Laziness and Fanfics
Posted by Brianna
Well guys…it’s been far too long since I’ve been over to spread my goofy insanity. Only thing I can say in my defense is that I was too lazy to do much of anything. And that is pretty lame. Ummm…not a whole lot of anything to say really, other than that I’ve spent too much time reading InuYasha and Naruto fanfics. I even stumbled across a Trinity Blood one this morning, and unbeknownst to me, it was yaoi. But I kept reading despite the obvious guy on guy action (I normally would have closed it and went beet red ’cause I so don’t roll that way) because it was too flipping funny! It was actually well written and all that (don’t ask me how I managed to pay attention to that because I have no idea), but the whole idea was hilarious. And it probably wasn’t meant to be. I just couldn’t contain myself.
So this morning I polluted my brain a little and will no doubt be cracking up at odd times throughout the day because of that little story. In other news, the InuYasha fanfic I read was AWESOME! It was everything I love in a romance and it so classifies as one. I laughed my head off and cried so much I gave myself a headache and my eyes were still swollen the next day. Very, very good story. The Naruto one was good too, but in a different way. Romance, yes, but written by a guy (unless I’m very much mistaken and read the AN wrong, in which case…oops, sorry). There was a ton and I mean a ton of action scenes in it so I mostly skimmed through those. It was pretty intense.
So yeah, for the past month or so I’ve been very lazy, reading fanfic when I should have been working on my own stories. I figured it was past time to get my butt back over here so I sat down at the puter and began typing this. My latest Bree Babble.
Uh, there’s really nothing else to report so I guess I’ll be going. See y’all later~~
Brianna
http://www.briannasomersham.com
http://www.myspace.com/briannasomersham
Research: How Much is Enough?
Posted by Maureen
At a recent writers’ retreat, the inevitable topic of research arose during mealtime conversation. Since many of the attendees were historians, academics, or ordinary folk writing historical novels, I was overwhelmed and, I confess, a little envious of their investigative zeal.
Here’s the thing. Research has a nasty habit of taking on a life of its own and becoming an end in itself. Sometimes it’s easier to lose myself in research than to tackle the blank screen that taunts me, awaiting the pearls of wisdom and wit conjured up by my fertile imagination.
So how do I know when to stop? When is enough, enough?
Years ago, when I entered the complex I.T. jungle, rife with proliferating technologies, methodologies, and tools, a wise manager took pity on me and gave me the following advice: “Conduct research on a ‘need to know’ basis or you’ll drive yourself nuts.”
As a writer, I still heed his priceless advice. Consequently, I conduct only enough research to make the story plausible, provide realistic detail, and avoid factual mistakes. Truth be told, wherever feasible I subscribe to an avoidance approach to conducting research.
For example, while writing The Jaguar Legacy (akin to Temple of Doom, only containing steamy romance), I confess that the main reason I chose to write about the Olmecs, instead of, say, the Aztecs or the Incas or Zapotecs, was that the Olmec race is so ancient, no one, even the experts, knows much about them. Controversial theories abound, but only a few facts exist: They were an advanced race with complex cities and temples; they worshipped the jaguar and snake; they believed they could shape-shift into the jaguar; and, to this day, intact Olmec remains have never been found.
Not to say I didn’t do my homework. Please don’t get the wrong idea. Hey, I interviewed an archaeologist who gave me enough details to create a realistic dig in Mexico (plenty of sex going on in them thar digs). I researched the use of peyote by reading several books and conducting Internet research. For those of you who might be wondering, I did not, repeat NOT, sample peyote. Best of all, I visited south-west Mexico and the nearby ruins not once, but twice, gathering realistic details about the location, history, local customs, and, oh yes, the ancient Olmecs. Our guide happened to be an Olmec expert, who provided details that brought the ancient race to life.
With my second book, Fur Ball Fever (Best in Show shakes hands with Stephanie Plum), my ‘need to know’ extends far beyond my comfort zone. This book requires research into such diverse topics as transgender issues, fetish clubs, and alternative lifestyles. Happily, I found a starting point– at a fetish and alternative lifestyle trade show called Sexapalooza.
One memorable weekend in January, several members of the Ottawa Romance Writers of America congregated at Sexapalooza to peddle our books. Our booth was located directly under the giant pink penis suspended from the ceiling of the exhibition hall.
