Rick R. Reed's Blog, page 58

My Perfect Date

This is one of my favorite pieces of my own writing. It originally appeared in the collection, Tales from the Sexual Underground , published by MLR Press. I think I like it so much because it demonstrates in a playful and—I hope—poetic way that, when it comes to sexual gratification, there’s often no place like home. Sorry for paraphrasing you, Miss Dorothy Gale!
My Perfect Dateby Rick R. Reed
He knows me, so he knows the best time is a quiet one. We stay in. Dinner, drinks, and of course, the last part, the best part.
He starts off casually, wearing a pair of faded Levis, a white T-shirt worn soft, bare feet, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a CD playing, soft, maybe Oscar Peterson conjuring up Gershwin from his piano. He’s got a few candles lit, but nothing scented. The air in his apartment is clean, with a trace of the soap from his shower lingering.We sit on the couch and he makes me a drink. He already knows what I like, a dirty martini made with vodka, heavy on the dirt. We laugh about how I like things dirty, but not too much. We keep our minds out of the gutter, at least for now.
After the drinks, the music, the light fading to purple outside, we move to the dining room. Old oak pedestal table, mismatched chairs and cream pillar candles…used before. He makes a light meal, because he knows that later, we won’t want anything too heavy weighing on us. A simple salad, arugula, red onion, plum tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. There’s a chicken breast, poached in broth, lemon juice and walnuts, some rice. Strawberries with sour cream and brown sugar for dessert. A glass or two of white wine, an Alsatian Riesling.
We linger over the dinner, slow; the candles burn down. The sky outside fades from purple to navy blue, a glow to the south…city lights. We move to the bedroom, undress slowly.
He knows how to touch me. Knows where to make the pressure slippery and where to make it rough. Knows when to move slowly and when to increase the tempo and when to slow it down again…he doesn’t want things to end too quickly. He knows that my nipples are sensitive and toys with them just hard enough, so I will feel the ghost of his caress in the morning. And all the while: music, orchestrated to ebb and flow, a soundtrack to our passion. We start off with Bach, Mendelssohn, end up with Crystal Method and Prodigy. Romance to filth. And he tells me, the whole time, about past lovers, knowing it excites me as much as his touch. Like the music, he starts off slow and romantic, telling me about his first love, Ron, how they were playful, in love, existing only for each other…so young. He tells me about a particular New Year’s Eve, in a darkened bedroom in Florida, high on pot and champagne and bringing each other the most incredible gifts. But as our passion rises, so does the depravity. He moves on to orgies, nights with strangers fueled by Ecstasy, a frantic, furtive coupling with a Northwestern student in an alley by the el tracks one night in August, fucking each other sweatily while the train crackled and roared above, its human cargo oblivious. He tells me about backroom sex, the smell of poppers, leather, cum and spit in the air, groping, being groped, connecting with shadows. He tells me everything, moving faster and faster, until even his tales and touch blur and I offer up my seed; it covers my belly in viscous arcs.
And I roll over and look at him…in the mirror. He is me.
He is me.

Why Do We Love Whom or What We Love?

Romantic hero number one, with stars in his eyes, asks romantic hero number two the age-old question, “Why do you love me?”
And romantic hero number two, who is a wise man indeed, gives a response that at first blush may seem glib, “Why not?”
This morning I am thinking about why we love what or who we love. That question, I would think, would have great resonance among readers of romance, because it’s core to most of our stories—and often a writer feels he or she needs to give credible motivation for a couple falling in love. And in fiction, I kind of agree, but is it true for real life?
At the very first Gay Rom Lit retreat in New Orleans, I had the pleasure of having lunch with reviewer and author Elisa Rolle and my dear departed friend, William Neale. At that lunch, I asked Elisa, with her reading far and wide in the genre of m/m romance, what interested her, a straight woman, about two men falling in love. She had an answer, which was, basically, that she loved romance and she found the power dynamic in hetero romance to be, finally, unsatisfying. Those books often had a lot to do with a woman being somehow rescued by the love of a big strong man. But, she said that in a romance between two men, the power dynamic between the love interests was often more equitable.
I thought that was a brilliant answer and one I have oft-repeated when people ask me why a large part of my own readership is straight women.
But then I began to wonder—why does it matter? Why does it matter why you like gay romance over straight? We like what we like. I have finally come to the conclusion that asking the question of why straight women prefer gay romance over straight is a futile exercise. For one, the answers, if they even exist, could be as varied as the respondents. But number two, and more importantly, is the fact that it doesn’t matter. Questioning why you like something can be an exercise that sets itself up for failure.
Who knows why we like gay romance? We just do. Do we need to understand the motivation to enjoy the end result? I don’t think so.
We don’t need to understand why we love chocolate ice cream over vanilla.
We don’t need to understand why we prefer T-shirts and jeans over more formal dress.
We don’t need to understand what psychological machinations cause us to choose vodka over scotch.
We just like this over that.
We simply know what we like. And I think that holds true with reading. If we think about it, we may say we like romance because we love reading about that moment when two characters find one another and fall in love. But why ‘gay romance’ someone might ask. And I grant you the freedom to say, simply and truthfully, “I just do.”
Which brings me around to the real question on my mind this up-before-it’s light Seattle morning, why do we love who we love? From my own personal experience, I can tell you that, for me, finding the person who might seem like the perfect mate on paper can often be the worst choice. My most disastrous relationship was with a man with whom I had the world in common. If we hadn’t headed down the romance road so quickly, we may have been great lifelong friends. But instead, we chased after a romance we both thought would be right, because we had so, so much in common.
But here’s the thing: we had no spark. There was no magic. And, ultimately, the romance we tried to forge withered on the vine.
Conversely, I have had relationships that have been totally wrong in almost every way for me (and that also ultimately didn’t work out), but some indefinable reason, they were a lot of fun and there was a spark. Who knows why?
Now, I am fortunate enough to have found someone with whom we had a spark and with whom I’ve found harmony and that is one life’s most cherished blessings. But I have also grown old enough and wise enough not to look this gift horse of true love in the mouth and ask, “Why?”
The only answer, really, is “why not?” Because, whether it’s books or life partners, the answer to that question isn’t really what matters. What matters is, “I just do.”

