As some of you may know, I’m going to release my latest novella this weekend, “From the Boots Up.” It’s a lesfic romance (so if you’re not into that, nothing to see here. Move along.) and I’ll be putting it onto Kindle. Here’s the cover, in case you wanted to see.

[cover by Melody Simmons]

UPDATE! It’s ready to go! Here’s the link to Kindle.

What’s it about? Well, there’s a synopsis HERE. And here’s the nutshell: May, 1999. Meg’s a college student helping her dad on the family ranch in Wyoming, which is both a working and dude ranch. He’s got a reporter coming in to do a story on the ranch, and they need the publicity. But the reporter initially assigned to the task can’t make it. Fortunately, there’s a replacement on the way. And that, my friends, is where the plot thickens.

Anyway. I’m usually really excited about my new releases, but I’m also completely freaked out because I have this dread that OMG it’s going to suck and it’ll make the worst-thing-ever lists and holy crap I’m losing my mind and maybe I should just not release it and instead write something else instead and OMG please somebody make me stop listening to Kitty Wells’ “Release Me” because I’m driving myself crazy.

Like that. And round and round we go.

Anyway, I know most (all?) authors go through this. “What? My manuscript has a driver’s license? No longer a learner’s permit? And it’s now going to get into a car and drive away? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN? WHEN DID IT GROW UP? SOMEBODY GIVE ME THERAPY!”

That’s part of this writing thing, friends. The angst, issues, and craziness that go into creating a manuscript continues even after that manuscript packs its little manuscript bags for college. You hope it’ll call, let you know how it’s going. You hope nobody will be mean to it or make it feel bad or take advantage of it. You hope nobody will break its heart, or post its photo online and make fun of it. And you seriously hope that nobody sees it lying in an alley after some crazy party and posts THOSE photos. You hope all these things, but you know that you can’t prevent these things from happening, and you can’t prevent it from growing up or going out into the world. That’s what you worked for, after all. You worked very hard to prepare it for its journey into the world. You gave it the best possible upbringing, sent it to the right people to make sure you were doing the right things for it, and comforted it late at night when it felt icky because some of its scenes weren’t working.

And now, here you are. And there it is, standing at the door with its little manuscript bag, ready to go out into the world.

And I struggle with letting go. Because I’ve gotten to know this manuscript very well. Its quirks, its temperament, its characters. I’m going to miss this manuscript. I’m going to worry about it. I’m going to hope that it’s okay out there in the world.

But most of all, I’m going to hope that you, readers, find in it some of the fun and joy that I did. And if you do take it out to a party or dinner or something, tell it I said “hi.”

Happy reading, happy writing, and happy freakin’ FRIDAY!

I don’t know what I had on my mind all this time that made me forget that Alison Tyler’s Sudden Sex: 69 Sultry Stories had already been released. I was reminded, however, when I checked my mail yesterday and pulled out a rather heavy package (tee hee, those erotic euphemisms, they never end, I tell ya). Bias to the wind, though, the cover is gorgeous, the blurb brilliant, and inside there is me!

I caught the tail end of the call, as is usually the case, so I only have one story included, but I’m very fond and pround of what I contributed. The name of my story is I’d Rather Go Blind and any Etta James or even Beyonce fan will know where I got my inspiration. The story, however, isn’t about what you would think…if you’re familiar with the song.

Alison’s got a whole blog tour story review thing going on, and I need to get my part done on that, by the way. I haven’t checked lately to see if anyone’s snatched my story up, but the lineup is on her blog post here.

That’s all I have good folks. I decided to end the week on a good note, it being my babies’ born day and all. I had a whole other post brewing for that, but it involved autism type things and was just going in a blues-y direction and who wants that on a Friday?

In addition, I’m going to be seeing some specialists, doing a lot waiting and seeing, fretting for sure, and hopefully, finally getting some answers and some help.

To veer away from that, some really good news is that Smut for Chocoholics is now up on All Romance ebooks as of yesterday. It should also be up on Amazon soon. It includes my truffle story Kisses and here is the saucy cover:

But in the best news of all, my twinsies will be ten tomorrow…woohoo!!!

The year before that I made more money as a writer than I did at my day job, which is part of what prompted the switch, but in some ways it still hasn’t sunk in to me that this is it — the writing income is all the income.

But I’ve rounded up the last of my 1099-MISCs for 2012 now (basically a freelancer’s W-2s), and adding it all up was something of a “holy crap I have a career” moment.

