Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Giving the Dragon Form

So, a while ago, I was stumped on actually writing the tale of the dragon and his human familiar. I decided to go visual instead, and the results are on my live journal. Check out the link and the little dragon who saves the world. Or, at least, that's the plan so far. He also falls in love, and I think commits dragon patricide, too, but not because he wants to. That detail is kind of up in the air, still.

Pictures of Peerce

I also read some good books recently. Here's the link to the review. Be warned that the books are a wild ride of sex, bikes and dance mania, and not for those looking for sweet and cuddly.

Book Review: Dance Wars Books 1&2 by Sophia Titheniel

Friday, January 23, 2009

Guest Blog Apperance

Morning. I just thought I would share my first ever guest blog experience with you all. Hop on over to Clare London''s live journal and check it out. Leave a comment, if you like. I'm interested in what everyone has to say.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

New Book Cover


So, If I haven't mentioned it, I have a new release coming out, sometime in February, with Freya's Bower. It's called Moving Day.
Blurb

Mike Paloso has lost count of the number of times he's helped childhood friend Jay Charles move. Jay's never had much of a home to call his own, content to follow his boyfriends around, but each breakup means a new pad, until the next guy comes along. This time, it's different. There's been no breakup, and no new pad. Instead, there's one hell of a fixer-upper, and not just the house Jay's inherited from his latest, late, beau. This time, Mike has to find a way to repair Jay's broken dreams and mangled heart.


With every reno, there comes some demo, but Mike's not sure he's ready to dismantle his life to rebuild Jay's.

That's the Fabulous cover Emmy made for me. She rocks, ne?


Saturday, January 17, 2009

Not Running Aground

Every writer encounters it. There are many different names for it. Writer's block. Blank page panic. An obstinate/missing/depressed/difficult/insert-expletive-here Muse. Down time. I call it my funk. For me, it doesn't happen very often, and when it does, most times, I feel it coming on, I get a kind of kinetic energy that won't let me sit and write.

This is fine. I can do other things. I can draw, weave, make something out beads and string. There are a lot of other things I can do besides write. In the mean time, I think. Eventually, the ideas come, the need for motion fades, and I can sit and write for hours.

Then there are the other times. The rare ones. The ones when I don't want to draw. Weaving seems like too much work, beads are too infinitesimally small to contemplate. This is more than writer's block. This a creative sinkhole. At these times, mountains of laundry look inviting, the bathroom tile grout welcoming. At these times, the thought of opening a file on the computer does unpleasant things to my insides and the fog of my funk is thickest.

During these times, it seems like there is no way I can get through from one end of the day to the next, because eventually, all the laundry will be folded and neatly tucked away. The bathroom will sparkle. The kitchen will shine. Heaven help me (and my family) I will even cook; anything to avoid the elephant sitting on the kitchen table and disguising itself as my laptop.

What to do then? The more you think about it, the worse it gets. Best to just ignore it and hope it goes away, but what if it doesn't? What if it persists? So I sit and open a file. Something safe. Something in edits that has a nice network of comforting red lines telling me what I should do. Some piece where the hardest decision I have to make is what word to substitute for 'pressed'. And while I do this, I wonder if my editor has any idea how much she is helping me keep the engine running, even if I can't really see where I'm going right now.

Another of my favourite tricks is that handy-dandy chat window. That convenient line to others of my kind (because lord knows, there are none in my house!) I pester other writers. "Whatcha doin'?" "How's your day?" and other seemingly innocuous questions. And they respond, almost invariably, with kindness and patience, putting their own projects on temporary hold to keep me company and pat me on the head. Which seems a lot more patronizing than it is, because in this state, head patting is exactly what I need. And a little bit of hand holding. And a chance to talk about things other than writing.

And eventually, the fog begins to lift. The funk dissipates, and the glimmer of an idea, a lost scene, a satisfactory ending, a character development, something to sort out a plot tangle from an old ms surfaces, like a treasure chest floating up from the depths, enticing me to unlock it and see what's inside.

It really is like the sun burning away a mist. It doesn't necessarily mean I'm in for smooth sailing, but at least I'll be able to see the shore. All that's left is to watch for the lighthouse.

How's that for an extended metaphor?

Heh.

Thanks, fellow writers, editor, chatters, (you know who you are!) for patting me on the head, guiding my words and seeing me safely through the funk. Very much appreciated.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Contest to Win Poor Boy and Other Books

Win three new m/m novellas from three great authors.