What do you think?

Good Karma, Good Books: Catching Her Balance by B. Thatcher

Every Wednesday, I put on my pimp clothes (zoot suits, feathered hats, platform shoes, and the like) and introduce you to something new and wonderful in the literary world. This week, I’m excited to shine a spotlight on Catching Her Balance by B. Thatcher. 

AUTHOR COMMENT

"This book is special to me because I adore futuristic romance, and often I'm feeling all alone in my love of them.  For me, the entire idea of forging a connection, discovering the magic and the majesty of love, among the incalculable vistas of the skies must be a breathtaking experience. Yes, I gaze at the stars often...and dream."

BLURBJenna Markkus's exquisite, genetically engineered face and form conceals a lifetime of pain. Beloved of her Papa? No. Tool used in pursuit of her Papa's rise to power? Yes. But enough is enough. Derrick Vittalar is her first, best hope for a life free of servitude and cruelty. All she needs to do is catch his eye.Derrick Vittalar has no expectation that this political conference will be any different than the umpteen ones he's endured before. Speeches, conferences, and occasional sport with a comely girl can't be all there is to his life.Indeed, no. Change arrives in the form of an intergalactic coup announced by his abduction. Thrown together by mischance and conspiracy, Derrick and Jenna find a way to thwart the rebellion, repel an invading army, and fall in love..

BUY
Amazon, for Kindle and paperback--> http://www.amazon.com/Catching-Her-Balance-B-Thatcher/dp/1611247969/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1450101026&sr=8-1&keywords=Catching+her+balance+thatcher
Amber Quill for other e-book formats-->  http://www.amberquill.com/store/p/2077-Catching-Her-Balance.aspx
AUTHOR BIO
B. Thatcher (Brenda) began reading romance novels in middle school. Her passion for that genre has continued to this day. Her passion for that genre has continued to this day. Love among the stars has always been a glorious fantasy. It started early, with Kirk and the Green Girls of Trek, Han and Leah, and even her of dreams finding her own star-struck lover among those unlimited vistas.
Blessed to live among the glory and grandeur of the USA’s Pacific Northwest, she shares her home with three cats, a tank of fish, her dreams and many, many daily critter visitors.
B. Thatcher also writes erotic romance under the penname of Michelle Robbins.
Come play among her imaginings. She promises that it won’t hurt.

New and Notable: The Hitchhiker Murders by Edward Kendrick

When I saw the blurb and cover for this one, I couldn't help but think how up my alley this was. I'm ready to dangerously stick my thumb out and hitch a ride with this one!

AUTHOR INSPIRATION
"There were two inspirations for writing this story.

One, I wanted to write a mystery based in Denver and the mountains outside the city. More importantly, I wanted the mystery to be the primary focus. That meant finding main characters who weren't dancing around each other in a 'Getting to know him—can this become more than working together?' situation. Who better to fulfill that stricture than a pair of married private detectives? And so Brent and Quinn Collins came into being. There is romance, born of their love for each other. But the mystery itself is the main focus of the story."

BLURB
When married private investigators Brent and Quinn Collins are hired to find Andrew, a young man who has disappeared after heading to Idaho Springs, little do they know that they will become embroiled in murder. Two other young men have gone missing under similar circumstances, their bodies found buried in the mountains outside of Denver. After Andrew's body is discovered, Brent and Quinn think they may know who is responsible for the hitchhiker killings. All they have to do is prove it, without ending up dead themselves.

EXCERPT

"First stop, Andrew's apartment?" Quinn asked after Mrs Taylor left.

"Yep, but not for a couple of hours. Presuming his roommates hold normal jobs, they probably won't be home until sometime after five."

"Or they'll have left by then, if, like Andrew, they're restaurant workers."

Brent snorted. "With our luck…"

"So grab your jacket and let's move."

"Yes, bossman." Brent ducked when Quinn took a swipe at him, only to find himself being hugged by his husband.

"You know this is a democracy. You can always say no," Quinn said, giving him a fast kiss.

"I never say no to you," Brent responded.

"Well, almost never, after the first couple of weeks."

The two men had met when they'd been students at UCD, working on their bachelor degrees in criminal justice. Brent was a year ahead of Quinn and had taken the younger man under his wing—and into his bed two weeks later when they discovered there was an undeniable attraction between them. Right after graduation, Brent had applied for and received his private investigator's license—as had Quinn a year later. They moved in together and set up their business. At first it had been called Collins and Brannon Investigations. Then, late one evening after celebrating the successful conclusion of their first truly difficult case, Brent had gotten down on one knee and asked Quinn to marry him. Quinn gleefully accepted. In twenty-ten, there were only a few states where gay marriage was legal. Luckily, New Hampshire, where Quinn had grown up, was one of them. They flew out, after 'warning' Quinn's family why they were coming. The wedding was all they hoped it would be, thanks to Quinn's parents. The party afterward was a rousing celebration lasting until early the next morning. When it was over and they had recovered, Quinn and Brent returned to Denver—married men and ecstatically so.

