Jamie DeBree's Blog, page 66
March 17, 2011
And the Winner of a Katie Salidas Ebook is...
Holly Wright!
Congratulations Holly! I'll send your email address to Katie and she'll be in touch soon.
Thanks to all who entered!
Sex on the Page: Setting the Temperature
If you haven't read Carol's post from Tuesday, don't forget to drop in over there! Some good thoughts on how sex scenes can be "hot" without being graphic.
In romance, a book is usually categorized with a certain "heat level" so the reader knows what they're getting into before they crack that spine (rare as that's becoming). While looking for a list of the basic levels, I discovered Starla Kaye's web site, which I'd encourage you all to check out if you're not already familiar – she has a Writing Tools blog that looks excellent. At the very least, take a peek at her Heat Levels in Romance post, which gives a good basic run-down of the thermometer we measure sex scenes by.
My own writing falls between the "moderate" level and the "spicy", depending on what I'm writing. In my romantic suspense novels, I try to keep it around moderate to sensual, using graphic terms, but focusing more on the emotions and sensuality than the actual actions themselves. Other than the fact that it comes most natural to me, I think this style fits well with the overall tension I like to have in a suspense novel – the stakes are high, emotions are already high, and it makes sense that the sexual tension and interplay would be at a highly charged level as well. It fits the genre and the story, in my opinion.
Erotica is all about the sex, of course, and spicier writing is called for – that's kind of the whole point. In my thriller draft though, the feel of the novel is different, and calls for a more mild approach to any kind of sexual interplay there might be. Even though the tension is high, it's told from a male viewpoint (which will generally be less sensual and more "to the point"). The relationship between characters is only important insomuch as it affects the main plot, so I think a minimal approach works best here.
In terms of what makes a sex scene hot – I really think a lot of times it comes down to your own voice. Even a very graphic scene can be mild in terms of how it affects the reader…especially if the writer slips into that technical manual problem we talked about last week. A scene where the characters don't even touch can be smokin' hot under the right pen. While writing to different heat levels can probably be learned from a technical standpoint, I'm of the opinion that writers should stick to what comes naturally for the most part, because it's your personal voice that's going to make all the difference in the world. Our natural voice is going to "feel" more genuine, and connect with the reader far better than one we have to struggle with on the page.
What's the heat level of your sex scenes? Do you naturally write to a certain heat level better than others?
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March 16, 2011
Meet the Author: Katie Salidas
When did you decide to pursue writing seriously?
It was a long process for me. I had a story, a series idea really, and it took over my life. Writing became a daily "need" and I wanted to get my work out there. After pursuing the traditional route for a while, (with lukewarm results) I decided I wanted to go it alone and self-publish. It wasn't an easy decision. Self-publishing still carries a bit of a stigma (though the market is changing), but I just couldn't let my baby sit and collect dust on the computer. One story led to another and another and now I have 5 published titles with another couple "on the way." Writing, editing, revising, etc… it took me over, like a calling, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
How did you choose what genre to write – or did it choose you?
I've been a vampire fan for as long as I can remember. I just had to start writing about them and giving my own characters their story. The genre's I write in are: Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Romance, and Erotica. Though I may have an idea on how I want the story to go, it tends to dictate what genre it wants to belong in and "chooses" for me.
Tell us a little about your writing process. How do you get from idea to completed draft?
Ideas come from all kinds of sources: daily life, things I see in the news, things I read, things I watch on TV, etc… When the idea strikes, I tend to jot it down very quickly.
Vampire works in Brothel – House of Immortal Pleasures.
Halloween costume ball with real vampires – Halloween Fantasies.
Rock Stars & Vampires – Karma & Melodies
Etc…
Once I have the basic Idea, I just sit and "free write."
What are some of your favorite authors to read?
I love the same genre's I write in. There are the well-known authors: Patricia Briggs, Laurel K. Hamilton, etc… and then there are the super Indies too: H.P. Mallory, Tina Folsom, etc…
What do you like do when you're not writing?
When I'm not writing I am with my family. I spend so many hours of the day attached to my computer, it borders on insanity. So I do try to make lots of time for them. We have Movie nights, Family Game night, and go hiking when weather permits.
How do you balance writing with the other aspects of your life?
I wish I could say I am an expert at balancing work and life but I'm not. I tend to sleep on the couch, not because me and the Hubby are fighting, but because I am always up so late, working on writing, that I simply pass out there.
What I do try to do is make sure I take care of the family's needs when they are around (i.e. not at work or school) and work when they are not. Dinner, homework, Cheerleading, GirlScouts, Gymnastics, Laundry, Movie night, Game night, etc… all of these things are non "work time" for me. That often leads to my late night writing escapades. Sometimes I don't get quiet time to write until Munchkin and Hubby are off to bed.
Is there anything else you'd like to add?
