Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 546

Upcoming Plotting Bootcamp

For those who don't know, my sister and I co-founded a website for writers called Rose's Colored Glasses. From that site, we run a critique group, issue a quarterly writerly newsletter and provide workshops—some for free and some for pay. In January, we will be leading a month-long online plotting bootcamp. How's our workshop different from every other one out there? We provide feedback and brainstorming every step of the way. We are so good at it that we have many authors return again and again for help with their new Works-in-Progress.

Here's a description of the class. January is a great time to take on a new challenge and a new book. Join us if you can!

Your DIs (Drill Instructors): Elle James and Delilah Devlin

Dates: January 3—January 30, 2010

Cost: $35.00—cheap, considering everything you get!

What you can look forward to during Plotting Bootcamp?

Learn a methodical approach to harness your creativity in order to produce an in-depth plot for your next novel! Sound scary? It is-when you're staring at an empty page without a compass and a map to guide you through the novelistic jungle. Your DIs will lead you through four weeks of activities that will help strengthen your abilities to: capture the conflicts, the major plot line and subplots; deepen your knowledge of your characters; and conceive of and develop an in-depth, by-chapter description of your book. Elle and Delilah will accomplish this with weekly lessons, bi-weekly chats and daily online communication. Be ready for bivouac!

Interested? Follow this link to sign up: Rose's Plotting Bootcamp

Okay, that's the end of my promo. The bootcamp is intense and fun. And you will learn something new or reinforce knowledge you already have! Guaranteed!

Our mom drew the picture for our site, morphing my sister and I into "Rose".

Get ready to be ravished!

Psst! There's still time to enter yesterday's contest too. Poll #2 doesn't end until Saturday AM!

So this is the thing I need your help with. I'd like to get this widget spread as far and wide as I can. Read the contest instructions. There are TWO! Your suggestions regarding how to proliferate this over the web for the next three weeks would be appreciated!

It's your story: Cat Tail Poll #2

**Winner announcement at the bottom of this post!**

In December 4th's blog, I asked three questions I needed answered by you before I could continue writing my free, serialized story, Bad Moon Rising. Poll #1 is now closed. This is your definition of what The Prowl is:

"The Prowl" is when members of the clan mate, and if a human is caught within their territory, they may be hunted and mated, by force if necessary

We still have two more questions to go.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

I'm offering a $10.00 Amazon.com eCertificate as an incentive to get you to vote. I'd like all the answers to the polls nailed by Sunday AM. Be sure to POST A COMMENT after you vote so I know who to enter in the contest.

The winner of Cat Tails Poll #1 is…Loretta! Loretta, congratulations and email me!

Guest Blogger: Cris Anson

Psst! You still have time to vote on Monday's poll and enter the contest for the Amazon e-gift. I'll close it tomorrow. ~DD

I'm honored, Delilah, to be guest blogging for you again today.

With the holiday season upon us, I started thinking about some of how my characters would celebrate Christmas. My heroine in ADDING HEAT, Giselle Sheridan, would be most likely to celebrate and decorate the way I do.

Giselle is a widow in her 40s who struggles to keep her late husband's landscape business running and her two sons in college. She's gutsy and determined and open to having a man in her life again, if only she had the time to search for one. So I gave her an early gift — a cougar cub of her very own.

She met CPA Conlan Trowbridge during the busiest season for them both—the week before the income tax deadline of April 15. But of course they find a way to get together.

Both Con and Giselle grew up in a semi-rural area in Pennsylvania and have traditional values. It's important for them to have family gathered together during the holidays.

Much like in my own household, they will use traditional, indigenous decorations—fresh pine and spruce boughs and cones, holly, pyracantha and juniper berries, osage oranges and other natural elements gleaned from the acreage surrounding her home and business.

Because Giselle is in the landscaping business, their Christmas tree will, of course, be a live conifer, balled in burlap and resting in an old galvanized tub. They'll plant the tree in the spring as a memento of their first holiday together. And I can see them starting a tradition that my own family has followed—each year giving one special ornament to the other.

