Two of a Kind

Occasionally on one of the many writer's groups I belong to, I'll mention that I see strong similarities between the genres of horror and erotica. Neither horror writers nor erotica writers take kindly to that. But I was recently contacted by a new erotica writer who used to write horror, and when I mentioned the similarities, he agreed. Finally.

Okay, just because someone agrees with me doesn't mean I'm right. It may mean that he's being polite. But I'll take what I can get.

Part of the problem is that I when I talk about the connection, I say that both erotica and horror writers manipulate their readers. Manipulate is not a popular word. Lots of negative connotations. But you'd think writers would be aware of the meaning of a word. Manipulate means to manage or use with skill.

What is being managed with skill? In horror, it's fear. In erotica, it's libido. Probably the most basic, primal drives in any creature with a brain.

More than any other genres, erotica and horror appeal to the senses. We use (a more PC word than manipulate) the senses to describe the setting and the action. With the right combination of sensory inputs, the trope of horror and erotica, we invite (again, a more palatable word than manipulate) the reader to experience feeling. We appeal to basic drives and elicit the desired response - a shiver of terror, or a shiver of sexual excitement.

Is there something morally wrong with that? (putting aside "moral" arguments against erotica) I don't think so. A reader picks up a horror novel expecting to be frightened. Anyone picking up erotica wants to be turned on by it. The writer is supposed to manipulate the reader into experiencing those feelings. That's the promise, the implied contract between writer and reader.

I think about things like the relationship between horror and erotica because I want to become a better writer. I feel that I can learn from horror writers. Now, I'll admit that I'm world's biggest wimp. I don't read much horror because it keeps me up at night. But I'm fascinated by how it does that to me. How do the best horror writers latch on to my imagination and skillfully force it to do their biddng? It's not what's on the page that terrifies. It's what lingers in the mind afterwards. It's in how the brain magnifies each detail into something scarier than even the writer imagined. I want to learn that skill and apply it to erotica. That may sound strange, but it's not that much of a leap. What is the first story humans ever told about ourselves? Adam and Eve. Sex and death have been intertwined in our psyches since the beginning. They are two of a kind.

Stories From Real Life

With the exception of my YA novel, I rarely take stories from my life. Life doesn't provide resolution or proper dramatic climaxes. Besides, real life is dull as dirt, unless you can at least name drop and share gossip about the private lives of interesting, powerful, famous wealthy, doomed people. My friends are interesting, but powerful, wealthy, and famous? No. Some of them may be famous one day. I hope to god none of them are doomed. Strangely enough though, both stories that are due by the end of the month I'm basing on real life events.*

* based on actual events means "might as well have been completely made up, because I reserve the right to change history to make a story interesting"

Candy Conversation Hearts quickly turns from the real to the surreal, and I doubt the writer that the story is based on would remember the reading that inspired me to write the story. (I, on the other hand, still fondly remember her perfect lips. I haven't seen her since then, but every time I see a picture of her, my heart flutters. Okay, that isn't my heart. Maybe a bit lower.)

The other story, the one I worked on today, sticks closer to reality, right until the part where it turns erotic. Frankly, being stranded out in the middle of the Mojave Desert at 2AM Christmas morning in icy rain when the temperature was hovering around freezing and the truck's heater was broken was about as erotic as, well, freezing my ass off in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere could be. (This was before cell phones. And did I mention the HUGE signs the State of Arizona so helpfully put up every 100 yards warning people NOT to pick up hitchhikers because there was a state penitentiary nearby and they didn't want prisoners to have help escaping?) So, as you can imagine, nothing about that night struck me as romantic or erotic then, or now. Except when the Marlboro Man in a rusty Chevy truck came to my rescue and saved me the four mile hike to the truck stop outside Quartzite. In real life, he drove away before I could thank him for the ride, so in the story, I'm going to make sure he gets thanked properly. And then improperly. Twice.

Show and Tell

New writers are often admonished to show instead of tell, but that's where the advice seems to end. So I'm going to give examples.

Telling:

Everyone at the restaurant thought Jim was hot.

Showing:

A short brunette seated on the red leather settee in the restaurant's crowded foyer forgot what she was digging for in her purse and ran a hand over her hair when Jim walked in. Over by the bar, an expensive blond thrust her hip out. Her eyebrow rose, an expectant invitation. Her lips curved up at the corners, and then parted slightly, showing a hint of even white teeth. Across the restaurant, neither the slim Latino waiter nor the two men at the table noticed as water cascaded from the busboy's pitcher into an overflowing glass and spread across the white linen tablecloth. They watched Jim.

The restaurant hostess leaned to see around the patron in front of her at the podium. She clasped a menu to her chest, lowered her chin, and watched with flitting glances as Jim sauntered through the crowd. "Can I help you?" she blurted when he reached the podium. Color flooded into her cheeks.


Got it? Probably.

If you write third person omni POV, you can get away with telling people's thoughts (not that you should, but you can). But if you write first person POV, you have to show what the characters other than your POV character think and feel by their actions and body language, because those are the clues your POV character is going to use to interpret how s/he perceives the other character's thoughts and feelings. That's right - perceives. Your POV character can only guess what's going on in the other character's heads. S/he will never know for sure.
(Just like you can't know anyone's thoughts in real life. You can guess, but you don't know.) What looks like anger might be embarassment, but unless someone articulates their real emotion, your POV character won't know. And who says, "I'm not angry, I'm worried that you came so close to guessing my deep, dark secret that's been haunting me for years?"

BTW - you can't get away with stuffing your dialog with emotional cues. No real person says, "I'm feeling really vulnerable right now," unless they're a manipulative, over-self-analyzing putz. In a book, it's clunky dialog. Show vulnerability, show fear, show rage. Never tell it.


Now an exercise:

You're a high school senior. As an early graduation present to yourself, you spent the evening at a party at the local pot dealer's house. You drank lots of beer, smoked pot, and screwed someone you just met and never expect to see again. While still under the influence, you drove home. Three hours past your curfew, you stumbled into your parent's house. Your Dad was waiting in the living room.

Now - before a word passes between you and Dad, how do you know if you're merely busted for breaking curfew, if Dad suspects you were up to more but can only bust you for curfew violation, or if Dad knows everything and is about to kill you?

Think about the message his body language is sending. How is he standing? If he's disappointed, his shoulders are slumping, but if he's ready to tell you off, they're back. What are his hands doing? Are they in his pockets, or balled into fists? Are his lips pulled into a tight line? And think about his eyes. Most expression isn't truly in the eyes. It's around them.

Now show me those cues so that I know exactly how angry he is without having to be told, "Dad was ready to kill me." Write it. Don't use a word of dialog. Don't use the word angry, or any word like it.

Go. Write.

Writing Again.

Every year, I have down time where I don't write. I've learned not to push it. I read a lot and wait for the urge to come back. That used to scare me. Now I'm used to it and don't mind. (Okay, about the second month it gets to me and I pace a lot.) This year, I kept waiting for it to hit, but it didn't. That was kind of cool. Broke the curse. And then, last month, I got a bad case of the blues.

I was supposed to have a story in an anthology. I have the acceptance letter. I have the letters the editor sent to me discussing a few changes he wanted to the story. I have a publisher's contract for the story. I even received an email from the editor telling me when to expect my contributor's copy. Got hold of the book and... my story isn't in it. I sent the editor an email asking for an explanation. He hasn't bothered to reply. I understand human mistakes. I understand if he accepted too many stories and had to pull mine. I understand if the publisher pulled it. But in either case the editor should have told me. This doesn't just affect that that one anthology. It means that until I sell it somewhere else, I can't submit it to a Best Of anthology. So he really does owe me an explanation. Oh - and an apology would be nice too. Not holding my breath for either. (BTW - in case you're wondering - even though I have a contract, there's nothing I can do about this. The book is printed. The end. Unfortunately, this is the second time in my writing career that I've been reminded that contracts from publishers don't mean much.)

Anyway, so that brought my writing to a screeching halt. I struggled with that for a couple weeks, then had a very nice talk with Trebor Healey that got me on the right mental path again. So I was on my way out of the cloud of depression, but I still couldn't write. Not that it bothered me. Reading is important to writers, and I have stacks of books I wanted to read. (And needed to read for reviews.) Plus it gave me time to reassess where I am, what I want to do, and how to get there. And just as I was getting to the house-pacing stage, this weekend I agreed to write two different stories that are due by the end of August. So now I have to write. I gave my word. There's nothing like a looming deadline to get those creative juices flowing. Sometimes I think fear is a great motivator.

Sucess

A few years ago, I went to an erotic writing class taught by Kate
Dominic. At the time, I had all of two stories published, but still
feltreasonably successful (by my standards). As Kate and I chatted
afterwards, a gentleman asked us if we made good money selling erotic
stories. Kate and I exchanged a resigned smile. She's sold a lot of
stories, and it's her primary source of income. Combined, my earnings
barely covered the cost of the class and the parking ticket I found on
my windshield when I got back to my car. We both said no. He mumbled
something about not bothering then.

Most writers wish they could earn a living off their work, but the truth is that few do. I know a few mid-list writers who have a dedicated fan base and are able to churn out enough books in a year to make a modest living at it. The rest of us have day jobs.

