Lisa Henry's Blog, page 12
July 8, 2014
The Big Umbrella: The BDSM Blog Hop
BDSM is a big umbrella. Basically, it’s anything from this:
To this:
And pretty much anything you can think of in between.
Which I guess makes it hard for people with no knowledge of BDSM to form an accurate picture of what it’s all about. And, let’s face it, what do those letters stand for anyway? It is Bondage, Discipline, Sadism and Masochism, or is it the compounded Bondage & Discipline, Dominance & Submission, and Sadism and Masochism? And is Sadism and Masochism the same as Sadomasochism?
And what the hell are all those things anyway?
This stuff is complicated.
Except where it's not.
So here's where I talk about how it's not complicated. What works for you, works for you. What works for me, works for me. That is seriously as complicated as it gets. As long as everyone involved in any activity -- whether it's BDSM, BASE jumping, or tiddlywinks -- has consented to be there and agreed on the rules beforehand, it really is nobody else's business. See? Simple.
I don’t really want to talk about all the misconceptions about BDSM out there. Frankly, if you follow my blog and you’re following this blog hop, you already know what I’m talking about.
But I do think it’s sometimes difficult for people to consider BDSM without an emotional reaction, whether that reaction is confusion, or disgust, or shock, or embarrassment. A lot of people don’t like talking about sex at all. Talking about kinky sex? Craziness!
But why is it still a taboo for a lot of people to talk about sex?
I think we’re sometimes afraid to admit our vulnerability. Whenever we open ourselves to another person, it takes trust. To do that during sex, when suddenly we’re sharing our imperfect bodies along with our imperfect desires, is an incredible thing. Add BDSM to the mix, and that trust is magnified.
For me, the attraction of BDSM is not about the kink. It’s about the trust. Or maybe my kink istrust.
And trust is always a beautiful thing.
Guys, please click here to go to the hop page, and check out all the other authors joining the hop.
June 16, 2014
The Dreams You Made in the Dirt, and other titles.
My Love's Landscapes story,
The Dreams You Made in the Dirt,
is here!
Well, it's currently here to read at Goodreads.
And soon it will be available for download here at the MM Romance Group.
Anyway, it's out now, so I thought I'd tell you guys a thing about the event. They ask you for the title right at the beginning. Horrifying!
Not horrifying enough? Let me retype that in bold caps: THEY ASK YOU FOR THE TITLE RIGHT AT THE BEGINNING.
I hate titles. I'm really, really bad with them.
Really bad.
Just ask J.A. Rock.
When our working title for When All the World Sleeps didn't pan out, I swear it took us longer to come up with a title than it did to actually finish writing the book. I can't possibly come up with a title before a book is written.
Here are some working titles I have on my computer:
The Demon One. Creative, right?
Bodygaurd. Yes, spelled like that and everything.
And, my personal favourite, which I swear is real: Crap. I was supposed to be working on something else and got totally distracted by a shiny new idea instead. This one's a sequel for Another Man's Treasure , BTW.
But one day, sometime last month, I wasworking really hard at my writing playing games on my phone when the phrase hit me out of nowhere: the dreams you made in the dirt.
What's it mean? No idea. But it seemed like the sort of thing I could use as a title. Just had to wedge it in there somewhere and make it seem organic. So this little thing happened between Aiden and his mum, when Aiden was a kid:
He remembered her hosing off his filthy legs before letting him back into the house.
“Look at you!”
“Are you mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I’m covered in mud.”
“Are you sure that’s mud? I thought you were covered in the dreams you made in the dirt.”
After that, sometimes Aiden would look at the black lines of dirt under his nails and smile.
So I like to think I'm getting better with titles. I'm certainly getting more creative. First book? Tribute. Second: The Island. Now I have actual phrases! Truly, these are the promised times.
Well, it's currently here to read at Goodreads.
And soon it will be available for download here at the MM Romance Group.
Anyway, it's out now, so I thought I'd tell you guys a thing about the event. They ask you for the title right at the beginning. Horrifying!
Not horrifying enough? Let me retype that in bold caps: THEY ASK YOU FOR THE TITLE RIGHT AT THE BEGINNING.
I hate titles. I'm really, really bad with them.
Really bad.
Just ask J.A. Rock.
When our working title for When All the World Sleeps didn't pan out, I swear it took us longer to come up with a title than it did to actually finish writing the book. I can't possibly come up with a title before a book is written.
Here are some working titles I have on my computer:
The Demon One. Creative, right?
Bodygaurd. Yes, spelled like that and everything.
And, my personal favourite, which I swear is real: Crap. I was supposed to be working on something else and got totally distracted by a shiny new idea instead. This one's a sequel for Another Man's Treasure , BTW.
But one day, sometime last month, I was
What's it mean? No idea. But it seemed like the sort of thing I could use as a title. Just had to wedge it in there somewhere and make it seem organic. So this little thing happened between Aiden and his mum, when Aiden was a kid:
He remembered her hosing off his filthy legs before letting him back into the house.