Also a bit of a “time to rein the expenses in there, boyo” moment, since I still feel broke most of the time but am apparently not, but let’s not dwell on the negatives here. It was a big, beautiful, joyous sticker shock.

This is apparently a thing I can make a living at.

Are there changes to be made? Absolutely, both in the way I make money (more income streams, please) and in the way I spend it (no, you don’t need to buy five McDoubles for a midnight snack, and I don’t care if they’re only $1 each).

And the tax bill — now that I know the principal I’ll be using to figure it — is going to be brutal. The IRS is not kind to freelancers.

But those are things that can be dealt with. And in the meantime it’s nice to know that I’m making a living, and not even a bad one at that, working on my own schedule and from my own home. There’s people doing crappy nine-to-five office jobs for salaries not that dissimilar to mine.

So…woo.

Enjoy this moment of elation before I start figuring the taxes, and this blog takes a turn for the darker. I fully expect to be muttering about flying airplanes into buildings by the end of the month. On the bright side, tax-induced alcoholism means my beer tab is a deductible expense!

…right?

And, well, I guess you could say there’s my dilemma, if there’s any. With many of these submissions, I feel like I’m reading a neverending multi-themed anthology, story after story that could and should be published in its own right. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve clutched bed sheets, and now it all has to end and some will stay and some will go and many, I know I’ll see again, somewhere.

I’ve already kicked off a few notices of rejection…no need in waiting on that end when you already know it’s not a fit and I want to give writers the opportunity to get their work back in the game. I have a few more to read and I have some yeses and strong maybe-s and I’ll have to sit myself in a corner and cry for a day or so, but somewhere out of this there will come a book, my first one, and I simply can’t wait.

Lately I’ve been having arguments with people inside my head. This is problematic. What’s more problematic? My opponents are always right, and oh, how I hate to be wrong.

The arguments are about my crit notes and the imaginary people are my beta readers. Oh, they exist in real life, but I’m not crazy enough to fight their excellent reasoning to their faces. It just takes me time to bite back my pride and recognize the brilliance of their critiques. Because, something you will find when you’ve been doing this awhile? When you find the right critique partners they are pretty much always right.

So, here’s my advice:

1. Find yourself some brilliantly incisive critique partners. This is a process of trial and error, and sometimes you will find that just because someone is a great writer/critter/friend, doesn’t mean they are the right beta reader right for you. It’s a personality thing, as much as anything.

2. Polish, polish, polish your work until it’s as shiny as you can possibly make it on your own. Then admit it can still be better. That’s what your critters are for. It’s always handy to find some humility before you press send.

3. Send it out and watch your beautiful work of staggering genius be picked apart like a package of chips in the presence of seagulls. Mostly, they will be nice about it. They like chips, after all. But it can still be a horrifying thing to watch.

4. Take a break. Let your critters know you received their thoughts and thank them profusely. DO NOT start arguing or defending yourself. Not yet. Not ever.

5. Begin having arguments with imaginary people. Sort through the critiques in your head. Stand in the shower for hours at a time, lie on the couch or in the middle of the rug, clean your house and drive your kiddos to soccer practice, all the time watching your ego fight it out with your critique partners. Ask yourself why your reader felt a certain way. The problem they point out might be indicative of a bigger, underlying problem. Or maybe something else needs to change to make that one pointy part of your MS make sense.

6. Suck it up. (a.k.a find your courage)

7. Start revising.

8. Thank your critters again for being such marvelous, smart, generous people who have helped make your manuscript just that much shinier. Ask for clarification if you need it, but never, ever fight about it. At least not to their faces.

P.S Trust your critters. Know that they only want what’s best for you and your book. But if you find someone is being meaner than they need to, or if the critique seems more personal than impartial, or even if you just have different visions for the work, feel free to set the critique aside. But first examine yourself. Don’t take offense, and don’t react out of ego. It’s not about you. Seriously, it isn’t. It’s about your book, and making it the best possible book it can be.

P.P.S. I want to thank Shari, Kip, JRo and Raynbow for being the best critters and writer buddies a girl could ask for.

Love!

Noteworthy Notes may become common practice if it becomes helpful to others.

Noteworthy Articles

So, here’s some articles you may be interested in, my fellow writers!

• David Dalglish — an interview. Dalglish gets interviewed, revealing (to me at least) the benefits of self-publishing: getting recognized by agents.
• Jane Freidman’s recent Electric Speed post, accurately named “Best Business Advice for Writers: February 2013″. Indeed, it looks very enticing and juicy.

