In Between Days....The Thumb Puppet Post

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that authors are like those goofy little toys that were popular once, and sometimes still are if you are in the right hipster store...you know the ones...the "thumb puppet" that is all upright and perfect one minute, then all droopy and collapsed-looking the next.

Yep. That's my analogy and I am by god sticking with it.

No matter how many times you get up in the morning as an indie author who truly does want to be "discovered" and shoved in front of the masses with a giant marketing budget, sent on "casting calls" in LA to pick a dream cast for the premium cable series, be on every possible tv show, in every magazine, have your series name used by Bill Mahr and Jon Stewart and Anderson Cooper in light, humorous banter.....when you sit down to Write the Dang Book, there is just you.

You and your computer screen (unless you are old school and use a legal pad)...that is all there is.  You and that flashing cursor, blank page and your imagination.  

So you make it happen. You pants (like me, figuring the journey is as good as the ending). Or your plot and plan and make graphs on your fridge door. Or you endlessly research while head writing. But at the end of the day You Write the Dang Book.


Damn you are awesome. Puppet strong!

Then, you either hit the rejection snag, or the editing Screeching Halt of "this doesn't work, change it all from here...." 

Down puppet.

But you spring back up, do what you are told by the wisest of all wise persons, Your Editor. Or you do a little revision and resubmit.  Puppet back up!  You rock! You are already planning what your entourage will be required to serve you for lunch during the casting calls....


You bounce up and down for a while, suffering the slings and arrows of the entire flaying...erm...editing process. And then, the book is READY! You have bought and paid for the book blog tours, written the posts, done your due diligence to make sure this book is by GOD gonna be seen and heard and loved by the masses.

Strong puppet!

Then, release day, and the subsequent days, and you have another plot bunny escape in your exhausted brain, and your first royalties are maybe disappointing....slow...droopy...down...puppet.

But, because we ARE what we SAY WE ARE: The Published Writer, albeit one in a churning sea of them, buffeted by JR Ward and EL James jealousy, propped up by our friends and family and whatever small group of fans we've snagged...and it's back up.  Back to the computer. Back to the blinking cursor...you and the blank page. Oh you sexy thing...how I have missed you....


I have a new book coming out, one I put a lot of blood and guts into (not that I didn't for all my others but this one is pretty special to me). I'm in the STRONG PUPPET mode: survived the edits, the galleys, the proofs, the catches, the glitches, the early few who are happy to have read it first....but I see it coming, like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel  that is an oncoming train.  The really down puppet moment of the first crappy review, or snarky conversation about you on Twitter, or whatever it is that represents that thumb, shoved up under your feet, forcing you to own your own ego.

But you know what? I'm already communing with my latest WIP, pondering edits for 3 others I have turned in, and am good and these In Between Days of the slowly drooping thumb puppet will come and go and I'll have more books at the end of it.

Wish me luck. As I do you. 
Liz, whose puppet would be shaped like a Beer Wench.


And because I'm that way, here is a never before seen and utterly unedited FREE excerpt from the upcoming 3rd novel of the Black Jack Gentlemen Trilogy coming from Tri Destiny Publishing August and September 2013:


