More Things More Important Than Writing-HURDLES



This past month my family lost people important to us. That made me think as those things will do. When I thought I created a post about things that are more important than writing. The thing about writing and life is that writing can pause. You can stop to think, make changes. You can even go back and change what is not working. Life... Well we all know life has its own schedule to keep.

Writing is a poor imitation of life but it is the best one I have. It is what I always turn to--words can be rosary beads for a troubled mind. The sad thing is that writing to set aside the world is rarely good writing, at least for me. So I've been writing and rewriting and changing and wondering about so many things. Some questions are unanswerable by even the best stories.

I'm not a Why Me? person. Things happen. I deal. People that know me know about the infection that got into my brain and changed my life. There is always pain and sometimes worse things. We all have hurdles to get our asses over and that's the thing today. Sometimes, when getting ourselves over we lose sight of the other people and their hurdles.

I write because I have always done it, needed it in some way. More than that, for a long time I made a good living writing scripts for everything you could imagine. That was when I realized that what I was writing was important to some deeper part of me. I had to write MORE. Not quantity but something, more. I wanted to tell the stories that boiled in my brain late at night or that took up a long, silent car ride. MORE. I wanted to write so the people in my life would be proud. I want to write to touch in some way other people.

Writing is both one of my joys and one of my hurdles. I have to do it. It connects me to other people in a way that nothing else will for me. BUT. But I have to be careful that the very connection I seek does not become an insulator.

Things more important than writing--those are the people for whom I write. Family, friends, readers I may never meet. In the last few days I have become aware of a hole in things. A blind spot like the gap between your mirror's view and the turn of your head while driving. There are places through which we cannot write. Broken hurdles we may get over but leave a bit of blood for our passing. One of the people lost last month was a wonderful man but he had a long life full of the things long lives are full of. He is missed but his passing was more natural than tragic. Since then though, his granddaughter, my great niece, took her own life.

I had been close to her when she was a child then the blind spot crept in. She made her own life and choices. She tackled her own hurdles while I tackled mine. I was unaware that she was having troubles. Not completely unaware, more just unaware of the height of her hurdles. I don't flatter myself to imagine that I could have saved her from the darkness at the end of the race. Only that I could have worked harder to see into the blind spot. Maybe I could have lowered one hurdle for one person I care about. Maybe that is as much fantasy as some of the stories I write but it is a thought every bit as important to me as anything I might ever write.

So, while I haven't been writing as hard as I might like lately I console myself with the knowledge that my time right now is being spent trying to lower some hurdles for some other people. I will be back in town soon and back to my routine but I'll be a little more careful about blind spots.

Update on Safe Words

Going To Print-

Just a quick note to let everyone in on some of the latest news about Safe Words. Originally released in e-formats only, it is going into print. Take a look at the wonderful cover art and quote from the generous review on It's About the Book.

A New Review-

Safe Words just got another great review, 4 stars from reviewer, BookAddict on The Romance Reviews. It is a long and through review I couldn't be more proud of it. Please give it a read and maybe find another favorite book while you're there.

Things More Important Than Writing

I haven't posted in a while. It is a failing of mine whenever I try to be a blogger. I just don't have that much to say outside of the novels I write. When I started to write this post I knew what I wanted to share and why. It should have been easy to just lay it out. It hasn't been mostly because of the title of the post, Things More Important Than Writing kept drawing me astray. That's one of the great problems of writing at my level. There are so many time sucks and distractions, competing needs and guilts that horn in on your time it is easy to think of them as more important. They aren't. Those things are the angry conservative at a political debate, demanding attention by volume rather than merit. When I started writing this post I wandered into distractions when I really wanted to talk about values.

For the most part I write daily. The timing varies and I don't sweat the days when I accomplish little because my system is one of averages. I set monthly and weekly goals that I track with daily word count. I can lose an entire day and keep up my 2000 word a day average for the week by small increases through the rest of the week or one good day of 4000 words. 2000 words is a low but sustainable goal that maintains my pace. I don't hold myself down to that, it's my minimum. By passing it consistently I have room to keep up the average and deal with the time sucks. So my process has shock absorbers built in to deal with the distractions that are not really more important than writing, just more demanding of attention.

Most of the writers I know will tell you that they would write even without pay or readers. Most of us spend a considerable amount of time doing just that. Writing is a part of our personal definition along with family and friends. Oddly enough, it is something we tend to sacrifice for love of those others. That brings me to what's more important than writing- People, Family- Life.