I don't think I'll ever be in a position to eke out a living as a writer. I'll never be able to churn out stories at the pace Brenna Lyons or MorganHawke do. I'll never be able to write the kinds of stories they do. It's not my style. But to keep from getting frustrated, I have to have a different measure of success. That's hard to do in our culture. The way we measure worth - wrong or right - is with money. So from time to time, especially when I'm in a blue funk over my writing, I wrestle with my definition of success.

At first it was simply having the guts to put my work in front of a reader.
Next it was finishing a novel.
Then it was getting published.
Now, it isn't so clear.

Fame doesn't have a lot of appeal. I'd like for readers to recognize my name, and I enjoy the occasional nice note from someone who enjoyed a story, but I'm not sure if I care for it to grow beyond that. Fans of my work? Yes. Fans of me? No thanks.

I've given up on money.

Improving my craft is my main goal, I suppose. I look back at stories that were
published a couple years ago and I cringe at the mistakes and weaknesses, but hopefully that means I'm better now then I was then.

Once upon a time, I told a writer's group that what I really wanted from my
writing was to develop deep edges. That's an ice skating term I learned years ago when Mom had delusions of Olympic grandeur for me ala Peggy Fleming. I never could twirl, I never made a decent figure 8, but I did learn to respect someone who had deep edges - the ability to move across the ice with power and assurance. I want my words to glide on the page with power and assurance. I'm past the wobbly ankles point. Every time I write, my edges get a little deeper.

Writing is an innate talent, but it's also a craft. It's something that is honed and polished over time with practice. The upside is that I've only been writing "seriously" - meaning for publication - for four years, and I know I've made huge strides. The happy thought is that (given I live that long) I'll probably be writing for another thirty years. Maybe the coming years won't bring as much obvious progress, but as long as I'm moving forward, I'm okay with that. And being okay with where I'm at and where I'm headed is, by any measure, success.

Chroma

My reviews of Running Dry by M. Christian and The Master of Seacliff by Max Pierce are up on Chroma's blog.

1:30, This Morning

A gang of teens in dark gothic garb, leather jackets, metal everywhere, thick-soled boots, spiked and colored hair, loitered in the back parking lot of the local mall. They leaned on cars, lamp posts, or sat on the curb.

All reading the last Harry Potter novel.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is why these are great books. The defense rests.

Advice For New Writers

The universe of erotica is small. Editors, writers, reviewers, and publishers know each other, sometimes personally, almost always professionally. We chat on lists. We meet at conferences. We go to readings. I know erotica writers around the world and run into them online on all sorts of lists. Ever hear of six degrees of separation? There are only three degrees in erotica. The world of queer erotica is even smaller.

Before you submit your work anywhere, and potentially become a cautionary tale or Internet legend for all the wrong reasons, let me offer you a few tips:


What you owe (yes, owe) to editors:

A professional attitude.

Your cover letter is a job application. It is a business letter. Your cats, kids, Mom, teachers, and hobbies have no place in a cover letter unless something about them makes you uniquely qualified to write the story you wrote, and that only counts if your story is nonfiction. If your writing teacher knows a publisher personally, s/he should feel free to mention you'll be submitting something, but don't name drop in your letter. It doesn't magically improve your writing. Do not mention how many times your story has been rejected before. Do not mention the great conspiracy to keep you from being published. Do not display other types of paranoia, such as fear that your story idea will be stolen. Do not use threatening language. Do not demand anything.

Follow submission guidelines. They apply to you. If the editors says Courier font, even if you think it's ugly, use it. If the guidelines say double spaced, double space your submission. If the guidelines say two pages, send only two. Really. This is not the time to show an editor that you're going to be a pain in the butt. This is not the time to be artsy-fartsy or a diva. Yeah, yeah, you're sensitive and all that crap. Get over it. If you can't, you aren't grown up enough to play with the big kids. Keep writing for your own pleasure, but until you learn that the art is on the page, not in your emotions, don't submit for publication.

Use spellcheck, but also use a dictionary. Just because it's spelled right doesn't mean it's the right word.

Workshop your writing with a critique group that offers constructive criticism before you submit it to a publisher. Your Mom loves you, your teachers don't want to crush your dreams, and few of your friends have a solid grasp of grammar, so put your work in front of people who are willing to tell you the truth. If you get very upset when people say negative things about your writing, you aren't ready to be published.

Don't be mysterious or vague. It's annoying. It's also poor writing.

Submit your story to the right editor/publisher/imprint. Think of it this way - you wouldn't walk into a fast food place if you were shopping for shoes. So why would you submit your book about gardening to a company that only publishes cookbooks? And yet, I hear all the time about writers who submit mystery novels to science fiction imprints. About now, you might be wondering how to you find the right publisher for your story. Here's the big clue: Read. Read what the publisher prints. If they only publish heterosexual erotica, don't send them queer erotica. If your story is romantic erotica, don't send it to an imprint that specializes in hardcoreBDSM. You want your story to get into the hands of someone who understands and appreciates your sub genre, and, more importantly, is in a position to buy it.

Take defeat gracefully. Sure, if you get a rejection letter, feel free to have the blues for a few days. Then read through your story again, fix any errors you missed the first time (there's always at least one) and send it out to someone else. Do not fire off a rude letter to the editor. In fact, don't contact the editor at all. Do not tell the world that the editor is unprofessional / a hack/ an idiot/ etc. Do not have a temper tantrum. Do not resubmit essentially the same story to the same editor six months later. And yes, all of this applies even if the rejection letter pissed you off -especially if the rejection letter pissed you off. Set the rejection aside until you can face it with some detachment. If you were lucky enough to get a rejection letter that mentioned the reasons for the rejection, take time to really think through what was said. If the criticism fits, take it as helpful advice, fix the problem, and then submit the story elsewhere. Your story was rejected, not you.


What the publisher owes you during the submission process:

Nothing.


You're the one applying for the job, remember? Sure, manners are nice, feedback is great, acceptance is wonderful, but no one owes it to you.

Writing a Synopsis

Lisabet Sarai wrote a wonderful article about the dreaded synopsis. If you ever plan to submit a novel, this is great reading. Lisabet is one of those writers who has been incredibly generous to me with help, and her advice is wonderful.

35 Cents

I have this reading pile I keep meaning to get to. Liar. I have many
piles of incredible books around the hovel. Lately, I've been reading a lot for reviews, and while I enjoy the books I read (most of them) and pick what I read
(the sites I submit reviews to indulge my eclectic tastes), it's nice to
read something just because and not have to report back to anyone. And
yet - because I love books - I can't resist talking about the ones that
grab me.

So I'm going to tell you about 35 Cents.

The problem with most memoirs is that few people lead truly interesting
lives. Matty Lee did (and I suspect still does) live an interesting
life - interesting meaning a slow motion train wreck from abused,
neglected child to hustler to "whatever I could get," addict. He spent
time in juvenile detention and court ordered rehab. Tried to reconcile
with his family, but found strangers more accepting. But the thing is -
it's not a real downer of a book. Despite what he lives through, he's
not pointing fingers of blame or looking for pity. It's a "these are
the facts," kind of story. It reminded me a lot of Lars Eighner's Travels With Lizabet, or Alice Walker's stories, where the reader is lead through a
horrible reality with a comforting handhold that seems to say, "It's
okay to look. I promise. I survived this; you can handle reading about
it."

35 Cents offers a refreshing, honest, unromanticized look
at the sexuality of teens, a topic stupidly ignored in this society. I
love stories that explore sexuality and identity. Lee doesn't offer a
definitive answer to whether he's straight or gay (or bisexual) -
because maybe there isn't one.

So go - read it.

Suspect Thoughts Press

It's probably no secret that I think the world of Suspect Thoughts Press. Not only are Greg and Ian amazing people, they also consistently publish incredible books. Ali Liebegott's The Beautifully Worthless, Origami Striptease by Peggy Munson , Sweet Son of Pan by dear friend Trebor Healey, Butch is Noun by S. Bear Bergman, Attack of the Man-Eating Lotus Blossoms by Justin Chin, 35 Cents by Matty Lee, A History of Barbed Wire by Jeff Mann... I could list their entire catalog, but to save time, I'll just link to it.

BUT even better - they're having a sale!!!!!! Wow, did my credit card just flinch? It couldn't have, because:

To help you catch up on some Suspect Thoughts Press titles you may not yet have (hint, hint), we’re offering a special “three for two” summer sale through our secure website store! Yes, three books for the price of two!

Pick two of our fabulous already discounted titles for purchase; add them to your shopping cart. In the “special instructions” area mention the “three for two” deal and tell us your third book choice that you’d like free of charge. Presto... Any three books for the price of two!

Get some summer books, people!


Support queer literature, and treat yourself to some incredible books.

Project QueerLit

If you're an unpublished queer writer, please take note:


*** 2008 Project: QueerLit Novel Contest Ready for Submissions ***

Suspect Thoughts Press is once again a proud sponsor of the Project: QueerLit contest. The Project: QueerLit contest celebrates and brings media attention to unpublished authors of queer writing and opens doors for publication of their work. The contest is open to any unpublished author of an English-language novel
with queer and/or bent content.