According to the newspaper, the extravaganza hoped to attract 10,000 people. Based on what I saw, they surely must have achieved the objective. Who knew so many horny people could squeeze under one roof — and in Ottawa, of all places? I had to fight an excited crowd to circle the building and check out the offerings and exhibits. The air positively hummed with folks of all ages discussing alternative lifestyles — the etiquette of juggling multiple partners, swinging for couples, the nuances of bisexuality, the joys of bondage, domination, sado-masochism (BDSM) for beginners, and the like. Booths overflowed with sex toys, scented oils and candles, fet-wear and boots, leather whips and restraints, lingerie, and, in my case, romance novels. At one point, a topless young lady galloped through the hall, clad in bridle, bit, mask, boots, G-string, and not much else. Pony-girl was a great crowd-pleaser.
A dungeon provided a taste of BDSM for those so inclined (for the record, I am not, but was interested to learn more, all in the name of research, naturally). In front of a crowd of fifty or more interested onlookers, the lycra-clad dominatrix lashed a submissive, who was stretched out, arms shackled above his head, on a St. Andrew’s cross. This was a real lashing — the whip raised red welts on the poor sucker’s naked back. But not to worry. He was hugely, and I mean hugely, turned on. In another corner, a metal grope cage confined a masked woman, who was fending off another joker’s pokes and prods with a few well-placed blows from her commando boots.
During the proceedings, I conducted a quick interview with the owner of a local adult emporium about some of the activities. She was kind enough to explain the purpose of the various pieces of bondage equipment and to reassure me that the submissive undergoing the lash was enjoying himself as much as the dominatrix. She explained that if the torment starts gently enough, the brain releases endorphins to protect the body from pain. A skilled dominatrix increases the whipping in tiny increments, and before long, the submissive will hit the pinnacle of ecstasy, as, presumably, does the dom.
Unfortunately, I missed the “Screaming O” Contest (How Well Can You Fake an Orgasm?), the male and female exotic dancers, and the drag performance. I did, however, catch a live demo of the bondage bed. Move over, Mattress Mart, here I come.
Writers beware. Research isn’t for sissies.
Chapter 15 of Fur Ball Fever (Grace Defends Herself): Final Excerpt
Posted by Maureen
(Continued from Last Week)
Oliver’s supercilious smile disappeared. “With all due respect, Grace, I intend to take the issue to the next Condo Committee meeting. By this time next month,” his gaze tracked Murphy, “your aunt and that mutt will be history as far as Saltwater Village is concerned.”
She gritted her teeth. “With all due respect, Ollie, I think the Condo Committee has bigger fish to fry.”
His lip curled as if he smelled a nasty odor, but his voice was calm, smooth and sleek as a cobra’s skin. “I swear you’ll be sorry if I find that wretched animal anywhere near my property again.”
Her heart thumped in her chest and her voice emerged as a humiliating squeak. “Is that a threat?”
He shot her a sour look, no doubt remembering, too late, that patience was a virtue. “I don’t think I like your tone of voice, Grace.”
“I don’t think I enjoy your threats, Ollie.”
“I can make you very, very sorry.”
“What will you do?” she asked, mustering up a sneer and wishing God had granted her the sense to shut up and walk away. Her mouth bypassed her brain and motored on, “Steal Murphy too?”
“Good God, why would I want to steal the wretched beast? If you ask me, the world would be a better place without him.”
“I’ll bet you said the same thing when you stole Miss Coco, Maverick, and Adonis.”
“I have no idea what you’re babbling about.”
Now she knew for sure he was lying. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. Miss Coco was last year’s Fur Ball winner and the other two were the runners-up. Gee. I guess they can’t enter the contest this year, can they? That’ll eliminate your precious Pepita’s main competition.”
“I had nothing to do with any criminal activity, I assure you.” He turned to Nick. “Can’t you talk some common sense into her?”
Nick chuckled as if Oliver had said something amusing. “Highly unlikely, Reverend. Didn’t work when we were dating, doubt it’ll work now, but I’ll give it a whirl.”
Grace let out an incredulous groan. He was taking this undercover investigation thing too far.
