Sci-fi Hesitation to the Max

Despite the fact that I think the new Dr. Who is the sexiest version on the planet, that the new Star Trek movie  made my panties wet, and that I just finished Megan Hart's time travel--sorta--story, Collide, and loved every damn second of it, there is one serious flaw in my brain when it comes to all these things. Writing sci-fi makes me nervous. Like shaky hands, meltdown brain nervous. Like I'm going on a first date nervous. It borders on embarrassing.

And yet, two or three of my next few books will be in that genre. They've been spinning around in my head for awhile though I keep pushing them back, but my ideas won't be denied anymore. This is the year I write them. But that statement is almost unfathomable when I have completely unlimited possibilities at my disposal for these stories and structure and I are besties of the best kind. I know I'm throwing out my normal plan and going willy-nilly into the imaginary sunset with these stories, letting down my guard so that anything goes in my world. Of course there still have to be logic, every action has a reaction, and every good point in world building makes some kind of sense in the long run. Duh.

But the idea that I'll be working from scratch creating whatever I damn well please at the drop of a hat for my new world? Kinda freaks me out. Which doesn't make a whole lot of sense because for the most part I'm a pantser by nature with very loose plotter tendencies. So why should going with the flow of a imaginary world make me want to curl into a ball and whimper? Maybe because I knew readers are more critical of those worlds, of their consistences, how a new world measures up inside someelse's brain other than mine. I can't predict whether or not I'll make that world real for a reader while it's real for myself purely because I'm the author.

It's a lot of pressure.

My Christmas List

Yeah, I know Christmas is all about family and togetherness and not purchases--but this year, I want to show you my list for Santa anyway. Just for fun. No weird hallmark blogs here about the spirit of giving for me. One straight up, greedy list is my path for this year. So, if you're interested, check out goodies below. No, not like that...geez, you people need your minds scrubbed with bleach!

• I want an Xbox 360 so I can play my Buffy the Vampire Slayer video games again from like 2004. I have no shame about loving them both. Though I think I lost the newest one and that makes me really sad.
•  I want a few more pairs of my favorite thermal pajamas from Victoria Secret. I got my first pair last year and I wash them a lot so I can practically live in them every day. They are so damn comfy.
• I want a pair of slippers, I don't know how I manage to do it, but every couple years I loose them like hats or gloves...but it's slippers. And I don't wear them out of the house. It's very strange.
• DH all ready got me this one on my list because he's awesome. Vampire Diaries Season 1 and 2 with Damon at my disposal whenever I damn well please. That's a great deal for me. I know what I'll be watching like a mad woman until Jan 5th when the third season comes back on the air. Unlimited Ian Somerholder? Priceless.
• A B and N gift card. Because, seriously, what writer doesn't want books for Christmas?
• If things work out the way I want them to, I'll also have enough money to go on a cruise this spring with my best friend to the Caribbean. I've never been on a cruise so I'm excited for the new experience, even if I get seasick on most water vessels. I'm taking a lot of seasick meds and my laptop. Here's hoping I'll come back with a lot of work done and a lot of inspiration tucked away for later use.

So that's my greedy little list for this year. I think I've been good enough and worked hard enough not to get a lump of coal in my stocking. But who am I to judge? My scale of naughty is a little skewed.

The Best of Sommer Marsden's Mind and Reading List

I have the lovely and super kick ass Sommer Marsden on my blog today so excuse me as faint away like Scarlett O'Hara and then when I come out of it start kicking my feet with giddy, fiendish joy. (Psssst...I love her so hard) So, here she is!

Since my current tour is for THE BEST OF SOMMER MARSDEN, Elise, clever girl that she is, asked me to discuss the best books I’ve read in the last three months.

First I said…let me try to remember the last three months.

And then I said…that would be hard for me seeing as I read Charlotte Stein’s CONTROL in July and ate it in three big bites and July was like…five months ago! And I loved that book and would totally not be able to mention it…at all. See how sad I am that I was unable to mention CONTROL by Charlotte Stein?

Anyhoo…

Then I said…I’m in!