Just a thank you to your readers for taking the time out to have a look at this interview and (hopefully) my work. You, dear reader, are the reason we write. Knowing that you are entertained by our stories is the best compliment a writer can receive. So thank you and Happy reading!!
Connect with Katie: Blog | Facebook | Twitter | MySpace | LinkedIn
Katie has generously agreed to give one lucky commenter your choice of her ebooks for commenting today! Leave a comment by midnight (Mountain Daylight Time), and I'll let Random.org pick a winner. Make sure to leave the correct email in the comment box (emails will not show up in your comment) so I can notify you and pass it along to Katie when the contest is over. Good luck!
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March 15, 2011
Serial Novel: The Biker's Wench, Chapter 54
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|Ch. 53
The Biker's Wench
Chapter 54
Monica stroked her fingers lightly up and down the front of Harley's pants, thrilling at the way his cock jumped to meet her fingers each time. Maybe it was all the makeup, but she felt detached from this altered version of the strong, biker-tough man she loved. She needed something familiar to reorient herself. To remind herself that she knew him on a more intimate level than a change in looks and clothing could hide. Fumbling for his zipper, she was so intent on her task that she gasped when he grabbed her wrist, hard, and pulled her hand away.
Looking up at his expressionless face, she tried to free herself to no avail. She looked away, blinking back tears. It wasn't just the makeup then. He really wasn't the same. He held her wrist until he pulled off the road onto the shoulder, then let her go. She stared out the window. How appropriate that a thunderstorm seemed to be moving in.
"Monica, look at me." His voice was gentle, soothing, and she nearly heeded his request.
She shook her head. "It's not you," she said, carefully patting under one eye with a finger. "This whole costume thing is just weird, is all. I'lll get it together, just give me a minute, okay?"
His warm hand slid over her shoulder, pulling her toward him. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't look at my face, look in my eyes."
She didn't fight, trusting him on a level she didn't quite understand. Her gaze met his and she nearly leaned back from the intensity in of emotion in his eyes. "There you are," she whispered, her fingers lightly touching his neck, his shoulder, his chest before falling back to her lap. "I just..."
"I know," he said, rubbing a hand up and down her arm. "But this costume thing is one of the last things standing between you and your freedom. Unless you know how to fix whatever we ruin, we're going to have to behave ourselves until after the meet."
She nodded and took a deep breath, letting it out slow and easy. It was followed by a wide yawn that she tried and failed to stifle. "Sorry," she said, shaking it off. "I think I'm just really tired. You must be too - we didn't exactly sleep last night."
Harley put the car back in drive and pulled onto the road again. "I'm not too bad. Why don't you try to get some rest on the way?"
"Are you okay to drive?" she was already leaning back against the seat, her eyelids so heavy it was all she could do to blink at him.
He glanced quickly at her, then looked back at the road, chuckling. "I'm fine. Get some sleep."
The next thing she knew, someone was jiggling her arm.
"Wake up, sleepyhead." Harley's amused voice pulled her out of a rather naughty dream, and she felt her cheeks heat as she opened her eyes to see his smirking face. "That looked like some dream. If we didn't have things to do..."
"Promises, promises," she mumbled, leaning forward and rubbing her face with her hands. "How long was I out?"
He handed her a bottle of water. "It's two-thirty. The Benoits are in that gray house over there." He pointed to a house across the street and several lots down. "You stay here and wake up. I'm going to go knock and leave a note that the meeting place has changed. Hopefully they'll leave right away so we have time to set up. I'll come get you when they're gone."
Enjoying the story? Try Tempest, available now at:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Sony | Kobo | Smashwords | Diesel
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March 14, 2011
Weekly News & Goals - 3/14/11
Ready for another week? Yeah, me neither, but we can fake it, right? The weather's nicer, and despite my complaining I do actually have things pretty well under control, so bring it on, I say. Let's party!
This Week on The Variety Pages
Monday: News & Goals
Tuesday: Chapter 54 of The Biker's Wench
Wednesday: Author Interview - Katie Salidas
Thursday: Sex on the Page – The Sexual Temperature
Friday: Chapter 55 of The Biker's Wench
Saturday: Excerpt – Legend of the Oceina Dragon by J.F. Jenkins
Don't forget to stop by Carol's blog Tuesday for her Sex on the Page post as well...
Variety News has a new look, a new feature, and I'll be adding another one next week. You can take a sneak peek here, but I won't normally be posting links, as the discount codes and features are for subscribers only. Subscribe here.
Goal Reports
I managed to get all my scenes written last week, 2 interviews done and sent back, and the house is far cleaner. Other than that and some marketing, the rest sort of fell by the wayside. I was still working on recovering from my cold last week, and my head wasn't really keeping up with my to-do list just yet.