I haven't been writing for a couple of weeks now and it has been upsetting me. I have things to finish and new stories to begin. I actually have readers who have become fans and I love the feeling of connecting to them and I want to give them my writing. That's the dream. The reality is, two deaths in the family, my son-in-law off at boot camp and my daughter and grandson living with me, their car breaking down, all my daughters fighting with their mother, (that's a whole story on it's own) a sister looking at job loss and money, always money. As much as I want to hunker down and write people need me and I can't let that be just a distraction.

We scraped up the money for a plane ticket and I went to Oregon for just a couple of days to say farewell to the husband of my oldest sister. He was a wonderful person and I would not have missed it for the world. There were people there that I see only every several years and these days only for deaths. I met children, great nieces and nephews, second and third cousins. One nephew was married to a woman with a child last time I was there. This time the child was getting ready for high school, my nephew had since divorced, come out, and remarried to his same sex partner. The things you miss.

I took the opportunity to speak about family at the memorial service. I spent time with two of my three sisters. I met family I didn't know I had. Back home I bought groceries and paid bills to keep my grandson warm and fed and happy. There will be another memorial service. There will be more squabbles and hugs to make up. More life and family. These things are more important than the time I spend writing. It's good to be needed. But important or not, writing is my refuge from need. Fore me there is writing, the distractions, and the things more important, but I can't dwell happily in any of them entirely. I've decided the one thing more important than writing is the balance in life that gives me writing while I give time to family.

DAMSEL IN DISTRESS FREE

 

My novels and stories are 100% Damsel In Distress free. It wasn't a conscious choice, something to be avoided. I simply haven't encountered that many damsels in my life. Those I have annoyed me. I'm a big believer in being the solution to your own problems. I have daughters and I've tried to instill that idea in them just as I have always put it into my characters.

That is not to say that my female characters are not feminine or are male characters in dresses. What I hope I accomplish is avoiding those simple characterization boxes that make writing bland. Not all of my female characters are good at solving their own problems but they try. Sometimes they get in their own way. Sometimes they need to be saved. Sometimes they kick ass and take names. The point for me is to make them people first, female second, then the list goes on from there.

Not all of my females are born female. Gender is a huge issue in the lives of some pretty wonderful people and one that is hard to ignore when you are looking for complexity in the world of your novel. In the case of the transgendered people I have written I still go with people first, identified gender second...

When it comes to being saved I aspire to make it plot necessary, or dramatic, never character defining. Peril is a necessary thing in the kinds of books I write. I love mayhem and dangerous situations and seeing how characters react. But if you ever see me use a character as a peril device, someone who simply exists to be rescued by and show off the prowess of the male lead- call me on it.

You may be saying who cares, big deal, or I don't even read your books, why should it matter to me? My point is, writers, even a poor hack like me, along with filmmakers, musicians, even video game developers, create, bit by bit, our culture. It's a responsibility.

I believe that culture is akin to the ocean in which we all live. It undulates and ripples, in places there are currents and zones of interaction and conflict. But there is a burden to it as well. Every negative we rain into that sea is a weight someone has to carry.

There is a huge dialogue going on now about gender roles in video games. I don't know a lot about gaming. I won't say anything about it. Sticking to what I know- what I say and how I say it matters to certain people. And my characters can be weights on the backs of women or can be bubbles under them. I make my choices not because women, or anyone else, need me to save them. I choose what I believe is better writing and because we're all swimming in this ocean together holding hands.

A story and a poem for Goodreaders

Today I'm adding a little story instead of the usual post. It is not edited or polished just something that was supposed to become part of a bigger story but I thought you might like something fun and sexy. Let me know what you think.

SKIN POEM

I light the candles one by one lingering at each to be sure the flame reaches high and bright into the evening. I had lit a fire in the fireplace earlier so now the room glowed with warmth. There is a large mirror on the floor by the hearth reflecting light and a pile of silk pillows on the rug catching it.

I hear the door from the bath open softly and see your shadow on the wall for just a moment before you kill the electric light in favor of the ancient light of flame. I grab a hand full of spices and dried aromatics from the silver bowl and drop them into the fire. A light sandalwood fills the air mixing with jasmine.

The stage is ready, my tools are ready, and you are ready as you step into the room.
You are beautiful in firelight, the soft glow shimmering on your skin and dancing in your eyes. Your body, fresh from the bath still radiates its heat. Your breasts hang in gentle contur from your chest, swaying with your footfalls in counter point to your hips.

I slip to my knees slowly, awaiting you, turning my face as you move against me so I may lay it on your belly. When my hands reach around your hips, gripping only slightly, I know you can feel them tremble. I press my lips to you and kiss following your shape down to the soft crease that peeks from between your thighs. I had shaved you earlier and now I run my tongue over your bare skin to feel its
perfection. You shudder in response and I close my eyes cherishing your pleasure.