Here goes:

The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan: Oh my god. He creates such envy in me. The way the man turns a phrase is maddening and addictive. His take on werewolves captivating. His werewolf lusty worthy and also empathy worthy.  It led to me picking up…

I, Lucifer by Glen Duncan: It took me a few chapter to get the swing, but the book is incredibly clever without being nauseating. And there are some genuine moments of laugh out loud giddiness, if you’re paying attention. Gasp inducing sentences if you were raised with Bible stories and prayers before dinner.

Death by Fiction by Ashley Lister: Agatha Christie meets John Waters meets the Sopranos (sorta). A one of a kind mystery that can’t decide if it wants to be a cozy or smut. In other words: awesome.

Juliet Immortal by Stacey Jay: Totally original to the point of creating writer envy. Fun and fast and believable and just really good freaking fun!

Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell: A lyrical, heart breaking book that grabs you by the cajones and won’t let go. The kind of book that makes me wonder why I don’t just hang up my pen and go work at a fast food joint. Seriously humbling writing.

And tada! As you can see, I don’t read nearly as much as I’d like. So to bulk up my anorexic list from the last three months, I’ll break all rules and will also throw in there K.D. Grace’s The Initiations of Miss Holly (read that over the summer too on the exercise bike) for some sizzling hot naughty fun and Smokin’ Seventeen by Janet Evanovich if you’re a Stephanie Plum addict like me.

Blurb for THE BEST OF SOMMER MARSDEN:

From edgy and intense, to light and comedic, this collection of over twenty hand-picked dirty tales runs the gamut of erotic fiction.

Stories include a supernatural spurred ménage, a captivating Dom who takes control at a crowded house party, an irresistible alpha who makes recycling kind to the body and the planet. A husband encouraging his wife to take advantage of a girl crush and a woman who can’t help but lose herself between two of her two best friends in a night of passion. A curvaceous woman gets stuck in her boot—that’s right, just one—before an important interview with a handsome applicant and a public spanking makes a young woman reconsider the disposable nature of her rebound guy.  

Find out why Sommer Marsden’s been called “…one of the top storytellers in the erotica genre” (Violet Blue), “Unapologetic” (Alison Tyler) and “…the whirling dervish of erotica” (Craig J. Sorensen). It’s all right here in this collection. All you have to do is step inside.

Excerpt from The Best of Sommer Marsden:

She was rushing past the cottage two doors up from hers when she heard, ‘Hey there Little Red Ryder Hood ...’ and froze.

The deep baritone with accompanying backup slammed her back ten years. The hair on Ryder’s neck rose up in a ghostly wave of fine blonde down and she spun, feeling off kilter already. Her eyes sought but could not find the singer, until she heard a deep chuckle that slammed her in the belly like a cotton-wrapped fist.

‘Hubie! Joe?’ she called. Feeling a little desperate, a lot crazy. ‘Guys?’

There was no way. She had not seen them in nearly a year. No way at all, and yet she knew it now. Could feel it in her bones, that heavy knowing that mimicked the feeling she got after recovering from a long illness like flu or a drawn-out bout with a fever. A deep-seated awareness came over her.

The song that was being hummed somewhere in the trees sealed the deal. It was the boys out there. Ryder stomped her foot. ‘Hubert Sullivan Usher! Joseph Michael Palmer! Come out this instant!’

And then she waited. Was she crazy?

No. They stepped into the clearing, one tall and dark and gruff like a bear in a man suit. The other long and lean and ethereal. Ice blue eyes and pale blond hair. The boys.

They had been friends all through college. Inseparable – the three of them. Friends, only, no funny business. But for that one night.

‘So no man yet? No marriage, no kiddies, no picket fences? It’s been nearly a year, woman,’ Hubie said. His deep voice was like a warm hand sliding up her neck and in the orange glow of the fire pit Ryder shivered.

‘Nope. I have a thriving jewellery business. I have books, friends, good wine, nights out, invoices and paycheques.’ She grinned. ‘But none of that.’

Joe smiled, his eyes somehow surreal in the glowing flash of heated light. ‘Hubie doesn’t either, so don’t listen to him. Nor do I.’