Sophie tried not to picture him…that person who had ruined her, tried to kill her even, now that she would acknowledge what that last bike ride was about. They had exchanged personal vows, she wore his collar, he had a great job, that she found out later was a scam just like everything about him. And she had signed over nearly everything she had to him. After a couple of years together, she’d been utterly, completely duped. And he nearly cashed in on her million-dollar life insurance policy…nearly. He would not, could not touch her now. While she had no idea where he was, she hadn’t pursued him. Her heart would not let her. And she’d been too busy trying to recover both physical and financially to worry, figuring he surely would not be stupid enough to emerge in her life again.
She stood, letting the hot water sluice off her skin and observed herself in the floor to ceiling mirror. Well into her second year of life as “Madame Katrina” by night she had nearly paid back Lance her half of the investment and, apparently, was within months of emerging from personal bankruptcy. She may never be able to buy a house, but she no longer cared about such things. The angry scar that ran from her abdomen around to her back stood out. She touched it, thinking that fairly simple plastic surgery could rid her of it. But she needed it to keep her on an even keel, to remind her of the mistake she made with a man she trusted with everything that very nearly killed her outright. It stung as she pressed her fingers to it. She’d lost her spleen, and one kidney that day, sustained a compound fracture of her left leg that still hurt in the cold. But the lasting token of her ill considered years spent as a submissive were the ones inside, buried deep in her soul and psyche that turned into an insomniac, exercise obsessed, emotionally detached from everything. But with a dark, invisible scar that only she would touch, on occasion, to remind herself why “Madame Katrina” existed at all.
“Hey, you all right in there sunshine?” Lance wandered in, holding a huge cardboard cup of something caffeinated. Sophie’s long-buried caffeine freak twitched somewhere in her memory. Those days were long gone, along with her uber-bitch, know-it-all persona she’d used to shove away one man who’d been perfect and driven her straight in to the arms of …
“Hey,” she said, wrapping a towel around herself, completely unselfconscious in his presence. She stood in front of her closet of “Domme wear” and pondered the options. Many new clients stated their preferences for her garb and attitude on the form her website provided. “Robert” had merely said, “surprise me.” Sophie bit the side of her nail, at a loss and pissed off about that fact. This was her god damn scene, time to start acting like it.
Going with the hard bitch look tonight, she decided. Tugging on butter soft leather pants and stiletto boots, topped with black bra and nothing more, she admired herself a half second. Forcing her mind to drop everything but thoughts of “Robert” and his unknown needs, she stalked out into the main room, noting that Lance had lit all the candles, turned on the gas fireplace, and had the state of the art sound system cranked to, of all things, a Bob Marley song. She sighed, pissed at him but glad of his presence all the same. He sat, cradling that ubiquitous coffee cup to his chest in the large leather chair nearest the fireplace, bellowing out the lyrics along with the stereo.
“Not really the sort of mood music I usually use,” she said, stretching out her quads and hamstrings which had tightened after the hot tub. Something was off in her head and she knew it. That didn’t bode well for her client. And Sophie was nothing if not totally customer service focused. Lance frowned as the song wound down and hit the remote, letting some hard core grunge pound through her. She smiled. “That’s better. Thanks. Is it show time?”
Lance looked at his giant watch then tugged on his suit coat. Sophie wondered not for the first time where he go his expensive looking clothes. It would take something like a hundred yards of expensive wool to make just one of those suits. And they always made him look a thousand times better, which was a trick since the man was positively edible chocolate even dressed in sweat pants and a tee shirt. “Stop ogling me bitch.” He growled, his eyes shining.
“I can window shop, can’t I?” She cocked her hip and batted her lashes at him. “Just ‘cause I can’t buy the goods?”
“Yeah,” the low, movie-star worthy voice purred as he straightened his tie. Never in her life had she met a man more comfortable in his own skin. Amazing, considering all the things he’d done in his life to land here, a gay man practically married to a well known attorney with political ambitions—serving as business partner, bodyguard and IT consultant to a Madame for Hire. “You can look. It feeds my ego.”
They both startled at a knock at the door, and both glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d set it to let off a low chime that was actually an alarm, when she was within fifteen minutes of the end time of the pre-paid bondage session. “Seems as Robert is an eager youngster,” Lance rumbled, dimming the lights and shooing her back so she could make her entrance for full effect. Sophie blinked.
“Youngster?” She squeaked as sweat popped out on her upper back, and dripped in a familiar, hot yoga like way down her skin. Now she knew why she’d been jittery. It had to be.
“Yeah. Some kid really, but he checked out, never fear boss lady.” He pointed a forefinger at her, cocked his thumb like a trigger. “Ready?” He winked.
She gulped, nodded, her mouth so dry she could spit cotton. Lance shot her a funny look. “Go on,” she said unwilling to say anymore and suddenly ready to end this thing, finally, to have the moment she and Brody Vaughn had set in motion weeks ago. And quash it like a fucking bug, saving her soul in the process. “Open the door,” she said, putting both hands on either side of the backlit doorway, spreading her legs and adopting her “Let go big boy” look.
The man stepped in, dressed in a suit, dark hair combed back, forcing the oddest reaction from her—he needs a haircut. Then Brody stepped into the light, smiled at the sight of her until she moved forward and gave him a full look into her eyes.