The Snark, It Hounds Me
So I’m working on an M/M submission with a metric assload of snark, sass, and banter (working title “A Boon by Moonlight”) for Evernight’s Romance on the Go line, and I reach the hot steamy sex scene where my hero has just finished doing wonderful things to his partner’s ass and pulls out lube for the main event.
His partner, a very impatient Sidhe noble, basically says “Why did you stop and what the hell is that?”
Rather incredulously, Hero inquires whether Sidhe Noble ever uses lube when he has sex.
Sidhe Noble huffs and says he’s not a barbarian, he always uses saliva or sometimes oil when it’s handy.
Hero, utterly appalled, mutters, “Yeah, welcome to the 21st Century.”
No, I cannot get away from attitude, even in a sex scene. But that’s all right, because it is done and clocks in at 11,115 words. I’m gonna let it sit for a day, then edit and submit on Friday. Weelah!
What to do when you get a rejection
Today I got a very nice rejection email from the agent I queried about Storm Season. It wasn’t deemed a good fit for their agency, but they suggested I continue to look for other agents as opinions vary widely.
Now, rejections are normal in pretty much every writer’s life, and Lord knows I’ve collected enough in my career. Am I disappointed that the agent wasn’t interested in Storm Season? Yes, of course I am. Nobody likes to be rejected, and it would have been nifty to be represented by this agency.
Am I surprised that they passed on it? Honestly, not all that much. Storm Season is, after all, a MMM menage erotic romance, and while those are very popular with e-publishers, I suspect they’re a harder (hur hur) sell when it comes to print publishers. An agent is all about salable books, so their decision to pass is understandable. Also, it’s not like they said, “Whatever made you think you were literate in the first place, you babbling hag? Never darken our phosphors again.” So if I have something that might be a better fit for them (and I don’t have an agent by then), I can always try submitting new stuff in the future.
Am I giving up writing entirely, deleting the file and eating an entire half gallon of Butter Pecan to drown my sorrows in a diabetic coma? No. Rejections are part of the game — they happen, you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and submit your work to the next person on your list. Now, I’m not going to do that exactly with Storm Season — yes, I could continue to ping agents, but I suspect I’ll get the same response from them simply because of the subject matter. As I already have an e-publisher in mind, I’ll be submitting it there as soon as I finish the polish and write a one-page synopsis.
Ultimately, I have faith in my writing. I know Storm Season will sell — my hard-nosed nitpicky beta readers have loved it — and I know it’ll find an audience. I just have to be patient and keep on looking for the right market. And I will sell other books as well, because I won’t stop until I do. It’s simple as that.
Although I have to admit, butter pecan does sound pretty good right about now…
Nicola’s Sunday Shoutout: Raven McAllan
Today’s Sunday Shoutout goes to Raven McAllan, whose new erotic romance novel A Shimmer of Silk is now available from Evernight Publishing. The second book in The House On Silk Street series, A Shimmer of Silk is a delightfully wicked erotic Regency romance with a hint of mystery, and follows the story of Deborah, one of the house’s performers, and Oliver, Lord Craster, a very dominant noble who senses his other half in Deborah. But can she submit to the one man who may be able to unlock her soul?
And now, here’s Raven!
Thanks so much for inviting me here.
The thrill of a new release hits me every time. Tempered with a very large dose of self-doubt, and nail-biting scariness. What if nobody buys it? What if those that do hate it? And maybe, just maybe, people will buy it and will like it.
After all, Evernight know what they want, and they wanted this. So give over already. Yeah, easy to write, a lot harder to do, and it still doesn’t stop me stalking the sites that host it to see if it’s sold.
I’ve always loved writing; and now, writing and being published and people reading what started off in my murky mind gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside.
A Shimmer Of Silk, which was recently released by Evernight Publishing, is the second book in the series The House On Silk Street. It follows Silver Silk Ties, and can be read as a stand alone. The series are Erotic Regency, with a dash of mystery. The answer to the mystery will become clear in the final book, but not knowing doesn’t spoil how you read the other books.
