the league of reluctant adults

Rub those chocolate bob-bons all over your bad self

2012-02-01T06:34:00.000-08:00

February? Already! Seems like just yesterday it was January.

It's the month of love in all its forms. Romantic. Steamy. Tawdy (a favorite here at the League). The drama of courtship, and even better, wasted courtship, what with the broken promises, the lies, the treachery, the cheatin' which leads to the heartache of Scorned Lovers. Which we in Denver celebrate with a Scorned Lovers Art Show, this year's theme: Battered Hearts, Raunchy Mischief, Sweet Revenge.

Last year, the Art Salon hosted the King of Filth, our own Mark Henry, for a scandalous erotic reading from Patience, by Lisa Valdez. Don't the frilly girly cover fool you. This is weapons-grade smut. We loved it!

This year, we've got more shenanigans planned. Another erotic reading. A Romantic shooting gallery. Vintage peepshow. Breakup letters read by My Teenage Angst. Take out your sexual frustrations on the Scorned Lovers piñata. If you're in the Denver area, check us out. Feb 11 at the Art Salon.

And spread your love of the League by pimping these new titles:

Kelly Meding, Wrong Side of Dead, Jan 31
J.F. Lewis, Burned, Jan 31
Allison Pang, A Sliver of Shadow (Abby Sinclair, Book 2), Feb 28
Michele Bardsley, Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore, March 6
Dakota Cassidy, Waltz This Way, March 6
Jackie Kessler, Loss, March 20
Stacia Kane, Sacrificial Magic, March 27

Here's wishing you love in all its better, lovey-dovey forms. Roses. Whiskey shooters. And of course, chocolate.

Calling All Fangs

2012-01-31T10:33:00.001-08:00

If you have been paying even a little bit of attention to my various feeds, you know that BURNED: A VOID CITY NOVEL is out today. And today or at least this week is when I need you to buy it. On previous book releases, I've kind of been a bit subtle. I snuck around to various bookstores (both the indies and the big guys) and stealth signed all the copies they had in stock. I have never been that comfortable with saying, "My books are awesome and funny and sweet and twisted. If you love them, buy ten copies each and pass them out to your friends." I still don't like to refer to my Facebook Fan Page as a "Fan Page", though I've started to do so, because calling it a Reader Page was confusing people.

But the market is changing. And only the writers with die hard fans are surviving. I'm not good at blogging about every clever thing under the sun and making the every day seem magical. I do it when I can. Whether it's talking about how The Elder Son complained about the turkey I'd packed for his lunch being the most horrible turkey he'd ever tasted. (It was roast beef.) Or posting parody lyrics of "(Meet) The Flintstones".

What I do best on the writing front, however, is not the self-promotion part. It's the writing part. I have no interest in talking about my politics or religion, beyond the ideas of everyone being fair and nice to each other. And okay, I wouldn't shut up about getting excommunicated, but for the most part when I have the urge to write, it's a novel or a short story that I start turning out. As a result, I need your help.

If you love Void City and want to see what other quirky little worlds are inside my head, then buy my books and when you've purchased them and read them and enjoyed them, then spread the word. Review them anywhere you are comfortable doing so. If you can't review them or are afraid to do so, then log onto Goodreads or iTunes or Barnes & Noble or anywhere else and give them five stars or "like" them or tag them or all of the above.

Here's why: last year, around October, the reading public in the U.S. lost a lot of brick and mortar stores and it looks like we are going to lose more. When that happened and every time that happens, physical book sales are taking a huge hit and it isn't all being transferred online or to eReaders. Some of those sales simply vanish. Books that people would have purchased had they seen them in the mall just don't happen, because those stores aren't there anymore.

So if readers want to make sure they get the next book by their favorite authors who aren't always on the bestsellers lists (and even the ones who are), they are going to have to do their best to put their favorite author on those lists and keep them there, to go beyond buying the book the day it comes out, but to making websites, or funny videos, or posting with obnoxious repetition on Facebook and Twitter, or buying copies of books they've already read and loved and passing them on to friends they think would enjoy the books, too, or even by simply making sure everyone they know understands how much they love the books they love.

And that's not just my books. If you love Kelly Meding, Adrian Phoenix, Jennifer Estep, or any other author with a book out today, then let the word ring out. If, like me, you love Mark Hodder's awesome Burton & Swinburne series (book three of which came out last week)... whichever author you love... buy your copies now or as soon as you can. And if you can't afford a book, then go to your local library and place it on hold or request it. But spread the word or the words you crave may stop flowing.

(Cross posted everywhere I have posting rights, because it's THAT important.)

If you're interested, you can find links to all my free fiction and other wacky stuff at AuthorAtLarge.com

Craving Something Wikkid?

2012-01-15T18:49:00.001-08:00

Hi folks!

I'm in Boston, having just finished my duties at Arisia 2012. I've officially hit my con wall and am holed up in my room, watching Zombieland and catching up with EVERYTHING that has slipped out of my grasp out of the last few crazy weeks.

I'll blog about everything when I get back, but until then I wanted to give you a little sneak peek of what's coming at you . . .

In only two days!

For on January 17th, Orbit will be releasing SOMETHING WIKKID THIS WAY COMES, a digital-only short story starring Capitola, Shar, and Moo, the ladies of Triptych that you met in Tempest's Legacy.

I had so much fun writing this story and can't wait to share the ladies with you. They're a bit different from Jane, and I'm hoping they'll have lots of adventures in her Trueniverse. Below is the cover, which you can click for the story's Amazon site. You can get it from Barnes and Noble here, and on the day you can get it from Orbit Short Fiction.

What Are You Searching For?

2012-01-14T06:30:00.000-08:00

Kelly Meding has hairy armpits.

(Let that sink in a moment.)

Do I know this because I hide out in her shower? No.

I know this because while going through my website stats the other day, that particular phrase came up as a pointer to my blog.

And as much as I might love to blackmail Kelly with some super hairy armpit pictures, the truth of it is that I've got her name on my sidebar (as I do all the Leaguers)...and I tend to post scantily clad men about once a week.

So somehow the browsers are putting those two things together and churning up my blog as the answer to their Urban Fantasy author hairy armpit utopia.

Now, note that I've never actually mentioned armpits on my site (until very recently when I noticed this interesting trend), but over the last few months I've seen an increased number of visits to my site - all based on hairy armpits.

Which is sorta scary in its own right, but I began to dig a little deeper and I have to admit to being a *little* bit disturbed...not only because of what people are looking for - but the fact that they're coming to my blog to find it. And I should point out this is NOT my official author site. Only well mannered folks go there. My Borrowing Heaven blog is a mish mash of stuff and random thoughts...and man candy. (So, yes, I do get lots of people looking for hot men. That's fine and expected. But....)

Search Phrase Winners of the Week:
1) Armpits. Armpits all over the place. Hairy ones. Hot men licking them. Oiled. Whatever. I probably get at least 100 hits a day on armpits alone. (Also? Two and Half Men armpits. Okkkaaayy.)
2) Head of a hamster and back end of a cat
3) I like putting plushies in dirty diapers and throwing them away (O.o)
4) Star Wars Stripper
5) Dolphin Vagina
6) Manicorn (I have to cop to this one because I actually did post a picture of it. Years ago.)
7) Horse Pussy Hentai (WTF?)
8) Tired toad
9) Man taking it in butt from horse (okay, dude - if you're going to search for this, man up and use ass. Really. I think we're past the point of pleasantries, yeah?)
10) Old bloody naked guy with corpse

*passes brain bleach*

Yeah, I don't get it either. I'm so prim and proper about everything online.

And now I am off to make Unicorn Poop cookies with my former editor. Because that's how I roll.

(Yes, we will live tweet this, I suspect. Because of reasons.)

Friday the 13th

2012-01-13T07:14:00.000-08:00

I had a couple different ideas for League posts today. The first was to do something related to the cancellation of soap opera "One Life to Live" (which airs its final episode today, after 43 years on the air) and how that relates to current changes in the publishing industry. Instead, I just did a brief message on my personal blog.

Option two was to do some sort of promo post for the release of WRONG SIDE OF DEAD (Dreg City #4), which comes out January 31st. <---But this works, too.

Finally, I looked at the calendar and realized that not only is it the 13th, but it's also....

It's that funny day that pops up a few times a year and has gotten a bad rap.

I'm sure I'm not the only person whose mind immediately goes to one thing when someone says Friday the 13th.

Handsome devil, isn't he?

In my curiosity, I decided to check out the history of this particular day. I mean, I'm sure the movie's writer didn't just arbitrarily choose Friday the 13th as the title. Wikipedia isn't always the most reliable resource, but this article sheds some interesting light on the origin of the superstition. I knew 13 is often considered an unlucky number, but I had no idea Friday was often considered an unlucky day.

You learn something new all the time, huh?

For example, in researching this, I discovered the existence of Winnie the Pooh: the Jason Vorhees Edition. I'm not joking. And I kind of want one. He'd look adorable on my desk....

Go Blue or Go Home

2012-01-12T09:31:00.001-08:00

I'm often asked by some of my younger readers what you need to study in college in order to be an author. This is also often paired with, "Do I even have to go to college?" While you don't need to go in order to be a writer, I absolutely recommend college. It's awesome. You'll find people you didn't know were like you and groups of all interests, ranging from Star Trek LARPers to Young Republicans to Republican LARPers. And although I learned a lot from my classes, it's the experiences that I feel really shaped me into becoming a writer. That, perhaps, is the biggest thing you need to write: LIFE. You need to experience people and places and events. Those are what feed good writing.

My writing is filled with funny scenes and commentary on human quirks, and again--a lot of that ability to observe and appreciate the absurdity in the world came from college. Here are a few of my favorite wackiest experiences from my time at the University of Michigan. (I have three degrees, from three different schools, but if you're from the Midwest and went to a Big Ten school, you understand why U of M is #1 in my heart).

1. Your Casa is My Casa
Most schools have a "Meet every campus organization" fair. That's where you find the LARPers and Republicans. Being the bright-eyed freshman I was, I really wanted to get to learn about all sorts of things. So, my then-boyfriend and I attended a Socialist meeting. It was run by two 40-something guys, telling us all about how in the new world order, life would be better because we'd all have equal possessions and get what we wanted. My boyfriend kept wanting to know what would happen if he wanted ten TVs. The guys couldn't understand why anyone would want ten TVs, and the argument became circular. A couple weeks later, one of the 40-something guys called me and asked if I'd like to get together over coffee to discuss more issues. I was so over Socialism and evasively said I'd have to check my boyfriend's schedule. 40-Something said that it was okay, I didn't need to bring my boyfriend. Something tells me it wasn't because he was trying to avoid another TV discussion.

2. Saved By the Bell
Someone was always trying to convert me when I was at U of M. And by someone, I mean the same person. Only, he didn't know it. There was this Evangelical kid who staked out the Diag (a central green spot that saw a lot of foot traffic) and looked for lost souls to approach. Well, I must have looked more lost than others because over the course of a year, he kept coming up to me and using the same lines on me. "Would you like to talk about going to church?" He'd totally forgotten the last time we talked. To this day, I wonder what it is about me that made me a conversion magnet.

3. Any publicity...
The anthropology department recruited students by hanging crappy homemade posters that read: NEED A MAJOR? HOW ABOUT ANTHROPOLOGY!? Weirdly, U of M's anthropology graduate program is one of the best in the country.

4. Now playing...
Pulp Fiction, which is a great movie, came out during my freshman year. It opened at an independent campus theatre, and being in a college town, drew a particularly big crowd. For a really long time. When Pulp Fiction had left other theatres, when it had come to video, it was STILL being shown at this theatre. Why? Because they were still drawing a crowd. We came to accept it as the only movie option. "What do you want to do tonight? Go see Pulp Fiction again?" And we would, and it would be just as awesome as the last time. They eventually had HOME OF PULP FICTION on their marquee. When other movies finally began trickling in, it was like a coming of age story, and I had passed a meaningful phase in my life.

5. Some alumni are more famous than other alumni
James Earl Jones is a U of M alum. And, oh man, do we love that. They used to have him narrate recruitment videos. I will never forget this one video that went on and on, touting the school's fine education. Then, suddenly, it segued to this guy handing a girl a flower on the Diag. The camera pans over to James Earl Jones, who is apparently spying on them. He gives the viewers a sly smile and--remember, this is Darth Vader's voice--says: "But the University of Michigan isn't all about academics. Here, you can develop deep, interpersonal relationships." Sold. Throughout my college days, James was constantly referenced. "Here's the building he took classes in!" There were even petitioners who tried to get him to be the voice of our phone registration system. They had a giant Darth Vader cutout with a word balloon reading, "To add a class, press 1." James is definitely a worthy alum, and you can see others here, everything from notable scientists to, um, reality TV stars. Do you know who is not on that list?

I don't mean to end this on a down note, but I have to close in mentioning my friend Jason, my very first U of M friend. We met at orientation, when neither of us wanted to participate in our group leader's Chaka Khan dance. Once Jason and I discovered a mutual love of the Beatles and Neil Gaiman, we were pals for life. Sadly, Jason passed away very unexpectedly, a few days after the birth of my son. I found out in an offhand Facebook comment and was so sleep-deprived and juiced up on hormones that I couldn't process the news. It sounds weird, but I didn't have the mental energy to handle it, or I would have broken down. I was stretched too thin and had to tuck it away into the back of my mind. Now, months later, I'm slowly able to deal with it, and it's hard. He's a bright spot in all of those memories, one I will never forget.

And that--the people you meet and the real-life stories you experience--are what fill you up and give you the ability to write great things. They are what make you a great person.

Should you go to college? Yes. Yes, you should.

Burned (A Void City Novel) - Excerpt

2012-01-11T04:00:00.000-08:00

Mwhaha! It's almost here!

One of the many weirdnesses about writing is the long wait between when the book is written and when people can actually read it. That aspect has been particularly rough with this book, because there are so many things in it that i wasn't even sure if readers would ever get to see. In fact, the book starts off with one of them right up front. A comeuppance.

If you want to see what I mean a little early, here is the first chapter of Burned: A Void City Novel by J. F. Lewis (due out January 31st, 2013):

Chapter 1

Eric: All A Part of the Plan

Vampires burn.

It’s a rule.

A blanket hit me from behind, smothering the flames, and I felt strong arms around me, patting out the more stubborn patches around my neck and shoulders. I pushed Talbot away and rubbed at the smoldering remnants of the sun’s wrath the same way a mortal man might dry himself after a shower.

“You could have just turned into a mouse,” Talbot said. “I would have carried you in from the car.”

Talbot’s a mouser. He’d probably tell you that I’m his vampire. A pet of sorts. Mousers are basically cats that can be humans when they feel like it. Talbot has been with me since El Segundo, when the world went crazy and I had to play the hero. He believes I have hidden depths. I think he’s deluded.

I tossed the blanket on the floor and stared up at him. Talbot is bigger than me, over six feet tall, and he has better taste in clothes. He’s almost always wearing a bespoke suit, with well-tailored silks and satins setting off the dark color of his skin, the bright green of his eyes, and his bald head. I, on the other hand, have all my hair and prefer jeans and a T-shirt.

Smoke rose off my T-shirt as I seated myself calmly in a metal folding chair, waiting for my burns to heal.

“I forgot the sun was out,” I said with a shrug.

I’ve never been too good at keeping track of whether it’s day or night outside . . . which may sound funny coming from a person who catches fire if he gets it wrong, but it’s the way I am. When I died (okay, if we’re being picky, I was murdered), it was daytime when I rose as a vampire, so at least it’s not a new development or anything.

I needed to keep it together. This was going to be The Big Day.

With an exasperated sigh, I stopped worrying about having forgotten the sun and decided to blame it on the sunproof glass they have in the back of the squad cars in Void City. One of the perks I get is cop-chauffeur service; I’ll explain why later. If I ride around in a squad car too long, though, I forget why it’s so bright outside.

Bright.

It was bright inside the warehouse, too. The place was old, but the lights worked well. I closed my eyes, waiting for the last trace of pain to vanish with the burns. My mind doesn’t always work properly. It works better at night, but I still have good days and bad days. I needed today to be a good one. This was it. Day number one of my Big Plan.

When I closed my eyes, my other senses kicked into overdrive on instinct. The sound of heartbeats came first. I’m always aware of them on some level, the heartbeats of those who have them. It’s worse when I’m hungry. I hadn’t fed yet, and there were a lot of heartbeats to hear. Talbot’s heart—a strong steady thumping; Magbidion’s—a fluttering weak sound; and all the cops who were in on at least this portion of my Big Plan . . . their hearts beat in different ways: harder, softer, faster, slower . . . as unique to me as a face or a voice.

After the heartbeats, other sounds came into play. Outside the warehouse, I knew Sal was still sitting in the front seat of the squad car that had driven me here, wearing a portable radio, with one earbud tucked into the collar of his uniform and the other snaked up into his right ear. He and Little Carl have never been able to agree on a station, so he listens to an earbud and Carl listens to silence. Vampire hearing is good enough that I heard Sal’s favorite station as well as he could. Better, even.

I don’t know how the station does it yet, but when the Veil of Scrythax, the mystical artifact that used to prevent mundane citizens from seeing or remembering encounters with the supernatural, got ripped to shreds last year, 100.6 FM (WVCT—Void City Talk Radio) kept broadcasting the same as it always has. Mundane listeners seem to hear Christian or sports talk programming, but the rest of us hear the never-ending jabber of Sly Imp: Void City’s demonic voice of the airwaves. The damned shock jock is distracting enough to make me forget about the sun, although apparently, that doesn’t take much. I’d been thinking about something he said, kind of a tagline of sorts: “In Void City, the vampires run the town, the cops are on the take, and the werewolves have found religion.”

Sly Imp’s voice caught my attention, and I focused in for a moment. If I recognized the background music, Denis Leary’s “Asshole,” correctly, Sly was about to discuss me.

“And what do we think of our new Lord and Master, the great and powerful raging erection that is Eric Courtney?”

“Cue laugh track,” I mumbled. And as if on my cue, the laugh track sounded. Who the hell still uses a laugh track?

“I mean, is it just me, or if our fearless leader is going to fly around in his combat form killing things left, right, and sideways, does he really have to do it with his ‘staff of office’ swinging in the breeze? We know it’s big, pal. You don’t have to wave it around out in the open like that. Save that thrill for the little woman back home. Am I right? Oh, oh, and speaking of the little woman . . .”

I really need to put some pants on the Über vamp. A pair of shorts. Something. The Über vamp is my “big bad combat” mode: all leather wings and ebony claws. Real balls-out vampire badass mojo. Quite literally balls out in my case. I don’t know why I can shape-change into a mouse and back while keeping my clothes, but I always wind up naked when I’m the Über vamp.

I tuned out Sly’s ongoing roast and concentrated on the task at hand. Lord Phillip, the former vampiric ruler of Void City, never had the kind of trouble I was having. Killing him had set loose such a world of shit that I was still dealing with it almost a year later. In my own defense, I hadn’t intended to take over.

Lord Phillip had been a twisted freak, which was fine with me—or would have been, provided he kept out of my way. I’m not the sort of guy who runs around righting wrongs and slaying dragons. But Phil messed with Greta, my daughter. She’s adopted, one hell of a vampire, and can generally take care of herself, but if you mess with her, I’ll kill you, knock your ivory tower down, set it on fire, and slaughter all your friends. It’s a rule.

Unfortunately, the act of following said rule put me in charge.

I don’t like responsibility, but it’s not something I shirk, which is why my singed sorry ass was seated on but not sticking to (thanks to my blue jeans) the aforementioned folding chair, watching Captain Stacey in his office on the other side of town, through the eyes of one of my thralls.

It had been almost a year since I’d knocked down Lord Phil’s Highland Towers and taken over, and this was a part of The Plan I couldn’t put off any longer. Like I said before, I had a plan. If you know me, you know the idea of me with a plan should scare the hell out of you.

Maybe sometimes in the past I’ve been willfully ignorant, but I’m not stupid. Remember that bit about not shirking my duty? Keep it in mind. Step one of The Big Plan involved just that: doing my duty. It also involved Captain Stacey of the VCPD.

Captain Stacey had been in charge of the VCPD since the late sixties. Well, mid- to late sixties. Shortly after my death, let’s say. He surely must have felt safe, protected, sitting there in his office. No mortal man would be a threat to him. His door wasn’t locked. His gun wasn’t even on his desk or at his side. I’m sure a being like him doesn’t feel the need for such things the way a mortal might. As a mouser, like Talbot, Stacey was nigh immortal, incredibly hard to kill, and his morals were, to say the least, mutable and open to negotiation. I mean, mousers basically have the same morals a cat has. Even so, there are good cats and bad cats.

Stacey was a bad cat. The VCPD badge with his name on it meant he was part of the biggest gang in Void City. Every last cop was either crooked or kept under his mystic control by an ages-old deal with the Mages Guild. A thing like Stacey made the perfect public servant for Vampire High Society. For years I had no interest in him at all, even when he was hired to help capture me a few years ago. I’ve been historically willing to ignore all kinds of heinous crap as long as the other denizens of Void City stayed out of my way or were willing to offer a simple apology.

That changed when I walked the Paths of the Dead to get my daughter back. Ever since, I’d been remembering some things. Things I was finding it harder and harder to ignore. Too many things, maybe. As a result, I’d been making plans and recruiting allies.

Through the eyes of one of my newest allies, I watched Captain Stacey sitting at that desk. And I remembered it. It was a classic steel tanker desk. It brought with it flashes of memory: eating lunch with Marilyn, being intimate with her, looking at crime scene photos, drinking with Sal and Little Carl . . . Stacey couldn’t see me, of course, because I was in a warehouse all the way across town.

