West Hollywood Book Fair

I'm making these entries out of order. Sorry.




Last weekend, I worked at the West Hollywood
book fair. I had a great time working the booth with James Buchanan. We
were right next to A Different Light's space, so everyone I knew walked
by us at some point.

Lovely people I got to see:

Stuart Timmons (Gay L.A., a double Lambda Literary Award winner)


, Charles Flowers of Lambda Literary, Trebor Healey, Moses (sorry, I can never remember your last name), Thomas Roche, Ali Leibgott, Fiona Zedde, Mike Szymanski and Nicole Kristal, and


Dan Boyle.

What a Weekend!

Writer, fellow kinkster, dear friend, and editor of Erotica Revealed D.L. King came to town for the weekend. Unlike my visit to New York, I didn't get flogged this time, but not for lack of trying....

D.L. already knows LA which is a blessing as she's already been to the obvious places. We tried to find a leather store she knew, but even our combined research skills failed us. Not one to be daunted, I instead initiated her into my love of hooker boot shopping.

Alas - we took no pictures but just in case you think I'm kidding when I say hooker boots, what I mean is a store that stocks at a minimum 4 inch platform shoes in every color as well as clear plastic platforms with plastic goldfish, silk roses, or glitter in them as well as every conceivable shade of thigh high boots from black leather spiked heels to leopard print to glittery powder blue to white vinyl platforms with lip prints and dollar signs up the leg. The first store we went into was managed by a surly Russian couple who must have decided we weren't their kind of customers and pestered us until we left.

D.L said, "That's the first time I've ever been kicked out of a store for not being slutty enough."

Those Russians should have known that appearances can be deceiving. Even our fellow erotica writers would probably agree that we have really smutty minds.

The second store is my all-time favorite. The manager was nice and actually very helpful. He offered to call his warehouse to see if they had the shoe we were looking for. Is that customer service or what? If I were as graceful on 6 inch heels as the exotic dancer who was trying on the shiny red platform shoes at the back of the store, I would probably wear some of the shoes he sells.

After hours of shopping, we drove Sunset from Hollywood to the Ocean and went to the Santa Monica Pier to watch the sun set.

But the best part of her visit was, as always, the chance to talk to her. That, and getting to see her lovely new rubber skirt.

Six of One, Half Dozen of the Other

Today is good and bad news day.

Good news - I'm about three scenes from finishing the first draft of Love Runes. I was on a roll yesterday and moved through a significant portion of the story.

Bad news - Writing, meaning typing the story into the computer, almost every day for three weeks has aggravated my arthritis to the point where my hands are weak and achy. I'm afraid to pick anything up, because I don't have the ability to grasp firmly and I drop things. Further bad news - pain pills and anti-inflammatories are murder on my stomach.

Good news - I'll be working a booth at the West Hollywood Book Fair today, so I'll have to give my hands a rest.

Bad news - I think any writer would agree with me on this one. When you're in the writing groove and it's flowing well, nothing is worse than having to stop. Having to eat, sleep, or take part in real life is annoying as hell. With the end of the novel so close that I can taste it, I'm crazy disappointed that I can't write. Lord knows that's all I'll think about today.

Good news - more and more friends have been sending emails saying that they'll be at the book fair, so I have at least twelve people I get to talk to who I don't see often. And I can pick up more books for my already teetering reading pile. Wait - is that good news or bad news?

Each Novel is Novel in Its Own Way

At Saints and Sinners one year, Poppy Z Brite made the comment that you don't learn how to write a novel, you learn how to write this novel (meaning the one you're working on). At the time I understood what she meant, but every novel I write, her words come back to me and I'm amazed again at how true that statement is.

Every novel is different - and I don't mean the story. I'm talking about habits. It used to be that my first draft was finding the story. That meant that I wrote a lot that I couldn't use. While terribly inefficient, it was okay, because all writing is practice. On the second draft, I'd have to get rid of abandoned secondary plots, (My rule now - if it doesn't loop back to the main plot, don't bother to write it in the first place.) dead ends, character inconsistencies, scenes that didn't advance the plot, etc. Third draft was where the polishing began. Now I either have a lot more discipline, or I'm learning my craft, because when I sit down to write, I have a better idea of the story. I know the beginning. I know the end. The path I take between those two points is still negotiable, but I have a direction in mind and I try to stick to it. If I create a scene that's very cool, but redundant, or doesn't help the story move, I delete it right away. Maybe I'm just getting better at recognizing those.

I used to work on whatever scene grabbed my attention instead of working from page one to the end. Jumping around is called a non-linear style. It works very well for some people. I've learned that it doesn't work for me. If I jump ahead, I nearly always end up completely rewriting a scene. Trying to save what I already have is actually more work than starting from scratch. So now I work in a linear fashion.