The website is still being updated for the third contest but here are some important dates to keep in mind:

January 01, 2007 to August 31, 2007:
Contest Announcement Period.

September 1, 2007:
Submissions Period begins. The Submissions page becomes active on the website.

December 31, 2007:
Submissions Period concludes. Submissions are no longer accepted after this date.

More details about Project: QueerLit are available at the website



Last year's winner was the incredible Origami Striptease by Peggy Munson. I can't think of another contest that offers this wonderful opportunity. So if you have something to submit, please do.

Where Stories Come From part II

My solemn oath that I won't ever write this story, but...

I don't know where stories come from, but there are times when I wish I could stamp RETURN TO SENDER on the idea and forget about it, because some story ideas are so incredibly bad, deliciously bad, that they should never be mentioned in polite society. I've obviously been reading too many vampire stories lately, such as M. Christian's The Very Bloody Marys and Running Dry. Those were good stories though. This one isn't.

Picture vampires persecuted and hunted in their homeland to the point where they have to make a desperate break for freedom. Picture a family of vampires. Hiking over the Alps. Wearing matching clothes made from drapes. While singing. And you have...

The Vlad Trapp Family singers.

I hope you're laughing.

This is proof that I spend way too much time in my car. I spent the entire ride home trying to figure out which songs from The Sound of Music I could corrupt with vampiric lyrics. Sure, it was entertaining as hell, but my god, some stories should never, ever be written.

Except maybe as a movie treatment. I wonder if I could Danny Elfman to adapt the score. And Tim Burton to direct.

No, no, no. That's just wrong.

Blood drops on roses....

The Muse (eye roll)

Many writers talk about creative muses. When talk turns to The Muse, I usually roll my eyes, but I understand the sentiment behind the belief. No writer is sure where stories come from. Creativity is a gift that comes and goes without warning, so blaming and thanking mercurial, mysterious being for it seems almost logical.

Like I said - I don't believe in muses. Every time I evoke them (in jest, of course) I feel like a turbaned, fringed-and-velvet draped diva emoting in the parlor. I won't try to explain how creativity works. Even Stephen King tried and failed in his book On Writing. All I know is that it either flows, or it doesn't.

Right now, it doesn't.

This is why writers need writer friends. I can tell the SO that I'm having trouble writing, and he'll be sorry because he knows it bugs me, and because I won't stop pacing around the house when he's trying to concentrate on his pornos foreign art films, but he has no real sense of what I'm missing. Lucky for me, I have writer friends, and some of them will even give up an hour or more of their weekend to commiserate with me. Misery loves company, so of course the writer I called was in a similar situation. It was sort of like Orpheus leading Eurydice out of the Underworld, but without a definitive ending.

The funny thing is that I've already told myself everything my writer friend said. Intellectually, I get it, but it isn't hitting me at an emotional level. I know I'm letting a tiny setback get to me. I'm dwelling on something I should just let go. That's what I keep telling myself. But it doesn't work. Yet somehow, when it comes out of his mouth, it resonates. Maybe because he phrases it as Buddhist philosophy. I tend to talk to myself in the honeyed tones of a pissed-off drill sergeant.

Now, nothing as changed. My situation is the same. The problem that got me down still exists and will never truly go away. No muse suddenly appeared to offer words of encouragement and inspiration. The only thing that's changed is my mindset. Yes, I'm still down, but I have it in better prospective. It's amazing how much good a long, sympathetic chat can do. So even if I don't feel like it, tomorrow, I'm going to force myself to write for a while. I have to. My inner drill sergeant is already whispering sweet words of a different kind of inspiration into my ear - like that it's time to drag my diva-emo ass off the fainting couch.

July Reviews at Erotica Revelaed

The July reviews are up at Erotica Revealed!

Lisabet Sarai discusses Walter Mosley's Killing Johnny Fry

Ashley Lister reviews Justus Roux's Erotic Tales 2

Jean Roberta takes a look at Lawrence Schimel's Mammoth Book of Best New Gay Erotica

Steven Hart reviews Carol Queen's Whipped

And Kathleen Bradean talks about Peggy Munson's Origami Striptease

Story on ERWA

My story Nations (hate the title) is up on ERWA this month.

I haven't been contributing too much lately to ERWA. I do critiques when I can, but that's the first story I've submitted in ages. Writing novels takes a lot of time, and I've been writing a few of them lately, so my short stories are suffering.

The thing about this story, and it drives me insane, is that I thought of it two days after the close of submissions for Greg Herren's queer sci-fi anthology. I might have pleaded with him for an extension, but having the idea of a story and having one written are two vastly different things, so I didn't. That gave me plenty of time to think this one over. Unfortunately, maybe too much time.

One of my deciding factors between a short story and a novel is the size of the underlying theme. Nations has a couple big ideas squeezed into it, with no room to
really explore any one of them. So while I'm okay with the story, now I'm
thinking this deserves to become a novel. *sigh* Another novel. I'm working on one right now. I guess when I finish it I'll take a serious look at Nations (and come up with a better title) and decide if I really want to pursue it. And if I do invest the months it will take to write it, who is publishing queer science fiction novels? Oh let's be honest - I know I'm going to write it anyway. It has too many of my
favorite themes (communication devices as machines of isolation, connection, the tyranny of collective correct-think, and how much I truly hate clothes and hair cuts as group identifiers) to ignore it.

A Big Shout Out to LA County Sheriff's Dept

and while I'm at it, the Justice Department, and the Police Department of a small town in New England. (yeah, I can see where you came from. Isn't the lack of privacy in this country simply horrifying? I mean - wiretaps without subpoenas are one thing, but some snarky erotica writer telling the world that you visited her blog is an outrage!)

I'm so glad you law enforcement types take time out of your busy day to drop in on my blog. Really. And to show my appreciation, I'll save you a little time

1) no naked pix on this site, so no need to run in waving your USC 2257 and demanding I give you the home address, social security number, and phone number of a model you'd like to stalk, er, um, investigate.

2) no erotica posted here either. Sorry to disappoint in case you felt the need to rub one off while on duty, but seeing how many of my stories have already been ripped off by copyright pirates (a crime, in case you're wondering, but I don't see anyone rushing to enforce that), I don't feel the need to gather my work in one convenient place for them. Besides, I use this blog to talk about writing, and soccer, and sometimes about my political views, which are (currently) still legal to express, not to showcase my stories. If you want to read my work, buy the books.

3) no child porn. Believe it or not, I'm strongly against child pornography and any act of non-consensual sex. Just because I write about sex doesn't mean I have no morals. I'm probably more law abiding than your average citizen. Heck - I even return shopping carts to their stall when I go to the market. I realize that the Justice Department has a vendetta against sexual acts between consenting adults, and seeks to infringe on the right of free speech of anyone who talks about it on the internet, but I don't even do that on this site.

So, my dear peace officers, thank you for dropping by while you're on duty. Glad to see my tax dollars are hard at work. But there's nothing to see here. Move along.

The Very Bloody Marys

I've been indulging in a M. Christian reading binge lately. I finished his vampire tale, Running Dry (very good), and then slipped right into The Very Bloody Mary's, his newest vampire story.

Valentino is a 200-year old rookie vampire cop who is fated to spend eternity as
the screw-up assistant to undead drill sergeant cop and all around bastard,Pogue. That is, until Pogue mysteriously disappears. The powers (of the night) that be want Valentino to find Pogue and stop a rogue band of vampires who call themselves the Very Bloody Marys. The only problem is that Valentino has no clue what he's doing.
He stumbles around San Francisco, making an unholy mess of the case, while sinister otherwordly beings manipulate him into doing their bidding. Valentino isn't as
hopeless as he thinks he is though, and manages to find out what happened to his mentor, figure out who the real bad guy is, and take down the Very Bloody Marys.

The Very Bloody Marys isn't a story about being a vampire (although that's part
of it). It's a good-ole gumshoe novel, a mystery with enough twists to keep me guessing and page-turning action. The characters were so original that it never felt like a rehash of vampire legend (thank god!). And the best part - this book supplied enough of a taste of otherworld San Francisco to pique my interest, but left me wanting more. Hopefully, M. Christian will do me a favor write another one. Soon.

Scamming of Desperate Writers

Almost all of the Bradean write. Like depression, it's in our blood, and no generation escapes unscathed. And also like depression, it's been the dirty little secret that no one used to talk about even though everybody knew.

So imagine my surprise when Pop started talking about his writing. He told me, "I'll let you read my novel."

Lucky me. The chosen one.

He started mailing me manuscripts. A new one every two months or so. A couple hundred pages each - single spaced. Breathtakingly bad.

Perversely enough, I enjoyed reading the first one. To quote my favorite line from Sunset Boulevard, "Sometimes it's interesting to see just how bad bad writing can be. This promised to go the limit." But too much of even a deliciously bad thing can be too much, so I sacrificed my sister to him. I reminded him that her degree was in liberal arts, which was practically an English major, and since he'd paid her college tuition, she owed it to him to apply that degree to his work. (And to think that at the time I was pissed off that he refused to pay for my college.) Then I packed up his stuff and sent it to her. Unless she's waiting a hell of a long time to take her revenge, she's forgiven me. Amazing. But then, she's always been a much better human being than I am.

