S.A. Garcia is on my blog today talking about her new book!

NaNoWriMo and Ascending the Stairs of Cirith Ungol
Remember the Stairs of Cirith Ungol from “Return of the King?” This Tolkien geek adores how Peter Jackson portrays the stairs onscreen: steep, dark and menacing, certainly no stairway to heaven but instead a stairway to utter hopeless and death via a large, nasty spider. When our heroes followed treacherous Gollum up the stairs, they didn’t know what the hell to expect.
Am I getting at something by rambling about “Lord of the Rings”? Did anyone else equate the Steps of Cirith Ungol with National November Writing Month, better known as NaNoWriMo?
Anyone? Bueller?
Time to lower my hand and blush. Ouch, I panicked over writing 50,000 words in a month before I left the Shire’s security. Me finish that many words in a month? Ha! I’d never written so much in a month. What made me think I could perform a miracle this time?
All writers approach NaNoWriMo differently. The sleek writing greyhounds sprint from the cliché gate. They create great reams of words and finish their 50,000 words before the middle of the month. They probably fall over heaving before sprinting off to something new.
I used to wonder about writing greyhounds. After having met a few, I discovered they aren’t mythical. Some people haul words from their mental well in alarming speed. There’s a talent I’ll never achieve.
Other NaNoWriMo divas procrastinate until they start typing in a mad dash a week away from the end. What a gamble. Too much chance to miss a step.
After thousands of words, other NaNoWriMo word warriors suffer nasty paralysis. They decide blam, they have failed. The Steps of Cirith Ungol defeats them. They gather their words and climb down.
Then there’s my category. I fall into the “Crap, I’m Inconsistent to a Fault” school of writing, not a plus when traveling into the dreaded NaNoWriMo mindset.
Let me digress. Please, really, I need to sit on this handy bench-shaped rock to ponder my problem. My normal writing style bounces over the damned place. One day I eek out ten words, while another day brings 1,000 words. The trouble is the 1,000 word days have vanished. This dilemma scares the wild blueberry muffins out of me. Why does my pace wither on the cliché writing vine? Do I lose interest? No, not really; ideas still buzz around in great force.
Does something distract me? At this point, everything distracts me from keeping my mind in a story. Why? I hate admitting this, but a dangerous similarity has crept into certain WIP characters. My characters resemble each other. Trust me, this is as dangerous as sticking your head in an alligator pond. Well, not as bad, but ruining my character’s unique voice is lethal to my writing. I create idiosyncratic characters. They are not heroes. Fine specimens displaying heroic physical build and bravery seldom stumble into my books. When they do crash into the storyline, they arrive bearing serious imperfections. My characters need to have their special, weird flaws that make me love them and make some readers hate them.
Which brings me back to NaNoWriMo. Would braving the Stairs of Cirith Ungol help me re-connect with the unique edge desperately needed for my new characters? Can I sound a little more dramatic? Trust me, I can, oh yes indeed. I can spin purple prose like a randy old whore.
As of today, November 16, I am pleased, thrilled and, frankly, stunned to report I have reached the 39,000 word mark. 39,000 decent words, not a random jumble; words supported by fact-checking, solid location research, and logic. I correct obvious typos as I plod along, but my typing sucks, which leads to hilarious word misusage. During my first edit, I will find plenty of “ed”’s instead of an “s”. The sneaky skipped words will try to evade my notice. Pesky cracks requiring detail and atmosphere await filling.
Here’s the faaaabulous news: to my delight, my characters’ unique temperaments develop in merry mayhem. My boxer-clad, spike-heel waving diva just chased a threatening villain across a lawn. He borrowed the red shoe weapon from his drag queen boyfriend. Their relationship is shaping up in a goofy, romantic manner and that, kittens, makes me want to plow ahead and finish this novel. This time my eccentric men do not fail me. Their drama requires more than 50,000 words.
The revelation makes this plodder extremely happy!
NaNoWriMo taught me ascending the Stairs of Cirith Ungol in willy-nilly fashion isn’t for me. Plodding up, each foot placed securely before I push up to the next, is the way for me to go. I am a plodder, not a sprinter, although one epic 6,000 word day made me wonder who crawled into my brain.
The lesson is, as long as I plod every day, I’ll keep connecting to my crazy characters. If a large, nasty spider gets in my way, I’ll plod on her slimy head. I will finish the climb because my reenergized characters demand their drama.
Whoops, sorry, I need to stop the naked drag queen from running down the highway. Arrest for indecent exposure isn’t in the future for him.