Noteworthy Tweets

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.
SOMERSET MAUGHAM
#amwriting #writing

— Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) March 2, 2013

Define Characters with Verbs, Not Adjectives bit.ly/iD3Z3v #screenwriting #writing #amwriting #writenow

— The Script Lab (@TheScriptLab) March 3, 2013

“The greater danger for most of us is not that our aim is too high and we miss it, but that it is too low and we reach it” Michelangelo

— Shelley Hitz (@Self_Publish) October 13, 2012

Sometimes a flat-footed sentence is what serves, so you don’t get all writerly: “He opened the door.” There, it’s open. AMY HEMPEL

— Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) April 8, 2011

Michelle recently received a review which among positive comments complained her latest novel, Bridging Two Hearts, didn’t have enough romance.

As she was sharing her feelings with me I replied, “Well, what do you expect, you write guy romance.”

She had no idea of what I was talking about. I’m sure she thought I was teasing her.

So what’s a guy romance novel? Don’t expect satisfactory answers from the Internet. Here’s mine:

A guy romance novel is where the male is a knight in shining armor who rescues a damsel in distress.

Preferably he is a misunderstood knight and she a damsel who is also distressing.

So what are common misconceptions what it takes to create a guy romance novel?

1. Sex
2. Violence
3. Male point of view
4. No feelings, all action
5. Wimpy females

These subjects all may be interesting to guys but they don’t make it a romance.

Here’s a list of stories of probable guy romances; Ivanhoe, Harry Potter, Bourne Identity, Romancing the Stone, Dear John, and Twilight (much disagreement on this last one).

What do they have in common?
1. Strong men who protect, save, and guard the spunky females.
2. The men are frequently misunderstood but their true qualities come forth when tested.

(I cannot overstate how important this is to guys! All guys fear they are geeks and dream they could be heroic.)

3. The heroine usually doesn’t even like her knight but comes to love him in the end.
4. The heroine’s feelings are hidden or muted. Often feelings are shown versus thought about or discussed. Think her loving gaze, etc.

If my two lists are valid, it might explain why Twilight gets such mixed reviews. Most guys don’t want to be “sparkly.”

My personal favorite guy romance author was Jane Austin. Note how she fits well into the above. All guys want to be a Mr. Darcy to some clever Elizabeth Bennett.

So what makes Bridging Two Hearts a “guy romance?”

We start with a strong alpha-male: Josh is a Navy SEAL and the guys on his team look up to him. He takes definitive action to protect our heroine Amy. He even recognizes her role at the start of the book:

“What caught his attention were her hands. They shook despite the death grip on the seat in front of her. Was this a damsel in distress or what?”

When he tries to tease her out of her fears, she misunderstands him. Amy accuses him of tormenting her. She even shoves a tasty passion fruit gelato cone into his face!

As for Josh, he keeps wondering if she really likes him and is delighted, he thinks, when he overhears an accomplice confirm his hopes.

Because of their sparking, they both find a way to deal with their fears and emotions in a heart-ful, romantic way.

Just like Elizabeth and Darcy.

So what do you think makes a guy romance story? What are your favorites?

Tweetables:

What’s a guy romance novel? Click to Tweet.

Are damsels in distress integral parts of a guy romance novel? Click to Tweet.

Wind is no stranger to the Bible. It is mentioned for the first time in Genesis 8:1 when God sent a wind to help dry the earth after the flood. Many hapless Bible characters were lashed with wind in storms–Jonah for example (Jonah 1:4),  the disciples and Jesus (Mark 4:37-38), and Paul (Acts 27:14-15).

Wind also played a part in dreams and miracles. Pharaoh’s dream about Egypt’s future contained a blighting east wind (Genesis 41:23,27). An east wind also brought the plague of locusts on Egypt about 400 years later, while a west wind blew them away (Exodus 10:13,19). And a strong east wind opened the Red Sea for the Israelites to cross after they exited Egypt and were pursued by Pharaoh (Exodus 14:21-22).

Not all the winds in the Bible are of the natural variety. Who of us hasn’t pondered the beautiful 3rd chapter of John where Jesus, talking to Nicodemus, used wind as a metaphor for those born of the Spirit?

“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes. So is everyone who is born of the Spirit” – John 3:8.

