kestrel rising

A wee teaser

2012-01-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

From 'Darkness at Endersley'.

*********************

Conversation returned with the meat course. The breeze moved through the parted curtains and a low, distant roll of thunder promised a stormy end to the day. We worked our way through the courses until all that was left was port and cigars in the sitting room. The fish course was placed before us. Trout, covered in a delicate creamy sauce, a favourite of mine. Mrs Washburn was clearly intent on ensuring I enjoyed every course. An appreciative silence accompanied the fish. The dining room windows were open to the evening breeze and the soft whisper of leaves. I stole a guilty glance at Wyndham and tried to ignore the tightness in the pit of my stomach, a tug of anticipation and futile longing. Eighteen months of self-imposed exile unravelled with every moment in his presence.

Time to write another one.

2012-01-20T01:56:00.000-08:00

So, I decided to write a series.

Book One is done and I'm waiting to hear whether it's a 'go' or not. I've been wallowing in my usual submission limbo, opening the file of the next book every day and staring at two pages I've written when I'm not chasing shiny things on the internet.
Today, I've decided to pull my finger out and gerronwithit.

Since I've posted this intention on this blog, that means I have to finish it. So, if you see me whining on Facebook or Twitter that I have writer's block, feel free to kick me in the arse.

This one, tentatively titled 'Darkness at Endersley', starts in London, but is mainly set at Endersley House, a fictional place high up on the Wiltshire Downs. As a (dubious) treat, here's the opening paragraph in all it's rough draft glory.

*******************

I slipped out of the brothel and onto the rain-soaked pavement. The storm hadn’t abated. Lightning flickered across a sky that had an ominous red glow toward the direction of the docks. I just wanted to get home. An empty house was better than nothing, was better than the dark, fetid hell of Whitechapel. I could crawl into bed and sleep away my shame.

Lisa Worrall has a shiny new release!

2012-01-16T01:19:00.000-08:00

Today's a rare departure for me. The lovely Lisa Worrall has a new release - 'Thirst' and I'm happy to be able to post a very tantalizing snippet here. Make sure you check it out!

Blurb:

Detective Max Bowman is hunting a serial killer terrorizing the city, who leaves victims drained of blood. No fingerprints, no clues, no ideas. Only a mysterious inscription carved into each body.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, Max takes a break in a local pub. Attacked by the attractive man buying him drinks, he is left for dead in the alley behind the bar.

Waking up in Carter Gray's bed was the last thing he expected. Who was this mysterious man? What was his dark secret? Why does he make Max tremble with anticipation every time their eyes meet?

It becomes apparent that Carter is the only one with the 'expertise' to help him find the killer. But is his attraction to Carter clouding his judgment and is he refusing to acknowledge that the killer may well be Carter himself?

Excerpt:

Pain, lots of pain. Max tried to force his eyes open, but only one would comply; the other already swollen shut from the impact of a closed fist. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying in the alley behind the bar. He dimly remembered a tall blond man with piercing blue eyes who introduced himself as Tony, or it might have been Tommy, buying him a beer, followed by way too many shots, he'd stopped counting after the fourth; remembered laughing and joking with him, flirting and being flirted with in return. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing that was until the man suggested they go somewhere quieter.
Instead of heading out into the brightly lit street, Max had found himself being jostled from both sides into the alley behind the bar. The blond held onto him on his left and from nowhere a dark haired man grabbed his right arm. Too late Max realized that everything was out of place, just as the blond man's fist connected with his face and his knee with Max's groin.
The two of them punched and kicked him, and all he could do was curl in on himself on the ground and hope he could minimize the damage. He didn't want to think too much about the sharp snap he heard when a hard boot connected with his ribs, nor the meaty sounds of flesh upon flesh. Max was assaulted by a wave of dizziness and he felt darkness reach out to engulf him in its warm embrace, but he mentally shook his head and stubbornly refused to let it claim him. He felt hands grabbing at his keys and his wallet and then more pain as a boot connected with the muscle in the left cheek of his ass. His head was pulled back by a vicious hand twisting in his chestnut-colored hair, his glassy brown gaze locking onto piercing blue as the word "Fag" was spat at him and his head was slammed back down on the dirt.
Max heard their retreating footsteps and he tried to lift his head, the pain in his side causing a cry to fall from his lips at the movement. He coughed and cringed as he saw dark splatters of blood hit the ground. Wiping the back of a shaky hand across his lips, he stared at the stain of red on his skin. He stumbled to his knees, trying to use the wall beside him to pull himself up. His legs buckled, and he crashed back to the ground, a deep groan wrenched from him as he fell. Suddenly, he felt two strong arms, one around his shoulders and one under his knees, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a small child. His head lolled to the side, coming to rest on a firm shoulder and he had a glimpse of jade green eyes looking down into his as the dark claimed him once more.
* * * *
Carter pulled open the door of his black 1968 Ford Mustang and eased his ward carefully into shotgun, slowly reclining the seat to make the position more comfortable. Taking off his heavy woolen coat, he rolled it and slipped it behind the man's head to prop up the semi-conscious man. He gazed down at the battered face he had been watching all night from his dark corner of the bar, aware how beautiful it was underneath the swelling and bruising. The man's name was Max that much he knew, because he had heard him introduce himself to his assailant. He frowned, furious with himself that he had realized too late the blond twink and his accomplice's plans for the young man. If he hadn't been distracted, if he hadn't been so thirsty…
Carter slid behind the wheel, his green eyes glittering in the muted glow from the dome light as he closed the door behind him. A small smile lifted his lips as he headed his car toward home. The two men who had robbed and beaten Max and left him for dead had already paid for what they'd done. Glancing into his rear-view mirror, he parted his lips and ran his tongue down his elongated incisors.
They wouldn't be hurting anyone ever again, and he wasn't thirsty anymore.

If you want to read more, you can buy Thirst here

All about Lisa: I was born in Romford, Essex, but am now living in Leigh on Sea, ten minutes away from the seaside town of Southend on Sea, which boasts the longest pier in the world. My claim to fame! I am having a total ball creating stories for the characters clamoring in my head for attention. And I am totally amazed by the support they've received and hope to give them voice for as long as people want to hear what they have to say.

On a personal note, I am the single mother of two children, aged eight and six, which makes for some interesting conversations, which sometimes end up in my stories! As if that wasn't enough to make me prematurely gray, we also have acquired a puppy called Winnie, named after my biggest vice... the Winchester brothers in Supernatural.

Beat the Winter Blues Blog Tour

2012-01-15T07:10:00.000-08:00

So, here we are...it's the wrong side of Christmas, the last of the chocolates, cookies, turkey, etc. have gone and all we're left with are those boring biscuits from the selection tin and a bit of mouldy stilton that's stinking up the fridge. What better time for a grand tour comprising 16 authors, a host of fun and interesting blogs and a grand prize at the end of it all.

It's going to be a fun ride, so make sure you tag along and see what we're doing to beat the winter blues.

January-April 2012
Sixteen authors will do their best to make your winter brighter in January, February, March, and April. (Unless you’re south of the equator, and then we’ll just be jealous of your summer.) Every Wednesday will be a new stop on the tour (see schedule below). Be sure to leave a comment at each stop for up to sixteen chances at the grand prize: a $200 USD gift certificate to the e-retailer of your choice. Also keep an eye out for links to individual authors’ sites on their release dates for a chance to win some free books.
January 11: How We Beat the Winter Blues (hosted by Coffee & Porn in the Morning)
January 18: Favorite Wintertime Activities (hosted by Josephine Myles)
January 25: Join us for a January getaway (hosted by Andrew Grey)
February 1: Winter in My Backyard (hosted by Lou Harper)
February 8: “If I could get away right now, I’d go to…” (hosted by Ellis Carrington)
February 15: Valentine’s Day (hosted by J.L. Merrow)
February 22: Authors by the Fireside (hosted by Kate McMurray)
February 29: Join us for a February getaway (hosted by Z.A. Maxfield)
March 7: Things to Do in a Blizzard (hosted by S.A. Meade)
March 14: St. Patrick’s Day (hosted by Clare London)
March 21: Spring Break (hosted by Blaine Arden)
March 28: Join us for a March Getaway (hosted by Tales from the Writing Cave)
April 4: Favorite Winter Movies (hosted by Stumbling Over Chaos)
April 11: Signs of Spring (hosted by J.P. Barnaby)
April 18: Join us for an April Getaway (hosted by Marie Sexton)
April 25: Farewell (hosted by Joyfully Jay)
April 30: Grand Prize Announcement (hosted by Heidi Cullinan)

Today I'm...

2012-01-13T06:01:00.000-08:00

On Lisa Worrall's blog!

Please stop by and say 'hello'!

An Interview!

2012-01-06T00:21:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year to everyone!

The year is off to a pretty good start in that m/m author Sue Brown has interviewed me for her blog today. If you get a chance, stop in and check it out. I had great fun answering the questions and, as a bonus, there's a nice little excerpt from Stolen Summer with both food and snoggage. Just click on the link below.

Sue Brown's Stories

The obligatory end-of-year drivel.

2011-12-30T00:48:00.000-08:00

Let me start by saying how much I loathe New Year stuff. I have many reasons for this, reasons I won't bore you with. But, since 2011 has been an interesting year for me I feel obliged to mark the occasion with some early morning, post coffee ramblings. I'll cobble a list together. Because it's early in the day and my brain isn't firing on all cylinders, I'm bound to miss stuff - it's all really random.

The High points of the year

1. 'Stolen Summer' - Who knew I'd get my mucky little book published? Guys, it seriously was a 'one-off'. I never imagined in a million years that I'd get it published and that I'd end up writing even more m/m romance. I think I might be addicted to the genre. It's like crack. O_0

What's been mind-blowing is the love from readers. I'm not one for false humility so to see praise being lavished on the book really is the proverbial cherry on the sundae. I am so grateful for reader-love. I'd love to personally smooch each and every one of you or, at the very least, give you cookies.

I'm still pinching myself over the pretty medal on the right hand corner of this blog. Three nominations - fecking brilliant, and in very illustrious company. If you're an m/m romance fan and you're not a member of the Goodreads M/M Readers group, you need to be!

2. Beautiful cover art - Both covers are posted in here. I know you've seen them before but I love them both. So I've put them up again.

3. Friends - I have amazing friends, old and new. You all know who you are and I thank you for being here/there.

4. Family - here and there. I hate that my parents and sister live across the ocean but we've all just discovered the joys of Skype so I can no longer look like an utter slob when I'm parked in front of the computer.

Lordy, this is sounding like an Oscar acceptance speech. I'd better move on.

The Crappy bits

1. Losing my job. It was a sucky, stressful job but the money helped. But, I guess, on reflection, my sanity is more important than stomach ulcers or waking up at three in the morning worrying about something I should've done or should not have done. Still, if the employment Gods are out there, I'd like a job, thanks.

That's really the only bad thing. The rest I can deal with.

I know I've missed loads of stuff but I don't want this to be a self-indulgent ramble so I'll shut up now.

Oh, one more thing. If you're a regular visitor to my blog, don't be shy. Let me know who you are. I have Statcounter so I can see you! muwahahahahaha!

Before you slip away onto Facebook, Twitter or whatever sites you frequent. Answer me this: What were your high and low points this year?

Happy New Year everyone. May you know peace, prosperity and joy.

Monday's Hottie is...a day late but not a dollar short

2011-12-27T01:11:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the delay folks. I was suffering from the annual turkey coma yesterday and was also unsuccessfully fighting my addiction to 'Angry Birds'. As I'm currently languishing on a level where the villainous pigs are protected by stone vehicles, I've abandoned the game so I can:

(a) Post this blog
(b) Write!

Today's Hottie is the lovely, talented John Barrowman. Not only does he have lovely dimples but he can sing, dance and act. He also has excellent taste - the top picture is Mr. Barrowman with his partner Scott Gill.

Captain Jack Harkness is one of those characters I wish I'd come up with. He's an intergalactic rogue with a roaming eye and an endless supply of 'pick-up' lines. If you haven't seen it, you must watch the 'Torchwood' episode where Captain Jack meets the man whose name he 'borrowed'. Make sure you have tissues ready because it's beautiful and heartbreaking.

So, I present to you on this grey post-Christmas Tuesday - John Barrowman.

I have a pretteh!

2011-12-19T04:39:00.000-08:00

Ahem...you may notice the shiny rainbow pretty on the right hand corner of this blog.

I can honestly say, it's made my year. The M/M Romance Group on Goodreads has put together the 2011 Members Choice Awards. I am beyond thrilled to say that 'Stolen Summer' has been nominated for three awards:

Gay/Out for You Theme
Hurt/Comfort Theme
and
the real thrill

Best Debut Book!!!

The M/M Romance Group is one of the biggest readers' groups on Goodreads so to be nominated is just the icing on the cake of a crazy writing year for me. If you're an M/M reader and you're not a member...join now!

Now, for some reason, I've lost a whole bunch of icons across the top of my blog thingie and I can't find the one for adding a link, so I'll just have to post it here. http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/20149.M_M_Romance

Thanks for the nominations! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Monday's Hottie is a little bit different

2011-12-19T01:36:00.000-08:00

Monday again already?
We're less than a week away from Christmas and we're into that time of year best known for conspicuous consumption. You can't escape it. There's cookery shows all over the place, aimed at helping you prepare the Best Christmas Feast Ever.

In the spirit of the season, today's Hottie is the utterly adorable Adam Richman. He's the host of 'Man versus Food'. The lovely Adam visits restaurants and pretty much sets himself the challenge of eating a restaurant's Biggest or Spiciest dish. How this man is not the size of a small country or hasn't had a stomach transplant is beyond me. I love watching him. He's incredibly funny and adorable and if I wasn't married, he'd be the type of man I'd want to take home to meet my parents.

So, today, I present the cuddly, charming, hilarious...Adam Richman.

Beautiful banners, bookmarks and things

2011-12-16T02:32:00.000-08:00

Today, I received the other artwork bits and pieces for 'Orion Rising'. Needless to say they are as stunning as the cover art and they have words on them! Hints of the story to come.

I have a stinking cold so these made me feel almost human again.

Enjoy!

Monday's Hottie is an action man.

2011-12-12T00:39:00.000-08:00

Today's hottie hails from a Land Down Under. He's played a brooding android with a conscience and a tall blue dude in a major, major Sci-Fi pic. The second picture is taken from that film, although you may not make the connection.

I give to you that gorgeous Aussie - Sam Worthington. Now, wouldn't you like to find him under your Christmas tree?

Sunday Snog

2011-12-11T01:18:00.000-08:00

I am a bit slow to start today, and I thought it might be fun to take part in Victoria Blisse's regular Sunday Snog event. It's extra special this week because there's a competition and a Kindle up for grabs for people who stop by her blog. You can find it here. Don't forget to stop by and read some snoggage, just the pick-me-up for this grey, gloomy winter Sunday.

My Sunday snog comes from my WIP. It's intended to be the first of a series. This bit takes place at Agra during the 1857 Sepoy Uprising in India. Jacob and Marcus and have taken refuge, along with hundreds of others in the Red Fort. Alone-time is hard to find and Marcus managed to find somewhere, a one-night-only opportunity.

*************************

I woke to silence. The rain had moved on leaving the air cooler. My arm was numb and I reluctantly eased it from beneath Marcus’ shoulders. He stirred in his sleep and reached for me.

“Jacob?”

“I’m here.” I threaded my fingers through his.

“Good. I thought I’d been dreaming.”

My body’s aches told me it certainly was no dream. “No, not a dream.”

“It seems a shame to waste time sleeping.” He nuzzled my throat, nipping at my earlobe. “Don’t you think?”

My cock rose in response to his touch. “You’re right.”

“Who knows when we may get a chance like this again. I want to remember this night for a long time.” The bedclothes rustled softly when Marcus rolled onto me.

I welcomed his weight and caressed him, committing his smooth skin and warm lips to memory. Every kiss was a languid reminder of why I loved him. Marcus moved with agonising slowness, travelling from my lips, to my throat and lower.

“I want you,” he whispered. “I refuse to let you sleep for the rest of the night.”

“There’s little chance of that.” I gasped when he traced the length of my cock with teasing fingers.

“Now the question remains, how do we pass the time?” Marcus cupped my balls in his warm palm and grinned.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“It would help if I could see you properly.” He rolled away and left the bed. He fumbled in the dark until he found matches and re-lit the lamp. The room was suddenly flushed with soft, flickering light.

I enjoyed the novelty of seeing Marcus naked and my arousal increased because I knew that, for that one night, he was entirely mine. He splashed water on his face and returned to me. “That’s better. I can see you now.” His lips brushed my brow, the tip of my nose, the corner of my mouth. “I never tire of looking at you.”

“Nor I you.”

“Now you’re just being kind. I’m a battered, tired soldier who’s spent too long in the back of beyond.” He traced a careful circle around my nipple and then repeated the action with his tongue. “You are water to a dying land. You’re rain where there should be none.”

I lifted his face to mine and kissed him. “I thought you were a soldier, not a poet.”

Marcus caught my bottom lip between his own and shifted onto me, pinning me to the bed with his weight. “You bring it out in me.” His erection pushed against mine. “You make me a better man.”

“Nonsense. You were a good man when we first met.” I tasted his skin, felt the shadow of his beard beneath my lips.

Marcus swept his hands to my hips and slid them beneath me. “All these compliments will go to my head. Be careful or I may take them to heart.”

“I want you to. I mean what I say. I never expected any of this, I never expected you. There are times when I want this siege to last forever so that I never have to leave. I don’t want to think about never seeing you again. As much as I want to go home, the price I’ll have to pay will be more than I can bear.”

“Then let’s not speak of it.” Marcus rolled over and pulled me on top of him. “Silence me with your body. Let’s use this night.”

I silenced him with a kiss. It was a good place to start.

Belated Snarkage

2011-12-10T11:42:00.000-08:00

Running a bit late today.

I've spent a good deal of time setting up my new lap top and have finally found time to get some snarkage down.

Don't forget to check out more excellent snarkage on the lovely Marie Sexton's blog today.

This isn't so much snark as a nasty exchange because there's still not much in the way of snark in this novel-in-progress.

*******************

I looked at Harold. “Now, why don’t we go and sit on the veranda and enjoy what’s left of the cool morning. You can have a sherry to calm your temper.” I took him by the arm and marched him out of the kitchen.

“How bloody dare you,” he hissed.

“Oh shut up, Harold. It bloody serves you right for drinking rum for breakfast.”

His breath reeked of it. He glared at me with angry, bloodshot eyes. “Don’t lecture me on my drinking habits, cousin.”

I shoved him onto the veranda and pushed him into a chair. “I don’t care if you think I’ve overstepped the mark by telling you off in front of your own servants. While I’m here, and while I hold the strings to your purse, you will not abuse your staff, do you understand me?”

“By God, you can be an arrogant bastard sometimes, Jacob.”

“Do you want this money or don’t you?”

Harold’s cheeks flushed - plum clashing awkwardly with his gingery side whiskers. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know I need it.”

“Then I suggest you refrain from treating your servants like slaves.” I sank into the other chair, still shaking with anger.

Harold reached for the sherry with a shaking hand but said not another word until tiffin arrived.

Cover Love

2011-12-07T07:32:00.000-08:00

It was a very happy day for me when Total E Bound accepted 'Stolen Summer' for publication. It was an equally happy day when they picked up 'Orion Rising'. I love the cover for 'Stolen Summer' and I had high hopes for Orion's cover. I received the artwork today and I am so deliriously thrilled with it that I can't stop looking at it. Emmy Ellis, the artist and head of TEB's Art Department has done an amazing job. The characters are more or less as I'd imagined them and the cover really captures the 'essence' of the story. If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you've probably already seen it but, hell, this cover is so gorgeous I have to share it far and wide.