How could I see him?

Interesting question.

Vampires can create a bond with humans, share a little of their power: The human generally does the vampire’s bidding and, in exchange, gets increased longevity and some measure of vampiric resilience and strength. They’re called thralls. As a rule, I don’t like having any because the whole “master” thing makes me uncomfortable.

Now that I have a bunch of them, I’ve been trying to think of them as little helpers. Not just for Santa anymore. Heh. Like it or not, I needed them for the plan to work. And at least they’d all been willing volunteers. While it is possible for a vampire to enslave a human, make a living person into an unwilling thrall, I’ve never done it, nor will I. My ex-buddy Roger did that to Marilyn (the love of my mortal life), and for that reason alone, I’m glad I killed him. And speaking of killing . . .

Refocusing on my own surroundings, I glanced around the warehouse. It was basically empty except for an abandoned set of old metal folding chairs. Magbidion—I guess you could call him my personal mage, another of my little helpers—was leaning against the wall. Talbot took a seat next to me in one of the empty chairs. A two-way radio indicated in glowing red numbers that it was on the right channel.

Talbot coughed. “Well?”

I closed my eyes and checked in with each of my little helpers. “Everything’s ready. Do a quick look around to see if you spot anything?”

“Sure.” Talbot stood, smoothing out his slacks. The sunlight outside made him seem bigger, more imposing, than he actually is. Maybe it was the way it reflected off the ebony skin of his bald head or the way he filled up the space. Could just be that he’s that much bigger than I am.

Magbidion slumped into the vacant chair. His hands were shaky, his long greasy black hair swept back out of his face. He’d been overdoing it for almost a year. It’s hard to keep spells running for long stretches of time, and Mags had been hiding so many of my dirty little secrets for so long, it was no surprise the strain was showing.

At night, I’m not what I used to be . . . and thanks to Magbidion, the number of people who know that can be counted on one hand. He’s hiding my thralls, too. Normally, other vampires can sense them, can tell who’s a thrall and who isn’t. For the time being, all my new thralls are secret. That takes a lot of magic mojo.

“You sure you’re up to this?” I asked him.

“When the demon who owns my soul comes for it, will you really feed him to Talbot?” Eating demons is one of Talbot’s talents. I don’t know how he fits the whole thing inside, but I’ve seen him slurp up a demon twice his size without so much as an untamed burp or excess bowel movement. That’s not a typical mouser trick, though. It seems to be unique to Talbot. Maybe he got it from his mom. I met her in the underworld, a cute little bloodred kitty cat that could probably tear me and a whole army of me’s to shreds. Name’s Sekhmet.

I realized Magbidion was still waiting for my answer. “Yeah. Of course. Demons are assholes.”

“Then I’ll manage,” he said. The tired smile on his face was born of a long time without hope followed by a sudden change that might make everything right again. I was familiar with that feeling. I had it then. I still do. When I’d gone to the underworld, I’d gotten back more than just my daughter. I’d found hope, too.

Talbot leaned back in through the warehouse door. “I’d have the SWAT team and the uniforms pull back another fifty yards, but other than that, you’re good.”

“Even the squad car?”

“Yeah. Stacey knows you’ve been using it, and he’ll wonder why they didn’t call this in.”

I gave those mental orders, listened as the extra yardage piped Sly Imp’s yammering down low enough that I couldn’t really make out the words anymore, then pulled my smartphone out of my jeans pocket. I dialed in Stacey’s desk number and, through the eyes of his deputy, watched him watch it ring. He took a sip of coffee, swallowed slowly, then answered the call on speaker. I hate being on speaker.

“Stacey.”

“This is Eric.” I looked at Talbot while I spoke, wanting him to give me a look or something if things sounded off. “I need a favor.”

“Been a while since I heard from you, Mr. Courtney.”

I laughed at that. He almost sounded respectful. I guess killing Lord Phil had bought me a little bonus respect in Stacey’s eyes.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t been sloppy lately, but I need you now.”

“I’ll send a few—”

“No. I need you out here,” I cut him off, “and I need it kept quiet. Not a word in any log or a call ahead to the Mages Guild. I can’t even write you a check for it. Everything has to be off the books and under the table.” The Mages Guild had worked hard to fill in the gaps that the Veil of Scrythax didn’t cover or didn’t handle well enough. Now they were handling the whole ball of wax, and the strain on their resources was showing.

“You’ve never asked that before . . .” There was an implied question there.

“Can you do it or not, Stacey?” I grabbed one of the metal folding chairs next to me and hurled it straight down at the concrete floor. It came apart, scarring the concrete, the pieces clattering to the floor.

“Of course I can, Mr. Courtney.” I watched him smile at what he took to be my little display of anger. “With Lord Phillip gone, you’re the boss.”

“Good.” I gave him directions. “Get your ass out here. I already have Magbidion here to help with the cleanup, but I need to walk you through what happened, and then I need some advice.”

“What the hell did you do, Courtney?”

“Get out here and you’ll know,” I said, thumbing the call to an end.

Talbot whistled. “What’s he doing?”

“Disregarding my instructions and heading this way.” Through borrowed eyes, I watched Stacey tell his deputy, one of my newest thralls, that the Mages Guild should be called if he didn’t check back in about half an hour. Stacey walked out into the sunlight, and I watched until he was out of sight.

I clicked on the radio. “Melvin?”

“There’s no Melvin here,” Melvin said testily.

“Half-n-half calling Mother Goose,” I said with a sigh. “Come in, Mother Goose.”

“Half-n-half, this is Mother Goose. Come in.”

“How’s our kitty kat? Over.”

“I’m watching his GPS now. He looks to be heading straight your way. He also called the on-duty mage and reported himself en route to a vampire call. Over.”

“And, just to clarify, you are the on-duty mage, Mother Goose? Over.”

“That I am, Half-n-half. Over.”

“Rockstar asks that you remember the favor. Over.”

“Will do, Half-n-half. Mother Goose over and out.”

“Half-n-half?” Talbot asked with a low, velvety chuckle.

“Ebon Winter’s way of keeping me in my place. Or something.”

“I don’t like that vampire,” Talbot said, more to himself than to me.

“Me, either.” I stood and started stripping down to my jeans and belt. Then I called in the next part of the plan. The large loading doors of the warehouse opened, and thirty men and women dressed in casual clothes entered. The afternoon sun cast additional illumination across a swath of empty warehouse. It had been abandoned for years, and graffiti covered parts of the floor as well as the walls.

“You’re all volunteers,” I said as my claws slid out with a familiar creepy nail-bed crawling sensation. Twinges of pain sprouted in my gums as my fangs came out to play, too. “If you want to back out, do it now. I won’t hold it against any of you. This is dangerous as hell and there’s every chance some of you—maybe all of you—could die. I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen, but once we get going, it won’t be up to me anymore. Talbot will not step in to stop me.”

Some of them said no. Others simply shook their heads.

“Then let’s make this look good, shall we?”

I charged into their midst, and the blood that flowed was as real as it gets. So was the pain.

By the time Captain Stacey walked in, the sun outside filled the warehouse to the midway point, picking out the mangled bodies strewn from one end of the warehouse to the other, highlighting the remains of a slaughter that caked the concrete with blood, urine, excrement, and fear. Magbidion and Talbot stood off to one side, letting Stacey see the whole thing in one glance. His gaze lingered longest on a body near the west side of the warehouse: a woman named Katherine Marx—Officer Katherine Marx.

Stacey had always been able to control the good cops and compel them to do things they wouldn’t normally do, make them forget what he wanted them to forget. I wasn’t supposed to know it, no one was supposed to know it, but Stacey had been using the same ability that he used to wipe the minds of his subordinates to have his way with Katherine and a few of the other lady cops.

Katherine had been his favorite recently, and she was the granddaughter of a friend of mine, a friend who’d been a cop back when I was alive . . . Thanks to Magbidion’s assistance and the peculiarities of my new nighttime circumstances, I was remembering all kinds of things from those days . . . back when . . . when I’d come home from Korea and Marilyn had convinced me to apply for captain of the VCPD. Katherine wasn’t the only cop in the pile; in fact, they’d all been cops at one time or another, but she was the one who would distract him. You can’t look at a dead lover and feel nothing. Not unless you’re dead inside.

“Some of them are cops,” I said.

Stacey looked up at me blankly, his eyes taking a few seconds to focus. Where Talbot was impressive and smooth, Stacey seemed a petty creature, his belly showing signs of trained muscle going to fat. His eyes, normally cold and emotionless—mercenary—now showed a broken warmth, a wet edge.

“What the fuck happened?” Stacey shouted, discarding the grief and giving in to rage. It was a move I’d made myself many times. It feels good, but it makes you stupid. Stupid was not a part of The Plan. Stacey saw the blood on my hands, coating my bare chest, my jeans, slicking my face like a gruesome moisturizer mask, and then he was in my face, shoving me back. “What the fuck did you do to my cops?”

“Curiosity,” I said. Killed the cat.

“What?” He shoved me again. Hard. Hard enough to knock me back against a row of folding chairs. “What?”

Of course, the word wasn’t meant for him. It was The Signal, a part of The Plan. With Stacey focused on me, Magbidion dropped one of the spells he’d been maintaining, the subtle one that kept the thirty men and women I’d fought (every last one of them another new thrall) from regenerating. He kept the other spells, including the massive one concealing their thralldom, up and running.

“Nobody preys on my cops, asshole!” Stacey transformed. I have to admit that I dig the way mousers change. They get to skip the snap, crackle, and ouch of a werewolf transformation and the aching discomfort of a vampiric one. A slow glow of golden light suffused his skin, flowing over him. As it faded, the man with the paunch was replaced by a seven-foot-tall, massively muscled feline beast with metallic gold claws and fangs, fur in patches of white and orange, and glowing star-sapphire eyes: the all-cat version of a well-done werewolf special effect.

Stacey yowled, swatting me to the ground with one massive paw. My chest sizzled where his claws punctured my skin, but the pain felt nice. The truth is, I deserve to hurt. I’ve killed thousands of humans over the years. I can’t bring myself to feel bad about it, because becoming a vampire was never my decision—Scrythax, the demon with a wacky sense of redemption who created the Courtney Family Curse, is to blame for that. For years I tried to minimize the number of people I killed by running a club and feeding off my employees as much as possible. If animal blood worked for me, that would have been great, but it doesn’t.

“Don’t make me go Über vamp on you, Stacey,” I spat through gritted teeth.

He responded by disemboweling me and hurling me up into the rafters, where I clanged against the ceiling. When I came back down, he was even bigger and more muscular, standing about ten feet tall. His fangs and claws glowed to match his eyes, and I fought to hide my grin. Mousers are different from other supernatural creatures in a whole lot of ways, but one of those differences is stranger than the rest. They exist on more than one plane of existence at once (the physical world, the world of dreams, and something Talbot calls the Akasha), so . . . to kill one, you have to get him all on the same plane with you or be able to affect him on those other planes of reality, too. I glanced over at Talbot. Yep. The way Stacey looked now was his whole being all in one place.

I think he expected me to transform, to become the Über vamp, but this wasn’t my fight. It wasn’t Talbot’s, either. I boxed Stacey’s pointy cat ears as he seized me in his paws, but if I hadn’t started his ears ringing, the gunfire surely would have. The VCPD SWAT team rolled in wearing full supernatural suppression gear and carrying weapons made for taking down monsters. Holy symbols, Elder Signs, and other marks of magical protection bedecked their body armor. Not one of them looked the least bit friendly. And every single one of them was one of my thralls.

The opening volley, twelve shotguns loaded with the VCPD’s specialized flechette rounds (twenty tiny flechettes in one cartridge—fourteen steel, four silver, one hardened wood, and a single gold one), blasted Stacey mercilessly, followed almost immediately by two cops with flamethrowers lighting the dirty bastard up as he turned. The VCPD was usually more concerned with protecting society from knowledge of the supernatural than taking the supernatural on head-to-head, but the previous management had equipped them for any eventuality, and this was their fight. Stacey had made them do unspeakable things, had corrupted everything that police were supposed to be, had raped their minds and some of their bodies . . . and now they all knew it.

“Hard to shift part of yourself elsewhere when you’re pumped full of metal, isn’t it?” I asked as I rose to my feet. Stacey didn’t answer. He’d gone straight into that wounded-animal place mammals go when they’re scared, confused, angry, and in pain.

Mousers are not easy to kill. It’s a messy business. I wasn’t staying for all of it. I had to get cleaned up anyway, because for once I had a bigger plan . . . and if somebody was going to screw it up by letting the cat out of the bag (okay, bad pun), it was not going to be me.

I walked over to where Talbot stood, grimly watching the men and women of the VCPD as they worked with hunting knives and machetes, skinning Stacey alive while others struggled to hold him down. Two officers with spears took turns jabbing him in the spine to keep him mostly paralyzed despite his mystical regenerative properties. Katherine was one of them. She had the slightest twist of a smile on her lips, though her cheeks were wet with tears. Other officers carried in twenty-pound bags of sand and huge bags of salt they must have gotten from a pool supply store. I hoped it would be enough.

“You going to get in trouble over this?” I asked Talbot.

“I didn’t tell you anything Greta hadn’t already figured out, so no.” He frowned. “I can’t share any information gleaned strictly from the Akasha, Eric, but as long as I can demonstrate that you could have reasonably had access to the knowledge yourself, the other mousers won’t be adding any additional time to my exile. That and I hate this son of a bitch.” His frown became a grin as he said the last few words. Talbot doesn’t curse often, and I was willing to bet that “SOB” was a much stronger insult for mousers. “But it’s flattering that you care.”

“You mind taking me to the car?” I turned into a mouse. Talbot tucked me in his breast pocket to protect me from the sun, and off we went. He walked us over to the squad car in which I had arrived and dropped me off in back, then, after a pause for me to change back to normal, Talbot climbed in as well.

“He dead?” Sal asked.

“Yep, or will be soon enough.”

“Wish I could have been in on that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry. Only room enough for so many.”

“Don’t apologize, boss,” Sal said, the gratitude in his voice making me uncomfortable. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

The gratitude . . . I didn’t know what to do with that or how to react, so I patted the back of his seat and ignored the rest, giving my attention to Talbot.

“You really coming with?” I asked.

“Yes. I want to watch you get haunted. I haven’t seen that yet.” Talbot folded his arms. “Are they here? When will they get here?”

I shook my head. “Sometimes it takes a while. Don’t worry, Talbot, you’ll get to see me tortured soon enough.”

“That’s why I hang around,” Talbot said. “You’re better than a ball of yarn.”

Still Life with Badass & Beer #3

2012-01-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

*Cross-Posted from Kevin's Blog*

Today we have a very special beer to pour into a very special glass. The beer is "imported from Vermont," which makes it sound exotic somehow. (Hear that, everybody in Vermont? Your neighborhood is exotic.) The brewer of Hill Farmstead Anna—Shaun Hill—is something of a world-renowned chap who lives in the exotic realm of northeast Vermont. Anna is a honey saison brew that I can't wait to try. Hill Farmstead crafts many small-batch, interesting beers. Thoughtful ones, too, like Phenomenology of Spirit.

The glass into which I shall pour the honey saison is emblazoned with the logo for Atticus & Oberon's Sausage Fest. I've received many requests to sell these, and after looking a wee bit into setting up something on my website, it appears that it will take far more of my time and energy than I can afford. Instead, I'll set up a shop with Cafe Press, so you can put the Sausage Fest on a shirt or hat, glass or shooter, whatever you'd like, and they'll handle all the shipping and stuff and I can concentrate on writing.

Who's the badass? Why, that's a Pureblood Warpwolf howlin' for some honey saison. He's got a Death Howler spray attack and has an animus that allows you to ignore enemy defensive buffs. Whoa. It just got awful nerdy awful fast, didn't it?

I hope your holidays were full o' warm fuzzies and your new year will be full of travel to exotic locales like Vermont!

Some writing/reading things I thought I'd never do that I now do all the time

2012-01-05T07:48:00.000-08:00

Use ‘LOL’ or ‘ROFL’

I used to be soooooo down on LOL. An LOL hater! I felt it was dishonest, because, who among the people writing LOL truly were laughing out loud? Maybe 1%! And I felt sure none were ROFLing! So this made me not like LOL, or ROFL.

But now I’m a user—and some might say abuser—of LOL. Seriously! ROFL!! Especially on twitter. No, I haven’t begun to laugh out loud, but my understanding of LOL has changed. It just means I think this is funny, or I mean this to be funny, in a medium that has no expression. I used to not see it that way, but I do now. Now I am an LOL LOVER!!

Aren't you glad you are reading this fascinating post? Now for the next exciting item:

Ever write 'tho' or 'thru'

I used to not ever use these sorts of abbreviations of though and through, even if it was on something for my eyes only, like I would lose my self respect as a lover of words and an English Literature person. It just seemed tawdry, lazy, and WRONG! But, now with twitter—argh!! Twitter, you have been making me use tho and thru! You have cheapened me in my own eyes! And now, today, while making notes on a paper manuscript, I used tho. Nooooo!

Actually, I’m not that upset about it. Language is always evolving, so, this is fine. I think some shortcuts truly ARE tawdry, lazy and wrong, but informal uses of tho and thru, I’ve let you into my life! Make yourselves at home. Go ahead! Heat up the leftover pizza. Put your feet up on the coffee table.

Use the thesaurus that comes with Microsoft Word

I used to ONLY have eyes for the Rogets thesaurus. I have an awesome hardcover one here, a massive, classic, complete thesaurus. It really is wonderful. And I would use it when I needed the perfect word. Even when editing on the computer I’d have it nearby. And how I disdained the MS word thesaurus. Has there ever been a more pathetic thesaurus? Please! You can never find just the right word there. Or, I can't. 'MS Word thesaurus: when just any old synonym will do.'

I felt thesaurus.com was okay, but definitely not anywhere near the fabulousness of the hardcover Rogets. Then, I sort of started using it. Not a lot, and still I would go to Rogets when I felt serious about a word. And THEN, every once in a while, I would use the hated MS word thesaurus!!

I suppose now my thesaurus use is 3-tiered, with MS word for the low-hanging fruit, thesaurus.com for the middle of the tree fruit and glorious Rogets when I must have it right. Or, like, if I’m thinking of a title.

Aren't you totally fascinated? Also, OMG, how priggish do I sound? But wait! There’s more!

Reading many books at once

As an author, I plant all sorts of little details and seriously, every sentence is there for a reason, and I think most authors are like that. So to stop reading a book to pick up another? Then another? Heresy! How can I, as a reader, remember all the careful little details the author wove in? For years I felt that each book must be my one and only, and a continuous read, unbroken by other characters and narratives.

You probably know where this is going. Right now I am reading three books. But, I like it, because I read according to mood. Oh, what will become of me? Satan has taken over my mind!!

***

Hah, there is it. So, are there any word or bookish things you thought you’d never do that you do now? Do tell!

The End of All Things

2012-01-01T06:37:00.000-08:00

For me, 2011 could've ended better.

Last night, I was at a restaurant when this guy at the next table offered a toast to his dinner companions. "Here's to health, wealth, and happiness." I jumped up and knocked the wine glass out of his hand. "You naive bastard," I screamed and yanked his lapel. "Don't you know that 2012 is the end? Haven't you heard about the Mayan prophecy? Worldwide volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, financial collapse, Obama martial law, Armageddon...the forthcoming zombie Apocalypse!"

That's when the Taser hit me and I don't remember anything else until I woke up in jail. Right now I'm blogging from my lawyer's office.

But I take comfort that we Leaguers are especially prepared to take advantage of catastrophes. We're like Mormons in that we stock supplies to survive any emergency.(Actually, all we keep are guns and machetes. If we need vittles, we'll take them from you.) In fact, we're looking forward to the zombie outbreak. Who else but scribes of supernatural mayhem are better prepared for the rise of the undead?

You have been warned.

Happy New Year!

I Got Your Stocking, Right Here!

2011-12-23T09:39:00.001-08:00

So, it's been a while since we've heard from our good friend Amanda Feral, but that's changing in 2012. It seems that some opportunities might have presented themselves, both on the erotica front penned by the wicked zombie, herself, and stories featuring Amanda, Wendy and Gil. There's nothing set in stone, but the stage is set for some horribly irreverent mayhem.

Until then, why don't you check out Amanda's first erotic effort, the suitably Christmas-y, STOCKING FULL OF COAL? It's funny, naughty as f**k, and above all, weird (check out what Nicole Peeler had to say about the story, here).

Synopsis: Justine Crenshaw is accident-prone. On purpose. It’s the bruises…she can’t live without them, without the pleasure and pain that closely bind her sexuality to her secret obsession. She chooses men who accept her fetish, who seek it out for their own dark designs, even if they don’t understand it. She accepts that. Justine doesn’t need them for anything but a little bruise pressure during down-and-dirty sex.

Then she meets Nathan, and her heart starts demanding more than her compulsions provide. She can’t hide her body from him forever, can’t keep him in the dark, literally. But no “normal” guy could possibly understand her multi-colored kink…could he? It might be time for Justine to shine a light on her fetish and find out.

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

And guess what? Just in time for the holidays, it's cheap! So why not download a copy for that super-dirty girl or guy in your life and support a displaced zombie author!

Buy it...

Ellora's Cave • Amazon • Nook • Sony Ebookstore • All Romance Ebooks <--$2.27

And expect more news from Amanda in the coming months!

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, or whatever you celebrate!!!

'Tis the Season For ... Books

2011-12-22T06:33:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season, my elves--the season for book releases!