Part of the linear versus non-linear debate is the idea that if you write non-linear, you can skip the dull parts of the story and move on to the part that's fun to write. Here's my crazy idea - skip the dull parts, but then never go back and write them. If it's dull for the writer, it's going to bore the reader. So unless you can make those transition scenes or slow parts interesting, find a way to avoid them completely.

Yet another thing that's changed is my sense of how much story I can tell. My plots are getting less intricate because I realize that I can't manage a huge cast of characters and secondary plots, etc. in the space that I have. Strangely enough, the more I strip away, the less I seem to lose. Everything that remains is distilled and intensified. That works for the types of stories I write.

I'm coming into the home stretch with this sequel to Chaos Magic. It's flowing well. I don't have a lot of excess to cut on the rewrite. I've headed off the path a few times, but recognized it fairly soon and was able to get back where I needed to be. The story is leading to the ending I wanted. In all, an amazingly efficient and good experience. All of which makes me wonder - what will I learn about writing a novel when I go to write the next one?

So, I did lunch with Superman today.

Not really Superman. His alter ego. Clark Kent.

Oh god, did I say, "Do lunch?" This is what happens when you work on the Westside too long. You stop, like, totally talking like someone real and start talking like one of Them. (To get the intonation right, you have to read the sentence above as if it were a question.) And by Them, I mean industry folk. If you have no idea what industry I'm talking about, count yourself lucky. The Westside is infested with them.

Clark Kent isn't his real name, but when you meet people online, you get used to their handles. So I call him Clark. It's pure coincidence that another friend is the alter ego of yet another superhero. Last time we were all out for a bite in Hollywood (Not North Hollywood, not West Hollywood, just plain old Hollywood - which really means Los Feliz. Got it?) I complained to Clark and Peter Parker that I was the only one at the table without superpowers. (Super powers in this case being catching the eye of every WeHo 'mo slumming outside his 'hood. So it wasn't as if I really cared. I just liked complaining.)

Anyway, Clark, as you suspected, really lives in Metropolis New York, but he's out here for a five week stint, so I have him to myself. (Unless I convince the SF guys to come down for a pub crawl. Alas, my hooker boots are no more, so if the boys do a road trip, I will have to go shopping for suitably unsuitable footwear for the evening. I always wear inappropriate shoes.) We negotiated lunch down to burgers. I gave him a choice - Tommys (chili cheeseburgers and all the heartburn you can cart away. But where else but Pinks can you see limos and Ferraris parked next to the body of a luckless tweaker?) or The Counter . We went to the Counter. My burger was $12. Clark must have order a kryptonite chaser, because his set him back nearly $20.

This is why I don't do lunch on the Westside. This is why I flee it as soon as the sun sets. Okay- it's not the only reason, but it'll do. I think I'll be brown bagging my lunch for a month to make up for that one.

On the other hand - the company was worth it. Clark really is a super man. (I feel like pimping him - cute, single, successful, fit... single)

Today is National Celebrate Bisexuality Day!

I didn't even know there was such a day until recently.

Despite all the jokes about how to celebrate it, I think I'll spend the day writing and preparing for the West Hollywood Book Fair. If you're going to be in WeHo next Sunday, email me and I'll tell you where to find me. Here's a hint - it won't be sitting on a fence.

The P'Town Murders

I went to Jeffrey Round's reading for his mystery novel The P'Town Murders last night at A Different Light. The little taste of his book - a blue haired psychic healer and a secret agent - put me in the mood for murder (a murder mystery) so I'm really looking forward to curling up with this book.

Max Pierce (The Master of Seacliff) introduced Jeff. It's always great to see Max. And I recognized Jeff's bf Shane from Saints and Sinners. This is one of the nice things about going to readings and to Saints and Sinners - being a writer can seem very isolating, but if you get out there, you realize that you do have a community. And the best part of that community is that it's filled with vibrant, creative people.

After the reading, Jeff, Shane (there, now I feel much better that I have his name right) and I walked down to the Abbey for drinks. I asked Jeff the question I always ask mystery writers - Did you know 'who done it' when you started. They always tell me, "No." I don't' know why I keep asking. But I'm so amazed that mysteries aren't plotted out down to the Nth degree before the writer starts. I love mysteries, but I can't write them. Maybe I should listen to what these professional have to say and just dive in. But.....

Jeff is one of the last writers to get his book out of Haworth's Harrington Park Press fiction line before the shut-down. Unfortunately, that means he's got no support for promotion. (not that Haworth ever really promoted anyone) Also tied up in this Haworth mess his his second book in this series. Like all the other Haworth writers with contract, Jeff has no idea where things stand. I really feel for all the Haworth writers and hope that soon someone at that company has the decency to let them know what the future holds.