Days like this are the best bits about being a writer, when the cover fits the story so beautifully.

Thanks, Emmy!

Monday's Hottie

2011-12-05T03:44:00.001-08:00

Hello everyone!

The weather is getting cold, Christmas is on the way. It's time for a hottie to warm us up on this December Monday.

Today's heartwarmer is hot property in Hollywood at the moment. He's also Just.Bloody.Hot. I have Scarlett Parrish and Liz Silver to thank for drawing him to my attention. I will be eternally grateful.

Ladies (and gentlemen) I present to you...

Michael Fassbender. So hot, there's two pictures for the price of one.

The first Snark of December

2011-12-03T04:36:00.000-08:00

Happy Saturday everyone.

I'm pleased to announce that 'Mourning Jack', my next m/m contemporary novel, will be released by Total E-Bound on 14th May...only 6 weeks after 'Orion Rising'. This makes me very happy. In the meantime, I'm about to start revisions on the first book of a proposed series.

This little bit of snark is from that book. Mind, it's not so much snark as just a bad tempered little exchange. For more snark, don't forget to check Marie Sexton's blog, for all the contributions.

*******************

I rose. “That would be best. I see nothing but anger for both of us if you stayed. I’ve accepted that I’ll have a solitary life and it’s better that way, then I won’t feel pain at moments like this.” I walked toward the door, wanting to be away from him - the brief peace already broken.

“What happened to you, Jacob?”

“You did.” I closed the door behind me, hurried down the stairs, grabbed my coat and walked out of the house.

Monday's Hottie

2011-11-28T04:26:00.000-08:00

It's one of those cold, grey November days, the kind of day where I'd like to curl up in front of a proper fireplace with a good book, nice music and a box of expensive Belgian chocolates. Instead, I'm writing, there's no fireplace in this house and I'm buggered if I'm spending a fortune on the aforementioned chocolate.

I need to kick some life into this blog so I've decided that Mondays will be devoted to eye-candy from now on...if I remember. I need visual inspiration when I'm creating characters and I've a file full of Very Nice Pictures. This week's inspiration comes in the breathtaking form of Santiago Cabrera. He's a Chilean actor who, most recently, played Lancelot in the BBC production of Merlin. Apparently he was in 'Heroes' too, although I never watched that. Anyway, my contribution to brightening up your Monday is this picture.

Who wouldn't want such a knight to rescue you from your dragons or demons?

Post-Thanksgiving Snark

2011-11-26T03:00:00.000-08:00

Happy post Thanksgiving, everyone!

It's been another busy week. I finished one book and starting writing another. Then I decided last night that it wasn't working, so I've started it again. Ah, the joys of writing. :)

Today's offering is another from the trunked m/m romance which has since evolved into 'Mourning Jack'. There will be news on MJ once contracts are signed.

Don't forget to check out all of today's snark on Marie Sexton's blog. Go awn, you know you want to!

******************

“How about some music?” He turned the television off.

“Music would be much better. I don’t get much of a chance to just sit and listen to music. Plus, I have no idea what you like. I’m curious because I couldn’t find your CDs when I had a nose around last night.”

“That’s because I have most things on my I-pod.” He rose and opened a cabinet beneath the bookshelves. “You weren’t nosey enough.” He set the I-pod speakers on a shelf and switched it on. “It’s just a mix of things.”

A blast of funk shook the room. Iain swore and dived for the volume switch. “Ooops. Sorry about that.”

“Return of the Mack? Are you taking the piss?”

He sank down beside me. “I told you, it’s a mix. I happen to like this.”

“I bet you put on your parachute trousers and dance around the room when no one’s looking.”

“I might.”

“Christ. I think I may have to leave.”

Iain edged closer and wrapped his arm through mine. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“If the next song is Michael Jackson, I might.”

Some Victorian Snark

2011-11-19T00:33:00.000-08:00

This week I finished the first draft of my m/m historical (the first in a series) and jumped almost immediately into the second. I figured I may as well write while the mood is with me. This little excerpt is from this second book, a bit of gentle Victorian snark. In this snippet Joshua's Uncle Jacob and his long time companion, the Captain are visiting.

For more Saturday Snark, don't forget to check out the lovely Marie Sexton's blog where you'll find links to all sorts of snarky goodness from other great writers.

*****

Uncle Jacob peered through the sitting room window. “So that’s the artist then?”

I glanced past him at the figure perched on a stool at the far end of the paddock. Wyndham held a sketchbook and stared at the house. “Yes, that’s him.”

“Is he any good?”

“Uncle, you hired him.”

He chuckled. “Heh, so I did.”

The Captain, shook his head. “You’re getting absent-minded in your old age, Jacob.”

“You’re a fine one to talk.” Jacob returned to his seat. “You poured salt into your tea this morning.”

November Snark

2011-11-12T03:12:00.000-08:00

Good week for me. There'll be more on that soon. Let's just say I'm a happy writer bunny and leave it at that for now. :D

Plus, something wonderful arrived yesterday. The print copies of 'Stolen Summer'. I am certain that the poor woman who delivered the package thinks I'm madder than a box full of frogs because I just started grinning and didn't stop. Opening the box and actually holding a copy in my hand for the first time was just magical. I actually picked them all up and hugged them. Oh yes I did because ... well ... it was a bloody marvelous moment.

Today's snarkage, again, is from a novel which is going nowhere because bits of it have gone somewhere else. There's just sod all snark in the historical I'm writing at the moment!

So, campers, don't forget to check out Marie Sexton's blog for a cornucopia of Saturday Snarkage :)

****************************

The silence was broken by the thunk of a wheelbarrow in the yard.

“What was that?” Iain kissed the corner of my mouth.

“Valeria. She’s come to see to her horse.”

“The Russian girl? I want to see.” He retrieved his jeans and fastened his shirt.

“Don’t let her see you, for fuck’s sake. She may want coffee or something.” I found my jeans and straightened my jumper.

Iain lifted the blind and peered beneath it. “I bet that blonde isn’t natural. She should’ve done her roots for Christmas.”

Saturday already?

2011-11-05T05:05:00.000-07:00

Where does the time go? I've been buried in NaNo frenzy this week, my first NaNoWriMo for a couple of years. I'm cheating ever so slightly in that I'm using it as a kick in the arse to get the latest story written. It's working. I've been clearing 2,000 words a day and I may even have a decent first draft by the end of the month.

Sadly, because it's set in the mid 19th century and because my two protagonists, Marcus and Jacob have to survive a prolonged siege in the Red Fort at Agra and then have to hide their feelings for each other back in England, there isn't much snark.

So, I've salvaged this from a trunked novel. The two characters eventually reappeared in 'Mourning Jack' which I did finish.

For some reason, I just love writing chef characters.

Don't forget to check out all of today's snark on Marie Sexton's blog.

***************************

I put my arm around Ian and he settled against me, resting his head on my shoulder. I loved the warmth of him, the scent of him, the softness of his hair beneath my cheek. “I’m sure I’ll love the pheasant. It’s fine with me as long as I haven’t got to pluck it.”

“I skinned it and I picked out the shot, so you don’t have to worry about breaking your teeth.”

“Thank Christ for that. I like a chef takes the trouble to deal with the small things, like peoples’ teeth.”

“I aim to please.”

More Saturday Snarkage

2011-10-29T03:16:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's Saturday again. I've been out and about on this lovely Autumn morning, stocking up on fruit and veg from the market and enjoying the drive back over the Downs, which are gorgeous on a day like this. I intend to procrastinate for the rest of the day and try to resist the call of the fruit sherbets I bought from the supermarket.

But, enough of the travelogue, this week's snark is a wee snippet from 'Stolen Summer' which comes out in proper, solid book form on Monday. I have to wait a few weeks for the author's copies and I will take photos because it'll be a happy moment for me. There will be a giveaway so watch this space.

Don't forget to check out Marie Sexton's blog for more snark from other writers!

In the meantime, here's Colin and Evan in bed, talking.

****************

I sometimes wondered what I’d done to deserve Colin. This was one of those times. I felt like crying. Instead, I took a deep breath, wrapped my arm around his waist and closed my eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I spoil you rotten and you know it.”

“I’m a better cook than you.”

“Jeesh, one roast beef dinner and you think you’re Gordon bloody Ramsay.”

Saturday Snark - 22 October

2011-10-22T01:40:00.000-07:00

Heavens, I completely forgot about last week's Snark-fest. I was too busy seething with envy at all those lucky souls whooping it up in NOLA and I was busy polishing 'Mourning Jack' and making it pretty. So, here I am again with some more snark from that one.

Don't forget to stop by Marie Sexton's blog to check out all the excerpts today!

*********************************

The dining room was loud with revellers, well into their main courses. Tables were littered with the remnants of cracker papers and empty bottles. I peered through the kitchen door and couldn’t help notice how the Kingston Party took up most of the dining room. We’d pushed several tables together along the wall and every seat was occupied with stable staff. Eric, his paper crown set at a rakish angle, presided at the head of the table.

“Put your tongue away,” Becky whispered. “Mr. Kingston might want you to save it for later.”

“You dirty cow.”

The Return of Teaser Tuesday!

2011-10-11T09:33:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to say that the AW Purgatorians have revived the fine tradition of Teaser Tuesday. It's a chance to catch a glimpse of works in progress from a diverse collection of awesome writers.

This is from my Shiny New Idea. It's an m/m romance that's untitled as yet and is set in India in 1857. The narrator is attending a ball at a remote army outpost. He's visiting his cousin and has been left to his own devices at this party.

*******************

We fell silent, me thinking of green grass and a sky full of familiar stars, Billington thinking of God-knows what. I stole a glance at him and didn’t envy him his uniform. Even his proximity to the window and the punkah-wallah couldn’t erase the sheen of perspiration from his face.

“You’ll do well to get out of here as soon as you can.” He murmured, without prompting.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you think it’s hot now, in a few weeks’ time it’ll be unbearable. There’s this hot wind that blows dust into every bloody crevice. It’s miserable. You can’t do anything much between sunrise and late afternoon.”

“So I’ve heard. I’d planned on visiting Simla before heading down to Bombay.”

“That’s a very sensible notion.” He glanced towards the veranda. “As is escaping this room before I suffocate. Are you coming?”

It sounded more like an order than request. I followed Billington onto the veranda where several other gentlemen obviously shared the same idea. They greeted us with nods and carried on with their conversation. Billington leaned against the railing and stared out into the inky, airless dark. “I envy you escaping this place.”

“It’s not like you to be so blunt, sir.” I’d met Billington at one of my cousin’s parties not long after I’d arrived. We’d struck up an easy friendship united by our love of fine horses.

“There’s more than the weather to worry about.” He ran a careless hand through his hair. “There’s rumours of trouble with the sepoys. This isn’t going to be a safe place.”

“I’d heard there could be trouble. So it’s true?”

“It’s more likely to happen than not.” He turned around and stared back into the crowded party. “If I had my way I’d tell every civilian to get out but I’d be accused of scaremongering. If you can change your plans and leave sooner, then do it.”

“Jesus. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

“I’ve tried but I’ve been told that everything will be fine.” He looked at me, his eyes dark with a scarcely concealed fury. “I know my men, I’ve tried to do right by them and one or two of them have told me there’ll be trouble. I trust them, I believe them.”

The dark beyond the house was suddenly seething with unseen threats. Just when I’d become comfortable with the strangeness of the place, Billington reminded me that there’s nothing easy or familiar about India. A peacock called out somewhere in the grounds – a haunting counterpoint to the echoes of laughter and music coming from beyond the open doors of the house.

“I consider you a friend.” Billington folded his arms across his chest. “That’s why I’m telling you this. Get out and get to Simla while you can.”

“I’ll do what I can.” I tried to arrange everything in my mind, work out what needed to be done before I could leave. Even travelling in India was a logistical tangle.

“Good.” He offered me a smile. “I always thought you were a man of good sense. What say we find ourselves a decent drink and do our best to avoid the attentions of the ladies.”

“Sounds like an excellent notion.”

He grinned then, a sudden fierce warrior’s grin. I pitied anyone who crossed him and wished God hadn’t made me a man.

Saturday Snark - Number 4

2011-10-08T00:49:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's Saturday again. It's been a bit of a week for me (long story) but I've been plowing ahead with the WIP, 'Mourning Jack'. Here's some fresh snark for you from that story. Don't forget to check the other snarky contributions on Marie Sexton's blog. You can find it here.

Eric’s fingers trembled on my skin. He sighed into my mouth. Our jackets whispered against each other beneath the constant thrum of wind and waves. Eric’s tongue coiled around mine and I rested against him, finding shelter. Everything in me rushed towards him, our breaths meshed, fell into sync. We bruised each other, reaching for shared warmth, for what we’d both missed.

“Get a bloody room.” A disgruntled passerby broke the embrace. A pair of terriers yapped and ran in crazed circles around us. “This is a public beach.”

“Where’s the ‘No Kissing’ sign then?” Eric snapped.

Saturday Snark - Number 3

2011-10-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

This is rapidly becoming my favorite blog habit, this Saturday Snark thing that the lovely Marie Sexton came up with.

Don't forget to visit Marie's blog where you'll find plenty of excellent examples of prime snark throughout the day. Clicky

This week, I've gone back to my current release Stolen Summer. This little exchange takes place shortly after Evan returns from Pakistan. He and Colin are preparing a traditional English Sunday roast for Evan's parents. But these two lads are easily distracted...

************************

I shivered when he swept his hands to my waist, pulling me close. I wound my arms around him and kissed him back. His erection pressed against mine.

“When your parents have gone…” he gasped, his breath hot on my face.

I fought for breath, for self-control. “Yes.” I kissed him again and tasted wine on his lips.

“You’d better turn those bloody potatoes, then. The sooner we eat, the sooner they’ll leave.” He pulled away and turned to the sink. He turned on the cold water tap, ran his hands beneath the water and splashed his face with it.

I did the same, still shaken. The icy water brought me back to the warm kitchen, the aroma of roasting potatoes.

“Jesus, Evan.” Colin’s hand drifted across my crotch before he reached for the wine. “You might want to find an apron or something.” His grin was devilish.

It's Saturday Snark Time again!

2011-09-24T05:43:00.000-07:00

Oh I love Marie Sexton's new idea. I love a bit of snark.

This little exchange is from my WIP 'Mourning Jack'. Ade, the MC is chatting with Jack's sister, Charlotte. As you can see, Charlotte knows Ade pretty well. :D

“Ade, you’re like a brother to me. I know you. I think I can guess. I’m thinking you’ve fallen for Cal in a big way but you’re not making a move because he’s still grieving for Jack. You’re living cheek by jowl. I’m guessing Cal likes to wander around in his undies and it’s driving you mad.”

“Well, that saves me the trouble of having to tell you.”

Saturday Snark

2011-09-17T06:43:00.000-07:00

Marie Sexton has decided to liven up our Saturdays by introducing a fun new blog - Saturday Snark. You'll find the introductory post here . I couldn't resist adding a contribution of my own from 'Stolen Summer'. One of my favorite bits to write.

“Carrying on while we were sleeping together? No. Don’t worry, you haven’t got AIDS. Well, not from me, anyway.”

“Bastard. Fucking, bum-fucking, faggot bastard.”

Wootton Bassett - A remarkable little town

2011-08-31T09:29:00.000-07:00

Today at sunset, they are lowering the Union Jack in a small market town in Wiltshire. This is the last act in a ceremony that has taken place over the last few years. Wootton Bassett is now known around the world as the town that comes to a standstill when fallen soldiers from Afghanistan are brought home.

Most everyone knows how it all started with a handful of Royal British Legion members saluting the passage of the fallen, and how it turned into a national occasion. Last week marked the last time a cortege passed slowly along the High Street. The standards were lowered in silence and the proud and grieving family members paid their own tributes in the midst of a crowd of silent support. It was a cold, grey and miserable late summer day but that didn't stop the hundreds of people from turning up to stand beneath the trees that line the pavement.

I'm lucky enough to work in Wootton Bassett, to see how the town fills up to honour the repatriated men. I've seen the flowers and cards placed lovingly around the War Memorial and I've seen the Union Jack fluttering in the breeze. It's an unassuming little town where the locals and the people who work in the shops and banks and other businesses are unfailingly friendly and welcoming. There's a really good feeling about the place. I can't put my finger on it but I know that I love being just a small part of Wootton Bassett, for six or more hours a day, five days a week.

Today I had to pop to the shops before I returned home. I looked along the High Street at the news vans already gathered there and at that Union Jack. My eyes stung a little, knowing it would be the last time I'd see it flying there. Yes, I know it's just a flag, but in Wootton Basssett, it's presided over the return of so many young men. It's seen the crowds stand in silent tribute honouring those young men. It's being passed on, to another place. I just hope this other place will do those soldiers and that flag proud.

So this is just my little thank you to a remarkable place. Wootton Bassett - thank you.

Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner! - Naughty Threesome Blog Tour Grand Prize

2011-08-30T08:52:00.001-07:00

Thanks to everyone who joined Marie Sexton, Talia Carmichael and I for our Naughty Threesome Blog Tour. It was a terrific 8 days of celebrating the release of our books 'Song of Oestend' by Marie Sexton, 'Ralston's Way' by Talia Carmichael and my book, 'Stolen Summer'.

It was my first ever blog tour and I enjoyed every minute of it, especially the comments.

The winner of the Naughty Threesome Blog Tour Grand Prize is:

Tiffany M

Congrats Tiffany M. You’re our grand prize winner of theNaughty Threesome Blog Tour.The prizes you won are:

$50 All Romance Ebook ebooks bucks! (must have or create an account at All Romance Ebook so I can send the prize to you)

1 pdf from Talia’s backlist (winner’s choice of Detour, Reckless Behaviour, or A Tender Roughness)

A swag pack from Marie

1 ebook from Marie’s backlist (winner’s choice of Promises, A to Z, Strawberries for Dessert, or One More Soldier)

1 pdf of S.A.’s book Stolen Summer

Talia, Marie and myself will be contacting you at the email you provided about the prizes.

Thanks again everyone for joining us on our tour.

The Naughty Threesome Blog Tour - Day 8

2011-08-29T00:49:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome to the final day of the Naughty Threesome Blog Tour. Today, we let our characters take over and, as you’ll see they have a lot to talk about.

**************************************************************************

Morgan enters the ranch house looking over his shoulder. “I didn’t schedule any meeting, Blayne. Who is it?”

Blayne doesn’t answer, walking away laughing. Morgan frowns, knowing that laugh meant he was up to no good.

“Cactus, I don’t like surprises,” he calls after him.

Blayne’s laughter increases. Cursing, Morgan goes inside. He makes a left into the living room. He puts his hands on his hips and scowls at the men sitting in his living room.

“Oh.... it is you two. Don’t ya’ll have better things to be doing than loitering in my living room?” Morgan growls.

Aren shakes his head. “Not really. Deacon’s off running the ranch, and I have nothing but time.”

“I thought you said there was beer,” Evan say. “This isn’t proper beer, it’s gnat’s piss.”

“If you are going to be insulting Evan, there is the door. And Aren, it must be nice that you don’t have anything to do. Too bad I can’t say the same.” Morgan turns the pauses. “Shit. If I go back out there Blayne will get pissed at me not being at least polite. Then again Blayne pissed might be a good thing.” A wicked smiled curls Morgan’s lips.