I raise my hands offering them to you as you sink to the floor with me.

“Lay on the pillows,” I say and you do so, keeping your eyes on mine.

As I stand I let my robe fall from me catching it by the collar only just before it drops into a black silk pile on the floor. You can see me now standing over you, my eyes burning with fire and desire. My breath whispers from deep in my chest. Your gaze falls down my body until it comes to dwell on my awakening shaft. Under the weight of your attention it fills with warm blood slowly lengthening, thickening. Each of my furious heart beats pulses into my cock, causing it to redden and reshape itself as an offering to you. Before I harden in earnest I step toward the hearth dragging the silk of my robe between your open thighs and up your body. It glides over you like a breath then it falls quietly to the floor behind your head.

I take up a small tray, black lacquer inlayed with mother of pearl, and bring it to the floor beside you. It contains a cloth of soft white linen, a bottle of shimmering gold toned ink and a broad nib pen.
Kneeling beside you I lean and look into your eyes. I see a world of acceptance and care, desire, affection, passion maybe even a spark of something deeper. I smile softly and you know the smile is for you and of you, a possession of yours just as you own a jewel or your own heartbeat.

I push a strand of hair from your face and lean to kiss you. It is soft and deep and our mouths open to each other happily for a long moment.

Breaking the kiss I throw my leg over your body straddling you over your hips. Taking up the pen I dip it in the ink and tap the excess from the nib. After that small sound the room is silent except for the gentle crackle of the flames behind you.

I look to your eyes a moment then allow my eyes to fall down your body then climb again slowly. Leaning close I begin to write on your chest. The nib is sharp and hard scratching your skin even as it writes. The shimmering ink flows onto you in bold broad strokes requiring frequent refills of the pen. Each movement, each letter bites into you leaving a red-gold trail. The ink seeps into the shallow scratches staining just below the surface and each mark becomes a precious golden tattoo that will linger for days before finally fading.

After long moments the first line is written and I lean back to look at the words. The line follows the contours of your chest and snakes out over your arms. Words shine like a brand. Your chest is roiling with deep breaths. The hundred tiny bites of the pen have begun to inflame you. I notice your hips still moving gently under me even though I have stopped writing. I look to your eyes and see you looking down over your body but you are not looking at the words. Your eyes linger beyond the words and the hardened peaks of your breasts to my firm erection lying against your soft belly.

I lay low over you and kiss your open lips deeply sucking the breath from your mouth. My hips undulate against you stroking my shaft on your skin my testicles falling into the deep valley between your legs. I feel you open your thighs slightly and I fall against your blooming flower.

Again I break the kiss and return to my work slowly inscribing my passion on your skin. The second line falls across the top swelling of your breasts and flows into the soft gap between them. I write faster now the words coming unbidden to my eyes and communicated by gold, blood, blade and fire onto your burnished skin. The third line falls over your nipples and into the dark skin around them. The next writes itself on your ribs, the next, next, and next over your gently moving belly.

I write now with a furious passion moving down over your body lying between your open legs. Sandalwood is replaced by the scent of your rising passion in the room. I pause between lines and rest my lips on the fleshy petals of your flower. You moan softly as I press my tongue to you penetrating into your body and drawing out the liquid of your desire.

Words flow now over your shaved skin and onto the soft mound of Venus inscribing my loving heart onto you. Your body writhes under my touch seeking contact to satisfy the longing my words and pen have etched. Lines fill slowly down your thighs the nib scratching like a tooth on the soft flesh inside the legs.

Finally I finish my words and the branding of your skin and I lay the pen aside. We kiss again with my body suspended over you without touching. Your hands take hold of my burning erection and caress me lovingly. I stay in your grasp as long as I can without giving myself to you completely. I slide down over your body again, this time not writing but blowing gently cool air from my mouth to dry the wet gold of your brand. Following every contour I blow like a greedy wind over you watching your skin pucker and your nipples tighten to little stones.

Moving lower, your hips press up, rising to meet the wind that dries the words. Your legs open to invite the gentle air and I feel your breath catch as mine contacts your most sensitive spots.
We can wait no longer, neither one of us. Your hands reach for me as I crawl up your body. Your hand finds my erection and my mouth finds your mouth. Your fingers pull me guiding me into the depths of you. Slowly, joyously we are joined. Richly entangled in each other we bathe in the heat and sweat we shine in the firelight. Passion rises and overflows the containment of our bodies. You peak first arching your back and pressing your hips to me, crushing my hips in the grip of your thighs. I rise from you, my body at a precise right angle from yours as your grip slackens and your face relaxes. Reaching back I take your feet in my hands and untangle you from me then press them forward opening you fully to me.