The house on Silk Street, is not your ordinary mansion. Things go on within its doors that most members of the Ton either don’t know, or don’t wish to know about. Those ladies and gentlemen who do go there don’t broadcast the fact. Their activities are very unusual, and very personal.
As far as anyone knows, Deborah is in the house on Silk Street as an entertainer. During her performance, she catches the eye Of Oliver.
Deborah may not know the full truth of her childhood, but she knows she needs to find her soul.
During one of her performances at Silk Street, she attracts the attention of Oliver, Lord Craster. Known for his extreme tastes, he sensed a kindred soul in Deborah.
Persuading her that their needs mesh proves a challenge, even to a man of his experience. Will Oliver be the man she needs to unlock her secrets? Or will his dominance scare her too much to even try?
Are the nightmares simply too strong?
Story Excerpt
It was one thing to agree to accompany Oliver; it was another to do it with insouciance and style. Deborah hung onto her composure by a thread. One word out of place, one unaccustomed challenge, and she feared she would fall to pieces. But deep inside her was an excitement she had never felt before. The recognition of hope and arousal that she sensed would over come any negative feelings, or doubts, within her.
He took her hand and tucked it into his as they walked along a brightly lit, deserted corridor. There were no doors to break the flow of the walls, just lamps at regular intervals. “We will see no one unless you wish it. My apartments are mine alone. Nevertheless, Felton knows you are with me, and I have given him my word, as I did to Luc, we will do nothing without your acceptance. I promise you this also. Our life will be ours. Not for us anything others want, it will be as we desire.” He stopped suddenly and pulled her into his arms.
His cock pressed against her quim, and Deborah’s breath hitched. Her mouth was dry, as she felt her juices run. It seemed preferable not to look down, for she was sure the pantaloons she wore would show the marks of her excitement. As Oliver’s lips touched hers, she opened her mouth and let his tongue in, to mimic the act she knew they would enjoy later. As he thrust, she couldn’t help but grind her cunt against his prick.
Oliver lifted his head. “Soon, love. You taste of nectar.”
He tastes of hope.
Within minutes she was standing in a small entrance hall. Deborah looked round her, hoping to get an idea of the preferences of the man. It was bland, almost conventional with cream walls and a pale green a chaise set next to a drum table against one wall. The only splash of color was a bright gold and red cushion thrown carelessly to one end of the chaise. Oliver had evidently picked up on her puzzlement.
“This is for servants to deliver food, etcetera. For visitors to wait in and for us to pass through as swift as we can. Are you ready? If not, now is the time to say so. You can pull the rope and a servant will escort you to your room.”
Her stomach was churning, but with excitement, not fear. The shivers she felt were those of anticipation, not worry.
“I thought this was now my room? To share with you? Are you reneging, my lord?” His face was a picture of astonishment. Deborah couldn’t help herself; she burst into laughter. “Oh, my lord, you should see your expression. It is a sight to behold. Truly, if I ever feel threatened, uncomfortable, or unable to sustain aught we do, I will say so. My safe word is sauf.”
“Your safe word?” he said slowly. “What do you know of safe words?”
“Nothing except if we are to discover my limits, we need to decide on one. A word which if I utter, you will desist immediately in whatever activity we are partaking. That is not to say you will not return to the, er subject at a later date, once we have discussed any reluctance or questions I may have. Ah, Oliver, do you think I did not know the reasons why this house exists? Even if our, that is mine and Luc’s enquiries, had not told us enough, Lord Dalrey was insistent we knew where and the likes of whom we were entertaining.”
“And you are happy with this?”