How? Answer three questions, on each author's blog, and have your named entered in the draw by sending your answers to logophilos(at)gmail(dot)com.

Here's what you have to do: Answer the questions at the end of this post, and follow the links to the other two author's sites to answer their questions. Once you have all nine answers, send them to logophilos(at)gmail(dot)com.









Here's what you can win: My new novella, Poor Boy


All his life, Roy has had things easy; born to money and privilege, he's a grown man before he realizes how his father's money has bought his privilege off the backs and tragedies of too many people. Now he's on his own and making his way in the world might be a lot harder than he thought.
When he meets street hustler, Scooby, he falls, hard and fast, not wanting to believe the possibility Scooby is one of the unfortunates his family has stepped over to get their way. As young and fragile as Scooby seems, he might be the only one strong enough to save Roy from himself.












Ann Somerville's novella, the second in the Encounters series, Reaching Higher http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/reaching-higher

















And the questions you have to answer from me are:


1. The song 'If I Were a Rich Man' was sung by who in the film of which musical?

2. One of the main characters in my story is called Scooby. Who was Scooby Doo's best human friend, and name another of the Scooby gang.

3. In which song, did which group sing 'It's a rich man's world'?

Now go to Ann's blog and answer her questions, then to Lee's blog, and answer her's.
Send your nine answers to the email address above, and your name will be entered into a random draw to win all three books. Five winners will be drawn when the contest closes
January 13, 2009

Monday, January 5, 2009

New Release

So, the rush is over, we've all had a few moments to breathe, and now it's back to the grind. Well, I have good news for you. If you like angst in your M/M romance, you'll love my new release, Poor Boy, all about a young man who just doesn't know when he's got it good.

Here's the blurb:

All his life, Roy has had things easy; born to money and privilege, he's a grown man before he realizes how his father's money has bought his privilege off the backs and tragedies of too many people. Now he's on his own and making his way in the world might be a lot harder than he thought.

When he meets street hustler, Scooby, he falls, hard and fast, not wanting to believe the possibility Scooby is one of the unfortunates his family has stepped over to get their way. As young and fragile as Scooby seems, he might be the only one strong enough to save Roy from himself.

And here's a small taste:

Driving through the center of the city, the light from neon signs glided over the cars and flashed through the window, accentuating Stryker’s pale features and turning his hollowed out cheeks and bright black eyes ghoulish in their glow. The car slowed, and a teenager on the corner squinted in at us. Stryker liked people seeing him in this great monstrosity of a car. It made him feel rich even though his family kept him on a tight budget in an obviously futile effort to keep him sober. The kid on the corner grinned, nodded, and flipped a cord of blond hair out of his eyes. For a split second, I thought I’d seen a ghost of a kid with dead parents, then his face blended into the blur of people as the light changed and the car sped up again.

“Roy, what did you do to piss him off?”

“Hmm? Nothing. He’s been pissed off since I’ve known him.”

“What are we going to do? My allowance only pays for the condo and the car. How am I going to pay for my shit?”

“Maybe you should just cut down on the shit for a while,” I suggested, more than a little sulkily.
He glared at me, the first focused expression he’d managed since I’d hauled him out of my father’s house. “You know....” He shifted to confront me a little more directly. “I’ve never asked very much from you, Roy. I give you what you want, and all I ask is a few bills and a good time. If you can’t supply one, do you really think you can afford to refuse the other?”

“What?” The conversation slipped out of focus for a second, then snapped back, the new clarity making me sick.

“This guy, I know what he’ll take instead of money, but you have to help. He likes to watch. Maybe join in, maybe not.” He shrugged like sex with a stranger to pay for his drugs was no big deal.

“You’re trying to whore me out.”

Stryker smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “You know you like being my bitch. Besides, it’s not like it would be the first time.”

I hated that I couldn’t argue that point.

“Fuck you.” I knocked on the glass again, and the window slid down. “Stop here, please.” The man blinked at me, as though the word please sounded foreign to him. “Stop the car.” He shrugged and pulled up to the curb.

I shoved Stryker off me and opened the door. “Have a nice life, asshole.”

I slammed the door, Stryker gave me the finger, and the black Mercedes slipped away from the curb, back into traffic, and disappeared into the dark. I flipped the collar of my coat up around my neck. It didn’t stop the chill wind sliding down between my shoulder blades or whispering in my ear how much this was going to suck.

And here's where you can buy and read the rest of this gritty, but ultimately, heartwarming story:
Fraeya's Bower buy link.