December 10, 2017

Don't Get Mad...

No, wait. Do get Mad.

I prefer old Mads, the ones from my era. I re-bought a slew in a fit of nostalgia several years ago, haunting Ebay and comic book stores until I had nearly reassembled my collection. Mostly of the books. I love the books. When I had a "free sale" recently—putting all sorts of items outside for the taking—I included five copies of one Mad book. Clearly, I really wanted that Don Martin collection.

Quick aside: Did you know that Mad and Hot Wheels hooked up? Be still my toy-loving heart.

Mad offers a killer holiday subscription of one for you and one for a friend. I wish I had enough moolah—and friends—to Mad everyone I know. (Yeah, it can be a verb. Why? Because it's 4:50 in the morning. And I said so.)

But speaking of subscriptions, that's really what Patreon is. Currently, it's a subscription to a fuck lot of insomnia. (Doesn't matter what time I go to sleep. 3 a.m. is the new internal alarm clock.) But also, so far this month, I've included special links to (temporarily) free stories on Amazon because I want readers to get their money's worth.

If you're on the fence, you can try me for a month. Choose the $1/level and read multiple chapters of my current serials. (I can help you get caught up.) For $3, I'll send you a postcard—a different one every month. A little more, and you receive access to an erotic anthology I'm building in the ether. $20 = a matchbox with a mini story inside. $40 wins you a hand-crocheted hat or fingerless gloves or scarf.

I wish I could offer a two-for-one special. Subscribe to me and send me to your bff, as well. That's not an option at the moment, but it may be the start of a sultry story...


December 04, 2017

Six by Jax

My beautiful friend's beautiful book is now available for purchase. Six by Jax contains six (I'm sure you figured that one out) sultry stories by one of erotica's bright lights. On Patreon, I've posted a story of hers—not in this collection—for free. (Well, free for $1/month subscribers.)

I've also received the rights back to A Waste of Chi (which is the original title). Harlequin published the novella as A Taste of Chi. The story has been expanded from a fairly fade-to-black ending to one that is more in line with my own personal tastes. So, dirty, as you might imagine. The short should be live shortly. (The novella should be live novelly?)

As one little indie writer at sea in a rowboat, I'd like to thank you for stroking my oars.


November 22, 2017

Where have I been all your night?

...or year. Or decade. Where have I been since 3 a.m. this morning? Or possibly since the late 80s. At a typewriter, word processor, computer, notebook, junk mail envelope. Writing in sand, in my mind, on the back of a faded photograph. Tracing my fingers on the mirror in steam while you shower and talk to me about your day.

Where have I been?

I don't know because I don't matter.

What I do or where I go is irrelevant. Scientists say we're 55% water. I believe the rest of me is the words and the stories and the nagging, insistent tugging inside to set them free. This is all I think about. So that if I'm lucky enough to find myself at the Frankenstein ballet or in an auditorium listening to David Sedaris read, I'm still halfway gone somewhere else.

The voices in my head don't believe in coffee breaks.

But I do.

See? I'm learning. Or I'm trying. That's it. Trying. To cut some slack. To take a walk and see the sky—not see the sky through some imaginary someone's eyes. To take a class, not because a character wants to but simply to learn a new trick. (Yeah. At this age? Me and new tricks are getting along like coffee and cups.)

There's a balance somewhere. Maybe deep down dark in the dreaming zone. A balance where I can have a little bit of me mixed with all the other people who live in my head. I always say that my mind is a bus station. Every so often, though, I've learned to ride alone.

I'll be honest. When we last spoke, I was worried. With everything I knew in publishing changing, with everything I've been taught turning out to be if not wrong then wrong-ish, I felt groundless. Floorless. Hanging from a marionette thread.

I forgot that the words don't care. They'll come wherever I am.

Over the past year and change, I've managed to pen 19 chapters of an alien erotic novel called pr0n. I'm  22 chapters into a shifter book tentatively titled The Shift Key. And I accidentally began a seriously dirty, every-room-has-a-story piece called The Bad Hotel.

Also on Patreon, I run a book club (with a flicker of regularity). Currently, we're reading Rutger Hauer's memoir. I mail postcards, scarves, hats, short fiction, matchboxes, and this month buttons and some leftover books. You can read all of the serials mentioned above for $1/month. A little more wins various prizes and a lot of gratitude.