He said the last in that prissy, proper way that made him so endearing to her. She loved his almost stuck-up, uptight ways. But in Joe was a heart of gold and an old soul.

And a cock that could work miracles. Soft lips that know how to kiss. Really know how to kiss – and eat pussy. He rocked you to more than one orgasm while Hubie was …

But she let that memory drift away on a curl of wood smoke. She couldn’t go there. It had been one night a long, long time ago. Her 20th birthday. It had happened – just happened – after her drunken salute to herself and their youth. Her long monologue about their love for each other and how it would still fade, because nothing lasted for ever. It would fade and so would their youth. They were only going to be young once, only going to love each other this fiercely once. And how special were they that they had found each other. Three kindred spirits, friends, almost family but something more. She had let all the muzzy-headed words tumble out and then she had toasted herself and then them.

And then the boys had taken her. No one discussed it. It had just happened. A mix and turn and shift of three bodies. A mélange of forms and naked parts and soft words and cries. Orgasms and skin on skin and laughter and, at the end, a satiated peace and sleep.

The morning brought reality and no one had ever mentioned it again.

‘... selling to?’ Hubie said.

Ryder shook her head and tried to draw back the words that had come before the end of his sentence. She couldn’t. ‘I’m sorry. I spaced out on that. What?’

Hubie grinned, and cocked his head as if he had been tiptoeing through her mind. Reliving that night so long ago with her. ‘I said, Ryder the daydreamer, your jewellery, who are you selling it to?’

‘Oh! Tourists and some local new channels have been purchasing. Which is great, because then it ends up on TV and in the credits. And some local boutiques.’

‘What were you thinking?’ Joe said softly, grinning, poking the embers with a stick as he tapped his toe in the sand around the fire pit. His big foot was sheathed in his normal boat shoes, his khaki shorts knee length, his button-down shirt rolled and pushed to his elbows. Normal Joe – preppy chic.

‘I was thinking about the jewellery show I’m doing tomorrow. How I should head off to my cabin and go to bed. I was thinking that this beer sucks ass,’ she lied, taking the final swig.

‘You were thinking about us,’ Joe said, calling her bluff.

‘Never,’ she said, trying to tease with her tone.

‘True story,’ Hubie grunted, agreeing with Joe.

Ryder steadfastly refused to cave. It was that one time – a lifetime ago. No reason to even think about it.

At one point they were in you at the same time. You never thought that sweet full pressure could make you come, but it did. You straddled Hubie and drove yourself down on him over and over; he held your hands to his chest so you could feel his heart. All the while Joe rocked into your bottom, slipping into you on a cool river of lube. Working your ass, brushing your g-spot from a totally new angle. His hands on your hips, holding you so you didn’t float away, or so it felt. Both of them. Holding you. You’ve never felt so safe.

‘... fishing,’ Joe said. His smile was ornery, knowing and smart-assed.

Ryder swallowed hard. Once they had been her very best friends. And for that one night they had been her lovers. Something she’d never been good at with Hubie and Joe was lying. She cleared her throat and steeled her nerves to admit it. ‘What? I missed that.’

Joe laughed softly, drawing a heart in the sand with the stick he held. The tip was charred from him poking it into the fire every few moments. He drank the last of his beer and said. ‘We are here on a boys’ weekend. Haven’t gotten together for months. Figured we’d come down for some fishing.’

‘Oh,’ she said and set her empty bottle on the ground.

‘Yes, oh,’ Hubie said and his voice was a little gruff. A bit clogged sounding. His eyes seemed to stroke her like a hand in the firelight – over her breasts, her belly, her legs in her denim shorts and flip-flops. Ryder wanted to eye up his jeans to see if he had a hard-on but she refused. She kept her eyes above his belt. Joe’s too.

‘I’d better go to bed. I have to get up early. Vendors need to arrive at seven sharp. Doors open at nine.’

She kissed them each chastely, hugged them too. She pretended not to notice Joe’s hard cock brushing her thigh when he pulled her into the embrace. She hurried through the woods to her dark cabin and resolved to put it out of her mind.