How appropriate, then, that the coming of the Spirit on the disciples was with the sound of “a rushing mighty wind” – Acts 2:2.

This month’s writing challenge is to write about wind.

For fiction writers:

Write a story in which a physical wind is part of the setting, or a part of one of the character’s fears or memories. Or perhaps one of your characters will come in contact with the wind of the Spirit.

For non-fiction writers:

Research wind and write a piece explaining how it works scientifically.
Or write about a personal experience with wind.

For poets:

Write a poem about wind from either the physical, or spiritual perspective, or both. Perhaps you’ll write about the desiccating east wind of a dry time in your life, the buffeting wind of trial, the cool breeze of relief after hot trouble, or the wonderful calm of silence after the wind has ceased. As an added challenge, try to use words that communicate the sound and feeling of wind (onomatopoeia).

I’m so excited. I’ve also got another story prepping for release in the upcoming Smutters anthology, Smut for Chocoholics edited by Ms. Blisse’s hubby, Kevin Mitnik. My story is called Kisses but more to come on that later.

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I'm happily busy, reading and selecting stories for Can’t Get Enough and trying to muster up the inspiration to cook up some more creative writing of my own. Normally, the sexy, stormy weather would help, but instead it’s left me with a really, achy body, so there’s that to deal with.

I’m pleased to announce that I’ve been selected to participate in the Artist Trust’s 2013 EDGE Professional Development Program for Literary Artists. EDGE is a nationally acclaimed 50+ hour training program designed to give writers the business skills they need to create sustainable careers. As most of you know, SunHi Mistwalker is a pseudonym I’ve used to pen speculative fiction since the later part of 2011. But I’ve been writing for a lot longer than that. I currently work as a full-time non-fiction ghostwriter and I’ve written screenplays and stage plays as well as short stories under by legal name.  I applied for this professional program so that I could hone the business skills necessary to ensure that my fiction career is long and fulfilling.   If you live in Seattle, you may have the opportunity to meet me and my fellow EDGE participants when we present our work at the Elliot Bay Bookstore. I’ll update you with the details once they’re finalized.

A reminder! After The Darkness: Episode #4 will be released February 28, 2013.

That said, having recently read through his answers to what has become known as The Proust Questionnaire, a series of questions that were meant to reveal a person’s character, I found myself wondering how writers I know might answer. Of course, Vanity Fair adopted a version of the questionnaire that it puts to celebrities every month. I know no real celebrities, but I do know many, many writers, especially here in Canada. So I intend to publish a series of their answers over the coming months, not only introducing their work, but their inclinations and aspirations, as determined by 31 questions–only slightly modified from the original ones that good old Marcel answered in 1890.

I will begin with myself, not only because I am the most readily available writer I know, but also because I’m still in bed as I type, which seems somehow appropriate.

1. Your favorite qualities in a man.
Charm mixed with kindness. You sometimes get one or the other, but seldom both. Beware of free-standing charm.

2. Your favourite qualities in a woman.
Confidence and directness. I like a gal who can tell it like it is, without couching it in too much politeness or euphemism.

3. Your chief characteristic.
Open-mindedness. I am much more curious than judgemental. It helps in both writing and life.

4. What you appreciate the most in your friends.
Their intelligence and wit. Their ability to lend a sympathetic ear when necessary.

5. Your main fault.
Tendency to worry/be anxious. This may be the downside of an active imagination.

6. Your favourite occupation.
Sitting on the beach on a sunny day, staring at the waves and sky. Going into the water every now and then. I guess I was supposed to say writing…

7. Your idea of happiness.
A stretch of empty days that I can fill with whatever I please. If the weather is fine and the locale interesting, even better.

8. Your idea of misery.
A prison of responsibilities and obligations that you cannot escape, that sour the soul. Anything you don’t want to do but have to.

9. If not yourself, who would you be?
Lucinda Williams. At least for 3 days. But would she have to be me in the meanwhile? I wonder what she’d make of that.

10. Where would you like to live?
I like where I live now, but would love a life spent partially in exotic and tropical climes. Bora Bora, Fiji, somewhere with crystalline water, white sand and palm trees. I would take a Greek island in a pinch…

11. Your favourite colour and flower.
Purple, of the deep variety. Any type of lily, but especially the tall Asian ones that smell like flowery butter.

12. Your favourite bird.
I’m partial to African Grey Parrots. I like a bird that can hold a conversation and make up its own vocabulary.