“Look at you!”
“Are you mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I’m covered in mud.”
“Are you sure that’s mud? I thought you were covered in the dreams you made in the dirt.”
After that, sometimes Aiden would look at the black lines of dirt under his nails and smile.
So I like to think I'm getting better with titles. I'm certainly getting more creative. First book? Tribute. Second: The Island. Now I have actual phrases! Truly, these are the promised times.
May 31, 2014
Another Man's Treasure! Or, Why isn't it tomorrow yet?
I hate the International Date Line.
Because while it's June 1 here for me, it's still May 31 in the US. So even thought Another Man's Treasure should be out NOW, there's still like another day to go.
Another Man's Treasure will be available in all ebook formats from Smashwords and Amazon, and in print from the Createspace store and Amazon. And for the first week only, the ebook will cost $3.99 instead of the regular $4.99 list price.
In the meantime, here's how you can win stuff!
I am so excited for this book!
Because while it's June 1 here for me, it's still May 31 in the US. So even thought Another Man's Treasure should be out NOW, there's still like another day to go.
Another Man's Treasure will be available in all ebook formats from Smashwords and Amazon, and in print from the Createspace store and Amazon. And for the first week only, the ebook will cost $3.99 instead of the regular $4.99 list price.
In the meantime, here's how you can win stuff!
I am so excited for this book!
May 23, 2014
Another Man's Treasure - Excerpt
Another Man's Treasure
is out on June 1. Here's the blurb:
Ilia Porter is Chechen mob boss Mikhail Kadyrov’s greatest treasure. After leaving home at eighteen to escape his verbally abusive father, beautiful, selfish Ilia has lived with Mikhail, proud of his ability to bring such a powerful man to his knees to worship. But when Ilia’s father, a police captain, kills Mikhail in a raid, Ilia’s world falls apart.
Entering to pick up the pieces is Mikhail’s younger brother, Nick—impulsive, power-hungry, and dangerous. When Nick tells Ilia he’s taking everything that belonged to Mikhail—including Ilia—Ilia is too lost in grief to fight. Nick takes Ilia prisoner in the apartment Ilia once shared with Mikhail and grooms him for a very important mission: to kill Ilia’s father and avenge Mikhail’s death.
Ilia wants no part in the plot, but being Nick’s ally is preferable to being Nick’s victim, so he begins to warp himself into the monster Nick wants him to be. Hope arrives when Nick takes another captive: Patrick, a shy massage therapist who’s stronger than he seems. Patrick and Ilia must join forces to escape Nick—and to keep each other whole as Nick does everything in his power to break them.
And here's a sneak peek at the first scene in the book, Ilia getting his corset piercing:
Svvsssh.
A bright sting. The zip of satin across Ilia’s skin. Pressure on the rings so great that for a second Ilia thought they’d rip out. Then the pain faded to a throb, and the guy started threading the ribbon through the next set.
“All right?” the guy asked.
Ilia nodded.
“I’m pullin’.”
Ilia closed his eyes.
Svvsssh.
They were past the middle of Ilia’s back now. Each time the piercer pulled the ribbon taut, Ilia experienced such a mess of agony that he couldn’t think about anything else. But in the moments between, he could concentrate on the strangeness of the sensation. His skin was laced like a corset. A row of steel rings on either side of his spine. Black satin ribbon crisscrossing his back. He could feel blood trickle from some of the holes.
“This part ain’t as bad as the piercing, is it?”
Ilia tried to remember that pain—only half an hour since the piercer had forced the needle through his skin for the last time. It had hurt to have the rings put in, worse than having his nipples done, or his ears. But this, the constant pulling as he was laced up, might have been worse. “I don’t know.”
“You put on the Neosporin that’s got the painkiller in it? You’ll be all right. Shit, I might’ve got these crossed wrong.” The ends of the ribbons drifted across Ilia’s back. “Nope, I’m all right.”
“You done one of these before?” Ilia hadn’t asked before they’d started. He’d asked, Do you know how to do this?
Guy’d said yes, but since then Ilia had seen him referencing a photo on his phone. Had heard, briefly, the garbled lines of a video tutorial.
Big difference, between you know how? and you done it before?
“One time,” the guy said. “Ladies. Twins. Green ribbons and pink. They was doing some kind of porn thing.”
Svsshhhh.
“Their bodies was all right. Their faces was kinda old looking, but I guess that’s not what you’re lookin’ at, huh? When you’re watchin’ that stuff?”
Svsshhhh.
Ilia let out a long breath. Thought of Mikhail. Arched, flexing the muscles of his back as blood went to his cock.
“I don’t know how ladies did it,” the guy said. “Wearing corsets and shit. Back in the old days.”
“Mmm.” Ilia clenched his jaw against another wave of pain.The piercer seemed young to be doing this. Maybe younger than Ilia. Nineteen, twenty? He had gobs of metal in his eyebrows and a spiked labret ring, but without the piercings, he’d have looked scruffy and average. A country boy. Short tawny hair, slightly mussed. A scraggly goatee, pimples on his neck.