Nick addressed Grace. “Aw, c’m on Sunshine. Be reasonable. Lay off Reverend Oliver. Don’t you recognize an innocent man when you see one?” His eyes glinted a silent plea.
Grace wanted to kick Nick. Hard. She planned to give him a piece of her mind later. In the meantime, she would try not to blow his cover.
In response, she scowled at Oliver in an attempt to appear intimidating. “I know what’s really bothering you, Ollie. As long as Miss Coco enters the competition, Pepita doesn’t stand a chance. You want this win so bad you can taste it.”
His face purpled. “You’re playing with fire, lady, and don’t call me ‘Ollie’.”
Boy, was she an idiot or what? But she couldn’t let it go. “You’d do anything for the free publicity a blue ribbon would generate, wouldn’t you?”
Oliver sputtered an incoherent protest, spraying saliva.
Grace continued, “So many new members for the Children of Purity, so much more money to pour into your pocket.”
Oliver found his voice. “I don’t see a penny from my congregation. All the money goes into the Saltwater Purification Foundation.”
“Right. And if I believed that, I’d also believe some dude in Nairobi was going to pay me $200,000 just to transfer some money into an offshore account for him.”
Oliver’s scowl deepened. He stepped forward, forcing Grace to sidle away. “I have a good mind to charge you with slander.” His voice became a threatening rumble. I … did … not … touch … those … dogs.”
“If you say so.”
Nick shifted a step closer to Oliver, who jabbed his finger in Murphy’s direction, murder in his eyes. “But I could easily make a special exception in his case.”
She glanced at Nick to see if he was listening. It was hard to tell because he was staring at Oliver, but it seemed to Grace that he vibrated with unleashed tension. Made reckless by her conviction that Nick wouldn’t let anything harm her, she decided to hit Oliver with a quick one-two jab.
“Where were you between midnight and 6:00 a.m. last night?”
Oliver’s eyes widened until they goggled out of a blotchy face. “None of your goddamned, er, darned business.” He took a step closer. “Stay out of my way if you know what’s good for you and your family.”
In spite of Nick’s presence, a chill of dread crept down Grace’s spine on stealthy feet. Oliver had plenty of power and was ruthless enough to use it. All she had was a plastic baggie filled with dog shit. She snapped her fingers surreptitiously at Murphy to entice the wretched creature to come within arms’ length so she could snag him and escape.
Oblivious, her sniffer dog continued following an invisible squirrel trail with his nose. Grunting and snuffling, he wove his way towards Grace until he was almost close enough for her to grab.
Oliver beat her to the punch. Faster than a striking viper, he batted her hand aside and seized her pet’s collar in a twisting gesture.
Murphy let out a choking grunt of protest.
“Easy there, Reverend,” Nick said. “Don’t choke the animal.”
Grace glanced in Nick’s direction, but he was studiously avoiding her gaze. No more help from that direction, she thought, and dug into her pocket for the baggie. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, as carefully as if it were a ticking time bomb, she backed away.
“Hey, catch,” she yelled and flipped a high one at Oliver.
She held her breath, hoping his reflexes would kick in before his brain.
The baggie described a perfect arc towards Oliver’s outstretched hands.
For a heartbeat, time stood still.
Marcia spoke for the first time. “Leave it be, you idiot.”
At the same time, a flicker of movement caused Grace to turn her head. Nicholas Quincey Jackson, University of Charleston’s star wide receiver, Class of ’95, charged across the intervening turf and launched himself in front of Oliver to snatch the noxious package from the air.
Grace blinked twice in disbelief.
A look of horrified disgust crossed Nick’s face as the baggie’s reeking contents oozed between his fingers. Marci turned and climbed the stairs to the house. Oliver stood perfectly still, rooted to the grass like a garden gnome, his grip on Murphy’s collar suddenly slack. The dog lost no time in squirming away and darting to his mistress’ side.
Grace guessed high tech storage devices weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
In the ensuing chaos, she collared Murphy and clipped on his leash. In tandem, they scooted around the corner, leaving Nick gagging beside Oliver’s wilted chrysanthemums and Oliver offering Nick a tissue from a safe distance.
A string of ripe obscenities drilled the warm, still air.