At least not let.
Wish me luck!
This seems like a great place for a taste of “Cupid Knows Best,” my newest novel from Dreamspinner.
BLURB:
When it comes to his professional life, photographer Carl Conrad is at the top of his game. He molds impressionable minds at university by day and jets off to Paris for gallery showings on long weekends. Unfortunately, he pays for it with his disastrous personal life: Carl kicked his boyfriend to the curb after one too many punches, so now it's just him and his hamsters, one of which he suspects may be a space alien.
Then Cupid takes pity on Carl and hits him where it hurts. It takes Carl all of three seconds to fall head over heels in lust with set design student Marcelino Moya, despite the man’s questionable—okay, deplorable—fashion sense. Convincing Marcelino to give him a chance is the hard part, but Carl is up for the challenge, pun definitely intended.
Marcelino plays hard to get, but he isn't immune to Carl's charms. Carl talks him around to dinner, dating, and eventually moving in. There's just one tiny word standing between Carl and perfect happiness. Why won't Marcelino say it?
 EXCERPT:
Where did my clever lover hide? I didn't trust him. Once we connected, an elegant someone had turned ridiculously clumsy in the classroom. Marcelino lost his grace and transformed into a staggering klutz. My poor body was run into, brushed against, and leaned on for support while we searched for mysterious camera problems. Seductive Marcelino learned how to tease and torture me.Before I turned my attention to the eight-by-ten enlarger, I needed to pinpoint his exact location. There: my suspect hovered close, but not close enough for a sneak attack. Good.Marcelino smiled at me in full innocence. The room's red safe light cast demonic shadows onto his structured face.As I skillfully demonstrated an enlarger technique, strong fingers darted between my legs and gripped. Hard.A strangled little yelp flew from my surprised lips. How did sneaky Marcelino maneuver behind me? Of course my amused students offered me the sadly familiar "what the hell is wrong with Carl now?" stare. Hell, I had grown used to the laughable expression. The look had been aimed at me for years. "Sorry, I experienced a weird muscle cramp. Must be old age attacking me."More like virile youth.During the next class, I planned to wear tight briefs, not my typical loose boxers. I needed protection against my wild suspect. I might resort to wearing a chastity belt or armor. Ouch.Strange how the odd muscle cramp never tormented me again. The rest of the class passed sans further physical molestation.I gathered the students for a few closing remarks concerning their upcoming quiz. What a pushover; I gave the class a take-home quiz. Somehow a few students still had wrong answers. They received a special note in my book marking them as slothful for not bothering to look up the correct answers.A mocking light accent teased around my heart. "Professor, how does your muscle cramp feel?""Much better, thanks for asking."Marcelino shot me a fine Cheshire Cat smile. "You need to go home and rest up.""Why?" I leaned close and dropped my volume. "Isn't tonight a torment-me evening?""Not really. Well, it is an I-am-not-hopping-into-bed-with-you evening. If you regard such a night as torment, then your description fits. I'll come over for a quick visit after I close the shop."I tried making my words sound inviting. "Imagine, when you move in with me, you won't have to work."Whoops, I failed. I received a supremely scolding stare, a stare designed to humble me. Marcelino never appreciated badgering about the hoped-for event. "Did it ever occur to you that I enjoy my part-time gig? Beside, I receive a serious discount."I almost said something rude about his lacking fashion sense, but surprise, this hippie understood fashion tact. Today’s tattered purple velvet bell-bottoms belonged in the tacky hall of fame. At least his mauve T-shirt almost matched. "Forget I said anything. I treasure any time I spend with you.""There’s the proper attitude. I can only drop by for a drink and a cuddle.""Yeah, like I said, torment."My sadist pursed his full lips at me. He swatted my arm. "Boo-hoo. See you around nine thirty."Watching my sexual tormentor's purple velvet-clad ass sway away from me added to my despair. I glanced into the photo equipment room. Hey, hold on, what had happened to the darkroom monitor? Instead of waiting for her to appear, I cleaned up after the students.I plodded toward home like a tired mule. Sigh. I wanted Marcelino in my bed every night. Unfortunately he had early-morning classes on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. If he needed to rise early, he refused to stay over. His restraint stunned me. On nights when he didn't work, dinner together was fine, but my sexy Latin lover refused to step into my bedroom. We cuddled on the couch or enjoyed walks through the Village holding hands, but