BTW - yes, I was in WeHo again, and yes, I parked at the same lot I always do, and yes, out of pure orneriness, I stood in the exact same spot I did Monday night and smoked a cig. This time, in peace. (of course, there's a world of difference between WeHo on a Monday night and a Thursday night. The town was hopping last night.)

So... The Other Thing That Happened Last Night

Last night, I had one of those weird moments in life where I'm not sure exactly what happened, if anything did happen, but I have my theories. I always have a theory.

After I took Nan Andrews and her sister on a quick tour of the Abbey in WeHo, we said our goodbyes. We went in opposite directions. Dylynn DeSaint, her partner, and friends were outside the Abbey talking to someone who worked there. I waved goodnight and crossed Robertson. Near the valet parking lot that I've used in WeHo ever since the narrowly avoided towing-and-police-impound incident, I decided to have one last smoke before I drove home. So I stopped and lit up. Across the street was the park. Behind me was a tall cinderblock wall. I was about ten feet from the end of the wall where it led into the parking lot. The street was well lit, but empty, and quiet. It was after eleven, but I was in WeHo. Beverly Hills adjunct. So the deserted street and late hour didn't worry me. Besides, if I walked around the corner to the parking lot, I knew that a couple attendants would be hanging out on the other side of the wall.

As I was smoking, enjoying the peace, and thinking that it was a successful evening, I noticed a man walking towards me on Robertson. He was about 6'2", muscled, mid-forties, dressed casual but nice. I decided he was no problem. Just a bear headed out for a late night drink. But of course I kept him in my sights, because I'm not an idiot.

He slowed down on the far side of the driveway into the parking lot and lingered. Even though I wasn't looking at him, he was in my peripheral vision, and he had my full attention. There was no reason for him to stop there. A few moments later, he started walking again. He passed me, but stopped within arm's reach of where I was standing.

I took a few steps towards the street, because I didn't want the wall too close behind me. But I didn't feel as if I was in any danger. Just being proactive.

What I expected at that point was for him to ask for a light. I debated being prudently rude and simply walking away if he spoke. Because when a large, muscled, strange man is standing within arm's reach of you on a deserted street late at night, no matter how nice the neighborhood, your mind kicks into high gear with what-if scenerios. But I still wasn't scared. Mostly I was pissed off, because I felt he was in my space, so I held my ground. In LA, a city of millions,benignly ignoring people is considered polite. It keeps you sane. You pretend people aren't there, and they pretend you don't exist, and you create your little mental space of solitude. But he was intruding on mine.

He hovered nearby for a bit, wandered not more than ten feet away, and hovered again. I didn't look directly at him, but he was looking at me. Thoroughly pissed off by then, I put out my cig (if I'd felt threatened instead of pissed off, I would have kept it in hand as a weapon), walked to the parking lot, exchanged nods with the attendants, and got into my car. When I pulled out onto Robertson, the guy was still standing there, watching me.

Okay - so perception is everything here. On the drive home, I wondered if he was a cop. In which case, I'm hugely insulted. Not that he thought I was dressed slutty (I went right from work, so I was in my slightly Domme suit -which is meant to intimidate the hell out of people I work with, but not to turn them on), but insulted because if he was a cop, and he thought I was working the street, then he also thought that I was the stupidest hooker on the face of the planet. A female hooker. In WeHo. Think about it.

My other theory is that he was world most inept cruiser. A straight man in WeHo looking for female companionship. Hmmm. Talk about someone not clear on the concept.

I've been trying to figure out a logical explanation for his actions that doesn't include him mistaking me for a hooker, but for some reason, my imagination fails me. The thing is, I see street walkers all the time in other parts of the city, and I in no way fit the description. I wasn't even wearing my hooker boots!

So you tell me - what do you think happened, or didn't happen, last night?

Iridescence Reading

I had a wonderful time last night at the reading for Iridescence.

A Different Light is a great host for readings and I'd like to thank them for offering space for so many of my friends when they have books out.

As always, it's a great pleasure to spend time with with Jolie du Pre. She's working her butt off to make this anthology a success and get the word out. She put together a great group of stories.

There's something extra that comes out in a story when the author reads it. Passages take on extra depth. Fiona Zedde's Night Music charmed, as it did when I read it, but the intimacy of the scene she'd written really shone. Princess Jolene Hui was darling. Dylynn De Saint's hot story of dressing room sex kicked up a notch. It was her first reading, but you'd never know. She performed like a pro and made the audience smile. And last but not least - dear friend Nan Andrews - (I think this was also her first reading) gave us just enough to pique our appetites for more.