My moment comes and I cannot deny the pleasure but I withdraw from you and stroke the wet shaft in my hand until I release. Thick ribbons of my fluid rush onto your body in diminishing pulses. After the orgasm fades, my face and body slackens. We each reach our fingers into the wet tracks of my passion. We have the same idea at the same time spreading the warm fluid over your body rubbing it into the markings on your skin. Now you are fully branded, my seed under your skin, in your blood and sealed with gold.

You look into my eyes and quietly whisper, “Read it to me.”
I smile slightly and run my eyes over your body to the start and begin to read.


Night falls into silent substance as daylight quits the sky
Stars swim into soft focus
Illuminating the faces of ancient dead gods
Fossilized in the sands of forgotten rivers

Out here you are the night
You are the blanket of dreams that covers my eyes
And I am the Earth below

Out here you are the totem of supernatural midnight
Rich wood stained intricately with charcoal, blood and berries
And I am the worshiper below

Like ghosts coming through old mirrors into church
Memories and dreams are smoke behind a comic mask
Like faith and fate
You are the answer to questions
I never dared to ask.

Golden Flogger

Hello again all. It has been such a busy time I haven't been on here to post to you lately. My alter ego just had an e-book released. I got the elements today to review for the paperback release. The same pub is interested in reprinting a novella if I expand it a little. It stands at only 20,000 words, a long short story. They would like it to be at least 30,000.

END OF SUMMER was so close to the end that I had assumed that I would be finished by the end of the month. That was before I decided that the whole development of the story was too rushed with everything happening in about a week's time. It wasn't working. I pulled the whole story apart, cut scenes, reordered some, added new ones. About 6000 words were cut away. About 15,000 were added. All in all it is a smoother story that makes better sense for the characters.

SAFE WORDS was nominated for a Golden Flogger award.

Thank you to my beautiful booster for the nomination. I have learned that SAFE WORDS CAN EXPECT some new reviews soon as well. Wouldn't it be cool if the award was the fun looking flogger pictured? I lost the only good one I had when the house burned a while back. It was purple and well broken in. I'd had it for years. A single tail, it was more of a short whip and could make an intimidating sound. Now I have one the one in my closet. It was a gift. It has feathers. Sigh.

At least if you get this award you can run through the town singing, I've got a golden flogger-

I've been writing at least 2000 words every day but they have been spread over the new book, editing the new release, and expanding the novella. I have notes on the next book in the SAFE WORDS series but not words down. I anticipate that it will be my next project but we'll see. The alter ego has two books out, one with a UK horror publisher that was really excited about the samples. Another with an agent. She is spending a lot of time with the MS that makes me hopeful. She usually rejects within a month. She has had this one 4 months.

Taking Advantage

I've been taken advantage of. I admit it. I've said before that crazy follows me like a shadow but crazy has a little brother it drags with it everywhere. Needy. I have been taken advantage of many times through the years and I know it. I'm not an easy touch and have no problem saying no when I am sure that I'm being played. Sometimes I'm not so sure. I learned that years ago living in LA where panhandling is constant. A young woman who seemed in genuine need to me, but who could have been a junkie asked for some money in a store parking lot. I took a chance and gave what I have. I saw her buy milk and take it to a child waiting in a car. I wished then I had more to give and came to understand that it would be better to be taken for a few dollars in my life than to miss the chance to help.

Today I took a break. Actually my grandson, who lives with me, was being loud so I had to get out of the house. I returned a library book and picked up a couple of new books then went to McDonald's to drink iced tea and read. I ended up getting two chicken sandwiches and reading longer. A man came in not dressed for the cold. He was deaf and tried talking to a few people that moved him on. I knew what was coming.

It is my experience that genuine need shows through. Panhandlers are generally practiced at their pitch. People in sudden need have no background in asking strangers for help. I had no cash so I took him up to the counter and ordered some food. While there he kept pointing to the double quarter-pounder value meal and holding up two fingers. I go to McDonalds because it is all I can afford and I can't afford the big value meals. I pointed to the dollar menu. He pointed to a picture of fries and held up his hands one over the other and opened them wide. Large. I held up two fingers close together. Small.

In the end he didn't get what he wanted but I was not left with the feeling of having walked out on someone in need. I still spend more on him that I have on myself in quite a while and there is the risk that I was taken advantage of. Still, every once in a while I do it and know for sure.