The good news is, I feel pretty much myself again, and I'm starting the week off more organized than I have been in, well, a month or so. This bodes well for productivity, I think. I'm also moving manicure night back to Mondays, in hopes of getting good sleep Sunday to start the week off.
Goals for the Week
Writing
- 6 serial scenes
- Extra work on TBW
- 1 crit (leftover from last week)
Business
- Order business cards (good lord I'm sick of seeing this on the list!)
- Update web site
- Re-send a prize package I recently had returned (sorry Carol - email coming!)
Personal
- Take the stairs again at work
- Post on the nail art blog
- Call a local donation spot to see if they want one of our couches and the old computer desk
- Finish surface cleaning so I can commence deeper spring cleaning next week
That's enough, I think. What are you up to this week? Doing any spring cleaning?
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March 12, 2011
On the Bookshelf: The Chosen by Shay Fabbro
Gentra
Superheated water shimmered and rippled as it rushed out of the colossal geothermal vents, keeping the benthic depths of Gentra warm and full of life. Sherubite crystals, with their hexagonal facets thrusting upward from the ocean floor, emitted luminescent hues of pink, purple, and pale blue. The dwellings, attached to the sides of these massive vents, were constructed of highly reflective minerals, which made them seem to glow from within.
Large schools of gelatinous fish darted amongst the tall undulating beds of grasses. Sea worms retracted colorful plumes into their protective tubes as the fish swam by. Sea stars, numerous thin arms winding side-to-side, crawled across the ocean floor.
A lone Gentran made his way through the water on an errand for Master Ferrok. His orange bell pulsed rhythmically from top to bottom, much like the bells of the deep-sea jellies that lived amongst the expanses of sea grasses.
Morka, Ferrok's head servant, was the only one Ferrok trusted for this particular errand. Many Gentrans were about their duties despite the early hour. He swam faster, using his four tentacle-like arms to help propel him through the water. His breathing increased, and his breath blew out of the siphon on his back, increasing his already quick pace.
He arrived at the dwelling that had become home to the four who held a unique title given to no other Gentran in history: Guardians. Morka was the only Gentran, besides the Masters and the prophets, who was even aware there of anything special about these young Gentrans. What he didn't know is why they had been singled out. He shook his head to stop his pondering. It was none of his concern.
He stopped short of entering the room where they waited. The four were hovering in front of the windows, both pairs of arms crossed over their chests, brows lined with worry. Mirka's bell was shot through with streaks of pure white, indicating her sadness. Morka thought for a moment that none of the others had noticed, but just then Brok took her hand and squeezed. She looked at her friend and comrade gratefully and turned back to view the Gentran landscape.
"We will see our sires and litter mates again." Brok said softly.
Mirka gave him a reproachful look. "I know what you are trying to do and I thank you for it. No, don't." She held up one arm as Brok tried to interrupt. "What we do is important. I will do my duty, even if it means I must sacrifice my life to save my Chosen. But I have the right to wish for things that can never come to pass." Mirka glared at Brok, daring him to disagree.
Brok smiled and pursed his lips. He understood his friend's frustration. All of them had been taken from their families as younglings, to be trained in secret in the home of the prophets. They were not allowed any outside contact, as it might have serious repercussions for the future. The Guardians studied the four new planets that would become their temporary homes. Here they would live, until the time was right to bring their Chosen to the portals and back to Gentra.
Guardians Gerok and Forka hovered on the other side of the room. They turned from the window.
"Where is he? He should be here by now!" Forka gestured in frustration.
"He will arrive soon. Master Ferrok and the others won't allow us to be late." Mirka said. "Are you anxious to begin our journeys? I certainly am not." She turned once again to the window.
"Anything is better than sitting here, waiting. I would rather get it over with."
Brok shuddered as he recalled his past journeys through the portal. The unimaginable, excruciating pain as his atoms were pulled apart, his familiar form being changed into something strange and alien. He cringed at how awkward it was during those first few moments after emerging. It was not easy to walk upright on two limbs on solid ground, especially when one was used to swimming. Wishing to feel more at ease, he went through a mental checklist and reassured himself that all of the necessary steps had been taken to acclimate quickly. On the last trip, he and his fellow Guardians had hidden food and clothing. He knew they were all ready, but it didn't prevent the chill in his heart at the thought of having to travel through the portal again.
Morka could clearly see that the four young Guardians were apprehensive. He cleared his throat and entered the room. "It is time."
The Guardians and Morka left the dwelling and made their way to the building that housed the portal chamber. They passed several pens of scrago, whose long sinuous bodies and many dangling appendages swayed simultaneously with the minute movements of the water. The scrago's large dark eyes were half closed as they fed.