Ilia sat up straighter and pushed out his jaw slightly to emphasize the clean line of it. Shook his head so that the tips of his long earrings brushed his jaw. Glanced down at the two braided metal pendants that dangled on black cords between his pecs, making sure they were centered, and imagined the picture he made—dark-haired, pale, beautiful.
He felt a private satisfaction whenever he met anyone unattractive. Didn’t matter whether the other person actually envied him. Like now, it didn’t matter whether the piercer was admiring the smooth skin of his back and his hard, lean muscles. Whether his gaze was drawn to the mascara Ilia clumped thick on his lashes, or the way Ilia kept his lips slightly parted because he could pull it off—made him look slightly dazed and sensual, instead of brick-dumb or Abercrombie. Didn’t matter, because Ilia felt enviable.
The guy tugged the ribbon through one of the rings on the left side of Ilia’s lower back. They weren’t really rings—they were little barbells with rings attached, to keep the piercing from healing. “Took me nine hours to do ’em both. Those girls.”
Ilia had been here four.
“You said you just want this for fun?” the piercer asked.
“I’ve got someone who’s gonna like it,” Ilia replied. “I think.”
“They’d better. All the trouble you gone through for it.”
He will.
The guy sang along with the radio—one of those mellow indie songs that was all quirky rhymes. Supposed to be poetic, but just sounded like the girl singing was half asleep and murmuring whatever stupid shit came into her brain.
“Little red painted soldier,
I’m gonna make you mine.
Take you back to my back porch;
We’ll share the stars; we’ll share the wine.The world is old and colder,
But my little house is fine.
Oh red painted soldier,
The wounds you feel are mine.
The wounds you feel, the wounds you heal,
The words you steal from a quiet mind;
Yeah little red painted soldier,
Don’t let the blind mislead the blind.”
The guy didn’t know most of the lyrics. He crooned nonsense as he got up to replace a latex glove. Shucked the broken glove into the trash—Ilia glimpsed a few red stains—and pulled on the new one, then came back around behind Ilia.
“What’s your name?” Ilia didn’t care, but after four hours together, seemed right to know.
“Kris with a K. One more set.”
Ilia tensed, and Kris pulled—through the ring, across his back. Through the opposite ring, and then the ribbon dangled just above Ilia’s ass on the right side. As Ilia swallowed nausea from the sting, Kris situated the left hand ribbon. Ilia tipped his head up, pursed his lips, and blew out the breath he’d been holding. “Fuck.”
“Oh, you’re good, man.”
Ilia shifted cautiously and felt the soreness climbing his skin like a curse of thorns growing up around a tower in a fairy tale. “I’m done?”
“You want it tied...how?” Kris asked. “In a bow?"
“Yeah.”
Ilia waited as Kris tied the laces. Kris’s knuckles were warm on his back. “Feel all right? I’m keepin’ it loose for now. You can tighten it when it stops hurting.”
This was loose? Ilia couldn’t move without the pressure becoming pain. “Sure.”
“Just be careful. You’re bleeding some.”
“I’ve bled before.”
“A lotta people who get extreme piercings, they don’t think the blood’s gonna be much, and it is. Lotta people don’t think to put old sheets on the bed.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Wow, man.” Kris shook his head, staring at his handiwork. “You want a mirror?”
“Yeah.”
Kris gave him a hand mirror. Ilia stood, wincing, and followed Kris over to the full-length mirror near the register. Searched for the angle he needed to see his back.
Fuck. Yeah, the laces looked amazing, but the blood made it kind of a horror show. He laughed. “Gross.”
“Sorry.” Kris grabbed a roll of paper towels. “I shoulda done this first.”
He went to the sink by the piercing chair and wet a wad of the towels. Returned and started wiping Ilia’s back. The water was cold. “It’s good,” Ilia said. “I fucking love it.”
“It’s gonna hurt for a while,” Kris said. “But that Neosporin with the painkiller. I’m telling you.”
“I’ll get some.”
“And I got some gauze I’ll give you. Did you bring a different shirt?”
Ilia shook his head. Expensive T-shirt. Gonna get bloody, and Ilia didn’t mind. Driving would be a bitch, though.
“You want a towel? Or, uh, if you wanna buy one of our shirts...”
Ilia glanced at the Twysted Imyge shirts by the register. A dragon with a barbell through its nose. “It’s all right. I’ll wear mine.”
“Hope whoever you did this for likes it,” Kris said.
Yeah. Yeah, Ilia hoped so too. He hoped Mikhail’s fingers shook when they undid the laces, because Ilia was so fucking beautiful, and because Mikhail knew Ilia would do anything for him. Hoped when they fucked, Mikhail pulled on the ribbons. Ilia imagined panting into the pillow, shaking and sweat-drenched, and Mikhail’s big hand passing over skin barbed with nerves. His voice soft in Ilia’s ear. “Eaaaasyyyy, Ilie.”