Here at the League, in addition to putting coal in each other's stockings (not a euphemism) and making lists of enemies and checking them twice, we're also prepping for several new book releases among the ranks. Luckily, the holidays aren't all shame-and-sugar hangovers, they're also about presents. Presents like gift cards and shiny new e-readers. Gift cards that need spending and e-readers that need filling ... filling with books ... by Leaguers.

I think you know where this is going...

Three Leaguers have books coming out on or around January 1. Of course, lay down dates may vary depending on the store of your choice, but for the most part you'll be able to grab these great reads in just one week.

Richelle Mead's SHADOW HEIR

Buy it at B&N, Amazon or Indie Bound

Blurb:

#1 New York Times bestselling author Richelle Mead returns to the Otherworld, a mystic land inextricably linked to our own--and balanced precariously on one woman's desperate courage . . .

Shaman-for-hire Eugenie Markham strives to keep the mortal realm safe from trespassing entities. But as the Thorn Land's prophecy-haunted queen, there's no refuge for her and her soon-to-be-born-children when a mysterious blight begins to devastate the Otherworld. . .

The spell-driven source of the blight isn't the only challenge to Eugenie's instincts. Fairy king Dorian is sacrificing everything to help, but Eugenie can't trust the synergy drawing them back together. The uneasy truce between her and her shape shifter ex-lover Kiyo is endangered by secrets he can't--or won't--reveal. And as a formidable force rises to also threaten the human world, Eugenie must use her own cursed fate as a weapon--and risk the ultimate sacrifice. . .

Diana Rowland's SINS OF THE DEMON
Buy it at B&N, Amazon or Indie Bound

Blurb:

The homicide beat in Louisiana isn't just terrifying, it's demonic. Detective Kara Gilligan of the supernatural task force has the ability to summon demons to her aid, but she herself is pledged to serve a demonic lord. And now, people who've hurt Kara in the past are dropping dead for no apparent reason. To clear her name and save both the demon and human worlds, she's in a race against the clock and in a battle for her life that just may take her to hell and back.

Jaye Wells's SILVER-TONGUED DEVIL

Buy it at B&N, Amazon or Indie Bound

Blurb:

Now that the threat of war has passed, Sabina Kane is ready to focus on the future. Her relationship with Adam Lazarus is getting stronger and she's helping her sister, Maisie, overcome the trauma of her captivity in New Orleans. Even Giguhl is managing to stay out of trouble thanks to the arrival of Pussy Willow and his new roller derby team. But as much as Sabina wants to feel hopeful about the future, part of her doesn't believe that peace is possible.

Her suspicions are confirmed when a string of sadistic murders threatens to stall treaty negotiations between the mages and the vampires. Sabina pitches in to find the killer, but her investigation soon leads her down dark paths that have her questioning everyone she thought she could trust. And the closer she gets to the killer, the more Sabina begins to suspect this is one foe she may not be able to kill.

---

We hope you all have safe and merry holidays filled with magic and mischief. But most of all, we hope you spend them with a good book ... or ten. Cheers!

DRIVING MR. DEAD will be available Tuesday!

2011-12-20T18:05:00.001-08:00

My new novella, DRIVING MR. DEAD, will be available from Audible starting Dec. 27. That's TUESDAY!! The eBook version will be available from Pocket on Jan. 31.

The synopsis is below.

HELL ON WHEELS

After failing as a magician's assistant, a photographer, and most recently, a bride, Miranda Puckett takes a position as a driver for Beeline, Half-Moon Hollow's premiere vampire concierge service.

Miranda's assignment? Driving Collin Sutherland, the world's most fastidious vampire from Washington to Kentucky, so he can deliver a mysterious black case to Council official Ophelia Lambert.

Collin, a paranoid, aristocratic vampire with a debilitating fear of flying, refuses to let the case out of his sight. Miranda needs this time on the road to decide whether to permanently cut her ties with the fiance that had an "emotional affair" with a childhood pal, but Collin’s neatnik tendencies are driving her around the bend. The man acts as if leaving a fast food wrapped on the passenger seat is reason for a full-on CDC de-contamination scrub-down of the car. All she can do is promise to stop intentionally doing the things that make his stiff upper lip twitch with irritation.

As more and more mishaps occur on the road trip from hell, Miranda and Collin work together to meet his delivery deadline. Hotel rooms are destroyed. Beloved cars are defiled. And somewhere along the line, client-driver hostilities become snarky flirtation.

Will Collin and Miranda make it to the Hollow in one piece? And if they do, will Miranda leave old, safe relationships behind for something new and well, just plain weird?

She's a Mean One, Mr. Grinch

2011-12-19T20:13:00.000-08:00

((Cross posted at On Literary Intent))

Yes, I know I should probably be doing a Christmas post, given the proximity to that particular holiday, but I’m not gonna. No way, not gonna make me. ‘Cause honestly, Christmas is my least favorite holiday. I know, you probably think this is going to boil down to a “commercialism at Christmas” rant, but I swear it’s not. What it really amounts to is that I am a lousy gift-giver.

No, I don’t have any trouble picking out presents for people. (well, most of the time) See, I’m smart enough to get a list and much like Rachel in Friends, STICK TO THE LIST. Shopping isn’t my problem. Where I find my downfall is that I’m supposed to WAIT to give these people these totally awesome gifts that I know they want!

What kind of sick, sadistic holiday IS this? “Here, it’s wrapped up all shiny and ribbony, just waiting to be torn asunder and enjoyed! But not yet!” Seriously?

I’m much more of an instant gratification kinda girl. For example: Hubby and I agreed not to do presents for each other until after Christmas. Which means, of course, that there are no less than three presents hidden around the house at this very moment for the man. The only reason I HAVEN’T given them to him yet is because I’m absurdly proud of my hiding places. (He’s reading over my shoulder right now. I think the only reason he hasn’t dashed off in search is because he’s well aware of my aforementioned weak will. He knows he’ll get them soon anyway.)

I love watching people open presents that they know I want, and I see no reason that I should wait until some pre-determined day of the year to indulge myself in this particular pleasure. This is why I’m notorious among my friends for giving them “wrapped” gifts. (Wrapped = in the bag I bought it in) Hey, they have to open it, it counts!

My child has figured this out at even her tender young age. She knows very well if she asks “Mommy, can I open one early?” that she’ll wind up with ALL of them open sooner rather than later. I know, I know, it’s a sickness. I can’t help it!

Right now, at this very moment, there are presents stashed all over this house, just screaming to be given. The voices, they haunt me.

Announcements!

2011-12-15T05:28:00.000-08:00

First off, I want to send Juliet Blackwell a HUGE hug for making the New York Times extended list with DEAD BOLT. I'm so excited for her, I could spit!

I hosted a hilarious contest with Juliet in which people could create titles/proposals for the as-yet-unknown genre of Erotic Cozies. The contest is over, but the entries are amazing.

In my own news, I'm happy to announce the creation of Denise Townsend, writer of Selkie paranormal erotic romance. If you like erotic romance and like my books, I think you'll like hers. We're tight. ;-)

Her first book is Ocean's Touch, and it'll be coming out digitally with Samhain December 27th. Click the cover for more information:

For a final treat, I'll leave you with a new band that's totally rocking my world. They're Icelandic, which is always fun. They're Of Monsters and Men, and here's their song Little Talks:

Enjoy and have a happy holiday!

Merry Merry Blog Hop

2011-12-14T06:00:00.000-08:00

I tend to fangirl myself pretty hard sometimes - this year I actually had a set of Christmas cards made up with my characters from A Brush of Darkness.

You can buy a set if you're so inclined...if not, I'm giving some away, along with a bunch of swag - including signed cover flats and bookmarks, trading cards and a stuffed hedgehog.

Yes, a hedgehog.

Why?

Because I own one. And they are awesome. And prickly.

And awesome.

However, I can't give away Tumbleweed, so a stuffed hedgehog it will have to be.

To enter for this fabulous little prize package, you will have to write hedgehog haiku, over at my official author site. (You can go there now, but I won't open for comments until the 16th. However, there are pictures of the swag...and a hedgehog in a sleigh, and that's worth a look-see, right?)

And this is all part of the Mistletoe Madness Blog Hop, which includes a grand prize of a Nook, complete with a lovely bunch of pre-loaded books. (Including A Brush of Darkness)

Having a Foundation

2011-12-13T14:11:00.001-08:00

Hallelujah, I remembered to post!

Every single month, I write my day down on my calendar. So why do I sometimes look right at the calendar and still forget to post? No idea.

Being December and all, I considered a holiday-themed post, but I'm already talking Christmas over at Tynga's Reviews. I also considered a brief rant about the The Avengers character posters and how Black Widow is the only Avenger (and the token female) who's showing off her ass, but Carrie Vaughn said it better.

So instead, I'm pulling out an old bit of advice, originally posted three years ago on my blog. It's about having a foundation in your writing. Every July, I attend a local SF/F convention called Shore Leave, and in '08 something said during a writing panel really stuck with me:

I was in a writing panel Saturday afternoon , and one of the writer panelists (Howard Weinstein, FYI) was discussing discipline, which led one of the attendees to mention "inspiration." At which point author Michael Jan Friedman made the following comment (and I'm paraphrasing from memory here):

"Many people liken inspiration to a lightning bolt from on high. Something that comes down and strikes you. But what most people forget is that lightning comes from the ground, not the sky. The ground is a solid foundation. Instead of waiting for inspiration to drop down on you, start with a good foundation."

He went on, illustrating his point that a foundation in discipline, mechanics of writing and storytelling trumped waiting for that inspirational strike from above. And I happen to agree with him.

Inspiration is awesome, but it can also be used as a crutch and an excuse. "Oh, sorry, the Muse is on vacation, so no writing got done today." "I don't know how to get Max out of the Dungeon of Doom, so I'm going to drink a latte and wait for inspiration to strike." Um, yeah. You could be waiting for a week or more. This is where the discipline part of that foundation comes in handy. By putting your Butt In Chair, no matter what, and writing something, no matter how dreadful or delete-worthy, you are giving yourself the discipline to finish something.

Rewriting is okay. Revising is always necessary. But you can't finish a first draft if you let yourself off the hook with, "I'm waiting for inspiration." Discipline yourself to write through the trouble spots, and you won't have to wait for inspiration. I'll be there waiting for you when you sit down to write.

If you still need holiday cards...

2011-12-12T21:26:00.001-08:00

For your consideration:

YOU'RE WELCOME.

With Lace and Brocade Our Passions Obeyed

2011-12-11T14:14:00.000-08:00

Even at the holidays, especially at the holidays, the writer's muse can run amuck.

Maybe it's the upcoming release of Burned (A Void City Novel) by J. F. Lewis (hey, I see that guy in the mirror sometimes) at the end of January or the fact that I've been working on two different books set in that universe, but there are times when I'm so in writer-mode that normal everyday things can be rendered horribly funny because I realize how one character or another would react to them.

On the way home from lunch, for example, we were listening to Bing Crosby and David Bowie singing "Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth" and this whacked out impatient driver zoomed into the lane behind us, then around and past us... It infuriated my wife... And in glow of that anger, I was struck by the visual of happy Christmas shoppers in a hollywood-like surreal moment, walking down the sidewalks of Void City as Greta, one of my more murderous vampires, drove down the street in Fang, the flesh-eating 1964 1/2 Mustang who is never far away in the Void City books, s

aw the happy people... and steered up onto the sidewalk. Since it's Christmas, the visual panned up and away as the mayhem began... but I knew what happened next. So do you.

It applies to songs, too, the wacky aspect of the muse about which I am typing. When I can't remember the lyrics to a song, it's not that I can't think of things that rhyme. I usually can and I go right ahead and sing them, but only when I'm in writer-mode do the total WTF lyrics come out to play.

I didn't, for example, have any interest in coming up with a complete set of alternate lyrics to "Walking in a Winter Wonderland", but as the title of the blog post will tell you, I do totally have complete lyrics in my head for a song called "Fucking in Designer Underwear" as sung by a very inebriated Eric.

Another excerpt:

Shave your maiden's meadow like a snowman/I'll smile from ear to ear as I go down.

Yeah, you don't need the rest of it. Really you don't. I've found that even doodles can get out of hand. I guess it's because the writer brain never really lets go of anything (or at least mine doesn't). Several years ago, I saw someone in a forum recommend Staked, my first novel, to people on a Twilight discussion board. One poster asked if the book was anything like Twilight and the response was "Yes, it's exactly like Twilight except with real vampires."

Great sarcasm like that sticks with you, so when I was fiddling about with my iPad at lunch the other day, and drawing a werewolf. This happened:

Now, I know it's not just a writer thing. I am one hundred percent certain that everyone does this. Most people, however, seem to be wise enough to keep it to themselves or share thoughts involving belly shirt-wearing werewolves in lilac sunglasses and mock anti-Twilight ad campaigns to themselves. But not writers, or at least not this writer. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we should all let the crazy out from time to time. I know I plan to keep doing it. How about you?

The Confederacy of Nerds

2011-12-07T08:21:00.000-08:00

The Confederacy of Nerds is a grandiose term for a few dudes who take off once in a while to do completely uncool stuff because it's fun. We are well aware that various unwritten codes of manliness dictate that we're supposed to like poker and sports and drive giant trucks, or perhaps hunt down unarmed herbivores with ridiculously high powered weapons, but instead we re-channel our aggressive impulses into role-playing games. Oh yes. We're that kind of nerd: the ten-sided dice kind. D10s, baby. With faux marble surfaces. Aw yeah!

When the Man gets us down with his rules and schedules and stuff, we flee to a cabin in the mountains, stock it with beer and junk food, and fight some epic battles with periodic restroom breaks. We have this place in Pine, Arizona. Pine looks like this:

Except it doesn't have 80s hair. It just has a lot of ponderosa pine trees, and if you wish to stand in front of one for a picture or for archery practice, I can't think of a better spot.

We actually hang out in a cabin that looks remarkably similar to this one, with a deck and trees all around and stuff:

We smoke cigars and cuss a lot, and the two guys who work in IT keep talking about migrating shit to their Clouds, and the rest of us laugh at them. What nerds! And then the game playing begins. Lots of trash talk. Sometimes we play Warhammer roleplay, but this time we're playing a game called Hordes. One guy brings out his army of Trollbloods. They're awesome. They drink and smoke cigars and have muscles and kick ass, so it's the perfect wish fulfillment fantasy:

I have an army called Circle Orboros because they have some Druids in it. They also tend to have crossbows and really intricate armor. Here are a couple of Reeves checking out the troll:

"Look, Captain! That fucker has a keg! Let's nail him!"

So anyway, that's what I'll be doing this weekend. Friday is my birthday and and I'll be spending it geeking out. Can't wait! If you're in Arizona, by the way, I'll be cutting my nerdgasm short this weekend to join five other fantasy authors at The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale at 2 pm on Sunday, Dec. 11. Come on down and grab some signed books for Christmas or whatever!

How do you geek out?

ALERT: 13 gifts you should NOT get for werewolves this holiday season

2011-12-05T06:20:00.000-08:00

(somewhat reprised from my blog of Christmas past)

It is not easy to buy gifts for paranormals - especially werewolves. While they are typically polite about accepting items they don't like, quietly returning them when you're not around, some gifts that can upset them greatly, and should be avoided at all costs. Hopefully, this list will help.

Do NOT give your werewolf friends and family the following gifts:

1. Any chia pet in the shape of a canine. Deeply offensive to the werewolf psyche.

2. A Friendship bracelet that you worked really hard on, that the werewolf must never take off, and you'll be really mad if they lose it. Because they will!

3. The complete 5-volume Dog Whisperer DVD set featuring Cesar Millan. A werewolf will instantly rip it apart.

4. Nature's Gift Aromatherapy patchouli-scented bliss candles.

5. Actually, any heavily scented products are poor gift choices for werewolves.

6. Ten-hour video set of the historic Apollo 11 Lunar Landing. This type of close-up non-stop full moon footage can be overstimulating to werewolves, and lead to destruction of furnishings and upholstery, as well as messy sex marathons accompanied by howling that can result in noise complaints from the neighbors.

7. Road Runner vs. Wiley Coyote cartoon DVD set. (Not even as a joke, unless you hated your TV set anyway.)

8. The clapper, or worse, if you helpfully change all their lights over to operation by the clapper. This is not something that the werewolf in your life will find at all helpful.

9. Joy of yodelling CD. (Gets werewolves riled up, not in a good way. Let's just say they try to sing along, and it's not pretty.)

10. A surprise pre-paid trip to the dentist to get all cavities filled with silver fillings.

11. Rogaine.

12. The Slanket. While this gift may be exciting and attractive to your comfort-loving werewolf friend, it is actually very restrictive, and when it comes to shifting form unexpectedly, BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN.

13. The Miau Kitty Christmas Carol album: definitely NOT a recommended buy for werewolves this holiday season.

Do not under ANY circumstances purchase this music CD for a werewolf.

Gift plans ruined?

If this post has suddenly ruined your gift plans and you're scrambling for an awesome gift, please allow me to suggest books.... written by Leaguers!

And if any of your werewolf pals are fans of the Disillusionist Trilogy, I have great news: HEAD RUSH, the exciting final book (Mind Games and Double Cross are the first two) is out in audio now and comes out in ebook TOMORROW (aka Tuesday!) with print to follow in 2012. Happy ebook release week to me, and happy holidays to all!

The Vampire Wars

2011-12-04T08:17:00.000-08:00

Soooooo, my blog is short and sweet today. It was prompted by a picture I wish I could put up again, but have absolutely no clue how to add to this blog. All things tech confound me.

Anyway, on my Facebook page (maybe three weeks or so ago), I posted a pic of ze vampires Lestat and Louie from Interview With A Vampire. It had an effin’ funny caption. We laughed. We commented. We shared. We snarked.

Good times… Well, mostly.

There were a couple of people who got pretty passionate about their love of a particular vampire clan and a little angry with those of us who thought the pic was funny. There was much discussion. Much. Wow, was there discussion :)

Alas, that’s not what this blog is about. What struck me about that pic was the complete loyalty to a fictional group of people. It was steadfast, folks. And even if I don’t necessarily understand it, I certainly respect it. It’s what made the writer of said vampire clan richer than rich. It also renewed interest in vampires and opened a lot of doors for those of us that write them. That’s all good as far as I’m concerned.

Anyhoodles, the above situation was what made me ponder this question for today’s blog, that and my crazy Vampire Diaries marathon as of late. All that teenage angst makes me feel almost drama-free and far more superior than I should. :)

So tell me, who’s your favorite fictional vampire?

Christmas Cat of Doom

2011-12-02T11:40:00.001-08:00

The tree is decorated beautifully. Its nine feet tall. Filled with bows and shiny ornaments and sparkly lights. The family decorated it happily. Putting everything just so, too. The Viking put on the tippy-top ornament and I put on the decorative skirt.

Then came the cat.

There are two cats. The one who is not in trouble because trees with lights and ribbons and dangling objects bore him. Plus, he'd rather nap. Then there is the other cat.

Naughty cat. The terror of holiday trees everywhere. He lounged in the corner under the tree watching the humans create his kitty Disneyland. He was scatted and shushed and chased away from the tree. Our perfect, beautiful tree.

He killed the first ornament within an hour. It was a big, shiny silver wonder ... now a thousand shards. The cat endured a rousing game of "Hiss and Chase" and disappeared.

The humans were lulled into contentment. Eventually they stopped talking and listening to Christmas music and went to bed.

Naughty cat returned to the tree. His playground. For a whole night.

When morning came, four ornaments had been knocked off. One was missing a hook.

Hiss and Chase commenced.

Cat waited. And later, he killed another ornament.

And the next day? He climbed into the branches because the GOOD toys were in the middle. And he killed another ornament ... this one was special. A favorite.

Cat does not understand the meaning of Christmas. Or staying away from trees. Or how irritated his humans are because he's RUINING THE HOLIDAYS.

Naughty Cat, you are getting COAL in your stocking. And no, it's not a toy. It's not. Damn it. Who's up for another game of Hiss and Chase?

Best wishes

2011-12-01T07:42:00.000-08:00

We Leaguers are an industrious if pervy lot. And occasionally, one of us hits pay dirt.

In this case, a huge SHOUT OUT to Leaguer Cherie Priest, the High-Priestess of Steampunk who yesterday announced her movie deal of Boneshaker. Just three weeks ago she was in Denver signing at the Broadway Book Mall.

Soon, with luck and our tarnished blessings, she'll be in the position to greet us when we arrive at the gilded gates of her 1% estate, hats in hand, and she'll announce: "Release the hounds."

With the beginning of December comes the end of NaNoWriMo. How did you all do? I made my goal, which was to finish the first draft of a work in progress. A very ugly baby to be sure. But at least I have something to vivisect and reattach parts to. As much as we love NaNoWriMo, good intentions are not enough. They need your help, as in cashola. So dig out those spare coins rattling in your tattered pocket and send them here to keep the NaNoWriMo furnace stoked until 2012.

Holidays at the Harper House or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Stuffing."

2011-11-24T06:52:00.000-08:00

I have posted one of my favorite weird holiday stories at my blog, Nice Girls Don't Write Naughty Books.

We Got Some Nominees Up in Here!

2011-11-22T08:00:00.001-08:00

It's been a banner month for the League of Reluctant Adults.

Romantic Times posted their Reviewers' Choice Award nominees. Dudes, the League scored a bunch of nominations!

Best UF Protagonist:

Nicole Peeler's TEMPEST'S LEGACY

Jaye Wells's GREEN-EYED DEMON

Diana Rowland's MY LIFE AS A WHITE TRASH ZOMBIE

Jeanne C. Stein's CROSSROADS

Shapeshifter Romance:

Molly Harper's HOW TO FLIRT WITH A NAKED WEREWOLF

Michele Bardsley's MUST LOVE LYCANS

Paranormal Romance:

Michele Bardsley's NEVER AGAIN

Congratulations to all the nominees, both Leaguers and non-Leaguers alike. For the complete list of nominations, check out the Romantic Times site.