Eventually, he sent me another novel though. My only comment was that perhaps he should start a new paragraph when a different character spoke. He was furious that I dared critique him. That was followed by several years of stony silence on the writing front. Until now.

At the family reunion last weekend, Pop found me hiding in a deep chair in the living room trying to read. He started talking. Instead of playing the good daughter and pretending to listen, I walked away. He followed me. I went into the kitchen, where there were potential victims in abundance. Alas, I am truly the chosen one. Pop sat opposite me and continued talking.

Pop does not do conversations. He delivers sermons. Generally, I tune him out, because nothing is required of me but occasional eye contact and a few nods. He wouldn't get the subtle sarcasm of an "Amen."

It was a bit funny listening to him rant and rave about how unfair bookstores are
that they won't stock vanity publishing books. He doesn't use the term vanity publisher,because somehow he believes that the company he pays to print his stuff is a legitimate publisher. I don't bother to correct him. He wouldn't hear it anyway. Besides, I'm not into dream crushing.

Everyone in the family was giving me those pity looks, those "thank god it's you and not us this time" glances that are half guilt, half relief. I can't hate anyone for that. I've also given those looks to Pop's victims.

My mind wandered, as it usually does during his sermons, but something he said snapped me back into consciousness. He found an agent. Huh? Come on. Even good writers can't get agents nowadays. He must have sensed that I was listening at that point,because he told me the whole sordid tale. Some con artist is asking thirty thousand to represent him. Thirty-thousand dollars. I don't care what Pop does with his money, except that it sucks to be old and broke. So I did something absolutely
unthinkable. I interrupted his sermon and offered to be his agent for thirty-thousand. Hey - if someone is going to rip him off, it might as well be someone who will turn around and use it to pay his nursing home bills later on.

It amazes me that despite all the warnings out there that people still fall for this scam. The thing is, too many people are looking for a shortcut to success. They want to believe that the publishing world is hostile to new writers, that publishing houses "steal" ideas, and that the rules of good writing somehow don't apply to
them. There are whole groups of these people, each as ignorant as the last, and they swap around rumors and myths like they're gospel. The truth isn't that hard to find. A few hours of research on Predators and Editors would be a real eye opener. But those writers won't take legitimate criticism, they won't take advice, they won't even bother to do their homework and get educated about how the real world of publishing works. It's painful to watch. It's even worse when it's someone you know. But what can I do? It's not as if Pop will listen to me. I obviously know nothing about it.

I Survived

I took the train in from Connecticut early in the morning of the reading and DL King met me at Grand Central. We took the subway to her place in Brooklyn and hung around for a bit, talking writer stuff. She showed me her toy cabinet, which was quite impressive. Then we headed back into the city and went shopping at Purple Passion on West 20th. She was looking for a new flogger and liked a few, but lamented that there was no way to test them out. Being the pal that I am, I turned my back to her and said, "Go for it." My favorite moment - after using the second flogger on me, she said, "Too bad you have on a top, or that probably would have stung." Probably? Trust me, the shirt didn't absorb that much of the blow. The cross dresser in the back of the store darted back into the dressing room when I caught him watching us, which was too bad. I should have told him how great he looked in the blue corset, but he seemed to be avoiding us after he changed back into his khaki dockers and blue shirt. So anyway, my back stung a bit for the next hour, but it was a nice sting. (I have a small bruise on my shoulder blade - my NYC momento.)

I hung out at Union Square and people watched while DL was in a meeting. Lots of nannys with their charges. Some young lovers. *awww* One steriod case strutting around in tight black pants and no shirt. He looked like a Chippendale's dancer who aged out. Some squirrel antics, including one that stared me down while he peed. Such an attitude!

Everyone warned me that NYC was going to be hot and muggy. Not true. Weather was
perfect. Mid-eighties, not too humid. The subways were a bit stifling at first, but again, not too bad, and not very crowded. And despite their bad reputation, I found the people in NYC to be perfectly nice and helpful.

We got to the Happy Ending Lounge around 7:30. Jolie du Pre and Radclyffe were already there. Met up with Stephen - another of the Erotica Revealed reviewers - Chris, Chris's not-a-date-but-not-not-a-date friend, and Scott (who is one of the few people I know who can wear lime green. It helps, I suppose, if you're gorgeous.) The place was packed. People stood in the hallway and sat on the floor.

The first reading was actually a DVD of Peggy Munson reading from her Lambda Award nominated, Project Queer Lit winning, novel. I've wanted to see this reading ever since the SCANDAL in San Francisco. Someone should record the audience as they watch the reading so that Peggy can see how the audience reacts to her words. (the Happy Ending Lounge was far too dark to do that.)

Rachel read a bit from her cross dressing story. She had us all laughing.

Too bad we only had 10 minutes each, because I was ready to hear more of JD GLass' story. She's another Lambda Award nominee, so I was in seriously great company.

Then it was my turn. I didn't have a contributor's copy of Hot Cops with me,
because the release date has been set back to mid-July. Too bad. I would have
liked to have shown the cover.When I got up to the podium, I was so glad that I went to Amie Evans and ToniAmato's master class on readings while I was at Saints and Sinners. They said to print out a copy of the story in a big font, which was helpful,because the lighting was so dim. Also, my copy had all these nice stage cues so I knew when to slow down my pacing and what tone of voice to use for certain passages. I practiced it a lot, but it was nice to have the crutch in case my mind went blank. My legs trembled the entire time I was in front of the crowd, and I choked up where I knew I'd choke up. *sigh* But I'm so glad I did it.

During the break, I gave away every business card I had on me. People said some very nice things about my piece. Being a praise whore, I ate it up.

Jolie du Pre read part of her story from Iridescence, which I look forward to reviewing for Erotica Revealed for August. Jolie and I have been running into each other a lot this year at various cons. I so enjoy talking to her. She's vibrant and smart and beautifully feminine and cuts through the bullshit like no one else I know.

Following Jolie was Michael Luongo, who read from his novel The Voyeur. If I would have had space to carry it, I would have bought a copy from him. The two passages he read were fascinating and funny. Give it a read.

The last reader of the evening was Radclyffe. Rachel mentioned that she could always count on Radclyffe for a great story, and I can see why. It was fantastic, fun, and very sexy.

After the reading, we went out for Indian food with Jolie and her sister, Chris and his friend, DL, and someone we met at the reading (I didn't catch his name. I think he was a friend of Michael Lungo's.) The company and the conversation was great. Chris's friend creates cover art for books, so of course we had a lot of questions for him. (Yes, he reads the books he designs covers for.)

By then it was past midnight. DL and I caught a cab back to Brooklyn. I'm not sure what our cabbie did, but he got pulled over by a cop who took forever to write the ticket. I told DL that this definitely wasn't a Hot Cops kind of story. We were bored out of our minds. And the cop? meh. We never get to see the hotties. *sigh* I picked up my stuff at DL's place and grabbed a cab to my hotel. He got lost. (Dude, it's on 140th. We're on 130th. How hard can it be to drive 10 more blocks? But I didn't say anything because I didn't want to get dumped in the middle of Queens at 2AM. Those could have been fireworks that went off down the street in three short bursts, but it sounded like gunfire. Apparently mycabbie agreed, because he pulled a fast U-turn in the middle of the street and went to a well-lit gas station to call for directions.)

The air conditioner didn't work in my hotel room, and it was scorching. I dozed
between fits of grumpy wakefulness. A couple hours of that, and I was almost glad for my wake-up call. I dragged my butt out of bed, and headed to the airport for my flight.

I'm glad to be home, but it was a great experience. It couldn't have been too traumatic, because I'm willing to do another reading.

Things I Should Be Doing

1) packing for New York.
2) writing a review of Origami Striptease
3) answering my correspondence

This is one of those looking forward to it/dreading it trips. One part is a
family reunion. The other part is the reading followed by an evening kicking around NYC with Scott, (NYC Gay Cheer cheerleader who once promised to do an interpretive dance to my reading. Something I won't hold him to.), D.L. King (who always talks me into an adventure.), and Chris (On online friend who I'd definitely hang with in real life.)

I've been ordered to dress up at this reunion party. Lord knows we wouldn't
want to be comfortable out in that sweltering sun while we're not having fun. I admit, that's a lousy mind-set to start off with, but hey, I've known these people all my life (because no matter how far I run, they still find me) and if I've learned one thing, it's that vampires aren't the only creatures that can suck the life right out of you.


I've read Origami Striptease, but I want to read it again before I write my review. I'm thrilled that I'll get to hear the (now infamous. Go to Suspect Thoughts website to get the whole scoop.) DVD of PeggyMunson's reading. Having read her incredibly lyrical prose, I'm so glad I'm not scheduled to read directly following the DVD. So
I'm going to run close to deadline for that review, but I think it'll be worth it to read it one more time.


If I'm not meeting writers and editors face to face, I'm e-mailing them. So of course I fired off a million questions about everything on my mind, never thinking that people would actually answer all of them, and so soon. So now I'm pretending I don't see the huge number of e-mails accumulating in my in box and will deal with them when I get back from vacation.