Brent paused at Milly's desk to tell her where they were going, asked her to send Mrs Taylor the form she needed to fill out, and then he and Quinn headed to the garage where they parked their car. Quinn wondered, as they pulled up in front of Andrew's residence, if Mrs Taylor considered the place a big step down from her home. It wasn't actually in an apartment building. The address was a small house in a less the classy neighborhood at the edge of the downtown area. While the lawn was mowed, the bushes in front of the front porch were in definite need of trimming, and the paint on the porch uprights was beginning to fade. There were four mailboxes by the front door. Two were for the ground floor, the others for the second floor—one of which listed three names, Brown, Wilcox and Taylor.

"Best bet, the house is broken into units," Quinn commented with a smirk.

"No bet."

Beside the mailboxes was a row of buzzers, with names below each one. Brent pressed the one for Taylor and company.

"Yo," a disembodied voice answered after a short wait. Quinn gave Brent a thumb's-up before saying,

"I'm looking for Andrew Taylor."

"Not here," the voice replied.

"I'm here on behalf of his mother. May I talk to you about him?"

"You are."

"I mean face to face."

There was a long pause, then he was told to take the stairs at the end of the hallway up to the second floor, and the buzzer sounded to unlatch the front door. When they got inside, a light smell of pot greeted them. It got heavier as they walked up the stairs. A young man—Quinn guesstimated he was barely out of his teens—waited for them in the upper hallway.

"You didn't say there were two of you," the guy said.

"You didn't ask. Which one are you? Brown or Wilcox?"

"Wilcox. Mike Wilcox. Who are you?"

"Quinn and Brent Collins," Quinn replied. "We're private detectives, hired by Mrs Taylor."

"Just like on TV, huh? You might as well come in, since you're here." Mike opened the door right behind him. If asked, Quinn would have admitted he was surprised when they entered the apartment. The living area was neat, with decent if not fancy furniture. Three doors led off it, to—Mike showed them—the kitchen and two bedrooms. "This one's mine and Vick's," Mike said about the bigger one. It had two beds with a dresser between them. Andrew's bedroom was sizably smaller, and not nearly as neat. Clothes were piled on the only chair, and the bed had obviously been 'made' by pulling the spread over tumbled sheets. A bong stood on the small dresser along one wall. No real shock in Quinn's opinion, since Mrs Taylor said Andrew was open about indulging.

"Do you mind answering a few questions about Andrew?" Brent asked Mike when they returned to the living room.

"Ask away."

BUY
From the publisher, JMS Press

AUTHOR
Born and bred Cleveland, I earned a degree in technical theater, later switched to costuming, and headed to NYC. Finally seeing the futility of trying to become rich and famous in the Big Apple, I joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America), ending up in Chicago for three years. Then it was on to Denver where I put down roots and worked as a costume designer until just recently.

I began writing a few years ago after joining an on-line fanfic group. Two friends and I then started a group for writers, where they could post any story they wished no matter the genre or content. Since then, for the last four years, I've been writing for publication—my first book came out in February of 2011. Most, but not all, of my work is m/m, either mildly erotic or purely 'romantic'. More often than not it involves a mystery or action/adventure, and is sometimes paranormal to boot.

New & Notable: First Comes Marriage by Shira Anthony

Realism in Classic RomanceA Guest Post by Shira Anthony
Thank you Rick, for hosting the First Comes Marriage book tour! Word has it that you may have your own Dreamspun Desires offering coming soon—I can’t wait to read it. [Note: My collarboration with Vivien Dean, STRANDED WITH DESIRE will be out in August!]
For those readers who may not already know, First Comes Marriage is the second book in the brand new Dreamspun Desires line of gay category romances from Dreamspinner Press.

GIVEAWAY 

Be sure to read to the bottom of the post for an excerpt from the book, as well as the Rafflecopter giveaway for the book tour. You could win a dozen red roses for your sweetheart or yourself!