Grace glanced down at Murphy who scampered along beside her and said, “Cover your ears, Murphy. Nick knows better than to use those words in front of a lady — or a preacher.”)
Author Marianne Lacroix Joins Us Tomorrow!
Posted by Brianna
Award-winning romance author Marianne Lacroix will be dropping in tomorrow, May 21st, to introduce herself and chat about her books, so ya’ll all be sure and drop by and show her some love, ‘k?
In the meantime, check out her website at www.mariannelacroix.com , read about her new and upcoming releases and more.
See you tomorrow!
Chapter 15 of Fur Ball Fever (Grace Confronts Oliver)
Posted by Maureen
*****
Grace’s gaze swept from Oliver to Nick and back to Oliver again. No one moved except Murphy. Nose down, ass up, the dog traced an erratic path through Marcia’s garden.
The preacher’s sculpted lips parted. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, reminiscent of a bullfrog. Grace cringed and waited, but no sound emerged. The barking inside finally ceased and a seagull’s scream emphasized the surreal stillness that encased the horrible vignette.
Nick broke the silence first. “Now don’t you go worryin’ about this here little accident, Reverend Oliver,” he ventured. “Gracie will clean it up, good as new.” To her annoyance, he countered her fulminating glare with a curt, “Won’t you, Sunshine?”
The September sun baked Grace’s bare head and she could feel freckles popping out on her nose and cheeks. In spite of a delicious breeze tasting of autumn, sweat trickled down her face as she struggled to swallow her outrage, dismay, and guilty embarrassment. Feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling, she dragged a re-sealable baggie out of her pocket and wrestled it inside out. Damned if she would acknowledge Nick’s question or meet Oliver’s accusing glare. Instead, she averted her eyes and examined the preacher’s bare feet, dark hairs sprouting from the tops of pallid toes. The wiry pelt continued northwards to disappear under a pair of tattered khaki shorts, a far cry from the natty business attire or evangelical robes he favored. Oliver’s workday uniform safeguarded the unsuspecting Children of Purity from a multitude of eyesores.
A bellow sliced the silence and signaled Oliver’s re-discovery of his voice. Spittle flew from whitened lips. “Grace Donnelly! You should be ashamed. I won’t stand for this …this …” he sucked in a shuddering breath, “… effrontery any longer.” His voice softened. “Nick, even though she used to be your, er, girlfriend, I want you to know I recognize that this isn’t your fault.”
“Aw, thanks, Reverend. Murphy’s not as well-behaved as your little Pepita. I must have told Grace a hundred times to take the little rascal to obedience training.”
Grace thought she might puke. She swallowed her simmering anger and busied herself by scooping up Murphy’s mess, applying the inverted baggie with painstaking care and pressing the seal together, praying the edges would adhere.
“There we go. No harm done, Ollie,” she chirped. Damned if she would address him as Reverend Oliver as he preferred. She stared at the baggie, not quite knowing what to do with the sack of goodies that dangled from stiff fingers. Against her better judgment, she blindly placed her trust in the high-tech storage marvel of Ziploc and thrust the package into her pocket.
“Hey, man. Good as new.” A hint of relief tinged Nick’s voice.
Grace swiped her right hand against her jeans and held it towards Oliver in a lukewarm gesture of goodwill.
Oliver’s eyes bulged like a lantern fish, and he recoiled.
To appear composed, she shoved her hand back in her pocket, forgetting its contents. When her fingers hit pay dirt, she jerked them out again.
Purple-faced, Oliver bellowed, “Look at my lawn! My flower beds!”
She swiveled her eyes without moving her head. “Um …”
Marcia sucked in an audible breath, said nothing.
Nick examined the evidence, a frown furrowing his brow. “Gotta give it to Reverend Oliver, Sunshine. He has a point.”
Seen up close, brown dead patches punctuated by raw gouges marred the pristine sweep of green. Clumps of chrysanthemums drooped wilted heads and exhibited what looked like accumulated urine burn.
Oliver sputtered and pointed at the offending dog spots. “Your mangy cur did that.”
Sweat dribbled an itchy path between her breasts and she swept away an uneasy hunch. Ignoring her growing misgivings, she said, “No way.” Denial ran rampant in her family.