“He will.” Ilia said.
He got out his wallet.
Ilia Porter is Chechen mob boss Mikhail Kadyrov’s greatest treasure. After leaving home at eighteen to escape his verbally abusive father, beautiful, selfish Ilia has lived with Mikhail, proud of his ability to bring such a powerful man to his knees to worship. But when Ilia’s father, a police captain, kills Mikhail in a raid, Ilia’s world falls apart.
Entering to pick up the pieces is Mikhail’s younger brother, Nick—impulsive, power-hungry, and dangerous. When Nick tells Ilia he’s taking everything that belonged to Mikhail—including Ilia—Ilia is too lost in grief to fight. Nick takes Ilia prisoner in the apartment Ilia once shared with Mikhail and grooms him for a very important mission: to kill Ilia’s father and avenge Mikhail’s death.
Ilia wants no part in the plot, but being Nick’s ally is preferable to being Nick’s victim, so he begins to warp himself into the monster Nick wants him to be. Hope arrives when Nick takes another captive: Patrick, a shy massage therapist who’s stronger than he seems. Patrick and Ilia must join forces to escape Nick—and to keep each other whole as Nick does everything in his power to break them.
And here's a sneak peek at the first scene in the book, Ilia getting his corset piercing:
Svvsssh.
A bright sting. The zip of satin across Ilia’s skin. Pressure on the rings so great that for a second Ilia thought they’d rip out. Then the pain faded to a throb, and the guy started threading the ribbon through the next set.
“All right?” the guy asked.
Ilia nodded.
“I’m pullin’.”
Ilia closed his eyes.
Svvsssh.
They were past the middle of Ilia’s back now. Each time the piercer pulled the ribbon taut, Ilia experienced such a mess of agony that he couldn’t think about anything else. But in the moments between, he could concentrate on the strangeness of the sensation. His skin was laced like a corset. A row of steel rings on either side of his spine. Black satin ribbon crisscrossing his back. He could feel blood trickle from some of the holes.
“This part ain’t as bad as the piercing, is it?”
Ilia tried to remember that pain—only half an hour since the piercer had forced the needle through his skin for the last time. It had hurt to have the rings put in, worse than having his nipples done, or his ears. But this, the constant pulling as he was laced up, might have been worse. “I don’t know.”
“You put on the Neosporin that’s got the painkiller in it? You’ll be all right. Shit, I might’ve got these crossed wrong.” The ends of the ribbons drifted across Ilia’s back. “Nope, I’m all right.”
“You done one of these before?” Ilia hadn’t asked before they’d started. He’d asked, Do you know how to do this?
Guy’d said yes, but since then Ilia had seen him referencing a photo on his phone. Had heard, briefly, the garbled lines of a video tutorial.
Big difference, between you know how? and you done it before?
“One time,” the guy said. “Ladies. Twins. Green ribbons and pink. They was doing some kind of porn thing.”
Svsshhhh.
“Their bodies was all right. Their faces was kinda old looking, but I guess that’s not what you’re lookin’ at, huh? When you’re watchin’ that stuff?”
Svsshhhh.
Ilia let out a long breath. Thought of Mikhail. Arched, flexing the muscles of his back as blood went to his cock.
“I don’t know how ladies did it,” the guy said. “Wearing corsets and shit. Back in the old days.”
“Mmm.” Ilia clenched his jaw against another wave of pain.The piercer seemed young to be doing this. Maybe younger than Ilia. Nineteen, twenty? He had gobs of metal in his eyebrows and a spiked labret ring, but without the piercings, he’d have looked scruffy and average. A country boy. Short tawny hair, slightly mussed. A scraggly goatee, pimples on his neck.
Ilia sat up straighter and pushed out his jaw slightly to emphasize the clean line of it. Shook his head so that the tips of his long earrings brushed his jaw. Glanced down at the two braided metal pendants that dangled on black cords between his pecs, making sure they were centered, and imagined the picture he made—dark-haired, pale, beautiful.
He felt a private satisfaction whenever he met anyone unattractive. Didn’t matter whether the other person actually envied him. Like now, it didn’t matter whether the piercer was admiring the smooth skin of his back and his hard, lean muscles. Whether his gaze was drawn to the mascara Ilia clumped thick on his lashes, or the way Ilia kept his lips slightly parted because he could pull it off—made him look slightly dazed and sensual, instead of brick-dumb or Abercrombie. Didn’t matter, because Ilia felt enviable.
The guy tugged the ribbon through one of the rings on the left side of Ilia’s lower back. They weren’t really rings—they were little barbells with rings attached, to keep the piercing from healing. “Took me nine hours to do ’em both. Those girls.”
Ilia had been here four.
“You said you just want this for fun?” the piercer asked.
“I’ve got someone who’s gonna like it,” Ilia replied. “I think.”
“They’d better. All the trouble you gone through for it.”
He will.