Also, as some of you know, the Goodreads Choice awards is also going on. Kevin Hearne's HOUNDED made it to the semi-final round. Richelle Mead's SUCCUBUS REVEALED made made it to the final round of the Best Paranormal Fantasy novels of 2011.

But this is only a hint of things to come. I predict that 2012 will be the year the League finally achieves our goal of total world domination. Send in your tributes and tithes now!

Snow White and the Competition

2011-11-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

It seems like when Hollywood comes up with a big idea, more than one studio wants in on the action. The latest "competing" movies seem to be the Snow White movies. Two of 'em. One dark and gritty (Snow White and the Huntsman), the other more of a parody (Mirror, Mirror).

Competing evil queens: Charlize Theron vs. Julia Roberts. (Frankly, I think Ms. Theron easily edges Ms. Roberts out in the "fairest" category).

Competing Snow Whites: Twilight's Kristen Stewart vs. Some Actress I Don't Know.

Between the two of these, and based on the trailers, I'm more interested in Snow White and the Huntsman. However, the director of Mirror, Mirror is responsible for one of my favorite, visually stunning movies of all time, The Cell. So we'll see.

Based on these trailers, which do you think will be the winningest version of Snow White in 2012?

What Next?

2011-11-16T05:00:00.000-08:00

Soooo... NaNoWriMo is now halfway through. This is my first time. Yes really. I was a NaNoWriMo virgin until this year.

Why?

Because I didn't even know there was such a thing until after my first novel was published. And then I found that I was usually in the revision process when everyone else was diving into their NoWri and heading for the 50,000 word finish line, recorded in diligent little blog posts and complaining. This was before Twitter and G+ of course. And maybe even before FaceBook. Yes, it's been such a short time and so much has happened....

What hasn't changed is this: it's still a process which results in (we hope) 50,000 words of story recorded for whatever posterity you choose to reference. Well, it might be more if you've been extra busy and very very clever, not to mention a fast typist with a lot of time on your hands. (And if you are any of these, I hate you.) In A Month! (Yeah, That's a lot in not a lot of time and don't believe anyone who says otherwise.)

So now you look at your opus and you may think one of two things (right after "Thank Dog that's over" and "Go me!" --unless you missed the goal, in which case you're probably thinking that everyone else you know who capped the NaNoWriMo challenge is a cheating, rotten, untalented, goat-molesting, computer-shagging speed typist and a booger head. But I digress!) Here's the two things you may be thinking:

1) I have a novel full of awesome! I'm awesome! In fact, everything's simply wiggly-ducky-tail, kitty-whiskers, puppy-kisses, totally, fickin awesome right now! Wheeee! I'm going to get this baby published!
2) I have 50,000 words of crap. Where can I hide it?

Either way, the answer is: stop. Right now.

See, whether your NoWri is fabulous 50K or craptacular 20K (or a combination of the two), the first thing to do is realize that is is not a novel. Oh I hear some of you aspiring writers winding up the whine-o-matic about how I'm a published writer and I'm a snob and I just want to keep you down. But that's not it (well, maybe it is, but I'm sticking to my original story here!) What you have is a start. And at 50K it's a damned good start. So why stop now? There is so much more to do! (Oh, I know that sounds so mean after all you've done, but it's true!)

Yup, even if you choose to take your NoWri to the wonderland that is electronic self-publishing, you probably should do something to it first. Like... revise it. Spell check at the very least. Possibly--oh I don't know.... Finish it? Get someone else to read it before you format it for Amazon or Smashwords.

Some of you are now thinking "but it's wonderful the way it is" and I say that's the celebratory drinks talking. And the rest are thinking "Into the truck with you, Manuscript-beast!") No matter who you are, now is the time to rest a bit and get another perspective before you charge off to the next phase in your NoWri Adventure (or attempt to hide the body.)

I know some people refer to December as National Novel Revision Month and that works for some people. For others it may be National Novel FINISHING month (it probably will be for me.) Even if the NoWri is kind of smelly and broken, don't just shove it under the bed and pretend it didn't happen. There's something there. OK, so a lot of it will be crap--rough drafts are by definition craptacular and often even shittastic. A few reach the pinnacle of fucktabulous and that's really saying something in the "this stinks" department. And yet... things still get published. (I know from personal experience that wreck-alicious rough drafts--or "Draft Zero" as some say--can still turn into good books; just ask my editor. Hell ask any editor.)

Because the writer doesn't just throw it out to the public at the tender age of 50K and one month. They coddle it a little, feed it a little, pretty it up and take it out for lunch....

And then they beat the ever-loving poo out of it! They get their friends to poke it with sticks and they call it names and they lock it in the closet for a week before they look at it again.

And then they go back to work and make a better version. A complete version. A shiny, happy, lovely version. With all its subplolts intact, and its characters rounded, its plot clean and its prose sparkly--or at least not so rough and misspelled.

And then they dress it up pretty and take it out to meet the Editor....

And thus are novels born. Some won't make it. Some won't try. Some are just exercises and learning experiences and that's fine too--but you won't learn if you don't look at what you did. And there will be a few that, even after the extra polish, are still just turds. But don't make that decision in the sweat of crossing the finish line. Take a moment to savor the victory, or spit out the bitterness of defeat....

Then consider your own personal goal in having participated in NaNoWriMo: what did you want to get out of it? Did you just want to try to write that much in a month? Did you want to write a specific story? Did you want just to beat your writing chops into shape a bit? Did you want to get a good start on a longer work? (Or in my case, finish one.)

Did you get that?

That is what is important. Not 50,000 words, not "a novel" instead of short stories or poems, not how well or how much anyone else did, not what your publisher will think--or if you can get one. Did you meet your goal? Are you happier with yourself as a writer now that November is over?

These are the things you take away from NaNoWriMo. And perhaps more.

While you're deciding what to do next, here are some places to think more about NaNoWriMo and what to do in December:

Jim C. Hines's blog on NaNoWriMo (gotta love Jim!)
Beth Cato's After NaNo post at Women On Writing
and
Holly Lisle's post on How to Revise Your Novel

Me, I'm going to finish this beast and get it off to the editor. Before she sets the hounds on me....

Dr. Peeler's Five Laws of Nanowrimo!

2011-11-15T04:45:00.001-08:00

Howdy folks! I'm doing Nanowrimo this year, and I thought I'd share my thoughts on how to engage with National Novel Writing Month successfully.

"But you haven't even finished successfully, Dr Peeler," readers may be thinking. "You are only halfway done!"

This is true. But what I've noticed these first two weeks is that Nanowrimo is mostly what writers do, when they're on deadline. A few thousand words a day is not much for us, especially if we write genre fiction. On Twitter, writers with contracts for 3-4 books a year (a pretty standard number for those who actually make a living writing) often talk about writing five thousand or more words per day.

And that's partly why I like Nanowrimo as a learning experience for aspiring writers. It's nice to think of writing as this wonderful enterprise where one sits in a puddle of sun, scribbling and laughing and eating bonbons. The truth is much uglier, oftentimes a bit smellier, and definitely involves other physical reactions than laughing, dread being at the top of my own list.

So here's how I get through my novels, and here's what is making Nanowrimo actually quite easy for me. I know how obnoxious that sounds, but I want everyone who wants to be a writer to think about what I'm saying. Think of me sweating, and swearing, and spending mornings, unshowered in my pajamas, frantically typing while wondering how I'm ever going to get through it all.

That's called being a writer.

And here's my top five tips on how to do it:

1) PLAN.

I don't care how you plan. I don't care if you outline (although that's my method), or storyboard, or write on cocktail napkins or tattoo your inner thighs with random plot points.

BUT YOU MUST PLAN. Writing an actual manuscript is not about vomiting out great ideas. Great ideas are a dime a dozen. Furthermore, there are no original great ideas. What there is, however, is the possibility of heartfelt execution that brings something nuanced to those tropes we've been battering about ever since humans started scrawling on the walls of their caves. So plot! Think about what you're doing! Think about how you will do it! And write something down, on something, somewhere.

2) WORK WITH YOUR OWN SCHEDULE AND HABITS.

You know yourself. No one else does. People will say, "Oh, you HAVE to write in the morning," or, "I get all my best work done at night." I don't care if you do your best work on the toilet, wearing a tea cozy on your head. If that's what works for you, that's what works for you.

That said, you do want to spend a little time thinking through your schedule. There will be days that you can't write, so you might have to make up for those days over that weekend, or the next day. There will be days that you definitely can't write in the morning. But what if you do your best writing in the morning? Maybe that's a situation in which you don't write one day, but get ahead on any other work or chores using that time, and then write the next day, knowing you have all morning. So basically, if #1 is Plan Your Novel, #2 is Attempt to Plan Your Life. Obviously, that's easier said than done, but do make an effort to figure out what works for you and how you can achieve your optimum writing time. Then, constantly reassess as things change.

3) REACH OUT TO OTHERS.

The great thing about Nanowrimo is that it introduces people to other writers in their area. Reach out to them! Attend Write-Ins if you can. If you're someone who does actually live in the middle of nowhere, and there really isn't anyone else around, reach out to your family. Someone's always working on something--taxes, PTA posters, whatever. Tell them you'd love to set aside some "working time" at a cafe, or your house, or their house, or in the middle of a stream. It doesn't matter. What matters is not feeling so alone in this endeavor. And this idea of reaching out is actually a really important part of writing, for all of us. Writing can be very solitary, and so Nanowrimo helps facilitate what other writers have to do on their own--finding people who commiserate.

4) DON'T FOCUS ON THE FIFTY.

I think that, for a lot of people, the idea of writing 50,000 words is hugely daunting. No matter how it's written, 50,000 (fifty thousand, 50k, etc) is a huge number.

That said, keep in mind that 50,000 words isn't even a "real" novel. It's a novella, at best. I'm not saying that to be a jerk, I'm saying that to remind everyone that 50k is an arbitrary number.

So that's why we shouldn't focus on the fifty. Instead, focus on more manageable goals. Focus on daily word counts, or on weekly word counts. Focus on the quarter-mark and the halfway mark. We should also reward ourselves at each milestone. Because any words written at all is a coup. Which leads me to....

5) IF YOU WROTE ANYTHING, YOU'RE A WINNER.

I don't care if you wrote 1,000 words, or 49,995. To me, it's not about "winning" Nanowrimo. As an educator, and a professor of creative writing, I think that attempting Nanowrimo can teach people so much about themselves and their real relationship to writing. The key is to self-assess, no matter how many words one accomplished. Maybe someone "wins" Nanowrimo, but they hated every minute of it, and they hate what they wrote. Such a person should think about whether he or she really wants to be a writer. Conversely, maybe someone only wrote 20,000 words this month. But if, upon assessing her progress, that person realizes that she loved every minute of the process, and she loves her book, and that 20,000 words x 5 months=100,000 words=one whole novel, I would consider such a result a much greater reward than a "winner" icon.

So those are my five rules for Nanowrimo. A sixth might be NOT to fall into the trap of snacking while writing, as down that road lies obesity, but that's another rule for another day. ;-)

If you want to add me as your Nano buddy, I'm NicolePeeler. To all, good luck with writing! And keep on trucking!

Writing for Myself

2011-11-14T07:17:00.001-08:00

One of the interesting things about being published is that your words aren't always your own. Or your time, really. Before I had a contract I could write whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Silly stories, or smutty bits of fanfic, huge posts in online role-playing games - the writing was "just for fun." Except when I got serious and started pushing toward what I needed to do for publication.

And the thing is, I got my contract very quickly. A Brush of Darkness was my first real attempt at getting published (though I hadn't really meant it to be - it was supposed to be my "learner" book. Fate is odd that way, I suppose.)

But one of the trade-offs to that is that I don't have a trunk full of additional manuscripts I can pull from. I'm writing as I go - which means contracted work comes first, even if I get struck with inspiration for something else. And clearly, every author is different. I'm a slow writer and I've got all that "Real Job" stuff to deal with, along with a couple of sproglets. So my writing time is limited...and as much as I might like to take off with one of these fabulous ideas that hits me throughout the day, I can't really justify it when I've got a deadline hanging over my head. (At least not much - sometimes I do write some things down - I've got an idea notebook I keep with me for these sorts of things. As long as I write it down, I can come back to it.)

Some days, it's hard to stay focused, particularly when the new ideas start knocking and demanding to know when it will be *their* time.

In an effort to soothe the "wanna-be ideas", I am going to attempt a small pet project in the upcoming months that I'm pretty excited about, namely in the form of a web-comic. It's strictly for fun at this point, but since I've always wanted to try my hand at writing graphic novels, it should be a good way to get my feet wet. My artist (Aimo) is actually a licensed sketch-card artist for Marvel and LucasArts, and if you're at all familiar with Bioware's Dragon Age or Mass Effect fandoms, you might have seen her work in the form of numerous character sketch cards and fan-comics.

We'll be doing an original story, though I'm not sure how many issues at this point. (Even when I think small, the story-arcs get big sometimes.) I'll post more details as we get closer to going live- Spring 2012 is our current aim. (We'll be posting it over at SadSausageDogs.com - not linking yet because it's still in development, but thought I'd throw it out there as a heads-up.)

To err is who man

2011-11-12T09:53:00.000-08:00

We all make typos. There's no getting around it. If you're human and type a lot, you will make typos. That's what beta readers and editors are for. Plus, in this day and age, you've always got a spellchecker handy to flag your mistakes for you. It's kind of hard to let a typo slide if Microsoft Word tells you in red that you spelled something wrong.

Unless, of course, your typo isn't misspelled. This is a problem I have all the time. When I'm typing quickly, I substitute words that sound like the word I intended to type. It's like my brain is hooked on phonics. And I don't mean I have a homonym problem. I know when to use they're and their, cast and caste, etc. No, I substitute words that sound *like* the word I intended--but not exactly like it. Like so:

I arrived at seven on the doubt.

Yeah. I probably don't need to tell you that I intended to use "dot" there. This one's obvious too:

Our leaves depended on it.

That doesn't make sense, unless perhaps it's spoken by some harried gardener who needs to get a yard cleaned up ASAP. And seriously--I do these ALL THE TIME. I'm currently going over the second Bloodlines book and am in awe of all the sounds-alike substitutions I did while typing the first draft. None, however, are as magnificent as this one:

I found the candles--atrocious air freshening ones that smelled like fake pain.

This was supposed to be "fake pine," but man, I'm not going to lie. Fake pain--whatever it smells like--sounds awesome. Does it smell like Teen Spirit? Can I find a way to spin this into money-making merchandise with fake pain scented candles or cologne? That typo is so good, I kind of want to leave it in there.

Am I the only one who does this kind of thing? Is there a name for it?

Best Names Ever

2011-11-10T13:24:00.000-08:00

So I'm watching American Horror Story, and I have to say, the show has become addictive. It's unflinchingly dark, and extremely violent. I absolutely love what the writers are doing with the characters of Violet and Tate. And here's something that I thought was tres cool indeed:

Tate + Violet

Taint + Violent

See that? Isn't that AWESOME???

What other couple names from books, television shows, plays or movies can you think of are either intentionally or accidentally awesome plays on words?

The Story Muse

2011-11-06T22:34:00.000-08:00

In one of the more haunting issues of The Sandman by Neil Gaiman—#17 to be exact—there is a character named Richard Madoc who becomes cursed with more stories than he can possibly write down. Instead of facing writer’s block, he’s dealing with writer’s diarrhea, and he goes quite batshit as a result. It’s a fabulous issue, and completely terrifying in many respects to any author. I recommend it—as I recommend that whole series.

I have not yet achieved Richard Madoc’s level of batshit. But it does seem that I’m getting more ideas for stories than should be allowed. I’ve started several different ones in the past couple of weeks, all of them shiny and new, when I should be working on the book that’s under contract. I’ve been working on it too, of course—but the ideas keep coming. Since I’m kind of a slow writer, I get excited by 2-3,000 words per day when that’s pretty meh for most writers. (I tried writing with Nicole Peeler once. That was an exercise in humility. She wrote like 1,500 words in an hour and I only shat out 553. She is super-fly T.N.T. ) So when I wrote 3K the other day I was ecstatic, until I remembered it wasn’t on my novel, but on a short story for which I’d never be paid. Arrrgh!

No. You know what? Wheee! Writing the stories was fun, damn it! And I am still enough of a newb to find all the writing fun. I’m not sure when I’ll find time to finish the stories, since the beat of the deadline drum grows ever louder, but they do serve to help me blow off some steam when I feel temporarily stymied by events in the book. And that, more than anything, is why I refuse to get too upset by getting distracted. When a book is giving you trouble, working on alternate projects always keeps you productive.

There are days, of course, when nothing helps. On those days, there is pie.

Three things I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd need as a novelist

2011-11-05T18:43:00.000-07:00

Up until recently, the profession of novelist really hadn’t changed, well, for eons. In fact, until the past decade, it was a pretty backward-looking profession, which was something that made me eager to join it.

Budding scientists and engineers aspire to do new things, but for most of my youth, I aspired to be like writers who lived decades before me. My picture of success was pretty old fashioned: a stack of books, and I would build that stack by working hard. And my computer was just a souped-up typewriter.

Crystal ball

The last thing I thought I would want or need as a writer was a crystal ball! Who cares about the future? Que sera sera, biotches!

Hah. That has totally changed. I've never been more obsessed with predicting the future as I am today as a writer of novels. I change my mind every other day about what my priorities should be in this crazy new climate. New and different things are important. Nobody agrees on anything except that things are changing. Will I make a decision today that I will regret bitterly in three years? Never in my life have I more badly wanted a crystal ball!

Timer

This, too, is a recent phenomena! In my 20s and 30s, the biggest distractions (beyond the day job) were squirrels and cars out the window, which was totally fine. But now, during pauses for thought or hard spaces in my fiction-writing work, I’m way too aware that there is a party in the next room full of many friends (aka twitter!) or the exciting ding of the email (could be something wonnnnnderful!) I never imagined I would have to enforce periods of detachment from communication with a selection of timers, from the 25/5 minute dealio of FocusBooster to my dashboard timers.

And then, there are the #1K1hr things on twitter, which I’ve begun to really enjoy in certain first drafting modes (though, I rarely go above 500 words. I’m slow). Anyway, that requires a timer, too.

It’s all very robotic. I feel strangely automated. Like a Borg.

Spreadsheet with numbers

This is the biggest freaker, that I would ever need to track things like numbers on things like spreadsheets. But now that I’m involved in a self-pubbed anthology (Wild & Steamy—currently FREE, by the way) and about to put out another self pubbed novella, I’m suddenly involved in tracking things, gaining various insights that numbers can provide.

I’m learning to use Excel, a program that sat unused, even somewhat disdained, in my Microsoft office folder.

Someday when I'm a more savvy writer, ideally I will track the sales of all my books, the way I see other authors doing. Publishing companies are starting to give authors numbers and data—one of my publishers, Random House, has plans to follow suit, and I think my other pubs—Audible and Samhain—give it pretty readily (note to self: check that!) but in the meantime, there are bookscan numbers from Amazon, which I never look at, but should.

I imagine myself someday as that more savvy author applying my new Excel spreadsheet skills to plotting and tracking these numbers against various online activities. Because, it would help me know how to best spend my promo time. Which translates in to more writing time.

Making sense of things, creating order from chaos, writing stories for people to read, it all still has lots of old fashioned aspects to it. It's just weird how it’s changing so suddenly and rapidly.

I don’t think it’s bad; actually I think it’s healthy when things change and evolve and get influenced from new quarters. Language itself is constantly changing in much the same way. It’s just...weird

What about you? What do you need these days for your various endeavors that you never thought you’d need?

Write naked if you have to!

2011-11-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

We've made it to November. Whew! That means it's time for... NaNoWriMo! National Novel Writing Month. If you've got the novel-writing itch, then scratch it with NaNoWriMo.

This year I’m an official participant because I need to finish a work-in-progress. Right now, I’m what is charitably called “in-between-contracts,” which in industry parlance means I got bupkis in terms of book contracts.

This year my publishing credits were limited to a short story in the mystery anthology, You Don’t Have A Clue, and an essay in the collection, An Elevated View--Colorado Writers on Writing.

Since my last contract I’ve been fielding proposals--the first three chapters, an outline, and a synopsis--in hopes of scoring an advance before I have to write the whole manuscript. I got nibbles on three proposals with this caveat: the editors want to see the completed manuscripts. Ugh. So enough pounding my pud, time to finish one story and send it off. That’s where NaNoWriMo comes in. Do or die, brothers and sisters.

Last month, the League was frothing at the mouth (we froth well) about Write Agenda and the way they’ve dissed our buddies at Absolute Write Water Cooler, Writer Beware, and John Scalzi at SFWA. So the League smote back with what we do best, snark and more snark. Now those sneaks at Write Agenda have gone and done the unthinkable. They’ve listed four Leaguers as Recommended Authors: Jaye Wells, Kevin Hearne, Nicole Peeler, and myself. What must we do to set these guys right about our true pervie nature and threat to public morals? Post pictures of our League orgies? Then so be it.

A Guide to Surviving Whatever Halloween Throws at You

2011-10-31T18:03:00.001-07:00

So, as usual, I've been watching way too many horror movies in the lead-up to Halloween. And because I tend to over-think these things, I've started composing lists of things I need to watch for just in case I'm destined for some sort of SyFy Channel Halloween death match. And because you're my blog peeps, and I love you, and I want you to survive if such a situation comes up, I thought I'd share them with you.

Five signs you are about to be bitch-slapped by the zombie apocalypse.

1) You have drunkenly stumbled into a mausoleum, hunting cabin, abandoned hospital/mental ward, derelict amusement park or closed shopping mall to do something juvenile and asinine.

2) You recently achieved a life milestone- marriage, a promotion, pregnancy, or retiring. In zombie movies, God will only let you be happy for so long.

3) You fiddle with chemicals and/or bio-hazardous materials you neither appreciate nor understand.

4) You are feisty and/or plucky. Zombies are drawn to "plucky" like ants to an open Coke can. And your Coke can is full of delicious brains.

5) Despite having never touched a gun before, you discover a heretofore unknown mastery of badass weapons.

Five signs you are about to be possessed or eviscerated by a ghost

1) You have drunkenly stumbled into a mausoleum, hunting cabin, abandoned hospital/mental ward, derelict amusement park or closed shopping mall to do something juvenile and asinine.

2) You find an amulet inscribed with a Satanic symbol, a book bound in human skin, or some other object the locals describe as “cursed,” then stick it in your pocket as a souvenir.

3) You bear a striking resemblance to any person in the history of any place. Ever.

4) Your ancestors did something really, really douche-y, once upon a time.

5) You have been told a local legend about a spirit that devours attractive twenty-somethings, turns attractive twenty-somethings inside out, or skins attractive twenty-somethings and turns them into puppets or household furnishings. But you ignore it. It’s just a story, right?

Five signs you are about to ironically murdered by a serial killer.

1) You have drunkenly stumbled into a mausoleum, hunting cabin, abandoned hospital/mental ward, derelict amusement park or closed shopping mall to do something juvenile and asinine.

2) Someone in your group of friends is a really attractive, sweet-natured virgin.

3) You’re on a group outing with friends, but can’t wait until the end of evening to have sex. So you sneak off to a location where no one will hear you. You’re smart AND classy.

4) No one in your group has a fully charged cell phone, a well-maintained car or a gun.

5) Someone in your group, usually the one wearing glasses, has a really solid survival plan, but you don’t listen to it.

Five signs you are being targeted by some variation of a mutated shark, gator, octopus, fish, snake, gorilla or combination thereof.

1) You have drunkenly stumbled into a mausoleum, hunting cabin, abandoned hospital/mental ward, derelict amusement park or closed shopping mall to do something juvenile and asinine.

2) You are a grizzled old fisherman with a drinking problem, that no one will miss until your remaining bits are found in an estuary.

3) You stumble upon a twisted, empty storage container from an ominously-named genetic engineering lab a few yards from your campsite, but you don’t want to change your plans for the weekend.

4) You utter the words, “Did you hear something?”

5) You are outside at night, either going to pee or to meet your sweetheart for an ill-advised rendezvous and your flashlight’s battery just died.

Five signs you are about to be devoured by vampires, the non-sexy, non-teen angsty variety.

1) You have drunkenly stumbled into a mausoleum, hunting cabin, abandoned hospital/mental ward, derelict amusement park or closed shopping mall to do something juvenile and asinine.

2) You live in an isolated community where there is an inordinate amount of rain or night-time hours.

3) You are driving a bloodmobile.

4) You are friends with someone who seems to know too much about vampire traditions and history.

5) You are biddable and desperate for friends and would therefore make an invaluable bug-eating familiar.

Halloween Chat at VYou

2011-10-28T19:41:00.001-07:00

No plans on Halloween? I'll be hosting a video chat at VYou, from 9-10 p.m. (CST) Monday, Oct. 31. Stop by, leave a question, you'll get an immediate video response!

My profile is linked here.

The Once & Future Podcast Haunted Halloween Special Features Favorite Authors Reading Their Favorite Seasonal Tales

2011-10-24T06:15:00.000-07:00

I've been a busy little bee spooking it up for the haunted holiday season, and here are all the details that will bring you almost 2 hours of awesome story goodness!

(USA, NY, NY) - Speculative fiction author Anton Strout announces a very special haunted episode of The Once & Future Podcast- a new weekly book-centric podcast focused on all things fantasy and science fiction. Episode 7, posting on Monday, October 24^th, promises hours of dark and creepy tales of the season, including many of them read by the authors themselves.

“I love the Fall,” says Strout, host and curator of content for the show. “I always have. The change of seasons where everything is slowly dying, a chill filling the air, and all the horrors that are associated with one of my favorite holidays, Halloween. To help celebrate, I’ve invited some of my most ghoulish and delightful author friends to join in this danse macabre and regale us with stories inspired by their darker nature. Being the twisted little creators they are, they happily agreed, some of them cackling with evil glee pouring forth from their little black hearts, bless ‘em.”

The podcast will feature essays and tales surrounding the Halloween spirit by: Amber Benson (Death’s Daughter, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Ghosts of Albion), Jennifer Brozek (Grant’s Pass, Shanghai Vampocalypse), Rachel Caine (The Morganville Vampires, Working Stiff), Christopher Golden (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Hellboy, Ghosts of Albion), Heather Graham (Harrison/Krewe of Hunters series), Nalo Hopkinson (Skin Folk, The New Moon’s Arms), Jonathan Maberry (Dead of Night, Patient Zero, Marvel Zombies Return), and Tim Waggoner (Nekropolis, Ghost Trackers).

To find out more, please visit http://antonstrout.com/Once___Future_Podcast.html

About The Once & Future Podcast

The Once & Future Podcast is a weekly book-centric podcast focused on all things fantasy and science fiction, hosted by the one and only Anton Strout. Strout is the author of the Simon Canderous urban fantasy series published by Ace Books as well as the upcoming Spellmason Chronicles and has been in the publishing industry for over twenty years. Anton will be chatting in interview format with other authors at various stages of their careers every Monday via iTunes or by visiting http://antonstrout.com/Once___Future_Podcast.html

Contact:
Anton Strout, Host/Curator
Email: OnceandFuturePodcast@gmail.com
twitter: twitter.com/OandFPodcast
Facebook: www.facebook.com/Once.And.Future.Podcast
Website: antonstrout.com/Once___Future_Podcast.html

Zombies. Denied.

2011-10-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

((Cross-posted at On Literary Intent))

Anyone who has more than a passing acquaintance with me knows my one great phobia: zombies. Can’t explain why, but they freak me out like nothing else in this entire world. Yes, I know they’re fictional. No, it doesn’t help. And for some reason, even knowing that they scare the bejeezus outta me, I still feel the need to poke at that open wound. Hence, watching the AMC series, The Walking Dead.

(It should be noted that I watch a lot of it with my eyes closed)

In discussing this show with others, it has been brought up that they never use the word “zombie”. (they call them “walkers”) And of course, in my mind, this is because a “zombie” was never part of this world’s mythology, and therefore they don’t HAVE that word. I find this simple concept interesting, however, because it tends to illustrate one of my key theories* about the concept of a zombie apocalypse. (*key theory also translates to “things I will rant about for hours if you don’t walk away first”)

My theory being this: A zombie apocalypse canNOT happen in a world where zombies are part of the known mythos. Bear with me here, I shall ‘splain.

I am willing to hazard a guess that at least 75% of the world** has heard the word “zombie” or whatever that translates to in their language of choice. (**all statistics pulled directly out of my butt) A good chunk of that 75% goes even further and has read/watched/heard enough about the monster called “zombie” to know how to kill one, and how to avoid infection by same.

Therefore, the surprise and bewilderment element that seems to be so key in the early days of a zombie apocalypse would not apply to our world as we know it.

Picture this, two guys sitting on their front porch, and they see a half-decayed corpse come lurching down the street.

Guy 1: “Hey, Ralph, you see that?”
Guy 2: “Holy shee-it, that’s a zombie!”
Guy 1: “Dude, get the camera, I’ma grab a ball bat. We’re gonna youtube this shit!”

No pause of “hey, that guy’s hurt, we should get him to a hospital!” No trying to save Uncle Jethro because we love him and he just had a little bite from the crazy neighbor guy across the street. No spread, no epidemic, all done.

Now, it has been mentioned to me that “Not everyone sits around with a shotgun saying ‘Bring on the zombies!’” To which I answer, “They don’t?” I don’t have a single friend who has not put at least minimal thought into a plan for a zombie apocalypse. I know, ‘cause I took a poll. Some are more thorough than others (ie: weapons stashes, bug out bags, survival training, etc.). Some are no more than “Hey, I’ma go find Kari & her hubby, ‘cause they have swords and they’re mean!” But still, it’s a plan.

And really, think about it. The original gaming generation has now reached adulthood. How many of us grew up on the original Romero zombie movies, blasting away at zombies in almost every video game ever made? (even Mario Brothers has walking skeleton dudes. Just saying) We’re comfortable with the idea of killing zombies. More importantly though, we’re all ADULTS now. (for some loose definition of the word) That means we have our own expendable income, and the legal ability to buy weapons. This isn’t just guns, this is swords, and crossbows and axes and all those things your parents would never let you have as a child.

We’re an entire generation of armed, zombie killing machines, people! Just let one of those undead mofos raise his head and we will bust it into tiny plague-ridden bits. No zombie apocalypse for me, thank you very much.

And there you have it, folks. Proof that I have put WAY too much thought into a totally fictional disaster scenario. What are your thoughts on the subject?

Spooky Stuff

2011-10-16T14:06:00.000-07:00

First, thanks to all of you for your support of our "boycott me!" post. The attempts of a few bullies to undermine some of the best information sites out there truly is scary, but you guys aren't afraid and that gives us a warm, goopy feeling... but more like chocolate lava cake than whatever Mark and Mario where thinking. And thanks to you guys, we're going to be sending money off to support Absolute Write's and Writer Beware's continuing efforts to keep writers safe from scammers and lying cockwaffles.

Meanwhile, since it's October, I've been thinking about Hallowe'en. When I was a kid, this was always my favorite holiday. You got to go out after dark (yay!), get candy (more yay!), and dress up as someone or something you weren't (Excellent!) Maybe my parents should have realized right then that I was destined to be a writer because I always wanted to dress up and be someone else and tell lies. Because writers are usually insecure loonies with word obsessions who read the dictionary for fun and find their imaginary friends more interesting than "real" people. Well, I am at least.

But back to the dressing up! I guess I'm lucky I'm female because most people don't find it odd for little girls to play dress up or for adult women to have a closet full of clothes with which to transform themselves from whatever they do during the day to whatever they play at night (or vice versa). If I'd been male I suppose I'd have had to be a drag queen,

because I secretly crave the FAHBoolus, dahlink.

At Hallowe'en, I always dressed up as a princess...
long before Disney princesses were popular. Except for the one year I dressed up as a cat (haha) and gave myself a hairball trying to get my hands free of my adorable felt paws using my teeth.

But this year I don't know what to dress as. I'm not the sort to dress up as a Sexy Nurse:
an adorable pirate:
Or even a socially-responsible, green-friendly "box Croc" (not that I'm known to be responsible or green... except when I've had too much to drink.)
So... I guess I'll have to go as myself.
Alas

Sneak Peak at A Sliver of Shadow

2011-10-14T10:06:00.000-07:00

Well, the cover hasn't been "officially" released yet, but I've been given the go ahead to give away cover flats, so here's a quick shot of the new A Sliver of Shadow cover!

New model, new artist...and yes, a shot of Phin on the back there. Though for some reason I couldn't convince the art department to put him in a wombat brothel. Alas.

(There's actually a bit of a gork-up on the image on the spine, but that will be fixed with the book release, so chalk these up babies up to potential collector's items. You know, some day when I've got that massive movie deal.)

A Picture Worth a (Literal) Thousand Words

2011-10-13T07:31:00.000-07:00

(Cross-posted from my blog)

Last October I was lucky enough to enjoy an extended weekend frolicking around New York City with a good friend. We went to see the fabulous show "Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson," eat good food, walk a bazillion miles, and even throw in a little book research.

You see, the opening chapter of TRANCE takes place in Central Park. In it, sixteen teen and tweens training to be superheroes are running from a group of bad guys. It's the final battle after years of fighting between the adults, and everything has come to a head in Manhattan.

The problem was, I had never been to Central Park, and while I'd found lots of nice photos online, it's an entirely different experience to walk the Park itself. For one thing, it's huge! And you can't really get a sense of scale without being there. So we went, and we walked, and I took lots and lots of pictures.

You can read Chapter One of TRANCE here, or you can hang around and read here, as well, complete with pictures. Unfortunately, I lack the drawing skills required to insert my characters into these photos, so the narrative action will have to suffice.

ENJOY!

####

One
Central Park

The bronze man's head was melting. It oozed fat splats of liquid metal and swirled down the front of his old-fashioned suit jacket to puddle at his feet. Some of it hit the bronze duck below him, adding layers of new metal that mutated it into a nightmarish goose. The molten metal cooled and hardened as it hit the sidewalk. Mayhem's heat blasts were concentrated above the statue, and metal needs a constant heat source to stay liquid. I learned that in class.

Gage had told me the statue was of a once-famous man who wrote stories for kids. I don't know for sure, but if Gage says so, it must be true. He's in charge while the adults are fighting for all of our lives, and he kept us quiet and hidden. For a while.

Until Mayhem found our hiding place.

"We have to run for it," Gage said.

I didn't want to run. We'd been running for hours, from the southernmost point of Central Park to where we were now. I don't know how many blocks, but a lot, and it was raining, too—light, chilly rain and heavy, splattering rain. Sometimes it stopped and just blew cold wind; then Ethan would use his Tempest powers to try to redirect it so we didn't freeze.

Hours of it, and I was exhausted. We all were. Each time the Banes gained ground and pushed the last of the grown-up Rangers north, we kids ran ahead and took cover. We were there to fight if we had to, but the grown-ups didn't want us to—not until absolutely necessary. At fifteen, Gage was the oldest; I'm the youngest at ten-almost-eleven. He says we're the last line of defense for the city of New York.

We're the last line of defense for the rest of the country.

And we're just a bunch of kids.

Mayhem kept blasting.

Ethan stepped out from the shelter of the stone wall, all wiry and red-haired and cocky thirteen. He raised his hands to the sky. A blast of wind shot away from him and swirled toward Mayhem. She was a good hundred yards away, across a cement hole that had once been a lake or something, near a statue of a bronze girl on a mushroom. The statue was losing shape, turning into goo from her being so close to it.

Ethan's air blast slammed Mayhem's heat back at her. She was wearing street clothes, just jeans and a black shirt, and they were nothing like our special uniforms. No armor to protect Mayhem from her own powers or ours, so she flew backward with a piercing shriek. Her braided black hair flipped around like snakes, and she landed out of sight on the other side of the mushroom.

"Go!" Gage shouted.

Mellie ran first, as fast as she could across the cement ground, toward the nearest clutch of unburned trees. Renee went next, a streak of blue skin and honey-blond hair, with William behind her. He carried Janel, who was unconscious from power overload; William had superstrength so he could run and carry her at the same time, while I could barely run and carry myself.

I followed the big kids, including Marco, who was still in panther form, and fifteen of us streaked across the way, rounding the edge of the cement pit, seeking our next place to hide. Just like we'd done all day. My lungs were burning, aching with smoke and cold and overuse and unshed tears. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry myself to sleep. I was sick of being cold. I didn't want to be afraid anymore. I didn't want to have to think about tomorrow—if we had a tomorrow.

I was only ten. Almost eleven. I wasn't ready to die.

None of us was.

Mellie sure wasn't when one of Mayhem's heat blasts caught her full in the face and melted her skin down to her bones. Mellie didn't even get to scream. I screamed plenty. So did Renee and Nate and William. Only panther-Marco paused long enough to sniff her, then loped past.

Ethan cried out, and then he wasn't running with the group anymore. I didn't stop to see what happened, but a few seconds later, Mayhem shouted again. This time, the roar of wind was louder. I hoped he tossed her into a tree or something.

We left poor Mellie on the ground and kept going, like we'd left three others behind already. My jelly legs didn't want to keep running, and one by one the older kids moved ahead of me. Toward the trees and the promise of safety somewhere else. I'd get left behind and it wouldn't matter. My powers were stupid; I couldn't help in a fight. My ability to hypnotize people and alter their thoughts worked only if I looked them in the eye. That was hard to do in the middle of a war zone. I hadn't done anything today but cry and scream and get in the way.

Not like my dad, Hinder, one of the greatest heroes in the Ranger Corps. He was fighting south of us with the last half dozen grown-up Rangers, keeping the horde of Banes (sixty-something of them, Gage had said) from overrunning us. We were kids training to be heroes. If our parents and mentors died, how did anyone expect us to stop them?

We could barely save ourselves from one Bane with a superheat blast. Once the line fell and the Banes got through, sixty-something of them would crush us in seconds.

No, the line couldn't fall. Not with my dad in charge. He'd save us.

A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me forward. I nearly tripped. Gage didn't let go as we ran; he was practically pulling me along. It was as close as we'd ever come—or ever would—to holding hands. I'm still a baby and he's a teenager. He's just helping me because he's in charge. He can't let me lag behind.

We found a wide path. It took us under a stone archway and we emerged onto an open lawn. If it was ever green, it was now brown and rutted and overrun here and there with clumps of dried weeds. A lot of Central Park looked like that now. After New York City's first major battle in the War, most of the city had been evacuated and a lot of the buildings destroyed. I'd seen it from the helicopter that brought us here this morning—burning, crumbling skyscrapers, gutted old theaters, debris in the empty streets. William had pointed at a tall, skinny building called the Empire or something, and said it used to be twice as tall. I didn't believe him.

Manhattan was a good place to fight, we were told. Early evacuation meant fewer civilian injuries. One of the major rules of the Ranger Corps code is protect civilians at all costs. Even the dumb ones who stand there and scream, instead of getting out of the way.

I once overheard Gage's mentor, Delphi, say that any civilian who didn't get out of the way of battling Metas was too stupid to save. It had made the other adults laugh. I didn't know why it was funny, and I couldn't ask her to explain it. I shouldn't have been listening in the first place. But Delphi was smart, so it had to be important. She'd mentored a lot of kids who didn't have anyone to teach them about their powers and how to be a Ranger. If I'd been an orphan like Gage, I'd have liked Delphi to be my mentor, too.

No one else attacked us on the lawn, but it was too open. Gage changed our direction, sideways instead of across the lawn. It felt like forever before we hit the cover of trees again. In the distance, peeking through the crisping, late summer leaves, was the turret of a big stone building.

"Head toward the castle," Gage yelled toward the front of the line. William and Renee altered their path just a little. We passed what had once been a pond of some kind, and soon we were all going up.

"Can we hide there?" I gasped. The cold and wet made my lungs burn.

"I think so."

Somewhere south of us, something exploded. It sounded like a truck got dropped from the sky and hit another one on the ground. I felt the rattle of it in my bones. Gage looked over his shoulder. I couldn't. Every ounce of my attention was on not falling over my own tired feet.

We went up a set of stone steps. The paths intersected at the top and seemed to go off in four different directions. To our left was the castle—a stone building that had so far avoided complete destruction and shone like a hopeful beacon. Thick, round stones made a sort of patio that led to the castle itself, and it had two fancy pavilions on the left and right of the steps we came up. Except for a few blown-out windows, the castle was intact. Past it, farther to the north, was something that looked like an outdoor theater surrounded by bony winter trees.

A figure emerged from the castle, and everyone ahead of us came to a clumsy, jumbled halt. Gage let me go and jogged to the front to see. I sidled closer to Renee, who stretched one blue arm out to grasp me around the shoulders. She was twelve, almost a teenager, and my best friend. I loved her Flex power that let her bend and twist into funny lengths and shapes. It was a useful power, too. When we first got here, she'd used it to yank me out of the way of Mayhem's heat blast.

"You gotta keep up, T," Renee said. Her teeth chattered and, instead of red, the cold made her cheeks look purple. "Can't lose you, too."

"I'm trying," I replied.

"Who are you?" Gage asked the stranger. His voice was still changing, going unpredictably from high-pitched to deep in timbre, so it squeaked a little when he tried to be bossy. Like now.

I peeked around William's bulk—twelve and almost six feet tall—to get a better look.

A dirty man in ragged clothes was leaning hard against the stone wall. His face was sunken and filthy, and he probably stank, if the look on Gage's face said anything. All five of Gage's senses were hypersensitive and picked up on all sorts of things. Something about the stranger, other than being homeless and in our hiding place—was bothering Gage.

"Sir, you shouldn't be here," Gage said. "It isn't safe."

"Nowhere's safe from your kind nowadays," the man said. His voice was slurred, thick, like he was both drunk and half asleep. He wouldn't look up from some interesting spot on the stone. Loose, torn clothing hung limply, covering his hands and feet, as if he'd shrunk inside them.

"There's a battle moving this way. You can't stay here."

The man shrugged.

Another explosion, similar to the first, rocked the ground. It was closer this time, louder. One of the younger boys whimpered. Panther-Marco stalked around the group to stand sentry next to Gage and hissed at the man. The two boys with the best noses knew something was wrong.

Nate's voice rang through all of our heads as his telepathic warning blared like a neon sign: Back up and get out of—

The stranger raised his right hand as he looked up. His sunken eyes glowed with yellow-orange power as he fired the little revolver in his hand, creating chaos.

Her arm still around me, Renee practically dragged me toward the larger pavilion. We all fled there while three more shots were fired. I couldn't see for the flurry of moving bodies. I didn't know where Gage was. Someone was screaming about Nate.

At the back of the pavilion, more stone steps led down to a rocky surface that overlooked the dried-up pond. We crouched there, using what little cover our hiding place provided. Fear clutched me colder than the January freeze, but I still glanced up and around a stone column, heart kicking against my ribs, a bitter taste in my mouth.

Nate was dead on the ground, a hole in his chest. The homeless man looked on, his eyes glowing death, smug like a Bane. He threw back his head and laughed—it might have been scarier if he weren't so hoarse.

Nearby, under the pavilion and behind a stone wall, William was bleeding at the hip. Down on the rock floor with us, Ethan was shot in the left shoulder. Both were panting, trying to be brave and to not cry. I looked away before I started crying, too.

"We're ending this tonight!" the man shouted. "Your pathetic Rangers are falling as we speak. You'll see your parents in hell soon enough."

I shivered.

"Specter," Gage said, and I jumped at the sound of his voice right beside me.

It couldn't be Specter, the leader of the Banes. My dad said he was the one who'd rallied them together and initiated the War that had raged and ruined the country, killed hundreds on both sides, and left Metas nearly extinct. The last surviving Metas in the world had descended on Central Park to fight each other today. Dad said Specter could possess anyone who was unconscious or had a weak mind—take them over like a puppeteer, and make them do whatever he wanted.

Specter had found a man with a gun who could cut us kids down as surely as superpowers had taken five of us since the morning.

He strode out to the middle of the stone patio, gun raised but pointed nowhere. We didn't have a lot of cover, crowding low on the cold stone steps and behind two columns and two bits of waist-high stone wall. The wounded were now in the rear, the most powerful in the front. I was somewhere in the middle beside Gage, whose hands were shaking. His lips were pressed together so tight I couldn't see them. He looked like he wanted to barf all over the ground.

He was terrified.

Gage couldn't be terrified. He had to lead us, tell us what to do so we survived this.

"Gage?" I said.

He didn't look at me. He scrubbed a hand through his spiky blond hair, down over his face, then clenched it in front of his blue jumpsuit. Tugged and pulled at the material.

I tried again. Maybe my powers couldn't save us, but I could help him save us. "Gage?"

He just wasn't paying attention to me, like usual, so I grabbed his hand and gave it a solid yank. He looked at me then, his dark eyes flecked with little bits of silver that made them look like a starry night sky. As soon as I caught his gaze, I locked in and let my Trance powers do the rest.

You're a brave man, Gage. You wouldn't be our leader if you weren't brave. We need you to lead us. We need you to save us. You can do this.

Tears glistened in his eyes. I felt him fighting it, fighting the Trance, the urge to do anything I told him. Being scared was easier—I knew it and so did he. I forced a little more at him, as much as I could muster through my own terror.

Trust me.

His hands stopped shaking. He was calming down, bucking up, accepting my influence. My own fear lessened a little, but not enough. I wished I could Trance myself.

Trust me, Gage, and lead us. Save us.

The Specter-host took three more potshots. Someone screamed—I couldn't look, didn't want to know. Didn't want to see any more of my classmates hurt or dying or dead. A third explosion, horrifyingly close, sent a blast of hot air scorching across the pavilion, layered with the stink of smoke and ash. And something burning sweet.

Death was coming closer.

"Angela, I need a distraction," Gage said, breaking our lock. He moved away, toward a blond girl who could leave up to twelve copies of herself behind as she walked, like holographic bread crumbs. "Marco, raven form."

Nearby I heard the funny, wet-Velcro sound Marco made when he shifted. The large black bird hopped over to Gage and waited for orders.

"I can still help," Ethan said. He was sweating, so pale his freckles looked like pimples, his uniform front soaked with blood.

Gage whispered a plan I couldn't hear while our attacker shot at us twice more, exploding stone and cement, in no hurry to kill us all. Or he was waiting for something.

"Ready?" Gage asked. The other big kids nodded. They all turned, prepared with their plan.

An energy orb slammed into the Specter-host and spun him around—but it wasn't from any of us. He squeezed off a wild shot that shattered the stone near Gage's head, and then the dirty man fell facedown on the cobblestones. The cold rain started falling harder.

A hunched, bleeding figure shambled toward us from around the stairs. Her white hair was stained red, plastered to her skull, and she looked a hundred years old. Gage and Angela ran out to help her, and they practically carried the old woman into the pavilion. She was bleeding from a dozen wounds, her hands and knees scraped from multiple falls. I saw her face and started to cry.

"Granny Dell," I said, shouldering my way through the older kids. I dropped to my knees next to my maternal grandmother, confused and horrified. She shouldn't be here. She'd retired forty years ago, long before I was born, and had lived my entire lifetime in Europe. We'd only met once, but had chatted on the phone dozens of times. She told me stories about my mom, who I didn't remember much.

And now Granny Dell was in Central Park. I'd heard the grown-ups say that everyone was being called to duty, but I had never imagined they meant my grandmother.

She turned weepy eyes toward me, like someone so desperately tired she wanted to burst out crying. I couldn't stop my own tears from falling, or the desperate sobs that hurt my chest.

"You kids need to go," she gasped. She was trying so hard. "They're coming. He's coming."

"We have wounded," Gage said behind me. "We can't leave them."

"Have to, son. You kids … you're the last. Have to live."

"We're not," I said. "Dad's still fighting. He'll save us." Her sad, sad face told me something about my dad I didn't want to know. My lungs hitched. I ignored her face. If I ignored her, it simply wasn't true.

"They'll be here soon, Teresa," Granny Dell said. "You have to run. Hide."

"Rangers don't hide." Dad taught me that. All I wanted to do was hide until the bad guys went away, but we couldn't. If we hid from the Banes now, we'd never live it down later. Unless we died after all.

Was it better to die a hero or live a coward?

I didn't know. All I knew was that I wanted to live.

Granny Dell choked up blood and stopped breathing. I kept holding her hand, afraid that if I let go, I'd run and hide just like she wanted me to, find a tree to climb or a hole to burrow into and stay there until the battle was over.

"We stand here," Gage said, rising up and addressing us like a general. Still brave, still saving us. Not giving up. "The man out there was right. It comes down to what we do tonight. We have to make our parents and mentors proud."

They were all talking at once, a buzz of voices and sounds and movements, and situating those who were too hurt to fight in the back of the pavilion, down in that rock-bottom hiding place. Forming a defensive line based on powers. Someone dashed outside to retrieve the gun. No one would use it; they just couldn't leave it lying around for a Bane to pick up. I stayed in the rear with the wounded and the dead, too cold and scared to help. I was useless.

Again.

An agony-filled shriek rose up from the trees surrounding the south side of the castle, carried on a wind that brought more of that awful roasted-sweet odor. Female scream, I thought, unable to think of the other adult Rangers who'd been left. I couldn't think of anyone except my dad, hurt, maybe … No. Just hurt. Or still battling his way toward us, leading his Rangers as only he could. Hinder would save us.

Renee and William stood together. I was surprised that William could be shot and still standing. He was strong. I thought he had a good power, just like Renee. But he didn't like her ability to stretch her blue body out like taffy. He said it was creepy, and she loved to torment him. Seeing them together was weird.

Marco was back in panther form. He paced the length of the pavilion, thick tail swishing, a predator. He told me once he'd rather be a big cat than a person. I didn't understand, but I was always jealous of his being a shapeshifter.

Even hurt, Ethan was waiting to help. He had one of the strongest powers among us, and he knew it. He was being brave. Everyone was being brave, except me. Might as well only be eleven of us left, instead of twelve.

Stupid, useless Trance.

The castle's spire exploded. Fire and rock blasted outward and rained down on the cobblestones in front of the pavilion. Some of us shrieked. I know I did. A second blast took out the rest of the turret. Smoke choked me and stung my eyes. Gage was shouting orders.

The first Bane crested the stairs at the far end of the stone patio. I didn't know her. Just saw her stop, locate us, then let out an excited war whoop. Terror hit me like a blast of fire all over my body as more Banes joined her.

The heat of the fire increased to all-over agony. This wasn't fear. Something was happening. Marco screamed, a too human sound. Everything went gray, and then the agony swallowed me whole.

© 2011 Kelly Meding

Hallowhat?

2011-10-12T11:22:00.000-07:00

As a fan of low cut shirts, I usually don't have a problem with sexy anything. Each Halloween, however, I'm forced to re-evaluate this position as costume manufacturers continue to inundate me with new and increasingly outlandish "sexy" ideas for women to strut their stuff in. While these aren't the skankiest outfits out there, these are the top three that have caught my attention this year:

1. Risky Raccoon

This is part of an animal set, which also includes sexy fox and skunk costumes. Now, one might argue that the skunk is the more appalling sexy choice. And that would be a fair argument. Yet, this is the one I'm continually fascinated by. I don't know why, nor can I figure out who would be on board with this. Mostly I think it has to be someone like me who keeps scratching their head over it and finally just gives in. I suppose the mask and tail have sex appeal, but I'm not going to lie. Every time I look at this, I just think this girl is saying: "You like what you see, baby? You wanna go rummage through the trash with me? Yeah, you want that. That's exactly what you want. Hope you've got your rabies vaccine."

2. Sexy Bumblebee

No, not a bumblebee. I mean Bumbleebee, the character. The robot that turns into a car from Transformers. This one amazes because I have to wonder, what designer sits in a room and thinks, "You know what would be sexy? A giant, bulky seemingly male robot turned into a slutty dress." More puzzling still is the same old quesiton: who gets this? As a fan of Voltron and He-Man, perhaps I shouldn't judge. Maybe there's some girl out there with a childhood love of Transformers, and this is her dream come true. Mostly, however, I picture this as something the girlfriend of a guy like Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons would wear for a hot night of sexy roleplaying. Except, I have a hard time picturing CBG with a girl like that.

3. Sassy Bambi

Disney characters aren't newcomers to the world of sexy Halloween costumes. Just look at all the Snow Whites and Jasmines out there. Even this isn't so bad, in and of itself. What worries me is that this is a gateway costume. From here it's only a slippery slope to the inevitable and most disturbing costume of all: Sexy Bambi's Mother.

So, that's my quick assessment of this year's options, but like I said, there are many more out there. What appalling ones have you seen? Can you top these with your own twisted ideas?

A Void City Beach Outing

2011-10-11T05:12:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, I write a scene that I love, but then can't fit it in the novel. Maybe it doesn't fit with the flow, or maybe I wrote it as backstory, just so that I would know exactly what happened. This vignette is one of those times where I wrote a piece knowing it wouldn't fit. To reader of the Void City books, it will fill in a little background, but o those who haven't, hopefully it will provide a tantalizing glimpse (I've always wanted to type that phrase) on the father/daughter relationship that is at the core of the series...

A Void City Beach Outing

by

J. F. Lewis © 2011

As my tent disintegrated in a lurid flash of heat and flames, so did I. Well, okay, I didn't quite go fwoosh, but there were definite flames involved. Vampires and the sun don't play well together. Then again, the people with whom I play well can be counted on one hand. The people I love? Well, for that you only need two fingers.

The bright sandy beaches of Gulf Shores sparkled before me and, for just an instant, I caught sight of my daughter in her bikini, having the time of her life out beyond the breakers. Then, of course, I was blinded, my flesh erupting into flames. Technically there is a bubbling phase in there, but it goes by so fast that I rarely notice. The smell of my own sizzling flesh filled my nostrils and I shouted a word of which I'm very fond. It alliterates with "fond" too, now that I think of it.

Two vampire hunters armed with flamethrowers rushed in, lighting me up further, if possible. The gas smell of their fuel tanks bit at my nose.

"Oh, come on," I snapped, "that's adding insult to injury isn't it? I mean when you're already engulfed in flame, can you really be more engulfed?"

The crossbows came next, though. I heard rather than saw them. Sharp spikes of pain bloomed in my chest as arrows penetrated my flesh. They missed my heart, but that doesn't mean it felt good.

Off to my left, under an umbrella, a sixty year old redhead who knew me far too well looked up from the Agatha Christie she was reading and laughed before looking back down at the book which held her attention. Cries rang out all around me, screams from the beach goers who were there on family outings mixed with the terse shouts from the vampire hunters who wanted me dead.... or rather more dead.

"Daddy!" Greta's voice cut through the other shouts. A quiver of fear lay underneath her words and it unleashed the angry little part of me that lives too close to the surface. I had rage blackouts my entire life. Being undead hadn't changed that, only made me more deadly when I lost it. Being on fire annoyed me, but I understood. I eat people. Kill them and drink their blood anyway. Humans don't take kindly to that. Fair enough.

Here's a hint: If you're a vampire, the sun will set you on fire. You will not sparkle. Vampire Hunters, unless they are monumentally stupid, look for times to attack vampires when the vampires are at their most vulnerable.

The beach, furthermore, is not a place for vampires.

Not during the day.

At night we can hang. We can do the whole bonfire thing and listen to the radio and watch humans cook things and eat them and when they move off from the rest for a little alone time, it's simple enough to wander off after an amorous couple and have a little drink. But Greta did not want to go to the beach at night. She wanted to go during the day. And, seeing as how it was her twenty-first birthday, and I'd agreed to turn her into a vampire that very night after having made her wait for more than a decade, I'd said yes.

I'm an idiot, but I also love my little girl. Rescuing her is one of the few good things I've done with my undeath. And no one gets to mess with Greta or ruin her birthday. I lost it.

For a long time I didn't know what happened when I raged out, but looking back, I can tell you what the vampire hunters probably saw. I call it the uber vamp. The first sign of trouble would have been when the flames went out. A writhing, charred and blackened vampire rose from the smoke. The black skin of my uber vamp form flowed out like a smoothing of the skin. The hunters might not have even realized what was happening at first. A lambent purple glow shone forth from my eyes. At some point, I'd have started to grow. The uber vamp is bigger than me and while it doesn't like the sun, the effect is more of a smolder than a conflagration.

Leathery wings unfurled from my back, tearing free with the sound of sail cloth catching the wind. The uber vamp’s claws are long, black and curved, like talons and the fangs are both uppers and lowers. At eight feet tall, it's quite impressive- and, yes, Freud, I’m disassociating. I like to think it only killed and drained the vampire hunters, but way back then, in... I guess that would have been around 1980… my memory can be a little fuzzy (okay, a lot fuzzy), but that sounds about right. Anyway, way back then I didn't remember anything that happened when I was the uber vamp. So... though, I'd like to say I only killed the vampire hunters, I can't be sure.

The next thing I actually remember is waking up in the trunk of my 1964 1/2 Mustang convertible, with Greta banging on the metal. "Are you okay in there, Dad?"

Some vampires don't get to keep their clothes when they transform. I'm one of the lucky ones, though I have a tendency to reform in the same set of clothes all the time if I don't really concentrate. Dressed in a black "Welcome to the Void" t-shirt, jeans, brown belt, undies, socks, and combat boots, I rolled out of the trunk only to find out we were barely safe from the sun in a small scale parking deck, covered with tracks of sand, the smell of the sand and surf carrying to me easily, driving the burnt odor out of my nostrils.

Greta smiled. Tall, blond, and built like a model, she was in better shape than I'd ever been... which had been my idea. When I rescued her from her... bad situation… she'd been overweight and out of shape, but I'd made physical fitness part of my conditions for turning her: Not before she turned twenty-one and not unless she was in the kind of shape she'd be happy with until the end of time. It was all a part of my maybe-if-I-let her-see-all-the-bad-things-about-being-a-vampire-she'll-want-to-kill-me-when-grows-up-instead-of-becoming-like-me plan. I’d definitely given her time to think it all over.

"Can I be a vampire now?" she asked when she saw I was okay.

Yeah, my plans never turn out well.

"What food do you want to taste last?" I hoped the answer would require some thought, but if it did, she'd done that thinking a long long time ago. Vampires can't eat. Can't taste anything, but blood. Some of us crave food so badly we recruit humans to eat it for us, watch them do it, and make them describe the experience. Other vampires call it voyeuristic eating. I call it food porn.

"I want a coke in a real glass bottle." Greta smiled the biggest smile in the whole wide world. Behind her, Marilyn puffed on her cigarette and looked on with distinct disapproval. "I want a huge plate of French Fries... and a vanilla ice cream cone."

"No beer?" I asked. "You're old enough now."

"Ugh," she stuck out her tongue. "I thought you said it tastes like camel's piss."

"It does." It was my turn to grin. "But this will be your last chance to-"

"Nope," she shook her head, "I'm good."

I'd like to say I watched her eat, but I was lost in thought listening to the sound of the heartbeat I was going to stop, the blood rushing through her veins. The very thought of turning her made me sick inside, but she'd made me say two words on which I never go back: "I promise". So I was stuck. She ate her last meal at some little dive close to the beach and we watched the sun go down, me from further in the shadows than my companions. When Greta went to the bathroom, Marilyn slapped me.

Marilyn had been the love of my mortal life, the woman to whom I'd been engaged back when I died in 1965. She still looked like the red headed bombshell of a woman that she was, but I knew she dyed her hair, and the lines had begun to show around her eyes. She was sixty-something, so I'd finally accepted that she wouldn't have anything to do with me romantically anymore and that vampirism was an option the two of us no longer needed to discuss.

"You're going to kill that girl, you selfish little asshole," Marilyn spat. "I can’t believe you're really going to do it."

"I promised," I said, seriously, which brought on another slap.

"I don't even have the words for you." She got up and stalked toward the exit of the diner. "I'll see you back in Void City."

I stared out the wall fo windows after Marilyn, watched her walk down the beach, and pretended not to hear Greta throwing up in the bathroom. An empty system makes the transition less painful, but getting rid of food by barfing, wasting it… felt wrong to me. The whole thing felt wrong.

I can't remember if we drove back to Void City or to the hotel, but I remember Greta talking about Kyle. He was Greta's brother... not her for-real brother, but he was a part of our undead little family for a while. I don't think about him much. It's easier not to.

There are only a few power levels of vampire. In terms of things you might find along the beach: Pawns are like bottle caps, if you find one you throw it away, barely even proper vampires at all. Soldiers are next in line, pretty shells that are broken or flawed... nice for sentimental value, but no one is really happy with them long term. Masters are your whole shells and sand dollars. Everyone is impressed with them and they are what everyone has in mind when they go out collecting. Vlads though, Vlads like me, are special... like finding a perfectly preserved nautilus shell washed up on the beach. Rare. Special.

I turned Kyle a few weeks after Greta. If I’d turned him first, I’d probably never have turned her. He was a nice guy and I was sort of trying to pull off this whole family thing. I think I hoped it would make things more normal somehow. Unfortunately, while Greta was a Vlad, Kyle only came out a Pawn. He was never the same after.

Waiting in the bedroom for Greta to get ready, I watched Carson on The Tonight Show.

"When I feed for the first time," Greta called from the bathroom, "can I eat somebody famous?"

"Like who?"

"Johnny Carson?"

"No," I said with a laugh.

"What about Valerie Burtonelli?"

That gave me pause. "Why the hell would you want to kill Valerie Burtonelli?"

"So you could turn her." Greta walked out of the bathroom naked and I looked away. A man isn't supposed to see his daughter naked when she's grown. And a daughter is all Greta has ever or ever will be to me. "She could be the mom and I can be the daughter and Kyle can be the son."

She walked past me out of the room.

"I'll be back in a little bit," she called. "I need Marilyn to help me with my enema."

"Enema?" I had no idea what enemas had to do with vampires.

She popped her head back in the door. "Otherwise it will hurt when my body purges itself of the human waste. I don't want it to hurt, Dad."

Twenty-four hours later, we walked the beach together, hand in hand, the sand squishing between our toes as the waves rolled up over our feet, the receding water making us both sink deeper into the dampened sand. Farther down the beach, a group of Spring Break revelers whooped and shouted around a bonfire while Lee Greenwood's voice came through loud and clear on the radio. He wanted God to bless the country. I thought God might have other ideas.

"Can I, Dad?" Greta looked at me with her eyes aglow with crimson light, fangs out, glinting in the moonlight… and I just couldn't say no.

"Have fun," I said.

And screams filled the night.

And blood soaked the sand.

Later, Greta buried me in the sand. The hermit crabs sensed somehow that they'd best stay well clear. Next, Greta fed on a group of late night walkers, some teens out gigging frogs, and then a wino passed out on the beach. I told myself it was only the initial hunger of a newly made vampire, but I should known then that there was more to it than that. Greta's thirst for blood was like nothing I'd ever seen.

We sat up, waiting to watch the sunrise together. We planned to dash for cover, and Greta swore she didn’t mind getting a little bit singed, but she fell asleep an hour before dawn. I cleaned her up back at the hotel, washed the sand off of her and struggled her into her nightshirt and shorts. On the news, I watched the local anchors struggling to find the right words to report the carnage. They were shocked... appalled... horrified… and they’d never actually know what happened. What else would you expect from vampires at the beach?

* * *

And now you've had a glimpse (brief though it may have been at the world of Void City. Be sure to pick up STAKED, ReVAMPED, and CROSSED to see more recent (as in set after the year 2000) adventures of Eric and his ever-hungry and murderous daughter, Greta. If you dig the setting, but want a bigger sampleI have more free fiction online and you can track me down on Facebook, Twitter @JF_Lewis.

WRITE PRETENDAS UPDATE

2011-10-10T10:26:00.000-07:00

Holy shit, people and others! Holy shit! MORE THAN 100 AUTHORS INSIST ON GETTING BOYCOTTED ALONG WITH THE LEAGUE!!!

Maybe you're doing it because you believe that Absolute Write and Writer Beware are among the greatest resources available for writers, and you're showing solidarity. Maybe you're doing it because all the cool authors are getting banned. Or maybe you're doing it because you thought it would enter you into a contest with a chance to win free shit (you were totally wrong, but whatever, not our problem). Maybe something else entirely!

Who cares why you did it -- you insisted on getting banned! Rock on, you nasty, bad-ass, awesome authors!