Our tree was always decorated with wooden nutcrackers, hand-crocheted snowflakes, a few precious heirlooms of colored glass, sterling silver stars inscribed with meaningful dates. There's a guy on skis, a wheelbarrow, a crocheted angel atop the tree, a needlepointed truck (yes, I actually designed and made it!). One year I received a set of Russian matryoshka dolls nested one inside the other. I treasure the tinkling glass wedding bells on a silver ribbon. We found a wooden farm couple: a man holding a rake and a woman with a pail. A replica of a steam engine and coal tender. Musical instruments. And more, but you get the idea.

Back to Giselle and Con, they aren't always traditional, especially in the romance department *big grin*. Here's the blurb for ADDING HEAT, a stand-alone story in the Cougar Challenge series from Ellora's Cave.

Encouraged by friends she met at RomantiCon, widowed landscape contractor Giselle Sheridan decides she's finally ready to take the cougar challenge and explore sex with a younger man. Except she's too busy during planting season to go on the prowl.

CPA Conlan Trowbridge is battling the IRS deadline for his clients, but when Giselle saunters into his office with a tax question, all he can think of is sex. She's all luscious curves and smoldering brown eyes, and he doesn't care if she's a dozen years older, she's a wet dream come true.

Oh yeah, they're both ready for some hot and heavy sex—in the tub, parking lots, their offices—anywhere and everywhere. But Giselle is afraid her age will eventually bother Con, and her longtime foreman also has designs on her, in more ways than one. When Giselle faces some hard decisions, will she ultimately be able to keep the heat?

Who is Cris Anson?

An older woman who still wants romance in her life. After my husband died in 2005, it took me a long time to come out of my grief. Because my marriage was long and happy, I wouldn't say no to another love interest in my life. So I find myself writing cougar stories (although readers probably wouldn't want to read about heroines as old as I am LOL). I've also written the four-book DANCE series for Ellora's Cave as well as several novellas and Quickies.

Read excerpts of my books at www.crisanson.com

Find the entire Cougar Challenge series here: Cougar Challenge

Guest Blogger: Amanda Feral

You still have time to vote on yesterday's poll and enter the contest for the Amazon e-gift. I'll close it on Thursday.

In the meantime, are you looking for a different kind of kink? Something you haven't tasted before? Check out my friend Amanda's new story!

Justine Crenshaw is accident-prone. On purpose. It's the bruises…she can't live without them, without the pleasure and pain that closely bind her sexuality to her secret obsession. She chooses men who accept her fetish, who seek it out for their own dark designs, even if they don't understand it. She accepts that. Justine doesn't need them for anything but a little bruise pressure during down-and-dirty sex.

Then she meets Nathan, and her heart starts demanding more than her compulsions provide. She can't hide her body from him forever, can't keep him in the dark, literally. But no "normal" guy could possibly understand her multi-colored kink…could he? It might be time for Justine to shine a light on her fetish and find out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

If they found my body tomorrow—cold and dead from some accidental food poisoning or bathtub slip—they'd suspect I was a battered wife or girlfriend for the mass of bruises, contusions and welts on my body.

They'd be wrong, whoever they are.

No one ever beats me, ties me up—or down. I never have to lie about falling accidentally, or running into door frames, or searing my forehead with a curling iron.

I'm not submissive to anyone, nor am I bound, gagged, throttled, spanked or any of those other violent verbs.

What I am is accident prone.

In the sense that I'm open to them. Accidents.

Ironically, my name is Justine, like the book.

If you don't get the Marquis de Sade reference, don't worry. It's not necessary. This story is neither literary nor filled with obscure references. It's a base little tale of private kink and Christmas.

So it's festive, I suppose. But really not the point.