13. Your favourite prose authors.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Richard Ford, Truman Capote.

14. Your favourite poets.
I’m going to say Ruth Stone for today. Poems ambushed her in fields!

15. Your favourite heroes in fiction.
Jose Buendia in 100 Years of Solitude, especially after he was tied to the tree. I also have a lot of affection for Dell in Richard Ford’s Canada.

16. Your favourite heroines in fiction.
I’m currently enamoured with Isabel Archer in Henry James Portrait of a Lady.

17. Your favourite painters and musicians.
So many, but here are a few: Otto Dix, Modigliani, Francis Bacon; Bach, Jack White, Psarantonis

18. Your heroes in real life.
Rebels, geniuses, whistleblowers, and anyone who helps without expectation of reward.

19. Your heroines in real life.
Nuns. I think nuns are awesome. And what I said about heroes.

20. What characters in history do you most dislike.
Pick any psycho/sociopathic dictator and insert name here. And Stephen Harper.

21. Your heroines in World history.
Hypatia, Catherine the Great, Mata Hari.

22. Your heroes in World history.
Democritus, William James, Carl Jung.

23. Your favourite food and drink.
Japanese and Italian, and, as always, very dry vodka martinis, preferably with berries in them.

24. Your favourite names.
I’m partial to mythological ones: Persephone, Ariadne, Telemachus, Achilles, etc. People still have these names in Greece.

25. What you hate the most.
Aggressive stupidity.

26. The natural talent you’d like to be gifted with.
Singing. I’d give my left arm to be able to sing. Opera especially, but anything really.

27. How you wish to die.
Suddenly, without warning. Would save me from worrying and suffering. But I hear drowning is nice too.

28. What you wish to come back as.
I was once told it would be a lemur, but I would prefer to be a very pretty, tropical songbird.

29. What is your present state of mind.
Quiet, but anxious at the same time. Yes, it’s possible.

30. For what fault have you most toleration?
Sentimentality.

31. Your favourite motto?
Expectation is the root cause of all suffering.

I trust you all feel you know me a bit better now, and won’t use it against me.

The only forseeable problem I can think of at this moment is that I want to say yes, yes, yes, when my word count limit will eventually require me to make some really hard decisions. But, I don’t want to think about that now. I simply want to bask in the joy and awe that is reading story after story, so many of them beautiful, brilliant works that belong somewhere, even if not here.

Sigh. I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said or even thought about, but hey… it’s what’s rolling around the old dome at the moment.

Back at it…

I have begun writing my science fiction novel.

Actually, I make a funny. I am currently planning my sci-fi novel. It is going to involve anthropomorphic aliens and…

A story line.

Featuring, well, some stuff. Characters do this, this happens to characters, and character number 1 saves the day.

Or, something like that.

I hope to have it something  shorter than 350 pages (if said book is 4 x 6.7 inches). According to Michael Stackpole, his first book did not make it at first because, well, it was too big for a first-time author — according to the agent who looked at the manuscript.

Years later, look where he is now. Books published. Blog authored.

Who knows where I will be years from now. I could be a completely different person. I have changed into a completely different person over the past decade.

People change. So do some characters. Characters are sort of like people. They change, but once-in-a-story. Right?

Thought I was going to say “once-in-a-lifetime”, ehhhhhh? EHHHH?!

I like vanilla, but not that much.

Until then,

Daniel Bryant

But even if you’re not hungover, it’s surprisingly easy to fill your day with things that absolutely have to get done right this second — and that aren’t writing. You’re not avoiding it, really. You’re just too busy. Right?

Sure. And hey, sometimes no harm done. The dishes gotta be done some time. But if you’re making a living off your words, you’ve eventually got to start the “work day.” Here’s three things to do to get you started when it’s not happening naturally on its own:

1. Put On Your Grown-Up Clothes

One of the biggest perks of a writing career is that it’s done from home. You can, and many authors famously do, work in your pajamas, or in nothing at all if your chair is made from kinder, gentler fabric than mine.

Don’t.

Or at least, don’t when you’re struggling to get started. Make yourself behave like an adult going to a job (because that’s what you are) and throw on some decent work attire. Your brain will pick it up as a “time to start working” signal, and next thing you know you will be.

Also, you’ll look nicer for whoever’s coming home to you. Sexy bonus!

2. Exercise for Five Minutes

Exercise is a kick-starter. Lots and lots of it can wear you out, but a short burst triggers more brain activity. 

