

I am, however, a very willing designated driver because I want my friends to get home safely.

I also have a camera phone and a YouTube account.

No fun, indeed...

New Cover Art and a FREE Novella!

On July 2nd, Carnal Passions will release my newest novella, Cold Feet in Hot Sand , and for ONE WEEK ONLY it will be available FREE on Amazon.

Yes...FREE. 30,000 words of smutty smuttiness on your Kindle for nothing. I'll be posting the link as soon as it's available.

When her sister is left at the altar at her destination wedding, Deanna Riley hunts down the groom – her long time friend Nick Wallace – to give him a piece of her mind. She has no idea what excuses or explanations to expect, but the last thing she expects is to sympathize with him once he tells his side of the story.
 Actually, no. The last thing she expects is for the conversation to turn into…more than a conversation. And if there’s anything the heartbroken, jilted bride doesn’t need, it’s a fling between her sister and would-be husband.
Now Nick and Deanna are desperate to atone for what they’ve done, but even as they struggle to patch things up with Deanna’s sister, they can’t deny that the unexpected night on the beach ignited a flame that refuses to die…

And props to my good friend Misa Buckley for the cover art!

NOW AVAILABLE: Where Nerves End (Tucker Springs book #1)

The first book in the Tucker Springs series, Where Nerves End , is now available from Amber Allure. Keep an eye out for book #2, Second Hand, by Marie Sexton and Heidi Cullinan!

Welcome to Tucker Springs, Colorado: Population, 70-something-thousand. Home to beautiful mountain views, two respected universities, and a ridiculously high cost of living.
 Jason Davis can handle a breakup. And an overwhelming mortgage. And a struggling business. And the excruciating pain that keeps him up at night thanks to a shoulder injury. Handling all of it at once? Not so much. When his shoulder finally pushes him to a breaking point, he takes a friend’s advice and gives acupuncture a try.
 Michael Whitman is a single dad struggling to make ends meet. When a mutual friend refers a patient, and that patient suggests a roommate arrangement to alleviate their respective financial strains, Michael jumps at the opportunity.
 Living together would be easy if Jason wasn’t so damned attracted to Michael. Good thing Michael’s straight, or the temptation might just be too much.
 Well, their mutual friend says Michael is straight…

Walking, Talking, and Leather: The Chicagoland Shenanigans

(cross-posted from my professional blog)

My blogs have both been on the quiet side recently, mostly owing to the fact that I've either been traveling like a madwoman or writing like a madwoman to make up for all the time I've been traveling. Now that I'm back in the land of corn and flatness, it's time for a recap of my most recent trip, which was to Chicago.

The trip began in a benign, stress-free manner. My trusty Ford Exploder whisked me across Iowa and part of Illinois without incident, which is extra surprising when you consider that a) I drive like a bat out of hell and b) I'm reasonably certain every Iowa state trooper was on I-80 that day. I even had change handy for the copious amounts of toll booths when I crossed into Illinois, and managed to eat my lunch without getting crumbs all over myself or the interstate. So everything was off to a good start.

Not long after I made it into Chicago, my GPS advised me to get off the freeway and begin a series of turns. This is normal, of course. The turns were turned and the directions were followed, and lo and behold I found myself...

...not where I wanted to be. What the hell? I pulled over at the exact address where my hotel allegedly stood, except there wasn't a hotel in sight. And even if there was, I sure as hell wasn't staying in this particular neighborhood. And I've lived in a bad neighborhood in Norfolk, VA, so that says something.

Anyway, after a few moments of confusion, I looked up the address again and discovered, to my horror, where I went wrong. You see, I had put the address in the Notepad app on my iPhone. Turns out, if you tap an address in the Notepad app, it'll take you straight into the GPS app, and tell you how to get there. Wonderful...except when autocorrect changes "Monroe" to "Madison" and lands you about 15 miles away from your destination. 15 miles isn't too bad, but let me tell you, when you've been driving for almost 7 hours, the prospect of getting back on the road and straight into afternoon traffic in downtown Chicago is...less than thrilling.

Especially when there's an Occupy rally going on...


 Some additional shenanigans ensued before I finally checked into my hotel, but I made it at last. Shortly after that, I was joined by my roommates: Sarah Frantz  (formerly of Dear Author) and Annabel Joseph (click on Annabel's name for her recap of the trip).  Annabel is a very sweet and funny author, and Sarah is not nearly as terrifying in person as I thought she'd be. Kind of makes me feel silly for packing the garlic and crucifixes, but one can never be too careful.


Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Okay, but why the hell were you in Chicago to begin with? Especially with such shady individuals?"  I asked myself the same thing at the time, but then my long term memory kicked in and I remembered there was actually a reason for me to be there. Funny how that works.

That reason? The CARAS research conference at the Adler School of Psychology.  This was a conference for therapists, social workers, psychologists, etc., to educate them to be kink-aware and kink-friendly. Sarah invited Annabel and me, as well as authors Heidi Cullinan, James Buchanan, and Edmond Manning, to speak on a panel about positive and realistic portrayals of BDSM in romantic fiction. The panel went swimmingly, and hopefully there will be a link to the original webcast that I can post in the future, but for now you'll just have to take my word for it that the six of us worked fabulously together, the audience had some great questions, and I managed to keep my swearing to a minimum.


From there we went to lunch. For the life of me I can't remember the name of the place, but it was one of those pizza/sandwich/pasta/soup/kitchen sink places, and the food was great. "The food was great" seems to be a theme in Chicago, so I'll refrain from repeating it at every mention of dining establishments. Just assume unless otherwise noted that the food was awesome. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. So you take six people who've just given a panel on all things good and kinky, and stick them at a table in a public place. What do you get? Strange looks from other restaurant patrons.