For two hours she lay there, not thinking. Deliberately not thinking. When every decadent sinful image drifted into her mind, she resolutely pushed it aside. At midnight, she got up and poured a glass of wine. At 12.15 a.m., she considered it and at 12.16 a.m. she banished the thought. At 12.30 a.m. she knocked on their cabin door.

It was Hubie who answered. His dark hair in a tangle and his chin sprouted with dark stubble that clouded his tanned skin with shadow. ‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ he said softly and swung the door wide for her to enter.

Ryder still wore her white nightgown. She had tossed a grey cardigan over it and her feet were bare, and now dirty, from the beaten path from her cabin to theirs. ‘Were you sleeping? Did I wake you?

‘Hell, no, woman. We’re watching some dumb-ass movie on cable and drinking beer.’

‘What movie?’ she asked dumbly.

‘Shit if I know.’ He touched her lower lip and Ryder felt her pussy go liquid and soft. A fierce surge of lust swelled in her chest and she breathed out like he’d squeezed her too hard.

‘Who’s there?’

She turned to see Joe and, when she did, her heart raced at his pale good looks. A smile lit his face and she realised that she still loved them. After all these years. Loved who they were, what they had meant to her once and what they still meant to her now. ‘Little Red Ryder Hood,’ Joe whispered and crossed his arms over his chest.

‘I ...’ Ryder lost her words then. It hadn’t taken long to feel that old familiar belonging with them. Something she had rarely experienced thus far in her adult life. She loved her life and her business, but she was missing the rush of real life. The visceral reaction to love and lust and fucking. She didn’t have time.

‘You what?’ Joe asked, cocking an eyebrow.

‘You ...?’ Hubie echoed.

‘I want it back,’ she sighed. She blew all the words out on a rush of air. She was so eager for them to hear her that she rushed it out of her mouth in a tumble of soft speech. ‘I want it back. I want that night back. That feeling – you two. I want one more night.’

Then she waited. Her heart pounding like some tribal drum, her throat shaking with the force of it, her stomach dipping almost sickly from nerves. Joe turned on his heels and Hubie took her hand.

What did it mean?

‘Come on, Ry,’ Hubie said and tugged her gently.

‘We thought you’d never come to your senses,’ Joe said over his shoulder and her whole body seemed to relax.

It would be OK.

In the living room it was Joe who pulled her in for a hug. Engulfing her in his strong but lean arms while Hubie – his best friend in the world – closed in behind her. His broad chest pressed to her back, his cock pressing the small of her back. Joe kissed her, hands in her hair, his hard-on pressed to the cleft of her sex through the thin nightgown.

‘I just want it back for one more night,’ she said again.

‘We can do that,’ Hubie said, pressing his lips to her shoulder, her neck, the crown of her head. His kisses rained down along her back and his hands pushed up her nightie as she shivered like she was cold.

‘No problem,’ Joe said, pushing at the nightie too. Together they got off her cardigan, her nightgown, her panties. She worried briefly, stupidly, about her dirty feet but the thought drifted away as Joe’s tongue touched hers and Hubie’s fingers came from behind and started slow, lazy circles on her clit.

Buy links:

Ebook: http://www.erotica-romance-ebooks.com/the-best-of-sommer-marsden.html

Paperback:  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Best-Sommer-Marsden/dp/1908086084/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_2

Favorite Spicy Holiday Reads with KJ Reed

Today I'm stumbling over to KJ Reed's Blog to chat about my favorite holiday hot and spicy reads! Come join in on the fun and tell me yours!

Share of Furious Lust

I figured I'd finally give you all a little tidbit of the Work in Progress I've been toiling away on for quite some time. Here is a rough draft snippet of the first few pages of Furious Lust, Book 1 in a BDSM paranormal erotic romance series I'm writing about the Three Furies of the Underworld. Hopefully to be published in the next couple months after the holidays, editing and contracts pending, that is.

Most humans would assume being banished from the Underworld would be a blessing. Not so when every step on this earth reminds me of the longevity of human life—short and sweet. Unlike me. I suppose I should be pleased there’s a place for me on Earth at all. Not many demons stripped of their powers make it up above or learn to adapt as well as I have—or perhaps they don’t even try.