After the reading, we walked over to a restaurant for a relaxed dinner and great conversation. I was in the center and had a hard time picking which way to turn to listen as all sorts of fascinating things were being talked about. As usual, we chatted about writers, editors, and publishers, but there were a lot of non-writers along, so the conversation ranged all over the place. Not a dull moment. I love spending an evening in the company of smart women (and a few men too).

Fiona Zedde will be a panelist at the West Hollywood book fair again this year, so I'll try to drop by and at least wave hello.

So Much Going On

Tonight, the lovely Jolie du Pre, wonderful friend Nan Andrews, and other writers will be reading from Iridescence at A Different Light in West Hollywood.

Last month, Mickeys (ah, the glimpses of go-go boys through their windows!) suffered from a huge fire. Knowing that A Different Light was only a few doors down from the popular bar, I was worried about that it might have had a lot of damage too, but they apparently only had minor smoke damage on the second floor. (To which I said, "The bookstore has a second story? Who knew?)

Next week in WeHo:
(I make plans to go to this every year, and something always comes up - and no, not in the giggly kind of way. Just sucky real life stuff. This year I'm not even going to try.)

Erotic Art Fair Weekend

TOM OF FINLAND FOUNDATION presents the:13th Annual West Hollywood — Los Angeles EROTIC ART FAIR WEEKEND SEPTEMBER 21st through 23rd

Artists Reception on Friday Sept. 21st: Cocktail party open to the general public at the Tom of Finland House $10.00 cover.Come see over 200 homo erotic works on exhibition at the foundation. 1421 Laveta Terrace Los Angeles CA 90026

Art Fair on Saturday & Sunday Sept. 22nd and 23rd:West Hollywood Park on San Vincente. 1:00pm to 7:00pm. Come meet artists from Around the World: Sculpture, Photography, Paintings, Sketches, Digital Renderings and more. Most major credit cards will be accepted. $12.00 admission good for both days of the fair.Life Drawing and Photography all afternoon. Different models both days! Bring your art materials or just enjoy viewing the human form.

And:

September 30th is the West Hollywood Book Fair. I'll be there. Contact me through e-mail if you want to know how to find me.

And finally

Pop over to my Jay Lygon blog and read about the latest fantastic review for Chaos Magic.

I Get My Gold Star For The Day

Admittedly, I didn't drag my butt out of bed until nearly noon today, but I spent the rest of my day writing. Yay!

I'm finally getting serious about the sequel to Chaos Magic. I knew the beginning, I knew the end, but the middle part? Ugh. I've been muddling through that for months now. It got to the point where I was making everything hopelessly complicated and convoluted. Maybe I need to do that until I finally get frustrated with the Rocco embellishments and pare it down to something with clean, minimalist lines. After all, what does a story need? It doesn't need side plots and more characters. All it needs is conflict and resolution. Oh yeah - and sex. Hot, steamy, dirty, raunchy, sweaty sex. This is erotica, after all.

Good Writing Habits

On one of my writer's lists, people are discussing good writing habits, and I'm afraid that I seem to have few of them. I can't write while music is playing. I don't keep a stack of post-it notes nearby with bits of info, draw flow charts, interview my characters, write an outline, do copious amounts of research, etc.

As with any creative process, I think that whatever works is the right way. If you can listen to Metallica while you're typing away - do it. If it inspires you, even better. If you believe in muses and set out offerings to yours, do it. (But don't expect me to kept a straight face while you tell me about it). If you write historical fiction then you better do your homework, or prepare to be mocked.

Most of my non-typing writing work is done in the car as I sit in traffic. I think about the story arc, I puzzle out sequences, I imagine scenes. However, if I come up with some really great turn of phrase while I'm mulling a story, I don't lunge for a pen and the back of an envelope, because no matter how great it sounds in my head, I know that on the page it will come of as too twee (to borrow a lovely English expression). Besides, once I have this incredibly great phrase, I have to find a way to work it into my scene, which usually means some heavy-handed manipulation of dialog. So then I have all this clunky mess working up to one great phrase that only I adore. To avoid that, I murder that darling before it hits the page. All I try to remember is the emotional impact of the scene. That's what the reader is going to take away. If they notice the writing, then I'm trying too hard.

My research methods would shock most people. I shouldn't even admit to it here. What I do is get lucky after the fact. It's terrible to rely on it, but it seems to work for me. For example - in one story, I based my civilization loosely on the Inca Empire. A small plot point was that everyone in the civilization owed the government physical labor as part of their taxes. If you served in the military, you were exempt for life. Otherwise, one month a year you were out paving roads or building city walls. After I wrote that, I was researching the Inca religion and found out that the Incas had a system called mita that was a tax every citizen paid the government in the form of labor. Do I live a charmed life or what? Similarly, when I was writing Chaos Magic (as Jay Lygon), I had this concept of godhood as simply another state of being. In my fantasy world, gods weren't immortal. Then I was reading one of my Buddhists texts, and it showed a wheel with the various states of being. Human was one, hungry ghost another, and insect, and... God. And since these are stages of being on a karmic cycle, that means that gods aren't immortal. Aha! I won't even go into how well Wiccan beliefs dovetailed with what I'd already envisioned. Now, if I were trying to write a historical - even alternate timeline, or setting it somewhere I didn't know, I'd research everything down to the cracks in the sidewalks before I wrote word one. With fantasy, I don't have to, but I always feel better when I can find a real life example of what I envision. After all, even in fantasy worlds, the laws of physics apply.