* * * * *

On the day things began to change for me, my assistant Joel almost caught me admiring a rather impressive bruise on his forearm, just below the crook of his elbow where the hair thins to smooth, distraction-free skin. The specimen was mottled, an irregular grid of fleshy tile around the edges and purpled nicely in the center, with the most amazing branch of broken capillaries, like curls of baby's breath in a floral display.

Gorgeous, take my word for it.

If he'd looked up from decorating the tiny Christmas tree on his desk, he'd have seen my eyes narrowed with lust, my expression wan, unfamiliar. He probably wouldn't have been able to identify the envy, but the way my brain works, that one

look would have given away everything.

Joel would put two and two together and come up with thirty years of obsession and tons of break room gossip fodder. That would be bad. It'd be only a matter of time before the other executives in the firm would be whispering "bruiseslut" when I passed.

"Keeping busy?" I muttered, hoping to slip past without a drawn-out conversation—Joel could be chatty.

"Mmmhmm." Joel dangled a tiny pink flamingo from a metal hook, twisting it between his fingers. "Do you think this goes?"

The rest of the ornaments were blue. Fish, peacocks, even a baby blue Ford Thunderbird jockeyed for prime positions.

"You know what would really set it off?" I asked. "Disco ball."

"Right?" Joel nodded, finally tossing the flamingo into his pen cup.

Everything needed to be just so, apparently.

Even bruises.

Hurrying toward my office, I keyed in on the metal waste can, tensed my leg muscles as tight as I could and slammed my shin into it with enough force to leave a dent. The pain sliced up my leg and I bit it off at my lip before I could yelp. You have to tense up or you just get an ordinary bruise, a dull thud instead of a sharp, stabbing pain.

"Ooh." Joel briefly appeared in the doorway, his flinch exaggerated as if to inform me he felt my pain. "See what I mean, Justine? Accident-prone!"

The expression on my face was practiced. It only looked like embarrassment.

He was right, of course.

Just not the way he meant it.

Most people skirt sharp table edges or the blunt ends of banisters for fear of the biting sting. They want to put those little rubber bumpers on them so children won't bash and bruise, or worse yet, they might end up with a murky purple blossom on their own hip, calf, wrist. It'd be tender and painful and look horrible even under the darkest opaque hosiery.

I get the concern. I do.

But I'm not most people. Of course, I have to pretend I'm preoccupied or rushed, or on my way to an important business lunch or to pick up my sick daughter from school.

Make no mistake—I have no child.

I have bruises.

The phone on my desk beeped. Joel again, his voice a tinny metallic echo from this tiny electronic throat. I always associate disembodied voices with Joel, even when I hear intercom greetings in department stores. Sale on tampons, aisle five.

And I think, Aisle five has the sharpest shelving.

It juts out just a little too far.

Thank you, Joel.

I nodded in his direction as I swept past again. There was a nub on the floor ahead of me. I told myself to keep walking, pass it by without stumbling. Two "accidents" in the course of fifteen minutes would look suspicious.

He looked up from teasing some tinsel onto the tiny tree. "Don't forget lunch with Matsushita. One o'clock at Quinta. I've reserved a corner booth. Because, really, you can't get enough exposure. Oh and your foundation is in at Henri Bendel!"

That was important. Bruises don't hide by themselves.

* * * * *

People clogged the sidewalk outside the store windows for the unveiling of some garish holiday display. I kind of like crowds, they remind me that I love this time of year. The scent of pine and mulling spice almost covered the low-lying fog of rotting garbage, and Starbucks has special flavors to accompany my liquid drug of choice. I slurped a pumpkin spice latté and noticed a teenage boy grinding (or whatever it is they do) on his skateboard. His hair flopped and he brushed it to the side and the girls I was walking behind agreed unanimously that he was indeed "hawt boy ass."

I agreed. He had a strong jaw for a kid and was thickly muscled, broad through the shoulders. He was bordering on manly; irresistible to the Betsy Johnson-set in front of me.

He'd be hotter if he fell.