With a small shudder and an echo the door of my baby blue locker clicked back into place. There wasn’t much time for philosophizing about my existence. At least not when I wanted to get out of the nondescript locker room without being offered another double shift, which I wasn’t inclined to turn down. Work was a welcome distraction. One I used as an excuse to get away from reality far too often—even the mistress had begged me to take a vacation before I converted all our clientele to my legions of devoted subjects.

Business at the snug, safe, and discrete dungeon was booming. How could I be blamed for taking advantage? A swift turn of my fingers and the combination lock was set. Now to keep to myself until I exited through the plush, purple hallway out the iron-worked double doors. Only a few more paces before the bustle of strangers on the sidewalk would swallow me up.

However, there was more to worry about than my work as a dominatrix at one of New York’s premiere dungeons. Tonight was my five year meeting with the Underworld’s high council to assess how my banishment was suiting. Whether or not I’ve learned my lesson. The council was always keen to gloat on their best banishment work. They sent me away from my sisters in the Underworld for the slaying of a treasured human. It had been in a moment of blind passion and truthfully, I question whether it was my fault at all though I live with my guilt every day.

But the Underworld had solved several problems. They had appeased the gods in Mount Olympus who mourned the human and my punishment kept both parties thin alliance in place. Hades retained my sisters to do my dirty work. I’m sure I was barely missed because a sacrifice must be made for the greater good. It put me in the mind to slay them all once I returned to the sweet, fiery depths.

Tonight the slick, twisting humidity of New York’s summer heat would have to ease my longing for home. There was no hope that the council would provide me with any solace. Yet, there was enough time before the meeting for my pleasure. The bustle of cab horns and human shouts assaulted me as I walked up from the underground warehouse onto the sidewalk. I breathed in deep the scent of smog mixed with the fragrance of slightly old garbage.

I made a beeline for the subway station that would take me to the Meatpacking District toward the most popular dance halls in the city. Tonight was a night to lose myself in the steady hum and pulse of music. But small spaces with large crowds never sat well with me—I prefer large spaces jammed with people. A shudder passed up my spine as I clamored on the crowded, late night subway car. A sense of uneasiness twisted low in my belly as I snatched a spot of free metal railing above my head.

Unease was typical for me in the subway—but this was different. All of my muscles were wound tight enough to snap and a sharp, uncomfortable heat pressed beneath the surface of my skin. A steady prickle along the back of my neck raising my hackles. Someone was watching me.

Tonight was a good night to paranoid, certainly with my meeting looming in the wings.

When I glanced back through the sea of people nothing was out of place. Or as little that could be out of place in a New York subway car. But there was much to be distracted by as my limbs tingled like there wasn’t enough air in the whole world to sustain me. Perhaps I was becoming worked up over nothing. However, in centuries of living on this earth my instincts were rarely wrong.

My hands shook from the unsettling emotion rising up in my throat. Without a doubt, if I concentrated hard enough I sensed the weight of their gaze along every inch of me—but there was menacing undertone to it. Dressed as I was in my usual attire with tight black leather swathing my curved figure I was used to stares from strangers. This held something more than idle attraction or dumbfounded curiosity. If the later was the case they would have stopped staring by now.

Though I was completely stripped of my powers as a demonness, on nights like this I won’t turn away from intuitive caution. No one has any specific reason to keep me alive. At least none that they’ve made plain to me—so as far as I know anyone could hunt me down at any time with one word from the council. How would I defend myself?

This whole situation set my teeth on edge. Pulses of pain jolted up my jaw as I attempted to regain control over my fingers fidgeting along the warm steel bar. How could I be drawn into coming undone? I—who pride myself on the steady speed and dexterous delights my hands can wield along a man—I have been reduced to a wary, thundering-hearted ninny. Before my punishment, my blazing anger knew no bounds. Now time has taught me caution, patience, and above all, fear.

This is not the first time I’ve been acquainted with a sense of being followed because paranoia comes on more and more of late—with familiar suspicions of being watched, hunted. Every instance with the same haunting, terrified symptoms. A bodily impulse born of self-preservation that I won’t be able to leave behind until I’m out of sight. And perhaps, not even then. Tonight dodging this sensation is worth a try. I won’t let this swallow me when my time before my meeting is fleeting.