*Bangs Head On Desk*

You know how I always go on about how important it is to hang around other writers and talk to them? I always point out the positives. I forget to mention the negatives.

Other writers are the kids from the wrong side of the tracks, and they will lure you into doing things you KNOW you shouldn't do. For example, somehow I'm now committed to NaNoMo madness.

I first heard about National Novel Month five years ago from Amanda Earl. I thought I'd never heard of something so insane. 50,000 words in a month? Maybe if I had no job and had an entire novel outlined to the Nth degree before the first day, but seat-of-the-pants novel writing? No way. That's just madness. Now, in a classic game of writer chicken, several of the other Torquere writers double-dog-dared each other to commit to NaNoMo. And I'm one of them. Ack! I never would have done it if the other kids hadn't dared me. They're a bad influence.

This is what I get for musing aloud that I needed to take drastic measures to force myself to start writing again.

And yet again

This time the employees of the Department of Justice are searching for pictures of historical smut. Note the search string: Pompei Penis.

wdcsun24.usdoj.gov (Us Dept Of Justice) [Label IP Address]
District Of Columbia, Washington, United States, 0 returning visits
Date
Time
WebPage
11th September 2007
12:59:58
www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=pompei penis carvingskathleenbradean.blogspot.com/2006_09_01_archive.html

Whoo-Hoo!

Oh yeah, oh yeah! Make that a 3
time Brother of Dragons on Rocket Mania, and....

Oops. Guess I got caught goofing off again.

This last weekend I spent a ton of time working on stuff related to writing, but did little actual writing. I edited a promotional chapter snip, did a chat, volunteered myself for booth work at the West HollywoodBook fair, volunteered myself for prep work for the book fair (Just call me Ado Annie. You know - the girl who cain't say no.), took care of my EPPIE contest entry, sent my snippet to Torquere for their birthday cake (mine will show up on the 21st), read up on HTML coding for a new website for my other pen name, read some of an anthology I'm reviewing for next month at Erotica Revealed, committed myself to reviewing several novels from Chroma, worked on promo graphics..... And oh yeah, possibly committed myself to one HUGE headache that will end up being really cool if I can make it work (and did a little world building to lay the foundation for this mystery project, because it was too fun to resist.)

All of which is important for getting my name out there, but it doesn't get books written. Maybe I should submit a query for my unfinished novel. Nothing like the fear of god (actually, my publisher, but I'm sure they don't mind me thinking of them as such) and a deadline to light a fire under me.

Have Your Hugged A Judge Today?

As the rats advisers continue to flee resign from the sinking ship Bush Administration to sell their already mortgaged souls for private sector money *ahem* just ahead of indictments to pursue other career opportunities, the Bush theocracy Bush Adminstration has been handed its ass suffered a few blows from the Judiciary the past couple weeks.

The first sign that the Bill of Rights would survive (bloodied, but not bowed) the Bush Administration came with the resignation of Gonzales. That was cause enough to dance, but the good news just keeps rolling in:

A Judge in Iowa recognized blatant discrimination when he saw it, and said so. No matter how people phrase it, these laws are designed to punish people for being who they are born to be. I bet the religious right dreams of the days before civil rights - you know - when life was so "good.*"

*Unless you were a person of color, female, Jewish, Catholic, any religion except Baptist, or disabled in any way.


A Federal Judge struck down part of the "Patriot" Act*.

*wherein being a Patriot means shutting your eyes, and your mouth, and being obedient cattle while the Feds run roughshod over your rights. Never question, never think. War is Peace.
Here, have some more Soma before your brain starts working again.


and

A U.S. District Court Judge said NO to state sponsored religion. Shame on Congress for trying to pull this fast one.



I'm just so pleased with our courts right now. You know, the more I pay attention to what's going on with the government, the more respect I have for the Founding Fathers. They foresaw that the Executive Branch would try a power grab and wrote checks and balances into the system to stop it. Sure, a lot of this is the courts protecting their turf from the other two branches, but if they don't fight to keep the other two from seizing power they were never meant to have, who will?