She giggled. “Until I taste what you have in mind for us, how do I know?” Deborah thought it was a reasonable question in the circumstances. “In theory, I know some activities will be good, some will push me, and strain my thoughts and mind. Indeed, some things may be beyond my endurance and I cry stop. But which fits where has yet to be determined. Nevertheless, I wish to see what you deem suitable for us. I need, I must, discover myself.” She dare not say more. Indeed, she would have been hard pressed to do so. Deborah had no idea how to describe the turmoil her emotions were in.
He gave her a sharp glance but didn’t comment.
“Sauf it is.” Oliver pushed open a door. “After you.”
An imp of mischief made her curtsey and she saw the glint in his eyes.
“One day, your sauce will be your undoing, my love, I will remember.”
She was sure he would. In a strange way she looked forward to it.
Where To Buy
About Raven McAllan
Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats — their children having flown the nest — surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.
She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland — the midge.
Her very understanding and long-suffering DH, is used to his questions unanswered, the dust bunnies greeting him as he walks through the door, and rescuing burned offerings from the Aga. (And passing her a glass of wine as she types furiously.)
Where to find Raven McAllan
Website
Blog
Raven’s Facebook
Author Page on Facebook
Twitter
This is a writer’s brain while trying to get to sleep
Since my brain obviously thinks that I’m spending far too much time on luxurious fripperies such as sleep, it’s come up with another novel for me to write.
So now, in addition to the 6-book ecofantasy erotic romance series, the MMF kinky erotic romance set in 1923 Berlin, and the MMF historical erotic romance set in Roman-occupied Britain (and that’s just the erotic romances) I also have a plot for an MF historical erotic romance novel loosely based (very, VERY loosely, mind you) on the poem “The Highwayman.”
“Big Bess” Warner, the tall, gangly tomboy of an innkeeper’s daughter, reluctantly agrees to marry a rich merchant’s son in exchange for the freehold deed to the land around her father’s inn, and believes her life is doomed to be corseted, dull, and covered in ridiculous frills. But when her fiance’s carriage is stopped by Black Jack Carrington, England’s shortest highwayman, Bess finds herself thrown headlong into adventure, danger, and a most unexpected romance.
Thanks, brain.
90,022 words
And that is, as we say in the biz, a wrap for Storm Season. Query letter goes off tomorrow, and fingers stay crossed until I hear back.
Chapter 17 is now edited like a boss
86K and a bit, and the big-ass hurricane battle sequence between Ian and the big baddie is done, dusted, and damned good. Also, I referenced the First Law of Thermodynamics in an erotic romance. I RULE.
And now that I’ve done 35 minutes on the Treadmill of Musing, I’m going back in for the final sex scene. Cover me, people.
Basta. Genug. Enough.
So I’m working on Chapter 17 of Storm Season today and inserted a # to indicate a scene break. I centered the hash mark, as I do, and moved the tab over so that the line wasn’t indented. The entire frigging document then centered and lost its tabs. Swearing under my breath, I had to hit Undo to get the text back to normal. Oddly enough, the hash mark remained centered.
This has been an ongoing problem with Word ever since I passed 65,000 words on this book. Word, which is enough of a resource hog as it is, tends to start horking on large documents — it messes around with the header and footer spacing, tabs, alignment, and formatting. I did have the doc set up so that I could use a format for the hash marks as well as italicized text and chapter headings, but after the third time I lost all that and the doc reverted to its standard format, I gave up.
Now, I know a lot of writers get around this problem by splitting their chapters into separate documents and linking all those together with a master document. That’s fine and dandy, but it’s also has its own pain in the ass elements and frankly, I’ve had problems with the pagination flowing smoothly from one doc to another.
Luckily, there is a solution, and I bless the esteemed Jerry J. Davis for cluing me into it. The brilliant minds over at Literature and Latte make a wonderful word processing app called Scrivener that runs on PC and Mac platforms, and is designed specifically for writers. It allows you to storyboard, store pictures and notes, switch back and forth between a virtual corkboard and your document, and contains all kinds of fiction and non-fiction format templates for everything from a short story to a novel manuscript to a screenplay to an article. It also outputs in a variety of formats, including ebook formats .mobi, .epub and .pdf for people who are self-publishing. I’ve used Scrivener before for my self-publishing, but never got around to using it for a novel.