 The dry crackle of the conductor calls out the 14^th street stop and I hastily exit the car knowing that my actual destination is several blocks away. At least I won’t be so smothered by people that I won’t be able to think straight.

I’ve been dodging this imaginary foe for months. It’s one of the points I mean to bring up at my meeting tonight because this mental torment can’t be the result of anything else than a concoction of the Underworld. My bare skin pinches tight against my frame as if I can’t get enough warmth. Even here, swathed in the muggy atmosphere of the underground station in mid-July, there’s not enough heat to warm me. For now I can no longer sense the steady presence beating against my back. But every clack of my high heels against the concrete echoes between my ears like a gun shot.

A one-time demoness unsettled by a presence she cannot name. No wonder they blighted me from my one, true home. I’m a disgrace to my kind. No matter. I’ll confront them tonight until I’m assured of their answers. Once I’ve set my mind, there is no turning back. And by Beelzebub, I’m determined to have a good night tonight come ruin or rapture.

Though I do wish the Underworld hadn’t stripped me of my powers. Other than pushing the worry from my mind, it would be nice to conjure an aura of terror around me. At least my powers of terror would make the next few blocks down W 13^th Street easier, spreading out all the foot traffic as they ran in opposite directions tearing their hair out. It’s little perks of the trade I miss most. Before I can catch myself, my mouth curves into an impish smile that leaves the rest of me cold down to my toes.

I can never go back.

Or, if I can redeem myself in some way, those demons higher up have given no indication of how to go about it. What, it’s been—well over eleven centuries since I committed my crime? A burden evermore. Tonight, they will ask if I were to do anything different, would I? They will be disappointed. If given another chance I would change nothing because I’m unsure where exactly to alter time.

It’s as stupid an inquiry as asking a damned soul if they would choose to go to Heaven or the Underworld. Neither wish matters because we are who we are, nothing fades our true selves and we continue to make the same mistakes again and again and again. My conviction behind this idea is only strengthened by mortal’s mistakes.

Who are they if not the perfect indicator of my philosophy?

Ah, another night wasted on my deep thoughts. When will I ever learn to skim only the surface of things instead of trying to read into every nuance? Not even time can divest me of the thirst for understanding—even if curiosity was the catalyst for my banishment. My need to know him—to possess him completely so that perhaps my life could have some kind of distraction, a certain naive charm. I wanted more than screams of agony and death, who wouldn’t?

Sometimes, when I’m not concentrating hard enough to draw the memories away, I can recall the planes of his tan profile dappled with early morning sunlight. His stormy gray eyes concentrating on any possible distant threat to his herd of sheep. The casual way his lean forearm passed across his brow, flicking away his wheat gold bangs. When he smiled it was as if the atmosphere altered because of his simple pleasure in his life. He truly had the ability to live—and I envied him that.

But why that man?

I ask myself the same question every morning when I wake from nightmares of baking pies, cleaning house, and getting sucked into the mediocrity that is mortal existence. Was getting to know one human worth this trouble? With a quick roll of my shoulders I dismiss my pointless inquiry knowing that my long, quick stride has delivered me to the dancehall in good time. Not since I exited the subway have I had any odd tingling’s on the back of my neck.

But here I’m safe. Waiting to surround myself with the stomping, claustrophobic heat that reminds me so much of home. A relaxing night out before I reenact the same scene before the council, only five years later. Nothing more than a pantomime so that they can elongate my sentence on earth. Even a deep breath can’t shove my rage down far enough.

“You’re definitely in, go on.”

The thick-muscled, unremarkable bodyguard waved me through the ropes and I politely nodded in his direction before being swallowed by the crowd. At Echo the crush of patrons begins at the confining copper-lined hallway leading toward the bar before humans have the privilege of entering the giant, raw industrial space.

Three floors of debauchery, white noise, and flashy light shows. I never wait at the long, polished steel bar because I can’t imbibe anything from it. That leaves me with my most cherished option—making my way onto the dance floor. A space taking up the whole first floor with solid metal beams holding aloft the next three floors in intermittent patterns. But the floor is constructed in checkerboard squares of corrugated copper and steel so every step makes patron’s feel like they’re walking on stars bursting with light.