Attack of the Killer Himbos

I have a MySpace page for each of my pen names. The male name gets hit with friend requests from what I affectionately refer to as The Bimbo Whores several times a day. The same pictures come up a lot, always with a name like Fawn, Candi, or Jasmine. The girls all have the same stupid blurb about themselves. I could probably recite it verbatim by now, but I'll spare you the breathless literary style of a 50-something marketing mobster trying to sound like a 20-something hooker in heat. Part of the blurb is always this pitch: They all have sexy pictures that puritanical, mean old MySpace won't let them share with their special "friends," but if I just click on the link, I can view them. Oh Yay! May I? I know my idea of female beauty is far off the male view, but do guys really like such sleazy, plastic creatures? SPAM dude, if you want to lure me to a pay site, at least use better bait.

Until this week, my female pen name has been spared from that SPAM, but it couldn't last. Suddenly, every himbo on the face of the planet wants to be my friend. First off, Spammers, change the sales pitch. It's just weird for a guy to sound like a 20-something hooker in heat - a female 20-something hooker in heat. And second, my gaydar is pretty damn good, and it's pinging loud and clear with those pix. Even if I wanted to see sexy pictures of men, I like adult men, not boys. And while I love my gay friends dearly, they don't turn me on. So use pictures of bisexual men or straight guys, please. Last, but not least, you might want to check your name generator, because your boy pix are coming up with names like Fawn and Candi. Although come to think of it, those are probably perfect stage names for Himbo Whores.

Another Long Weekend, Gone

Here it is, Monday afternoon, and I don't feel a bit rested. I'm not complaining, much, because I had the most fantastic time. (Here is the part where I piss off a few friends) I went to San Francisco for a couple days. (I know, you live there, and I didn't tell you I'd be in town. Shame on me. But my schedule was so booked that I wouldn't have had time to meet you anyway. Next time. I swear. It will be all about spending time with YOU.)

Saturday afternoon - caught flight to San Francisco.

Saturday night - if you were near the Castro and you saw a woman in black hooker boots and a borderline Dominatrix outfit staggering around with the most gorgeous, fun group of men on the planet, then you should have yoo-hoo'd, because it was me.
Oh lord. When will I learn not to pub crawl in hooker boots? On the other hand, as Glitter Pig (not his real name, obviously) pointed out, they looked fantastic, and that's what really matters, isn't it? (bonus fun points- watching me trying to climb up on a bar stool while wearing a pencil skirt.)

Sunday morning - brunch with Sage Vivant and M. Christian. Not only are they fantastically nice, but smart too. I adore smart people. They give such good conversation. We commiserated over the current state of the print publishing world. Shared warnings and awful publishing experiences, gossiped, and chatted a bit about Sage's unique and successful Custom Erotica Source. Last time she put out a call for writers, I was tempted to apply, but as I told her at brunch, I recognize the ability to write another person's customized fantasy is a talent - a talent I don't possess. Lucky for people who are looking for a personalized erotic story to share with a lover or to enjoy alone, Sage, and her select pool of writers, do. Take her fun erotic personality quiz here. (I'm a top. Not news to me, although I think I'm a bit of a student too.)
Fans of erotica no doubt recognize M. Christian's name. I've reviewed several of his non-erotic books on this blog and for Erotica Revealed and Chroma. As a fan of his, it was a thrill to talk to him. There's something about eating a leisurely Sunday brunch while discussing fisting stories that appeals to my inner deviant.

Sunday night - My friend from England was visiting mutual friends in SF. We all met up for dinner. We were at a long table, so we played musical chairs through the dinner, which no doubt endeared us to the waitress. Every time she came by, half of us were in completely different positions. Don't worry. Every martini was matched with it's owner. Eventually. Maybe a few sips short, but how many people want to drink an entire key lime martini anyway?
Next week this group plus a few more are heading out on a couple boats to sail the Bay. I won't be there, which is probably just as well because I'm notoriously bad with motion sickness, but it sounds like fun.

This AM - caught flight back home. Everyone was talking about how hot it was in SF. That was nothing. It's 90 plus in my house right now. SF was mid-70s. I already wish I was back there.

Whew!

After polishing Candy Conversation Hearts, I submitted it this morning. It felt good to get that one out the door. The more I struggle with a story, the less confidence I usually have in it, but I like this one. It's been a long time in the works. Several years. Which once again proves why writers should keep all those snippets and partially finished stores. Something can always be salvaged. This story didn't change substantially, but it still took a lot of work to make it right.

One of the great things about a short story is that you can have a malicious main character and maintain that despicable personality through the entire work. In a novel, the writer, and the reader, would get weary of it. Who wants to spend 200 pages with someone unlikable? But in a short, it works. That being said, I'm glad to be rid of her/it/him. (I picture the ghost as being female, but nothing in the story indicates a gender.)

