SF author Steven Barnes is a big believer in a three-pronged approach to life. He says that if you simultaneously attack the physical (health and fitness), emotional (relationships) and mental (career) spheres of life all at once, it gives your ego no place to hide. Whatever personal demons you have, they'll be flushed out into the open where you can identify and deal with them.
He also talks quite a bit about the ego and how it will often sabotage your attempts to do things that threaten to move you out of your comfort zone. Change is scary, especially if your ego is invested in who/what you are now. Even good change can be scary. The ego will resist, and it will try to convince you to stop trying. Anyone who stretches himself will generally be familiar with the little voice that tells you you're doomed to fail, that giving up now will save you pain.
Writers deal with that a lot. Even when you've reached the stratospheric realm of Big Name Author you still get rejections. And they still hurt--but as a professional, you've learned to simply go on. When you're still a newbie, it's tougher.
So...I wrote a novel in November. I wrote it, finished it, and didn't let anyone see it. I was convinced that it was no good, a meandering, pointless, uninteresting mess. I intended never to let it see the light of day. But a funny thing happened.
My spouse--my supportive, cheerleading spouse and critical first reader--expressed an interest in seeing it. Several times. So I opened the file up a while ago and...it wasn't nearly as bad as I remembered it being. In fact, it wasn't bad at all. So I emailed it to said spouse to read.
Spouse liked it. Spouse liked it a lot. There were a couple of valid criticisms, among them a couple of very explicit sex scenes that didn't find the tone of the rest of the book. (I ascribe those to "I need to write something on this NaNoWriMo project today, what can I write? I know! Sex!") The ending is also rather abrupt--another artifact of writing it for NaNo.
But overall, it was a hit. It's too short, at 50,000 words, to be published as is. I can add to it, though, and clean up the other problems. And then...despite all the fear and bluster my ego has thrown my way, I'll have a novel to send out.
This exercise has also given me more confidence that the curent (second) novel I'm working on is better than I feel like it is at the moment. I am not the best judge of my work. I know that intellectually, but emotionally I still have some learning to do.
I will learn, though. I will. And in the mean time, I will--as they say in NLP circles--act as if I beleived it until I do believe it. I'll fake it til I make it.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Porn, Porn! What is Porn!?
Over on the Romance Junkies Blog Julia Rachel Barrett is guest-blogging about Romance vs Porn. I've commented on the post a couple of times, and I seem to hold a rather different view of what constitutes "porn" than Julia does, or the other commenters. It's an interesting discussion.
My definition of porn, which Istole borrowed from spouse is, "If you read it or look at it or watch it in order to be aroused...it's porn." Which means that almost anything can be porn. Hardcore pics, movies, and the like--of course. But also lingerie catalogs, the Sports Illustrated "Swimsuit" Issue, and so forth.
By my definition, a great deal of Romance constitutes porn. Women (and men) read it for, among other things, the arousal of hot sex scenes. That doesn't mean it isn't also romantic, but I don't think romance and porn are necessarily exclusive. But some of the commenters on the Romance Junkies blog definitely feel otherwise, and would be insulted if the Romance they read or write, was called porn.
I'm not. I write erotica. If you want to call it porn, I don't mind. It definitely qualifies under my definition--it's arousing to read, and arousing to write. That's one of the reasons I write it. I enjoy that.
Part of the issue, I think, is that what many people think of as porn--purely mechanical show n' tell about the slippery friction of mucus membranes--is bad not because it's arousing, or even because it's explicit, but because it's bad writing. The focus of any good story is how it affects the characters, how they feel about the events they're experiencing. Even some letters to Penthouse and other magazines about the characters' sexual exploits are remarkably well written and give us a clear sense of the characters involved and their feelings about it all--it's definitely intended to arouse, but it's also well written. So it's porn, but not just porn.
Purely mechanical Tab-A-into-Slot-B porn lacks that component. Sometimes by design, but mostly because the writers either don't know any better, or don't care. But that's equally true in any genre. A lot of people have been turned off of science fiction, for instance, because the stories they read were all about the ideas and the characters lacked humanity. Lots of military fiction could just as easily be called "violence porn"--the characters engage in explicitly described violence with as little feeling or meaning as the characters engaging in meaningless but explicit sex in bad porn.
So, how do you define porn?
My definition of porn, which I
By my definition, a great deal of Romance constitutes porn. Women (and men) read it for, among other things, the arousal of hot sex scenes. That doesn't mean it isn't also romantic, but I don't think romance and porn are necessarily exclusive. But some of the commenters on the Romance Junkies blog definitely feel otherwise, and would be insulted if the Romance they read or write, was called porn.
I'm not. I write erotica. If you want to call it porn, I don't mind. It definitely qualifies under my definition--it's arousing to read, and arousing to write. That's one of the reasons I write it. I enjoy that.
Part of the issue, I think, is that what many people think of as porn--purely mechanical show n' tell about the slippery friction of mucus membranes--is bad not because it's arousing, or even because it's explicit, but because it's bad writing. The focus of any good story is how it affects the characters, how they feel about the events they're experiencing. Even some letters to Penthouse and other magazines about the characters' sexual exploits are remarkably well written and give us a clear sense of the characters involved and their feelings about it all--it's definitely intended to arouse, but it's also well written. So it's porn, but not just porn.
Purely mechanical Tab-A-into-Slot-B porn lacks that component. Sometimes by design, but mostly because the writers either don't know any better, or don't care. But that's equally true in any genre. A lot of people have been turned off of science fiction, for instance, because the stories they read were all about the ideas and the characters lacked humanity. Lots of military fiction could just as easily be called "violence porn"--the characters engage in explicitly described violence with as little feeling or meaning as the characters engaging in meaningless but explicit sex in bad porn.
So, how do you define porn?
Friday, January 15, 2010
New Latest Story Is Out!
Three On A Rooftop by Gail Roarke is now available at Cobblestone Press.
Why settle for one gorgeous man, when a girl can have two?
Buy it now here.
Additional stories by Gail Roarke are available here.
Gail Roarke
http://gailroarke.blogspot.com
Join my Yahoo group. Thursday is author promo day.
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gailroarkeauthor/
BLURB: Leah Wright isn't only Iron Maiden. She has a day job as well, and she's in Chicago on business. But after a day dealing with crowds, she's ready for some alone time. She takes to the sky, where she encounters an attractive stranger--one of Chicago's own superheroes. One thing leads to another and she has a very good time.
When she returns the next evening her playmate has brought a friend. She soon discovers that the dynamic duo are very close, but more than willing to share the love, and the three of them make beautiful music together....
EXCERPT:
She broke their frantic kiss, gasping for air, and raised her arms long enough for him to peel the tank top away. She took two quick steps backward, and they looked at one another across that space. His gaze roamed her body, and he drew a long, slow breath as if the air had grown thick with the force of the energy between them. His silk pants, soaked by the rain and clinging, did absolutely nothing to hide his arousal.
Why settle for one gorgeous man, when a girl can have two?
Buy it now here.
Additional stories by Gail Roarke are available here.
Gail Roarke
http://gailroarke.blogspot.com
Join my Yahoo group. Thursday is author promo day.
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gailroarkeauthor/
BLURB: Leah Wright isn't only Iron Maiden. She has a day job as well, and she's in Chicago on business. But after a day dealing with crowds, she's ready for some alone time. She takes to the sky, where she encounters an attractive stranger--one of Chicago's own superheroes. One thing leads to another and she has a very good time.
When she returns the next evening her playmate has brought a friend. She soon discovers that the dynamic duo are very close, but more than willing to share the love, and the three of them make beautiful music together....
EXCERPT:
Leah’s last scheduled event at Erie-Con this evening was a reading of her most recent short story, Bad Touch. It ran from eight to nine pm. Afterward, she spent a few minutes signing copies of her novels and answering questions from a few of the folks who’d attended the reading. By the time she’d shaken off the most persistent, she was more than ready to leave the hotel.
I have got to get out of here.
She loved fandom, and she loved conventions—especially now that she could write them off as legitimate business expenses—but it wasn’t all roses. Her schedule today had been packed with panel appearances. She’d barely had time to grab lunch and never did get dinner. Tomorrow promised to be just as busy. She’d have to talk to the con com about leaving more free time in her schedule.
Leah’s stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. She could eat later. Right now she wanted to get out. The elevators in this hotel were painfully slow to arrive, and twice she had to wait anyhow because it arrived full of other con-goers. But eventually she made it to the eleventh floor.
After dealing with crowds all day, the silent emptiness of her hotel room was a blessed relief. Leah dropped her bag on the desk and then stretched out on the bed for a moment, enjoying the solitude. Not that she’d expected to be alone, but her best friend Rachel had had to cancel her attendance at the last minute, leaving Leah with a room to herself.
A flicker of light outside caught Leah’s attention. She got up and pushed the gauzy curtains aside. The sky over Chicago was low and heavy, with lightning flashing in the distance. It looked as if a thunderstorm was about to descend on the city.
Leah smiled. She loved thunderstorms. She chewed on her lip indecisively for a moment, then turned away from the window. Why the hell not? She dug her Iron Maiden costume out of the large canvas duffel by the bed, then stripped.
She pulled on the tights, leather miniskirt, tank top, boots, and coachman’s cloak with the speed of long practice. The mask she didn’t put on—not yet. She shut off the lights and only then opened the sliding glass door to the tiny balcony.
Traffic sounds drifted up from far below, accompanied by the faint rumble of the approaching storm. The air smelled of the coming storm as well. She looked around carefully; none of the balconies she could see were occupied and most of the rooms were dark. Now she donned the mask.
She launched herself from the balcony, climbing fast. In moments she was well above the skyline. She slowed to a halt, hovering high over the city. The city was beautiful from this vantage point, as most cities were. Nearly silent, ablaze with lights strung in abstract patterns that only hinted at the complexity of the machine below.
It didn’t look like a wretched hive of scum and villainy from up here. She knew Chicago’s reputation, of course. It was one of the reasons she’d come to Erie-Con. She was thinking of writing a mystery for her next novel, and the city seemed like an ideal background for it. She could do some research, see the sights and talk to some locals to add authenticity to the story.
Leah took a moment to set a waypoint in the GPS unit strapped to her wrist so she could find the hotel again. It was always embarrassing to have to land and ask for directions or fly low enough to follow street signs in a strange city. Then she began flying over the city, changing direction on a whim, investigating any sights that caught her interest.
The thunderstorm continued its advance, arriving at last as a shimmering curtain of rain. She plunged into it and was soaked within moments. The rain was falling in blinding sheets, illuminated by frequent jagged bursts of lightning, close enough sometimes to make the fine hairs on her arms stand up. She felt the force of thunderclaps roll through her body. She loved it all.
She swooped and soared through the falling rain, reveling in the freedom of flight. She looped through the air, did barrel rolls and other maneuvers, sometimes driving straight up at speed before letting gravity slow her to a halt and pull her earthward again. During one such dive, Leah flashed past a figure on a rooftop of a high-rise building. A man—dancing.
Leah pulled out of her dive, arcing low over traffic and then back up into the night sky, retracing her path. Yes, there he was. An athletic Asian man dancing on the ledge that surrounded the rooftop. He had short, dark hair plastered to his skull by the rain. He was wearing black kung fu-style pants with white trim. His feet and upper body were bare.
And what an upper body it was. He looked as if he were carved out of wood. Muscles bunched and relaxed smoothly beneath his skin, and he moved as though his hips were on ball bearings. Strength and grace all in one very attractive package.
If he’d noticed Leah, he gave no sign of it. He continued his free form dance with no hint of self-consciousness. Leah drifted closer, wondering who he was and why he was dancing here and now. One slip and he’d fall to his death.
Was he suicidal? High? Crazy?
Leah really didn’t want to have to deal with someone like that now. But it wasn’t as if she had a choice. If she didn’t, who would? Leah drifted closer still. The man moved with remarkable grace and fluidity.
“I’m not a jumper,” the man said, never pausing in his dance. He had to shout to make himself heard over the torrential downpour.
“That’s good, then,” Leah replied. She alighted on the ledge a few yards from the man. “Why are you here?”
“I love a rainy night.” Dancing closer, he spared a glance for Leah. “I know you,” he added.
“Yeah?” Leah asked.
“Yes,” the man said, moving closer still, facing Leah now. If he had any concern for falling, it didn’t show in his movements or his face. He looked Leah up and down. “You’re Iron Maiden. You’re far from home, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Leah agreed. “And who are you?”
“I am Jiang Wu,” the man said, dancing up into Leah’s personal space.
Jiang Wu. Leah knew that name. It had come up when she’d Googled Chicago. There were lots of rumors about him but not a lot of solid information, though he seemed to be on the side of the angels. Very few pictures either, though this man did seem to match Jiang’s reported appearance. He was reputed to be a martial artist, or maybe a sorcerer, but definitely capable of the sorts of feats usually confined to over-the-top kung fu films, swift and dangerous but overall a good guy. He was often seen in the company of another Chicago legend, The Dark.
Jiang continued dancing to unheard music while Leah studied him. He reached out and took Leah’s hands, swinging her into his arms. “Please, dance with me,” he urged her.
Leah remained still for a moment, then shrugged and started dancing with the man. He grinned, clearly pleased by Leah’s cooperation. They moved back and forth on the narrow ledge, his free form dance segueing into something more formal.
He pressed close to Leah, took her left hand in his right and wrapped his other arm around her waist. “Do you tango?” he asked.
“Uh, actually…no,” Leah said.
He shrugged faintly. “Eh, neither do I. We’ll just have to fake it.”
And so they did, a little clumsily at first, but with increasing grace. They stalked first one way along the narrow ledge, then turned and stalked the other. Leah yelped when he abruptly dipped her. For an instant, she hung suspended over the precipice by his grip, shielded from the rain only by his face inches from her own.
Leah saw the moment when he considered closing the gap and kissing her. Before Leah could decide whether she’d welcome it, he seemed to sense her indecision. He abruptly jerked her upright. She felt his hard-on pressing against her. She held his gaze for a moment, saw the flickering glance he gave to her left, toward the high rise across the street.
Leah’s nod was almost imperceptible. He pulled her tight against his body once more as they turned to press their cheeks together. He stepped out into thin air. She stepped with him—and they danced on the void in the falling rain to the music of thunder.
It was a surreal experience, and one she wouldn’t have missed for the world. They danced until the thunderstorm had moved on. Now they stood on the ledge again with bodies pressed together and watched the curtain of rain recede to the west, flickering and grumbling in the distance. The city smelled of the rain and of ozone, and gleamed like new.
“It looks beautiful after a rain,” Leah said, looking down at the city. They were the first words either had spoken in half an hour. She was breathing deeply and felt a little flushed, not from exertion but from excitement. There was tension in the air that had nothing to do with the storm just past.
“You can’t see the warts from this height,” he replied. “But trust me, they’re there.”
She could hear the weight of experience in his voice. Leah thought about her own childhood experiences with violence and crime. Here was someone, she suspected, who knew the things she knew, the same way she knew them. It was a rare feeling.
She looked at him until he met her eyes. “I know,” she said. “All the more reason to enjoy the good things in life whenever you get the chance, don’t you think?”
“Hell, yes,” he said. She didn’t know which of them moved first, or if they acted in unison. His mouth was warm and soft and hungry for her, but no more so than hers was for him. She ran her hands across his rain slick skin, marveling at the softness of it and the way hard muscle played beneath it.
Leah wanted to feel that skin against her body, wanted it desperately, and there was too much fabric between them. Without breaking their kiss, she reached up with one hand to lift her mask off and discard it. She fumbled with the clasp of her cloak, then tossed the mass of fabric aside. His hands tugged at her tank top, slipped beneath and grazed her sides as he pushed it up to bunch beneath her arms.
She broke their frantic kiss, gasping for air, and raised her arms long enough for him to peel the tank top away. She took two quick steps backward, and they looked at one another across that space. His gaze roamed her body, and he drew a long, slow breath as if the air had grown thick with the force of the energy between them. His silk pants, soaked by the rain and clinging, did absolutely nothing to hide his arousal.
Three On A Rooftop by Gail Roarke is now available at Cobblestone Press.
Why settle for one gorgeous man, when a girl can have two?
Buy it now here.
Additional stories by Gail Roarke are available here.
Gail Roarke
http://gailroarke.blogspot.com
Join my Yahoo group. Thursday is author promo day.
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gailroarkeauthor/
Threeonarooftop-300x454
BLURB: Leah Wright isn't only Iron Maiden. She has a day job as well, and she's in Chicago on business. But after a day dealing with crowds, she's ready for some alone time. She takes to the sky, where she encounters an attractive stranger--one of Chicago's own superheroes. One thing leads to another and she has a very good time.
When she returns the next evening her playmate has brought a friend. She soon discovers that the dynamic duo are very close, but more than willing to share the love, and the three of them make beautiful music together....
EXCERPT:
Leah’s last scheduled event at Erie-Con this evening was a reading of her most recent short story, Bad Touch. It ran from eight to nine pm. Afterward, she spent a few minutes signing copies of her novels and answering questions from a few of the folks who’d attended the reading. By the time she’d shaken off the most persistent, she was more than ready to leave the hotel.
I have got to get out of here.
She loved fandom, and she loved conventions—especially now that she could write them off as legitimate business expenses—but it wasn’t all roses. Her schedule today had been packed with panel appearances. She’d barely had time to grab lunch and never did get dinner. Tomorrow promised to be just as busy. She’d have to talk to the con com about leaving more free time in her schedule.
Leah’s stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. She could eat later. Right now she wanted to get out. The elevators in this hotel were painfully slow to arrive, and twice she had to wait anyhow because it arrived full of other con-goers. But eventually she made it to the eleventh floor.
After dealing with crowds all day, the silent emptiness of her hotel room was a blessed relief. Leah dropped her bag on the desk and then stretched out on the bed for a moment, enjoying the solitude. Not that she’d expected to be alone, but her best friend Rachel had had to cancel her attendance at the last minute, leaving Leah with a room to herself.
A flicker of light outside caught Leah’s attention. She got up and pushed the gauzy curtains aside. The sky over Chicago was low and heavy, with lightning flashing in the distance. It looked as if a thunderstorm was about to descend on the city.
Leah smiled. She loved thunderstorms. She chewed on her lip indecisively for a moment, then turned away from the window. Why the hell not? She dug her Iron Maiden costume out of the large canvas duffel by the bed, then stripped.
She pulled on the tights, leather miniskirt, tank top, boots, and coachman’s cloak with the speed of long practice. The mask she didn’t put on—not yet. She shut off the lights and only then opened the sliding glass door to the tiny balcony.
Traffic sounds drifted up from far below, accompanied by the faint rumble of the approaching storm. The air smelled of the coming storm as well. She looked around carefully; none of the balconies she could see were occupied and most of the rooms were dark. Now she donned the mask.
She launched herself from the balcony, climbing fast. In moments she was well above the skyline. She slowed to a halt, hovering high over the city. The city was beautiful from this vantage point, as most cities were. Nearly silent, ablaze with lights strung in abstract patterns that only hinted at the complexity of the machine below.
It didn’t look like a wretched hive of scum and villainy from up here. She knew Chicago’s reputation, of course. It was one of the reasons she’d come to Erie-Con. She was thinking of writing a mystery for her next novel, and the city seemed like an ideal background for it. She could do some research, see the sights and talk to some locals to add authenticity to the story.
Leah took a moment to set a waypoint in the GPS unit strapped to her wrist so she could find the hotel again. It was always embarrassing to have to land and ask for directions or fly low enough to follow street signs in a strange city. Then she began flying over the city, changing direction on a whim, investigating any sights that caught her interest.
The thunderstorm continued its advance, arriving at last as a shimmering curtain of rain. She plunged into it and was soaked within moments. The rain was falling in blinding sheets, illuminated by frequent jagged bursts of lightning, close enough sometimes to make the fine hairs on her arms stand up. She felt the force of thunderclaps roll through her body. She loved it all.
She swooped and soared through the falling rain, reveling in the freedom of flight. She looped through the air, did barrel rolls and other maneuvers, sometimes driving straight up at speed before letting gravity slow her to a halt and pull her earthward again. During one such dive, Leah flashed past a figure on a rooftop of a high-rise building. A man—dancing.
Leah pulled out of her dive, arcing low over traffic and then back up into the night sky, retracing her path. Yes, there he was. An athletic Asian man dancing on the ledge that surrounded the rooftop. He had short, dark hair plastered to his skull by the rain. He was wearing black kung fu-style pants with white trim. His feet and upper body were bare.
And what an upper body it was. He looked as if he were carved out of wood. Muscles bunched and relaxed smoothly beneath his skin, and he moved as though his hips were on ball bearings. Strength and grace all in one very attractive package.
If he’d noticed Leah, he gave no sign of it. He continued his free form dance with no hint of self-consciousness. Leah drifted closer, wondering who he was and why he was dancing here and now. One slip and he’d fall to his death. Was he suicidal? High? Crazy?
Leah really didn’t want to have to deal with someone like that now. But it wasn’t as if she had a choice. If she didn’t, who would? Leah drifted closer still. The man moved with remarkable grace and fluidity.
“I’m not a jumper,” the man said, never pausing in his dance. He had to shout to make himself heard over the torrential downpour.
“That’s good, then,” Leah replied. She alighted on the ledge a few yards from the man. “Why are you here?”
“I love a rainy night.” Dancing closer, he spared a glance for Leah. “I know you,” he added.
“Yeah?” Leah asked.
“Yes,” the man said, moving closer still, facing Leah now. If he had any concern for falling, it didn’t show in his movements or his face. He looked Leah up and down. “You’re Iron Maiden. You’re far from home, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Leah agreed. “And who are you?”
“I am Jiang Wu,” the man said, dancing up into Leah’s personal space.
Jiang Wu. Leah knew that name. It had come up when she’d Googled Chicago. There were lots of rumors about him but not a lot of solid information, though he seemed to be on the side of the angels. Very few pictures either, though this man did seem to match Jiang’s reported appearance. He was reputed to be a martial artist, or maybe a sorcerer, but definitely capable of the sorts of feats usually confined to over-the-top kung fu films, swift and dangerous but overall a good guy. He was often seen in the company of another Chicago legend, The Dark.
Jiang continued dancing to unheard music while Leah studied him. He reached out and took Leah’s hands, swinging her into his arms. “Please, dance with me,” he urged her.
Leah remained still for a moment, then shrugged and started dancing with the man. He grinned, clearly pleased by Leah’s cooperation. They moved back and forth on the narrow ledge, his free form dance segueing into something more formal.
He pressed close to Leah, took her left hand in his right and wrapped his other arm around her waist. “Do you tango?” he asked.
“Uh, actually…no,” Leah said.
He shrugged faintly. “Eh, neither do I. We’ll just have to fake it.”
And so they did, a little clumsily at first, but with increasing grace. They stalked first one way along the narrow ledge, then turned and stalked the other. Leah yelped when he abruptly dipped her. For an instant, she hung suspended over the precipice by his grip, shielded from the rain only by his face inches from her own.
Leah saw the moment when he considered closing the gap and kissing her. Before Leah could decide whether she’d welcome it, he seemed to sense her indecision. He abruptly jerked her upright. She felt his hard-on pressing against her. She held his gaze for a moment, saw the flickering glance he gave to her left, toward the high rise across the street.
Leah’s nod was almost imperceptible. He pulled her tight against his body once more as they turned to press their cheeks together. He stepped out into thin air. She stepped with him—and they danced on the void in the falling rain to the music of thunder.
It was a surreal experience, and one she wouldn’t have missed for the world. They danced until the thunderstorm had moved on. Now they stood on the ledge again with bodies pressed together and watched the curtain of rain recede to the west, flickering and grumbling in the distance. The city smelled of the rain and of ozone, and gleamed like new.
“It looks beautiful after a rain,” Leah said, looking down at the city. They were the first words either had spoken in half an hour. She was breathing deeply and felt a little flushed, not from exertion but from excitement. There was tension in the air that had nothing to do with the storm just past.
“You can’t see the warts from this height,” he replied. “But trust me, they’re there.”
She could hear the weight of experience in his voice. Leah thought about her own childhood experiences with violence and crime. Here was someone, she suspected, who knew the things she knew, the same way she knew them. It was a rare feeling.
She looked at him until he met her eyes. “I know,” she said. “All the more reason to enjoy the good things in life whenever you get the chance, don’t you think?”
“Hell, yes,” he said. She didn’t know which of them moved first, or if they acted in unison. His mouth was warm and soft and hungry for her, but no more so than hers was for him. She ran her hands across his rain slick skin, marveling at the softness of it and the way hard muscle played beneath it.
Leah wanted to feel that skin against her body, wanted it desperately, and there was too much fabric between them. Without breaking their kiss, she reached up with one hand to lift her mask off and discard it. She fumbled with the clasp of her cloak, then tossed the mass of fabric aside. His hands tugged at her tank top, slipped beneath and grazed her sides as he pushed it up to bunch beneath her arms.
She broke their frantic kiss, gasping for air, and raised her arms long enough for him to peel the tank top away. She took two quick steps backward, and they looked at one another across that space. His gaze roamed her body, and he drew a long, slow breath as if the air had grown thick with the force of the energy between them. His silk pants, soaked by the rain and clinging, did absolutely nothing to hide his arousal.
Why settle for one gorgeous man, when a girl can have two?
Buy it now here.
Additional stories by Gail Roarke are available here.
Gail Roarke
http://gailroarke.blogspot.com
Join my Yahoo group. Thursday is author promo day.
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/gailroarkeauthor/
Threeonarooftop-300x454
BLURB: Leah Wright isn't only Iron Maiden. She has a day job as well, and she's in Chicago on business. But after a day dealing with crowds, she's ready for some alone time. She takes to the sky, where she encounters an attractive stranger--one of Chicago's own superheroes. One thing leads to another and she has a very good time.
When she returns the next evening her playmate has brought a friend. She soon discovers that the dynamic duo are very close, but more than willing to share the love, and the three of them make beautiful music together....
EXCERPT:
Leah’s last scheduled event at Erie-Con this evening was a reading of her most recent short story, Bad Touch. It ran from eight to nine pm. Afterward, she spent a few minutes signing copies of her novels and answering questions from a few of the folks who’d attended the reading. By the time she’d shaken off the most persistent, she was more than ready to leave the hotel.
I have got to get out of here.
She loved fandom, and she loved conventions—especially now that she could write them off as legitimate business expenses—but it wasn’t all roses. Her schedule today had been packed with panel appearances. She’d barely had time to grab lunch and never did get dinner. Tomorrow promised to be just as busy. She’d have to talk to the con com about leaving more free time in her schedule.
Leah’s stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. She could eat later. Right now she wanted to get out. The elevators in this hotel were painfully slow to arrive, and twice she had to wait anyhow because it arrived full of other con-goers. But eventually she made it to the eleventh floor.
After dealing with crowds all day, the silent emptiness of her hotel room was a blessed relief. Leah dropped her bag on the desk and then stretched out on the bed for a moment, enjoying the solitude. Not that she’d expected to be alone, but her best friend Rachel had had to cancel her attendance at the last minute, leaving Leah with a room to herself.
A flicker of light outside caught Leah’s attention. She got up and pushed the gauzy curtains aside. The sky over Chicago was low and heavy, with lightning flashing in the distance. It looked as if a thunderstorm was about to descend on the city.
Leah smiled. She loved thunderstorms. She chewed on her lip indecisively for a moment, then turned away from the window. Why the hell not? She dug her Iron Maiden costume out of the large canvas duffel by the bed, then stripped.
She pulled on the tights, leather miniskirt, tank top, boots, and coachman’s cloak with the speed of long practice. The mask she didn’t put on—not yet. She shut off the lights and only then opened the sliding glass door to the tiny balcony.
Traffic sounds drifted up from far below, accompanied by the faint rumble of the approaching storm. The air smelled of the coming storm as well. She looked around carefully; none of the balconies she could see were occupied and most of the rooms were dark. Now she donned the mask.
She launched herself from the balcony, climbing fast. In moments she was well above the skyline. She slowed to a halt, hovering high over the city. The city was beautiful from this vantage point, as most cities were. Nearly silent, ablaze with lights strung in abstract patterns that only hinted at the complexity of the machine below.
It didn’t look like a wretched hive of scum and villainy from up here. She knew Chicago’s reputation, of course. It was one of the reasons she’d come to Erie-Con. She was thinking of writing a mystery for her next novel, and the city seemed like an ideal background for it. She could do some research, see the sights and talk to some locals to add authenticity to the story.
Leah took a moment to set a waypoint in the GPS unit strapped to her wrist so she could find the hotel again. It was always embarrassing to have to land and ask for directions or fly low enough to follow street signs in a strange city. Then she began flying over the city, changing direction on a whim, investigating any sights that caught her interest.
The thunderstorm continued its advance, arriving at last as a shimmering curtain of rain. She plunged into it and was soaked within moments. The rain was falling in blinding sheets, illuminated by frequent jagged bursts of lightning, close enough sometimes to make the fine hairs on her arms stand up. She felt the force of thunderclaps roll through her body. She loved it all.
She swooped and soared through the falling rain, reveling in the freedom of flight. She looped through the air, did barrel rolls and other maneuvers, sometimes driving straight up at speed before letting gravity slow her to a halt and pull her earthward again. During one such dive, Leah flashed past a figure on a rooftop of a high-rise building. A man—dancing.
Leah pulled out of her dive, arcing low over traffic and then back up into the night sky, retracing her path. Yes, there he was. An athletic Asian man dancing on the ledge that surrounded the rooftop. He had short, dark hair plastered to his skull by the rain. He was wearing black kung fu-style pants with white trim. His feet and upper body were bare.
And what an upper body it was. He looked as if he were carved out of wood. Muscles bunched and relaxed smoothly beneath his skin, and he moved as though his hips were on ball bearings. Strength and grace all in one very attractive package.
If he’d noticed Leah, he gave no sign of it. He continued his free form dance with no hint of self-consciousness. Leah drifted closer, wondering who he was and why he was dancing here and now. One slip and he’d fall to his death. Was he suicidal? High? Crazy?
Leah really didn’t want to have to deal with someone like that now. But it wasn’t as if she had a choice. If she didn’t, who would? Leah drifted closer still. The man moved with remarkable grace and fluidity.
“I’m not a jumper,” the man said, never pausing in his dance. He had to shout to make himself heard over the torrential downpour.
“That’s good, then,” Leah replied. She alighted on the ledge a few yards from the man. “Why are you here?”
“I love a rainy night.” Dancing closer, he spared a glance for Leah. “I know you,” he added.
“Yeah?” Leah asked.
“Yes,” the man said, moving closer still, facing Leah now. If he had any concern for falling, it didn’t show in his movements or his face. He looked Leah up and down. “You’re Iron Maiden. You’re far from home, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Leah agreed. “And who are you?”
“I am Jiang Wu,” the man said, dancing up into Leah’s personal space.
Jiang Wu. Leah knew that name. It had come up when she’d Googled Chicago. There were lots of rumors about him but not a lot of solid information, though he seemed to be on the side of the angels. Very few pictures either, though this man did seem to match Jiang’s reported appearance. He was reputed to be a martial artist, or maybe a sorcerer, but definitely capable of the sorts of feats usually confined to over-the-top kung fu films, swift and dangerous but overall a good guy. He was often seen in the company of another Chicago legend, The Dark.
Jiang continued dancing to unheard music while Leah studied him. He reached out and took Leah’s hands, swinging her into his arms. “Please, dance with me,” he urged her.
Leah remained still for a moment, then shrugged and started dancing with the man. He grinned, clearly pleased by Leah’s cooperation. They moved back and forth on the narrow ledge, his free form dance segueing into something more formal.
He pressed close to Leah, took her left hand in his right and wrapped his other arm around her waist. “Do you tango?” he asked.
“Uh, actually…no,” Leah said.
He shrugged faintly. “Eh, neither do I. We’ll just have to fake it.”
And so they did, a little clumsily at first, but with increasing grace. They stalked first one way along the narrow ledge, then turned and stalked the other. Leah yelped when he abruptly dipped her. For an instant, she hung suspended over the precipice by his grip, shielded from the rain only by his face inches from her own.
Leah saw the moment when he considered closing the gap and kissing her. Before Leah could decide whether she’d welcome it, he seemed to sense her indecision. He abruptly jerked her upright. She felt his hard-on pressing against her. She held his gaze for a moment, saw the flickering glance he gave to her left, toward the high rise across the street.
Leah’s nod was almost imperceptible. He pulled her tight against his body once more as they turned to press their cheeks together. He stepped out into thin air. She stepped with him—and they danced on the void in the falling rain to the music of thunder.
It was a surreal experience, and one she wouldn’t have missed for the world. They danced until the thunderstorm had moved on. Now they stood on the ledge again with bodies pressed together and watched the curtain of rain recede to the west, flickering and grumbling in the distance. The city smelled of the rain and of ozone, and gleamed like new.
“It looks beautiful after a rain,” Leah said, looking down at the city. They were the first words either had spoken in half an hour. She was breathing deeply and felt a little flushed, not from exertion but from excitement. There was tension in the air that had nothing to do with the storm just past.
“You can’t see the warts from this height,” he replied. “But trust me, they’re there.”
She could hear the weight of experience in his voice. Leah thought about her own childhood experiences with violence and crime. Here was someone, she suspected, who knew the things she knew, the same way she knew them. It was a rare feeling.
She looked at him until he met her eyes. “I know,” she said. “All the more reason to enjoy the good things in life whenever you get the chance, don’t you think?”
“Hell, yes,” he said. She didn’t know which of them moved first, or if they acted in unison. His mouth was warm and soft and hungry for her, but no more so than hers was for him. She ran her hands across his rain slick skin, marveling at the softness of it and the way hard muscle played beneath it.
Leah wanted to feel that skin against her body, wanted it desperately, and there was too much fabric between them. Without breaking their kiss, she reached up with one hand to lift her mask off and discard it. She fumbled with the clasp of her cloak, then tossed the mass of fabric aside. His hands tugged at her tank top, slipped beneath and grazed her sides as he pushed it up to bunch beneath her arms.
She broke their frantic kiss, gasping for air, and raised her arms long enough for him to peel the tank top away. She took two quick steps backward, and they looked at one another across that space. His gaze roamed her body, and he drew a long, slow breath as if the air had grown thick with the force of the energy between them. His silk pants, soaked by the rain and clinging, did absolutely nothing to hide his arousal.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
From one Romance Diva to Another...
BRUSH STROKES by Jax CassidyRelease date: January 10, 2010
Publisher: Amber Heat
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-627-7 (Electronic)
*Heat warning: erotic, explicit sex scenes, language
For Sage, attending the Parisian sex club, Plaisirs Sombres, was the ultimate fantasy. So when the conservative gallery assistant is cloaked behind the velvet mask, she never expected to be the object of the club owner's desire. Spurred on by D.S. Gregoire's erotic and sensual brush strokes of the exclusive club, she gives into a brief liaison that leaves her breathless and wanting.
For Damien, known to the art world as D.S. Gregoire, his art has always been an adrenaline rush. But when an exotic and mysteriously uninhibited 'sex club virgin' enters his establishment, he is willing to break his club rules for another taste of the dark pleasures she brings him.
Author Bio:
Jax Cassidy followed her dreams to Paris, then Hollywood to pursue a film career but managed to fall in love with penning sexy romances and happy endings—finding Mr. Right was just an added bonus. She writes contemporary, paranormal, and multi-ethnic romances and is Co-Founder of Romance Divas, and award winning writer’s website and discussion forum. Jax is also known as one-half of the retired writing team of Cassidy Kent.
For more information on Jax, please visit her online at www.jaxcassidy.com or www.jaxadora.blogspot.com
Saturday, January 9, 2010
News
Wow. So much for my resolution to post more regularly in 2010. It's been over a week since my last post.
Okay, from now on, I intend to post twice a week. But for now, a quick catch-up on the writing front.
I sent out my first new story of 2010 two days ago. "In Adversity," the tale of an aging, broken-down superspy who encounters a long-time adversary he'd long thought dead.
I participated in a workshop at the Cobblestone Press forums this afternoon, conversing with Sable Grey and a few other Cobblestone writers about writing goals and marketing ideas. It was a valuable effort, and I hope it will bear fruit. As a result, I've created a Yahoo group which I will be using as a newsletter to keep in touch with my legion of fans.
(Cue quote from Spider-Man: "Fans? I have fans?")
I've also set up an excerpt exchange with anothe author, which will be coming to a blog near you--this one--in February. Be there or be square!