It’s a weaving process against the hot press of strangers, but I make it to the floor where a myriad of people grind to the pounding bass-beat. Sound slithers through my body and nestles inside my core to become a part of me. Not a thought to be had as I close my eyes. Against the slick heat and oppressive sound I gladly lose myself.

This is where I go to when I don’t want to be found.

It’s as close to any kind Underworld I can find along with my personal heaven. Reflections of the blinding lights paint the insides of my eyelids. Flashes of red, green, and blue. I lift my arms to the sky in a pantomime of a human giving thanks for a bountiful harvest. My arms and hips snake back and forth to the seductive, energetic pull of my music.

My dance is a communion of sorts searching deep inside my heartbroken body to the harsher, primal mechanics that keep me alive. These movements tie me to the moment with smooth wrist flicks and powerful gyrations. In my mind I own the room. Against the crowd I’m protected from my memories, lost to the sounds. I lick my salty lips, tasting the air and my freedom.

Paralyzed

Confession time--I haven't written any new words in a while. I've edited my entire backlist until March with Excessica, I've thought about plot points, series, and outlines--but not one single word on a new story. I hate that state. Where I can't write anything to save my life, like my creativity's all dried up and might never come back. This happens maybe twice or three times a year, though I don't always keep track of it because once I'm in it, it's kind of like a foggy depression where I sleep too much and watch a lot of TV to get out of my own head.

I still work, but it's passionless. Plus every new idea I come across to get everything back to normal seems like a colossal effort, until part of me thinks I'll never get the story right. What's the point of writing it when you know its going to come out so flawed you'll hate it and it won't even compare to the thing in your mind that seemed so cool five minutes ago? I never diagnosed these symptoms to burn out, but it's as close as I come to it. And with my schedule this swiftly approaching 2012, I can't really have much wiggle room for hmmming and hawwwing when it comes to my work.

Somehow, I've got to get back to that place where words are like flighty little snowflakes, all magical and different. I know it'll happen eventually, I just never know when. I can never bring my creativity back with one sure fire thing. Tricky doesn't begin to cover it.

In the mean time, I've got a pile of short stories and a new book that's ready to come into the world in the next few months. So it's not like I've been idle. Just different.

Lucy Felthouse Interview of Epicness with Epic Sauce

Today, I have the fabulous Lucy Felthouse on my blog answering some fun questions and talking about her new books. I'm very excited because Lucy will be featured with me in Rachel Kramer Bussel's newest erotica anthology, Best Bondage Erotica 2012, which came out in most stores for e-book and print December 7th. So go pick up a copy!

       Why did you get started writing?

I honestly can't remember. I've been writing from a very young age, then for publication since 2006. I first wrote erotica on a dare and started sending work off when I became interested in the genre as a reader, too. Now, each new publication spurs me on to write more. That and the deadlines, of course!

 

      What was the first real joy you had when writing professionally?

It would have to be my first acceptance, which was for the now-defunct Scarlet Magazine. I was incredibly excited that someone wanted to publish me and pay for my work! Thankfully, several years down the line, publishers are still accepting my work, but it's still exciting each and every time.

 

       What was/is your biggest pitfall?

Discipline. I can be very easily distracted while writing, but I'm getting better. As my writing now makes up a part of my income, I find it easier to stay focused because if I don't write, I'll make less money!

      What did you learn while writing?

All kinds of things. I hope that I've improved in my writing, and will continue to do so. I've also learned things about sexual lifestyles that I haven't taken part in, but have researched for my work. In this line of work it pays to be open minded, which luckily I am. I'm also very inquisitive so I love to learn new things, anyway.

      What’s your favorite sexual position to write?

I don't have one. Writing for me is about the story and the characters rather than the mechanics. They just seem to come naturally as I start getting the words down on the page. I don't plan ahead, and certainly when it comes to sex scenes I just let the characters do their thing and see what happens.

 

     What’s your favorite genre to read?