Where have I been for the last quarter of a century?

It all started with once... upon... a... time.


The Fine Print: I am also thigh-high in an interactive how-to called Slow Brew, and I am curating an erotic anthology in the ether.

September 28, 2016

The More Things Change...

Actually, everything changes. I'm always surprised when people want—or expect—you to stay as you were, doing what you always were doing, looking the way you always looked. I've tried my whole life to constantly challenge myself, to move forward, to strive harder, to reach further. In a word (actually in two words): To change. The one constant for me is the words. I'll always be putting them down on something. Somewhere. The wheres and the hows might shift.

Right now, I'm still moving my words from here to Patreon. And yeah, some are vanishing. (Where'd they go? Poof!) But others are being dusted off—words I wrote a decade ago—and given a new shiny coating.

At some point, this blog will most likely be gone. That's okay. It's all going to be okay (she said to herself multiple times a day). The more things change, the more they change. I think I'm good with that.

Interesting side note—I tripped over this poem by Robert Herrick the other morning, and the words keep circling in my head.

Why Flowers Change Colours

These fresh beauties, we can prove.
Once were virgins, sick of love,
Turn'd to flowers: still in some,
Colours go and colours come.


P.S. I know there's something inherently silly about posting while simultaneously deleting. A little two-steps-forward, three-steps-back. I'm sure this will surprise nobody, but that's the kind of game my brain likes to play. Burn the candle at both ends? Ha. I'll also singe the middle.

September 11, 2016

What If It Doesn't Work?

There's a scene in Home for the Holidays in which Holly Hunter describes her work at the museum:

I mean, I'm working, studying, struggling, year after year. You know how it is. Working, studying, struggling, year after year. And it's technical, I'm thinking. Yes. But today, it's like he knows me. And no time has gone by at all. Time doesn't matter. You don't want to eat. You don't want to sleep. You forget what day it is....

This is absolutely how I'd describe my world, except Holly Hunter reconstructs paintings and I deconstruct sentences and shuffle the words back together.

Lately, I've reached a new level of understanding. (Figment, for me, was different from anything I've ever done. Writing the novella felt like breaking through a wall. In my skull.) Of course, my timing is poor. Life as I knew it is gone (as a writer) but the words haven't stopped. In fact, they come so fast, I share a few of them with other people. (That is, I'm ghostwriting.)

If you've come to know my blog (since I began in 2006), you know things change. At one point, I hosted contests. Played bingo. Offered giveaways. Explored flash poetry. Ran writing marathons. Organized blog tours. Interviewed authors... But what I want to do is actually what I've always done. Write.

So I'm putting up my latest novella chapter by chapter on Patreon. For a dollar month, you can read this novella as it comes to fruition. Will I publish the book when it's complete? Maybe. I don't know. I haven't figured that out yet. Also for the $1 a month, you can join my book club. Last time, we read Chaucer. This time, I'm working on a few different ideas readers can consider.

For $3 a month, I will also send you a handmade postcard featuring photos I've taken while out and about and quotes from books I adore.

For $5, you'll have access to never-before-published short stories. One coming up is called Amuse Bouche. I love this story. How often will I post? I'm an insomniac, so you can do the math.

For $10, I will mail you fresh-off-the-press microfiction. On colored binder paper (this month). Soon, in multicolored envelopes (I ran out).

For $20, I will send you one of my matchbox stories. $20 seems a little steep, but shipping is close to $7. There's a chance, I will send you more than one, if I create a series. You never know with me.

What if you don't want to pay anything? No worries. I'm sliding my favorite posts from here up for free at Patreon. Will some of the posts from this blog disappear? Yes. Definitely. (In fact, I'm already down to 750 posts from close to 5,000.) Truly, I am striving for a balance. This space helped me in so many ways. But do I really want to carry my publishing woes around with me? If I were packing for a trip, would I take the items that remind me of someone who hurt me? No. So while I won't forget the journey that brought me here, and while I will probably lift some of my snarkier asides (because you can't take the snark out of the trollop), I'm going to jettison many of the rants.

Now the big question—what if it doesn't work?

Well, fuck. That's pretty much the question I've faced every step of my career. So I'm doing what I always do. I'm closing my eyes and jumping.


P.S. I woke up to a fabulous surprise in my inbox this weekend from a generous longtime reader. Thank you. Day made.