It’s pretty much a survival reaction that you’re abusing for more mundane purposes — when you break into a sudden sprint or start swinging heavy things around, your brain goes oh, shit, are we in a fight? is a sabertooth tiger about to eat us? and starts working overtime.

Don’t overdo it. Just drop and crank off some push-ups, or run around the block once, and then fall into your chair and start banging away. Cheaper than coffee and better for your figure.

3. Eat a Goddamn Sandwich

That was something my old girlfriend The Doctor used to say when I was being non-functional. It generally worked.

Cooking (and the attendant cleaning) can turn into a time-waster if you’re not careful, so take the instruction literally and actually make a sandwich. One. Some stuff on bread, maybe a sauce from a bottle; slap it all together and go write. You can do the dishes later.

In addition to giving you some needed energy, you’re using habits of thought to your advantage here — we’re trained to associate the end of lunch with resuming work, from our school days on through most jobs. Finishing a sandwich makes your brain expect to get back to work.

Of course, if you try all three of these at once, you’ll find yourself writing in sweaty work clothes covered with food stains…but hey, working from home, right? No one’s there to see you.

Got tips of your own for getting the writerly butt into the writerly chair and starting the day’s work, even on those days when your brain seems to be making up reasons to avoid it? Leave a comment! And while you’re at it, I’d take a decent hangover remedy if anyone knows one…

She’s twelve-years old and has been blind for over two years. Her muzzle is turning white, she walks tentatively, has picked up weight, has digestive issues and is as sweet as can be.

Most of her days are spent on her bed or begging to be let in and out the sliding door. Occasionally she raises her nose to the sky and sniffs for that pesky squirrel who likes to torment her.

Suzie also trots on the deck hunting the source of that pungent odor she’s been sprayed with a couple times, resulting in a coke and deodorizing shampoo bath.

Fortunately, that hasn’t happened recently.

But we’re in the middle of a dry winter and she’s feeling her age. Her coat looked ratty, her nails scratched and her poor tail really needed a trim. The pretty girl just wasn’t herself these days.

I’m feeling her age, too, and when I finished writing my latest novella today (The Gold Rush Christmas) and sent it off to the editor, I decided she deserved the spa treatment I usually reserve for myself after completing a project.

What girl doesn’t like a little pampering?

Indeed, what hard working girl couldn’t use a massage to loosen the tight muscles and restore blood flow into restricted areas?

That’s why Amy works at the Hotel del Coronado in my recent novel Bridging Two Hearts. A soft-hearted young woman who likes to make people feel better, she uses her massage skills to ease some of the tension her clients carry. The aromatherapy,  soft music, cool cucumber water and dimmed lights all serve to relax clients at the spa. For some women, a day at the spa is the only time they have to themselves and they make the most of it.

While doing research at the Hotel del’s spa, I finished my massage with a visit to a swirling jacuzzi pool and then lounged beside a gorgeous blue infinity pool with a view of the wide Coronado beach. I relaxed on a white chaise longe, sipped a cool drink, and read a book for an hour. My body felt loose, warm, comfortable, and flush. Refreshed.

On that February day, I felt like I could conquer the world if I ever found the will to stand up again.

On this February day, Suzie trotted out of Petco, trotted mind you, with her beautiful trail now plumed and waving. She didn’t haul her girth like a sack of potatoes, but stood straighter and freer once more. With her teeth cleaned, she smiled and turned her sightless eyes to greet the afternoon. Her nails didn’t click and her fur looked glossy and smooth.

The spa had rejuvenated her, for at least this afternoon!

And then she returned to her comfortable bed by the fire.

What do you like to do when the winter doldrums settle in and you feel lethargic?

We’ve had a great deal of fun over the years at MA101 making fun of other people’s public screw-ups, so it’s only fair that we apologize when we have one here. And here’s the flat truth of it: last week’s attempt at a “Romantic Story Contest” sucked.

No need to sugar the pill there. It was an under-prepared and poorly-executed experiment. The blog needed a deep stock of back-up stories to run if submissions were low (which they were), and I didn’t provide that. The advertising ahead of time to generate both interest and submissions was sporadic. And the stories we did run deserved a kinder and gentler editorial treatment than the fire-and-forget postings they got.

That’s a disappointment. And I’m okay with disappointing results when I experiment with MA101 on my own. We’ve had some flops before, from the “What Can You Build from Three Copies of Infinite Jest?” contest (which I thought was goddamn hilarious and hell with you all) all the way back to the misspelled rollout of the blog itself.