That's what I should be doing. What I am doing is making blog entries and
improving my computer game scores. I have my priorities.

How Hard Can It Be?

On June 20th, I have a reading in New York. It's part of the In The Flesh erotica reading series held at the Happy Ending Lounge.

This will be the first time I've outed myself as Jay in public. It's not
that I hide my boy smut persona, but that knowledge is pretty much
limited to the erotica world, which is small and protective of
identities.

Coming out as Jay isn't the hard part. Beyond the nearly paralyzing thought of
standing in front of an audience for any reason - the stuff of nightmares - I'm
worried about the time limit. It didn't sound so short when I was told
10 minutes, tops. It sounded like an eternity. Then I read through my
entire story aloud and timed myself. 25 minutes. Okay, something had to
go. It's an erotica reading, so the sex was a given. I cut everything
up to that point of the story. But it doesn't make a lot of sense
without the beginning, so I have to explain what happened up until that
point. Three sentences are enough to cover it, but it still eats into
my time. Even with half the story cut, I still ran over ten minutes, so
I had to edit it even more, and still more, until I get down to nine
minutes. (Eight was my target, just in case, but I'm to the point where
I can't see cutting any more.)

Okay, so I have nine minutes of story. Should be a breeze, right? Except that
I wrote a very emotional piece and I choke up when I read it. I talked to friend Trebor about my fear of getting emotional during the reading. He thought it
was cute. Good thing we were exchanging emails, because I might have
smacked him for that. Cute? Try humiliating.

I need for this to be over.

Pure Brilliance

I don't know how I did it, but I slammed my hand in a door yesterday. Pure brilliance. For about seven minutes, I couldn't even flex my fingers to check if they were broken. (they aren't, but they're swollen) The SO asked to see my hand and I backed across the room, afraid he'd touch it. I've had arthritis since about third grade, so I always have some pain in my hands. Most of the time it's just background level. I'm aware of it, but it doesn't bother me. Today is one of those times that it feels like someone took a hammer and bashed each finger, but several fingers on my right hand hurt a lot too, so I don't think it's all because I slammed the left one in the door - but that certainly didn't help. So of course I have submission deadlines looming, and of course I haven't even finished the first draft. *whimper*

June Reviews

The June reviews are up at Erotica Revealed.

Writing Speculative Fiction

For those of you outside the geek loop, speculative fiction is fantasy or science fiction.

I'm a great fan of speculative fiction. Dune, Altered Carbon, Snow Crash, Never Let Me Go (shelved as literary fiction, but a great, subtle story that examines what it means to be human - which is at the heart of a lot of great speculative fiction), Caves of Steel, Illium, Pattern Recognition, Left Hand of Darkness, the Liaden Universe novels, Kiln People, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, The Vorkosigan novels... the list of books I treasure goes on. Of course, whenever I'm at a science fiction convention, I'm surrounded by people who have read much more in the genre and I always feel as if I'm missing a lot of great stuff, but who has time to read it all?

I've been kicking around the idea for a speculative fiction story for a while. It came to me just days after the close of submissions for a GLBT science fiction
anthology edited by Greg Herren. I hate it when that happens. But it's given me a lot of time to kick around the idea and see if I truly had something. I'd probably still be pondering that if two new submission deadlines weren't looming. So I sat down today and started to work on it.

Speculative fiction is an interesting challenge. Faced with the task of showing a created world, beginning writers often resort to "the dreaded info dump." It usually happens in the first chapter. The writer steps outside the immediate story and explains the technology or the civilization, sometimes at length. Even some well known writers sneka in diary entries or other such contrivances that come off
something like, "Well, Jim, even though we both live in this world and completely understand it, I'm going to take this moment to describe it to you in excruciating
detail as if you're a complete moron and I'm your remedial breathing coach. Hell, I'll even throw in political commentary on the trade wars that happened 300 years ago that have little or no bearing on what's going to happen to us over the course of this adventure, just because I like to hear myself talk." This doesn't only happen in
speculative fiction, by the way. I've read scenes in murder mysteries where two detectives are standing over a body, and one of them (in effect) says, "Well, Jim, as we both know, but I'm going to tell you again anyway, we've both lived in this podunk town our entire lives, and were inseparable childhood friends until we both fell in love with the same girl, but let's set that rivalry aside for a moment while I describe main street for you. And while I'm at it, let me give you a brief character sketch of all the colorful people who live here in our town." It happens in
erotica too. "Well, Jim, presumably I know what I look like, but before I leave the house, I will stand in front of a mirror and describe me to myself as if I have amnesia. I have sparkling emerald green eyes (of course) and thick, wavy raven hair that falls to the center of my back. Red lipstick accentuates my generous mouth, which was made for sin. My magnificent breasts jut tightly against my maroon sweater, and my gray skirt only accentuates my long legs and mighty fine ass."

If the universe is different just to be different, and the story could just as well take place in the here and now on earth, then it isn't true speculative fiction. The setting has to have some bearing on how the characters behave. It almost has to act as a protagonist or antagonist. A great example of this is Frank Herbert's lesser known but brilliant Dosadi Experiment. The planet is so hostile to human life that it shapes the characters. Actually - it malforms them, twisting their bodies and minds in grotesque shapes. The characters are so believable that they provoke empathy even when they do terrible things (by the standards of people not of that world).

So how does a writer bring the reader into this world and convey the necessary information without the dread info dump? It's a challenge. It helps to have only one POV character who is an outsider, or is deeply questioning why things are the way they are. That gives the writer an excuse for the main character to observe, reflect, and comment on things that affect the character and important differences between the reader's world and the setting of the story. But that can't happen all at once. The information should be brought into the story when it means something. A little foreshadowing is good, but why stop and explain what a lightsaber is while Darth Vader is boarding your ship? Wait until the creepy old desert rat pulls one out of his memory box and hands it to your MC. At that moment, briefly describe it. If the the creepy old dude must explain what it is, make him do it as briefly as possible rather than giving the whole history of his religion and a technical diagram for the weapon. It's good for a writer to understand the complete back story behind everything, but only the most pertinent information should be on the page. And don't tell the reader that Darth Vader is the Emperor's henchman. Show it. Sure, it takes longer, but after seeing big, bad, Darth crush a man's windpipe with his mind, watching him bow down to someone has a lot more impact than simply saying that he's the hired muscle.

I've written several thousand words of my current story and I'm already seeing how difficult it is to write speculative fiction well. There has to be balance between showing the world and showing the characters. Neither aspect can stop for the other. There's no place for long explanations, but everything that's strange must be made clear - quickly. When I'm done writing this, but before I start my second draft, I think I'm going to pick up some of my favorite books and read them with a writer's eye. I will certainly view the craft of that genre with new appreciation.

How to Have An Incredibly Popular Blog (Without Even Trying)

Hits on my blog have risen to quite pleasing numbers, until I look at the search links that bring readers.

There's the usual Teenage Enema Nurses, Her First Bra, Spanking Daddy, She tied me up and used a dildo on me, and other amusing search strings (usually from mid-Western states early Sunday morning. Hmmm.) but lately about a third of my hits come from people wanting to see the artsy nude picture of Fabio Cannavaro I posted during World Cup. I agree that Fabio is worth a look, but I feel a little guilty that all these, um, sports fans, are coming to my blog and finding only a few posts about football (soccer for you Americans) and a lot of musing about writing. I also get at least one hit a week from some poor soul searching for Ossicats. I must be the number one hit on that search. Breeders of Ossicats are probably furious - mostly because my Cat Tyrant story mentions how expensive Ossicats are, and how I settled for an $18 kitty from a rescue group. (Settled isn't the right word. More like liberated)

Sometimes, I think I ought to delete my World Cup posts so that these football fans don't end up at my blog. Other times, I don't feel so guilty.

So here's my hint on how to get blog traffic - post nude pix of footballers. But not Fabio, please. He's mine.

Once A Band Geek, Always A Band Geek

The SO and I spent tonight at a band concert. Never mind how Rhapsody In Blue was neutered - okay, we did mind. How can you even think of playing that piece without the clarinet solo at the beginning? But anyway... Our personal bete noires were out in force. Hard mallets on a marimba. Untuned tympani that was struck in the middle instead of the side. Don't even get the SO started on the proper way to hold a cowbell, tambourine, or the claves. And oh - the hand positions on drum rolls! Out of tune flutes and squeaking saxophones we can deal with, but percussion sins are like nails on a chalkboard.

We are such geeks, and the geekiness will always be with us, I suppose.

Now I have to go find a decent version of Rhapsody, close my eyes, and soak it in to erase what I've heard.

Are You On Fire? No? Then Go Away.

Yes, I'm a little grumpy this morning.

Yesterday, my Internet was down until 9PM. The good side of this is that I had no more excuses to avoid writing. The bad news is - and I hear this complaint from other writers all the time, so I know it's not just me - no one takes writing seriously. They seem to think you can just pick it up and set it down like building a model ship. So they have no problem interrupting me.

When I get into a good writer's groove, and everything is clicking along, and the scene is playing out just perfectly, the last thing I want is an interruption. All I got yesterday was interruptions. Arrrgh!