Hats off to the amazing Ann Crispin, John Scalzi, Neil Gaiman, and Rachel Caine, among others, who tweeted the shit out of the League's call to arms!!!

Speaking of Rachel, she pointed out that the cockwaffles at TWA were looking to host its "first annual book burning." (I'd link to the TWA website that shows this, but frankly, I don't want to give them more traffic. Feel free to Google it. Or just take my word for it. You can trust me. I write fiction for a living.) Um, TWA? You know there are other ways to keep warm at night than by burning books, don't you? Like, frex, reading a book that has fucking in it. Lots of fucking. Or, if you prefer, fornication. Shitloads of fornication. That's sure to rouse the blood. And other things. Don't burn books; read more books that have sex in them. Or maybe you should actually have sex. Try it! You might like it! Just a friendly public service announcement.

So because more than 100 authors insist on getting banned, we at the League of Reluctant Adults are each donating $15, to to be divided between SWFA's legal defense fund and Absolute Write. Rah!

We love you guys. WE WOULD BAN YOU IF WE COULD. But that's not up to us. That's up to the asshats at TWA. So spread the gospel of Writer Beware and Absolute Write! Tattoo John Scalzi's name on your forehead! And maybe one day you, too, will get banned!

THE WRITE PRETENDAS

2011-10-07T05:55:00.000-07:00

WE at the League of Reluctant Adults are pissed. Miffed. Put out. Thoroughly riled. We don't often get political, nor do we often get angry. But an angry Leaguer is an UGLY thing. Just look at Mark over there, all snarly with rage.

Why are we angry, you ask?

BECAUSE WE DIDN'T GET BOYCOTTED.

There's this group calling itself "The Write Agenda," who claims to be a bunch of authors looking out for other authors. In reality, we're pretty sure they're a bunch of con artists who got mad at people calling them con artists. Why? Because they attack two of the best friends an author or an aspiring author can ever have: Writer Beware and Absolute Write Water Cooler. Here's John Scalzi's breakdown of what this Write Agenda is, and why they're doing what they're doing.

For those not in the know, Writer Beware and Absolute Write Water Cooler are free services that collect information on agents, editors, and publishers. They report on things like how long agents take to respond to queries, whether certain editors are looking for certain genres, and other things like that.

They also bear the cross of a darker duty, which is warning writers when someone's a crook. Using lots of documentation, both sites build cases against those agents and publishers who do unscrupulous things: like steal manuscripts, demand payments for services rendered (a big no-no in the industry), or otherwise swindle their clients.

To make a long story short, this "Write Agenda" decided that it doesn't like such information to be known. And it attacked not only Writer Beware and Absolute Write Water Cooler, not only some of the individuals running these sites, but such random folks as the board members of the Science Fiction Writer's Association, as SFWA hosts Writer Beware. To add insult to injury, "The Write Agenda" demands these writers be boycotted.

AND YET THEY DIDN'T BOYCOTT A SINGLE LEAGUER.

Meanwhile, we at the League use the shit out of Absolute Write and Writer Beware. We used it querying, we still use it to gossip or to read up on people, and we will continue to use it.

EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US DESERVES TO BE BOYCOTTED, AND HERE'S WHY:

NICOLE PEELER deserves to be boycotted because she not only uses both sites, but she has “Nicole + Writer Beware” tattooed across her buttocks. She wakes herself in the night shouting “Absolute Write Water Cooler!” in ecstasy. She also plans on naming her first-born child John Scalzi.

MARIO ACEVEDO Mario Acevedo deserves to be boycotted because he has trained flies to sit together, forming the letters "The Write Agenda" on piles of fresh dog shit. He takes joy when fans write to him, saying they pleasured themselves after reading his books. If Mario has any regrets, it's that he didn't take every advantage in life to demonstrate what a pervert he can be. Especially with John Scalzi, on whom he has a tremendous man crush.

J. F. LEWIS deserves to be boycotted, because he knows the F word and lets his characters use it from time to time. Worse, he owns books by the other authors on the boycott list and thinks you should, too. He even volunteers for SWFA. Obviously, he is a monster of Godzilla-like proportions.

Another Leaguer in desperate need of boycotting is MARK HENRY, known sympathizer, user of profanities and ex-lover of the Absolute Write site. Why, they used to make love until dawn. Sweet, sticky love. And by "love", I mean fucking. That's right, I said it. Fuck.

Leaguer and writer of vile paranormal porn novels MICHELE BARDSLEY deserves to be boycotted because that bitch never shares chocolate with anyone EVER, except with Writer Beware, who is her pimpdaddymack. Also, she writes romance novels wherein her characters say things like "Fuck!" and then they go and fuck. A lot. Because romance is about intimacy.

JACKIE KESSLER deserves to be boycotted for the following boycottlicious rant: “So Jackie Morse Kessler's stuff is evil enough to be an anathema to the Wall Street Journal, but it's not quite evil enough to be banned by The Write Agenda? Damn it!!! How will I ever, with all of my Writer Beware loving ways, ever get officially banned??? **channels inner Monty Python** I fart in your general direction, Write Agenda!!! You wouldn't know what to do with a Grail shaped beacon if one lodged its way up your buttocks!!! There, I said it: BUTTOCKS. Write Agenda is BUTTOCKS! Ban me, Write Agenda!!! I triple dog dare you!!! And...and...neener neener!!!”

JAYE WELLS has the audacity to insist that money should flow to the greedy word slingers who insist on making an honest wage for their "work." If that wasn't bad enough, she is also a member of SFWA, with whom she had a child out of wedlock. Poor little Remainder Wells is being brainwashed by his vampire-porn-writing mother to believe that writers are people, too. Boycott her now. Do it for the children!

KEVIN HEARNE is a member of SFWA and once sat on a panel moderated by John Scalzi, so he should damn well be boycotted by the cockwaffles at The Write Agenda. He even recycled an empty can of Scalzi's private stock of Coke Zero, so he's been well and truly contaminated with Concern for Other Writers. He occasionally frolics on the boards at Absolute Write and spends his extra time building miniature siege weapons armed with marshmallows. Boycott that fucker now!

DIANA ROWLAND deserves to be boycotted because she's Evil. (Jackie Kessler will vouch for this.) Not "ha ha she's so evil" but "Hard Core Rule in Hell Evil." Plus, she once licked John Scalzi's sausage and has the photographic evidence to prove it. Also, she once ran for office in SFWA but lost, which makes her a Scalzi-Sausage-Licking Evil Loser. Totally worth boycotting.

JEANNE C. STEIN deserves to be boycotted because she was declared a corrupter of American Youth by a "researcher" at BYU-- what, she doesn't write YA, you say? That didn't seem to matter. Maybe that researcher also works for The Write Agenda

ALLISON PANG deserves to be boycotted for so many iniquities. Purveyor of all things Hello Kitty. Writes about panty-sniffing, ass-biting unicorns. Guilty of using the phrase “Turgid Magnificence.” When she's not dreaming of daemons with deer peens, she's fantasizing about the board of SFWA--all with deer peens.

ANTON STROUT deserves to be boycotted, because he’s the epitome of “Writer! Beware!” Writer of bad sex scenes. Writer of failed sex scenes. User of words like "asspony." According to his one-star reviews, the man-child shouldn't be allowed to write at all. You can help by boycotting him! Do it now before he gets on one of his tirades about how there's room for BOTH indie publishing AND traditional publishing alike. Somewhere a self-publishing unicorn just died reading that sentence. Boycott the mofo now!

STACIA KANE should totally be boycotted because not only is she a member of SFWA, and not only has she written blog posts Writer Beware has linked to, and not only has she gotten hate email from scammers, but she's a moderator at Absolute Write. Really, she's practically a Gimme. (Not to mention her books are filled with sex and drugs and all that stuff.)

DAKOTA CASSIDY should be boycotted by The Write Agenda because she writes shitty, shitty paranormal/contemporary books with the maturity level of a twelve-year old (sorry, kiddies!). Oh, and also because she hopes to own the tiara for Miss Most Boycotted 2011 and make that bitch hers!

K.A. STEWART should be boycotted on general principal. She kicks puppies, eats bunnies, picks her nose at the dinner table, and those are her good traits. Most egregious of her sins is that she is a permanent resident of Absolute Write, where she is often found in company of a secret obscene cult that worships The Almighty Junk.

CAROLYN CRANE deserves to be boycotted because she often directs writers who are seeking guidance to Absolute Write and Writer Beware, thereby helping to deprive needy scammers of victims! AND, she draws pornographic cartoons AND wanders around in public under the demonic influence of chocolate!

KELLY MEDING deserves to be boycotted because she's just another pretenda who stomps around Absolute Write in her big old Moderator boots, squashing the writing dreams of others. She dares think that writers should (*gasp*) get paid for it. Yep, GET PAID FOR IT. Not pay others for it. She writes (*gasp*) fantasy, too, full of violence and monsters and strong women kicking ass, and inflicts these on the unwilling public via (*gasp*) commercial publishing.

KAT RICHARDSON deserves to be boycotted, because not only am I a Leaguer and a member of the SFWA and a friend of John Scalzi's but I'm so horrible I didn't even have time to write up why I'm so horrible! (but no fear, just as horrible Nicole added me in, cuz she wuvs me!)

To show their solidarity with both Absolute Write and Writer Beware, the League wants YOU to be boycotted, too. If you're a writer, BOYCOTT YOURSELF IN COMMENTS. Tell us why you deserve a thorough boycotting. If you're a fan, get your favorite author over here and get them boycotted!

All the cool kids are boycotted. Why aren't you?

If we get 100 authors to boycott themselves, we'll EACH donate $15 dollars, to be divided between SFWA's legal fund and Absolute Write. Help us put our money where our mouths are, AND GET TO BOYCOTTIN'.

Yes, authors, you CAN respond to a negative review!

2011-10-05T08:29:00.000-07:00

It's common wisdom out there that authors shouldn't respond to negative reviews. Well, that depends. The wrong response can certainly lead to a lot of authorly regret.

What kind of response is an author likely to regret? I've noticed pretty much any online response, but especially any kind of scathing, angry or "corrective of wrong thoughts" or "just trying to be helpful" rebuttals; even certain types of clarifications can lead to a kerfluffle spiral of authorly regret.

Really, a review is simply a report of one person's subjective experience of a book. It's good for authors that there are reviewers out there taking the time to report honestly about their experiences. But a pesky thing about other people's experiences is that you can't change them! If it were possible to change other people's experiences, I guarantee you, my husband and I would be going out to see a lot more romantic comedy movies.

One idea, when tempted to respond online to a negative review, is to first do a little thought experiment. Imagine waking up tomorrow morning and discovering thousands of hits on your website...and it's ALL people coming to see who the author is who wrote that [insert adjective here, and it's not the one you were hoping for] response. And everybody is tweeting and facebooking it and hyping it. Imagine the horror in the pit of your stomach.

But look, that doesn't mean you can't respond!

For example, you could do an interpretive dance as your response.

Go ahead, open the curtains. Let the neighbors see!

This one depicted above is called: "AUTHOR SO UNHAPPY!"

Another awesome and regret-free response: craft your reaction in macaroni art! This particular piece, from my own collection, is called "THE GNASHING TEETH OF THE WRITER MISUNDERSTOOD!"

Spend the afternoon imagining that you are having angry, sweaty, hot sex with that character that Russell Crowe played in the movie Gladiator! OMG! Rawr!

Another awesome way to respond to a negative review: Gratitude - for giving YOU the most perfect excuse ever to eat a truckload of chocolate! Yee ha!

Spend the afternoon imagining angry, sweaty, hot sex with the mysterious and babelicious "Seven of Nine"character from Star Trek: Voyager.

Hey, why read are you reading reviews anyway? Your thing is the write the books. Make a resolution to not read reviews, good or bad. Let this experience give you the gift of time.

Have a stiff drink, put some Billie Holiday on the hi-fi, draw the curtains. Or something like that. You're a f*@king writer, man! It is your right to WALLOW awesomely and creatively and with great pathos! Step away from the computer and really get into it!

Write a crazy-ass response in Morse Code! And tap it out on the window. Repeatedly! But wait, not too hard!

Spend some quality time with your cat or dog. Dude, your pet thinks you are the most brilliant writer in the world. What's that? You think your pet is stupid? Guess what- if there was a total Road-Warrior-style collapse of society, your pet would have a way better shot of surviving than you. You pet has skillz. Your pet knows the score! And YOU are your pet's literary hero!

Think of a book that you have really loved, and go write a review for it, telling how much the book meant to you. Or go write a nice review for an under-appreciated book that you genuinely enjoyed. This is actually a very therapeutic way to respond to a negative review.

Best of all, remember those good reviews you have gotten? Or, the readers who have enjoyed your work and told you so? If everybody only had nice things to say about your writing, those good reviews and comments wouldn't mean anything whatsoever.

So, in a way, negative reviews are important and valuable, because they make the good reviews mean something. You will be okay! Just keep writing.

Death is Not Sacred

2011-10-02T06:28:00.000-07:00

I cannot remember the date. Or how long it had been since she died. But there were seven of us there that day: Me and my two children, and my sister and her three children.

It was cold. Snow had melted, leaving the ground muddy and the concrete slick. We were all bundled up, shivering as we breathed in the sharply chilled air. We stared up at the crypt, eyeing the target of our duress. Then my sister and I looked at each other.

She grabbed the extension pole.

The story goes that as my grandmother and mother zipped around the cemetery in the funeral director's golf cart, she'd spied the crypt. As they pulled up to the square of marble housing its honored dead, she'd pointed to the top and said, "I want to be up there." My mother said it was so that Gigi could be as close to heaven as possible.

Heaven. Well, okay. I write fiction for a living, so I often recognize tales, no matter how ancient the source. Some stories parade around as truth. However, I'm not here to discuss my own views about the afterlife, but I will tell you this: My grandmother's faith was solid. And beautiful. And comforted her in a long life that had too much sorrow in it.

My sister is more graceful than I, but wielding a long, metal pole in an attempt to remove the plastic vase from its ring "up there" requires more than grace. It requires concentration, strength, and paying attention to where your children are located.

I remember Gigi talking about dying. About her funeral arrangements. About what we should do--and I stopped her. "I don't want to hear this," I said. "I don't want to think about you not being here." And she said, "It must be taken care of, so that my family doesn't bear the burden." She was practical, and organized. Now that I'm in my forties, and I've lost one of the people in my life who was the dearest, who I did not appreciate enough, hug enough, take care of enough ... I, too, think about death, and about how to make it easier on my family. But here's what I know:

You cannot prepare for the grief. You cannot imagine what it is like to walk into a hospital room and see the woman who influenced you the most, who gave you everything you asked for and so much more, lying so still. There is nothing, nothing, that you can do to make it hurt less. And as you sit with your family holding vigil over the vessel that had once been a vibrant, lovely, generous woman ... you feel overwhelming devastation. It gets into your lungs, crawls into your heart, fills up your mind. This feeling does not go away. Not for days. Not for years. Not ever. It will always be part of your breath, your heartbeat, your thoughts.

My sister maneuvers the pole underneath the plastic vase. She misses several times, but finally manages to get the clamp around it. As she lifts it up, it turns over ... and dumps freezing water on her oldest son.

Then the pole slips and boinks him on the head.

Because we are who we are ... because we are a family that is broken and weird and grief-stricken ... we laugh.

We laugh a lot.

We stand beneath the crypt of the woman we loved so much, in a graveyard that should invoke solemness, and laugh.

Even my nephew, who was the unfortunate recipient, offered up his laughter like a prayer to Gigi's heaven.

Death is not sacred. That is the lesson, I think, that Gigi wanted us to understand. The people we love, the memories we create, the joy we find in the smallest (and sometimes inappropriate) of ways ... there in lies the sacred.

Death is not sacred at all.

Life is.

Cover for the new Jane Jameson book!

2011-10-02T06:18:00.000-07:00

Isn't this the cutest cover? Please note the bat-shaped engagement ring on Jane's finger. To pre-order, click here.

Just as Jane Jameson’s unlife seems to be stabilizing, fate sinks its fangs firmly into her butt. Despite her near-phobia of all things marital, her no-frills nighttime nuptials to her sexy boyfriend Gabriel are coming along smoothly. But the road to wedded bliss gets bumpy when a teenage acquaintance is fatally wounded in front of Jane’s shop and she turns him to save his life. The Council pronounces Jane responsible for the newborn vamp until he can control his thirst.

The cover copy:

Jane’s kitchen at River Oaks barely holds enough Faux Type O to satiate the cute teen’s appetite and maintain Gabriel’s jealous streak at a slow simmer. As if keeping her hyperactive childe from sucking the blood out of the entire neighborhood isn’t enough to deal with, the persnickety ghost of Jane’s newly deceased Grandma Ruthie has declared a war on the fanged residents of River Oaks. Suddenly,
choosing monogrammed cocktail napkins and a cake that she can’t eat seems downright relaxing in comparison.

Tensions inside the house are growing…and outside, a sinister force is aiming a stake straight for the center of Gabriel’s heart. Most brides just have to worry about choosing the right dress, but Jane fears that at this rate, she’ll never make it down the aisle for the wedding all nice girls dream of….

Got that itch.

2011-10-01T08:06:00.000-07:00

Not that itch, but an equally strong itch.

The last few days I've been under a spell to hit the road and go...

Don't know where. The desert, the mountains, the ocean, doesn't matter. Just somewhere faraway and different.

Pack a cooler full of drinks. Bag the deadlines. Disconnect from everything and disappear. Gather the miles and cover the floorboards with food wrappers. Call on some old friends, clean up, and crash on a musty couch before rolling off again for parts unknown. I'll get back home when I get back home.

Who's with me?

Blocked? Try Fiber

2011-09-22T08:42:00.000-07:00

Hi Leaguers!

I know that we generally don't talk too much about writing craft here, but I also know we have a lot of aspiring writers in the audience. I've been running a series of craft posts at my blog every Thursday, and I wanted to share one here in case you're needing a little inspiration. This post is from a couple of weeks ago. If you want to see more, be sure to check out my blog.

Cross-posted from JayeWells.com

WRITER'S BLOCK

The other day a new product came to my attention: The Writer's Block.

The product description is as follows:

Feeling boxed in by your current writing assignment? Unpack some inspiration with this beautiful, hand-glazed, stoneware cube that features six thought-provoking cues; Poetry, Mother, Quietly, Hairy, House, Lust. With every roll you'll hear the ever-so-light jingle of bells, stimulating your ears and eyes to find your muse through the cube's understated imagery and melodiousness.

Couple things.

First, this product sells for $45. For a ceramic dice. For a ceramic dice that claims to cure your writer's block.

Second, my favorite part of the description is "you'll hear the ever-so-light jingle of bells, stimulating your ears and eyes to find your muse." No, my friends, the sound you're hearing isn't a melodic muse summoner, it's the sound of the makers of this product laughing as they deposit your $45 into the bank.

I'm just saying that $45 buys a lot of pens and paper. Or you can send me $10 and I'll call your voice mail and scream, "WRITE, DAMN YOU, WRITE!"

Look, I'm not trying to pick on the makers of this product. Okay, yes, I am actually. But my point isn't about this product specifically. It's about writer's block.

A lot of writers steadfastly maintain that writer's block doesn't exist. I don't know whether this refusal to believe is a result of lack of experience with it themselves or a denial borne of self-preservation. Either way, I do believe it exists, but I also think we should call it by its real name: FEAR.

Did your gut just tighten?

Mine did. It tightened because I've been there. What's worse? I've been there under deadline. Just remembering that period my chest feels like cold hands are pressing down on my ribs. For me, it wasn't that I couldn't put words down on paper. It was that I couldn't put good ones there. Everything I wrote came out forced and phoney.

Know why? I was forcing it because I felt like a phoney.

Writing is a mental game. Yes, you've got to sit in the chair and pound on the keys, but you've also got to be in a good head space. If you're approaching your desk every day thinking, "I'm a talentless pretender. No one will want to read this. I have to do this X way because that Real Writer on X blog told me I had to. If I don't write something brilliant I'll die alone and penniless clutching sheeves of unpublished purple prose."

Try writing something brilliant now. Go on. DO IT NOW! BE BRILLIANT NOW!

Jeez.

All right, everyone simmer down. The sad truth is that no one and nothing stands in the way of our success more than we do. All these perfectionistic messages we feed ourselves, all this impatience we have with our budding talent, all the false expectations of instant fame and success--it all blends together into a cold, bitter slurry of shame that makes creativity impossible.

Yeah, that's great and all but how to do I get over it, Jaye?

Shh, my pet. Shh. You know how to get over it. You know.

Stand up right now. Go on. No one's looking.Except me. (waves from the window)

Now do something ridiculous. Shut up. I don't want to hear it your excuses. Do something crazy. Jump up and down. Do the hokey pokey. Break out into the Running Man.

I don't care what it is. The point of this exercise is for you to remember two things. 1. Stop taking yourself so freaking seriously. 2. Writing is fun!

Ostensibly, that's why you started writing to begin with, right? You thought it was a gas to write crazy little stories about interesting characters. Back then, you didn't worry about sales or your fucking brand. You didn't care about getting famous. You just wanted to do something that made you happy.

But somewhere along the way that happy fun time turned into frowny-faced frustration time. Maybe the rejections got to you. Maybe you got a few too many one-star reviews on Goodreads. Or maybe you're just tired of feeling like no one's ever going to recognize your genius.

Dudes, if you don't even want to be around you, why would your imaginary friends? Interesting characters don't want to spend time with Mr. Grumpy Pen, much less tell him their stories. And, you know what? Readers won't enjoy reading anything you write, either. Hell, chances are good even your real friends are avoiding you. Why? Because you're no fun any more.