First Comes Marriage is an honest to goodness “category romance,” reworked for a 21st Century audience, and of course with two male main characters. The term “category romance” comes from the old tradition of publishing a certain number of books on a monthly basis in a certain category. I bet you remember these. When I was a kid, they were the Harlequin and Silhouette romances that were shipped, 4 books a month, on subscription. I’m sure you also remember the tropes: Cinderellas (rich/poor), arranged marriages, mistaken identity, enemies to lovers, and so many more I couldn’t possibly list them all. These tropes are all based in some part on something real that we, as readers, can relate to.
First Comes Marriage is a combination of a few of these tried and true tropes: marriage of convenience (will provision, anyone?) and rich man/poor man (Cinderfella, in this case). Now contrary to popular belief, writers are hardly rich (I know you’re shocked to hear that!). So I can’t claim to have a lot of experience living like billionaire Jesse Donovan does, with an apartment in Manhattan and a huge estate on the ocean in Connecticut. But I visited those kinds of places when I used to sing opera professionally.
The people who own houses like Jesse’s often sponsored the local opera companies in the Northeast, and we performed at fundraisers at these estates. We’re talking enormous Tudor and colonial style mansions with coach houses larger than any home I’ve ever owned. Gorgeous, perfectly furnished interiors. Glass enclosed conservatories filled with amazing flowering trees and plants.
No billionaire would be complete without fancy cars and a boat or two, right? And while I don’t own a classic car, or even a motorcycle like Jesse does, I’ve taken a ride or two in them. Growing up, my parents had friends who owned a Bentley and an old MG Midget (red and totally drool-worthy).
As for boats, Jesse’s family business builds them. So he has the use of a huge yacht. But instead of having Jesse and Chris spend a romantic weekend on a yacht, they instead sail to a nearby island in a catamaran sailboat I named, Land’s Zen (named after my own, slightly less fancy catamaran). This one is straight out of my ownfantasy: it’s a 44 foot long Leopard. Gorgeous and incredibly expensive. A boat I hope to own someday (albeit a used model!), when I retire.
Dreamspun Desires are all about romantic fantasy, from the setting to the tropey, feel good story. I’ll leave you with a taste of First Comes Marriage from when Jesse takes Chris to the docks before they sail. Can you smell the ocean breeze? I sure can. 

BLURBTheir marriage was supposed to be all business....
When struggling novelist Chris Valentine meets Jesse Donovan, he’s interested in a book contract, or possibly a date. The last thing Chris expects is a marriage proposal from New York City’s most eligible bachelor!
Jesse’s in a pinch. To keep control of his company, he has to marry. So he has valid reasons for offering Chris this business deal: in exchange for living in a gorgeous mansion for a year, playing the doting husband, Chris gets all the writing time he wants and walks away with a million-dollar payoff. Surely Chris can handle that. He can handle living with the most handsome and endearing man he’s ever met, a man he immediately knows he wants in the worst way and can’t have. Or can he?

EXCERPT“These are the company’s private docks,” Jesse said as he wrapped an arm around Chris’s waist and pulled him in for a kiss. “Like what you see?”
“Whoa.” Chris pointed at the enormous boat docked in front of them, a sleek yacht that looked like something from a James Bond movie, with its tinted windows, hot tub aft, and a large dinghy hoist on the upper deck. “That’s yours?”
“It belongs to the company,” Jesse said. “But I’ve sailed on her a few times.”
“Is that seventy-five feet?”
“It’s a Windview100. Our flagship model, although we do some special orders for larger cruisers.”
“Whoa,” Chris repeated. “One hundred feet? So we’re sailing on our mini honeymoon?”
Jesse nodded. “Do you trust me?”
“To sail that thing, you mean?”
Jesse laughed and shook his head. “I wouldn’t attempt it. We have a crew, including a captain for the yacht. I mean, do you trust me with our honeymoon.”
Chris frowned. “What are you up to, Donovan?”
Jesse barely repressed a smirk. “Why would you think I’m up to something?”
“I’ve seen that expression before,” Chris replied, unconvinced. “So what do you have planned? A trip to Antarctica? Australia? Because telling me to pack for a long weekend won’t cut it, and you’re not buying me a completely new wardrobe.”
“Neither?”
“Jesse….”
“Okay, okay.” Jesse grinned. “But it’s fun to tease you.” He put his arm around Chris’s shoulder and turned him so they faced a smaller piece that jutted out from the dock where the yacht was tied. “I wanted to take you somewhere exotic. I admit it. But with Wenda challenging the will, exotic isn’t feasible. So, this is my boat.” Jesse pointed to the sailboat directly in front of them, a gorgeous catamaran Chris guessed was at least forty feet long.
“Another Windview?”
“I haven’t found a design I like enough yet to consider making cats,” Jesse said. “This one’s a Leopard 44.” He walked over to a cleat to release tension on the ropes. The boat floated up against the dock, and Jesse stepped on board. “Join me?” he asked as he offered Chris his hand.
Chris climbed aboard and followed Jesse around as he opened up the hatches to let the air inside. “She’s a beauty. What’s her name?”
“Land’s Zen. She was a gift from my grandfather when I turned twenty-five.” Jesse ran his fingers lovingly over the hull. “Three cabins and a fourth I converted into an office. I don’t get to take her out as much as I’d like.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Fishers Island. My parents owned a cottage there years ago. My grandfather sold it after they died, but we used to sail there together when I was little.” Jesse’s entire demeanor changed when he spoke, his shoulders relaxing and the tension in his jaw abating. He looked… happy.


Buylinks: Dreamspinner : Amazon : All Romance : Barnes & Noble



All about ShiraShira Anthony is a complete sucker for a happily-ever-after, and rarely reads or writes a story without one. Never a fan of instalove, Shira likes to write stories about real men with real issues making real relationships work.

In her last incarnation, Shira was a professional opera singer, performing roles in such operas as “Tosca,” “Pagliacci,” and “La Traviata,” among others. Her Blue Notes Series is loosely based upon her own experiences as a professional musician.

Shira is married with two children and two insane dogs and when she’s not writing, she is usually in a courtroom trying to make the world safer for children. When she’s not working, she can be found aboard a 36’ catamaran at the Carolina coast with her favorite sexy captain at the wheel. She’s given up TV for evenings spent with her laptop, and she never goes anywhere without a pile of unread M/M romance on her Kindle.