But I should always try very hard to avoid those disappointments and flops when it’s other people’s efforts on the line, and both the two writers who submitted stories to the Romantic Story Contest and the ebook author who generously volunteered custom work as a prize deserved a more active, more engaged publisher than they got in MA101.

So: my sincerest apologies to both Elaine and Javier, who submitted wonderful stories and who will most definitely be getting full marks and prizes from the editorial staff here. I will be in touch with both of you to find out whether you’d prefer some Wisconsin booze or some custom-written erotica, both of which you fully earned. I’m sorry we didn’t have a better line-up of competitors for you! Sometimes it is just the way of things, but it’s still a disappointment, and I apologize.

My apologies also to author A. Vivian Vane, who volunteered to provide the custom porn prize and whose new ebook roll-out (Space Station of the Sluts, available from Smashwords, Lulu, and Amazon Kindle Direct) deserved much more promotion than I was able to give it. One of the nice things about having a blog like this is the ability to give new and upcoming authors a bit of a publicity boost, and I failed to do a good job of that.

(That said, it’s a hilarious little read, so go buy the book, if you like that kind of thing.)

And my readers, of course, deserve an apology too, but at least you get the pleasure of seeing me do a blogging faceplant, which is some entertainment. Right? I’m sorry Romantic Story Week didn’t go better, and I’ll try to make the next few weeks entertaining in compensation.

So that’s how it is. The story week did not go as well as its Scary Story Week predecessor, and most of that was just my lack of attention and effort. There were other projects — good news in any other context, really, since it’s a lot of paid work and new connections that I’m very glad to have — but MA101 suffered as a result of them, and that’s regrettable.

I’ll keep an eye on things as my portfolio of writing jobs expands, and consider scaling MA101 back down to the three-times-weekly schedule it started with if needed, but I’m hoping to avoid that. For right now, apologies for last week and high hopes for this one — we’ll get right back on our (high) horse here at MA101, and hope that you continue to come back for all your daily pointing-and-laughing needs.

- Geoffrey

I asked my dad if he knew anything about the publishing world.

He knows I’m a writer. Heck, it feels like he’s written the entire plot for some of my stories! In response to my question, he launched into what seemed like the largest bunny rabbit trail in existence (no joke) while I waited to see where he was going with his story. My dad’s been published in a few books, mainly articles on whatever subject the publisher had asked if he had an article on/would write an article on. Nothing big, though. He told me a story of how one friend of his got somewhere just calling publishers or big authors and getting his name out there. My dad’s friend is getting somewhat big now (from what I understand) and is “linked” to all these other, apparently, famous names.

I’m summing up a story in a way that probably horrendously butchered it. But dad’s winding down point was that most authors don’t come out of no where and make it big. They aren’t discovered. Most authors know people who know people who eventually get them published.

This was not heartening to hear.

“Is it wrong or… prideful of me to want to make it big by my own work and words and not because I know someone?” I asked.

“Yeah, it is prideful,” my dad answered. Pop went my ego. “You’re an idealist.”

I probably had this weird, twitchy face after hearing that. Like a, “You’re joking” mixed with “did I just hear that?” face. There’s nothing wrong with being an idealist, per se. But I’ve never been called that. Not that I remember. I don’t think of myself as an idealist, you see. I consider myself rather cynical. Pragmatic, definitely. But idealistic? No. Heck, for a while someone I know called me TSO. The Sarcastic One. Being called an idealist made me want to say, “No. No, don’t call me that. I already have my labels! You’re not allowed to tell me otherwise!”

There are two kinds of writers, I’m starting to think. The idealist and the pragmatist. Idealists will wait until their novels win faceless publishers over. They’ll submit and submit and submit to people until someone picks them up. Pragmatic writers want to be published badly enough that they’ll, you know, talk to people about it and get their name out. Pragmatists know idealist writers may never make it. So pragmatists say, “Hey, I have this novel I was wondering if you could read…” to the friend of a friend who’s a publisher.

Writing is a huge part of who I am. Pieces of me are liberally sprinkled throughout my novels. To judge a novel of mine is to judge me. I feel like I take my heart and give it to people even when I’m just sending some of my writing to a friend. Hence, the picture at the top of this blog post. It describes me to a T. Hopefully I’m not the only one.