I'm an author. Writing is how I earn my living, and,like any business, it can be frustrating and stressful. But I refuse to spend my life devoting myself to a career that makes me feel shitty. So I refuse to let the bad reviews, the vagaries of fate or the god damned lack of respect people have for female writers or urban fantasy writers or writers in Texas, or any other stupid belittling criticism or headache of the publishing business get in the way of enjoying the hell out of this ride.

So now, when I sit down to write, I try to remember that my first goal is to amuse, amaze or intrigue myself. It's not possible to feel amused, intrigued or amazed by my writing every day, but my goal is to feel that way MOST of the time. And if that's not possible, I just try to remember that I'm not trying to cure cancer or figure out the debt crisis. Yes, I take my work seriously, but in the end, my job is to entertain people. And frowny Jaye is not entertaining.

So, my pets, now you have the secrets to avoiding writer's block. Get out of your own damned way and try to have more fun.* Yes, it really is that simple.

Or, you know, you could spend $45 for a jingling ceramic dice.

*If you've forgotten how to have fun, then your biggest problem probably isn't writer's block. Figure that out before you try to write the great American novel, okay? Therapy is awesome.

The Blinking Cursor of Doom

2011-09-19T18:12:00.000-07:00

I sit here and I stare at it, and I swear, it's mocking me.

It's strange how I have faced extensive rewrites (book 2 was scrapped at 68,000 words and started fresh), major copy edits, NaNoWriMo on multiple occasions, and yet nothing is quite so daunting as a blank page, and that one little lonely black line. Sitting there. Blinking at me.

I think it's the unknown. The sheer overwhelming possibility of it all. Will it be a poem? A witty blog post? A dissertation on the feminist imagery on boxes of athlete's foot ointment? It could be anything!

What if it wants to be a novella, and I force it to be a dirty limerick? Or what do I do if my iambic pentameter novel-length epic poem turns into commercial jingle parodies? There are just so many ways this could go wrong.

It's not so bad, once you get the first line down. Even the first word. Then the page isn't blank anymore, and it's not staring at you all expectant like. You get the first few marks on the page, and it's tamed, ready to be molded into whatever shape you have.

But right now, what I have is a blank page, and a blinking cursor of doom. So I sit, and the cursor blinks at me, and buried under the sheer enormity of what might be, nothing is.

Wow, that sounded really deep.

I feel like I should find a video of college guys lighting farts on fire or something, just to counter it all.

Sometimes you just need a boat....

2011-09-16T09:36:00.000-07:00

Life's been hectic and miserable at Chez Richardson lately and it's times like these--when everything explodes on you like an outhouse that's been rigged with cherry bombs--that you really need a boat.

So last Tuesday, this showed up at our marina just as the sun was going down:

Her name is Lady Washington. She was built in 1989, but she's a reproduction of an earlier boat also called the Lady Washington which was built in Massachusetts in the 1750s.

And in the morning, she was still there.

Take a nice, slow breath and say "isn't she pretty."

Because that's what I'm doing instead of killing the dog.

If I Can't Write a Thriller, I'll Star in One...

2011-09-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I'm going to Bouchercon. I'm going for a lot of reasons, one of which is that I'd like to write a mystery some day.

But in the meantime, if I can't write a thriller, I'll star in one. This would make the awesomest movie EVER, right?

El Pacto

2011-09-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

So it turns out I managed to sell Spanish rights for A Brush of Darkness a few months ago...and here's the cover! :) (And yes, it's already been pointed out that the girl on the cover and my author picture seem very much alike - i.e. head angle and expression. Total surprise on my part, but kinda cool.)

Looks like it's been renamed to "The Pact," but if you click on the pic, you'll see they put Phin on the cover. This delights me to no end.

Huzzah!

It will be available for sale in October. :)

(And sorry for the utter lameness of this post, but it's my daughter's birthday today so things are bit crazy.)

Another TRANCE Snippet

2011-09-13T06:15:00.000-07:00

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I haven't posted to the League since June. I had a very good excuse in July, as the 13th was the day I woke up in serious tendonitis-related wrist pain, so blogging was just not on my mind. August...well, I remember spending the day away from the computer, so we'll leave it at that.

I wasn't sure what to post today, though, until I realized that it's TEASER TUESDAY out in the Blog-O-sphere. And since I have a new release next month, I thought I'd post a snippet for y'all.

TRANCE is the first is a new series with Pocket about a group of twenty-something adults who lost their superpowers when they were children, only to get back suddenly fifteen years later. They live in a world that was brought to the brink of disaster due to superpowered battles, and citizens aren't exactly excited to see them back.

In the snippet I've chosen from Chapter 4, our heroine Trance has just met up with hero Gage at a truck stop in California. They're on their way south to the old HQ to find the rest of their teammates, and have stopped at a motel for the night.

#####

I nearly fell out of bed at a sudden, thunderous pounding of fists against the motel door and a female shriek for help. I lurched to my feet and stumbled toward the door to the beat of the erratic knocking, adrenaline warming my hands and urging me to use my newfound power to help this terrified person. I peered through the peep hole and saw the blond woman from next door, her hair askew and matted red. Blood streamed down the side of her face. "Oh, God." I wrapped my hand around the knob and twisted.

"Trance, don't!" Gage said.

I turned my head to ask why not, as the center of the door exploded. The blast tossed me to the floor, peppering my neck and hair with shards of wood and glass. I rolled to the side, instinct propelling me out of the line of fire, and I came up in a crouch next to the table.

The rest of the door blasted in with the second shotgun report. I screamed, startled by the sheer volume of sound it created, and brought both hands up to my sides, creating twin orbs, each the size of a grapefruit. A quick glance to my right found Gage on his feet by the corner of the bed.

The blonde entered, her eyes radiating a garish, sickly shade of yellow. She eyed me, then Gage as she reloaded the shotgun. The odor of burned wood filled the room. Fresh blood continued to run down the side of her face, and with chilling certainty, I understood. I had seen this before. In training videos. That day in Central Park. In my nightmares.

The possessed woman snapped the barrel back into place.

"Gage, duck!" I shouted.

He dove behind the bed just as she fired. The shot struck the wall, blasting through the thin plaster to create a hole two feet wide.

I threw the twin orbs at the woman. She moved faster than she should have been able to. One missed and blasted a hole through the wall, straight into her adjoining room. The second clipped her shoulder and spun her around. The gun belched an erratic shot that took out the room's front window in a shower of glass and wood.

"Trance?" Gage said.

"I'm fine, stay down!"

I called up two more orbs, smaller this time, and released them both straight at the convulsing woman's midsection. She screamed and the yellow light faded from her eyes. Her body jerked once, twice, and then lay still. I stood on shaky feet, ignoring the screaming cuts on my face and arms.

"Tell me that wasn't who I thought it was," Gage said.

I wished I could. "Specter." Even saying the name chilled me, like calling on the Bogeyman.

Gage made a choking sound. "But how?"

"I don't know."

I nudged the dead woman's hand with my bare toes. The third finger had two rings on it, one a very large (and probably fake) diamond. My first thought was to wonder how much a pawnbroker would give me for that ring. My second—and much more pressing—concern was about the man who had probably given the rings to her.

"Where's the other guy?" I asked.

A looming shadow filled the door, still dressed in the same jeans and flannel. I looked up, right into a pair of yellow eyes and a sawed-off shotgun. No time to duck, nowhere to go.

"Say hi to your father for me," he sneered, his voice a queer blend of the man's and someone else's. Monstrous and terrifying.

Enraged, I clapped my hands together with no real idea what would happen, and he fired immediately after. The buckshot struck a haze of violet energy and ricocheted, like a thousand ping pong balls. Blood and gore splattered the open doorway and walls.

I had little time to be nauseated by the sight. The kinetic energy of the shotgun blast reacted to the force field I'd instinctively created. The feedback struck me like a speeding truck and tossed me backward onto my ass. The gunman wailed and gurgled in someone else's voice. The voice of a man not quite human, full of anger and pain and frustration, filled my ears. I lay on my back, too stunned to care if he was dead. My nerves burned. I couldn't feel my feet.

Gage's face loomed over mine. "Trance? Jesus, are you all right?"

My head throbbed. My tongue felt thick and dried out. I swallowed and tasted blood. I'd bitten into my lower lip. Every single joint in my arms and legs ached.

"Him?" I hissed though the pain settling into my bones.

"He's dead. If Specter was possessing them, he's gone now. We need to get out of here."

"Hurts."

"I know. Damn it, the entire motel must have heard us. I'm going to sit you up, and then get our stuff together, okay?"

I nodded. Stopped smiling when my lip twinged. He looped an arm around my shoulders and hauled me up into a sitting position. The room spun in loopy circles; I tilted sideways. Gage caught me and helped me lean back against the foot of the bed.

"It's already starting," I said.

"What is?"

I caught his gaze and held it, feeling a little drunk. And not the good kind of drunk. "Banes trying to kill us."

In the flesh

2011-09-12T03:00:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how small actions can result in big consequences. When I first began writing the Vampire Academy series and created an intricate tattoo system for that world, I had no idea that those designs would catch on so quickly among readers. It just wasn't anything I'd ever thought about. I never expected those tattoos to show up on T-shirts:

And certainly not--permanently--on people's bodies:

My awesome readers have gotten pretty creative with the designs, and I've had a lot of fun seeing them show up at my signings. Nonetheless, it's left an impression on me to be careful what I do in books. You never know what might come of it. So, you'd think I would've thought twice before writing this piece of dialogue in Bloodlines, in which Adrian describes his dream tattoo:

"I want it to be a skeleton on fire on a motorcycle. With a pirate hat, and a parrot on his shoulder. A skeleton parrot. Or maybe a ninja skeleton parrot? No that would be overkill."

I shared that passage with someone shortly after writing it. She looked at me and said, "You know this means people are going to get real tattoos made of this, right?" No, I hadn't known that. It had never crossed my mind. Neat geometric designs are one thing, but did I want to be resonsible for someone getting an on-fire pirate skeleton motorcyclist tattooed to their body? It was a dilemma, and I had to decide if that comic value was worth keeping in the book.

I decided it was.

Hopefully, any readers who are excited by that tattoo concept (and honestly, who wouldn't be?) will stick to temporary ones or T-shirt designs. Don't get me wrong--the skeleton's cool. And, I'm secretly itching to see someone make it. I'm just not sure some people will think it's cool when they're eighty and can't get it off their bodies.

In the meantime, Arcane Vault seems to have read my mind about wanting to see how this tattoo would actually look. So, they're having a contest that requires no needles whatsoever! You artistic types now have a chance to win some hot prizes and make Adrian's tattoo come to life. The details are on AV's Facebook page, but I'll repost here for your convenience:

We want you to design Adrian's tattoo.

You can use any medium you want: paint, pencil, pen and ink, photography, Photoshop, pasta... (You get the point right?). Once we have received all the entries our panel of judges will select the top 3 images and post them in an album on our Facebook page.

Then, it’s your turn. The design that receives the most "likes" will be the named the winner and will receive a very cool Arcane Vault prize package.

We will begin accepting entries this Wednesday (Aug 31st) and the last day to submit your entry will be Friday Sept. 16th. Fan voting for the final 3 will begin the following week and will run for 1 week after that.

F.A.Q.

- This contest is open to all fans, domestic and international.

- There is no age limit.

- We have no preference in what medium you choose to use.

How to submit your entry:

Please send your entry to: Vaultkeeper@arcanevault.com and include the following information:

Name:

Age:

Medium:

Title of your piece:

Best e-mail address at which to contact you:

Disclaimer and other assorted notes:

- Please note that all entries must be appropriate for all ages (in other words no nudity or crude language).

- Photographers: You must own the rights to all your images and have written releases from any and all models.

- All likeness must be original and may not purposely represent any celebrities, sports figures or otherwise "famous" individuals.

- Initial judging will be done by a panel of individuals chosen by The Arcane Vault; their choices will be final.

- This contest is purely for entertainment value and is not in any way associated with Richelle Mead or Penguin Press.

If you have any questions or need any additional information please feel free to e-mail us at any time. Good Luck!

You heard them! Get out your pencils/paints/Photoshop, and good luck. :)

The Eleventh

2011-09-11T08:13:00.001-07:00

I was sitting in my living rom running a fever and watching the 9/11 memorial on CNN when it occurred to me that the Eleventh is my day to blog at the League, even in September. So here goes.

It’s hard for me to remember exactly what it was like on September 11, 2001. I was ten yearsyounger, new to being a Dad, and my writing was still just pie in the sky stuff. I’d finished a first novel, but it was bad and I didn’t know enough to recognize that yet. (It involves a mage and his familiar; maybe one day I will rewrite it).

Things I do remember:

Standing in the break room and seeing that second plane hit the World Trade Center.

Rolling the television out so that other folks at work could see what was happening, too.

Recording a video message with my wife for our tiny son, who was just one week old, so that he could understand the event later. (I’m not sure where we put that tape.)

And that’s pretty much it.

I feel I should mention that this is my umpteenth attempt to write this blog. There were a few full of intensely disrespectful (but funny) thoughts about what might have happened if various characters from my series were on one of the planes, if there had been another plane that was headed for Void City… I like to think the Mages Guild would have been really useful…

But it’s hard to write about.

Where’s the line between humor and disrespect? It’s a line for which I’m often searching. How much is too much? Not enough? Too high brow? Too low?

We live in a world where the X-men have fought vampiresuicide bombers, where Mark Waid’s Irredeemable explores what would happen if a being as powerful as Superman went nuts, (read it, it’s awesome), and where another comic, Ex Machina, is predicated on the idea that one world’s superhero’s greatest failure is that he only managed to stop one of the WTC Towers from being hit.

Maybe one day I’ll be comfortable writing a scene with ubervamped Eric emerging from a burning plane, but it isn’t today. Today I’m still in awe of the event. I’m too cowed by the air of respect and the so-called “failure of imagination” that prevented us from seeing those possibilities.

ARGH

2011-09-09T07:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, seriously? I have nothing to blog about.

I have three deadlines over my head at the moment; a novella due like Monday, page proofs due Wednesday (which I need to have finished by Monday so I can get them mailed, since I'm going into town on Monday anyway), and edits--which in this case means rather a lot of work, since I'm not quite happy with it yet--on Downside 5, CHASING MAGIC. Not to mention I'm sort-of-plotting something new, and working on a couple of other little things, and all of that.

And I haven't been feeling well the last few days, which means I've fallen behind on this stuff because when I'm not feeling well I have a hard time working.

I've been considering blog topics for the last three hours. I was going to mention NotAlwaysRight.com, which is this awesome site I found where people who work with the public can submit horror stories (yes, I'm very late to this one, since the site already has a book deal, but whatever. I just found it and I love it). But that seems like rather a small thing to base an entire blog post on, really, doesn't it?

I was going to talk about how frustrating it can be for a writer to have to wait for a release date, and how the anticipation gets to us, too, sometimes, but I've already done that. It's true, though. Waiting is hard. I get just as excited as you guys do, waiting for a book to be released, hoping you'll all like it, hating that I can't talk about it or whatever.

I considered mentioning the ebook sale on the Downside books for all North American customers; UNHOLY GHOSTS is ninety-nine cents in ebook, and UNHOLY MAGIC and CITY OF GHOSTS are only $4.99 each. That's at all of the ebook retailers, so wherever you buy your books--whether it's for Nook, Kindle, Apple, Sony, or whatever else--those prices are in effect. More info here at my blog.

Then, of course, there's the ENTANGLED anthology to benefit the Breast Cancer research Foundation, for which I wrote the Foreword.

But none of that seems like enough to hang a blog post on, either.

I could talk about the fact that after a period of unemployment which ran a little longer than we'd anticipated, the hubs has this morning been offered a job; a good one, too, though it requires us to move (again). So we're very excited (I know, don't I sound excited?) about that, honest. Like I said, when I'm not feeling well I sound full of ennui even when I'm happy, which I am, actually; I'm perfectly cheerful, just horribly busy.

Or, how about a snippet? Yes. Here's a (very brief) snippet from CHASING MAGIC, for your reading pleasure (hopefully):

All of the documents were in place: The Affidavit of Spectral Fraud, the Statement of Truth, two Orders of Imprisonment and two Orders of Relinquishment, and of course, the list of Church-approved attorneys. The Darnells would want that—well, they’d need it, because they were about to be arrested for faking a haunting.

At least, they would be when the Black Squad got there to back Chess up. She didn’t always want the Squad to come along; police presence tipped people off, made things more difficult, and most people came pretty quietly once they realized they were busted, anyway. The Darnells didn’t seem like the come-quietly type, though. Something told Chess they weren’t going to take this well.

I do have a question, though, which I meant to ask on my own blog but forgot. What do you think of links that open in new windows or tabs? Personally I like them; I'd rather not have to navigate back to the page where I was, so I always right-click and select "Open link in new window" unless I know for a fact that the link will automatically open in a new window. But I've heard some people hate this. So I'm curious. What do you think?

Sigh.

The Revision-Go-Round

2011-09-06T22:03:00.000-07:00

I'm back in school now and teachin' America's youth about Puritans and witch trials and how their either/or fallacies continue to haunt us today—and I'm also in revision mode on book 4 of The Iron Druid Chronicles. It's kind of odd to talk about real people hanging other real people for being witches during the day, but then go home at night and write about fictional witches battling fictional Druids in Arizona...

Thought I'd share a wee bit about the revision process—keeping in mind that this is my process, and every author's going to be different in the details. What's common to every author is the necessity of revision. No one drops their pants and poops out the perfect novel. Well, maybe somebody does. But they're not in the League. #345 on our 500-question entrance exam reads: "Do you poop perfect novels?" If they answer the question, they're disqualified. Anyone who gets all the way to #345 is way too serious to be in this group.

Revision: I go through several drafts o' my books before the editor ever sees it. I write at least three drafts (but usually more) before I'm okay with sending it off. Nevertheless, that third or fourth or tenth draft is always "Version One" once it gets to my editor's desk. Then, depending on the book, I'll have to revise it two to four more times before it gets "Accepted." During those revisions the book gets larger—I haven't had to cut anything yet; I always need to expand. Some authors work the other way and have to cut quite a bit—it's all good.

I've actually been keeping track of word counts during this particular book for the heck of it. When I finished my "first draft" of TRICKED, it was only 72,300 words. By the time I wrote subsequent drafts, it was up to 81,666, and that's how I delivered it. After the editorial letter came back, I hammered away at the keyboard until version two was 90,345 words. Got some more feedback, and yesterday I sent off version three at 99,487 words. That's actually much more expansion than I've done in the past, but every book is different. So I'm not quite finished getting this in shape, but even after "Acceptance" I'll have more revision to do. Copy edits require another close look at the book, and then once it's typeset you have to go through it again. It's a long process.

Some of my favorite reviews (of any book) are those that talk about the "natural prose" or some other similar phrase that implies the author wrote it that way the first time. Nobody writes that perfectly. Getting that "natural, flowing prose" or whatever onto the page took them several attempts and most likely many attempts, together with a damn fine editor and probably plenty of caffeine and/or booze. Occasional breaks to pet/walk the dogs help tremendously.

If you're an aspiring writer, I hope you're having a great time writing your current draft! But don't get too attached to those words just yet...

We interupt your regularly scheduled League posts...

2011-09-06T08:15:00.000-07:00

To bring you an announcement from yours truly. This is my passion project, and I would love it if you jumped on board. Like us on the Facebook, follow the twitter, all that jazz... and subscribe/listen when I launch next week. Feel free to steal the press release here and help boost the signal.

Thanks,

your semi-humble Anton

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Anton Strout, Host/Curator
OnceandFuturePodcast@gmail.com

The Once & Future Podcast Launches with Readers And Writers Of Fantasy and Science Fiction In Mind

(USA, NY, NY) September 6, 2011- Speculative fiction author Anton Strout announces the launch of The Once & Future Podcast- a new weekly book-centric podcast focused on all things fantasy and science fiction. Segments will focus on: breaking news in the publishing industry, upcoming release titles, guest authors, book tour info, convention news, and overall general discussion of genre reading for readers and writers alike.

“Parts of the show will be focused on content for readers,” says Strout, host and curator of content for the show, “but there will also be segments coming up for writers, no matter what stage of the process they are at.”

Strout is the author of the Simon Canderous urban fantasy series published by Ace Books and the first book in the Spellmason Chronicles, Alchemystic, to be released in 2012. Strout has been in the publishing industry for over twenty years, fifteen of those as part of Penguin Group USA.

“I’ve always loved books,” says Strout, “and I’ve discovered, thanks to my author capacity at conventions and on panels, that I love talking to my fellow authors. I wanted a place where I could talk about all things happening within my chosen genre and share that with others. I’ll be chatting with New York Times bestsellers, authors just getting their careers started… anyone I find interesting, really, including professionals from within the world of publishing itself- editors, artists, publicists, bloggers. You name it.”

The Once & Future Podcast will debut on Monday, September 12^th with new episodes posting every following Monday. Episode One will include interviews with Charlaine Harris (author of the Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire series) and Jackie Kessler (author of the Hell of Earth series and The Rider’s Quartet). Upcoming episodes will feature a variety of authors including Rachel Caine, Amber Benson, Chris Hardwick, Jim C. Hines, Matthew Cody and many others. To find out more, please visit http://antonstrout.com/Once___Future_Podcast.html

Contact:

Anton Strout, Host/Curator

Email: OnceandFuturePodcast@gmail.com

twitter: twitter.com/OandFPodcast

Facebook: www.facebook.com/Once.And.Future.Podcast

Website: antonstrout.com/Once___Future_Podcast.html