Interested in hearing Shira sing? Here's a link to a live performance of Shira singing an aria from Puccini's "Tosca": http://www.shiraanthony.com/wp-conten...

You can subscribe to Shira's monthly newsletter for updates, free fiction, and subscriber-only contests here: http://www.shiraanthony.com/newsletter/~~~~Where you can find ShiraFacebook:  https://www.facebook.com/shira.anthony
Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4641776.Shira_Anthony
Twitter: @WriterShira
Website:  http://www.shiraanthony.com
E-mail:  shiraanthony@hotmail.com ~~~~Giveaway: a Rafflecopter giveaway
First Comes Marriage is all above love and romance, and Shira’s grand prize is a dozen red roses for your sweetheart (or whoever you think deserves it!). First prize is a $10 Dreamspinner Gift Certificate.

Good Karma, Good Books: Times Square Queer by Mykola Dementiuk

Every Wednesday, I put on my pimp clothes (zoot suits, feathered hats, platform shoes, and the like) and introduce you to something new and wonderful in the literary world. This week, I’m excited to shine a spotlight on Times Square Queer by Mykola Dementiuk. 

QUOTES ABOUT THE BOOK

"Mykola's stories of ... the delights and depressions of young men living difficult lives in imperfect times... do a magnificent job of drawing us into the character's heads." --Bibrary Bookslut

Mykola's New York is "...very gritty, with a cosmopolitan impersonality about it; impersonal relationships, impersonal sex, and the-devil-take-the-hindmost ethos. [His work is] eagerly recommended." --Gerry B's Book Reviews 


"Mick Dementiuk writes stories of the day when Times Square was all about sex, drugs, and cold spit ... about coming of age inside the just-burgeoning hardcore movie houses of the 1960s. It's... vivid. Harsh, real, and yes, erotic." --Susie Bright
BLURB


Here is a landmark book -- the first print publication of seventeen stories by Mykola Dementiuk, one of the most distinctive voices in queer literature. Sixteen were published individually as short ebooks; "Missy the Sissy" has never appeared anywhere before.
Included are: "On the Prowl," "Times Square Cutie," "Eighteen Today," "Trio At the Movies," "Love for Sale" and a dozen others. Times Square Queer also features a moving and penetrating personal introduction about growing up queer in the 1960s, amid the sleazy porn theaters and bars crowding Times Square that had become a gay mecca.
BUY
Publisher
Amazon

Letting Go of What You Write

It takes two to tango. And it takes at least two to make a book. Just like a play needs an audience to fully come alive, a book needs a reader for precisely the same reason. 

One thing I have to constantly remind myself as a writer is that, once I have written the words, ‘the end’ to a story is that I must let go. As much as I labored over the book, dreamed about it, had conversations with myself about it, agonized over word choice, character hair color, continuity, repetitive words and phrasing, the time comes when the book meets the public which signals that it’s time for me to step aside.

A book is a conspiracy between a reader and a writer. The reader has to bring it to life through his or her imagination. The wonderful thing about that whole process is that my story can become so many different stories when filtered through each reader’s unique frame of reference. I have no doubt that no matter the care I take in describing characters and setting, each reader sees them differently because each of them come to the table with different experiences, biases, and memories. All of those things have a bearing on the triggers my words pull in a reader’s mind.

It’s really quite a lovely process when you think about it. And maybe the readers out there reading this column never really considered the vital work they play in every book’s success or failure. Writers provide a roadmap, signposts, but it’s really up to the reader to run with it, to make of it something real, a mind movie for one.

What’s my point? I guess it’s to share with you a little of what motivates me as a writer and what, for me is both a blessing and a curse. See, when I am working on a book, which is almost always, I am alone with those characters, immersed in their little world, consumed by their passions, their fears, their desires, their comedies of errors. I have never been one for sharing much of my unfinished work with anyone else. That would somehow be wrong, at least for me. In order to create, I need to be able to slip into a world inhabited only by my characters and me. It’s always a bittersweet moment when I write the words, ‘the end’ and know I am moving on. Sure, there will be editing, the thrill of seeing the cover design, the agony of trying to help craft the blurb, but once you type ‘the end’ it means just that. You’re giving your characters and their world away.

I think it’s very difficult for some writers to realize that once they’ve ‘given birth’ to a book that it really no longer belongs to them. It belongs to the readers, the reviewers, the world.

If you create with publishing in mind, it’s a harsh reality to accept—your book no longer belongs to you alone, but it’s gone off into the world, much like a child finally moving out of the house.

Once you let go, you also must let go of trying to control what happens (same for books, same for kids).

And that’s hard. You hate to see your book suffer at the hands of people who don’t understand it, you celebrate it when someone ‘gets’ what you were trying to say. 

But you must let go. The book is a piece of the world now and takes on a life of its own. Remember what I said earlier? A book is a conspiracy between a writer and a reader and the reader, each in his or her own way, makes the story his or her own.

I guess what prompted all this was a discussion recently at one of my publishers’ forums wherein authors were discussing, once again, how to respond to negative reviews and downright nasty ones, and the prevailing wisdom in the responses was with silence. I agree. 

It’s harsh but true: writers must let go. Your stories are no longer your stories. If you’re very, very lucky, they are many people’s. Take comfort in that.

###

Rick’s latest experiment in reader/writer collaboration is The Couple Next Door , a twisting and twisted novel of romantic suspense from Dreamspinner Press. 