The guy sang along with the radio—one of those mellow indie songs that was all quirky rhymes. Supposed to be poetic, but just sounded like the girl singing was half asleep and murmuring whatever stupid shit came into her brain.
“Little red painted soldier,
I’m gonna make you mine.
Take you back to my back porch;
We’ll share the stars; we’ll share the wine.The world is old and colder,
But my little house is fine.
Oh red painted soldier,
The wounds you feel are mine.
The wounds you feel, the wounds you heal,
The words you steal from a quiet mind;
Yeah little red painted soldier,
Don’t let the blind mislead the blind.”
The guy didn’t know most of the lyrics. He crooned nonsense as he got up to replace a latex glove. Shucked the broken glove into the trash—Ilia glimpsed a few red stains—and pulled on the new one, then came back around behind Ilia.
“What’s your name?” Ilia didn’t care, but after four hours together, seemed right to know.
“Kris with a K. One more set.”
Ilia tensed, and Kris pulled—through the ring, across his back. Through the opposite ring, and then the ribbon dangled just above Ilia’s ass on the right side. As Ilia swallowed nausea from the sting, Kris situated the left hand ribbon. Ilia tipped his head up, pursed his lips, and blew out the breath he’d been holding. “Fuck.”
“Oh, you’re good, man.”
Ilia shifted cautiously and felt the soreness climbing his skin like a curse of thorns growing up around a tower in a fairy tale. “I’m done?”
“You want it tied...how?” Kris asked. “In a bow?"
“Yeah.”
Ilia waited as Kris tied the laces. Kris’s knuckles were warm on his back. “Feel all right? I’m keepin’ it loose for now. You can tighten it when it stops hurting.”
This was loose? Ilia couldn’t move without the pressure becoming pain. “Sure.”
“Just be careful. You’re bleeding some.”
“I’ve bled before.”
“A lotta people who get extreme piercings, they don’t think the blood’s gonna be much, and it is. Lotta people don’t think to put old sheets on the bed.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Wow, man.” Kris shook his head, staring at his handiwork. “You want a mirror?”
“Yeah.”
Kris gave him a hand mirror. Ilia stood, wincing, and followed Kris over to the full-length mirror near the register. Searched for the angle he needed to see his back.
Fuck. Yeah, the laces looked amazing, but the blood made it kind of a horror show. He laughed. “Gross.”
“Sorry.” Kris grabbed a roll of paper towels. “I shoulda done this first.”
He went to the sink by the piercing chair and wet a wad of the towels. Returned and started wiping Ilia’s back. The water was cold. “It’s good,” Ilia said. “I fucking love it.”
“It’s gonna hurt for a while,” Kris said. “But that Neosporin with the painkiller. I’m telling you.”
“I’ll get some.”
“And I got some gauze I’ll give you. Did you bring a different shirt?”
Ilia shook his head. Expensive T-shirt. Gonna get bloody, and Ilia didn’t mind. Driving would be a bitch, though.
“You want a towel? Or, uh, if you wanna buy one of our shirts...”
Ilia glanced at the Twysted Imyge shirts by the register. A dragon with a barbell through its nose. “It’s all right. I’ll wear mine.”
“Hope whoever you did this for likes it,” Kris said.
Yeah. Yeah, Ilia hoped so too. He hoped Mikhail’s fingers shook when they undid the laces, because Ilia was so fucking beautiful, and because Mikhail knew Ilia would do anything for him. Hoped when they fucked, Mikhail pulled on the ribbons. Ilia imagined panting into the pillow, shaking and sweat-drenched, and Mikhail’s big hand passing over skin barbed with nerves. His voice soft in Ilia’s ear. “Eaaaasyyyy, Ilie.”
“He will.” Ilia said.
He got out his wallet.
May 15, 2014
I don't have Attention Deficit Dis...oh! Look! A bunny!
So, it turns out I'm quite easily distracted. If I'm not juggling at least 6 projects at once, I get bored. I like to jump from WIP to WIP to WIP until I get...wait for it...WIPLASH!
That joke was terrible. I apologise unreservedly.
*bows head and performs ritual of abject contrition*
Anyway, at the moment I'm working away on the sequel to Dark Space, as well as my Samoan-Australian policeman story and, with J.A. Rock, a sequel to Mark Cooper versus America, and a bunch of other things from The List. And this was quite enough to keep me busy.
Which is why I will never know why I decided to look through my filing cabinet.
My filing cabinet is a mess. The rail things that the files hang off have been busted for years, so stuff is just shoved in there. Most of it is so old it's typewritten. Or, worse, written in the back of school exercise books. My filing cabinet is basically a cross between a repository for every piece of fiction I've ever written (apart from the stuff that was justifiably destroyed), a nursery for young spiders, a gecko hatchery, and a dust bunny sanctuary.
Anyway, I opened it.