Morgan goes back into the living room and sprawls in his favorite chair.

Aren shrugs. “Proper beer or not, it’s great! The only things we have at the BarChi are water, milk, and whisky.”

Evan stares at the bottle, takes a sip and grimaces. “Sodding Colorado Kool-aid. Ah, well it’s better than a poke in the eye, I suppose.”

“Stop your belly aching,” Morgan said.

(Matt and Jared must poke their heads in to say that Colorado beer is the best beer! New Belgium and O’Dell’s do not make Kool-Aid! Now *poof*, they’re gone.)

Aren eyes the spot where the two men were. “Holy Saints. Who were those guys?”

“No clue. I guess they have a thing for Colorado beer,” Morgan said.

“Next time, I’ll bring the beer.” Evan sets the bottle down and reaches for a sandwich. “These, on the other hand, I could eat until I burst. Great beef.”

“So glad something meets your taste,” Morgan replied dryly.

“Yup, these’ll do.” Evan takes a huge bite of sandwich, scattering crumbs.

Aren sits up in his chair to address Morgan. “It’s not that I have nothing to do at the ranch, but I’m caught up on the books. I’ll help the ranch hands with the horses when they come back from the fields, but until then, my time is my own. I suppose I could paint, but...”

“No need to explain, Aren. Just pulling your leg. Until I meet Blayne I was all about work. But now I can appreciate taking time for other things.” Morgan crossed his ankles, lacing his hands over his stomach.

“So, Aren,” Evan says, “what about this Deacon chap? Give us a clue.”

“Deacon’s big and strong and rough, and if you ever meet him, I’d recommend not pissing him off. He’s basically the foreman of the BarChi. He’s in charge of the ranch hands. Once we get to the bedroom, though, I’m in charge.” [wicked grin]

“You dirty gits.” Evan grins.

“Umm...I don’t really think I want to know anymore.” Morgan winces.

“Don’t tell him I told you, though,” Aren says, looking around the room as if somebody might have overheard. “He really can’t let anybody at the BarChi know about that.”

“I definitely won’t be mentioning this conversation to anyone,” Morgan promises.

“Don’t worry, discretion is my middle name. Some things are best kept quiet. In my job, I’ve learned to keep secrets, even though it could’ve meant some bloody fantastic exclusives.” Evan contemplates another sandwich.

“Stop eyeing the food, Evan. Tell us about your man.” Morgan snags the sandwich before Evan could get it.

Evan sighs and leans back into the cushions. “He’s my best friend. He always has been. He’s passionate, bossy, stubborn. He’s also brilliant in bed. God, I wish he were here now. I wouldn’t be eyeing up those sandwiches, that’s for sure. What about your Blayne?”

“Cactus...he’s opinionated and wants things his way. But they are my way no matter what he believes. Blayne got under my skin and damn if I know how. I enjoy mussing him up. Almost as much as I enjoy goading him into losing his temper. One he tells me at the top of his lungs he doesn’t have.” Laughing, Morgan finishes up his sandwich.

“I saw your cows out there, Morgan,” Aren says. “I’ll tell you, I wish the cows in Oestend looked like that. The ones in Lanstead do, but not in Oestend. Oestend cows are big. And mean. And downright scary. I do my best to stay away from them.”

“I don’t blame you, mate,” Evan says. “The cows here are big enough.”

“Hmmm... big cows. I would be interested in seeing that.” Morgan grabs a beer taking a deep drink.

“I’m not all that keen on animals,” Evan says. “Especially goats, their meat is foul, no matter how much you try and disguise it as curry.”

Morgan spews out his beer laughing. “You are a funny man, Evan. You must have Colin cracking up all the time. ”

“You mean when he’s not trying to jump my bones?” Evan looks at Aren. “What about this Deacon chap? Does he like a laugh? And your Blayne, Morgan.”

“I have a feeling you are the one who jumps Colin’s bones, Evan. And Blayne loves to laugh. Mostly when he is up to something he knows will aggravate me. He knows I hate change- “ Morgan pauses, eyeing his unexpected guests. “And surprises but still insists on doing them. Claims it keeps me from being an ornery cuss.”

“Deacon’s a pretty serious guy,” Aren says. “Then again, there’s not a lot on the BarChi to laugh at. Except me. I’m a city boy, still trying to figure things out on the ranch. Deacon can always find a reason to laugh at me.

“Yeah, Morgan, you sussed it. I can’t keep my hands off him. Especially since...well, you know. So it sounds like we’re all with the right sorts. I wish I was home now. There’s proper football on the telly tonight.”

“And again with the belly aching. If you’ll didn’t want to be here then why did you come? I could be out working. Instead I am in here being sociable. Cactus is so going to owe me one for this.” Morgan takes another drink of beer.

Aren looks extremely confused. “What’s football?” he asks. “What’s telly? Ah, never mind. I’ll just drink more beer.”

Morgan lowers his beer staring at Aren. “You don’t know what football is? Or a television? What do you do all day when Deacon is working?”

“I paint, or I work on the books for the BarChi, or sometimes I help with the chores, like mucking stalls, although I’m still pretty slow at it.”

“If you want some practice at mucking stalls I have some you can do.” Morgan gestures at the bay window with the view of the stables behind him.

Aren laughs. “No thanks! I’m perfectly happy to sit here drinking beer! I should have brought my whisky along. I feel bad for not having anything to contribute.”

“I wish you had brought some whisky.” Evan eyes the sandwich plate. “Does anyone want that last sandwich? If you’re going to have us mucking out bloody horses, I’ll need sustenance.”

“Fine you want whisky, then I’ll get you some.” Morgan stands slamming down his beer on table. He goes to liquor cabinet and takes out the whisky, grabbing 3 glasses. Returning to his seat, he puts the bottle and glasses on table. He opens bottle and pours some in a glass then puts it back down and leans back in his chair cradling his glass. He eyes the other men. “If you want any you better help yourselves.” He drinks from his glass.

Aren eyes the whisky without much enthusiasm. “I get plenty of whisky at the BarChi. It’s that, milk or water. I buy the best whisky I can find, but the monotony does get old. Evan can have my whisky and I’ll take his beer!”

“Cheers, mate.” Evan helps himself to a generous measure of whisky and slides his beer towards Aren.

“Aren, we can go out a I’ll let you milk one of the cows. Since you are partial to milk.” Morgan winks chuckling.

Aren and Evan glance at each other then at Morgan. Morgan smiles innocently drinking from his glass.

“Why is it you keep trying to put us to work?” Evan says swirling his whisky in his glass.

Aren laughs, shaking his head. “Just like Deacon.” He winks mischievously at Morgan. “Do you like to be tied up, too?”

Morgan spews then glares at Aren. “Making me waste good whisky on such nonsense. If there is any tying, I do it.”

Aren grins knowingly at Evan. “Oh yeah. Somebody should tie him up, for sure.”

Blayne’s head appears by the doorjamb. “And we have some sturdy ropes too.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Good enough to tie you up. We’ll do it later as well as work on getting your braid looser.” Morgan smirks.

“You are obsessed with my braid. You won’t get it loose you stubborn cowboy. Give it up already.” Blayne rolls his eyes and leaves.

Morgan laughs then says to the men, “That braid of his is sexy. Drives me crazy trying to get it loose. But I have such fun in trying. Over and over again.”

Aren jumps in with obviousy excitement, “We have this ottoman in the bedroom. I like to make Deacon strip, and then I tie him to it. He’s so big, and he has scars on his back. Holy Saints, you should see him. He’s amazing. I have a riding crop, and-- “

“Whoa. Stop right there. Don’t want to know anymore. Christ you are as bad as Blayne sharing too much.” Morgan shakes his head then glances at Evan. “You have anything to add-” He puts up his hand. “But please not so much detail.” Morgan glares at Aren.

Aren smiles innocently, drinking his beer.

“Do you mind if we change the subject? All this talk of being tied up doesn’t bring up good memories for me.” Evan downs his whisky in one gulp and folds his arms across his chest.

Morgan studies him then grabs the bottle, refilling Evan’s glass. He pushes it towards Evan.

“Holy Saints,” Aren swears. “I’m sorry!

“Don’t worry about it, mate. It’s all over and done with now. I just don’t like being away from Colin, much. We’re not into any of that bondage stuff. I just love the man. I love waking up in bed with him, even though he hogs the duvet. What he does with his hands makes up for that and for him leaving his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor.” Evan glances at the clock on the wall. “Is it time to go yet?”

“Let me get you bottle of whisky to go.” Morgan stands. He pauses by Aren and whispers. “And you some sturdy rope for your kinky games.” He winks then grabs a bottle of whisky from the cabinet and hands it to Evan before he heads outside.

Blayne meets him on the porch and hands him some rope. Morgan eyes him. Blayne kisses him softly then wanders back down the porch entering the entrance to the offices.

“You’re drooling,” Aren says.

“Don’t you have a man you need to be getting to? I know I do.” He hands Aren the rope then strides off towards where Blayne went. Morgan goes into the office entrance without looking at them again.

“We’ll see ourselves out then,” Aren says, laughing and turning to Evan. But Evan isn’t there. Aren glances beyond the porch and laughs harder as he realizes Evan is already halfway to his Peugeot.

Evan glances back at Aren. “I’d offer you a lift mate, but this isn’t a Tardis. It doesn’t do alternate worlds, it’s all I can do to get the bugger round the Oxford Ring Road.”

Aren (who is quite confused by these miniature trains that don’t need tracks), says, “Don’t worry. I’ll just *poof* out like those crazy Colorado beer fanatics did.”

[And he does]

Evan eyes the bottle of whisky suspiciously, shrugs and climbs into the car. “Fuck me, that’s some strong stuff. Time to head home, I think.”

Morgan sticks his head out the door calling. “If you can’t drive then we can get you a room. I’ll take care of it later. I’m busy right now.”

“Is that what you are calling it?” Blayne’s laughter can be heard behind him.

“Don’t worry, mate. This is ‘fiction’, remember? I turn the key in the ignition, click my heels together three times, say ‘poof’ and I’m gone.” Evan salutes, turns the key in the ignition, mumbles something and the little blue car is gone.

“We’ll I’ll be damned. He was right.” Morgan turns and brings Blayne against his body rubbing against him. “ But this doesn’t feel like fiction. More like friction.”

Laughing he lifts Blayne up. Blayne puts his legs around him. They head down the hall and back to the office. Locking the door they get some friction going.

****

A huge thank you to everyone who joined us on the tour and took the time to leave a comment. I hope you all had as much fun as we have!

****

Ralston’s Way, by Talia Carmichael: http://tiny.cc/3mqw2 (available now)
Song of Oestend, by Marie Sexton: http://tiny.cc/mkqzb (available now)
Stolen Summer, by S.A. Meade: http://tiny.cc/5qsa0 (available now)

Please be sure to follow us on our blog tour. We’re keeping track of everybody who leaves a comment along the way, and on August 30th, we’ll choose one person to win our Grand Prize!

The Grand Prize winner will receive:

$50 All Romance Ebook ebooks bucks! (You must have an account at All Romance Ebook so we can send the prize to you.)
1 pdf from Talia’s backlist (winner’s choice of Detour, Reckless Behaviour, or A Tender Roughness)
A swag pack from Marie
1 ebook from Marie’s backlist (winner’s choice of Promises, A to Z, Strawberries for Dessert, or One More Soldier)
1 pdf of S.A. Meade’s Stolen Summer

Where to find us:

Marie:
www.MarieSexton.net
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MarieSexton.author
Twitter: http://twitter.com/MarieSexton
Tumblr: http://mariesexton.tumblr.com/ Tumblr NSFW!
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3292500.Marie_Sexton
Goodreads group: http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/48765.The_Heidi_and_Marie_Show
And be sure to join me for Coffee and Porn in the Morning: http://cupoporn.wordpress.com

Sue:
http://kestrelrising.blogspot.com/
FB: https://www.facebook.com/pages/SAMeade/171142316286649
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/kestrelrising

Talia:
http://taliacarmichael.com
Blog - http://taliacarmichael.com/blog
Newsletter: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/taliacarmichael
FB: http://www.facebook.com/people/Talia-Carmichael/10000156072246

The Naughty Threesome Blog Tour!! W00t!

2011-08-18T07:42:00.001-07:00

I am a very lucky newbie author. Stolen Summer is being released a mere week after two other Total E-Bound releases - 'Song of Oestend' by Marie Sexton and 'Ralston's Way' by Talia Carmichael and I get to tag along!

We're launching a whirlwind eight-day blog tour with great blog posts and some great prizes including a Grand Prize of:

$50 All Romance Ebook ebooks bucks! (must have an account at All Romance Ebook so I can send the prize to you)

1 pdf from Talia’s backlist (winner's choice of Detour, Reckless Behaviour, or A Tender Roughness)

A swag pack from Marie

1 ebook from Marie’s backlist (winner's choice of Promises, A to Z, Strawberries for Dessert, or One More Soldier)

1 pdf of S.A. Meade’s Stolen Summer

The tour will kick off this Monday 22nd August on Top 2 Bottom Reviews and finish right here on my humble little blog. I hope you all will come along for the ride. It should be great fun. All you'll need to do to make sure you're in with a chance of winning the grand prize is follow us on the tour, check in on the blogs and comment often. At the end of the tour, we'll collect all your names and throw them in a draw, with the winner to be announced on 30th August.

So go awn! Follow the Naughty Threesome's journey! We're looking forward to seeing you.

Monday, August 22nd: Top 2 Bottom Reviews (http://top2bottomreviews.wordpress.com/)
Tuesday, August 23rd: Talia Carmichael’s blog (http://taliacarmichael.com/blog/)
Wednesday, August 24th: Amara’s Place (http://www.amaras-place.blogspot.com/)
Thursday, August 25th: Fiction Vixen (http://www.fictionvixen.com/)
Friday, August 26th: Marie’s blog (http://MarieSexton.net)
Saturday, August 27th: Heidi Cullinan’s blog (http://heidicullinan.wordpress.com/)
Sunday, August 28th: Smexy Books (http://www.smexybooks.com/)
Monday, August 29th: S.A. Meade’s blog (http://kestrelrising.blogspot.com/)

You can buy our books here:
Ralston’s Way, by Talia Carmichael: http://tiny.cc/3mqw2
Song of Oestend, by Marie Sexton: http://tiny.cc/mkqzb
Stolen Summer, by S.A. Meade: http://tiny.cc/5qsa0

You can find out more about Marie by checking out these links:

www.MarieSexton.net
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MarieSexton.author
Twitter: http://twitter.com/MarieSexton
Tumblr: http://mariesexton.tumblr.com/ (Tumblr NSFW!)
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The soundtrack to 'Stolen Summer'

2011-08-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those writers who hears a song, or even just a line of a song and is suddenly frantic to reach the computer and start writing a Shiny New Idea. That's how this whole recent writing lark of mine started - driving through a tumbleweed-riddled stretch of Arizona desert in the heat of July. I had one of my home-made compilation CDs on and Eva Cassidy was singing 'Fields of Gold'. I stared at the distant storm clouds rising over the Pinal Mountains and thought longingly of English wheat fields dozing beneath a gentler sun. A handful of hours later I had a scene in my head of two lovers making love on a summer's evening beside a field of barley. The next day I had a story. Sadly, one that has been trunked since.

Everything I've written since has inadvertently acquired a soundtrack. 'Stolen Summer' is no exception. For those of you who've read the previous blog about how my mucky little book came to be, you'll know that I scribbled down a few plot points on a flight from Phoenix to LA. The next Big Thing was the above piece of music. My roomie, fellow writer Amy Bai, asked if I'd ever heard of Ludovico Einaudi. I confessed that I hadn't. She then clicked a few keys on her laptop and .... wow.

'Divenire' just crept into my little writer's brain and stayed there. When I got back to Arizona, I downloaded the LP and it became the soundtrack to 'Stolen Summer'. Even now, I have only to listen to 'Divenire' and I can see the scenes that it accompanies. If anyone ever decides to adapt the book into a film (What? I can dream, can't I?) I shall insist that this be included in the soundtrack.

So, writers...what songs have inspired you? Whose music makes you frantic to write?

A Sunday Snog

2011-08-07T00:27:00.001-07:00

One of my fellow TEB authors, Victoria Blisse, has a nifty little thing on her blog. It's called Sunday Snog.

I love a good snog, me. If you love a bit of snoggage, check out Victoria's blog. There'll be links to other blogs with other snogs.

I'm posting mine below. It's from my WIP 'Mourning Jack', which is very much a Work in (slow) Progress. Bear in mind it's a first draft and is probably plagued with excess commas and the occasional pesky independent body part.

Have a read and don't forget to check out Victoria's blog for more snoggage. :D

Have a great Sunday. I'm doing the full Sunday dinner today and may well do other domesticky things if I can tear myself away from the laptop.

****

The late spring breeze shifted through the curtains, bringing the scent of flowers into the shadowy room. Supper simmered on the stove and there was nothing left to do but enjoy the peace and quiet.

“I’d forgotten what you looked like in jeans.” Cal grinned and set his beer down. “You look bloody good.”

“Thank you.”

He ran his hand along my thigh and left it on my knee.

I bit my lip. We’d slept apart for four weeks and I hated the empty nights even more than the temptation and longing. I’d missed his touch so much so that it was impossible to ignore the electricity.

“I’ve missed you.” Cal’s voice was a whisper.

“Same here.” I covered his hand with mine and couldn’t pull away when he leaned forward and kissed me.

“Cal...”

“No guilt, no remorse.” He moved closer. “Don’t worry.”

He tasted of hops and summer. His lips were soft and hot little breaths met mine.

“Are you sure?” I slid my hands beneath his tee-shirt, seeking the heat of his skin.

“Oh yes.” He slid to the floor and crept between my legs.

“What...?”

“Hush.” Cal crept forward and ran his palm with agonising slowness across my flies. He reached up and pulled my head down to his. “I need you, Ade.”

“Why now?” I could scarcely speak, let alone breathe.

He gently eased the zip down and slipped his hand beneath my shorts. “Because seeing you in jeans makes me want to see you without them.”

An Interview with Scarlett Parrish.

2011-08-02T23:30:00.000-07:00

This is a first for me.

My friend Scarlett has a new book out this week. It's a good 'un, with non-sparkly sexy vampires. I decided to do my bit to promote it and Scarlett consented to answer some questions.

Why Vampires?

Why not? :D I’ve always been fascinated by them. I was allowed to stay up late to watch Hammer Horror films as a kid and loved Christopher Lee. Still do. Vampires are the perfect combination of sex and danger. I can well understand why they’re so popular.

Having read ‘A Little Death’, I have to say, I thought the way you made vampires fit into everyday life really worked. How did you make that happen?

This story’s been through so many incarnations it’s not funny. One problem I had was convincing the heroine (who wasn’t, at that point, even called Mallory) that Cian Ambrose was a vampire. In early versions, he was the first one to appear – Jonathan Cutler didn’t even exist back then – and they weren’t accepted into society. They were secretive and hidden away.

I didn’t want to have him say, “By the way, I’m undead,” and have the heroine shrug and say, “Okay.” I mean, in real life if someone said that to you, you’d have them carted off by the men in white coats.

One day I started playing around with the idea of solving that problem by simply having vampires as already accepted by society. A “solve the problem by ignoring it,” philosophy. And damn if it didn’t work. There’s some world-building and background, but I tried to write those sections without drawing attention to them, just have Mallory speaking about vampires’ existence the way you or I would about trees or cars or dogs. A Little Death is set in the here and now, in a world exactly like ours apart from the existence of the undead.

One thing I really love about your writing is your knack of picking out the most prosaic of details. It’s the sort of thing that makes me think ‘Yeah, I’ve been there.’ What kind of little things do you look for to make a story feel so ‘real’ for readers?

*preens* That’s a compliment I’ll remember for a long time!

It’s not something I concentrate on. It’s not entirely conscious. Maybe it comes from being deep in the point of view of my main characters. Part of it could be my aversion to telling-not-showing. I don’t want to tell the readers my character is scared, lonely, horny, excited, whatever. I ask myself, “How would I show this? What would their body language be? How would other people react?”

And if I were in a given situation, to what would I pay attention? A ticking clock, the whoosh of traffic, my heart thudding, the churning in my stomach? Even those aren’t good enough. I want to describe someone’s stomach churning in a new way, unique to them. And yet, it has to make the reader sit up and go, “Yes – I know that feeling!” Each writer has their own unique voice, and I use mine to attempt to describe universal feelings.

Also: we have five senses. I like to play to them all. I once heard it said that smell more readily transports us back into the past than any other sense. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know, but it’s a reminder that it, taste, touch, hearing and sight all work together, so we should use them all in our writing.

What made you decide to write erotic novels?

Being unable to think of anything else to write. :D My first erotic romance, Long Time Coming, was written on a wing, a prayer and the thought, “Oh sod it, might as well try.” It was incredibly freeing and so much fun to write.

And, as arrogant as it may seem, I was offended by so much erotica out there. A lot of it is porn by another name, or…dare I say it…rapey and skincrawly. (Yes, those are real words. I say so.) I set out to write the kind of erotic romance I’d want to read and luckily, other people seem to enjoy them too.

Writing erotica is no excuse to skimp on character development or to think you can get away with fast-forwarding the declarations of love. Too often it’s “Let’s fuck. I love you. Happily ever after,” which I find completely unrealistic. I don’t buy the “It’s fantasy,” excuse. No, it’s not fantasy. It’s fiction. And as such, it must have the ring of truth. Your reader has to be able to suspend disbelief, not completely divorce him- or herself from plausibility.

How do you think you’ve changed as a writer since your first book was published?

I use fewer ellipses.

But seriously, I like to think I’ve cut down on my bad habits. Ellipses, em-dashes, starting off sentences with ‘so’ and ‘well’. All of the above are matters of editing and polishing. When it comes to the bigger picture – plot and story and character, I like to think I’m taking a few more risks. Writing from a male point of view, writing a purely M/M novel, branching out into paranormal. Okay, so my books thus far are all erotica, but I’m dabbling in various sub-genres.

I find what goes on between my characters’ ear far more interesting than what goes on between their legs. These days, I try to concentrate on that. They still have a hell of a lot of sex, but I hope the reader understands why.

Where do you see yourself, as a writer in ten years time?

Underneath James Purefoy, after giving my Booker acceptance speech.

Oh, you wanted a serious answer? Agented, traditionally print-published, and earning enough money to not have to worry any more.

Also, I’d like to be having a lot more sex.

What do you like best about writing?

The freedom. I can keep my own hours, stay in my pyjamas all day, work anywhere, use anything as inspiration…

What’s the worst thing?

All of the above means I suffer from a lack of self-discipline. I feel like I ought to keep set hours or have a daily word count goal, but…the freedom to do whatever I want all day means I dick around with chores or emailing or reading and I have that voice nagging in the back of my head, telling me I should write more.

What’s your favorite snack?

Pringles or chocolate or angel cake or jaffa cakes or Rice Krispies. Or all of the above.

Boxers or jockey shorts?

Shorts, I think. Something snug, but not speedo-tight. Show me the goods, not every pube and ball-wrinkle.

What ‘Everest’ of writing would you like to tackle one day?

Winning the Booker prize for an erotic literary novel.

Multiple Choice:

(a) Purefoy

(b)Armitage

(c) Turner

Gah!

But seriously, Purefoy wins every time. God damn, that man is hot. I mean, have you seen him in Vanity Fair? Tight britches, carrying a riding crop, narrow sideburns emphasizing his cheekbones… RAWR!

###

BLURB:

Seeing dead people is all very well...unless one of them wants to kill you.

To Mallory Sharpe, vampires are a fact of life. They exist, walk the streets and for the most part mind their own business. As a second-year university student, she doesn't pay the undead much attention until she meets Jonathan Cutler. He has needs, and blood is only one. The other, Mallory is more than willing to help him with. After all, he has but one rule, to never spend more than one night with a woman. He won't get attached, or consciously put anyone's life in danger.

Another vampire, Cian Ambrose, isn't so troubled by conscience. Mallory's fair game, a weapon to taunt Jonathan with. In fact, it might be fun to make her his grail, or living blood donor, and Cian Ambrose doesn't take kindly to the word no. He hasn't heard it often in his one hundred and fifty years and it usually results in the other person ending up dead.

So with Mallory's tolerance for undead guys running very low, Jonathan has to re-gain her trust, stop Cian killing her, oh...and for God's sake, not fall in love.

###

AUTHOR BIO:

Scarlett Parrish lives in the U.K. in the small corner of her flat not currently overrun by books. She can often be found drooling over James Purefoy or searching for the perfect chocolate bar. She believes most fleshpeoples (except James) are evil and much prefers the characters in her head. On the occasions she ventures out, Scarlett is always accompanied by her BONER—Black Omnipresent Notebook of Erotic Romance. One never knows when inspiration will strike. Sometimes she’ll visit the cinema, alone but for the aforementioned characters. Another favourite pastime is listening to 30 Seconds to Mars and thinking about Shannon Leto’s tattoos. A chronic insomniac, she writes most of her dirty books in the middle of the night and loves to keep her e-reader stocked with erotic romance to occupy her down time.

###

LINKS:

Author blog: http://scarlettparrish.blogspot.com/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/scarlettparrish

Purchase link for A Little Death: http://www.loose-id.com/A-Little-Death.aspx

- Show quoted text -

It's really going to happen, isn't it?

2011-07-25T01:00:00.000-07:00

It's been a bit of a fraught weekend here. My writing had to take a back seat to mopping the excess water off the kitchen floor every hour. Now that the culprit has been identified it's time to dive back into the WIP, 'Mourning Jack'. Well....I'd like to dive back in but I'm at one of those "So what happens next?" stages. This always happens to me when I'm about to throw the main characters into the volcano again. I hate to ruin their happy moments but it has to be done.

So, while I'm dithering over what to do to Ade and Cal I've been pootling about online and the usual Monday morning 'New Releases' announcement from Total E-Bound distracted me. It distracted me because I realised that five weeks from today 'Stolen Summer' will be on that particular web page. Yup, my book wot I rote.

I'm nervous.

I'm thinking 'ohmygod what if it just sits there and only friends and family buy it? There's so many good m/m writers out there with dedicated followers....who's going to buy this book by someone no one's heard of before?

and

ohmygod, what if people buy it and think it stinks?

I'm going to be promoting the book over the next few weeks. I'm going to do my best not to be all 'in-your-face-buy-my-book'. I get really really annoyed when my Tweetstream is flooded by writers pushing their books and tweeting about nothing else, so I really won't do that. If you spot me doing it feel free to smack me.

So that's it for now. Just a Monday morning panic. Now I need to think, or write, or think about writing.

Blurbage

2011-06-07T23:35:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy week or two and I've been neglecting the blog...again.

I received the promotional art work for 'Stolen Summer' a week ago and apart from splashing it all over AW and my Facebook page, I've done nothing with it.

In a post-coffee moment of lucidity I thought I might as well show everyone the postcard. There are two reasons for this:

1. It's gorgeous.

2. It has the blurb for 'Stolen Summer' on it.

Given that the book is let loose on the world (well, the e-world) at the end of August, I may as well let people know what it's about.

So, without further babbling from me, here's the postcard:

BRAND NEW SHINY COVER!!!

2011-05-30T05:43:00.000-07:00

So... there I was checking my Yahoo email account and what do I see but an e-mail from the good people at Total E-Bound entitled 'Stolen Summer - Cover Art'

With shaking fingers I click on 'download' and here is the prize.

I absolutely love it. It's perfect. I want to marry it and have its babies.

Lyn Taylor is the artist who created this. I can't thank her enough.

Here's the full size:

So, time to wake this puppy up again.

2011-05-21T00:46:00.000-07:00

I've been woefully neglectful of this blog of late. Real life has a habit of getting in the way as some of my previous posts have shown. Now that things are happening on the writing front it's time to sweep out the cobwebs, evict the spiders and start posting again.

For starters, I have a book coming out.

Yup, it's absolutely true.

When I started writing seriously in July of 2008 I had visions of being snapped up by a agent, getting a nice little three book deal and writing my way out of my previous job. Of course that hasn't happened...yet.

It was always my intention to write historical fiction and I still do. But, in January of 2010 I responded to a challenge thread on the Absolute Write forum. The challenge was to write an erotic scene in a point of view that was the complete opposite to the one I always used, which in my case is third person close from a woman's point of view. I wrote the scene from a man's point of view in first person. It was a very naughty scene with an unfeasible amount of sex. I had great fun writing it and my fellow forum members thought that, by and large, it worked.

Evan and Colin, the two characters in the scene, wouldn't leave me alone. They kept tugging my sleeve and whispering in my ears. I had to tell their story. I cobbled together a plot on a flight from Phoenix to LA and I started the first chapter in a Santa Monica hotel room. Four weeks later I had a finished first draft. I remember joking to my Dad... "You watch, I bet this is the book that gets published."

I sent it to two wonderful betas, received some honest feedback, made some repairs and sent it away to another beta reader. More feedback ensued, more changes. Then Real Life got in the way, I lost my job and moved back to the UK. My writing brain was all over the place. You'd think that being unemployed for months would give me an ideal chance to write. I don't work like that. I need stability in my life to be able to write.

Once things were more settled I took it in my head to send Stolen Summer to an e-pub. I started with a big U.S. based one. I made my submission, received a request for the full manuscript, sent it and waited. A week or so later, the editor responded and said that, while the story had promise, there were some things that could be improved. If I revised it they would consider my resubmission. I made the changes, they all made sense and I had two more beta readers hold my hand through the process. Back went the Shiny New Improved manuscript and back came the rejection.

To be honest, it didn't hurt. I'd come close and in the end it had come down to an editor's personal preference. She didn't connect with the main character and that's fair enough - it happens. It made me realize that Stolen Summer is very 'English'. So I squared my shoulders and submitted it to Total E-Bound, a British publisher. A request for the full followed about an hour and a half after the editor emailed me to ask where the attached chapters and synopsis were (for some reason they fell off the original email somewhere in cyberspace). Four days later the editor emailed me back with an offer to buy Stolen Summer.

So, there you have it. I've signed the contract and I'm waiting for Rebecca, my editor, to get back to me with edits. I've filled in the forms and said what kind of cover I'd like and I've been given a release date:

29th August.

I'm still pinching myself. My filthy little thousand-word scene has turned into a proper novel with a great plot and two very real characters. I love Evan and Colin. I hope, when you read Stolen Summer, that you'll fall in love with them too.

So...watch this space. I'll keep y'all posted. If you want to know what the picture at the top of this post is all about you'll have to read the book. :D

Being Human - So long Mitchell. (contains spoilers)

2011-03-14T06:21:00.000-07:00

I've been very neglectful again, haven't I? Truth is I've been busy writing, revising, inventing dishes out of leftovers and juggling bills. Now, the novel has gone back to the e-publisher following revisions, the novella is in the knowing hands of beta readers and the new story is tugging at my sleeve. So, I really have no excuse. I need to kick the old blog back to life, yet again.

Where better to start than the recently concluded third series of 'Being Human'.

Oh, bloody hell, she's not rabbiting on about that again is she?

Why yes, yes I am.

I don't even know where to begin. This series has been a wild ride, showcasing all that I love about BH - clever writing, brilliant acting and a make-up department let loose with the fake blood. There was the usual deft mix of humor, tragedy, sorrow and drama, enhanced by some stellar guest appearances, including Robson Green at his most manly as the werewolf McNair, Michael Socha as his 'son' Tom, a delightfully dotty performance by Nicola Walker and the long anticipated reappearance of Jason Watkins wreaking havoc as Herrick.

The regular cast were at their very best, led by Aidan Turner portraying Mitchell as a vampire whose unraveling throughout the eight episodes was the main thread running through the series. The chemistry between Russell Tovey and Sinead Keenan was even stronger and they provided some memorable moments - my favorite being a scene at the police station when both Nina and George were moments away from transforming. Lenora Critchlow, as Annie, was finally brought to the fore a bit more in this series and I suspect more of Annie's powers will be revealed in Series 4.

Jason Watkins was remarkable, as always as he slowly transformed from the creepy 'Uncle Billy' in the attic to a dramatic and horrific return to Herrick in ruthless form, leaving a bloody trail of dead police officers in his wake. Watkins really gives the impression that he loves every moment and his performance in this series really stood out.

The final nod really has to go to Aidan Turner playing John Mitchell for the last time in this series. The die was cast with the massacre of the Box Tunnel 20 and the main thread that ran through all the episodes was the acceleration of Mitchell's unraveling, kick started by Lia's false prophecy in the first episode about a 'wolf-shaped bullet'. His final moments tear at the gut, a heartbreaking exchange, which ends with George plunging a stake into his best friend's heart out of love. I usually get burny eyes and sniffles when I watch something sad but this scene had me sobbing. It really was the right true end to Mitchell's story and kudos to all involved for making that bold leap in the dark.

So, yeah, that's my take on this season of Being Human. I know there's many a red-blooded female rending her clothes and wailing at Turner's departure and forthcoming dwarfdom and there's a few wondering how Season 4 will shake out without Mitchell but I have every faith that, this time next year, I'll be writing yet another blog singing Being Human's praises.

Thanks guys.

Possess!

2011-02-22T00:33:00.001-08:00

Today I have the honour of being able to share the cover of my friend, Gretchen McNeil's book with you. It's called Possess and it's released on the 23rd of August this year.

When it's released, I'll review it. Until then, I'll give you this link and you can read what Gretchen has to say about it all.

I'm so thrilled for Gretchen and, when you read the book, you'll be thrilled!

Possess

New Year, new life.

2011-01-01T01:14:00.000-08:00

I'll say it right here and right now, I loathe New Year stuff. I have no resolve therefore I don't make resolutions. I can't drink more than a couple of glasses of wine or champagne without getting a thumping headache. I can't stay up much past 10.30 most nights. So, I don't do New Year.

However, there's one thing I don't think anyone can avoid at this time of year and that's reflection. New Year's Day is one of those fixed points in time where I just can't help looking back and thinking...'this time last year..' and wondering 'where the hell will I be this time next year?'.

So, here I am, literally thousands of miles away from where I was this time last year. 2010 was a year of upheaval for me and my family. After 8 years in Arizona, the rug was snatched from under our feet and we had no choice but to walk away from everything we'd built up over those years. I'm not going to dwell on that because it's done and dusted. We can't do anything about it, we have to move on. Move on, we did. I'm writing this from the living room of a 250 year old cottage in one of the loveliest villages in Wiltshire. We love this house. No, it's not ours, we rent it but we love it nonetheless. It's a cozy refuge that we found at the end of a turbulent year.

So that's the rambling, blathery bit over with. I think I'm supposed to write what I intend to do this year, which I won't because I don't trust life to go in a straight line any more. Instead, I'm just going to post a list. To those of you who find your way to this blog, feel free to add a list of your own. At the very least, just sign in and say 'hello'. Statcounter is a Big Tease, I see that I've visitors from all over the place. Just make yourself known, satisfy my curiosity. I don't bite...much.

Anyway, *harummph* ... my list:

1. My family, here and in the US. You are my anchor and my solid ground. Thank you;
2. My friends, both real life and online. You have all been incredible and restored my faith in humanity. In no particular order: My Purgies, My Pervies, My Purple Place pals. Extra special love to: Louise, Scarlett, Becky, Gretchen, Amy, Lisa (California), Joyce, Lisa B, Lisa C, Cath, Alice, Kimmi, Cindy, Richard B., Jess, Deb, Deborah, Dys, Sirayn and others...you know who you are.
3. Four seasons a year.
4. Writing. It's what I do. I can't help it. I love it and I hope I never run out of words.
5. Music. It's fuel for my imagination.
6. Good television, at long last: Being Human; Downton Abbey; BBC News; Doctor Who.
7. Eye Candy. Richard Armitage; Aidan Turner; David Tennant. If any of you are available when my books are adapted for film/TV, let me know. :D

Right, I'll stop here otherwise you'll all find out what my favorite cheese, chocolate, cuisine, coffee, etc. are. You really don't need to know that.

So...here's to 2011, may it suck less than 2010. :D

Christmas songs - what's your favorite?

2010-12-16T07:23:00.000-08:00

One of the things I really missed when we were in the US was decent Top 40 Christmas songs. I can only listen to 'Rockin' round the Christmas tree' or some soppy Country song laden with maudlin sentimentality so many times without screaming. So, one of the good things about being back in the UK are the great songs on the radio this time of year. This old grump is very slowly getting into the Christmas mood, a mood knocked back only by the price I paid for a single sad string of lights for the tree, and the endless, sodding perfume adverts on television.

There are quite a few Christmas songs that cheer me up but the one that gets me singing loud enough to frighten the cats is 'Fairytale of New York' by The Pogues and the late, great Kirsty McColl. It has one of my favorite lines of all time. Those of you who know me will probably figure out what line that is. I ain't sayin'.

So, what's your favorite Top 40 Christmas song?

Being Human - Thanks for kicking this writer.

2010-12-13T03:05:00.001-08:00

By a route too tortuous to mention, I stumbled on 'Being Human' a few months ago. I'd heard about it on the 'net but, because I was living in the US at the time, I didn't really think I'd have a chance to watch it. My lap top can't handle video streaming without overheating and I didn't want to watch the programme in ten minute snippets on a certain video sharing web site. So I resigned myself to saving up the pennies to buying the DVDs. Then BBCAmerica decided to show the first series. I watched all 6 episodes of the first series in a one day marathon and I was hooked.

All right, I have to confess, the initial attraction was the delicious Aidan Turner. I mean, really, how can any female with a pulse resist those eyes, framed by those birds-wing eyebrows?

*sighs*

Where was I?

Oh, yes...the programme.

Harumph.

The premise of a werewolf, vampire and ghost sharing digs in an ordinary terraced house in Bristol is a clever one and a tough one to pull off with any kind of credibility but full marks to Toby Whithouse and the cast for making it work so splendidly. BH is a compelling combination of brilliant writing and top class acting. The story carries humor, pathos, tragedy, darkness and light with no effort at all. There are moments that made me cry, moments that had me giggling helplessly and moments where all I could do was stare, open-mouthed, at the screen. I can't remember the last time a television programme has done that to me. It's also rare for something I've watched to linger with me long after the closing credits have rolled.

Apart from the main characters, the others who come into their lives leave their mark. The supporting cast are equally memorable and there are incredible turns from Paul Rhys as the ancient vampire, Ivan, Donald Sumpter as Kemp and Adrian Lester's Herrick. The on-screen chemistry between Lester and Turner crackles and sizzles - the first season is worth watching for that partnership alone.

Being Human is that rarity, a bright gem hidden away on a satellite channel. it deserves far more exposure than it currently receives and the prospect of an American remake has me reaching for the bucket. It's a story that doesn't need schmaltz, touchy-feely introspection or santitizing. It packs enough emotional punch as it is.

So, why did I revive my cobwebby old blog to bore you all with my thoughts on a television series?

Because it is so bloody good that when I finish watching an episode I want to hide myself away and write the best stuff that I can. Inspiration has been hard to find for me these past few months. Being Human has kick started my writer's brain again and, for that, I am truly thankful.

Roll on Season Three.

Thoughts on being home

2010-08-08T13:20:00.000-07:00

Well...we've been back in the UK for nine days now, although the first day doesn't really count because I was only half-conscious after the Flight from Hell with the Flight Attendants from Hell. It was not a one-way trip we'd ever planned on taking, unfortunately, my former employers, easily baffled by bullshit, chose to let me go. Having read recent articles in the local paper, I suspect they let the wrong people go, but that's for another blog, when or if I ever get over my anger at such misguided stupidity among management and certain council members.

I'll just say this. If a certain supermarket on the south end of that town ever caught fire, I'd not pee on it to put it out.

That's enough of that.

I knew, when I returned to England, that I'd appreciate the little things I'd taken for granted before. So, indulge me while I list them:

1. The constantly changing sky - after years of relentless, cloudless blue skies, it's a real treat just to sit in the back garden and watch the clouds. Sometimes they're leaden, grey and heavy with rain. At other times, they're thin wisps of white horsetails stretched out across a silvery evening sky. On warm, muggy afternoons, the puffy cumulus idle across the sky, threatening to darken and bring rain. Now, the sky is something to gaze at and appreciate because, like snowflakes, no one day is ever the same.

2. Rain - There's nothing more pleasurable than standing outside in a gentle rain listening to the drops whisper on the leaves and the lawn. They're tiny, cool kisses on a skin parched by eight years of desert heat.

3. Grass - standing on the cool, soft grass in my bare feet is absolute bliss.

4. The countryside - We're in central Berkshire at the moment. The landscape is a mosaic of gently rolling fields, hemmed by ancient hedgerows and trees. The wheat fields are beginning to turn to a soft gold as the crops ripen after an unusually dry and warm summer. The horse chestnut trees are growing heavy with conkers, which will drop in the autumn revealing gleaming mahogany seeds bursting from spiky pods. Then, there's the country lanes transformed into shady green tunnels by the trees growing over them. The grass verges are alive with flowers, Queen Anne's lace and others.

5. Driving a car with a manual transmission - I had a bit of a rough introduction because the rental place is in the middle of a busy town and I had to remember, very quickly, how to navigate a roundabout, while struggling to recall how to drive with a gear shift, without stalling in the middle of said roundabout. Now that I've got the hang of it once more, it's great fun, even on the winding, narrow country lanes. I have to say, the price of petrol is a bit of a fright, so for all of my American friends reading this, three bucks a gallon really isn't anything to whine about so...don't.

6. Pie and chips - yeah, all right, so the local chippy is run by Greeks, but they've nailed the art of frying potatoes. The Daddie's sauce is just the perfect finishing touch.

7. BBC One. Oh how I missed thee. The highlight of the viewing week is 'Sherlock Holmes', a modern reworking of the old stories. Beautifully written, clever plots and a wonderfully quirky Sherlock. Then, there's the news...no carefully groomed, plastic newsreaders, just proper journalists doing their jobs and doing it well.

I could go on and on. I know it's not paradise and I know if it wasn't for the incredible kindness and generosity of friends, it could be really tough, but when all is said and done, it's good to be back.

Stay tuned for more!

A friend remembered

2010-07-21T21:27:00.000-07:00

Today I had to say goodbye to a very dear friend.

Almost eight years ago to the day, a colleague delivered a spectacularly beautiful, excitable, affectionate bundle of Australian mongreldom to our front door. Patches' previous owners had decided that they didn't have the time to care for her. We were looking for a dog for our son and there she was. I took one look at those anxious brown eyes and was lost.

She was a funny mix of a dog. Her broad forehead and stocky torso screamed Queensland Heeler, as did her need to protect everything and everyone in the household. That chunky body was perched precariously on delicate Australian Shepherd legs and her coloring was clearly a legacy from the Aussie Shepherd side. She was beautiful, with absurdly large, pointy ears and a kissable pink spot on her muzzle.

Patches also dispelled the myth that mongrels enjoy rude health. Her mixed parentage led to a damaged hind leg, probably from racing like a fool around the backyard. There was the time I was summoned home from work to take her to the vet when she was bitten by something and one side of her face swelled up so much she looked more like a pit-bull. Then, there was the arthritis in her neck and spine. A cruel ailment for such a lively dog. We were lucky there because she only ever had a couple of flare-ups. Our other dog, Otto, kept her young.

I had a host of nicknames for her. Fusspot was one of them, because of her fussy little anxious steps and her worried expression. Plus, if my husband and I ever argued she would push between us and bark at him, warning him to keep away from me. She loved to have her chest rubbed and would rest her paw on my arm to keep me from stopping while she sat there grinning.

Then, there's Otto, a lumbering, good-natured chocolate labrador who was twice her weight. Yet, when it came to rough-housing in the back yard, all Patches had to do to bring him down was dive for one of his legs, pull it out from underneath him and that was the match won. They adored each other. They slept side by side, they cleaned each other, fussed over each other but she was always the boss. Today, Otto is subdued and quiet. He saw his friend get in the car and saw me walk into the house with an empty collar and lead. He knows, somehow, that she's not coming home and his sad resignation breaks my heart.

I'm sitting here watching Otto sprawled on the floor without his fussy little shadow. My eyes are burning a little. The Valley Fever that he seems perfectly able to live with, made his friend cough, killed her appetite and left her lethargic. We're leaving in a few days, we can't take him with us and we're hoping to leave him with a good home. He's young, he has a chance. Patches wouldn't have had that chance. I hated the thought of her spending her last days in a crowded, noisy shelter among strangers. It wasn't right, it wasn't the way I wanted to leave my good friend. Luckily, our vet saw that letting Patches go quietly and peacefully in that special, quiet room in her surgery was the kindest thing to do.

Since I was the one who welcomed Patches into our home, since I was the one she protected and fussed over, it seemed only right that I be there when she left this world. I can barely see as I write this. I know, that somehow, somewhere, I'll see my little Fusspot again.

Love you, Fusspot.

I picked up a Stray.

2010-07-05T14:11:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've played with my blog. To be honest, I'm still not sure what I'm going to do with it in the long term. Then there's all the drama of orchestrating a trans-Atlantic relocation to factor in. Thanks for my former employers we're now up the Swanee with a teaspoon instead of a paddle and have to return to the UK.

I've been distracting myself with a lot of writing and a little reading between spurts of paperwork, booking things, etc. I bought my first e-book the other day. It was written by Ash Penn who is a very fine writer and an ace Beta-reader. Since she's patiently reading through the chapters of my WIP as I finish them I thought the least I could do was to review her latest release, 'Stray'.

Stray is available through Loose-ID and it's frightening how easy it is to buy a book from them. This may bode ill for my bank account in the future.

Anyway, let's stop the babble and talk about 'Stray'.

The protagonist, Terry, is a bit of a bastard when we first meet him. He's cynical, damaged, hopelessly lusting after his housemate, Marc, whose just brought a stray home. The stray, in this case is a pale, delicate waif called Dan. Terry takes an instant dislike to him, believing the lad to be Marc's latest squeeze and, worse, someone who's out to take advantage of Marc's generosity. Terry's way of putting Dan in his place is a rather perfunctory (but hot) shag over the kitchen table.

Alas, that first taste of forbidden fruit ends up not being enough for Terry. In spite of his, apparently, hostile feelings towards Dan, it doesn't stop Terry from availing himself of Dan's charms again.

Where this all leads to is well worth the read. Penn has a real gift for creating very believable, flawed characters, all moving around in very real settings. The story is emotionally engaging and you'll want to know how it all shakes out. There's plenty of misunderstandings, heartache and trouble on the way but that's real life for you. 'Stray' is well worth a read. It's certainly a book that'll be hanging around on my hard drive for a long time to be visited again. It's m/m erotica at its best. It's not just about the sex, it's about the story.

You can click on this link Stray to find out more. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

The Query

2010-06-04T06:43:00.000-07:00

Here's the new version. I started from scratch, taking as many comments on as possible!
In this version, Grace actually does stuff, so hopefully the dreaded Passive-bleh stuff is gone.

Thank you all for wading in!

Grace Webb trains racehorses for a living. It’s a career she’s happy to focus on when her fiancé, Christopher Beaumont, is deployed to Afghanistan. At a time when racing yards are losing horses because of the bad economy, a promising horse like Allonby could be the salvation of her father’s yard. Grace welcomes the chance to focus on Allonby in attempt to stop fretting about Christopher’s growing despondency and the frustration of lousy internet connections.

When Christopher is sent home with horrific leg wounds and, as a consequence, PTSD, Grace is determined to help him heal. As she fights Christopher’s nightmares, depression and rage, she also faces a battle to save Allonby’s career before it’s had a chance to blossom.

Christopher, feeling that he’s giving Grace more grief than love, leaves her. Grace couldn’t heal Christopher, but she can help Allonby and keep her father’s yard running. When Christopher returns, seeking forgiveness and a second chance, Grace gives him that chance. This time she won’t let Christopher surrender to his demons. On the eve of the biggest race of Allonby’s career, Grace faces down her worse nightmare – saving Christopher from himself.

..and it's goodbye

2010-05-25T21:31:00.000-07:00

for now.

I'm throwing in the towel on the blog for the time being.

I'm not one who can write about writing. There's plenty of very good blogs out there that cover the agony and ecstasy of writing much better than I can. I'm not going to vent about politics or publishing because...meh, there's plenty of those blogs out there too.

If I can think of anything to blog about, I'll be back but, for now, no more Teasers, no more drivel. I gotta get my writing done and get my books out there...some time, somehow.

Thanks to those of you who visited and commented. Those comments have been greatly appreciated. Thank you for stopping by and reading my bits and pieces.

So, I leave you with this. This my favorite song from my favorite Elton John album (Madman Across the Water).

Peace out.

Grace is a bit put out - Teaser Tuesday

2010-05-24T21:22:00.000-07:00

I'm back to working on 'Christopher's Medal' again, thanks to some excellent Beta feedback. As seems to be the problem with most of the stuff I've written, it lacked more conflict. I think it's a psychological thing, I feel guilty being mean to my characters.

So, I've bitten the proverbial bullet and thrown a few stones in the Path of True Love. This is from a shiny new chapter. Christopher takes Grace to a Very Posh Wedding at a Very Big House. Unfortunately, one of the guests is Christopher's odious ex-girlfriend, Pippa. She rubs Grace up the wrong way and Grace returns home with a bad taste in her mouth.

*********************************************************

Grace couldn’t shake Pippa’s words. She stared out of the window at the flat, south Lincolnshire landscape and stewed while Christopher drove on oblivious. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and understood why Pippa found it hard to let him drop. She just wished she could forget how much could keep them apart. Grace hated that Pippa had reminded her of it. Hated that she’d reminder her that she was nothing more than a glorified shit-flicker with working hands. The man driving the smart, sporty little car was out of her league. He belonged at dinner parties in big houses, drinking port and talking about rugby. He didn’t belong with her in her little cottage, with a take away for dinner and two filet steaks in the freezer.

“Are you all right?” Christopher turned onto the Fordham Road. They were nearly home.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t worth explaining. Grace knew it would sound stupid. “I think I’ll just be glad to get home.”

His hand was warm on her knee. “Me too. I’m sorry I inflicted that on you. It won’t happen again.”

Grace folded her arms across her chest and watched the road. “Good.”

Back at the yard, evening stables was in full swing. The yard echoed with the sound of slamming buckets and the anxious whicker of hungry horses. Grace hurried into the house and inhaled the familiar scent of home. The faint smoky scent of bacon lingered in the kitchen and, in the living room, the cinnamon perfume of candles. Grace picked up her bag and took it into the bedroom.

“Grace?” Christopher stood in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

She unfastened her dress and scrambled out of it. “I don’t want to talk about it. It even sounds stupid when I think about it.”

“About what?”

Grace sorted through a drawer for a tee-shirt. “Nothing, forget it. I’m fine.”

“Grace, darling, you are not fine. You’re sorting though that drawer as if you’re looking for something to kill.”

She pulled the shirt over her head and paused. “I would like to kill Pippa. How’s that for an answer.”

“She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“No., perhaps she doesn’t, but she doesn’t think I’m good enough for you and maybe she’s right. I’ve just spent the weekend in your world and I didn’t much care for it because it reminded me that I didn’t belong there.” She held out her hands, palm up. “These are my hands, they’re working hands. You said that once, remember? These hands are a constant bloody reminder that I don’t belong in your world. I’m a pretender.”

“Now you’re just being silly.” Christopher took a step towards her. His hands closed on her shoulders. “The only world that matters to me is the one you’re in. This house, this room, you…this is where I belong, this is where I want to be.”

Grace lifted her chin. “I want to believe that. I really do. But look at us, look at you. You’re an officer in some posh regiment. You visit my world but you don’t belong here.”

“Grace, stop talking like that. It’s bollocks.” There was an edge to his voice. His grip tightened when he drew her close, one hand cupped her chin. “Just…stop.” His mouth devoured hers, angry breaths drowned the silence. Christopher backed her to the wall while Grace braced her hands on his chest. She couldn’t find it in her to push him away, not when he pressed against her, all heat and fury. His tongue swept over hers, drawing her in, demanding her attention until she relented. Her breath fell into sync with his.

Teaser revised

2010-05-12T08:58:00.000-07:00

It pays to post bits of your work, folks.

I had some feedback from yesterday's Teaser, pointing out things that this oblivious writer didn't think of. Thanks to those of you who took the time to read and comment. Yinz rock.

So, for kicks and giggles, here's the revised version.

****************************

They ambushed us when we passed through a village. It was on the cards. The white flags of the Taliban fluttered from crumbling mud walls and people stared at us with blank, hostile eyes when the armored vehicles rumbled along the narrow, dusty lane. Captain Beaumont was quieter than usual, his mouth set in a grim line beneath three days’ growth of beard. I wanted to ask him what he thought was up but after a week in his company I’d already learned when to keep my journalist’s mouth shut.

After a few stints embedded with various regiments in numerous war zones, I’d developed a bit of a feel for trouble myself. I guess a kid would call it ‘Spidey sense’, I just called it my “Oh shit” sense. Neither me or Beaumont were wrong on this occasion.

They started firing at us from the rooftops, a couple of fuckwit snipers with nothing better to do than taking pot shots at British soldiers. Bullets pinged off the vehicles, spat in the dust and slammed into walls. The explosion came from the front of the convoy. Rolling waves of dust funneled through the alley. Our men returned fire in workmanlike silence but, beyond the uneven tattoo of battle one man’s screams cut through me like a fucking knife.

I tucked my shaking hands between my knees and prayed there wouldn’t be grenades. We were proverbial sitting ducks in armored vehicles of dubious construction. There was sod-all in the APC to hide under. We just had to sit it out and hope there were no IEDs. At moments like this, it was hard not to imagine my paper’s headline ‘Journalist Evan Harrison killed in ambush’. I wasn’t ready to die. I was thirty-two and had issues that needed to be resolved.

“Call in air support.” Beaumont barked into the radio. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up. I can’t send the fucking medic in while those fuckwits are firing at us.”

I didn’t hear the reply but, given Beaumont’s choice language I didn’t think the choppers would be too long. I felt lousy sitting there listening to that poor sod scream when no one could do a thing to help him until the snipers were nailed. Our lot were doing their best and a sharp, pained yelp made me think one of the snipers was hit but the other kept firing, erratic bursts into the shooting gallery. As the long, turbulent minutes passed, my fears of grenades and IEDs faded a bit. The insurgents would’ve used them before now, rather than waste bullets. Perhaps I wasn’t going to make the headlines in the wrong way…this time.

I watched Beaumont. He gnawed at his thumbnail while he peered through the slatted window. His dark eyes were a study in contained agony and fury. I don’t know that I could even being to understand or try and describe what he was feeling. I liked the man. I was also a sucker for brown eyes. Sometimes I wished…never mind.

The roar of the incoming choppers shattered the impasse.

“Thank Christ for that.” Beaumont spoke into his radio. “All right, send in the medic. We’re clear.” He took his helmet off, ran his hand through his spiky hair and sighed. “I hate this fucking job.”

A new start - Teaser Tuesday

2010-05-10T20:51:00.000-07:00

Revised version posted 5/12/10

So...um...poor Fin and Angharad, they're left hanging again.

I couldn't resist starting revisions on 'Stolen Summer' I started at the beginning. Taking Beta comments in hand, I needed to expand on Evan's experience in Afghanistan and lay the groundwork for stuff which happens a little later in the book.

So, here's the new start.

*******************************************

They ambushed us when we passed through a village. It was on the cards. The white flags of the Taliban fluttered from crumbling mud walls and people stared at us with blank, hostile eyes when the armored vehicles rumbled along the narrow, dusty lane. Captain Beaumont was quieter than usual, his mouth set in a grim line beneath three days’ growth of beard. I wanted to ask him what he thought was up but after a week in his company I’d already learned when to keep my journalist’s mouth shut.

“Call in air support.” Beaumont barked into the radio. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up. I can’t send the fucking medic in while those fuckwits are firing at us.”

The roar of the incoming choppers shattered the impasse.

“Yea.” There wasn’t much else to say. One of his men was hit and screaming like a stuck pig because we got jumped in a place where we shouldn’t be.

A Homecoming - Teaser Tuesday

2010-05-03T20:49:00.000-07:00

So, after a long drought, lots of staring at words and, finally sending what I'd written to the lovely Amy Bai for a little advice, I've finally returned to Fin and Angharad's story. I churned out 4,000 words on Sunday and spent some of Monday, tidying up and rearranging things. I'm still not sure where this is going. I have a rough idea and I'm not ready to abandon them, because I'm quite fond of Fin. :)

Anyway, this is part of the 4k marathon. Fin has been away, summoned to the north of the Kingdom of Dumfries to see his dying father. Angharad had more or less given up on him returning. She's about to get a happy surprise.

For the record: Minn sal is Old Norse for 'my soul', minn astir is 'my love' and minn kona 'my wife'. Angharad only knows the meaning of the latter.

*******************************************

For a moment, everything else disappeared, lost in silence. The fire was a dim flicker and Angharad looked at her husband, drenched and pale. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

“Minn sal.” His voice was a whisper.

“Husband.” She wasn’t sure the word left her mouth. She ran across the hall, a rustle of straw and a whisper of skirts and hurled herself into his open arms.

“Angharad, minn astir.” His grip was fierce. His heart pounded against her breast.

Angharad thought he’d break her in two. She took a deep breath and held onto him. “I missed you. I thought you were never coming home.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice shook. His breath was warm against her skin and his hands brushed her veil away. “I’ll never leave you again, minn kona.”

She wanted to cry. Instead she kissed his cold cheek. “See that you don’t.”

“Never.” He stepped back and Angharad returned his gaze.

“You need feeding,” she said, touching his face. “You’re too thin.” The dark crescents beneath his eyes were like bruises.

“I need you.” There was fire in his voice.

“You have me,” she replied.

Back to Summer - Teaser Tuesday

2010-04-27T07:35:00.000-07:00

Just for the heck of it. Here's another bit from 'Stolen Summer'.

Because I felt like it.

*****************************************************

“So, what’s the big emergency?” Ellen stood up and kissed me when I walked into the restaurant. I’d phoned her almost as soon as I returned to London and arranged to meet her on Monday for lunch.

“You’d better sit down and get yourself a drink.” I sank into the booth and waved for the waiter. I ordered a glass of red wine, Ellen asked for a vodka martini. I waited for the drinks and pretended to look at the menu. I didn’t feel much like eating.

“Jesus, Evan. It must be serious, your hands are shaking.”

They were. I wanted to throw up. “Yea, well, it is serious.”

The waiter returned with drinks. Ellen ordered lunch. I decided on a salad.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

I took a sip of my wine and then another. “Nothing’s wrong, not for me anyway. In fact, I couldn’t be happier. I’m just not sure anyone else is going to be too chuffed.”

“God, what have you done now?”

“I’ve fallen in love.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“It is as far as I’m concerned.”

“Please stop buggering me about. What’s the big deal?”

“It’s Colin.”

“What’s Colin?”

“That’s who I’m in love with. We’re in love. We’re a couple.” There, it was out. I said it. The ceiling didn’t cave in, no one screamed, no one fainted. The world kept turning.

“Colin,” Ellen repeated. “Best friend Colin, the good looking one with the brown eyes and the perpetual stubble. That Colin?”

“Yes, that Colin.”

“You’re in love…with Colin. You’re a couple.”

“Yes.”

She took a huge gulp of her martini, pausing only to remove the olive, which she set, with great care on her side plate. “Bloody hell. You don’t do things by halves do you?”

Deleted

2010-04-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

Deleted

The Viking returns - Teaser Tuesday

2010-04-12T19:34:00.000-07:00

So, following my poll which wasn't shaped like a poll, I took a break over the weekend, read a book and had a think.

The Shiny New Idea is on the back burner because someone else already has a published book which has the same kind of bad guys I wanted. Back to the drawing board and a hunt for a new villain. I already have some ideas but they can wait.

So, it's back to Angharad and Fin up in the wilds of 9th century Cumbria. This week, Fin has recovered, more or less, from his unfortunate encounter with a boar. It's Angharad who's about to get into a spot of bother.

Usual caveat applies, rough as a cat's tongue but less smelly (I hope).

**************************************

Angharad gathered up the reins and glanced back at the house. Fin stood in the doorway, The sun found copper in his hair. His quiet smile made something inside her turn over. For a moment, she considered forgetting about the breached wall but she knew she wouldn’t be long and the brief absence would make the rest of the day all the better. Angharad smiled back surprised how much she wanted him.

The stallion skittered sideways across the grass. Angharad sat deep in the saddle and nudged him forward. He tossed his head and snorted, sending silver clouds of vapour drifting into the bitterly cold air. She knew he was spoiling for a race and, if the ground hadn’t been hard, Angharad would’ve indulged him. Instead, she kept him at a bone-jarring walk and wished she’d taken the mare.

“He’s a bit of a handful this morning, mistress,” Elfled observed.

Angharad looked with envy at the shepherd, happy on the half-asleep pony. “He is.” She dropped her hands and pushed him forward, hoping he would lower his head. Instead, he squealed and bucked. Angharad tightened her hold on the reins, shaken by the buck. She smacked his hindquarters with the stick and held on when he bucked once more. His high spirit replaced by a squeal of temper. He spun around, his ears flat against the side of his head.

“Bastard.” Angharad struck him again. “Settle down.”

The stallion reared.

Angharad clung to the saddle and prayed he wouldn’t topple over. The coarse hair of his mane whipped across her face when he plunged back to earth, tucked his head between his forelegs and bucked. The saddle was no longer beneath her, the reins tore away from her cold hands as Angharad was flung sideways.

This is going to hurt.

Angharad wondered, before she slammed onto the ground, whether Fin would be angry because she didn’t take the mare.

What's a writer to do? Answers on a post card please.

2010-04-09T18:23:00.000-07:00

Allrighty then.

The Post-Beta revisions to Christopher's Medal are done and it's gone back out to Betas. So, nothing to do there until I hear back.

Stolen Summer (Contemporary Fiction) is languishing on the back burner, following Beta reads, and awaiting revision;
Viking story (Women's/historical)- The Man in the Reeds - is waiting to be continued.
Through the Mist (Women's/historical WW2) is also awaiting revision prior to going out to Betas
Empty Places (Women's dystopian), the NaNo novel, is languishing on the back burner, awaiting revisions.
Shiny new idea (Women's fiction - horse racing in UK again) still percolating.

So...what is a writer to do?

I haven't a frigging clue. If I knew how to add a poll, I would.

Anyone have any suggestions? I have to do something, I just don't know what.

All suggestions gratefully accepted.

Some crossover fun - Teaser Tuesday

2010-04-05T18:51:00.000-07:00

I'm working through the revisions to Christopher's Medal. I've been taking scenes out, adding new ones. I'm now 2k words ahead of the original draft. Nearly, nearly there before it goes back out to Betas.

Which, brings me to my next tropic, I've received feedback from the lovely Betas on Stolen Summer. All three Betas felt that I needed to add some more on the MC's time in Afghanistan. So, in my revisions to Christopher's Medal, I added this scene. You may recognise the other person. :)

Christopher has just finished a hasty, snatched call to Grace, via satellite phone.

*****************************************

Christopher handed the phone to the Sergeant and walked away, his boot heels kicking up dust in the sharp chill of morning. He strolled across the compound and thought of Grace. It wasn’t hard to imagine her lying in bed, half-asleep with her hair all over the place, all warm from the duvet. It was so good to hear her voice, to know that she loved him. The only problem was that he missed her even more.

“Everything all right?”

Christopher wheeled around and found the journalist who’d been embedded with the regiment, walking towards him. He stood and waited. It probably wasn’t a good idea to be alone knowing that he’d probably do something stupid like sit on the compound wall to mope about Grace and provide a nice target for the local sniper.

“Yea, I suppose so.” He liked Harrison. He didn’t seem to fit the stereotype of a pushy, nosey journalist. It helped that they’d been to the same public school, albeit, not at the same time but they shared the same memories of the place.

“It can’t be easy just having a few minutes on the phone like that.”

“No. It isn’t.” Christopher kicked at a small stone and sent it tumbling across the dirt. “It almost makes things worse.” He looked at the journalist. “Do you have a girlfriend? Don’t you miss her when you go away?”

Harrison shrugged. “I have a girlfriend but I can’t say I miss her all that much.”

Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? Doesn’t that tell you something?” He couldn’t imagine not missing Grace.

The journalist’s face was a study in indifference. “It tells me that we should really break up. I miss my best mate more. When I’m stuck in places like this, I wish I could sit down and drink a few beers with him.”

“How extraordinary. I suppose Grace is my best friend too. I’m not sure I’d be drinking beers with her if she were here, mind.”

Harrison laughed. “I suppose not.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out across the compound, suddenly still. When he spoke again, he sounded wistful and lost. “I’m not sure I would be either.” With that, he nodded and wandered away.

Christopher watched him go and then turned back towards his tent with a sigh.

Discord and disharmony - Teaser Tuesday

2010-03-30T06:33:00.000-07:00

Still working through revisions on 'Christopher's Medal'. I've taken out a few words and I've added some new scenes. After a day of wallowing in self-pity on Saturday and playing Mahjong Tiles (I never knew I had that on my lap top), I kicked myself in the arse and resumed work. I'm slowly getting there. I've got to go back to the beginning and read through and see what still needs to be fixed, glued on, stripped away and made pretty.

This is a new scene. It ain't pretty and there are some bad words.

*********************************************************

Grace leaned against the wall and held on to Christopher’s calf. “Come on, Chris, push.”

“Fuck off.”

She gritted her teeth and looked at him, lying on his back on the floor. His tee-shirt was blotched with perspiration and his eyes full of fury. Physio was a daily nightmare, wrestling with the twin monsters of Christopher’s anger and pain. “It isn’t going to get better if you don’t work at it.”

“I’m not one of your fucking horses, Grace.”

“More’s the pity. Just push will you?”

“You’re a hard bitch, do you know that?”

“You’re a soft bastard. A soft, self-pitying bastard and you’ll never be able to walk properly if you won’t work at it.”

Some days were better than others when it came to the physio. Sometimes, Christopher worked hard and in silence, his jaw set against the pain and it hurt Grace to see him fighting it. Other days were like a battle and it took everything she had not to lose her temper when he lashed out at her. This was one of them.

“I’ve had enough.” Christopher tried to pull his foot away.

Grace tightened her grip. “No you haven’t. Come on, Chris. Don’t give up.” She was tired, she wanted her afternoon nap, not this constant bloody battle.

“Will you just let go. Just fuck off.”

She bit her lip and stared past him, to the soft sunlight beyond the window. This wasn’t a day for fighting. “Fine.” She let go. “I’ve had enough. You can fucking deal with it on your own from now on.”

She had to be away from there. Grace knew if she stayed it would just get worse. It would end in arguments and long, dark silences. “I’m done. Sort yourself out and let me know when you’ve the bollocks to pull yourself together. I’m your fiancé not your bloody whipping boy.” She swept from the room and slammed the door.

Grace stood in the kitchen for a moment, shaking. The house was suddenly too small, too full of anger and it didn’t feel like her place any more. Christopher thumped about in the other room swearing and banging his fist against the wall.

“Sod this.” She shoved her feet into her shoes and stepped out into the early afternoon silence.

Teaser Tuesday - a new bit

2010-03-23T06:13:00.000-07:00

With 'Stolen Summer' out to Betas, I've plunged back into revisions on 'Christopher's Medal'. I had some brilliant advice from Beta readers, which I'm incorporating into the revisions. For starters, Grace isn't quite the cry-baby she was in the first version. The main changes come in the second part of the book. That's what I'm working on now.

This is a new scene. Christopher is in hospital in the UK and things aren't going quite the way Grace hoped. So far, he hasn't asked to see her. He's told her, through his parents, that he doesn't want her to visit.

******************************************

“He’s with the physio. Phone back in about an hour.”

Grace looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Yea, I’ll do that.” She wanted to ask how Christopher was, how he was doing but the nurse’s tone put paid to further questions. She thanked her and put the phone down. It seemed such a simple wish, to hear his voice, to hear him say that he loved her. Grace rubbed her eyes and stared at the fog. It cloaked the house in silence and a grey chill that crept into her bones. She had an hour to fill – a long, empty hour. No racing on television, the papers already read from front to back. She’d even done the crossword puzzle. The yard was quiet. Evening stables was hours away and her father had gone racing. Grace found her jacket and boots and walked out into the mist. Even the crows were silent, sulking in a ragged gathering in the black trees. Allonby nickered softly when she turned the corner into the yard. His star shone a brilliant white in the grey gloom. Grace sorted through the bits of paper, empty bute sachets and cellophane in her pockets until she found the mints. She held her hand out and Allonby lipped the mint from her palm, his muzzle warm velvet against the chill of the day.

“What do I do now, eh?” Grace rubbed his nose. “He won’t phone me back. Why doesn’t he want to speak to me?”

The colt nibbled at her hair. His breath was scented with hay.

“No, I didn’t think you’d have an answer.” She tugged his ear and headed to the tack room. If she mucked out now, there wouldn’t be so much to do at evening stables.

Grace walked back to the house after an hour, two rows of stables skipped out. She sank into a chair, picked up the phone and hit the ‘redial’ button.

A different nurse answered. Grace asked for Christopher.

“He’s just come back from Physio. Hold on, I’ll just fetch him for you. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Grace.” She waited, hearing the nurse set the phone down. “Captain Beaumont?” Her voice was distant but cheerful, speaking of an easy familiarity with Christopher. “There’s someone called Grace on the phone for you.”

Grace tightened her hand around the receiver and felt a sharp little stab in her gut. She was ‘someone called Grace’, someone who this nurse, who knew him, hadn’t heard of. She wished she hadn’t phoned. Grace pressed the phone to her ear, straining to hear Christopher’s voice. There was a distant murmur and then the brisk footsteps of the nurse.

“I’m sorry, miss. Captain Beaumont can’t come to the phone at the moment.

“Oh.” Grace’s fingers cramped. She wrestled with the sudden tightness in her throat. “All right. I see.” She didn’t. She couldn’t see at all. Her eyes burned. “Just tell him to phone me some time.”

“I will.”

Grace thought she heard sympathy in her voice. That made her hurt even more. “Thanks.” She hung up and fought an urge to crawl into bed and cry herself to sleep. The dull glint of the sapphire on her finger was a bitter reminder. For a moment, she was back on the beach, warm in Christopher’s arms. She wanted that Christopher back, the affectionate one, irresistible and charming. Grace wondered if she’d ever see that man again.

Teaser Tuesday - A confession

2010-03-15T19:00:00.000-07:00

That's it, 'A Stolen Summer' is done, the first draft. It weighs in at 71.5k words and will, doubtless, need some serious, serious revision.

So, with that in mind, this is the last scene you'll see from it. It's going for a long rest so I can tackle all those other things that need to be done, e.g. taxes, census forms, revisions of other novels, beta-reading, etc. etc. Ah well, keeps me out of trouble.

I'm leaving you with a pivotal scene. It's about 800 words but a lot of it is dialogue. I'm interested to know if it works.

Oh, yea it's slightly rude.

***********************************************************

It was raining when we left the restaurant. A soft, cold steady rain that had us hurrying along the pavements. It was good to reach the warmth of the flat. Colin turned on the fire while I closed the curtains. He made coffee, humming while he messed about with mugs, spoons and boiling kettles. He handed me a mug and sank onto the settee. His eyes were dark and distant. I had no idea where he’d gone to in his head. It was somewhere I couldn’t follow. Those thoughtful moments were rare with Colin. We drank our coffee in silence, broken only by the whisper of rain against the windows. After a while, he set the mug down on the table and looked at me.

“There’s something I need to say to you,” he said. His voice was low, uncertain. “I’ve been trying to think of how to say this for a long, long time. I think I need to say it now, before you go away.”

Something inside slipped a little. Something in his tone made my hands shake. “All right. I’m listening.”

He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “Fuck me, this is hard.”

“When has it ever been hard for you to say anything? Out with it, man.”

His hands trembled. He flattened them and rubbed them along the top of his thighs. “Believe me, Evan. This is hard. This is a deal-breaker.”

I had no fucking idea what he was getting at. I know that he scared me.

Colin took a deep breath and looked at me. “I love you, Evan.”

“I know that.” Relief washed through me. I was expecting something horrible, like he had a terminal illness. “We’ve known each other for ages. I love you too.”

He swallowed. “That’s not quite what I meant.”

Jesus H. Christ.

I stared at him. I saw him for the first time. I saw the pain of this secret he’d kept for God knows how long. “We’re not talking brotherly love, are we?”

“No.” His voice was scarcely a whisper. Uncertainty clouded his eyes.

I scrambled to find something to say, something that would make sense. I wondered why I wasn’t horrified. “Since when?”

“A long time.”

It explained so much - the restless flitting from partner to partner, the perpetual dissatisfaction with them. I looked back through them all, and understood. “Bloody hell.”

“Please don’t say you hate me.”

“No, I don’t hate you at all.” His pain gnawed at me. For a moment I felt like crying. Instead, I got up and walked to the window. I looked out at the rain and tried to find something to say. Inside, I was all messed up because I wasn’t repulsed by the confession. Far from it. That’s what scared me more than anything, that I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. It was like finding the last word in a crossword puzzle, the one that ties all the others together. You see the theme the puzzle writer was aiming for and it all makes perfect sense in spite of all the time you spent wondering what that last word was.

I thought back to the day we met, me soaking wet and summoned out of the shower by the doorbell, him standing there all hopeful in the doorway wanting to know if the room was still available. The way he looked at me meant nothing back then, now, it meant everything.

I leaned against the windowsill, with the chill of the night behind me and looked at Colin. His eyes were huge and sad.

“How long have you felt this way?”

“Remember the night in Woodhall Spa when we got rat-arsed at that wedding? The only place we could crash was that old fashioned, creepy hotel?”

I remembered. Waking in the middle of the night on an old soft mattress, Colin’s arm thrown over my waist, a semi-erection pressed against my arse. I remembered how ashamed I felt because I liked that feeling, wished it wasn’t just a drunken lazy lob. I remembered battling with my own erection, feeling like I was back at boarding school.

Yes, I remember.”

“I woke up wanting you. God, I wanted to fuck you so bad.”

I felt the memory tug at me. An ache grew in my groin and my jeans weren’t going to hide it for much longer. I didn’t even want to think about Katy, not when Colin sat on the settee with his hands in his hair. God, I wanted to feel those long pale fingers on me, curling around my cock.

“Yea, I wanted that too.” I sat down beside him. It felt right to put my hand on his thigh, to feel hard muscle beneath warm denim.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” His breath hitched when I slid my hand towards his crotch, to the bulge there. I kissed him, feeling his stubble, feeling his tongue sweep over mine. I curled my fingers in his hair, intoxicated by his aftershave, by his nearness, by him.

Never can say goodbye - letting go of your darlings

2010-03-13T10:36:00.000-08:00

I just tweeted about this and thought...hmmmmm I can blog about this, can't I?

The WIP that has occupied the empty bits of my brain for the past four weeks is drawing to a close. I'm excited that the end is nigh because I didn't get lost in a mid-book slump and because I have a wonderfully angsty, romantic ending in mind. I loves my emotional stuff, oh yes I do.

That's a good thing, right?

Well, yeah but *sniffs* I love Evan and Colin. I've loved shaping their lives for them, putting them through tough times, letting them enjoy themselves (rather rudely) when the occasion arose. Now, I have to give them an ending, let them get on with their lives without me telling everyone about it. I need to leave them alone.

I hate this bit, sometimes. Now I can understand why some writers want to keep their characters around, make up shiny new adventures for them. I can't do that with these two, it's just one story, theirs, and it's nearly done and dusted. Now my writer's feet are dragging because I don't want to let them go. I know I'll be visiting with them many times again as I tidy up what is bound to be a very messy first draft, but it's not the same, dammit. It's like going back to visit someone you once adored and finding out that they pick their nose, fart, leave the toilet seat up just like other mortals.

Still, I will pony up, fix the messes, make the story shine and try and find a home for it.

I'll miss them.

So, my question for writers is: Do you miss your darlings when you've typed 'The End'?

Tuesday Teaser - Introducing Colin

2010-03-08T19:26:00.000-08:00

So, the WIP charges ahead. No mid-book slump and at 53k, I think it's safe to say I'm over halfway through. I did have a minor falter. I wondered whether the emotional issues and effects of PTSD on a relationship would be enough to sustain the story. Perhaps in the hand of a top-class writer. I'm not there yet! So I've thrown a spanner into the works for later.

Anyway, this week, we meet Colin. He and Evan have been best friends for 10 years, since University. Colin is a lecturer at Oxford University and Evan has gone to visit because he's got business in Oxford anyway.

****************************************************

Colin’s car was already there when I pulled into the broad sweep of gravel in front of the house. I retrieved my bag from the back seat and glanced up at the upstairs windows. A curtain twitched open. He opened the window and waved. “Come on up, it’s open.”

His flat sprawled across the top floor of an Edwardian house. I always envied him for it.

“Hello, mate.” He stood in the hallway. A bottle of beer in each hand. “I bet you could use this.”

“You got that right.” I dropped my bag, took the beer and then engaged in the traditional, manly one-armed hug. The bottle was cold in my hand.

The huge living room was filled with light from three sash windows. Colin sank onto the settee. I took the chair. I tried to remember the last time I saw him. It was before Michelle, probably after Janie. He looked the same as he had ten years before; lean, pale with disheveled half-curls and a habitual nine-o-clock shadow. It wasn’t hard to see why his conquests were so easy.

“You’re looking well,” he said.

“Thanks.” I took a gulp of beer and sank into the cushions.

Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the bare trees, fell across the polished floorboards and faded Turkish rugs. As usual, there were books everywhere, spilling from the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, stacked high on the dining table, scattered across the coffee table. One of the two bedrooms was entirely devoted to books. Hapless guests, like me, slept on the settee. Special guests, of course, shared his bed. There were more books in his bedroom, stacked on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, in boxes under the bed and on the top shelf of the wardrobe.

“Fancy Italian tonight?”

“That sounds good to me.” Anything would’ve done. It was just good to get away from London and all the hassle that went with it.

“So, you’re still going to Pakistan?”

“Yup.”

He shook his head, his eyes suddenly grave. That took me by surprise. It was a rare moment when I made Colin unhappy. We weren’t like that. “I hope to fuck you know what you’re doing.”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“You’re a feckless git sometimes, Harrison. You know that, don’t you?”

Damn him. He actually made me feel guilty. I looked down at my beer. “Yes. I suppose I can be. But you weren’t in Afghanistan, mate. You didn’t see the mess, you didn’t see a Guardsman with half his face blown off. I want to find out more about the bastards who did that. If I can expose those fuckers and help bring them to justice then I don’t think that’s so feckless.”

“What if you get kidnapped? It happens you know. I looked at the Foreign Office web site, they don’t want anyone going there.”

“I know all that. I’ll have armed bodyguards.”

“Like that’s going to make a difference. You need a small army to keep you safe.” He slammed the empty bottle on the coffee table. “How about those of us you’re leaving behind? While you’re off playing Big Time Heroic Journalist, we’ll be worrying ourselves sick. Remember Daniel Pearl?”

“I remember him well enough.” Pearl’s fate had nagged at me since I decided to go to Pakistan. It was another very sound reason not to become attached to someone before I left. As Colin had so bluntly put it, I’d hurt enough people if anything happened to me.

“I don’t want that happening to you.” He walked into the kitchen and returned with two more beers.

“I promise I won’t be careless.”

He smiled then, a sudden, brilliant smile. The old mischief returned to his eyes. "Good, see that you’re not.”

Teaser Tuesday - More from Evan.

2010-03-01T20:24:00.001-08:00

So, here I am, 40k words into my latest obsession. I haven't written much tonight. I think I'm still whacked after yesterday's 9k marathon. It never feels tiring at the time, but it caught up with me today.

Anyway, here's another piece from what I've decided to call "A Stolen Summer". Evan has just returned from Afghanistan and is phoning his girlfriend, Katy. I think the conversation pretty much sums up the state of their relationship.

**************************************

I couldn’t be arsed to break up with Katy, not at the moment. It was too much effort. It seemed easier just to let things bump along for a little while longer. I punched in her number and waited, staring at the photograph of the two of us on the shelf.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

She was smiling in the picture. It had been taken while we were on holiday in Paris. It was a cold day, I had my arm around her waist. Her pale blonde hair blew in fine wisps across her face. It was a long time ago, back when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

“You’re back.” There was a false brightness to her voice.

“Yup.” I wondered whether I should ask her to dinner or something. Instead, I waited.

“So.” A gusty little sigh. “Are you doing anything tonight?” She only asked the question because it was expected of her. It was the same every bloody time.

“I didn’t have anything planned. Fancy going out for a meal?” Translation: Fancy having something to eat and going back to your place for a shag? It had been a while. My penis twitched a little. I didn’t really want Katy, but it clearly did. I was too tired to argue.

“Yea, okay. Where?”

I glanced up at the ceiling and went through my list of venues. “How about Le Petit Filet?” It was only a few streets away from hers. We could meet there, eat, back to her place, shag. Pretend we still liked each other. The usual.

“That’s fine. Eight o’clock?”

“I’ll see you there.”

“Brilliant. You can tell me all about your trip.” She made it sound like I was going to tell her about a holiday. I doubted she really wanted to hear the nitty gritty. Katy’s idea of current events revolved around the gossip columns in the papers. I wondered how we’d limped along for three years.

“If you like.” I was already thinking beyond the phone call. I was thinking about lunch and the bottle of beer in the fridge. “I’ll see you at eight.” I tried to smile.

“Bye.” The line went dead. I put the phone down and headed for the kitchen.

Friday and I'm still obsessed

2010-02-26T09:36:00.001-08:00

I've been writing seriously now for about two and a half years. I've churned out several books. Book one is trunked, awaiting major surgery; book two is currently going through the query-go-round. Book three is halfway through revisions, books four and five are awaiting revisions.

As I wrote earlier, I have a shiny new idea, which has steered me away from the revisions. Those revisions wait like a pile of nasty, slimy things but I don't care.

This shiny new idea has possessed me like no other story I've ever written. I'm not sure why. I know that I've fallen completely in love with Evan and Colin. I know that I'm enjoying writing from Evan's POV, in first person (new territory for me). I know that the story has the potential to be very powerful, if I get my research right and get across the fear and uncertainty that poor Evan and Colin are about to endure. I know that, when I'm not writing, I'm thinking constantly about it. Working out the next scene, seeing it my mind's eye. It's an obsession like no other.

I'm churning out words at a NaNo pace - on average, 2k a night. At this rate, I should be done with the first draft in another two or three weeks. Of course, there will be months of revisions and polishing but I have high hopes for this one.

So, my question for other writers is: Does every new story you write take possession of your every waking moment, or is it some stories more than others?

Early Teaser - Boom Boom

2010-02-22T19:12:00.000-08:00

So, here it is. My own personal leap in the dark. From third person close POV to first person...oh, and the MC is male.

I'm completely absorbed by this story. I can't stop thinking about it, when I'm not writing it. I'm also anxious to know if I can carry this off. To that end, I've posted this early Teaser, because I really am going to be a shameless comment whore with this one. This is the first 250 words, those golden, attention-grabbing moments.

The usual caveat applies. It's rough and I need feedback on whether it works for you or not.

Dig in.

******************************************************************

When the IED went off, none of us expected it. I guess that’s why those Taliban bastards use the buggers. They love their little surprises. This one certainly worked. For a split second everyone in the convoy stopped and gawped at the blossoming cloud of dust and smoke. I grabbed my camera and then stopped. It was bloody hard to maintain good old-fashioned journalistic neutrality when the blast hurled Captain Beaumont through the air.

Holy crap, I thought that only happened in films.

Men shouted at each other up and down the convoy. While the dust and smoke from the explosion faded, the air was now alive with the wasps’ hiss of bullets, pinging against the lorries, spitting in the dust. Guardsman Walker grabbed my arm and wrenched me to the ground.

“For fucks’ sake, man, get the fuck out of here.”

No arguments from me.

I did my best impression of a combat crawl, across the dirt and small stones, under the lorry to the ditch on the other side of the road. I didn’t even swear when scraps of sharp rock bit into my skin. I just wanted to be away from the worst of the gunfire. At least the ground there was open, no place for the gutless little bastards to hide. Nope, they were entrenched on other side, hunkered down behind a crumbling mud wall.

Lucky them.

Venturing into strange places

2010-02-17T06:02:00.000-08:00

So, as I mentioned in this blog yesterday, I had a shiny new idea, which great out of a writing exercise I did. Usually, I write close third from a woman MC's POV. The exercise was written in first person from a man's POV... well out of my comfort zone. Well, I thought it would be out of my zone.

The exercise was just under a thousand words, an erotic scene. By the time I'd finished it, fixed it, read it, I'd fallen in love with Evan and Colin. While I was plugging away at revisions on 'Christopher's Medal', they kept nagging at me, wanting to find a permanent place on my lap top. Just for fun I picked up from where that scene ended and ended up with a four-thousand word chapter. For the record, it's rather naughty and I'll have to tone it down a fair bit!

I went to work yesterday, spent a lot of time staring out of the office window and mulling things over. I wanted to find a story for Evan and Colin and, eventually, I did. So, here we go again, a shiny new idea, research and poor Fin and Angharad will have to take a back seat for a while. I have a feeling this may be one of those stories that gets pounded out in a handful of weeks.

While I'm posting about this, I want to give thanks to AW Purgies. I posted a question yesterday about whether it's possible that two seemingly straight men could fall in love with each other. I received some wonderful input and, as a result, I know I can make this work.

So, while I'm sitting on a plane today, I'll be scribbling down some notes. If I get back from LA with my liver and brain intact, I'll be diving right in.

Gotta love these shiny new ideas.

Teaser Tuesday - A spot of bother

2010-02-16T05:55:00.000-08:00

Here's another teaser from 'The Man in the Reeds'.
This might be it for a little while. I'm knee-deep in revisions to 'Christopher's Medal' and I want to get that 'out there' in Queryland soon. Plus, I wrote a little scene for an exercise and now those characters are nagging me to tell their story. Should be interesting, given that the scene was written in first person POV, a male character. Go figure.

The fun never stops.

Tomorrow, I'm LA-bound for a couple of days. I suspect my liver may never be the same.

***************************************************************************

Something inside her lifted at the sound of returning horses. She walked to the door to greet her husband and paused. Something wasn’t right. Elfled rode the pony and led Fin’s mare. It was hard to see in the dusk, the last of the daylight slid over the fence, casting long shadows across the yard. Coppery light shone on the mare’s black coat and glistened on the blood there. Angharad tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Fin should’ve been sitting upright in the saddle. Instead, he was draped, face down across it, his hands dangled limply below the mare’s bloodied stomach. Everything inside her, slid to her feet, weighing her to the ground. She bit her knuckle and stared at the mess. The world was suddenly a lot darker than the twilight.

“What happened?” She didn’t recognize her own voice. “Dear God, Elfled, what happened?”

The shepherd pulled the pony to a halt. Angharad forced herself forward, afraid of what she would find.

“He’s still alive, mistress. Don’t worry. It was the boar. The master’s horse slipped in the mud and he came off, just when the boar charged him. He couldn’t get out of the way quick enough.” Elfled’s face was streaked with mud and blood. “He was hurt bad, mind.”

Angharad brushed Fin’s hair from his cheek and felt his skin. In spite of the chill of the evening, it was warm. His breath was faint against her hand. “Help me get him to our room.” She drew herself together, gathering up all the scattered thoughts and fears. “Hilde, I need water and bandages. Quick as you can.” She helped Elfled ease Fin from the mare’s back and they carried him across the hall to the chamber.

The new stone wall made the chamber warmer and darker. Hilde lit lamps and placed them around the room while Angharad took Fin’s knife and cut his bloodied clothes away. She needed to see where he was hurt but dreaded seeing the damage. Hilde returned with hot water and linen. Angharad eased the torn clothes off and bit her lip. She took a deep breath and tried to assess the damage with a calm head. Her hand shook when she leaned close to look at the wound on his side, almost a mirror image to the wound Athelwulf had given him. It wasn’t as deep, but the edges were ragged and raw. Blood oozed from it, thick and black in the uncertain light. The wound on his thigh was deeper, surrounded by dried blood. Below it, another smaller wound.

“What a mess.” Angharad wanted to weep. She looked at Fin’s face, pale and still beneath the mud.

“Will he be all right, mistress?” Hilde hovered behind her, holding the basin of water.

“I hope so.” She couldn’t imagine him not getting better. She needed him. Angharad cleaned the wounds and poulticed them all, scared that Fin hadn’t stirred. When she bandaged the wounds she took his hand and sat beside him on the bed. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest told her that he was all right.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” she whispered, choking back tears. “Not now. Please, Fin, stay with me.” Angharad stroked his face.

Teaser Tuesday - The Newlyweds receive a caller

2010-02-08T20:26:00.000-08:00

Here's a little more of Angharad and Fin, now married. I've been busy tweaking other things and I really need to get back to this.

Rough and ready.

************************************************************************

“You’ll have to keep still.” Angharad clutched the scissors. It had been a long time since she’d cut anyone’s hair. Fin had insisted that she cut his.

“I’m trying.” He sat on a stool in the middle of the hall, beside the fire. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Angharad laughed. “Yes, I know. I sheared sheep this summer.”

“That’s a great comfort.”

“Be quiet.” She combed Fin’s hair to his shoulders and started cutting. Reddish brown hair fluttered to the floor. She bit her lips and continued. It was one thing she hated doing for Berthulf who would try and grope her while she worked. It took all of her self control not to stab him with the scissors.

“You’re doing well, you haven’t cut me yet.”

“You haven’t seen your hair.” Another lock dropped to her feet. After a week of marriage, Angharad felt easier in Fin’s company. It helped that he left her alone at night. He always kissed her forehead before he extinguished the lamp and rolled over to sleep. The nightly gesture made her feel safe and protected and comfortable in his presence during the day.

He laughed softly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s nearly winter. No one outside this hall will see what a mess you’ve made of it.”

“Do you have so little faith, husband?”

“By your own admission, you’ve done nothing but shear sheep these past few years.”

Another snip. “Without drawing blood.” Angharad kept cutting, watching his hair fall on the floor. When she finished she brushed the stray hair from his shoulders. “There. It’s done and it’s neat, too.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” He caught her hand and kissed it. “Thank you.” His eyes were bright.

Angharad froze at the scrape of the gate and the splash of hooves through the mud. Fin’s fingers threaded through hers when he stood up. Angharad’s heart hammered against her chest. She edged close to Fin and watched Athelwulf walk into the hall. She saw her husband’s hand stray to the hilt of his sword.

“Don’t,” she hissed, squeezing his hand. “Remember, you have what he wanted.”

“Mistress.” Athelwulf’s progress into the hall came to an abrupt halt. His pale eyes were round glass beads.

“Athelwulf.” Angharad raised her chin a notch. “This is a surprise.”

“Lady, have you taken leave of your senses?” His cheeks were an angry, mottled red.

“This is my husband, Fin Olaffson.”

“He’s…he’s…a…a..”

“Dane?” Fin asked.

“The man you left for dead.” Angharad leaned against Fin when his arm slid around her waist.

Athelwulf’s jaw worked soundlessly.

“I think you should leave,” Angharad said. “You don’t look very well.”

“How…?”

“I found him when you left him for dead.”

“Angharad took me in and looked after me. She knows what really happened.” Fin’s voice was cold.

Angharad wanted him gone. She hated that he stood in her house, enraged because she’d married Fin. “You should leave. You aren’t welcome here. You’ve never been welcome here.”

“Oh, I’m leaving. Do you think I want to stay in this hovel with a British whore and her Danish husband?” Athelwulf spat. “You will regret this, lady. You’ll both regret it.”

“We’ll see about that.” Fin’s arm tightened around her.

“You’ve made a big mistake, Angharad. This bastard will bleed you dry. He’ll destroy you.”

“And Berthulf didn’t?” Angharad curled her hands into fists. “Didn’t you want the same thing of me?”

“I would’ve cared for you.”

“The way her husband ‘cared’ for her?” A muscle twitched in Fin’s cheek. “Get out of here. You insult my wife, you insult me. If it wasn’t for my wife’s wish not to have blood spilled in this house, I’d run you through with my sword.”

“May you both burn in hell.” Athelwulf spun on his heels and stormed out of the hall.

“Are you all right?” Fin asked.

Angharad trembled against him, fighting anger and old fears. “I’ll be fine.” She flinched when Athelwulf’s pony squealed. Hooves scrabbled for purchase in the mud, clumps slammed against the side of the house. She felt sorry for the animal.

“He’s not done with us, is he?”

“No.” Angharad mourned the loss of the easy domesticity of the morning. She shivered when Fin’s arm fell away. He returned to the fireplace, sank onto the stool and stared into the flames. Angharad found a brush and swept his hair up and wondered how to retrieve all that had been good about the day.

A visit. - Teaser Tuesday

2010-02-02T05:24:00.000-08:00

Poor Fin and Angharad, they're in limbo at the moment because I've been in AW's Query Letter Hell, trying to revive interest in Kestrel. Between drafting carefully worded revisions of The Letter, I started going back through the manuscript and, to my horror, have found a host of dodgy dialogue tags and far too many 'as'. So I'm going back through. I managed 60 pages last night and stopped only when my eyes started bleeding.

Still, I couldn't not post a Teaser, so here's another one from 'The Man in the Reeds' (Working title only)

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“Mistress, can you come here, please?”

Angharad, seeking refuge from the rainy September day in her chamber, glanced up from her sewing. “What’s wrong now?”

“Just come.”

“If I must.” She set the sewing down with a sigh. She didn’t want to leave her refuge. It was a foul day. The west wind hurled the rain against the house and the hall was alive with draughts, which sent the smoke from the fire all over the place.

Angharad followed Hilde to the door. Rain drummed on the soil, turning it to a sea of mud. A cart, piled high and covered with hides, rolled through the gate, pulled by an ox. A man on a horse stood beside it and dozen sheep milled absently around the horse’s legs. Angharad wasn’t looking at the cart, the horse or the sheep, she looked at the man, his hair plastered to his skin by the relentless rain.

“Fin?”

She watched him slide from the saddle. One of the carls ran out and took the horse, sending sheep scattering indignantly in his wake.

“Hilde, put some water on to boil, and put the basin in my chamber.”

“Yes mistress/”

Angharad waited in the doorway and watched Fin walk across the yard. His boots squelched through the mud and his clothes were soaked. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to nurse him through another fever.

“This is unexpected,” she said when he stepped into the hall.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound like he meant it.

She glanced past him at the laden cart and the sheep. “You had best come in out of the rain. I’ll get the carls to put your animals and cart away.”

“Thank you.”

“You need to get out of those wet clothes. I’ll find something for you, somewhere.”

“There’s no need. My clothes are in a chest on that cart.”

“I’ll have one of the carls bring it in.”

“Lady, can we talk in private?” He shivered. His hair was plastered to his face, his cheekbones stood out in stark relief.

“Come to my chamber. Hilde is fetching hot water for you. Would you like a drink?”

“Something hot, please.”

Angharad led him to the chamber. She sorted through the chest while he struggled out of his clothes.

“Here, take this.” She averted her gaze and handed him a woolen blanket. “This will keep you warm until we find your clothes.”

Hilde hurried in with a basin of steaming water.

“Hilde, could you bring our guest a hot drink?”

“Yes, mistress.” There were questions all over her face.

Fin took the cloth and soaked it in the water. Angharad watched him bathe his face and neck. He closed his eyes and inhaled the steam.

Angharad sat in her chair and waited. The rain hammered against the walls and on the roof. When he had finished, Fin wrung out the cloth and set it on the edge of the basin. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and looked at her. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

“I have a proposal for you,” he said.

“Yes.” Her mind was a tangle of questions.

“Is that bastard still bothering you?”

She thought of Athelwulf’s last visit. “Not at the moment. His last visit was less than cordial.” She looked up at the ceiling. “He tried…” Angharad inhaled and, then, exhaled slowly. “I kneed him in the groin and threatened him with a knife. He hasn’t been back since.”

“Bastard.” He spat. “Then, perhaps my proposal will meet with your consent.”

“I can’t consent if I don’t know what you want.”

“Marry me.”

Angharad isn't to be messed with.

2010-01-25T20:41:00.000-08:00

Another Teaser from the WIP which passed the 25k mark this weekend.

Fin has gone and Angharad gets a visit from the odious Althelwulf. Berthulf is her late husband and he gets a mention here. The usual caveat, first draft roughness.

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“Ah, there you are. Hilde said I might find you here.”

Angharad spun around, scattering chickens. “Sir, you should not creep up on me like that. It’s rude.” The last place she wanted to be with Athelwulf was in the hen house, especially when he stood between her and the door. “What do you want?” Angharad was tired of being polite to him.

“I was just passing and I thought I’d see how you were getting on with that horse.”

“Well enough.” She glanced towards the door and wondered if she could make it past him to the door

He edged towards her. “Have you changed your mind yet, Angharad? It’ll soon be autumn and the nights will be drawing in and getting cold.” Athelwulf licked his lips.

“Changed my mind about what?” she asked.

“Marrying me.”

“No.” Angharad took a step back.

Athelwulf shook his head. “A shame, really, a beautiful woman like you, going to waste.”

“I think you should leave.” She hid her shaking hands in her skirt. Angharad recognized that look. She had seen it on Berthulf’s face too many times – a hot stare, wet lips parted in anticipation of a kiss. “Please, just go. I’m busy..”

“If you married me, you would never have to lift a finger.”

No, because you wouldn’t let me leave the bedchamber. “I like being busy.”

“A well-bred woman like you shouldn’t have to get her hands dirty.” Athelwulf took another step towards her.

“Please go.” Before she could move, Athelwulf lunged at her and pinned her against the wall. His breath reeked of sour beer.

“A woman like you shouldn’t have to leave the bedchamber. It would a shame to let such beauty remain untouched.”

“Get off me.” Angharad took a deep breath. He was close enough that his erection pressed against her stomach.

His breathing was hoarse and ragged. “Say you’ll marry me.”

“Never.” She spat in his face and kneed him in the groin.

“Bitch!.” He dropped to the floor clutching his balls.

“Get out.” She drew her knife and knelt, holding the blade to his throat. “Get out and never come back here again. Berthulf is long dead. You have no claim on me.”

He groaned and rolled over onto his hands and knees. “He told me to look after you,” he gasped.

“He told you to maul me, take me, rape me, just like he did to me.” Angharad kicked his large backside. “Isn’t that what he promised you?”

“You’re insane.” Athelwulf scrabbled to his feet with a speed that defied his bulk. “No wonder he beat you. You bloody need a thrashing.”

Angharad advanced towards him, holding the knife in front of her. “The only one who’s going to get thrashed around here is you if you don’t leave.” She fought to keep the rage from her voice. Her hand cramped around the hilt of the knife. “Get out.”

“All right, all right.” He backed towards the door. “I’m going.” Angry red blotches mottled his cheeks. “You’ll regret this. You’ll wish you’d said yes when the Danes return in the spring and burn this god-forsaken place to the ground.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He almost fell out into the yard. “Don’t come crying to me when it happens, lady.”

“I’d rather cut my own throat than seek aid from you. Get out.” Angharad wanted to run at him with the knife. Instead, she leaned in the doorway of the hen house and watched Althelred hurry towards his horse. He scrambled into the saddle, hauled on the reins and kicked the horse into a trot. It squealed with anger and earned a smack around the ears for its pains before it sprang through the gate.

Angharad slumped against the door frame and let the knife drop to the ground. It was a long time before she could bring herself to move.

Some more Viking stuff - Teaser Tuesday

2010-01-18T20:19:00.000-08:00

Today I passed 20k on the WIP. It's getting a little late, I'm getting tired and it's back to work tomorrow, so progress will slow. Life was rough back then so I'm finding it easy to torment my characters.

This is from early on in the story. Fin, the 'dane' Angharad found in the reeds, is recovering in her house. The man whose farmstead was allegedly raided by the Danes, is paying Angharad a visit. It seems a little long but there's a fair bit of dialogue.

Usual caveat - it's a first draft.

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The hounds sprang to their feet in a sudden frenzy of barking. Athelwulf, tugging on the mouth of a grey pony, trotted into the yard. Angharad bit back a curse and set her spinning down. At the very least, tradition dictated that she had to offer hospitality.

“Good afternoon, Mistress.” He hauled the sweating pony to a halt and slid from the saddle. One of the house carls led the pony away. “I was just out for a ride and thought I’d stop by and see how you are.”

“I was enjoying the peace.” Angharad fought to keep the annoyance from her voice.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed it.”

Liar. “Would you care for something to drink?”

“Is there any of Hilde’s delicious beer?”

“Yes, she just opened a new barrel. Why don’t you sit here and enjoy the sunshine and I’ll fetch you some.” She nudged her way through the milling hounds before Althelwulf had a chance to say he’d rather sit in the hall.

When she returned, he was sitting on the bench, rubbing the ear of one of the hounds. He smiled when she handed him the beer. Reluctantly, she sat on the bench beside him, knowing that standing with her arms folded across her chest was not the most welcoming of attitudes. She hoped that Fin was still asleep.

“How are you, mistress?”

“I’m fine. I have a lot of spinning to do, it keeps me busy.”

“If you married me, I could think of many more pleasurable ways of keeping you busy.” His pale green gaze was avid.

Angharad smiled to hide her revulsion. “I am happy with my lot, sir.”

“You are very stubborn.” Athelwulf sipped his beer.

“I admit to being set in my ways. I’ve been a widow for three years now and I like my peace.” Angharad looked at his sweaty red face and the straggling yellowing mustache. She wanted to tell him that she would rather die by her own hand than marry him. The thought of his pudgy, damp hands on her skin made her want to scream.

“Then you are determined to remain unwed?”

“For the moment, yes.” It seemed prudent not to anger him by closing off all hope. As long as she kept him dangling he was less likely to cause trouble.

“I suppose I’ll have to be patient.” Athelwulf sighed into his beer.

Angharad sought another subject. “Have you recovered from the raid?”

He shrugged. “Yes. Luckily, they didn’t take anything. Hopefully, they won’t return.”

“I hope not.” She shuddered, wishing the raiders had been more successful.

“Given the thrashing I gave them, I doubt they’ll be back.”

Angharad looked down at her hands and was relieved when Hilde appeared in the doorway. “Mistress, can I have a moment please?”

“Certainly.” She scrambled to her feet. “Will you excuse me a moment?” The housekeeper’s anxious eyes made her uneasy.

“Of course. I’ll just sit here and enjoy this excellent beer.”

Angharad followed Hilde across the hall. “What is it?”

“Your guest, mistress. He’s woke in a right state. He’s heard Athelwulf’s voice and wants his sword.”

“Go and fetch Athelwulf some more beer. I’ll see to him.” She curled her hands into cramped knots and took a deep breath. The last thing she needed was a man insane with fever running amok in the hall.

When she entered her chamber, the Dane had struggled to his feet. He leaned against the wall, breathing quickly.

“What on earth are you doing?” Angharad hissed. “Are you mad?”

“He’s out there, isn’t he?”

She grabbed his arm and helped him back to bed. “Never you mind. I’ll not have any bloodshed in my house.”

“Where’s my sword?” He tried to sit up.

Angharad pushed him back down. “It’s broken.”

“Get me a sword.”

“Listen.” She sat on the bed and gripped his shoulders. “I will not get you a sword. You are in no fit state to kill anyone. Athelwulf may be old and fat but, at the moment, he’s stronger than you. He will kill you first and then he will kill me for harboring you. Is that what you want?”

His eyes were the deep, angry blue of a winter sea. He glared at her, all traces of fever gone.

Angharad glared back. “Answer me. Is that what you want?”

His chest rose and muscles twitched beneath her grip. “No,” he sighed. “How can you offer him hospitality?”

“I have no choice.” She withdrew her hands. “Can I trust you to stay here?”

He nodded.

“Good.” Angharad took a deep breath. “No, calm yourself. I’ll ask Hilde to fetch you something to eat, if you think you’re up to it.”

“Fine.” His eyes remained stormy.

Angharad swept from the room.

Pesky Vikings - Teaser Tuesday

2010-01-11T20:28:00.000-08:00

All right, so there I was, just having a weird dream. Nothing new in that. We'd had taco casserole for dinner and highly spiced food seems to trigger very vivid dreams. I didn't remember much of it when I woke up, apart from one tiny bit. A sad, wounded man being tended by a woman. There was more to it than that and it stuck with me when I woke up. By the time I emerged from the shower, I had the germ of a story. After a few hours of research, I had more of a story. So much more of a story that it had teeth and it wouldn't leave me the hell alone, even though I have three completed novels in various stages of revision, not to mention three, count 'em, three unfinished. But, no, this pesky viking won't leave me alone, even though there's no spam, egg, sausage and spam in this house.

So, here it is. Rough as a viking's beard. The opening bit of the latest idea.

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Angharad thought the man in the reeds was dead. She bit her knuckles and stared at his bloodstained tunic and at his right foot. It trailed in the cold, peaty water of the beck, glowing dead white while it bobbed in the rain-swelled current. Angharad’s heart pounded when she spotted the broken Danish sword in the crushed and bloodied grass beside him.

“Elfled?” She called to her shepherd, fighting to keep her voice even. “Can you come here please?”

The raid had been on a homestead to the east three days before. The Danes had come with weapons and threats and been sent packing by Athelwulf’s men. The old man claimed they’d all been accounted for. The dead man beside the stream gave lie to that claim. Angharad looked at him, surprised that he didn’t look like a demon. The man’s pale cheeks were clouded by a few days’ growth of beard and the cool breeze moved through his brown hair. She decided that he had not been ill-favored in life.

“Poor man,” she whispered.

His stillness made her bold. It wasn’t the first time Angharad had seen death, but it was the first time she had seen the result of a violent one. She knelt on the grass beside him and wondered what he’d been like when he was alive.

“Mistress?” Elfled, a stray lamb tucked under his arm, blundered through the reeds. “What is it?”

“A dead Dane,” Angharad told him. “I suppose we’d better bury him.” She sat back on her heels. The dead man’s pale cheeks were scattered with very fine freckles. A bluebottle wandered across his parted lips.

Angharad waved the fly away. He couldn’t have been dead that long or there would be more flies.

“I don’t think he’s dead, mistress.” Elfled, still holding the lamb, knelt beside her. “His eyelids moved just then.”

First Teaser of 2010

2010-01-04T20:24:00.000-08:00

Ah, here we are again. I've been swatting dodgy dialogue tags and other nasties in 'Christopher's Medal'. Anything to avoid diving back into the WIP and putting my MCs through anguish and hell. So, I'm going back on my word and posting another snippet from the NaNo. That's another thing on the 'to do' list, find another 20k words for the bugger.

Duncan and Ellie's idyll is about to come to an end. That Enos chap is a nasty piece of work, oh yes he is.

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Duncan held Ellie’s hand when they followed the strange little fair-haired girl along the shadowy hall. Ellie was pale and silent beside him, her eyes red-rimmed and huge. He felt her fear, it lurked, like darkness inside him. The man they were about to see was clearly insane and Duncan was fairly certain that this was not going to be a polite, post-nuptial social call. He knocked on the door and squeezed Ellie’s cold hand. Something inside him flipped slowly when she gave him an uncertain smile. He kissed her forehead, inhaling the scent of her hair.

“Come in.” The Prophet’s voice was muffled by the door.

Duncan opened the door and led Ellie behind him. She hovered at his side when their host rose from his usual chair. His eyes were pale and sharp in the brilliant morning light. There was no goodwill in his expression.

“I trust you both enjoyed your honeymoon?” His voice was even, toneless.

“Yes, sir.” Duncan slid his arm defiantly around Ellie’s waist. She trembled against him.

“Ah…good, glad to hear it.” He did not offer them a seat. “I hate to cut it short, but I have a little task for you, Mr. Harris.”

“Sir?”

Enos pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “It’s a statement to the press. I want you to deliver it. I’m told that Show Low is crawling with press and that the FBI have moved in.”

As if to confirm that, the heavy silence was shattered by the whomp-whomp-whomp of a helicopter as it skimmed across the treetops. Ellie pressed against him.

“I want you to go back to the guest house, get your things, put them in your car and get out of here.”

“What about Ellie?”

“Ah, sadly, she’ll have to stay with us. I’m so sorry.” Enos didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. He looked past them and nodded. Two young men, with long beards, lunged at Ellie and wrenched her away from him.

“Let me go, for fucks sake.” Her voice shook and she tried to stamp on her captors’ feet.

Duncan, reeling from the suddenness of it all, struggled to get free when his arms were pinned behind his back. “Let her go.”

“No. The honeymoon is over. There will be no peace for anyone now, not until this is all over.” Enos’ voice wavered. “If you do your job properly, it will be, soon.”

Ellie’s eyes were wide. She squirmed and tried to pull herself free.

Duncan’s heart slammed against his ribs. “I want to stay here, with Ellie.”

“You can’t. That’s not how it goes, Mr. Harris.”

He wanted to hit him. Smash that smug, pale face to pulp. Instead he had to watch, helplessly while the two young goons dragged Ellie through the door. “I’ll get you out, Ellie. I promise.”

“Just go, Duncan. I’ll be all right. Get out of here while you can.”

The bleakness in her eyes broke his heart. He would’ve died for her at that moment, he would’ve killed for her. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I’m sorry I let you down.”

“Don’t be.” Her voice was sad but she smiled at him. “I don’t regret a minute. It was worth it.” Her eyes were bright with tears.

Duncan wanted to cry himself. He swallowed at the lump in his throat and struggled to speak. By the time he found the words, the door slammed shut and the room was, suddenly, a lot darker.

A troublesome scene

2009-12-17T18:16:00.000-08:00

From the WIP. It's a pivotal scene and I've had some real issues with it. Luckily, the lovely AW Purgies rode to my rescue and here's what I've done, thanks to their comments and suggestions.

for those who haven't read the first draft, some backstory. Evan is a Lieutenant in the 101st Airborne and he and his Captain have been lodging at Megan's house for a few months. Megan is a widow, her husband was killed 4 years earlier. The men are just about to leave for another location, a few weeks prior to D-Day.

All comments would be welcome....please!

Purgies rock!

***********************************************************

Megan looked at Evan. He lingered in the kitchen doorway, his eyes dark.

”Good luck, Lieutenant.” She tried to make sense of why saying goodbye to him hurt her so much.

“Captain, will you give us a minute?” His hand curled around her wrist, a feather-light touch. Megan trembled.

"All right, but don't be too long."

“I won’t.”

Megan watched Evan close the door. His eyes never left her face.

“Are you all right?” She fidgeted with her sleeve and swallowed at the knot in her throat. This was too much like saying goodbye to John. This time, however, Megan knew what could happen. She was under no illusions about the dangers Evan was going to face. She looked at him and tried to find the words to say goodbye.

Evan leaned against the door. “No. I’m not all right.”

Before she could speak, his hands were in her hair, his mouth devoured hers. Megan put her hands on his chest with every intention of pushing him away. It was hard enough saying goodbye without this. She didn’t need another reason to miss him, to worry about him. This just made things worse. It created a tie that she wouldn’t be able to break.

Evan’s hands were insistent, warm on the small of her back, rushing down to her hips. He pulled her close, drowning her until the last of her reservations fell away. Megan gave in to him, opened her lips, curled her fingers into his hair. She trembled when he tightened his arm around her waist.

“God, Megan.” He sighed against her mouth.

Megan kissed him back. She molded herself to him and wept because he’d left it all too late. She cradled his face in her hands, savoring the feel of his skin beneath her fingers and the scent of him.

He covered her wet cheeks with fierce little kisses, pushing her hair away with shaking fingers. “Don’t cry. It’s hard enough to say goodbye as it is.”

“Why now?” She sobbed.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve done something sooner, I should’ve said something. I hate that I didn’t have the guts until now. I love you, Megan. Forgive me. Please.” His hands wound through her hair. His mouth moved from her lips to her throat and back to her lips again. He left her boneless. She struggled for breath and for common sense.

“Damn you, Evan. It’s hard enough saying goodbye to you without this.” She pushed at him, her hands curled into fists. “How can you do this now? Why would you put me through all this again?”

“Please, Megan.” His breaths were quick and shallow. He touched his forehead to hers. “I tried not to fall in love with you. I know it’s wrong because of my marriage and because of the hurt you’ve already suffered. I might not come back. I couldn’t leave without telling you, without … this. I love you.”

His anguish tore at her. Megan let her hands uncurl. She rested against him, wrapped her arms around him, and cried. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t think I could bear it.”

“I’ll come back, I promise. I would do anything to come back to you.”

“Come on, Lieutenant.” Barlow’s voice was a faint demand beyond the door.

“Damn.” Evan kissed her again – a sweet, regretful kiss. “I’m sorry, honey, I have to go. I’m so sorry I waited until now.”

Megan touched his face. “So am I. Please be careful.” She wiped her eyes and looked at him, wanting to remember everything.

“I’ll miss you.” His hands fell away, leaving her standing in the chill of the hall.

“I’ll miss you too.” She would never forget the scent of him, of soap and aftershave.

He picked up his kit bag. “I’d better go.” His lips brushed her forehead.

Megan nodded, struggling for words. She watched him open the door and wanted to stop him, terrified that she would never see him again.

“Goodbye. I’ll see you soon.” Evan’s voice was hoarse.

“Take care.” She watched him walk down the path, into the cold, early morning drizzle. He waved when he climbed into the jeep and Megan stood on the step, waiting until it disappeared around the bend in the lane, before she gave in to her tears once more.

Teaser Tuesday - A mooshy bit.

2009-12-15T06:06:00.000-08:00

This is probably going to be the last teaser from 'Empty Places'. It's now gone into pre-revision limbo while I get the new WIP out of my system.

In this bit, Ellie and Duncan have got 'married' at the suggestion of Elder Obidiah, who believes that Ellie would be safe if she was with Duncan. Most of the chapter is ... um ... rather naughty. This is a little 'morning after' snippet.

********************************************************

It took a moment or two for Ellie to work out where she was. Early morning sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtains and fell across the bed. Duncan slept, curled up around her, his hand on her breast, one leg thrown over hers. She shifted, edging closer in the chill left by the rain. He mumbled in his sleep, his fingers brushed her nipple. Ellie bit her lip, feeling desire stir inside her. After her disastrous debut, she soon found her rhythm and learned what turned Duncan on. His inventiveness left her boneless and exhausted. After years of straightforward, good, old-fashioned marital sex, Duncan was an adventure. She blushed at the memories and wanted more. Ellie turned slowly in his arms and looked at him. The quilt had fallen back, revealing skin flushed with gold by the sunlight. His long eyelashes left crescent shadows on his cheeks. She touched his lips in wonder and his chin, the morning stubble rough beneath her fingers. He was beautiful and Ellie couldn’t believe that she was there and that his arms were around her.

Duncan stirred in his sleep. Ellie watched his eyelids flicker and waited. He smiled when his eyes found hers. “Hello.” He whispered.

“Hi.”

He curled his hand around her fingers and kissed them. “Did you sleep all right?”

“Yes and you?”

He grinned. “Never better.”

Something inside Ellie turned slowly. Duncan’s eyes were amber in the light. Thoughts she couldn’t read moved through them. Words she wanted to say were caught in her throat. “Good.”

“It’s been a long time since I woke up wanting someone.” His voice was quiet. “The way I want you.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes.” He kissed her palm and then his lips moved to her wrist, lingering there.

Ellie quivered.

“You’re beautiful, Ellie.” He took his face in her hands and kissed her – a slow burning kiss, like a sleeping fire.

She wanted to weep, instead, she kissed him back, curling her fingers into his hair.

“The Prophet said you had to look after me, Ellie.” He smiled against her lips.

“Yes.”

“Will you?” His hands moved over her, light, like water. His muscles rippled under her fingers and he sighed against her throat.

“Yes.” Ellie rose to his touch.

“Good.” He whispered. “Because I intend to look after you.