BLURB
With the couple next door, nothing is as it seems.

Jeremy Booth leads a simple life, scraping by in the gay neighborhood of Seattle, never letting his lack of material things get him down. But the one thing he really wants—someone to love—seems elusive. Until the couple next door moves in and Jeremy sees the man of his dreams, Shane McCallister, pushed down the stairs by a brute named Cole.

Jeremy would never go after another man’s boyfriend, so he reaches out to Shane in friendship while suppressing his feelings of attraction. But the feeling of something being off only begins with Cole being a hard-fisted bully—it ends with him seeming to be different people at different times. Some days, Cole is the mild-mannered John and then, one night in a bar, he’s the sassy and vivacious drag queen Vera.

So how can Jeremy rescue the man of his dreams from a situation that seems to get crazier and more dangerous by the day? By getting close to the couple next door, Jeremy not only puts a potential love in jeopardy, but eventually his very life.

BUY
Dreamspinner Press ebook
Dreamspinner Press paperback
Amazon Kindle
Amazon paperback
AllRomance eBooks

Good Karma, Good Books: Beloved Unmasked by Brita Addams

Every Wednesday, I put on my pimp clothes (zoot suits, feathered hats, platform shoes, and the like) and introduce you to something new and wonderful in the literary world. This week, I’m excited to shine a spotlight on Beloved Unmasked by Brita Addams. 

AUTHOR COMMENT

"Research for Beloved Unmasked threw me into a New Orleans long gone, but the echoes are still there. The ghosts of Lulu White and Tom Anderson haunt their old stomping grounds, longing for their time to return. E.J. Bellocq, an enigmatic fixture in Storyville, photographs my characters, Pic and Spence, on Basin Street, the hub of activity from 1897 to 1917. My characters rub shoulders with the controversial figures who once ruled the nineteen square block area of New Orleans known as Storyville.

"I worked in the Vieux Carre (French Quarter) the heartbeat of the city, experienced the smells and tastes of the food as well as the throb of jazz and ragtime beneath my feet. Curiosity drove me to research this unique era in American history and then write about what life might have been like for a boy born to a Storyville prostitute. My love of New Orleans and my many years of living in the area gave me the perspective to give New Orleans a leading role."

GIVEAWAY
A random commenter can win their choice of my backlist (simply leave a comment with a contact e-mail below). Beloved Unmasked is excluded from the giveaway. More information about my backlist is found on Brita's website. Winner will be selected by Tuesday, January 19.

BLURB
Born in 1898 to a heartless prostitute in Storyville, the red-light district of New Orleans, David comes into the world as Picayune, a name meaning “of little value” or as his mother reminds him, “nothing.”
In the early 20th century brothels and clubs, his love of music sustains young Pic until a fortuitous meeting places him on the road to respectability, and Pic reinvents himself as David Reid.
As David realizes happiness for the first time, conscription forces his friend and first love, Spencer Webb, into the Great War. A telegram from the War Department deals a staggering blow and interrupts David’s pursuit of a law degree. He must gather his wits and move forward. While his future looks bright, specters from Storyville return.

The past holds both pain and love, and facing it head-on might destroy David or give him the freedom to live the life he has dreamed.
BUY
Dreamspinner Press
Amazon
AllRomance eBooks

AUTHOR BIO
Born in a small town in upstate New York, Brita Addams has made her home in the sultry south for many years, where she shares her home with her real-life hero—her husband, and a fat cat named Stormee. All their children are grown.
Given her love of history, Brita writes both het and gay historical romance. Many of her historicals have appeared on category bestseller lists at various online retailers.
Tarnished Gold, the first in her gay romance Tarnished series for Dreamspinner Press, was a winner in the 2013 Rainbow Awards, Historical Romance category. The book also received nominations for Best Historical and Best Book of 2013 from the readers of the Goodreads M/M Romance Group.
 A bit of trivia—Brita pronounces her name, Bree-ta, and not Brit-a, like the famous water filter.
Find Brita at any of the following places:Website – http://britaaddams.netBlog - http://www.britaaddams.net/#!britaaddamsblog/c1zoeFacebook – http://www.facebook.com/britaaddams
Twitter – http://www.twitter.com/britaaddams