And I found the uncompleted fantasy epic that I began writing in high school. It was surprisingly obsessed with crows.
source
Also, it's everything you'd expect: cliche piled upon cliche, terrible world building, a meandering plot, and full of so many Mary Sue characters that I want to build a time machine, go back to when I was fifteen, and punch myself in the head.
Also, on the first page, instead of could have had, I wrote could of had.
As in, of all the things I could have had, I wish it had been basic grammatical knowledge.
So, it's terrible.
But it's not too terrible. Underneath all that terribleness, there's the germ of an interesting idea. And I'm quite excited, because I think I can do something with it. I need to make some extensive changes, but I can do that.
I'll start with the prince's love interest.
He's totally a boy now. :)
That joke was terrible. I apologise unreservedly.
*bows head and performs ritual of abject contrition*
Anyway, at the moment I'm working away on the sequel to Dark Space, as well as my Samoan-Australian policeman story and, with J.A. Rock, a sequel to Mark Cooper versus America, and a bunch of other things from The List. And this was quite enough to keep me busy.
Which is why I will never know why I decided to look through my filing cabinet.
My filing cabinet is a mess. The rail things that the files hang off have been busted for years, so stuff is just shoved in there. Most of it is so old it's typewritten. Or, worse, written in the back of school exercise books. My filing cabinet is basically a cross between a repository for every piece of fiction I've ever written (apart from the stuff that was justifiably destroyed), a nursery for young spiders, a gecko hatchery, and a dust bunny sanctuary.
Anyway, I opened it.
And I found the uncompleted fantasy epic that I began writing in high school. It was surprisingly obsessed with crows.
sourceAlso, it's everything you'd expect: cliche piled upon cliche, terrible world building, a meandering plot, and full of so many Mary Sue characters that I want to build a time machine, go back to when I was fifteen, and punch myself in the head.
Also, on the first page, instead of could have had, I wrote could of had.
As in, of all the things I could have had, I wish it had been basic grammatical knowledge.
So, it's terrible.
But it's not too terrible. Underneath all that terribleness, there's the germ of an interesting idea. And I'm quite excited, because I think I can do something with it. I need to make some extensive changes, but I can do that.
I'll start with the prince's love interest.
He's totally a boy now. :)
May 1, 2014
Teaser: The Dreams You Made in the Dirt
Are you a member of the Goodreads M/M Romance Group?
If not, you absolutely should be, because the Love's Landscapes event is currently underway. That's where a bunch of people send in a bunch of prompts, and a whole other bunch of people write them. And then we all get to read them FOR FREE!
The story I wrote last year, Falling Away , can be found via my Free Reads page.
This year, the story I wrote is called The Dreams You Made in the Dirt . And not only did I get ambitious and make my own cover for it, but I'm also going to release it as a freebie via Amazon after the Love's Landscapes event. And possibly Smashwords as well, if I can actually figure Smashwords out...
But here's a look at the cover.
And here are the opening sentences:
In that split second as he watched the glass in the windscreen fracture like a spider’s web, Cole knew one thing for certain: he was going to die. He’d survived a tour in a country where people tried to kill him on a daily basis, and now he was going to die in a car accident. How prosaic. How fucking absurd.
If you guys like hurt/comfort, first times, and a shitload of angst, I think you'll enjoy this one.
There's also a dog.
Of course.
I'm beginning to think I'm incapable of writing a book without one.
If not, you absolutely should be, because the Love's Landscapes event is currently underway. That's where a bunch of people send in a bunch of prompts, and a whole other bunch of people write them. And then we all get to read them FOR FREE!
The story I wrote last year, Falling Away , can be found via my Free Reads page.
This year, the story I wrote is called The Dreams You Made in the Dirt . And not only did I get ambitious and make my own cover for it, but I'm also going to release it as a freebie via Amazon after the Love's Landscapes event. And possibly Smashwords as well, if I can actually figure Smashwords out...
But here's a look at the cover.
And here are the opening sentences:
In that split second as he watched the glass in the windscreen fracture like a spider’s web, Cole knew one thing for certain: he was going to die. He’d survived a tour in a country where people tried to kill him on a daily basis, and now he was going to die in a car accident. How prosaic. How fucking absurd.
If you guys like hurt/comfort, first times, and a shitload of angst, I think you'll enjoy this one.
There's also a dog.
Of course.
I'm beginning to think I'm incapable of writing a book without one.
April 24, 2014
Dear Douglas: An Anzac Day post
Dear Douglas,
Once upon a time, when I was a kid, a picture of you hung in my grandparents' house. Soldier you: looking all very solemn in your uniform. As solemn as everyone in old photographs looks. That photograph hangs in my mother's house now.
From the time I was little, I used to ask my grandmother to tell your story, every time. She never met you, of course. You were the brother-in-law who died before she even met my grandfather. But here's what she knew:
You were the favourite of all my great-grandmother's children.
The only golden haired child, in a family of brunettes.
(And you can make of that what you will.)
Your father died when you were a child. He was cleaning his gun.
(Make of that what you will, as well.)
You were the kid who lied about his age to go to war. You weren't eighteen at all.