I inherited my father's dark temper. Normally, I keep it under tight control. Sometimes though, it bubbles up like black crude from the ground and spills out and it takes everything I have to stop from leaving scorched earth around me. So I gritted my teeth and made non-committal replies, hoping people would take the hint and just leave me alone. But they kept on talking. And chatering. I can't do much about Skitters, my cat, who has decided that me at the computer = prime cat petting time, but for every human that thinks a small interruption or two, or even mindless chit-chat about what to have for dinner, doesn't bother me, I have this to say:

Are you on fire? Are you dying? If not, it can be arranged. *menacing glare*

Why Oh Why Oh Why

If you read my blog, you know I don't watch much TV. Soccer games are about my only viewing vice. Last night, my internet was down (I know - the horror!). Instead of writing, I paced the hovel for a bit, and then collapsed onto the couch in a full funk. No one was in the room, but the TV was on. (I have yet to convince the SO that TVs have an Off switch.) After the ad, they promised to return to the movie The Count Of Monte Cristo.

Dumas is one of my favorite writers. You can tell that he was a soldier. While any other writer of his era would have lavished page upon page describing every last second that Edmund Dantes spent in prison, Dumas cuts to the chase. I think it's chapter three that begins something like, "Eleven years passed." Oh, how I loved that man at that moment.

So, thinking that I was going to see the Count of Monte Cristo, I decided to watch TV.

Oh sure, the movie was titled The Count of Monte Cristo, but half an hour into it, I turned to my cat and asked, "Who the hell are these people?" (I did the same thing half an hour into Last of the Mohicans. Then I realized that they were ripping off the original movie of that title, not the book, and that the original movie actually stole more material from Drums Along the Mohawk than Last of the Mohicans, but I was probably one of two people in the state who have actually read both of those books, so no one else was as outraged as I was. BTW - should you ever be tempted to pick up Drums Along the Mohawk, just remember that it makes a Thomas Hardy plot look like a light comedy.)

So I have to ask - why oh why oh why do script writers think they can improve on a classic? I won't argue the quality of Dumas' stories. I know they aren't great, but they're good, and they resonate with readers enough that they're still in print. I suppose that movie execs think (rightly) that few people would know the difference. But I do. And since my opinion matters very much to me, I have some advice for the screenwriters of this world:

If you're going to rewrite an entire story, don't use the title. Call it something else, like "Monte Cristo Sandwich - all the cheese, twice the ham." That way, I don't lose an hour of my life.

Here's The Quick Summary

I'm still wiped out, but I can always manage a little gossip.

Got into New Orleans Thursday night on the same flight as Ian Philips and Greg Wharton of Suspect Thoughts and James Buchanan, fellow Torquere Press author. Read Origami Striptease on the flight. I'm reviewing it July or August for Erotica Revealed. (Here's a hint - It was fantastic.) Ran into Laura Baumbach of Manlover Romance at the baggage claim. Shared a cab with James Buchanan to the French Quarter. My B&B was Creole House. Not bad, but I was on the third floor (no elevator, narrow steps - no fun with a suitcase). Washed up and went to the reading at the Pelican Club. Met up with Greg Herren, Amie Evan, and Toni Amato. Drank. Smoked. Amie and Toni graciously allowed me to tag along for the evening. They went swimming; I sat there and tried to remember how to make conversation.

Friday morning, hiked over to Cafe du Monde for the big GLBT Promo breakfast. Got to talk to Skian McGuire's lovely friend Julia, Laura Baumbach, and Deanna (I think is her name). We went en mass to check in to the conference and headed for our master classes. Amie and Toni taught a great class about readings (I was very glad the class was packed and they didn't have time to drag all of us up front to read. I was NOT prepared for that.) Went to the characters as plot class and met a few friends I hadn't seen at breakfast. I was ordered to bring pralines home (or else), so I went to my usual shop and got a box, as well as buying a couple t-shirts. Went back to the conference for my last class with Jim Grimsley. And who sat next to me but Timothy State. I got to tell him how much I enjoyed his stories in Love, Bourbon Street. For me, that's one of the best parts of being at Saints and Sinners - the fan part. And sitting in front of us was Aaron Hamburger whose short story collection The View From Stalin's Head I picked up two years ago at SNS, and his novel Faith For Beginners is next in my reading stack (I meant to read it on the plane ride back, but dozed off.) Went to the Ambush Magazine welcome party, which is always fun. Talked more to Ian, Greg H, Greg W, and Timothy. Went to dinner with Timothy.

Next morning, walked around a bit. Caught breakfast (double espresso). It was still early, so I went into the Cabildo Museum. Had the place to myself. Loved the peace. Their orrery was worth the price of admission alone (for a geek girl like me.) Went over to the sister museum to catch the Mardi Gras exhibit. Realized I was late for panels. Rushed over to host hotel. Caught interesting panels. Met up with group for lunch (note to self - if not in Albuquerque, Santa Fe, or LA, don't trust anything billing itself as Mexican food. You are spoiled by the real thing and know the difference.) Went to more panels. Was very sad to see that Parade took out their Arabian couches. Walked around city a bit more, took some pix, went to get ready for the play. Went to the play. Returned to French Quarter around midnight. Went in search of dinner. Ate at Yo Mama's (this is beginning to be a tradition with me). Drank a bit. Walked Jean back to her hotel then walked to mine. 1:30 AM and the air smells like jasmine and Rawhide, across the street from my B&B, is hopping. I'm not. Try to go to sleep, but mind will not shut off until about 4AM. (this is also a SNS tradition for me. I get so many ideas that sleep is impossible)

Sunday morning, in serious search for espresso, end up at same cafe. Go to a few more panels. Run into Justin Chin. Go to Lambda Literary finalists readings, make note to read Justin Chin and Jeff Mann's latest work. Talk some more to Ian and Greg W, and Greg H. Decide they must be seriously sick of me by then. Rush back to hotel to claim luggage, jump in cab, go to airport.

The End.

Now you know why I'm wiped out.

More

The runner up and winner of the playwrite contest.


Houses across the street from the Maringy Theater where we saw the play.


The New Orleans Noir panel.


Terrible picture of the wonderful Justin Chin. Every time I hear his work, I'm reminded of how brilliant and funny he is.

Where To Begin

The Thursday Night reading.


Breakfast with GLBT PROMO at Cafe du Monde




The Identity envy reading at Parade. Jim, Jeff, JD, and Max.




The Ambush Magazine welcome party. Amie and JD center, and the back of the fabulous Timothy State (in green).

Is It Possible

to have a literary hangover? I'm back from Saints and Sinners. Had an incredible time, as always. Am totally wiped out, as always. Will post pix and gossip tomorrow.

V for Vendetta

It's rare that I watch movies, but I watched V for Vendetta tonight.

Gotta love someone with stacks of forbidden books around the house.

What I liked most about this movie was the message that ideas can't be killed. I'm all for revolution against unjust laws and governments, although I prefer peaceful means. After all, if killing a person can't kill an idea, blowing up a symbol of oppression can't stop the oppression.

While I was watching this movie, I thought of something I hadn't for a very long time - the picture of the lone man standing in front of the tanks in Tiananman Square. Was there ever a finer human moment?

Why Am I So Exhaused?

I finally broke down and did the most Hollywood of Hollywood things - I had head shots taken. DL King wanted a picture of me for Erotica Revealed (I'm the only reviewer without a picture) and I figured that at some point (hopefully not in the too distant future) I'll need one on the back cover of one of my novels.

I'm not against having my picture taken. It's just that I'm usually the one behind the camera. Not today. A makeup artist named Bonnie did wonders making me look like my best self and not like someone else. I really appreciated that. I was a bit concerned I'd have that over-produced glamour-shots look with tons of makeup - which I rarely wear because I'm allergic to so much of it - but she did an amazing job. We chatted a bit about how her art is changing with all the high definition photography. Interesting stuff. And then she set to work taming my hair.

The photographer is a friend. Otherwise, I would have never been able to afford her. She slipped me into her studio between two shoots. A long day for her - no doubt. We went through the five outfits I brought, picked two, and then set to work.

Oh my god. Keep the shoulders relaxed, stretch the neck, tilt the head, keep your eyes open while you smile. I guess I should have been watching America's Next Top Model for tips. It's not so easy getting into the right pose and it's even harder to do it while appearing natural and relaxed. Every time I moved, the make-up artist rushed in and fixed my hair - usually applying yet more hair gel to keep it under control. I've decided that this it the way to go through life - have someoneconstantly making sure your clothes are just right, your hair is perfect, and your makeup is flawless. On second thought - it would drive me crazy. But I'd look damn good.

I drove home, ate lunch, and promptly fell asleep on the couch. Who knew a three hour photo shoot could be so exhausting. And I didn't even flip my hair or pout! On Monday, I get the proofs. Maybe I'll post one here.

A Bit of Fun

Office Twister!

Right hand - blue
Left hand - yellow
Right foot - red
Left foot - green

My right hand is on a book. My left hand is barely touching a CD that I have to stretch fo. My right foot is touching the surge protector, and my left leg is cross over my right, touching a notebook.

What position would you be in?

It's May! It's May! The Month of Yes You May

Have a wonderful Beltane.

I swear I can feel it in my blood. I want to get out into the woods and smell the earth and see night sky without light pollution ruining the view. Naked dancing is optional.