That ended this afternoon, when I imported Storm Season into a new Scrivener doc. Yes, it took an hour to get everything fixed and set up the way it was supposed to be, but as a result I realized that I’d somehow seriously defaulted on the size of Chapter Three and it had to be expanded, which in itself was massively useful. Writing in Scrivener also seems much easier to me, and Lord knows its easier to learn and work with than Word. You can download a free trial for thirty days — if you like it, the app is $45. If you’re developing a loathing for Word that’s interfering with your writing, go check it out. I truly think you’ll be glad you did.
Storm Season is almost done
Sixteen chapters down, two to go, and then I write the query letter and send it off. And it has been a most educational experience, editing a novel. I’ve finished novels before, mind you, but this is the first time I’ve ever managed to get through editing one and whipping it into submission shape. I may have to pull out those two finished novels and put them through the same process, once blood has returned to my butt and my fingers stop screaming at me.
Things what I learned whilst editing my novel:
- After realizing that I’d unconsciously followed the three act format, I learned that somehow much of Act Two wound up in Act Three and had to be transplanted. I then had to rewrite a good 40% of Act Three because what was left was so patchy as to be almost unusable. That being said, my Act Two freaking well rocks — no slow middle third of the novel here, nosiree.
- If I have a magical tattoo show up on my MCs in Act One, I kinda have to make it do something useful by Act Three.
- Not many M/M/M erotic romances also contain references to Greek gods, genetic engineering, nanotech, and Alan Turing. Go me!
- One person commented on my short story “Tied With a Bow” that the menage relationship came together too easily and cleanly. That does not happen here by a long shot, hoo boy. If I can put my boys through the wringer, I do. I’m surprised they don’t hate me by now.
- If I sit for too long, my middle back muscles knot up like a bitch. There’s a reason why I own a treadmill, and I really need to use it more often.
- I need to find better ways to pull my brain out of fifth gear so that I can get to sleep at night instead of staring at the ceiling thinking, “Wait, did I remember to add that backstory? Is that going to work or is it an infodump? Maybe if I just use more character motivation…”
Soon, my precious. Soooooon…
Tory Michaels: PROPHECY OF BLOOD
Hey, gang, here’s a great way to kick off 2013! Tory Michaels’s new book Prophecy of Blood is now available from Evernight Publishing. Go, buy, read!
One hundred ninety-eight seasons after the mushroom-shaped clouds first blossom to poison the humans of the Rising Sun, near the beginning of the Season of Inundation, Atlantis will return.
With those words ringing in their ears, vampires Christine Javert and Jordan MacNaught find themselves in a race against time to stop the return of Atlantis. As they hunt for the deadly Ares, they discover the true depths of his plot to incite a world-wide species war, turning the humans against all the non-humans, not just the vampires as they’d originally thought.
Story Excerpt
“Dude, next time just tap me on the shoulder.”
She needed to lodge the protest, though her body sang at the familiar touch. She and her body needed to have a good, long talk about this situation. He shouldn’t be able to make her go mushy just by putting an arm around her. Not when they’d sated their lust so recently.
As expected, Jordan wore a suit that evening, and it suited him perfectly. No tie for a change though, and his crisp shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. So for him, he was going for a casual look.
The arm around her back drifted south until his hand rested on her ass and gave it a gentle squeeze. “My way’s more fun. Admit it, wasn’t it fun, seeing him slink off?”
He grinned. How a grown man frozen in his early twenties could continually look like a mischievous little boy when he grinned was beyond her. But it worked for him. Chris shook her head and groaned. Protest. Remember? You’re doing the whole friend thing, and friends don’t grab friends’ asses. Not even friends you bounce at every opportunity. With an effort, she leveled out her breathing. “I didn’t expect to see you here so early. I was heading out soon.”