A row of Christmas trees split the center aisle at Henri Bendel in two, silver and pink foil numbers with coordinating mercury glass globes dangling from their branches. The spaces on either side were flooded with holiday shoppers wielding squared-off bags like butterfly knives, their saucer-eyes targeting sale bins.

I had to jump into the fray. Had to.

Black Friday is certainly the best shopping day to incur accidental contusions, but during a busy holiday season, you never know when an opportunity will pop up.

I was about halfway down the aisle, cosmetics case in my sights, when I caught a spot of slick wax. After some monumentally ridiculous flailing and pinwheeling, I threw myself into one of the trees, accidentally—the first time in years. Ornaments shattered and I connected with the thick wire trunk at my clavicle, riding the rail down to the floor, scraping my cheek and stripping the makeup clean off that side of my face. The entire thing toppled with a loud crash that silenced the waller of shoppers. It blocked the aisle like a twelve-car pileup on the road to disco Santaland.

"Let me help you up," a nearby voice said, deep and resonant.

A man.

A moment later a tan hand slipped between the branches, scooped me out effortlessly and settled me on my feet.

"Are you hurt any?"

From the looks of my arms and legs, I wasn't any worse for wear. A few slight scratches. The ornaments turned out to be plastic and merely stuck to me like childhood stickers.

A complete rip-off.

Real accidents never produce the kind of bruising I yearn for, and sadly, this holiday disaster was no different. It was probably for the best, what with the lottery later. I could get lucky, after all, and not have to worry where my next bruise is coming from.

"Well, you look okay."

I glanced up at the man, intent on thanking him, but when I finally took in the sight of him, I couldn't find the words.

His nametag read, Nathan Winters, Store Manager.

But it could have read, Nathan Winters—Do Me. Do Me Now.

It was one of those moments that lingers and time slows to a crawl, the kind where your inner-monologue goes into overdrive.

And won't shut up.

He's too ruggedly handsome to be stuffed into that suit. Is he sizing me up? Is he interested? Does he think I fell into that tree on purpose? Does he know?

It's your story: Cat Tail Poll #1

Last week, I asked you three questions to get your input regarding what should happen next in our serialized story, Bad Moon Rising.

I've accumulated your answers to the first question I posed. Your mission today is to vote for the answer you like best.

I'm offering a $10.00 Amazon.com eCertificate as an incentive to get you to vote. I'd like all the answers to the polls nailed by Saturday AM. Be sure to POST A COMMENT after you vote so I know who to enter in the contest.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Sunday Report Card

Finally, I can say I finished the rough of the last December 1st deadlined book.

Two weeks late. But what the hell? To say I wasn't as inspired by this one as the other two would be a gross understatement.

So all you writers out there, when an opportunity to write something for a publisher you have courted for a long time comes, make sure the story is something you love. I just couldn't love this one, hence all the trouble finishing it. Maybe my emotions were involved because I was seriously exhausted. Maybe I was simply annoyed that I didn't get as much say in the premise of the story as I would have liked. I now know I can't write to someone else's specs. Not, and love it.

Anyway. Those 3000 words were the only ones I wrote all week. This week I have to get my head back in the game. Now, why is that High School Musical song playing in my mind? Ack!

Coffee is heating up. My workspace will be wrestled back into shape. Why is it that I can get so easily distracted with all the clutter that has accumulated over the past couple of months?

Last night I took a sleeping pill and got over eight hours of rest—uninterrupted. Huge accomplishment since I haven't had that much in over a month. I'll do the same tonight. I have kid issues coming back Tuesday, but I hope I can set some limits for myself and be a little better organized. Sleep has to make it onto my To Do List.

Christmas is creeping ever closer. I have to get cards out this week—if I'm going to do them at all. I have to get any online buying done. I wish you luck with the countdown as well!

S#$t happens to the Devlins

I babysat last night while the red-headed hellion (RDH) found advanture at Walmart.

While standing in the toy aisle looking at Fischer-Price toys for the two-year-old demon child, RDH heard a commotion coming from the front of the store. She cocked an ear toward the noise, but didn't move. Then two Asian women ran past, hunched over and whispering furiously, "You mus' run!"