The five Gentrans swam over several plankton blankets. Suddenly, the ground fell sharply beneath them. Mirka looked at the yawning black maw of the trench and gave a slight shudder. She glanced at her fellow Guardians and saw in their eyes a fear matching her own. The deep trenches were virtually unexplored. No one knew what lived down there. Parents often used tall tales of young Gentrans being thrown in the trench, weighted with stones, to frighten their children into obedience. Now, as she gazed into the inky blackness, her heart raced as she saw her life as one deep, dark, unknown rift of danger and uncertainty.
Her fear of the trench was soon forgotten, however, as the group neared their destination. Following Morka, the Guardians passed through the entryway of a long hallway. The Guardians crowded closely together, allowing their bells and arms to softly brush up against one another. They found themselves gripping an adjacent hand and giving an occasional squeeze of comfort and encouragement. Morka stopped before a dark doorway and turned to face the Guardians. Down his bell were rows of colorful cilia which pulsed rhythmically, a rainbow of rippling, fine hairs. The bell undulated slowly to keep the escort stationary. Clasping both pairs of his arms, he exhaled a deep breath through his siphon. His large violet eyes touched upon each of the Guardians, as he measured their collective composure.
"On the other side of this doorway, lies your destiny." The squeaks and clicks of his speech were given with such force that they echoed between the walls of the dark hallway. "Do not be afraid. You are ready for what awaits you." Bowing to each of the four Guardians, the escort moved aside. With a collective, respectful nod, they swam past him and entered the chamber.
The portal chamber was lit by glow rods hanging from the ceiling, which gave the room a bright, cheerful look. Directly ahead was the activated portal. It was rectangular in shape and was surrounded on all four sides by strange symbols, from the simple to the inordinately complex. Six Masters flanked the portal, three to each side. The Masters to the left were female, their bells trailing behind as long trains. Their arms and finger-like appendages were smaller than those of the three male Masters who hovered to the right. The bells of the males were broad and darker than the females.
All six had the same eyes: deep, dark, and full of wisdom and mystery. Their penetrating eyes scoured the Guardians as they approached. They fanned out and stopped a short distance from the six Masters. The middle female and the middle male Master glided forward toward the four hovering before them and bowed deeply.
"You first came to us as the Elected. You leave now not only as Guardians, but also Masters, sent forth to guide and protect the Chosen." The female Briska stated.
"Time is short. The danger the Mekans pose to the galaxy grows with each passing day. The fate of the entities that inhabit our galaxy depends upon you, and your ability to keep the Chosen safe.
"You have been instructed as to the signs and portents that will appear when the time is right for you to take your Chosen, travel to the portals, and bring them to Gentra." When Briska finished, she glided back between the other two female Masters and fixed her gaze upon Master Ferrok, who now stood alone facing the Guardians.
"Gerok, from this moment forward you now hold the title of Master. Go forth, and meet your destiny." Ferrok declared. Gerok swam toward the portal, and after a moment's pause, passed through.
"Brok, from this moment forward you now hold the title of Master. Go forth, and meet your destiny."
The same declaration was repeated for the other two Guardians, Mirka and Forka. After the four Guardians had passed through the portal, the Masters exited the chamber except for Master Ferrok. He remained behind, facing the portal, lost in thought. A slight vibration in the water behind him interrupted his uneasy deliberations.
"Do you still doubt what we have done Ferrok?" Master Briska asked.
"I do not know how I feel," he sighed suddenly aging before her eyes. "We rely on the scribbling of the prophets. Scribblings that speak of the Mekan danger, the four planets the Chosen call home, and the signs signifying the proper time to reveal the location of the portals to the Chosen and to tell them of their destiny. If we interpret the prophecy correctly, the Guardians are to be sent to their planets to watch for the signs. The prophetic scrolls say nothing at all about the Guardians watching over the Chosen and begin-ning their training early without their knowledge. They are not supposed to have contact until the signs appear. Will our interference change the outcome of the upcoming conflict with the Mekans? Have we already changed it? Irrevocably perhaps?" He raised two arms and placed them over his eyes. "I just don't know if we have done the right thing."
"We alone have the knowledge to save the galaxy. We have no other choice. Remaining idle while the other species are destroyed by the Mekans is intolerable! As long as the Guardians do not disclose the prophecy to the Chosen before the signs appear, then we will not be interfering with fate." As Briska finished she reached out and laid her arms upon Ferrok's shoulders, feeling his tension.
"I hope you are right, Briska. We have done all we can. The fate of the galaxy now lies in the hands of the Chosen."
***
They arrived at dawn, their immense size blocking out the light from the small triple suns. People looked at the sky, curious about the nature of the objects. All daily tasks ceased as the people began to congregate in larger groups. They had a sudden and overwhelming urge to be close to others. They shared uneasy glances as the things drew closer. Each person privately wondered if these visitors descending from the sky would be friend or foe.
The largest of the objects drifted over the city, sending up clouds of dust, choking and blinding the townsfolk. The rumble of its many engines shook the buildings and shattered windows, which rained glass down on the people who stood frozen in the streets. The citizens, becoming frightened, ran to find their families, desperate to be with them. The noise of the metal monstrosities became deafening as more of them descended from the sky and moved overhead. Such was the roar and power of the engines that the walls and foundations of the buildings and homes began to crack and fracture. When the first structures collapsed, panic spread throughout the community like a wild fire. People scrambled to flee the city. The unfortunate ones who fell were crushed underfoot by those who ran, in order to avoid being pulverized by falling debris. Although the people were desperate to escape, the machines were wholly unaware of their presence.
The chief machine had come to rest on its bulky legs, demolishing the buildings and homes beneath it, and killing all those unable to get out. The others fanned out and landed in various places, within a radius of several miles. When the hatchways opened from the sides of the largest of the machines, small recon droids the size of the people's houses rolled down ramps and drove off in all directions. When they came across an obstacle in their path, they either drove over it or demolished it before moving on. The recon droids would stop at regular intervals and take readings of the ground. Once the survey was complete, they returned to the larger of the machines and disappeared inside.
These larger machines began to dig at the areas the droids had marked. Drills slid down from the center and chewed up the earth at an incredible rate. They also had large arms with buckets on the ends that carried the dirt and rocks, piling them into mounds taller than the buildings in the city. The smaller droids would sift through these mounds of dirt. While some of the material collected was placed inside the bellies of the machines, the rest was thrown off to the sides, with little consideration for the unfortunate people below.
When all attempts at communicating with the machines failed, the city's leaders made the decision to use extreme measures in an attempt to stop the destruction, but their plasma rifles, missiles, and bombs had no effect. The sheer size and the thickness of the metal skins repelled each attack. Desperate, the leaders asked their best fighters to make the ultimate sacrifice; they were asked to fly their largest fliers into the heads of the machines. Hundreds of brave souls lost their lives, but to no avail. It seemed nothing could stop these metal aliens. The cities were evacuated.
The metal monstrosities mined and excavated the entire planet of its useful minerals and ore within a decade, wrecking similar havoc wherever they landed. Many attacks were made but all failed. When one particular attack crippled one of the machines, the people began to celebrate, believing they had found a way to destroy them. However, the machine simply had another of its kind repair the damage, and the mining continued unabated. The depths to which they delved resulted in numerous earthquakes and massive volcanic eruptions, destroying the planet.
They left much as they arrived, their shadows darkening the ruins of this once beautiful and vibrant planet. The noise of their engines, while still stirring up huge clouds of dust, no longer caused discomfort for the people.
There wasn't anyone left to hear.
Available at: Amazon |Barnes & Noble
Connect with Shay: Web Site |Twitter|Facebook
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March 11, 2011
Serial Novel: The Biker's Wench, Chapter 53
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52
The Biker's Wench
Chapter 53
This is going to work. Harley glanced at Monica as they went out the back door of the salon. He wouldn't have recognized her on the street after Alex finished with her. Aside from the prim gray suit and demure shoes, Alex had applied latex with some sort of skin glue and thick make-up to her face and neck, transforming her into an older, almost sickly looking character. The wig she wore was a dark blond color rolled up into a classic twist at the back of her head to fit with the professional attire. Harley was both amazed and frustrated with the transformation. The suit was sexy, the rest just made him feel disoriented.
Monica looked up at him, smiling, though the faux skin kept it from reaching her eyes. "You look so...different," she said, reaching up to almost touch his face before dropping her hand back to her side. "I'm afraid to touch it - wouldn't want to ruin all that hard work."
"The wig itches," he complained, scratching carefully at the back of his neck. "Or it could be all those pins he used to keep my hair under the cap." He had a new appreciation for actors and anyone who had to wear a wig on a regular basis.
She took his hand and laced her fingers through his. "No one will recognize you though, and this will be over soon. What time is the meet?"
"Three this afternoon. We need to get to Reno, find the original clients and get everything set up." He squeezed her hand and pulled away, needing to put his focus back on the project. He pointed to a sleek green car parked a few feet away. "That belongs to the ranch - we'll take it into the city, since it doesn't have any markings. Ready?"
She nodded, falling into step beside him. "As ready as I'm going to get," she said, stepping carefully on the gravel. "I should have kept my tennis shoes for this part."
Harley grinned. "I can carry you if you want." He remembered how she felt in his arms the last time. A perfect fit. Although seeing that cute little ass hanging over his shoulder might be fun too.
She shook her head and cocked one highly plucked eyebrow in mock disapproval. "We wouldn't want to cause a scene, now would we, Mr...ah...what are our names again?"
"Nick and Darcy Benoit. I'm a wealthy oil magnate from Alaska, and you're my trophy wife-slash-office manager."
Monica snorted. "Your buddy has an interesting interpretation of 'trophy wife'," she said, sliding into the passenger side of a big green Caddilac sedan. Harley got behind the wheel and put the box of equipment on the seat between them. He reached over and popped another button on Monica's white silk shirt, running his finger over the lacy edge of her bra.
"I think Alex got this one right," he said, feeling her shiver under his touch. "He knows the real prize is what's underneath." Reluctantly he pulled his hand away and started the car, feeling her stare as he pulled onto a back road that would take them out of the ranch. Monica took the box and put it on the floor, scooting closer. He knew he was in trouble when her hand caressed his thigh and then drifted between his legs.
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March 10, 2011
Sex on the Page: Instructions Not Included
We've all read sex scenes that read like an instruction manual, right? In my experience, there are a couple main reasons this happens:
- The author isn't comfortable writing sex scenes
- The sex scene doesn't really belong at that spot in the story
In both cases, it's a problem of obligation. Just as sex works better when it happens organically off the page, so it is on the page. If you try to force it, or put it where it doesn't belong, it just doesn't work. It generally ends up being cold and unsatisfying, and won't meet the goal of moving the story along, deepening relationships, creating conflict, etc. It's also a good way to get your book tossed against a wall (though with ereaders, that doesn't seem to happen quite as often). 
My advice on this is, if you feel obligated to write a sex scene, don't. Better not to include sex at all, than to give your readers an unsatisfying experience with it.
If you do truly feel that a sex scene is called for, and fits at that particular point in the story, the next step is to really get comfortable in your character's heads. Part of avoiding the instruction manual is baring our characters just as much emotionally as physically (sometimes more). You can't keep that emotion to yourself – you have to lay it out on the page for the reader. Without emotions of some sort, you just have a series of stage directions.
How do we avoid writing sex that is little more than "put tab A into slot B"? For me, it's all about emotions and sensory information. We all know how sex works. A good sex scene gives just enough detail to keep the reader oriented in the action, but focuses mainly on how the characters are feeling. What they're sensing. And if we do that well enough, we evoke similar emotions in our reader (or a strong emotion of some sort, anyways).
I'm sure you're aware by now that I prefer it on the hotter side, though I consider my scenes pretty tame in the grand scheme of things. I use graphic, frank words – no flowery euphemisms for naming body parts, and I don't typically do metaphors either. My goal is to put my reader right there in the scene, but deeper than that. I want my reader right under the character's skin, feeling what she (or he) feels, experiencing the same emotions.
To that end, I focus on the major senses – touch, smell, taste, sound, sight. My hero might kiss my heroine's neck…but that only matters if the warmth of his lips sends a thrill through her skin, maybe makes her shiver. My heroine might run her hands over the hero's chest, but what matters isn't the action itself, it's how her nails tickle as they move, and the way she looks at him while she's doing it makes him hard. Makes him feel things that maybe he shouldn't. Or doesn't want to. Or finally can.
The actions in a sex scene should be a tool to reveal the connection between the senses and emotions. If the actual actions don't evoke some sort of sensory or emotional response in the character, there has to be a good reason for it (and I dare say, one that needs fixing during the course of the story). When you're writing sex, the best way to avoid writing an instruction manual is to make sure that every action reveals a feeling, either sensory or emotional. If it doesn't, that's an action that could probably be cut, in my opinion.
On Tuesday, Carol posted some great guidelines for authors who prefer not to include graphic details. For authors not comfortable writing graphic sex, that is a great way to start if it fits with your voice.
How well do you know your characters? Well enough to share a sexual experience with them?
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March 9, 2011
Meet the Author: Craig Lancaster, Literary Mastermind
In the title story from This is Butte. You Have Ten Minutes., the main character has an interesting way of creating "character templates". I identified strongly with that, since it's very similar to my own method. Is that how your characters are created?
The main character – "the man with the BlackBerry" – watches people and then writes himself notes about who he believes them to be – names, ages, backgrounds, sexual orientation, line of work, etc. In a bit of a twist, the idea for making him this sort of detached guy came to me after I conceived of the plot, which is precisely the opposite of how I usually work. I grew fascinated with the idea of someone who goes through life but never really takes the time to live it. It struck me as a very early-21st-century construct.
Usually, though, the characters that come to me are informed by people I've met, known or heard of – or they're a conflation of several such people. In almost everything I write, I start with the character and then let him or her find a way into a story.
When did you know you were "destined" to write in a literary style?
I don't know if it was destiny so much as just a byproduct of what I grew up reading. I won't say that I never read genre books; that's not true. I had a phase in my teens where I absolutely mainlined Stephen King (who, at his best, is one of the greats, no qualification necessary), and I enjoy a good mystery as much as the next guy. But the most serious reading – and the stuff that stuck with me the most – usually highlighted not a caper or a horror, but the human condition. Despite the ease with which we can be turned into caricatures, we humans really are fascinating creatures, in our mythologies, our motivations, our rituals. I want to understand all of that, and writing is my way of trying to do so.
Several years ago, a co-worker was chastising me for some bit of obtuseness (I have so many such instances, it's hard to remember the exact scenario). She said, "You get people more than anyone I know. So why are you being so dumb about this?" It took me a long time to figure out how to leverage my natural tendency to delve below the surface of people into the writing of stories and novels. Until I was 38 years old, I figured that was just another dream that would never be realized, like playing for the Dallas Cowboys or being president.
Your short stories are very much "slices of life", albeit fictional slices. What is your main goal in sharing these dramatic scenes with your readers?
I have two hopes for the people who are kind enough to read my stuff. First, I want them to have an emotional experience that comes across as real. I want them to connect with my characters, connect with my stories, and for the duration that they're inside that book, I want them to disappear into the pages.
The second is that they're able to apply their own sensibilities to what they've read. It doesn't really matter to me if they understand why it was important to me to write the story. But I do hope that they come away with some insight into their own lives, or the lives around them, by projecting what they've experienced against the story on the page.
What is it about Montana that entices you to set your stories here?
It's home. Even though I didn't grow up here, I've built a life in this place, and I know it better than I do anyplace else I've lived. (That's a lot of places, by the way.) But the fact that this state is so vast and hard to categorize does pose some challenges for me. I've been here only five years, so I don't know all the small towns and community narratives as well as I should or hope to. What this has forced me to do, in many cases, is to paint my characters as outsiders, to one extent or another. Edward Stanton, the protagonist of "600 Hours of Edward," is a middle-aged man with Asperger syndrome, which keeps him distant from even the people who love him. Mitch Quillen, the narrator of "The Summer Son," was born in Billings but grew up elsewhere, and he describes it as a place that's simultaneously familiar and foreign. That's a pretty good description for what much of Montana is to me.
Tell us a little about your writing process. How do you get from idea to completed draft?
Ideas tend to have a long gestation period. Once I've hooked onto something, I'll turn it over in my head for weeks, sometimes months, before I sit down to write it. (This, incidentally, was not true for "600 Hours" – that went from idea to first draft in less than a month. I'm finding that it was the exception, not the rule.) Once I've noodled it out to my satisfaction and it's dying to get out, I tend to write quick rough drafts. This, to me, is something akin to building the frame of a house. All of the stuff that makes it complete – the Tyvek, the sheetrock, the shingles, the windows, the paint – gets done in rewrites. For a short story, this might happen in a single afternoon. For a novel-length project, much longer. Finally, I polish and polish and polish. I love revisions and editing, and I tend to be brutal with my own stuff, so a lot of good things happen after the first draft is written.
What are some of your favorite authors to read?
Fiction: Hemingway, Steinbeck ("Travels With Charley" gets read once every few years, and I always discover something new), Ivan Doig, Larry Watson, Benjamin Percy, Jonathan Evison, Stephen King, Wallace Stegner, Alyson Hagy, others too numerous to mention. Nonfiction: I'll read just about anything, but I'm particularly partial to biographies, and Scott Berg and David Maraniss are pretty tough to beat in that arena.
Some writers use music to inspire them. Do you have a soundtrack or "playlist" that you used or think of with your latest novel, The Summer Sun?
I definitely did with "The Summer Son." Half of the book takes place in 1979, so I had reacquaint myself with some pretty bad late-'70s pop music to put myself in a mind of that era. It's funny, though: I can mark the years of my life by what I was listening to at the time, but I can't say that music is a particular guidepost for my writing. I'm thinking about other things, most of the time.
How do you balance writing with the other aspects of your life?
Balance is something I've had to work hard at achieving, if I've achieved it at all. When I'm in the throes of a story, it's all too easy to let it dominate the other areas of my life – my family, housework, basic hygiene, answering phone calls, whatever. Particularly in the beginning, when I wrote and sold two literary novels in 20 months, I was in danger of letting people who are important to me – not to mention my health -- spin away from my orbit. But I feel like I've gotten a lot better at reining in those tendencies. I work smarter now; where I used to feel as though I had to put down a lot of words every day, I take each day as it comes now. If it's 1,500 words, great. If it's 600, that's fine, too.
Who is your favorite literary character or couple?
This is an easy one for me: Jick McCaskill, the main character in Ivan Doig's "English Creek" and "Ride With Me, Mariah Montana." In those books, I got to see Jick as a youngster and an aging man, and Doig did a brilliant job of portraying him with consistency and humanity. Great character, great stories. Those two books, as much as any I've ever read, made me want to become a novelist.
Here's a stretch of "The Summer Son," where the protagonist, Mitch, tries to sort out his feelings after learning something his dad has hidden from him for years:
I began to peel back through the years, pulling out scraps of memory and holding them to the light to see if I could spot lost truths hidden in the scenes and sounds I'd stashed. The images and the moments had my fingerprints all over them, so commonly were they retraced by me, and still I flipped them over and looked at them from new angles, hoping that I would see something that had eluded me before.