Even with the attempt to moderate her voice, her words came out breathy. She cringed internally. If Jordan noticed, he didn’t comment. “You need a keeper. I’ve appointed myself to the task.”
Arrogant jackanapes. Rather than draw a scene by having a conversation in the middle of the dance floor without dancing, she sighed and looped his arms around his neck. At least she didn’t have to bother with the intricacies of a waltz. The last time she’d danced with him had been in London, the night before he buried her.
The hand on her butt squeezed again. “What was that thought? You just scowled.”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He frowned, but let the matter drop. “You look smashing, Chrissy. Why were you wasting it on the dog?”
“It was a dance, nothing more. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Dozens of people surrounded them, but she saw only Jordan. Felt him as his other hand trailed lazily down her back. His lips brushed her ear as he leaned close. “After earlier, I might just make it my business.”
Her mouth went dry, and she blinked at him. “Huh, wha’?”
“I make a lousy friend, as you well know.” He cupped the back of her head and kissed her. Her knees threatened to buckle. “And since I intend to be inside you again at the earliest possible moment, the ‘friend’ label doesn’t fit.”
Oh. Wowser. She licked her lips, saw an answering flare of arousal flash in the green eyes staring into hers. “You’re not serious. Like, you want to date?” He blew my mind, but it was that good for him, too?
“Such a dull word, but sufficient.” He drew her closer. Fire followed the path of his lips around the bottom of the dark-blue choker she wore to cover up the nasty scar from the attack that left her almost dead. He took a long sniff, no doubt smelling the Princess perfume she daubed on. “You smell good enough to eat, Chrissy. I could spend hours doing just that.”
The already warm nightclub turned scorching. Maybe it was just her temperature.
“In that obnoxious pink bed of yours.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, tried not to picture them in her room. It definitely was her temperature soaring, not the club’s.
Jordan’s voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Arms and legs restrained, holding you open for me. No escape, no retreat.”
Her non-existent imagination conjured the image up in startling detail, bolstered by the memory of the handcuffs around her wrists earlier. She whimpered, couldn’t help the moisture that trickled from her to soak her panties. Oh damn, no. That should not turn me on. Not him. Not like this, not again.
She moved with the music, turning to press her back into him. His strong, sure hands pulled her hips against his in a dance they’d done so many times together, one that had nothing to do with music.
“And the thought, being with me like that, excites you. Letting control go earlier like you did, gave you a rush you’ve never gotten before in sex.” Jordan pushed the hair at her neck to the side. Sharp fangs sank against her throat, not quite breaking the skin, his other hand drifting up to cup her breast. The fabric of her dress did nothing to shield her against the heat of his palm. “Did you sneak out afterward because of how it made you feel?”
Teasing touches trades down her sides until he reached the hem of her skirt. His hand slid beneath to caress the skin of her thigh just above her garter.
Take back control, Chris. You steam-roller. Men don’t do this shit to you. Nor did she want them to. Right? Except him, damn it all to hell. And he was talking about feelings? What the fuck? Struggling to keep her head against the sensuality he dragged out of her, she clamped her hands over his wrists to still his movements. With only a hint of her normal forcefulness, she said, “Knock it off, MacNaught.”
“Or what, hmm? Let go, Chrissy. You’d enjoy yourself more if you relaxed. Remember?”
He twisted his wrist, broke her admittedly weak grip on him, and the exploration of her leg continued. She colored, prayed no one was staring at them. The display, while making her hornier than a bitch in heat, was mild for the ‘Cor. It didn’t matter, because she flat out didn’t do public affection. None of her boyfriends crossed the line with her, knowing she’d flatten them if they pushed too far.
She couldn’t flatten Jordan though. To make it worse, she didn’t want to.
Goosebumps rose in the wake of his caresses over her thighs. His fingers inched upward, just brushing her mound, only blocked by the flimsy barrier of her soaked panties.