Your mother never forgave your older brother for being the one who survived.
When I was a kid, I figured that you had to die. All the pieces are there for a perfect tragedy, right? If you hadn't been the favourite, you would have lived. If you hadn't lied to join up, you would have lived. If you hadn't been so full of youth and optimism and unfulfilled potential, you would have lived.
When I was a kid, I understood this is an unassailable truth.
But of course life doesn't have the same rules that art does. Life doesn't follow the structure of a story. What happened to you is only tragic in its banality, and in the epic fucking scope of the First World War.
On days like Anzac Day, I do try to take the time to reflect, but I don't know how I feel about the words that get used. Words like "sacrifice" and "honour" and "at rest".
You were nineteen when you died. You were still pretty much a kid. Was it honour and sacrifice you expected, or was it adventure? You were nineteen. Nobody should be at rest when they're nineteen.
I wish I knew more about you, Douglas. I wish you'd written more than your name in the front of your journal. I know exactly how you died -- from the letter your commanding officer sent your mother and, in detail, from the one your friend sent your brother -- but I don't know how you lived.
I wish I knew that.
- Lisa
Once upon a time, when I was a kid, a picture of you hung in my grandparents' house. Soldier you: looking all very solemn in your uniform. As solemn as everyone in old photographs looks. That photograph hangs in my mother's house now.
From the time I was little, I used to ask my grandmother to tell your story, every time. She never met you, of course. You were the brother-in-law who died before she even met my grandfather. But here's what she knew:
You were the favourite of all my great-grandmother's children.
The only golden haired child, in a family of brunettes.
(And you can make of that what you will.)
Your father died when you were a child. He was cleaning his gun.
(Make of that what you will, as well.)
You were the kid who lied about his age to go to war. You weren't eighteen at all.
Your mother never forgave your older brother for being the one who survived.
When I was a kid, I figured that you had to die. All the pieces are there for a perfect tragedy, right? If you hadn't been the favourite, you would have lived. If you hadn't lied to join up, you would have lived. If you hadn't been so full of youth and optimism and unfulfilled potential, you would have lived.
When I was a kid, I understood this is an unassailable truth.
But of course life doesn't have the same rules that art does. Life doesn't follow the structure of a story. What happened to you is only tragic in its banality, and in the epic fucking scope of the First World War.
On days like Anzac Day, I do try to take the time to reflect, but I don't know how I feel about the words that get used. Words like "sacrifice" and "honour" and "at rest".
You were nineteen when you died. You were still pretty much a kid. Was it honour and sacrifice you expected, or was it adventure? You were nineteen. Nobody should be at rest when they're nineteen.
I wish I knew more about you, Douglas. I wish you'd written more than your name in the front of your journal. I know exactly how you died -- from the letter your commanding officer sent your mother and, in detail, from the one your friend sent your brother -- but I don't know how you lived.
I wish I knew that.
- Lisa
April 23, 2014
Sweetwater - Coming September 29
Yay! Exciting news! My historical western
Sweetwater
is now available for pre-order from Riptide.
Wyoming Territory, 1870.
Elijah Carter is afflicted. Most of the townsfolk of South Pass City treat him as a simpleton because he’s deaf, but that’s not his only problem. Something in Elijah runs contrary to nature and to God. Something that Elijah desperately tries to keep hidden.
Harlan Crane, owner of the Empire saloon, knows Elijah for what he is—and for all the ungodly things he wants. But Crane isn’t the only one. Grady Mullins desires Elijah too, but unlike Crane, he refuses to push the kid.
When violence shatters Elijah’s world, he is caught between two very different men and two devastating urges: revenge, and despair. In a boomtown teetering on the edge of a bust, Elijah must face what it means to be a man in control of his own destiny, and choose a course that might end his life . . . or truly begin it for the very first time.
Wyoming Territory, 1870.
Elijah Carter is afflicted. Most of the townsfolk of South Pass City treat him as a simpleton because he’s deaf, but that’s not his only problem. Something in Elijah runs contrary to nature and to God. Something that Elijah desperately tries to keep hidden.
Harlan Crane, owner of the Empire saloon, knows Elijah for what he is—and for all the ungodly things he wants. But Crane isn’t the only one. Grady Mullins desires Elijah too, but unlike Crane, he refuses to push the kid.
When violence shatters Elijah’s world, he is caught between two very different men and two devastating urges: revenge, and despair. In a boomtown teetering on the edge of a bust, Elijah must face what it means to be a man in control of his own destiny, and choose a course that might end his life . . . or truly begin it for the very first time.
April 7, 2014
Let the great experiment begin!
You've probably heard this one before.
So, J. A. Rock and I wrote this thing.
But it's a new thing. It's not the thing you're thinking of.
Basically, this is an experimental thing. And by that I mean that it's not a romance. It's MM, but it's not a romance. It may not end the way you expect it to it. But what the hell do I know about your expectations? Maybe it all goes down exactly the way you think it will.