As it turned out, this was the very same day that another Lambda finalist reading was occurring, this time in Chicago. My fellow panelists were fabulously supportive and came to the reading, which was awesome. Of course we had to kill some time between the panel and the reading. Naturally, we (and in this case I mean James, Edmond, and I, since we were driving together) killed time by hunkering down at a Panera to do some writing. Duh. It should be noted here that when the cashier tried to hand me my sugar-laden pastry of choice, Edmond valiantly attempted to intervene and thus save the city from me turning into a cracked out squirrel for the afternoon. He was unsuccessful, but his attempt was noteworthy nonetheless.



It was they day after the panel and the reading that things got really interesting. I had planned to hole up in the room for the day and write, but you see, I very much live my life in the spirit of carpe diem. For me, that means I don't pass up potentially awesome and interesting experiences unless there is absolutely no way I can do it. So when Sarah and James say, "We're invited to a leather bar to watch a bondage demonstration, wanna go?", there is only one correct answer, and that answer is, "I'll get my shoes."


On the way out, we stopped by James's hotel room to pick something up, and I feel compelled to say this: While I can appreciate the decorating tastes of The Rainforest Cafe, and I understand the need to draw customers in, etc., I am inclined to think that when one is building a place of business across the street from a hotel, perhaps this is not the best thing to have said hotel's guests see when they look out their windows:
Just a thought.

Moving right along, there's no sense going to a bondage demonstration at a leather bar on an empty stomach, though, so we first went to dinner, this time at a Brazilian steakhouse. The food was amazing, blah blah blah, but the main reason I felt that meal worth mentioning is my undying amusement about the waiter who thought ice cream was an ideal dessert solution for a lactose intolerant diner.


After dining lavishly on meat, more meat, alcohol, additional meat, and some fabulous flan (for those of us who are tolerant of lactose), we hopped aboard ye olde L train and went...I guess north. My sense of direction isn't so great, and I spent most of the weekend having absolutely zero clue where I was and even less of a clue where I was going. So I just followed James and Sarah.
Obviously, they knew where they were going, because before long, we were darkening the doorway of the leather bar. And here, my friends, is where the dirty-minded, pervy, kink-writing author of this blog had one hell of a Dorothy moment, because oh my Lord, we were not in Kansas anymore. And that's all I'll say about that.


But the leather bar was only the beginning! A warm-up, if you will. Why? Because this was the weekend of International Mr. Leather. (I'm sure I don't have to mention it, but just in case: that link is NSFW) So, on Saturday, Sarah, James, and I went to the IML vendor fair.

It was certainly an experience, I assure you. I have never seen more leather, shoulders, asses, and general eyecandy than I did while walking the crowded halls between vendor booths. The smells of leather, rubber, and a hint of sweat weren't overpowering, but they were definitely there. I remember musing at one point that if ever there was a poorly-ventilated store between a saddle shop and a motorcycle shop, this is probably what it would smell like. Not unpleasant, mind you, just an observation.


I saw all manner of devices ranging from the "wait, how does that work?" to the "oh my God, I am so using that in a book." I even got to try out a few.



The Lightsaber, a zappy shocky electro-stim device, which was interesting.


Others, I elected not to try myself. Diamond plate paddles, for example.


And floggers with chains instead of leather tails.



I discovered a thing called "evil sticks":
One welt later, I discovered why they're called "evil sticks."



And there were some devices that I lacked the necessary equipment to try even if I wanted to:
I also ended up buying some books, T-shirts, and artwork, including this gorgeous piece that will be shipped to me very soon:
So that was IML, which was a fascinating and memorable experience. Especially in light of our panel about positive and realistic portrayals of BDSM in fiction, it was interesting to see positive and real BDSM firsthand.  It's difficult to describe what it was like being in a place that was as sexually charged as it was comfortable. It's hard to imagine being in a room with 1,000 people who are absolutely comfortable in their own skin, never mind 1,000 people who are absolutely comfortable in a skin that the rest of society can't quite comprehend. There's no judgment in a place like that. There was something for everyone, and even if something wasn't for you, there was a distinct sense of "your kink isn't my kink, but it's still cool" in every interaction.


It wasn't unusual for people to stop and watch other people. What they were trying on, what they were trying out, what they were wearing, what they weren't wearing. Being a people-watcher, I found myself watching both whoever had caught their eye as well as the onlookers themselves. And most of what I saw was people watching others out of curiosity or fascination. No nose-wrinkling, no judgment. Maybe some "Oh my God, WHAT is that???", which was invariably followed by "Oh. Interesting." Whether it was someone demonstrating a particular type of bondage, someone trying on a cock ring (I'm not kidding), or a pair of furries walking by, the thing that struck me the most was the lack of judging. Not that it was surprising -- if you're coming to a kink convention to be judgmental, you need to get a life -- just that it's so unusual to see so many people at ease with themselves, their own kinks, and other people's kinks.


And then, after being immersed in this for hours, we returned to the real world, had some lunch, and went our separate ways to return to our own worlds.

Speaking of returning to our own worlds, I would like to offer a small piece of advice before I sign off. If you, like me, live in an uber-conservative part of the midwest, and you've recently attended an event such as IML, and during your attendance spent money on themed apparel, be aware of what you're wearing before you decide to go out for an impulsive trip to Cold Stone.


Because I assure you, there are few ways to gather a more rapid succession of dirty looks in Omaha, Nebraska, than wandering out in public with this on your shirt: