Daisy Harris's Blog, page 24

November Rain released TODAY! (With XXX Excerpt)

Hey super fans!!!

I’ve got a giftie for you. It’s a brand new Fire and Rain!

Yep, NOVEMBER RAIN is out TODAY. Here’s a red-hot excerpt for your enjoyment.

A single bullet could take them both down.

Detective Joe Klamath is used to guys falling on their backs at the arch of his commanding eyebrow. Yet he can’t seem to get a read on a cute, department-store sales guy. The vagrant who just walked in, though? He’s easy to read. He’s dangerous.

Joe’s training kicks in, but as he wrestles the gun-wielding man, he gets shot.

Raised in a conservative Ethiopian community, Elias Abraham keeps his natural attraction to men under wraps. But Joe’s heroism moves him to care for the man who saved his life. After all, Joe is hurt. Chances are slim he’ll demand the types of things boys in college always wanted. Sex acts Elias wasn’t—and possibly never will be—ready for.

Gradually, Joe’s easy confidence softens Elias’s resistance. But as Joe’s healing progresses too slowly for a man of action, and trouble brews in Elias’s family, Elias begins to wonder if he can handle the pressure. Because though he hasn’t given all of his body, he’s already given all of his heart.

Warning: Contains a sexy-as-hell cop, a shy virgin fifteen years younger, and an extremely intimate sponge bath. Underpants optional.

*****

He’d started pulling his shirt off when a knock sounded at the door.

Frozen, Joe wondered if he’d stink too badly when he undressed. Shame washed over him, hot and thick. He tightened his jaw so he wouldn’t shout at Elias to go away.

“Joe?” Elias’s voice was as smooth as a balm over Joe’s ragged emotions. Elias wouldn’t judge him for the state of his house or how badly he limped. Elias looked at him with wide eyes, and damn, Joe needed that admiration right now.

“Yeah.” Joe tossed his shirt in the overflowing laundry basket. At least he wouldn’t be fumbling when Elias helped him undress. “I’m coming.”

When Joe opened the door, Elias stood on the threshold. He wore a dress shirt and slacks, buttons open at the collar to show he didn’t have any chest hair. He was deliciously pretty with his angled cheekbones and wide, dark eyes. But it was his mouth that did Joe in—made him wish he’d gone ahead and jerked off like he’d been thinking so things didn’t end too quickly.

“Hello.” Elias smiled shyly. He held up a Nordstrom bag, silver and filled with puffy white paper. “I brought some things I thought you would like. I can take them back if you don’t want them.”

Joe couldn’t help but chuckle. Elias absolutely didn’t know him well enough to buy him clothes, but Joe suspected Elias simply enjoyed shopping. “I’ll take a look. But if I decide to keep the stuff, I’m paying you back.” Joe reached for the bag. Using crutches with a shopping bag wasn’t easy, but he only needed to get a few steps to his bed where he dropped the bag on top of his straightened sheets.

He felt Elias’s presence behind him and tension building in the air.

For the life of him, Joe had no idea what to say. Seduction, he’d practiced hundreds of times. But other than initiating a kiss, nothing Joe had done had moved things forward with Elias.

“You said you needed…” Elias stepped up behind him. His attention was like warm hands.

Joe couldn’t turn to look at him, because he’d move too fast again.

“Yeah, I can’t really wash up too well on my own.” He spoke gruffly, hiding the way his breath had picked up speed. “I’ve only got a shower in the tub.”

“I can help.” Elias stepped closer.

God, Joe hoped Elias couldn’t smell him from where he stood.

“Is it okay if I take off my shirt too?” Elias asked. “I don’t want to—”

“Yeah. Of course.” Joe reached for his belt. Desire to keep his injury hidden battled with the bone-deep need to wash off his layer of stale sweat. In the end, practicality won over modesty, and Joe unfastened his pants. He maneuvered enough to get them off his hips.

“Can I?” Elias’s hands landed on Joe’s thighs.

“Yeah.” There was no hiding the roughness in his voice, or the way his chest rose and fell.

Elias crouched behind Joe, working his pants off his ankles. Elias’s face was so close to Joe’s ass that Joe kept praying Elias would rub his nose against a butt cheek. A bad idea, maybe, given Joe’s need to wash, but lust was lust, and Joe wanted this kid at his feet.

He’d never been worried about overpowering a guy before. Sure, Joe was big, but he never drank so much he got out of control. He was always aware—even in the roughest hook-ups—of the other guy’s limits.

Not now. Not with this one kid.

His cock rose in his briefs, forming a tent and threatening to push out the top.

Elias crouched at Joe’s front. He was shirtless and so slim his collarbone cut to his shoulder in a fine, graceful line. Hairless, and with only a whisper of stubble on his top lip, he seemed so young. But it was the eyes that did Joe in. He’d looked down on a lot of guys in his day. Plenty of twinks and party boys dropping to their knees and gazing up at him flirtatiously. Their expressions were always full of teasing, feigning innocence when Joe knew better.

There was none of that in Elias’s eyes. Lust, yeah. Expectation. But a tiny crease on his forehead told Joe something he’d been puzzling over since they’d met—Elias was a virgin. Or at the very least, a guy who’d only done this once or twice before.

“Can I?” Elias darted his gaze to Joe’s underwear.

“Yeah.” Carefully, so he wouldn’t fall, Joe put a hand on Elias’s shoulder. He didn’t pull Elias any closer. “Just take ’em off. I need a wash before anything else.”

Elias nodded, his eyes going wider when he lifted Joe’s waistband over his erection. It bounced forward, pointing to Elias’s face.

Joe would have reached to cover himself, but he didn’t want to lose balance. Anyway, he had nothing to be ashamed of in the size department. “I normally smell a whole lot better.”

“It’s okay.” Elias didn’t meet his gaze because he was too busy licking his lips. His hands were near frantic as he got Joe’s underwear off his ankles.

“We should do this in the bathroom.” Joe touched Elias again, this time a swipe across his forehead. “C’mon. Maybe lose the pants too. You don’t want to get those wet.”

Elias’s clothes were obviously pressed and well cared for. They must have been expensive on his retail job salary.

“Yes. Of course.” Elias rose gracefully to his feet. He didn’t seem capable of breaking eye contact as he unfastened his belt and undid his slacks. While he folded them neatly on Joe’s bed, Joe took a moment to check out the lines of Elias’s body, the curve of his ass—small but firm—under briefs. Then Elias turned, and Joe got an eyeful of his bulge. It was giant compared to his waifish body, but probably smaller than Joe’s if they compared side to side.

“Come over here.” Joe reached out. With no words, he kissed Elias, taking it deeper than he had before, learning Elias’s mouth. Elias sighed when Joe pressed his tongue inside, but didn’t move to reciprocate. Only when Joe made slow, smooth passes along Elias’s tongue did Elias really kiss back.

Elias rested his hands on Joe’s ribs, his touch soft like his handshake. Joe had the sense that once Elias grabbed him, his strength would be like steel bands—narrow but impossible to break. Especially since Joe was in no condition to fight off anyone.

Joe ended the kiss before Elias could take that step. “Let’s go. I want to get clean.”

“Yes. Okay.” Elias stepped back, a damp spot on his briefs.

Elias crowded into the tiny bathroom. The presence of Joe in that small area was overwhelming. His size, his scent, the force of his masculinity… Elias was dizzy from it. Joe was right, he smelled like a man who hadn’t bathed in days. As far as Elias was concerned, that only added to Joe’s appeal. “Do you want to sit? I can bring the chair from the kitchen.”

“Nah. There’s not enough room.”

Elias filled the sink with warm water and soaped up the washcloth. The door was ajar, letting cooler air in from the apartment. Steeling his will, Elias closed that one route of escape.

“I’ve never done this.” Elias kept his eyes on the tiled floor. He had meant he’d never washed another person—unless you counted his cousin when she was little—but it came out the other way. An admission that he was naïve about what came next.

“I know.” Joe’s voice was as rough as his touch. He stood with his head bent and his cock hard, waiting…for what Elias didn’t know.

“Start with my face.” Joe’s words were gentle but direct.

Elias wrung out the cloth, then pressed it to Joe’s cheek, wiping softly so he wouldn’t hurt Joe’s skin. Next he went to Joe’s jaw, then his neck. By the time he rubbed the cloth over Joe’s shoulder, they were kissing again, and Elias wasn’t sure who had started it. Joe’s muscles were tense and perfect under Elias’s hand, and now that he didn’t have to worry about Joe watching him, Elias could pass that cloth wherever he wanted.

Down Joe’s back, around to his belly. Elias kept his hips tucked back so as not to brush Joe’s cock. Out of respect, it seemed he shouldn’t touch that part of Joe without invitation. And Elias didn’t dare ask.

“You might need to use a little more soap.” Joe nuzzled his cheek.

Against Elias’s ear, he said, “And if you actually want to get me clean, you need to scrub harder.”

Elias’s breath rushed out in a nervous laugh. “Okay.” He wet the cloth again, rinsing the old soap and putting on new. This time he rubbed harder, knowing his pressure was right when Joe growled.

“Get under my arms.” Joe let go of one crutch to give Elias room to maneuver.

Washing that warm, humid space was enough to make Elias’s hips ache. He felt like he was climbing right inside Joe, touching him in places that were sensitive and soft. For the first time since their lips had met, Elias pushed his tongue inside Joe’s mouth. Elias’s cock nearly burst from his underwear when Joe captured his tongue and sucked it.

Emboldened, Elias wet the cloth again and washed Joe’s other side. But once he’d cleaned Joe’s underarms, he was at a loss. Joe’s cock batted at Elias’s hip, repeatedly knocking in a sizzling shock.

Elias had to wash more but couldn’t force his hands to make passes anywhere lower than Joe’s belly.

“It’s not gonna bite.” Joe pulled back, stealing a kiss and also the excuse that Elias didn’t really know what he was doing.

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News and Upcoming Releases

Guess what’s happening in Daisy-land?

A whole lot, as it turns out!

First off, we have November Rain going ON SALE for pre-order at Samhain Publishing. Buy today, and you can get November Rain for only $3.15!

Next up: From the Ashes is going to be FREE on Amazon and at Samhain any day now. Keep an eye out for it, because it should be free until around September 5th.

Finally: The Daisy you know and love is now writing Young Adult!! Only, she’s writing it as Jenn Simon. Because, yanno, “the children.” Jenn Simon-land is not yet fully functioning. And new books and series is very much in the works. I’ll let you know as soon as the new website is up and for sure when I get release dates on new works.

Until then—I can’t wait until November Rain comes out in September. I hope you guys enjoy that story as much as I do.

*****

November Rain

A single bullet could take them both down.

Detective Joe Klamath is used to guys falling on their backs at the arch of his commanding eyebrow. Yet he can’t seem to get a read on a cute, department-store sales guy. The vagrant who just walked in, though? He’s easy to read. He’s dangerous.

Joe’s training kicks in, but as he wrestles the gun-wielding man, he gets shot.

Raised in a conservative Ethiopian community, Elias Abraham keeps his natural attraction to men under wraps. But Joe’s heroism moves him to care for the man who saved his life. After all, Joe is hurt. Chances are slim he’ll demand the types of things boys in college always wanted. Sex acts Elias wasn’t—and possibly never will be—ready for.

Gradually, Joe’s easy confidence softens Elias’s resistance. But as Joe’s healing progresses too slowly for a man of action, and trouble brews in Elias’s family, Elias begins to wonder if he can handle the pressure. Because though he hasn’t given all of his body, he’s already given all of his heart.

Buy it now.

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“It’s a Metaphor, Dammit!” Writing from the Heart Versus Writing for the Market

As you might know from my previous posts, I have a lot of thoughts and they don’t always come out in an order that makes sense. So here goes my attempt to tell you something useful. Bear with me…

If you’re a new or aspiring author, the first thing you need to know is: If you want lots of people to buy your book, you need to write about something lot of people want to read about.

This might seem like a no-brainer. Obvious. But some of you may be thinking, “But surely if the writing/storytelling/voice is good enough, anything can sell!”

You people? You’re wrong. Nobody wants to read your series about the voyage of bacteria through the digestive tract regardless of whether paristalsis is a metaphor for your high school experience or you manage to use the word “melifluous.”

More to the point, people will accept mediocre writing and even plot holes if the topic itself is engaging. Yes. Authors whine and cry over this, but facts is facts. People want to read what they want to read.

Now, some people are lucky enough to happen to want to tell stories that resonate with tons of people. Some romance authors are like that. Their brains spurt alpha males like Old Faithful. In the case of most prolific romance authors, I don’t think they do this to pander and I don’t think they even do it on purpose. They write what they like to read, and the storylines that come to them. Lucky them, those stories sell.

On the other end of the spectrum are authors who write purely for themselves. And I don’t mean that they don’t want to sell, necessarily, but that their ideas and storylines are unique, provocative, lack mass appeal, and they simply do not care. Frankly, a lot of science fiction romance falls into this category, because in general , sci fi rom doesn’t sell. That said—people who DO read sci fi romance often LOVE it. So you might sell to a small audience, but it’s a rabid one.

Then there are people in the middle—who want to sell, and who have some marketable ideas, but also have lots and lots of stories they would love to tell that no one would buy.

I fall into the third camp. And I’m here to tell you, it can be a hard place to write from. I want to write from the heart, but I know that if I ignore the market, I’ll be a sad, sad panda.

Yes, I like money. Who doesn’t like money? The harder and bigger issue, though, is that I crave validation. More sales, better reviews and more fans are what generally signal to us that one book is better than another. It’s what signals to us that WE are better. That our ideas and brains and imaginations are better. That there is a tough pill to swallow.

Most days I take this at face value, because I don’t think anyone in this business lasts long if they bang their heads against the bars of “but I’m an artist!” But some days it irks. Mostly, it irks me about other peoples’ books.

Right now I’m on a spree of reading young adult novels, in part because I’m considering trying my hand at YA. For my first two books, I chose one mainstream bestseller and one random title that was displayed as staff-recommended at the bookstore.

The staff-recommended one? Awesome. Though-provoking, beautifully written. Truly unique. I could never aspire to write something this good. I checked it’s Amazon stats this morning. Unsurprisingly, it sells like crap.

The bestseller? Well, first off, it’s a blatant Harry Potter knock off. Second, the central theme appears to be “cool things are cool.” The characters are well rounded and the universe developed. I’m sure the storyline will be enjoyable. But it really does absolutely nothing to rock the boat. Not a single instance in this book has been touchy or controversial or a metaphor for anything whatsoever.

It is what it is. Pretty pictures drawn with words. And when I’m done reading, I’ll likely forget all about it.

Every once in a while, a book can be both straightforward and also transcendent. But if you have to chose BETWEEN straightforward and transcendental—you better as hell choose straightforward. Because unless you’re writing for The French or black-turtleneck-wearing-indi-film-watching hispters, people do not want their entertainment to be abstract.

Where does that leave us naturally abstract thinkers? We of the controversial topics and hidden metaphors? How can we write from the soul, and also be told by society that are souls are awesome?

I’m still working on the answer for myself. One option is to try on a few genres or sub genres. A storyline or character dynamic that doesn’t work in one genre might go over like gangbusters in another. For example, if you love writing strong heroines, it might be worthwhile to try both romance and urban fantasy.

I like writing vulnerable men, which is what led me from M/F romance to M/M. And it’s that same drive, as well as a habit of telling coming-of-age stories, that has me looking into writing younger characters.

Like writing opinionated politics? Try science fiction! In space, you can say whatever you want.

Life is long and if you’re going to write for any serious amount of time, it’ll have to be about things you care about. You’ll want to write stories you’re proud of even if buyers and reviewers alike turn up their noses. So my advice is to first develop a thick skin, and then try out a few things until you see what sticks.

I wish all books I think are awesome would sell in proportion to their awesomeness. But that is simply not reality. In reality, each of us has to decide we are awesome. We have to write the most awesome books we are capable of writing and hope they reach however many people can see their beauty.

As for me, I’ve gotta write from the heart sometimes even if I know no one will read it. Otherwise, this whole writing biz is just words.

Thanks and happy reading!

Daisy

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Size-ism in Sports: A Bleeding-From-The-Eyeballs Rant

Okay, readers. You’re going to have to bear with me because this is an issue that cuts close to the bone for me: Size-ism in sports, aka the notion that because a person doesn’t “look like” a runner or a ballerina, or a swimmer, they can’t possibly be successful at those things.

I read an article this morning about an 18 year old tennis player named Taylor Townsend which made me hopping mad. Ms. Townsend has recently been playing in the French Open where she was the first American woman ever to advance to the third round. During this, she defeated the #20 and #65 players In The World. Yeah, she got trounced on her third round, but meh. She did good for her first time out.

But… There is a problem. Taylor Townsend is “thick.” Now, I’m not going to say “fat” as many articles either insinuate or flat-out say, because there is no way in hell she qualifies as being obese, much less morbidly obese. But the New York Times article that ran about her 21 hours ago cited in the SECOND PARAGRAPH how she “needs to get fitter.” By the third paragraph, it’s talking about how she was “soundly and professionally beaten.”

No mention of how before she was beaten she was completely and utterly kicking ass.

See, she’s black. And non-skinny. They can compare her to Serena Williams, saying she “looks like her”—as if all black, non-skinny women look alike—but the lesson the New York Times and everyone is supposed to take from this is “If you don’t LOOK like a tennis player (white, thin, pretty) of course you’re not going to win.”

Back in 2012, the USTA (United States Tennis Association) refused to pay Taylor’s travel and entry fees for the U.S. Open Junior Tournament because of her weight. This, despite the fact that Taylor Townsend was the #1 ranked junior in the country at the time. Her mother paid her fees out of pocket and she went, did well, and from what I understand she eventually got reimbursed and also an apology from Patrick McEnroe who was the douchebag who’d said she couldn’t go.

I don’t know much about professional tennis, so I may be getting a lot of this wrong. And I’m not Taylor Townsend’s trainer or her nutritionist. I don’t know what the best competitive weight is for her, but I do know this—the chick ain’t ever going to look like Anna Kournikova. She’s thick. Muscular. Her legs are like rocket launchers. And hey, I know that professional athletes need a different level of fitness than your average “healthy” person. But is this really about her fitness?

Note this quote from today’s NYT article:

Kamau Murray, Townsend’s other coach, who has known her since she was 6, would also like patience from the public, particularly when it comes to her work-in-progress physique.

Umm… What in the f*ck? Her “work in progress physique”?????? What in the hell does that mean? More to the point, why should the public have any vested interest whatsoever in a tennis player’s “physique”?

Taylor Townsend competes in TENNIS, not a beauty contest. For what it’s worth, the top female players in the game have often NOT been beauty queens.

Articles keep citing that they worry Townsend is prone to injuries and possibly slower because of her body size. But is there proof? Has she actually been injured? Because I’m here to tell you—skinny athletes get injured all the time.

*deep breath*

The reason this annoys me so much because I’m a parent. Further, I’m a parent of two girls. And I want them to love sports and to enjoy exercise. I want them to feel confident enough to try activities whether or not they LOOK like the type of person to be good at it.

Of my two daughters, I have one who tends towards thinness (like my husband as a kid) and one who carries more weight (as I did as a kid.) Guess which one people tell me “must be athletic”?

Fashion, my skinny kid, sits on her butt eating junk food, texting her friends watching YouTube videos. Yeah, she CAN be good at sports. When she bothers to try. But that’s not often.

Mini Me, my rounder kid, does ballet and until recently was on swim team. She did track at the start of the school year. She runs non-stop at recess. Is she a great athlete? So far, no. BUT, she’s motivated. As an adult who’s lived a whopping 41.5 years, I can tell you that motivation goes a lot farther in this life than outward appearances.

Which one of these kids is more athletic? The one who keeps hiking!

Which of my kids would get invited to join a sports team? Or be picked first for an activity in gym class? Does anyone even care that Mini can swim faster than Fashion? No. Because girls are judged on what they look like, not what they can do.

When I was a kid, no one even questioned this logic. Like Mini, I was a heavy kid, particularly in seventh grade. I was constantly being chastised that I needed to “be more athletic” despite the fact that I did soccer, softball, tennis, basketball and roller skated, walked or biked all over town. Oh, and I was an amazing swimmer.

I weighed a lot more at thirteen than I do now. But apparently most of that was in my cheeks.

No amount of being actually pretty good at sports made anyone think I was athletic. But hey ho—when I developed anorexia in high school? Everyone assumed I was in peak shape! “Wow. Do you work out?” People would actually ask me that when they saw me.

I wanted to be like, “No. I’m a naturally muscular person who lost 35 pounds and am now emaciated and am losing bone density. But thanks for asking!”

Me, looking ever so “athletic” in my size zero jeans, eating tiny bits of food out of a measuring cup with chopsticks. You can tell my robust health by how I’m wearing a wool sweater indoors.

Maybe I looked healthy, but I didn’t get a period without hormonal assistance for five years. Those were five years when I was supposed to be putting on bone mass that would last me a lifetime. That’s five years I can never get back.

But hey—I looked healthy!

The fact is that some people carry more weight than others. Some people pack on lots of muscle when they work out and some stay leaner. There’s an advanced ballet class that practices when Mini has her ballet and I’m always watching them. Yeah, most of the class is skinny. But there’s one round girl (she happens to also be African American, but hey, white girls can be thick, too) who does every bit as well as her narrow counterparts. She doesn’t “look” like a ballerina, but she moves like one. As much as it’s easy to think “oh, but she won’t be able to jump as high,” who knows? Girl could probably launch the next space shuttle with those gams.

Likewise, I pack on weight when I work out a lot. Last year I started doing Barre (which is a mix of ballet, pilates and yoga.) Immediately I saw changes, and by Christmas you could see my abs. But then a few weeks ago I stepped on a scale…

I gained. A fair amount actually. My clothes still fit, but I’m certainly no thinner.

Barre studios advertise that their work outs make people “longer, leaner and more toned.” While I still love Barre, I have to say—a work out ain’t going to make me taller. Leaner? Hmm… Maybe.

As my husband said, “You were short and muscular before. Now you’re just short and more muscular.”

There you have it. For some of us, being in shape means staying the same shape, but with more muscle. That shape might be tall or short, slender or thick, rounder in the middle or broader in the shoulders, but we are the shape we are.

Body type should never determine who gets to play what sports or do which activity. At forty-one, I’m one of the fittest people I know, and if you asked a single person who saw me at age thirteen not a one of them would have called me “athletic.”

So, USTA, New York Times, and whoever else is criticizing Taylor Townsend for her weight—shame on you! She’s an inspiration to non-skinny girls everywhere, and a kick-ass tennis player. And if you think you can do better, then pick up a damn racket and try to take her on.

Roar,

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Self-Pub, Conferences, and the Limiting Factor of Being YOU

You can’t walk into a room full of writers lately without hearing about how well some author has done with self publishing. And this weekend, a lot of people were walking into a rooms full of authors at Romance Times Booklover’s Convention, and I’m sure having that exact conversation.

Self-publishing gives you more control! More flexibility! More royalties! All without pesky publishers telling you what to do!

Current wisdom holds that self-pub is the easiest road to riches, just so long as you put in the teensiest bit of elbow grease.

Well, let me tell you a story…

When my husband and I bought our first house, it was 2000. Seattle home prices were doubling every few years it seemed, and tons of low income residents were being forced out by predatory lending practices…leaving a goldmine for young, motivated couples like my husband and myself.

Or, so it seemed on paper.

When my husband and I looked for homes to buy, I wanted to buy a cheap ass fixer upper with good bones–way in the questionable zone where a few years earlier you could get stabbed. Why not?! In a couple years, we’d have a lovely home in a desirable zip code and we’d be RICH! Rich, I tell you! I was sure of it!

That’s when my real estate agent, who I will always love to pieces, asked, “Okay, but do you actually know how to remodel a home?”

“Errrr… No.” How hard could it be, right?

“And does your husband want to spend six months on a remodeling project?”

“Umm… Well, he travels a lot.”

“So, you’re going to have to pay someone else to remodel?”

Yeah. And that’s where my argument fell apart. I had neither the skill, the support, nor the time to do the work necessary to buy a fixer-upper. As it turned out, my husband had zero interest in living somewhere quite so “transitional,” and we ended up in a tiny-but-cute house on a block with a condemned building but where the residents who had jobs and were in no danger of being foreclosed on.

In other words, we made a smart investment. And it may have taken many, many years, but by the time we moved into a larger house 12 years later, it paid off.

What does this have to do with self-publishing, you may ask?

Just this: It doesn’t matter if “someone” can make tons of money at something. It matters if YOU can make tons of money at it. Because if all of us had the same skills, same circumstances and wanted to get rich fast, we’d all becomes investment bankers.

The fact is, not everyone has the skill set necessary to be good at self-publishing. My guess is that the authors who do the best without pubs are those who have at least one or two of the following skills:

1. Can write like the wind, turning out a book every month, or every two months at the most.

2. Has good aesthetic abilities. In other words, they can tell when a cover is good or mediocre and when formatting looks pleasing to the eye.

3. Enjoys talking to and interacting with people like cover artists, formatters, editors on a regular basis.

4. Feels comfortable drawing up their own contracts and enforcing said contracts.

5. Enjoys marketing and promotion.

6. Feels confident in their bookkeeping ability.

For people who’ve done well, they’re probably thinking, “Well, doesn’t everyone have these skills? And if they don’t have them, can’t they learn them?”

The answer is no. Not everyone has these skills. And not everyone can learn them, at least not without a ton of work and constantly retraining their personalities.

Me? I’m unorganized as anything, and I have basically no design ability. I rely on my publishers’ marketing department to tell me what’s good. Because I honestly don’t know. And for me to learn cover design and formatting would be like trying to learn how to put up drywall because I wanted to save money when buying a house. It’s not going to happen.

We’ve all had moments where people have said to us, “Can’t you just…?” then listed some absurd thing we’d never in a thousand years do.

“Can’t you just bike to work instead of driving?”

“Can’t you just lose weight?”

“Can’t you just wake up at five-thirty in the morning?”

“Can’t you just tell your in-laws this is not a great weekend for them to come visit?”

NO. For fuck’s sake, I can’t just do these things. If I could have, I would have long ago. Now, get off my back.

Each of us knows what we can handle. If we’re honest with ourselves, we have a sense of how much we can bite off and expect to be able to chew. That’s why self-publishing will not have the same effect for all people. The limiting factor is not self-pub itself, it’s YOU. It’s ME.

I can only do what I can do. You can only do what you can do. And people who write about marketing and success always seem to forget that life is not one-size fits all.

The reason I bring this up in context of conferences, is that it’s the same thing with GayRomLit, RT Booklover’s Convention, RWA, etc. There’s tremendous social and professional pressure to attend these events, with the belief that doing so will for sure help your career.

Now, I have enjoyed the conferences I’ve been to. And I’m actually fairly social, so I think conferences are a good way for me to promote my work. But for God’s sake, conferences do not make sense for everyone!

If you have little kids and have to pay for a sitter, if you have social anxiety and hate being around people, if you can’t afford the outlay of money——For God’s sake, don’t go to a conference. Attendance is not a magic elixir, and your milage may vary. I’ve met great people at cons and forged a lot of professional connections. But honestly, at this stage I may soon start going only to conferences and events on the West Coast. Or at the very least Denver and west of there.

Why? Because the limiting factor is me. Social as I may be, I can only talk to so many people over the course of two or three days. So whether the event is 200 people or two thousand, I’m still only going to talk to 40 or 50 people. Any more than that is untenable, at least until I’m a bigger name author. It’s about knowing my limits and knowing what I can do.

What else can I do? Well, I’m a good reader. I’ve worked a lot on my public speaking abilities in the last couple years, and I’ve found I sell more books when I have an opportunity to read my work at an event. So, there’s that.

I can cook, so I go to events where I can bring food. I’m energetic, so I do events where I can be on my feet. I’m more comfortable talking to men than women, so I plan to promote at Pride Parades and gay events.

These are my skills, so I use them. As for skills I don’t have and have no interest in developing? Fuck it. There’s no use wishing I was someone other than who I am.

As Judd Nelson said in The Breakfast Club, everyone can do something. The trick in life if figuring out what *you* can do, and using it your best advantage.

No career path is One Size Fits All. Find your own way, and don’t worry about everyone else.

Cheers and happy writing,

Daisy

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November Rain—On Sale NOW!

Guess what, chickadees?

I have a new book on pre-order. Yes, I know that my June release isn’t out yet and it’s been on pre-order for a while. But—see the pretty new cover???

November Rain is the book that’s going to come after Nothing But Smoke. Here’s the schedule:

Nothing But Smoke: June 10th

November Rain: September 2nd

And without further ado, pretty cover and sexy blurb! (Or just buy it now.)

A single bullet could take them both down.

Detective Joe Klamath is used to guys falling on their backs at the arch of his commanding eyebrow. Yet he can’t seem to get a read on a cute, department-store sales guy. The vagrant who just walked in, though? He’s easy to read. He’s dangerous.

Joe’s training kicks in, but as he wrestles the gun-wielding man, he gets shot.

Raised in a conservative Ethiopian community, Elias Abraham keeps his natural attraction to men under wraps. But Joe’s heroism moves him to care for the man who saved his life. After all, Joe is hurt. Chances are slim he’ll demand the types of things boys in college always wanted. Sex acts Elias wasn’t—and possibly never will be—ready for.

Gradually, Joe’s easy confidence softens Elias’s resistance. But as Joe’s healing progresses too slowly for a man of action, and trouble brews in Elias’s family, Elias begins to wonder if he can handle the pressure. Because though he hasn’t given all of his body, he’s already given all of his heart.

Warning: Contains a sexy-as-hell cop, a shy virgin fifteen years younger, and an extremely intimate sponge bath. Underpants optional.

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The Idiot’s Guide to Not Being a Douche on the Internet

First off, let me start by saying that I am not the Queen of the Internet.

I don’t have any special training, and I’m not in a unique position to say how people should or should not behave online. I’ve had my moments of not-great online behavior, and though I like to think I’ve learned from them I know I’ll screw up again. But, hey—my college major was social psychology! So, here goes nothing…

Sometimes people act douchey online. Most of the douchiness is light and inconsequential but occasionally it blossoms into full-out douchtasticness. I’ve sometimes considered not going to MM events because of the discord I’ve seen blow up, and I know friends of mine feel the same way.

I’ve been reading a lot about personality disorders lately, and more and more I see the connections between bad online behavior and behaviors that if done in the real world would make a person seem extremely unbalanced. So I’m going to go through some of these. In Alphabetical order, because I’m a nerd. Maybe it’ll shed light on what not to do online.

(Also, much of this is taken from a great website called “Out of the FOG.” It’s a great resource for anyone who wants to learn more about personality disorders.)

Posts to FB, twitter, etc. are inappropriate if they do or show the following:

Alienate people – Cut off or interfere with an individual’s relationships with others, such as by making them side with you against someone else who is their friend or colleague.

Anger - Flinging a level of fury that makes people feel frightened, triggered, accused or just plain uncomfortable.

Baiting – A post intended to solicit angry, aggressive or emotional response from another individual.

Blaming – Identifying a person or people responsible for a problem, rather than identifying ways of dealing with the problem.

Bragging – If most of your friends are authors, they probably don’t want to hear incessantly about how great your sales are or how much money you make. Asking them to cheer you on puts them in the position to force a smile when really they feel shitty inside for not being as successful.

Catastrophizing – Your bad review is not, in fact, the end of the world.

Chaos Manufacture – Unnecessarily creating an environment of risk, confusion and destruction. (Can I triple highlight this one?)

Circular Conversations – Arguments which go on almost endlessly, repeating the same patterns with no resolution. (I think we can all agree that the issue of “women in MM romance” is not going to get resolved in our lifetimes. Maybe we should all just drop it.)

Denial – Pretending douchey behavior isn’t douchey, when we know better.

Emotional Blackmail – Threats and punishments used to control someone’s behaviors. Example—putting down reviewers on your timeline is a veiled threat to reviewers. If they give you low ratings, they’ll risk being attacked by you or your friends.

Favoritism – We all post pics of ourselves with our friends sometimes. But I bet we’ve also seen favoritism in action, as well as it’s negative consequences.

Gaslighting – Convincing a mentally healthy individual that their understanding of reality is mistaken or false. By perpetuating bad behavior online, we make otherwise sane people think bad behavior is somehow okay. This is a lot more damaging than you’d think.

Hyper Vigilance – This is what happens when we fear the next outburst online. We get paranoid.

Intimidation – Any form of veiled, hidden, indirect or non-verbal threat.

Lynch-Mob (online) – What happens when a bunch of people online get incensed and go after a target with emails, blog comments, and name calling. This occurs often in situations where members of the mob don’t have the full story or know the details of the conflict over which they’re raising their pitchforks.

Name-Calling – There is never, ever, ever any reason to name-call online. Not ever.

Narcissism – We are all mini narcissists of our own Facebook pages. But the least we can do is be nice about it.

Objectification – The practice of treating a person or a group of people like an object. “Reviewers” are not an object. “Readers” are not an object. Neither are authors, or gay men, or women. We are all human beings.

Proxy Recruitment – Manipulating other people into back you up, speaking for you or “do your dirty work.” Also known as “calling in the minions.” Please don’t.

Self-Victimization – “Playing the victim” is the act of casting oneself as a victim in order to control others by soliciting a sympathetic response from them or diverting their attention away from abusive behavior. (Nothing that happened in your past excuses you from behaving like a mature, rational, considerate person in life and online.)

Subtweeting – Posting something on twitter or Facebook that is clearly directed at an individual or group of individuals while not saying the individual or group of individuals’ name(s). This can happen with news articles as well, where the poster expresses sadness or anger over an article without a link, but the most insidious and hurtful are the subtweets directed at people.

“Some people don’t realise that putting people down without calling their name doesn’t make you sound clever in hiding something. It makes you sound petty and that you can’t handle actual confrontations.” -Kia Zi Shiru, author and reader

Thought Policing – Everyone online is entitled to think whatever they want. It’s a free internet.

I’m not sure if any of this is helpful, but these cover the basics of what I see as problematic online behavior. If we all tried a little better to avoid these activities, I bet the internet would be a much less stressful place to hang out.

Oh, and here’s one more definition for the glossary…

Rubbernecking – Watching in amazement as someone has a big, hairy, destructive conflict or meltdown online.

Don’t be that person everyone stops to stare at because they’re being such a douche. Live well, and tweet responsibly!

-Daisy

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The Truth About Depression

Okay, I know I’m not going to make sense in this blog post. Well, maybe I’ll make sense to some people. So—you people? I’m talking to you. Anyone else who doesn’t get it is entitled to their opinion.

For the last 6 months or so, I’ve been slowly sliding into depression. And yes, I could blame it on external things that have happened, but honestly, nothing in particular that’s gone on in my world really caused it. As far as I can tell, the reason is because I changed from my old antidepressant to a different (weaker) one back in the early fall. The timing makes sense. I had my first crying jag in December, though a friend mentioned she’s noticed me slipping since November.

I would have thought I’d notice my moods getting progressively more chaotic, but I guess it happened gradually enough that I didn’t pick up on it. Besides, I don’t get depressed the way one would expect. I don’t sleep too much or stop eating or lie in bed all day. I get agitated and irritable and instead of sadness being a heavy blanket that weighs me down I get hyperactive and in my very bad moments self destructive. Oh, and I cry more. Lots and lots of crying.

Why am I telling you this, dear friends and readers? Well, because I’ve noticed a trend—and it’s as old as time, I guess, but it’s annoying the shit out of me right now—that within artistic communities and the people who support them, it’s considered cool to be depressed.

Having dark thoughts and sad feelings and dramatic mood swings creates a certain currency in the writing biz. As if your personality determines the emotional intensity in your work. So, the reasoning goes, if I’m bursting into tears every few days that means my writing should be awesome—because I’m really, really in touch with my emotions.

But I’m hear to tell you, it doesn’t work like that. Maybe for some people it does, but sure as hell not me. I can’t write for shit when I’m depressed. Words get on paper, but they’re not very good, and just because I feel like hell while writing doesn’t mean I sum up the human experience better than I would when I’m on an even keel.

Likewise, being depressed does not make me a better person. I don’t care more about my fellow man or the world’s problems. If anything, I care less about everyone else because I’m too busy staring at my own belly button.

The truth is that mental illness is about as far from cool as you can get. It screws with your relationships, messes up your work life, and is about as much fun as a case of food poisoning.

I shouldn’t be avoiding the news because I don’t think I can handle watching it without getting upset. I shouldn’t be avoiding reading because something in a story could set me off. And I certainly shouldn’t be crushed to the point of misery over things like a bad review, a drama on Facebook or a manuscript rejection.

It’s not normal to feel traumatized by everyday, expected aspects of my writing career. Yeah, this is a hard business. And it’s especially hard on the ego. But seriously, if you write, some people are going to like your work and others won’t. Some people are going to agree with your perspective and others won’t. Some people are going to care about YOU, and the rest of them WON’T.

That’s writing. Hell, that’s life. Bad things happen, and good things happen. But a healthy person can weather both the good and the bad without losing their shit.

So as of now—yesterday, actually—I’m not having any more of this crap. I’m getting back on my old meds, taking a break from writing for as long as I need to, and getting my emotional act together. Because the truth about depression is it sucks but it’s treatable. And suffering with it if you don’t have to is very, very uncool.

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Oh, How I Wish I Were Normal…

I’ve been doing some thinking today. As you know, that’s never a good thing. At least not if said thinking isn’t geared towards plotting a story. But alas, thinking freely gets all the muck out of my mind and it seems like necessary step to being able to write. Hence, I can’t really seem to avoid it for long.

Today’s topic of deep thoughts is my latest release, After the Rain, and how it’s being received compared to the first book in my Fire and Rain series, From the Ashes. As with any sequel, some readers like it better than the first and others like it worse. Maybe it’s because I already had a built in audience, but first-day sales were higher than they were for Ashes. But that flash in the pan success was temporary, with sales plateauing quickly to about the same as for the first book.

But here’s the thing—say After the Rain *does* outsell Ashes (which never happens. The first book in a series will always have the highest overall sales.) What would that mean?

I’ll tell you what it would mean. It would mean the space-time continuum had imploded. North became south, east became west, and dogs started walking on their hind legs. Because I worked my ass off the make From the Ashes as mainstream as I possibly could. And with After the Rain, I decided to write an erotic romance about herpes.

Honestly, it’s amazing that anyone is reading and enjoying After the Rain! That book follows in the trend of my long line of brilliant book ideas, which includes writing about mermaids, zombies, and nerds whose only conflict is that they have giant dicks. The sad fact is that every time I think to myself, “This will be hi-larious!” I end up leaving 90% of people on the planet scratching their heads.

Oh, how I wish I were normal, and that book ideas came to me in the form of stories your average, every day romance reader would actually want to read. Why can’t I want to write about BDSM porn star velociraptors who happen to be blind? Instead, I end up writing subby unicorns with eczema who work at 7-11.

The truth is, I’ve never been any good at writing to the trend. New Adult, I happened on accidentally. When I wrote College Boys, I didn’t know if the MM market had any interested in reading about the sexcapades of virgins in college. If anything, I wondered “who would want to read this?” Apparently, everyone. That little experiment worked out pretty well and led to seven more books.

With the Fire and Rain series, my heroes are all firefighters or other first responders, which is of course super-popular. But then I have to thrown in crazy-ass plot devices and gum up the works.

Take After the Rain: Henri’s cheating ex may have given him an STD. Dude—why couldn’t Preston just have cheated? I could have left it at that. Plenty of authors have used the cheating-ex character to great effect. But, see… I just can’t leave well enough alone. I have to take it up a notch, until readers are curling their nostrils in disgust.

The trick is, I need to get back to that zen place I had when writing mermaids and zombies, and even to some extent Holsum College. Back then, I just owned that I wasn’t going to please everybody all the time. Heck, I had like 5 fans, but they loved me because I was doing something no one else did.

I like pushing the envelop. I’m fairly certain I’m incapable of NOT pushing the envelop. In fiction, I like my sex a little messy, and my sicknesses a little snotty, and my groping a little awkward. I like characters who don’t know how to express themselves and who act every bit as spastic as the people I’ve known in real life. And maybe I even like making readers think twice about the little things we so often overlook. Like how the threat of a non-serious-yet-very-permanent venereal disease might change the perspective of a kid about to graduate college. Or how men—even heroic ones—will maintain a lie in order to keep the love of the people around them.

Sure, it would be nice if I were normal. I suspect my books would sell better, and I’m sure I wouldn’t get those lifted eyebrows I sense sometimes in reviews. But there are plenty of other authors happy to write run-of-the-mill romances with cowboy Doms and Billionaire Italians.

Me—I’ve got herpes covered. Next up? Goat ranchers and Ethiopian shop clerks. Giddyup.

 

 

 

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After the Rain—The Lost Prologue!

Guess what? The start of After the Rain as you’ve read it wasn’t the *original* start of the story! Oh no, at first I showed Henri and Michael fighting about the camping trip Henri and Logan eventually meet up on.

For those of you who love Henri and love Michael, I thought I’d show it to you here. Oh, and it’s fun to get a better idea of Michael for his upcoming book, Nothing But Smoke, which comes out in June.

Prologue

“Tell me you’re not going back over there.”

Henri stopped at the door, backpack hitched over his shoulder and broken down boxes under his arm. “I’m just stopping by on my way to class.”

“Oh, please. You just want to see him again.” Michael shouted from the kitchen since he was cooking. From what Henri could smell, it was the same vegan tofu scramble Michael had been making all week.

“I’m carrying boxes, Cheri.” Henri lugged the cardboard into the kitchenette. “See? Packing supplies.”

Michael’s 300 square foot studio stretched all around him, nothing but a bed, a couch—which Henri had been sleeping on for the past two weeks—and a desk with a computer on it. No TV, because Michael thought it rotted the brain. As far as Henri was concerned, brain rotting was the whole point of television, but he was lucky Michael had put him up since his break up, so he had no room to complain about the lodgings.

“There is nothing you need at Preston’s house.” Michael kept his back to Henri as he cooked. He always seemed somewhat irritated, but today Michael’s posture was positively annoyed. “You’ll end up in bed with him, then get all upset about it.”

“No, I won’t.” He left it vague as to exactly what he wouldn’t be doing. Honestly, Henri hoping to at least get a blow job out of this visit. Preston owed him that much for kicking him out.

“It’s just there are a few things I need.” Henri opened the fridge and found his half-bottle of Diet Coke nestled between the milk and juice labeled with Michael’s name. He popped the cap, listening to the delicious sound of fizz. He took a long drink. “I still have my books there from econ last year. I should take a look at them before my final.”

Michael placed his pan of gloppy, grayish health food on the counter. “You don’t need those books.” He eyed the soda bottle in Henri’s hand. “And how can you drink that crap first thing in the morning?”

Henri clutched his soda to his chest. It wasn’t his fault Michael didn’t keep any caffeine in the house. “But, I could sell them. Econ texts are worth more than all that humanities crap of yours.”

“Oh, please. Pick up some extra shifts at the coffee shop if you need money that badly. I’ll give you one of mine.”

“That’s okay,” he mumbled into his soda. He should have kept working at Buffalo Exchange instead of going back to his old job at Speedy Coffee. Fuck Preston for complaining about Henri’s retail schedule. “I’m cool.”

Michael frowned, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. “So, are you all packed for this weekend?”

Henri thumbed through the screens of his smart phone, wishing like hell he had a better option lined up. He liked camping about as well as he liked vegan tofu scrambles. “I told you, I’m not going.”

“But you know you can’t stay here. My brother’s using the apartment when he and his wife come into town.”

Sighing at his crap situation, Henri re-read his ex’s text from that morning. Preston sounded nice, casual. Maybe Henri could work something out. “Preston may let me crash for the weekend. Just as a friend.”

Michael slapped down a cup on the counter. “Fuck, no, Henri. Seriously. I’ll give you money for a hotel if you—”

“God!” Henri waved to cut off Michael’s rant. “I don’t need your money.” His friend was always fucking doing that—trying to solve Henri’s problems for him. It wasn’t Michael’s business where Henri slept.

“You want some?” With angry jerks of his hands, Michael pulled out two plates.

“No thanks.” Guilt coiled in Henri’s belly. He shouldn’t have scolded his friend like that. Michael was only trying to help. “I’ll grab a burger at the Student Union.”

Michael rolled his eyes, though his frustration probably had more to do with where Henri would be sleeping this weekend than over anything having to do with food. “Breakfast of Champions.”

Rebelliously, Henri finished his soda.

“Come camping.” Michael softened his voice, for once dropping his hard edged, know-it-all attitude. “The campground is really nice. They have real bathrooms, with showers.”

“Ooh, showers.” Henri widened his eyes sarcastically. “How luxurious.”

Michael shoveled a bite of food in his mouth, his expression hardening back to his normal scowl. “And a great restaurant. They have home fries and bacon.”

The last bit, Henri might have been interested in. After all, Henri did love bacon. Not like he was going to get any at Michael’s place. Sleeping on the ground though? Um, no. “I’ll find somewhere else to crash.”

Michael scrubbed a hand across his face. “Whatever, Hen. Just…whatever.”

“I’m sorry, Cheri.” Henri dug in his jacket pocket for the candy bar he was pretty sure was hidden under all the wrappers. “But I have that paper for my seminar with Johnson.”

“They have wifi at the campground.” Michael made a noise that sounded like tsha, as if he didn’t believe Henri’s excuse.

That was okay. Henri didn’t believe it, either. He and Michael were graduating in a couple weeks, and honestly, so long as they passed their classes, it didn’t matter what they got for grades. Michael was already into his graduate program and Henri was supposed to go to work as a paralegal at his asshole father’s law firm. No last minute success of failure or Henri’s part would change that.

Michael went to the sink to scrub his plate.

“I’ll be fine.” Henri waved his hand like he could clear the tension in the air. He knew Michael cared about him, and that Michael was worried about him, but Henri needed to get out of the conversation with some dignity. “I have to go.” Henri went to his stuff at the door and picked it up. “Preston’s waiting for me.”

“He’s an asshole,” Michael called from the kitchen.

“Maybe.” Henri sighed, palm on the handle. “But you don’t know him like I do.”

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