Okay, from now on, I intend to post twice a week. But for now, a quick catch-up on the writing front.
I sent out my first new story of 2010 two days ago. "In Adversity," the tale of an aging, broken-down superspy who encounters a long-time adversary he'd long thought dead.
I participated in a workshop at the Cobblestone Press forums this afternoon, conversing with Sable Grey and a few other Cobblestone writers about writing goals and marketing ideas. It was a valuable effort, and I hope it will bear fruit. As a result, I've created a Yahoo group which I will be using as a newsletter to keep in touch with my legion of fans.
(Cue quote from Spider-Man: "Fans? I have fans?")
I've also set up an excerpt exchange with anothe author, which will be coming to a blog near you--this one--in February. Be there or be square!
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy 2010, everyone!
So it's the year 2010 A.D. We're living in the future. The far future, at that. Far from my childhood, at least. I distinctly remember lying bed one night, having watched a television special about the (then) unimaginably distant year 2000, and all the technological wonders it would hold. I remember calculating how old I'd be in the year 2000, and was slightly shocked--and more than a little horrified--to realize I'd be OLD. At least, from the perspective of a child who was only ten at the time.
The year 2000 is now a decade behind us, and I don't feel old. But then, I suspect I'll always feel like that child on the inside, no matter how old I look on the outside.
But, anyhow. 2009.
In 2009 I Got Serious about writing. Starting if February or March, I began working at writing stories on a regular basis and sending them out. At the end of April, I was handed my walking papers by my employers of fifteen years. After consulting with my spouse, much of which occurred during a weekend at the coast, we decided that we could afford to let me pursue the goal of being a professional writer.
To that end, in the year 2009, I completed 18 stories and sent them out. I have received 24 rejections, have 9 stories outstanding (no response yet), and sold 5, all to Cobblestone Press. I also wrote a 50,000 word novel for National Novel Writing Month. It was my first novel, but it won't be my last.
For 2010 my intent is to continue writing short stories--to write, finish, and submit one story per week, and to keep the stories in circulation until they sell, or until I exhaust all the markets, whichever comes first for a given story.
In addition, I've set the goal of writing three novels this year. And, again, with the intent to write, finish, and submit them to at least five publishers each, and when/if a given publisher rejects my query, to send the rejected novel to another publisher. And to continue doing so until either the novel sells, or I run out of publishers.
It's a numbers game, really. If you're a halfway decent writer, you can sell your work if you're persistent. The trick is to write a lot, finish what you write, and keep it out there, where editors can see it and decide to buy it. You have to be willing to face rejection--everyone gets rejected. Even the biggest of big name writers get rejected; it never stops. But if you're focused on writing the next project, and the next, and keeping the work in circulation is just part of the job, rejections don't sting so much.
It's like being a salesman. Or a world-class home run hitter. The salesmen who get a lot of yeses get a lot more nos. Babe Ruth struck out far more often than he hit homers, but if he wasn't swinging for the fences, he'd never have made all those home runs. So this year is the Year of the Numbers.
Lots of stories written.
Lots of stories finished.
Lots of stories submitted.
Lots of stories kept in circulation until they sell.
I hope "Lots of stories sold" will be at the end of that list on January 1, 2011. But that part isn't in my control. Everything on that list IS in my control. So that's the part I'll be focusing on.
The year 2000 is now a decade behind us, and I don't feel old. But then, I suspect I'll always feel like that child on the inside, no matter how old I look on the outside.
But, anyhow. 2009.
In 2009 I Got Serious about writing. Starting if February or March, I began working at writing stories on a regular basis and sending them out. At the end of April, I was handed my walking papers by my employers of fifteen years. After consulting with my spouse, much of which occurred during a weekend at the coast, we decided that we could afford to let me pursue the goal of being a professional writer.
To that end, in the year 2009, I completed 18 stories and sent them out. I have received 24 rejections, have 9 stories outstanding (no response yet), and sold 5, all to Cobblestone Press. I also wrote a 50,000 word novel for National Novel Writing Month. It was my first novel, but it won't be my last.
For 2010 my intent is to continue writing short stories--to write, finish, and submit one story per week, and to keep the stories in circulation until they sell, or until I exhaust all the markets, whichever comes first for a given story.
In addition, I've set the goal of writing three novels this year. And, again, with the intent to write, finish, and submit them to at least five publishers each, and when/if a given publisher rejects my query, to send the rejected novel to another publisher. And to continue doing so until either the novel sells, or I run out of publishers.
It's a numbers game, really. If you're a halfway decent writer, you can sell your work if you're persistent. The trick is to write a lot, finish what you write, and keep it out there, where editors can see it and decide to buy it. You have to be willing to face rejection--everyone gets rejected. Even the biggest of big name writers get rejected; it never stops. But if you're focused on writing the next project, and the next, and keeping the work in circulation is just part of the job, rejections don't sting so much.
It's like being a salesman. Or a world-class home run hitter. The salesmen who get a lot of yeses get a lot more nos. Babe Ruth struck out far more often than he hit homers, but if he wasn't swinging for the fences, he'd never have made all those home runs. So this year is the Year of the Numbers.
Lots of stories written.
Lots of stories finished.
Lots of stories submitted.
Lots of stories kept in circulation until they sell.
I hope "Lots of stories sold" will be at the end of that list on January 1, 2011. But that part isn't in my control. Everything on that list IS in my control. So that's the part I'll be focusing on.
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