absolutely no sex reared its lively head.I resorted to calling them torment-me nights. My gentle coaxing about how I lived closer to school, we'd sleep before midnight, I'd rise early and make him breakfast, fell like rain in a rushing river. Useless. Nothing persuaded Marcelino from his stubborn schedule.What the hell did hotter-than-habaneros Marcelino do to me? Did he doubt our future as a couple?No. Acting ridiculous did not fit into my romantic plan. I acted like a horny ass. My overreaction to his logical rules sickened me. Marcelino, as wild as he was, responded to our new affair like a sane person. I acted like an obsessive madman chasing a sexy walking, talking dream.Yoga, wine, and working on a proposal to teach a summer course promised to occupy my overheated mind until nine thirty.Had I ever acted this obsessive over Martin? Huh, the fascinating thought teased me. For some reason Martin had never inspired the level of devotion I offered my sweet Marcelino.My mind slapped around this absorbing topic until I entered my home. Had I always sensed something wrong in my last relationship? Weird.Yes indeed, yoga to the rescue.At 9:43, Marcelino's custom two raps followed by three quick taps announced his arrival. My childish side considered not giving him the downstairs foyer keys until he moved in, but acting petty would destroy my cool mantra. I stood, avoided stepping on my travel ball-rolling hamster, and undid the final locks.Our greeting kiss tempted me to grab Marcelino and haul him to the bedroom. No. I refused to act like a disrespectful dolt.He leaned back against my supportive hand weave and sighed. "Today put me through the wringer. I am exhausted, but I wanted to see you."What a perfect opening line to jump on. "Why not stay here tonight?"The scolding stare's little brother arrived for a quick visit. "Because I still have work to finish for tomorrow.""Great, out of all the gay males roaming around this grand city, I find the dedicated one.""Precisely. Stop complaining and pour me a glass of something relaxing. Hey there, Spazz." Marcelino waved at my hamster. He flopped onto the couch in dramatic sprawl. His eyes rolled heavenward in disgust. "To add to the day's stress, I conducted a silly spat with Andre over how he wanted the sweaters folded. What an anal jackass. 'No, Marceliiiiinoo, 'ooo need to fooold theeem liiiike deeese, width theee arms just seeew.' The weirdo fakes his French accent. What the hell, he's from Toronto, not Paris or even Montréal. He lays his accent on so thick it's a wonder our customers don't trip over his words."I almost missed the glass from laughing. "You are a wicked mimic. He does sound like Pepé Le Pew."I handed Marcelino his glass of Shiraz. We clinked and sipped."Ooo, how fine, Robin Hood. Errol Flynn is sexy eye candy in snug tights. Look at those thighs. Yummy." Marcelino snuggled close. He rested his head on my shoulder. How pleasant to sit and relax, let the world drop away, and trust in heroic Robin Hood to save the day again. Watching Errol dash about in those revealing tights made me want to play a male variation of Maid Marian.Common sense warned me to halt what evil lurked in my mind. Hey, life needed a little spice, correct? I finished my wine and set down the glass. Good, Marcelino's glass also rested on the table. "I know exactly how to relax you.""How?"I reached to undo Marcelino's zipper. In the next second, Marcelino stood and almost knocked me off the couch. Only the padded arm prevented me from hitting the floor. My lover moved like a snake!Common sense snickered in glee. Marcelino stood over me, shaking a scolding finger in mock sternness. "You handsome bully, you have no intention of relaxing me. I refused to be seduced. I said one glass of wine and a cuddle. Sir, you just turned into a wicked pumpkin."I shrugged and tucked my hands behind my neck. "Can you blame a deprived man for trying?""Deprived! More like sneaky." He finished his wine and sighed in fresh dismay. "Is it that late? Sorry, I need to dash. How about I make dinner for you tomorrow night?""Sounds fine to me. I'll buy scallops.""Mmm, delicious. Hey, on Friday we celebrate our two-week anniversary.""Has it only been two weeks? Prepare yourself for a big cliché, but I feel like we have known each other forever.""You smoked too much pot today.""Honest, only one joint after my yoga session. I’m cutting back.""I advise you to smoke another to help you sleep. I don't want you suffering from advanced sexual frustration." Marcelino snickered. I stood. He stepped back and grinned. "You know what? You are correct. Leave before I peel off your clothes and hide them to keep you from escaping.""I shall take my exit." We kissed without embracing. "Sweet dreams.""Scram!"
Thanks for reading and thanks for Caitlin for having me here today.S.A. Garcia
Cupid Knows best and S.A.'s Other Dreamspinner Titles S.A. Garcia's Blog S.A. Garcia's Novels at Silver Publishing