A Date from Hell: BLINK

If you’ve read much of my work, you might have noticed I like to have a little fun with what I call “dates from hell.” We’ve all had them, right? And if you answered no to that question, let me congratulate you. It takes a very special person to get through life without at least one date from hell on his or her resume.
The excerpt below is from my semi-autobiographical love story, Blink, and it showcases the date from hell one of my characters, Andy, has before re-connecting with Carlos, the man he’s never forgotten. Are you nervy enough to share one of your own dates from hell in the comments below? I’d love to hear about yours!
Excerpt from Blinkby Rick R. Reed
I have just taken a sip of the expertly-made cocktail, reveling in its briny chill, when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder.
I turn around to face Chet. I smile and think that the picture he used on the site had to be at least a few years old. It’s okay, I think, we all want to put our best foot forward. The guy before me still has the beard and the baseball cap I saw in his profile pic, but the beard that was flecked with gray on OkCupid is now fully silver. He also didn’t wear glasses in his profile picture, but now a pair of wire-rimmed oval frames shield his muddy-brown irises.
Which is not to say he looks bad. He doesn’t. Just older. He’s still cute, with a kind of high-school wrestling coach vibe about him, augmented by his outfit—an Abercrombie and Fitch jersey, cargo shorts, and workman’s boots. I try to hold in any judgment I know I would make if I were sitting here with Jules observing him, about a man trying a bit too hard to look manly and young. We would laugh into our drinks and for sure Jules would say something like, “Mutton dressed as lamb.”
I slide off the stool, smiling, to shake his hand.
He grabs my hand and uses it to pull me into a bear hug, planting a too-wet kiss on my neck, which startles me. I move back and hop up on my stool, give a little laugh. I want to admonish him for being fresh, as my mom would say, but instead I ask him what he’d like to drink. “I’ll get the first round,” I say, holding up my glass. “Since I’ve already started.”
He orders a Bud Lite and sits down beside me. Immediately, one of his hands goes to my leg, just above my knee, and rests there. He looks me up and down, and then does it again. His grin, a little lewd, never wavers. I wonder if a wolf whistle is in store. I begin to have my doubts about Chet but again, remind myself to withhold judgment. He just got here, after all. Give the guy a freakin’ chance!
“Man, am I glad I sent you that message. It’s so nice when they look better than their pics.” He leans back on his stool to check me out again and I have to admit, he’s making me more uncomfortable than flattered. Much as I admired my reflection in my condo building’s front door before heading over here, I am not all that. I’m relieved when the bartender, a blond in a black V-neck T-shirt who could be Alexander Skarsgard’s twin, sets Chet’s beer before him.
“You want a glass with that?” the bartender points to the sweating brown bottle.
Chet winks at the kid and asks, “Do I have any other options?” I groan inside.
The poor bartender just looks confused. Then he smiles. “I don’t know. I think we’ve got an aluminum bowl in the back if you’d be interested.”
Chet shakes his head and reaches into his wallet and throws a ten on the bar, in spite of my having said I’d treat. “Keep the change, stud.”
The bartender grabs the cash from the bar and gives me a look. In the look, we’re both saying something along the lines of “Do you believe this character?” He hurries away, presumably to wait on less flirtatious and younger men. Or maybe to find out what the Jeopardy! response is to the answer displayed on one of the monitors: Arizona's motto, ditat deus, means he “enriches.”
God, I think, the answer is God. A fella I fear whose help I’m going to need to call upon before this night is over.
I turn to the guy I agreed to meet, based only on about a dozen or so lines of type and a decade-old (at least) photograph and try to make the best of things. “So Chet, do you come here a lot?”
He shakes his head and crinkles up his nose, as though he’d smelled something bad. “Nah. I just picked this place because it’s kind of neutral, you know?”
I shake my head.
“Pretty boys. Bright lights. Nothing too extreme.”
I think I see. “Good for meeting for the first time, huh?”
He leans in closer to me and slides his hand up farther on my leg toward my crotch. “Right.” He leans even closer and growls in my ear. “If I like the guy, we can always go someplace else.”
Like your place? I wonder, but don’t say. I lean back and away from him. He smells like cigarette smoke, Old Spice, and booze. I laugh and am embarrassed when it comes out a little high-pitched. I try to get him back on course. “So, where do you like to hang out?”
“So to speak?” He raises his eyebrows and laughs as though I said something filthy and then I realize he’s making my reference to ‘hanging out’ into something lascivious.
Why didn’t I call Jules and set something up? You know, the old saw where she would call a half hour after I meet my date and, if it wasn’t going well, I could say there was an emergency at home and I had to go?
“Yeah. Do you go to any other clubs?”
“Me, I like the leather bars.” He stares at me and I wonder if he’s expecting me to rush in with something like, “Oh me, too! I left my harness and chaps at home.”
“Yeah,” he says. “There’s no pretense there.”
Really? Men standing around in biker gear trying to look butch? Okay….
“What I mean is,” Chet continues, “They don’t have game shows on the TVs, for Christ’s sake. Or run show tune videos like that joint down the street. They’re just about what we’re all here for.”
Although I know what he means by ‘what we’re all here for’ I ask Chet anyway, “What’s that?”
“Come on, Andy!” He rubs a hand over my chest and tweaks a nipple. I pull back. I can’t keep the scowl off my face. Undeterred, he leans forward once more to whisper throatily, “Fuckin’ and suckin’.”
I grab his hand, still on my chest, and return it to him, placing it carefully on his leg and nowhere near his crotch.
“I mean, why do gay men come out to the bars? To meet fuck buddies, right? We might as well be honest about it. I know I am. I like the leather bars because even if I don’t meet a guy to bring home, I can always wander into the backroom and get a little somethin’-somethin’.” He laughs. “You know what I mean?”
I’ve had enough. I think I know this is going to go nowhere. Same old story. I feel a little sad. “No, I really don’t Chet. When I go out, and it’s not that often anymore, it’s to meet up with friends, laugh, talk, have a few drinks.”
“And then go off to your bedroom and do the nasty.”
I sigh. I’m impatient now. “Well, I’d be lying if I said that never happened, but it’s usually more of a thing about circumstances turning a certain way, rather than something planned.”
“I was kind of planning on you and me getting together tonight.” He jerks his head toward the door behind him. “I live just around the corner. On Cornelia?” He says, in a softer voice, “Got the sling all set up.”
I laugh. “We have an optimist here!”
“What? You agreed to meet up with me.”
“And that means I agreed to have sex with you?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what guys go online looking for, right? I mean, what else is there?”
I wanted to answer—romance, companionship, friendship, maybe, just maybe, finding true love. But I have a feeling that our Chet here is too far-gone for any of those responses to resonate. Concepts like love and friendship would be lost on him. I don’t think his thought processes go any higher than above the belly button. It’s kind of sad, really. Like his clothes, I suspect Chet is stuck in a kind of faux masculine adolescence. At the end of the night, when he’s alone and covered with sticky lube and his latest conquest is but a memory, does he ever hunger for more?
“For some, I guess, not much.” Finally, I allow myself to touch him, putting a hand on his shoulder. As much as I am a big old introvert and hate confrontation of even the mildest sort, it’s not that hard to be honest, because I know at the end of what I have to say, I’ll be free. “Listen, Chet, I think you and I are after different things.” I gulp down what remains in my glass and set it back on the bar. “I’m gonna take off. Thanks for coming out to meet me.”
He sneers. “What are you after? True love?”
I get down from the bar stool and stand, facing him. “Yup,” I say and turn to walk out the door.
“Good luck with that!” he calls out behind me. “You’re gonna need it.” He pauses. “At your age.”He laughs and my consolation is that no one laughs with him. I slip outside into the exhaust-choked air, feeling like I can breathe again.
BLURBLife can change in the blink of an eye. That's a truth Andy Slater learns as a young man in 1982, taking the Chicago 'L' to work every morning. Andy's life is laid out before him: a good job, marriage to his female college sweetheart, and the white picket fence existence he believes in. But when he sees Carlos Castillo for the first time, Carlos’s dark eyes and Latin appeal mesmerize him. Fate continues to throw them together until the two finally agree to meet up. At Andy’s apartment, the pent-up passion of both young men is ignited, but is snuffed out by an inopportune and poorly-timed phone call.
Flash forward to present day. Andy is alone, having married, divorced, and become the father of a gay son. He’s comfortable but alone and has never forgotten the powerful pull of Carlos’s gaze on the 'L' train. He vows to find him once more, hoping for a second chance. If life can change in the blink of an eye, what will the passage of thirty years do? To find out, Andy begins a search that might lead to heartache and disappointment or a love that will last forever….
BUYAmazon
Dreamspinner Press