Erotica Revealed goes live

Read it here.

On Being an Erotica Writer

Even though it's almost two weeks away, mentally, I'm already in New
Orleans for the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival. The anticipation
is terrible and wonderful at the same time. A lot of writers I know are
heading there for the first time, so I'm fielding a lot of questions
about it. I've been to a lot of writer's conferences, but Saints and
Sinners stands out as the must-attend conference for me because it's the only one I've ever been to where I feel comfortable. There's no awkward pause before I talk about what I write.

I'm not ashamed that I write erotica. It's just that it seems to make other
people feel uncomfortable. It was drummed into my head from an early
age that I was responsible for the emotions of people around me (not a healthy POV, but hard to overcome) so I'm always hyper-sensitive to body language.
When I see a negative shift, the peacemaker in me comes out. That isn't
really fair though. I should trust people to face their own prejudices.
Besides, some people need that jolt of reality. (I've often said that
at writer's conferences, admitting to writing science fiction gets the same horrified look that erotica gets. The difference is that when I say science fiction, those people don't move to another table.)

Despite the horrified glances I get at writer's conferences, I'm frequently pulled aside to listen to hastily whispered confessions or to answer breathless
questions. At the heart of both is the query, "Am I normal?" and "Is
this okay?" I might not be a sex educator, but I want to offer
reassurance. People shouldn't have to fret so much about sex.

The stigma of being an erotica writer isn't what it used to be. Few agents
will touch it, but as the bigger publishing houses move into the niche
they will. Where there's money, there's someone with his/her hand out
for a cut of the action. Time is running out though, because most of us
have done without agents, or been rudely dismissed ("I don't handle that sort of thing," said with a distinct sniff of disdain.), for so long that we've learned to do without. It's up to the agents to prove their worth to us at this point. However, the first one to wake up and smell the $$ is going to have his/her pick of clients.

On her blog, Remittance Girl wrote a wonderful piece about the questions erotica writers are asked that no other genre seems to face. No one seems to ask romance writers just how many Counts and Dukes they've fallen in love with and married. No one asks a mystery writer how many murders they've committed. And yet, asking an erotica writer if she/he has ever committed that sexual act doesn't seem beyond the pale. Maybe it's because we write about the forbidden that people assume we're game for anything.

I guess I'm lucky that I've never been asked the, "Did you actually do that?"
question. Maybe my stories are too firmly footed in the world of the
fantastic to strike people as a true confession. I have, however, been
mailed a few cock pictures under both my male pen name and my female
pen name. (P.S. Note to would-be suitors - neither Jay nor Kathleen is
currently auditioning new lovers. So save those cock pix for your
Manhunt profile.) (P.P.S. your couch is hideous.)

What Are We Allowed to Write?

There was a recent discussion on ERWA about words we use to describe skin colors, and if it was demeaning to use food names to describe skin tone. Interesting discussion. It evolved into an outpouring of our doubts as writers about portraying people of different cultures than our own. At the heart of that is a fear of inadvertently supporting stereotypes and offending someone.

While I can completely understand those fears, and have them myself, I worry about self-censorship and the paralysis of political correctness. If you write erotica, you're already offending someone's delicate sensibilities. It's easy to dismiss the protests of those who hate or fear frank discussions of sex, but not so easy to feel the same way about people who might be offended by our portrayal of a different culture. Why? Probably because we want to show respect for other cultures and are mortified when someone accuses us of getting it terribly wrong, but we delight in tweaking the noses of prudes.

This comes down to a question of what we're allowed to write. Back in the 1970's and early 1980's (and less so now, but I'm sure there are whole college courses dedicated to this), debates raged about the right of whites to portray people of color. At the heart of that was the idea that black, brown, and other voices were being silenced by white writers, and that white writers were unable to accurately portray other cultures. Those are separate arguments. On one hand, those arguments gave rise to cultural studies and made the publishing world more accessible to non-white writers, thus making voices heard that otherwise wouldn't have been. That needed to happen. On the other hand, it's an unfair and sweeping assessment of intent, ability, imagination, and skill of white writers. And while those debates did result in other voices being heard, it also made characters of color all but disappear from the mainstream literature of the day.

There's a vast difference between what I call "chomba-chomba" cultural writing (taken from the big production number at the end of Moulin Rouge in which the cast sings nonsense words and wears exotic but probably non-authentic costumes meant to evoke India) and informed writing. Chomba-chomba is when someone slaps an exotic facade over their story and presents it as being about another culture. Like all facades though, it lacks depth, and isn't constructed with much care. The Mikado, Madame Butterfly, and almost every Western filmed by Hollywood that portrayed indigenous cultures are chomba-chomba stories. Any writer who does that deserves the wrath of the culture they insult through ignorance.

But what about the ones who get it right? Male writers write female characters. Female writers write men. Alice Walker writes white characters. Greg Herren (and almost every other queer writer I know) writes straight characters. Should they be barred from crossing those lines simply because they aren't what they write? The example writers always hold up is that no one believes that Agatha Christie ever murdered anyone, and yet all she wrote was murder mysteries. So why should straight men be barred from writing lesbian fiction? But the mere suggestion of that can set off a flurry of angry diatribes.

Last year, I was at a party where I was getting along really well with this guy I'd just met. He was intrigued that I wrote erotica, and asked a lot of questions. The conversation was flowing along nicely, with a lot of laughter and good quips, when I mentioned a gay erotic story I'd written that got the best reviews I've ever had. He was incredibly offended. How dare I, a woman, write gay erotica! The rant went on until I said something to the effect of, "I wasn't asking for your permission," and walked away.

So where do we get permission to write outside our personal point of view? If you're a writer, don't hold your breath waiting for the engraved invitation. No one is going to say, "You've finally proven your sensitivity and understanding, now you may write a character from our culture." Write what you want to, write what you feel. Go for it. Sure, someone might be offended, but you truly can't please everyone, so don't even try. Fear has no place in writing. So just write your story. Go on. You have my permission.

Erotica Revealed

I'm mentioned it a few times, but fellow writer, kinkster, and dear friend DL King is starting a new erotica review site, and I'm very pleased to be one of her reviewers. The site isn't up yet, but we're e-mailing like mad behind the scenes hammering out the details (oh - so many details!) so that there's a consistent house style to the reviews.

Erotica doesn't get much respect. It's hard to get a review that approaches it as literature. There are a few sites out there that do a good job now. We want to add to those options.

Before, I've reviewed as the mood hit me, but we're trying to update monthly, so now I've got to be more consistent. Alas poor me - I have to set aside time to read more erotica. ;)

Where To Begin

I finally decided that fate was fate and I might as well start working on my next novel instead of hoping a short story suggested itself. I had two choices - the speculative fiction or the sand-humping beach read. While I have a good idea of the major themes of the speculative fiction story -based on Hobb's theories on the role of the commonwealth and the motivations of the individual within a polis; and on the isolating influences of technology and how that affects communication - so obviously it's going to be a light comedy.

Where was I? Oh yeah. While I know the themes my speculative fiction will touch on, I don't quite have the nitty-gritty details of the story worked out. I've known the plot of the sand-humping beach read for almost a year, so I went with that instead.

No matter how well I know the story I'm telling, I'm still stuck with the problem of where to begin. The opening is one of the hardest parts of a novel. If I take a long running start at a story, I lose the reader. So I have to jump into the middle of action. But what action?

On the writer's lists I belong to, about twice a year we discuss great opening lines of novels. "The world is full of happy widows" from Love in the Time of Cholera is my favorite opening line. ("It's lovely to think so, isn't it?" from the Sun Also Rises is my favorite closing line.) A good opening line is important , but it can't survive on it's own. You can't count on "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," to carry an entire novel.

People can debate this - but I think the elements of a great first chapter are:

A example of the major conflict that will drive the story.

Actions and dialog that reveal the main character's defining traits.

A touch of mystery.

The opening chapter I envisioned didn't fit that criteria, which is partially why I avoided working on this novel. (the rest of the reason was pure obstinacy) I was mulling scenes, tumbling them around in my mind as I tried to figure out the exact sequence they belonged in, and somewhere in that mess I saw pieces that fit together in new ways to create a much stronger chapter one. It has all the elements I'm looking for. It begins in the middle of action, but not just any action. The conflict in the scene reveals Sam's major character flaw (in case the reader hasn't read Chaos Magic and doesn't already know Sam inside and out.), and sets up further conflict throughout the story. There's a little bit of mystery - what is that secret Sam almost let slip? And, of course, it leads up to a really hot sex scene. A beginning doesn't get much better than that.

Idle Hands

I have a definite creativity cycle. About spring I stop writing and don't truly get back into a creative flow until August. It used to drive me crazy - okay, it still does - but at least I don't panic now when months go by and I've written nothing. By the end of July, I do get a little testy though.

From September to January I worked on a novel and didn't write any short stories. In February I wrote a short story that I promised an editor months ago, but other than that I only have the Hot Cops anthology that's due out in May. So I'm looking at this gaping whole in my output and getting a bit nervous. Should I go against my normal pattern and try to write? I'd like to work on some short stories before I plunge back into the huge time suck of a novel, but I have two novels - okay, three - in my head and not a single short story. I tempted to hold off on writing until I can come up with a decent short, but if I'm in the mode where I can write, and I have a novel ready to go, why not write it?