The two women began to move the toys off the shelves as though they would hide in the shelves. She asked what was wrong, but they only shook their heads. "Mus' hide!"

Then a hispanic woman ran past. "He's got a gun!"

That's all the RDH needed to here. "Fuck the shelves, let's get to the back of the store."

At this point, more people were rushing past, all passing her because she was in heels. She ran past a cute redneck next to the gun display and grabbed his arm. "Run."

He looked kind of shocked—deer-in-the-headlights shocked. She ran past him, grabbing his arm to force him down the aisle. Over her shoulder, she shouted, "He's got a gun!"

RDH caught up with the crowd and got in front of them, heading toward the auto shop area because she knew they had an exit door. She ran behind the counter, started pressing buttons to open the door, but couldn't find it. At least the area was darkened. She hid under a bench and repeatedly dialed 911, only to be put on hold over and over—WTF? This is Boonieville, Arkansas.

Then three Walmart workers showed up. "What are you guys hiding for? You need to leave, you aren't supposed to be here."

Of course, it ended well. Some dude escaped from the county lock-up and the cops caught him in Walmart with a flying tackle. Over in two minutes, but where would have been the fun in that? Which begs the question. Why would someone escaping from jail want to go to Walmart?

RDH says, "Maybe he needed to do his Christmas shopping."

Yeah, I'm sitting at her table now, drinking coffee, wondering how I would have reacted, if it had been me. Like the guy at the gun counter, she would have been pulling me behind her because I would have wanted a closer look. And because I giggle when I'm nervous, I would have been laughing hysterically. No, guess she would have left my ass behind.

A Sneak Peek

On January 4, 2011, Ravished by a Viking will release. It's my first book with Berkley and the start of a new series. In the coming weeks, I'll be looking for help from those of you who enjoy my books to get the word out. I'll have a contest with some great prizes that will have a widget for you to proliferate. I'll be giving peeks into the story to whet your appetites. If sales happen for this book, then I'll get the chance to write more for Berkley. So whether you see more books from this world really does all depend on you.

If you've ever dreamed of fierce warriors, worlds filled with strange wonders and horrors, and love that endures terrible trials, I do believe I have the series for you. Here's a first peek. And if you'd like to read a longer excerpt, you can go here: Chapter One

You can pre-order a copy here: Buy Link for Ravished!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

What a Viking wants, a Viking takes.

When his younger brother goes missing, Dagr, Viking warrior and Lord of the Wolfskin Clan, will do whatever it takes to get him back. But nothing could have prepared him for Honora—a feisty, intelligent woman who is nothing like the women of his world—women who are content to serve their men in all things. Drawn to her despite her recalcitrant nature, Dagr is determined to show her who's boss both in bed and out.

When the two enemies-turned-lovers join forces to find Dagr's brother they are thrown into a rousing adventure full of danger, intrigue and erotic abandon. Can their passion truly unite them or will their different worlds lead to destruction for them both?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The great hall of the Berserkir king's keep was filled to capacity with the clan's warriors. Light cast from the iron chandeliers high above the black marble floors gleamed on the muted metal-fiber composite of their armor and the steel nozzles of the laser-spears they held.

Birget stood among the Valkyrja contingent, which formed a half circle around King Sigmund's throne. As his personal guard, they were the only females allowed inside the hall on this night. True to the traditional nature of the tiny band, they wore hammered metal breastplates over their modern, black uniforms, the gold outer plate embossed with the figure of Freya, their patron goddess, standing in her feline-drawn chariot. Because a truce had been called, their swords remained sheathed, their shields stayed locked inside the armory, and they'd left off their gold, conical helmets.

Word had come that Dagr, clan-lord to the Wolfskins, had been spotted off-shore, his plain, unadorned skiff sailing between the frozen peaks of Hymir's Sea until he'd skidded onto the rocky beach beneath the fortress walls.