“Damn right, he did. And your she-devil of an aunt aided and abetted him.”
“Auntie Beth wouldn’t encourage Murphy to wreck your garden,” she lied, trying to sound convincing. Auntie Beth hated Oliver Hathaway with a passion only the Irish on a quest for vengeance could muster.
Oliver’s voice grated. “I warned Beth Donnelley three times already.”
Although she should have guessed the truth, this newsflash came as an unpleasant surprise. The ongoing vendetta against Oliver explained Auntie Beth’s sudden enthusiasm for nocturnal excursions with Murphy, not an inexplicable yen for physical fitness.
Grace blinked and tried to keep all traces of guilt out of her voice. “Auntie Beth didn’t mention anything to me.”
“Of course she didn’t. The woman’s a born criminal. She might fool others, but she can’t fool me.”
She resisted the urge to flap open the neck of her shirt to funnel cool air down her cleavage while issuing a mechanical protest. “She can’t be a criminal. She’s a former nun.”
True enough, except Auntie Beth had left The Church in a big hurry. Grace had always wondered if her leaving had something to do with the now-defunct Father Cecil.
Oliver snorted. “Even worse. Nuns should know better. Last night was the final straw. As God is my witness, I was sitting by the open window, reading my favorite Proust novel, and sipping a skim milk mochaccino latte …”
Grace stifled a gag.
“… when I overheard your aunt offering that mutt a liver treat for defecating on my lawn. The woman must think I’m deaf as well as stupid.”
If the shoe fits, slime bucket.
She could swear Nick’s eyes danced with amusement. Or maybe it was the sunlight.
No doubt about it, Auntie Beth deserved a tongue lashing. Nevertheless, Grace empathized with her motive, if not the execution.
She huffed out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll talk to her,” she conceded, the closest to an apology she could muster.
“If you know what’s good for both of you, you’ll talk some sense into that old criminal of yours. She should be locked up.”
Grace stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He smiled as if the verdict was in. “She’s a danger to herself and everyone who lives here. I have a good mind to report her to the authorities.”
Even though she recognized an idle threat when she heard one, Grace’s stomach lurched at the thought of her vibrant aunt with her offbeat sense of humor and raucous laughter languishing behind bars or the ivied walls of the Sunset Villa Rest Home. If ever Nick was going to help her out, this would be a good time. She glanced in his direction, but she couldn’t penetrate the granite mask he wore. He’d taken a step backwards, as if distancing himself from the confrontation.
Sweat dribbled down her back. “You can’t prove anything against Auntie Beth. It’s your word against mine, and I have the only evidence in my pocket.” She would eat the doggie-doo bag before letting Oliver harm a hair on Auntie Beth’s head.
(To be Continued …)
Is There a Difference Between ‘Christian’ and ‘Inspirational’ Romances?
Posted by Pamela Thibodeaux
Many people use the terms interchangeably, but as an author of “Inspirational with an Edge!” romantic/women’s fiction - there is a difference.
Want to learn more?
Join me on the Cata Network Writers Loop, May 12 - 14 for an in-depth discussion on the differences between a ‘Christian’ and ‘Inspirational’ romance novel.
You must join the loop to participate: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CataNetwork-Writers/?yguid=168802865
Hope to see you there!
Pamela S Thibodeaux
“Inspirational with an Edge!”
Chapter 14 of Fur Ball Fever (Murphy Sabotages Grace’s Surveillance)
Posted by Maureen
From a safe distance across the street, Grace leaned against a scraggy pine and scrutinized the Hathaways’ condominium unit. Her vantage point provided an unrestricted view of her target. Hunter green shutters flanked tall windows overlooking a wrap-around porch. Two Adirondack chairs and a glider swing promised house guests a hospitable welcome — if a den of pit vipers could be considered hospitable.
The coast appeared clear for a preliminary reconnoiter of her main suspect’s residence. She was ready to rock ’n’ roll.
“Murphy, heel,” she said and snapped her fingers.
The dog dodged her outstretched hand and circled the tree, keeping his distance.
Moments later, a furtive curtain twitch on the ground floor disclosed the presence of an unseen audience.