I Remember

the good old days when I did the dance of joy when I sold a story. Now I go into full victory dance when I finish one. Is that progress? I have no idea. But the ghost story is finally, finally, finally, finally done. It's a bit shorter than I'd like, but there's no way in hell, other than polishing, that I'm touching it now.

Victory dance!

Happy Happy Joy Joy

You can imagine how I reacted to this. So long Gonazales. We'll hardly miss ya.

The Bill of Rights survived him. Whew!

Again?

Looks like the US Department of Justice (talk about your Orwellian terms) decided to visit my blog again. They used to always link from another erotica writer's website, but this time they linked from a different one. Just out cruising the neighborhood, I suppose. (or looking for a quick wank while at work. Either way - our government dollars well spent.)

Really, boys, this is tiresome. If you were in stealth mode on servers that didn't point out you were DOJ (even in initials, it has that War Is Peace slogan feel, doesn't it?), I'd actually believe you were doing surveillance. But since you make it so obvious who you are , I guess this is some weak form of intimidation. Of maybe I'm just supposed to act like I don't see you peeking in my window. Sorry, boys. There isn't enough soma in the world to make me do that.


BTW - so my readers don't think I'm just paranoid:


wdcsun29.usdoj.gov (Us Dept Of Justice) [Label IP Address]

Maryland, Potomac, United States, 0 returning visits
Date Time WebPage
26th August 2007 15:20:29 cynicalwoman.blogspot.com/
kathleenbradean.blogspot.com/
26th August 2007 15:20:55 cynicalwoman.blogspot.com/
kathleenbradean.blogspot.com/

I wish I'd thought to record all their other visits. But I will from now on.

Arrrrrrgh!

That ghost story is giving me fits.

Since its giving me such a hard time, I'm avoiding it. Every writer I know is a master at procrastination. We'd rather do the laundry, sort tax documents, or scoop the cat's litter box than write sometimes. This is one of those times for me.

I have two methods for procrastination. The first is improving my high score on several computer games. Sometimes, the SO sneaks in and makes the top ten list. For me, it isn't enough to top his score. I have to make it drop off the list. That can take hours. My other tried-and-true procrastination stunt is thinking. As I am currently a Brother of the Dragon (twice over!) on Rocket Mania, and the SO hasn't dared challenge my Ravenscroft scores, tonight I decided to think instead of play.

What I'm thinking about is the question: What makes a story a lesbian story?

In erotica, that seems simple enough. But it isn't that obvious. I've read stories that have two women together, and something about it says "straight male fantasy." I've also read erotic stories about a gay man and a lesbian that definitely read true as a lesbian story. So there has to be a certain quality, a queer perspective, to make it work. I couldn't give you a solid example of the difference though. As the saying goes, I know it when I see it.

But what if the story isn't erotica? Will a queer perspective make it a lesbian story? Does that certain quality apply? I think it does. Except.... my POV character is a ghost. To be more accurate, it's (she's) a poltergeist. I'm not an expert on ghost classifications, but to me, a poltergeist isn't the remnant of a human life. It's a completely different entity. So how do you make something that never was human lesbian? She's attracted to a female character. Is that enough?

I can spend hours thinking in circles on this one. In fact, I'm counting on it taking me hours to muddle through to an answer. Because the last thing this writer feels like doing right now is writing.

An Evening Well Spent

I have two stories due this month. One I sent off last weekend. It seemed like the hardest to tackle, as I was starting from scratch, but now that I'm working on the other story - a rewrite - I think I had it switched around. The rewrite is a lot harder. I worked on it four hours this evening and only got through the first five paragraphs.

I'm not complaining though. It feels good to be writing again. I've wanted to work on this story for a long time, but had little motivation. It's one of the first stories I wrote when I started working seriously to get published. It was never right though. So I set it aside for long periods andoccasionally turned my hand to fixing it, but when you're not sure what the problem is, it's hard to fix it. Now that I've had some time away from it, and a submission call to look to forguidance, I have a better idea what needs to change.

This has always been a hard story to place. Most erotic anthologies want contemporary fiction. Candy Conversation Hearts is a ghost story. If I only wanted to write stories that would sell, I wouldn't have bothered to write it. I enjoy being published, but it isn't the main reason I write. Still, I'd like to see this one find a home. Part of the problem, aside from being paranormal and being told from thePOV of the ghost, is that for an erotic story, it doesn't have much sex in it. This call for submissions, however, isn't looking for erotica. It's for paranormal stories. The little sex that I have in the story can be cut. It will still be sensual, but given the connection I see between the genres of horror and erotica, I feel that it will work.