Good Karma, Good Books: Arrival by Michelle Robbins

Every Wednesday, I put on my pimp clothes (zoot suits, feathered hats, platform shoes, and the like) and introduce you to something new and wonderful in the literary world. This week, I’m excited to shine a spotlight on Arrival by Michelle Robbins. 

AUTHOR COMMENT

"This book is special to me because I adore futuristic romance, and often I'm feeling all alone in my love of them.  For me, the entire idea of forging a connection, discovering the magic and the majesty of love, among the incalculable vistas of the skies must be a breathtaking experience.  (Yes, I gaze at the stars often...and dream.)

"This book also has a special place in my heart because the cover model is a buddy of mine from town.  We crossed paths on a social platform, he mentioned he was a model and did adult entertainment films, and I noted the amazing tattoo on his chest.  (Okay, yeah, I also noted that amazing chest.)  My muse perked up and began to craft a culture around the tattoo and I reached out to Miles to ask: "Ever thought about being on the cover of a romance book?  It would be male/male romance."  
(My publisher gives me a lot of leeway to play in that sub-genre and here I am finding my own cover art. D'OH!)
Miles said, "Wow, I'm honored" and hooked me up with his photographer.  And the book was born.  (Part two of the story is due in the first half of '16. (In the event I manage to get it finished in time to qualify for "early '16.")"

GIVEAWAY

It's important to me to remember our heroes.  So, the first five replies will get a signed paperback copy for free. Just leave a comment with your e-mail below to be entered to win.
BLURB
Life for Liam Sinclair used to be easy. Raves, work, sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. Yet all of that changed with the arrival of the Urilqii...space aliens, technically, although they looked like everybody else. But if that wasn't freaky enough, they arrived on Earth to thwart a global usurpation by beings they called The Targolt. Climate change, long-denied, was proof of the invasion.Although at first Liam was as skeptical as everyone else, he couldn't deny one fantastic truth--those space-faring alien dudes were hot, Hot, HOT! Still, despite their smiles and affable natures, despite the continual coverage of their actions by the media, the aliens have been strangely close-mouthed, even after many months on Earth. And Liam, like most humans, can't help but wonder--what are they hiding?He is about to find out.First Sergeant Mike, a member of the Urilqii race, lost his love in the last battle with The Targolt and lives with the pain and guilt of surviving while his adored partner did not. But with Liam's sudden arrival into his life and into his heart, will Mike be able to accept or even admit his growing feelings for the handsome human?
BUY
Amber Quill Press
Amazon

AUTHOR BIO
Michelle Robbins began reading romance novels in middle school. Her passion for that genre has continued to this day. Imagine her surprise when Romance blended with Erotica. Stories poured out of her!
Blessed to live among the glory and grandeur of the USA’s Pacific Northwest, she shares her home with three cats, a tank of fish, her dreams and many, many daily critter visitors.
Michelle also writes Futuristic Romance for Amber Quill Press’s main imprint under the penname B. Thatcher.

Come play among her imaginings. She promises that it won’t hurt.
SOCIAL MEDIAhttps://www.facebook.com/MichelleRobbinsEroticFiction
https://michellerobbinseroticfiction.wordpress.com/