Grace did a mental eye roll and lunged for Murphy’s collar, missing her target by a mile. “Heel, Murphy.” A curt bite to the words showed she meant business. She should never have allowed Auntie Beth to convince her that Murphy would make a good sniffer dog. Although his canine hatred of Miss Coco ran deep and true, there was no guarantee he would sound the alert if he detected evidence of the missing poodle’s presence.
With gleeful disregard of his mistress’ authority, Murphy danced away.
Dammit, she should have put him on the leash when she had the chance. If she couldn’t control her sniffer dog, how would she learn whether or not Miss Coco had visited the premises?
A crescendo of muffled yapping issued from inside the Hathaway homestead.
She ground her teeth and watched in helpless frustration as Murphy bolted across the road towards the racket, undeterred by a delivery van whose owner leaned on the horn and swerved.
Without any real hope of success, she yelled at Murphy’s disappearing backside, “Come, Murphy! Treats.” If challenged, at least she could say she’d tried to distract him.
She commenced a ponderous trot towards the street. Why, in God’s name, had she chosen today, of all days, to throw on seriously high platform sandals? Moving as fast as she dared, Grace shot a nervous glance at the window and caught a shadowy figure disappearing from sight. Marcia was undoubtedly pounding towards the door to prevent the unthinkable from happening. Sadly, it was too late to feign ignorance and scuttle away from the crime-in-progress.
“Marcia will kill me if you go near her flowers.” She panted hard, concentrating on keeping her balance as she skidded to a halt at the curb to let several cars whiz past.
Oliver’s better half, spent a great deal of money on a troop of gardeners, who fertilized, aerated, pampered, and generally fussed over her exquisite flowers and exquisite lawn in her exquisite garden. Grace envied Marcia her flower beds, tolerated her tight-assed perfectionism, and pitied her choice of a husband. As much as Grace despised Oliver, she didn’t have the heart to let Murphy appropriate Marcia’s tiny slice of heaven as his private toilet.
Murphy, unleashed and primed to poop, homed in on the Hathaways’ garden like a furry torpedo.
Frozen, she stared in horrified fascination. “No,” she yelled and waved her hands.
Her trusty sniffer dog merely quirked one pointy schnauzer ear and wiggled bushy eyebrows.
She crossed the street, puffing with the exertion. “Oh please, God, no. By all that is holy, not Marcia’s prize chrysanthemums.”
Murphy fired the day’s first offensive in the battle of Donnelley versus Hathaway. Eyes gleaming, he cocked his leg. A glittering geyser caught the sunlight as it arched into a clump of glorious bronze chrysanthemums that edged the interlocking brick walkway.
“No-o-o-o-o,” Grace moaned.
Murphy turned twice in a tight circle and squatted.
Grace felt as if she was in a slow-motion nightmare. Leaden legs refused to cooperate. Unable to muster up another burst of speed, she teetered across the lawn, a helpless witness to impending disaster.
With much panting and tail pumping, Murphy delivered his Ultimate Weapon, which landed to the left and a little in front of the Hathaways’ ornamental birdbath. To add insult to injury, he evaded Grace’s grasping fingers and followed his showstopper with a flurry of circling and grass digging, flashing a toothy grin while excavating shallow trenches in the emerald velvet with pistoning hind legs. When he’d marked turf to his satisfaction, he approached with his best, Aren’t I clever? Time for a reward! expression, taking care to stay at arms’ length.
Before she could remove the evidence, the front door burst open. Oliver blasted down the steps and skidded to a halt, aristocratic features mottled with rage and no longer remotely handsome. Patrician nostrils flared. Long nose quivered.
Grace figured this wasn’t the right time to ask if he’d cancelled his business meeting with Nick. Or to interrogate him about his whereabouts during Miss Coco’s disappearance.
Behind Oliver, a tall, loose-limbed figure loomed in the doorway, his features indistinct. Half-blinded by the afternoon sun, Grace still recognized that lanky silhouette.
Her heart slammed in her chest as bright, searing panic shot up her spine.
Nick emerged from the gloom to descend the steps and stand beside Oliver. A black scowl drew dark brows together over grey eyes, hard and unyielding, which narrowed on her face like a laser beam.
Marcia, unobtrusive as a wraith, lingered in the background.
Oh, God, oh God, thought Grace. Kill me now.
(to be continued …)