I couldn't choose just one. I read erotica and erotic romance the most as that’s what I write, but I also love paranormal, chick lit, horror and crime.






If you could be one fairytale character for a day who would it be?

Oh, that's easy. That would be Snow White because she gets to star along the divine Chris Hemsworth in the upcoming film, Snow White and the Huntsman. :D

 

      Who are your author inspirations?

I don't think I really have any. I have tons of authors that I love to read, but my inspiration comes from being published and having readers that (hopefully) enjoy my work.

 

       Socks or Slippers?

Both – it's cold in the UK!

 

       Handcuffs or fuzzy tickler?

Ooh, handcuffs. Mainly because I don't like being tickled. I find it annoying, rather than erotic

 

       Where do you see yourself in a year as an author?

In a year, I would hope to have a couple of novella-length pieces released (up until now my releases have been short stories) and be well on my way to writing a novel.

 

    What are your new releases?

The past few months have been really busy in terms of releases. October and November saw several releases, a mixture of anthology appearances and standalone titles:

·         A Menu with a Difference

·         Brick Dust & Bedsprings

·         Love Through Time

·         Weekend at Wilderhope Manor

·         Immoral Views

·         Explicit Encounters

And December sees the release of Crimes of Passion from Xcite Books, and Best Bondage Erotica 2012 from Cleis Press, both of which feature stories I wrote.

For more info on all these titles, check out this page on my website: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/

 

    What are you working on now?

I recently completed my longest piece to date, a novella for one of my publishers, so I'm working on edits for that. I'm also working on a novella that I've been promising to another publisher for quite some time, so fingers crossed they accept it!

Will a weekend in a luxury hotel make Annette’s deepest fantasies come true?

When Jed and Annette spend a weekend in a luxury hotel, they’re planning to take full advantage of the hot tub and large bed – preferably with a third party. Annette’s never been with another woman before, but she’s eager to experience some Sapphic delight. When the couple meets waitress Tamara at the restaurant they’re lunching at, they agree she’s perfect in many ways; but is she on the menu?

Excerpt and buy links here: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-menu-with-a-difference/

 

Lucy is a graduate of the University of Derby, where she studied Creative Writing. During her first year, she was dared to write an erotic story - so she did. It went down a storm and she's never looked back. Lucy has had stories published by Cleis Press, Noble Romance, Ravenous Romance, Summerhouse Publishing, Sweetmeats Press and Xcite Books. She is also the editor of Uniform Behaviour and Seducing the Myth. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. You can also find her on Facebook and Twitter.

Beer and Cider Equals a Tipsy Writer

About two years ago, DH and I started making beer and alcoholic cider as a hobby that we could do together--though I rarely drink much. It's a lot of fun and whereas he does all the math related tasks of measuring and keeping track of the fermentation times, I handle the small details that slip his mind as well as bottling the actual beer since he has bad arthritis in both hands. It's just another corny example of how we're two sides of coin, even in everyday activity we balance and help each other. Beer making always remind me of how well we work together.

This year we're making our usual five gallons of hard apple cider with English mulling spice yeast and a newer creation, an orange porter, which if it comes out right should taste like chocolate oranges. But we won't know whether or not it's good until about two or three months after it's bottled and has had a chance to sit and stew. That's the hardest part about beer, waiting it out. Not knowing what your gonna get until the end and then there's no working against it because it's final product.

Well, unless you let it sit for longer, then the flavor gradually changes and morphs into something else entirely. But you have to give it time. Pay attention to it. It's a race to make sure it doesn't go "sour" since beer takes a truly long time to ever go bad. DH and I found a porter and an apple cider we'd done last year tucked away in our fresh bottles for this season--and they'd been bottled two years ago. DH opened them both and drank them greedily with more than a little excitement saying the porter was better than when we'd originally made it. I took a small sip and it was lighter, instead of tasting like dark chocolate it tasted like milk chocolate and flowed past your tongue like a milder beer. It was different and certainly better.

It reminded me of writing. Sometimes all you have to do it wait it out, come back, and everything's fermented while you were gone so it rolls on your tongue and is just delicious. More than you ever thought it could be while originally writing it. Wonder what my writing will taste like next year?