Were I inclined to rationality, I would have conceded that it was pointless. I could find little instructive in what had gone before, at least as it pertained to my life. I also knew that I couldn't trust the pictures in my head. The moments weren't frozen in time; they changed, sometimes imperceptibly, as the years dragged on and my sensibilities shifted. Whatever came to me as I put down my time on earth affected my inward and outward views of the circumstances of my life and the lives around me. I was older, wiser, less tolerant, less motivated, more distant – and so was my lens. I could no longer trust my interpretation of long-past events. I could only try to do my best with what came at me now.
My thoughts turned to my mother, and to Marie. Did they know what I now knew about Dad's life? Had they, too, carried his secrets? If they had, what difference did it make now? Neither one could tell me so, or tell me what to do.
The move was mine, if I dared make it. I was pretty sure I had it in me, but first, I had to get rid of something. Before I was ready, the tears came, and as I sat there, my chest and shoulders heaving for this man – this beautiful, fucked-up survivor of a man – I knew that my tears fell also for me. I had wasted so much time in anger, holding a grudge for what he had done to me. It's not that I didn't have reasons, but my reasons didn't make much difference at such a distance.
Purchase Links : This is Butte. You Have Ten Minutes. | The Summer Son | 600 Hours of Edward
Connect with Craig: Website | Blog | Twitter
Special thanks to Craig for joining us today. I hope you'll check out his books, and connect with him elsewhere as well.
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March 8, 2011
Serial Novel: The Biker's Wench, Chapter 52
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51
The Biker's Wench
Chapter 52
Monica stepped into the brightness after Harley, the door behind her closing with a loud click. Her eyes gradually adjusted, and when she could finally see again Harley was shaking hands with yet another tall, rugged-looking guy with a killer jawline. She shook her head, earning confused looks from both men.
"Monica, this is Alex. He manages the salon for me, and does massage, hair, makeup and nails. Today he's our costume and makeover guru." Harley took her hand, pulling her forward.
She held her other hand out and smiled. "Nice to meet you, Alex. I wasn't expecting someone so--"
"Not gay?" He grinned, winking at Harley. "I get that a lot. The ladies don't seem to mind though."
She shook her head, laughing. "That never crossed my mind, actually. You're just so...well...good-looking. And manly. You look like you should be working at the Double D with Harley, not shampooing hair." An image of him bent over a woman's hands, applying polish flitted through her mind, and she couldn't decide if it was sexy or just weird.
Alex led them to a corner of the room set up with two salon chairs, and motioned for them to sit down. "I used to work in Hollywood, actually - a small studio doing costumes and makeup. If it makes you feel better, I worked mostly on horror films. Lots of fake blood and carnage." He winked at her, then tilted his head, his eyes turning serious as he examined her from head to toe. Monica felt like squirming under his gaze, but managed to stay still.
"When I met him, the studio had just closed and he was out of work. I offered him the same salary and training if he'd fulfill a few fantasies per day." Harley chuckled. "He didn't put up much of a fight."
Alex ran his fingers over Monica's jaw, turning her head gently right and left. "It's a good gig," he said, releasing her and stepping back with a nod. "I get to make women feel beautiful for a few hours, they're...uh, very grateful, and I get paid for it." He moved to a clothing rack and retrieved a professional-looking gray skirt suit in a clear garment bag. "We'll start you with this. And before you argue, remember you're going undercover. You need to look as little like yourself as possible."
She stood, wrinkling her nose as she accepted the hanger. "Where--"
"Right behind that screen." He pointed behind her to a dark red folding screen with a black frame.
She went behind it and changed quickly, listening to the guys bantering like old friends. There was a white silk blouse to go under the jacket, and thigh-high panty hose that she wrestled up her legs, trying to remember the last time she'd worn a pair. Slipping her feet into matching gray pumps, she stepped out from behind the screen, heels clicking on the hard floor.
"You clean up good, Mrs. Majors." Harley stood on the other side of the room in front of a similar screen. He'd changed into a black suit and tie with a blue shirt underneath, and Monica nearly swooned at the sight of those wide shoulders draped in expensive fabric.
"Likewise, Mr. Majors." She started walking toward him, her thigh-highs suddenly feeling very sexy.
Alex stepped between them, holding one hand up at each of them. "Sorry guys. We've still got a long ways to go here, and I've got a client in two hours. Back to your chairs for now. You can rip those clothes off each other later."
Monica stuck out her lower lip, then sighed. "Fine. But you're not really helping me fulfill my fantasy." She settled into her chair as Alex covered her with an apron, securing it at her neck.
"Don't worry sweetheart," Harley said, leaning back in his own chair. "I'll make sure your fantasies come true in good time."
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