Anyway, it's a little bit different, and to keep it that way we decided to self-publish it. So as soon as we figure out exactly how to go about that, we'll put this one out.
In the meantime, this is it:
Ilia Porter is Chechen mob boss Mikhail Kadyrov’s greatest treasure. After leaving home at eighteen to escape his verbally abusive father, beautiful, selfish Ilia has lived with Mikhail, proud of his ability to bring such a powerful man to his knees to worship. But when Ilia’s father, a police captain, kills Mikhail in a raid, Ilia’s world falls apart.
Entering to pick up the pieces is Mikhail’s younger brother, Nick—impulsive, power-hungry, and dangerous. When Nick tells Ilia he’s taking everything that belonged to Mikhail—including Ilia—Ilia is too lost in grief to fight. Nick takes Ilia prisoner in the apartment Ilia once shared with Mikhail and grooms him for a very important mission: to kill Ilia’s father and avenge Mikhail’s death.
Ilia wants no part in the plot, but being Nick’s ally is preferable to being Nick’s victim, so he begins to warp himself into the monster Nick wants him to be. Hope arrives when Nick takes another captive: Patrick, a shy massage therapist who’s stronger than he seems. Patrick and Ilia must join forces to escape Nick—and to keep each other whole as Nick does everything in his power to break them.
So, J. A. Rock and I wrote this thing.
But it's a new thing. It's not the thing you're thinking of.
Basically, this is an experimental thing. And by that I mean that it's not a romance. It's MM, but it's not a romance. It may not end the way you expect it to it. But what the hell do I know about your expectations? Maybe it all goes down exactly the way you think it will.
Anyway, it's a little bit different, and to keep it that way we decided to self-publish it. So as soon as we figure out exactly how to go about that, we'll put this one out.
In the meantime, this is it:
Ilia Porter is Chechen mob boss Mikhail Kadyrov’s greatest treasure. After leaving home at eighteen to escape his verbally abusive father, beautiful, selfish Ilia has lived with Mikhail, proud of his ability to bring such a powerful man to his knees to worship. But when Ilia’s father, a police captain, kills Mikhail in a raid, Ilia’s world falls apart.
Entering to pick up the pieces is Mikhail’s younger brother, Nick—impulsive, power-hungry, and dangerous. When Nick tells Ilia he’s taking everything that belonged to Mikhail—including Ilia—Ilia is too lost in grief to fight. Nick takes Ilia prisoner in the apartment Ilia once shared with Mikhail and grooms him for a very important mission: to kill Ilia’s father and avenge Mikhail’s death.
Ilia wants no part in the plot, but being Nick’s ally is preferable to being Nick’s victim, so he begins to warp himself into the monster Nick wants him to be. Hope arrives when Nick takes another captive: Patrick, a shy massage therapist who’s stronger than he seems. Patrick and Ilia must join forces to escape Nick—and to keep each other whole as Nick does everything in his power to break them.
April 3, 2014
Anything Goes
I write romance.
There, I said it.
There are a lot of people who look down on romance – and on the people who read it and the people who write it – because there’s this weird idea still hanging on that not only is romance “genre fiction”, it’s somehow the lowest kind of genre fiction.
It’s kind of like those people who say sarcasm is the lowest form of humour. Not if you’re doing it right.
The fact that some people look down on romance doesn’t really bother me. Mostly I’m amused, because I think these people imagine that romance is still this:
Look out, Nurse Saxon! That amnesiac patient (I'm guessing) is actually a millionaire rake (I'm also guessing).
The above cover is a very outdated and narrow view of the genre. Because it can actually be this:
Or this:
Or this:
Or this:
Anything goes!
And that’s the most fun thing about this genre. I can write a spy story, or a funny story, or a horror story, or any story that I want, and as long as it’s still about people making a connection it still counts. You won’t find that kind of latitude in other genres.
And that’s why I love it. I love reading it, and I love writing it, and screw what anyone else thinks. We’re having fun over here.
There, I said it.
There are a lot of people who look down on romance – and on the people who read it and the people who write it – because there’s this weird idea still hanging on that not only is romance “genre fiction”, it’s somehow the lowest kind of genre fiction.
It’s kind of like those people who say sarcasm is the lowest form of humour. Not if you’re doing it right.
The fact that some people look down on romance doesn’t really bother me. Mostly I’m amused, because I think these people imagine that romance is still this:
Look out, Nurse Saxon! That amnesiac patient (I'm guessing) is actually a millionaire rake (I'm also guessing).
The above cover is a very outdated and narrow view of the genre. Because it can actually be this:
Or this:
Or this:
Or this:
Anything goes!
And that’s the most fun thing about this genre. I can write a spy story, or a funny story, or a horror story, or any story that I want, and as long as it’s still about people making a connection it still counts. You won’t find that kind of latitude in other genres.
And that’s why I love it. I love reading it, and I love writing it, and screw what anyone else thinks. We’re having fun over here.