Sympathy Depression

Lately, it feels as if the indie publishing world is falling apart. Maybe it is, or maybe it's always been in flux and I'm just now realizing that Terra Firma isn't so firm. The plates are slipping and shifting in a subduction zone where big publishing houses push over the smaller ones and make them disappear forever. (Forgive the wording - we had a small earthquake today, so things like subduction zones are at the forefront of my brain)

Last year, one of the biggest distributors of books (read: wholesaler) went bankrupt. It survived, but many small presses were destroyed in the process. The fallout continues.Haworth Press, an academic press, owns the imprint Harrington Park Press which publishes many GLBT books. Haworth sold out to a bigger academic press, and according the their website, Harrington will be divested separately. That's the only news. So writer friends with contracts in hand are finding out, as I have in the past, that a contract from a publisher has little meaning if the publisher chooses to ignore it. Those contracts do not protect the writers. Friends with books that were supposed to be released this winter have no idea if their books will be printed. Friends with books already published have no idea what will happen to their books now. And of course, the employees of Harrington Park Press have no idea if they'll have jobs when they wake up tomorrow. It's possible that the imprint could simply shut down.

Early this year, when I was trying to decide which publisher to submit my novel to, I was tempted to go to Harrington. It wasn't the perfect fit, but the company seemed viable and published a good number of books every year. Many of the writers I knew had projects pending there and a few strongly encouraged me to submit. I know the editor and feel I could work with him. It was tempting, but instead I choose to submit to the publisher I thought was the best fit for my novel. That little sidestep around chaos doesn't make me feel any better though. Options are disappearing.

Even though they get little respect, e-published books are looking better and better. I have an e-published novel. It sells pretty well. Reviews have been incredible. I'd like to see it go to print though, because I feel it would do well with a male audience, and women are by far the biggest consumers of e-books. And then there's the snobbery factor. Many of the genre industry groups have declared all e-publishing to be equivalent to vanity publishing. In other words - not "real" published books. Heck, even print on demand books aren't good enough for them. Even though e-published books have been around for over ten years, these guidelines cutting of e-published authors from recognition have come down just this year. Strange timing considering that the big print publishers are adding e-publishing language to their contracts and are giving customers the option of purchasing e-books.

E-publishers have their problems too. Several have gone under. One did because it tried to get into print books and misunderstood the business. Others have simply been mismanaged. Writers I know are caught in the middle. It's coming to light that the owner of one e-publisher won't respond to emails, and several of their authors are openly questioning accounting for their royalties. One writer I know would love to walk away from that publisher and take her e-books to a different publisher, but escaping from a contract even when this is happening isn't easy.

It's been frustrating summer for writers. It's been disastrous for editors and publishers. I'm feeling it too. I can't even summon up enough energy to be the voice of reality when a writer posts a "If that's the way it's going to be, I'll just start up my own press," conversation on one of the forums I belong to. I can't even manage a snarky, "Terrific idea! And while we're at it, why don't we put on a play in the old barn!" I'm completely drained of energy. Is it possible to have sympathy depression?

Forgive Me, I Know Not What I Do

The temperatures in LA are in the upper 80's today, which is why I opened every door and window in the hovel when I got home from work today, but the lingering heat trapped in the house made me drowsy. I couldn't get motivated to do anything. I just wanted to collapse on my bed and take a late afternoon nap. And then I thought the unthinkable - maybe we should get air conditioning. The thought of cold air rippling over my bared flesh was too delicious to ignore -despite the sinus headache it would surely induce. Even though I didn't utter those treasonous air conditioning thoughts aloud, I swore I felt a ripple through the space-time continuum, and half expected representatives of the Beach Cities board to show up at my front door and ask me just what the hell was I thinking?

For those of you not from LA, let me explain something about air conditioning. While people who live inland or in the (shudder) Valley, accept that it gets hot here in the summer and use air conditioning, we who live in the Beach Cities are in collective denial. We refuse to believe it ever gets hot enough here to justify resorting to such measures. We have the ocean breezes, you see. Natural air conditioning. Just open your windows. Reliance on machines is a weakness, a Valley thing.

Normally, I'm just as susceptible to this collective madness/ superiority complex as the next Beach Cities resident. After all, last weekend, while the Southland sweltered, the beach was chilly underneath a layer of fog (yes, fog. not smog) that the sun never burned away. And, unless the Santa Anas are blowing off the high desert, we do have a constant flow of air off the ocean that keeps the temperature, on average, in the seventies year round. On average is the trick phrase here. On the bell curve of Beach Cities weather, I'm sure today is at least two standard deviations away from normal. And since the weather is being deviant, I'm thinking deviant thoughts about air conditioning.

So forgive me Realtors, city councils, and everyone else who is heavily invested in keeping the myth of our perfect temperate climate alive. In my heat-induced delirium, I know not what I do.

Now be a dear and bring me a tall iced something-or-the-other. (Paper umbrella is optional)

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.