You can see that this is one of those internal debates where I already know the answer, but I don't like it, so I waste time quibbling over non-issues to avoid what's going to happen anyway.

While I play mind games with myself, I'm not sitting around doing nothing. Dear friend, writer, kinkster and fellow porn movie aficionado DL King is creating a website for reviews of literary erotica, so I've been reading and writing reviews that will be exclusive to her site ( you won't see them on this blog, but I will post links when the site is up). I've been networking like mad with writers and editors for all my projects that are coming up. Mindful of how much I owe to the wonderful community of writers at the Erotica Readers and Writer's Association, I've been working on line by line critiques of stories on the Story Time list - which probably strikes fear in the heart of new writers as they see the volume of notes I send them, but I always say that being edited by Marcy Scheiner was the best writing class I ever took, and I try to pass on that personal level of in-depth help to writers with promise. (I'll never forget looking at the edited version of my first sold story, the pages absolutely dripping with red ink, and thinking, "And she liked this? My god. What does she do to a story she hates?" I allowed myself ten Diva melt-down minutes and then decided to learn from it. Looking back, I should have paid her . She changed the way I tell stories - and all for the better.)

These are not simply excuses to avoid working on another novel, but they do help. *sigh* I guess I'm fated. It's going to be another novel. Hmmm. Do I write the next in the series of my sand-humping beach reads, or do I tackle the only-slightly-more-serious near-future speculative fiction (that's science fiction to all you non-geeks)? Wow - figuring this out could take me weeks - but only if I ration out my excuses carefully.

Review of Nobody Passes

Normally, I plow through books in a matter of hours. I absorb story and language quickly. I've always been that way. When Mom felt the need to impress her fellow PhD candidates, she'd hand me a novel, flip to a random page, put her finger on the stopwatch and shout Go! When I finished the chapter, she'd have someone calculate the number of words, divide it by the time, and then wait for them to be amazed by my words per minute rate. Of course, they felt any trained monkey could scan and flip pages, so then I'd have to tapdance through the grand finale as they questioned me about what I'd read. This led to a short stint as the psychology department's favorite lab rat - the Girl Wonder, a first grader who read at college level. That was back in the days where it was still permissible for the head of the department to pat me on the head and lament to my mother, "Pity she's a girl. Such a waste of intellegence." BTW - the school was Oklahoma State University. The year was 1971. I wish I remembered his name, because I'd print it here. Why protect that misogynistic ass? Even back then, I could have told him that I wasn't really a girl, but at that moment it felt like a matter of principal to pass as one, so I didn't correct him. (Mom, on the other hand, ripped him a new one. Despite their religious conservatism, Mom and Dad have always been ardent feminists.)

In contrast to my usual speed reading style, I've been reading Nobody Passes: Rejecting the Rules of Gender and Conformity, edited by Mattilda, Seal Press, slowly, absorbing each essay, and setting aside time to think about the ideas. This is my highest praise for any book - it makes me think.

Some essays stand out more than others, not because they are better, but because they have deeper personal resonance for me. And Then You Cut Your Hair made me nod a few times, and grin. This essay hit right on the issues of hair-length conformity and gender roles. My hair is long, but I hate the message it seems to send out. The message people should get from my hair is that I can't be bothered to get it cut. Simple as that. It does not define me. My hair is NOT political, damn it, just neglected. Once upon a time, I resorted to cropping it very short to fit better with how I identify, but then I got pissed off that other people got to determine my validity with such a stupid external measure, and then time slipped past, and the next thing I knew, it was past my shoulders again. It's reassuring to know that other people experienced this weird hair/identity/conformity issue, and how the length can make a person visible in one community but invisible in another. The rest of the essay is about race. Being white, I will never have a good point of reference for racial issues from the POV of a person of a different race, but it's interesting reading.

Surface Tensions by Jen Cross is another essay that stays with me. As I mentioned after her reading at Skylight Books, my jaw dropped when she spoke of wanting to cut away the feminine parts of her body. She had different reasons than I did - I was never sexually abused - but I was comforted by the horrible thought being spoken aloud. I'd written about it in a novel I just finished, but was a bit uneasy about how a publisher would react to such a frank admission of body loathing and the desire to self-mutilate - no, not mutilate, reform and rebirth, correct and mold in my own image. There's power in terrible words. If Jen isn't afraid to use them, I shouldn't be either.

Not Quite Queer by Benjamin Shepard asks, "Is it possible to be straight and queer? " Persephone by Helen Boyd asks if it's possible to have an identity that isn't in relation to anohter person's identity, and if it's possible to be queer and still have an heteronormative imprint (she calls it a tattoo) on your life. Both of these address the end of an era that may have never been, that mythological time when queer culture was welcoming and encompassing of everyone who felt like Other. The boundaries feel set now, like fortress walls rather than open arms. As usual, I'm on the outside, wondering if I'll ever feel I belong anywhere, and sort of resigning myself to the idea that I won't. I have a feeling that Benjamin and Helen would empathize.

There are so many excellent essays in this anthology. Dean Spade's Undermining Gender Regulation is an eye-opening reminder of the way the government punishes people for being Other. Passing Last Summer and The End of Genderqueer were worth a second reading. Lack of Close Friends of Confidants by Jennifer Blowdryer was well received at the reading I went to.

Overall, this is a persuasive text for anti-assimilation. Little here would excite the politically connected gay groups. This is not media friendly, photo-op, soundbite life. These are unique voices. A strongly recommended read.

Fantasy

Just got back from Las Vegas. I'm never sure how I feel about that place. (The Strip and the casinos, not the City.) On one hand, it's grotesque in the literary sense in that it evokes divergent emotions, mainly disgust and fascination. On the other hand... nope, grotesque covers it.

We went for the SO's birthday. Other than hitting the new Star Wars slot machine, the thing he most wanted to do was catch a show. As the trip was ALL ABOUT HIM (I had so much fun reminding him of that whenever he asked me what I wanted to do) we decided to head out to a topless review. (It turns out that naked boobies are the perfect gift for the difficult-to-shop-for hetero man. Now I know what to get him next year too.)

The topless review Fantasy is at the Luxor. Unfortunately, it shares theater space with Carrot Top. No matter what you think about his comedy, you have to admit that a ten-foot high close-up of Carrot Top is enough to kill a soft-core porn buzz.

The audience was mixed racially (mostly white), average age about 47, and almost evenly split between men and women - to the obvious consternation of three college boys who were seated between women who could have been mom. The theater is tiered such that there are no bad seats, but the rows are tight, and we had to stand many times as people inched past us to get to their seats further down the row. Because of the layout, there's no drink service during the show, which you might prefer (leaving for the bathroom during the show will make the people on your row hate you).

Every show in Las Vegas gets 5 Star ratings, or is voted the Best of Vegas for some reason or another in the ads, websites, and magazines. Fantasy was no exception. Since you can't trust the ratings, you have to put your faith in the idea that a show wouldn't keep playing if it wasn't decent, but there's a fallacy in that logic. No one else knows either, so everyone gambles and buys a ticket, filling the theaters of both bad and good shows. Some people get lucky and love what they see. The rest of us crap out.

If you go see Fantasy, you will see bare breasts. Most of them even seemed real. If that's enough to keep you happy, then be my guest. However, there are other shows that feature topless dancers that I'd suggest before Fantasy. Having breasts myself, I'm not as enthralled by them as some people. It takes a bit more to keep me entertained. Fantasy didn't have more.

The comedian in the show was a talented dancer, but his routine was so painfully unfunny that I was relieved every time he left the stage.

If I were the director, I'd remind the singer that the microphone amplifies her voice so that she doesn't have to scream to be heard. Maybe that screeching was supposed to convey deep emotion. She did tend to scrunch up her face and look constipated at those moments. Every time she cranked up the volume, the audience flinched.

Almost every show I've seen in Vegas has taken pains to demonstrate that the dancers are real artists who have trained extensively in ballet and jazz. Fantasy didn't. It was number after number of unimaginative strip scenes that didn't come close to showing off the dancing talent on that stage, which was a pity. There was no variety. Every number looked like it was cribbed from a Janet Jackson video. Someone should tell the choreographer that a dancer constantly tossing her hair to a soundtrack of a women faking an orgasm may be sexy once, but after an hour, it gets old. So did the faked lesbian caresses and slaps on the butt, but I'll accept that as fanserve for middle age, middle class males who still think lesbian = two girls playing around while they wait for a man to join them.

If you go to Vegas, I can suggest two other shows that I'd see before Fantasy. If it's still playing, Crazy Girls is very good. The theater is old and kind of creepy, but the dancers are wonderful, and they get a chance to show off their skills in a variety of numbers. The poles that they dance on are out in the audience, so you get to see the dancers very close. Plus - their "lesbian fantasy for guys" dance number was hot. The other show I'd strongly suggest is Fashionistas. I reviewed it last year after I went, and my opinion of it still stands. Kick ass music, hot dancing, endless variety of scenes, and enough kink to keep my on the edge of my seat.