He laughed softly in her ear. “You say no, but your body, your oh-so-pretty pussy says yes, doesn’t it?”
Chris twitched. If she didn’t move away, didn’t break this off, the bastard would think he could maul her whenever he wanted. And what’s wrong with that? So what if he does the caveman thing? You read the trashy romance novels, and are surprised when someone acting like those alpha assholes turns you on?
A harsh blast of noise from behind her head where it plastered against Jordan’s suit coat worked as effectively as a bucket of water.
Where to Buy
About Tory Michaels
Originally from the Sacramento Valley, Tory packed up and moved all the way to Southwest Florida in 2004 with her husband (a Florida native) under the premise that ‘hurricanes almost never hit that part of the state.’ That year, 4 blasted the area. 4 more came the following year, and her husband blames her for bringing the hurricanes. She now resides in Jacksonville and is relieved that, thus far, no more hurricanes have followed her around.
She began writing in kindergarten when a turnip wished to be human and, other than a hiatus shortly after getting married, has never stopped. Her love of vampires began somewhere in junior high, and combining the two loves didn’t take long. She loves music, considers herself a ‘book slut’ whose reading habits would break her family financially if given free reign, and is (usually) delighted to be a mommy of twin Shrimpettes and a Shrimp.
Where To Find Tory Michaels
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Nicola’s Sunday Shoutout: Cara Michaels
Today’s Sunday Shoutout goes to Cara Michaels, whose Romance On the Go novella Their First Noelle is now available from Evernight Publishing and other purveyors of fine erotic romance. Their First Noelle is the sweetly hot tale of a retired Christmas elf named Noelle who just wants to be loved, even if it’s only for one night. Luckily for Noelle, her Christmas wish is about to be granted twice over. And now, here’s Cara!
Elf Noelle Duncan thought life among the humans would be a nice change of pace after two hundred years in Santa’s workshop. Instead, retirement is lonely and the prospect of spending her remaining centuries among humans doesn’t hold much appeal. With Christmas approaching, she wants just one night to feel alive and loved.
Kristian Winters and Nicholas Haversham are partners in business and love. They’d like nothing more than to find a woman to share their love, but they’ve yet to find one open not only to two lovers, but a pair with unusual appetites. Noelle is the only woman they want, and Nick isn’t about to let Christmas go by without making their wishes known.
Story Excerpt
“This is your last chance to walk out the door, Noelle,” Kris said, his voice rough. “Now you have an idea what we want.”
“Stay the night,” Nick said, “and we’ll give you all the pleasure you can take.”
“On our terms,” Kris added.
“You’ll…hold me down?” Her entire body tingled at the thought.
“Tie you down,” Nick said.
“Tie me down?” Her breath caught. She’d never imagined being bound for her lover. Being bound for two? Heat flooded her breasts, arrowed down to her thighs and the moist heat between them.
“And up. Over. Around. How flexible are you?”
She laughed, clamping a hand over her mouth. A look back at Nick showed his hazel eyes dancing with mischief and hope. Kristian’s dark chocolate gaze gave nothing away now. He’d played his cards, as the human saying went, and let Nick tease her.
“There’s more,” Nick promised. “So much more.”
Nick trapped her hands once again, this time in just one of his own. He spun her against him. She sucked in a breath as her breasts collided with his harder chest. He scooped her hair into one hand, tugging until her head dropped back for his kiss. Struggling against his hold provoked a devilish grin from him and his grip tightened just to the edge of pain. He took her open mouth like a conqueror.
Where To Buy
About Cara Michaels
Cara Michaels is a dreamer of legendary proportions (just ask her about the alien pirate spaceship invasion). Her imagination is her playground and nothing is quite so much fun for her as building new characters and new worlds with at least an edge of the fantastic. She’s writing whenever the opportunity presents itself and can typically be found tinkering with half a dozen projects. Occasionally all at once.
Nicola Cameron Writes 