Soldiers had been dispersed to keep watch along the shore to find the rest of his floti, but strangely, none were spotted. He'd come alone.

"Has he gone daft? Or does he believe his own legends?" her sister Ilse asked, clutching her pike.

Dagr, the leader of the Wolfskin clan, struck awe in the hearts of all Berserkirs. His many fierce battles with their army had grown his stature to epic proportions, some even saying that Thor himself had bestowed his blessing on the sword of the great warrior king.

"Quiet, daughters," Sigmund said. "Whatever brings him here alone cannot bode well for the rest of us."

"We should capture him," Birget muttered, unimpressed with the Ulfhednar warrior's reputation. Dagr was a man like any other—complete with faults. "If he is stupid enough to enter this hall alone," she groused, "we should enjoy the spectacle."

Her father shot her a reproving look. "He comes under a flag of truce," he said for her ears only. "We won't dishonor our promise to leave him unmolested upon his arrival. We will listen to what he has to say—before we decide whether to detain him." He gave her a little waggle of his eyebrows.

Birget suppressed a smile and straightened.

The large metal doors at the entrance of the keep creaked open. Bearshirt soldiers marched into the hall, the contingent surrounding the enemy king. When they parted in front of the dais upon which Sigmund's throne sat, a tall black-haired warrior strode fearlessly from their center.

Birget's breath caught, her incredulity forgotten. If her future husband was cut from the same cloth, she was doomed.

Dagr, the Black Wolf, stood taller than most of the Beserkir warriors around him. His thickly muscled body radiated strength the way the "pure light" did heat, blaring potent masculinity and power.

His features were harsh and colder than the gray stones cut from Odin's Mountain peaks to build this fortress. Black brows sheltered deep-set, piercing blue eyes. The sharp-bladed nose, chiseled cheekbones, and square jaw reflected granite will.

Rustling sounded as the warriors inside the hall tensed, and Birget understood their anxiety. Yes, he might stand alone, but who would want to be the first to draw a weapon against such a man? He looked and dressed like a savage, like the legendary warriors from their shared past.

A black wolf's head sat atop his long dark hair, the eyes of the dead beast seeming to glitter with menace. Bearskin cloaked his massive shoulders. A silver metal breastplate spanned his broad chest. His thick, muscular legs were encased in leather and fur, as were his boots.

His only weapons were the large, double-headed axe that peeked above his head from where it rested between wide shoulders, the famed sword that hung at one side of his hips, and a long, thick-bladed knife sheathed at the other. Primitive weapons, but no one now staring at him doubted he'd be deadly in a fight.

Fury emanated from every inch of his taut frame.

"Lord Dagr," her father intoned, lowering his chin in a decidedly undeferential manner.

Birget wondered how her father managed to sound so confident when her whole body was strung tighter than a bow.

"My brother," Dagr ground out in a deep, raspy baritone. "Is he with you?"

Almost free!

I don't have a child underfoot until late this afternoon. And tomorrow, dd has the day off, so no children until Monday! Wheeeeeee! Not that I don't love them, but, jeez! Now, maybe, I can get some pages done and figure out how to end my short novella. I managed to get through the Big Black Moment, but now I want a fun ending and can't find it! Mr. Muse is hiding in sheer terror from the the two-year-old.

So head down. Twitter and Facebook off. Phone on vibrate…. You all have dirty minds!

Got any tried and true ways to attack an exploding in-box?

Winners Announcements!

Thanks, everyone, who offered their two cents regarding what they thought should happen next in my serialized free read Bad Moon Rising! The winner of the $25.00 gift certificate from Amazon is…Ashley! So, Ashley, send me an email to let me know where you want that gift certificate sent!

And to all of you who posted a review of Breaking Leather! Many thanks! Every little bit of postive exposure helps. Authors are forever grateful when a reader takes the time to tell us what they enjoyed about something we spent time and heart creating. The winner of the gift certificate is…Rasha! Rasha, dear, send me an email!