So here’s what it comes down to. How badly do you want to be published? How much do you think your words mean to others? Do you think you can touch someone with what you say? Do you want to welcome them into your private world? Can you stand the critiques and criticisms? Are you afraid that people will get past the words you wrote and see who you are behind them?

Obviously, there are many types of writers. But a lot of it seems to come down to the subconscious belief of whether or not you think your words are worth hearing. If you think you are, you’ll try to be heard. If you don’t, you’ll just wait around until someone bits or maybe show your work to no one, but be ok with either outcome. So perhaps it isn’t idealists and pragmatics. It’s whether or not you think you have a voice worth hearing, labels of “idealists” and “pragmatists” aside.

This quote, that’s also a picture I posted on here, is beautiful and helpful:

“If you want to write, you can. Fear stops most people from writing, not lack of talent, whatever that is. Who am I? What right have I to speak? Who will listen to me if I do? You’re a human being, with a unique story to tell, and you have every right. If you speak with passion, many will listen. We need stories to live, all of us. We live by story. Yours enlarges the circle.” ~Richard Rhodes

Photo credits.

Wikipedia Commons

One of the best parts about writing a book featuring a massage therapist as the heroine, is I had to have a massage “for research.”

In January (thank you Montecito Heights Spa)

in February (thank you, Hotel del Coronado Spa)

and in March (thank you, Coldwater Creek Spa).

I’d had massages before of course, here in California but also in China, Hungary, Nicaragua and most recently in Mexico.

It’s been my treat when I’ve finished a manuscript–all that sitting at the computer causes the muscles to get very sore and a massage can loosen up and ease the knots.

While a massage may sound like a decadent activity for pampered women, in reality it has medicinal purposes and can be a life saver for some professions.

One writer friend has a regularly scheduled massage each month. She needs it to keep up the long hours at her computer.

One of our friends is a music conductor and all that conducting has wreaked havoc in his upper back. He required a regular massage so he could perform his job.

Massage enables the fluids in the body to move more easily. It breaks up the fibers that can cause a lack of suppleness in muscle.

It can help relax a tired body and rejuvenate a sore one. Many professional athletes travel with their own personal massage therapists.

I’ve appreciated every massage I’ve had (well, the Hungarian one was a little tense), but I never thought about it from the point of view of the massage therapist until I wrote Bridging Two Hearts.

In the interest of that research, I approached the three spas and asked for a therapist who would describe what they were feeling and thinking as they worked on my body–usually my upper back and shoulders.

A massage therapist is there to serve the client–but they don’t usually talk much, generally playing quiet soothing music in a dim room. But all three were willing to talk about their job, often using analogies to help me better perceive what they were feeling.

The women understood how the body functions and the way muscles work. When I asked them to describe what their fingers felt while working out a knot, their spoke of a hardness that seemed to be hollow. The more they pushed and rubbed, the more the “hollowness” moved until it would just smooth out to flat muscles and the client’s knot would disappear.

One therapist described it like this:

I’m working, “layer by layer—softening up the muscle like tenderizing meat. It’s like gristle in steak. You kind of push your way through it and it feels like you’re pressing on something. And then you feel it kind of go and your finger can go in a little deeper. You feel yourself being able to get deeper, deeper, deeper and then you’re at the core, almost touching the bone.”

“You listen to the client’s breathing, making sure you’re in tune with them and what they’re feeling. . . if they start to tense up, you need to back off.”

This particular therapist got into massage therapy after an injury. She believes her experience helps her better serve her clients.

“Knowing pain, knowing how my own body feels and then being able to put myself into their position, makes me empathetic toward people. I almost feel how other people are feeling when they get distracted from pain.”

I always request extra work on my back and upper shoulders during a massage, to counterbalance the writing stressors. That never surprises the therapists who’ve helped me. “Women tend to carry tension in their upper shoulders and back,” one therapist explained.

Interestingly, my husband also sits at a computer all day long, but the one time he has a massage, he didn’t feel much different.

“What about your upper back?” I could believe it.

“No problem.”

Well, that settled that problem. I’m the only one who needs a massage in this household!

Have you had a massage? Did you like it? (Do you sit at a computer all day long?)

Laundry. Check.

Groceries. Check.

Vacuuming. Check.

Fueling the car. Check.

Bank account. Check.

Email. Check.

There is something relieving with to-do lists.

Check. Done.

Most are a little down-to-earth, right?

Even writers’ to-do lists are tedious.

Make sure my main character is a good balance of flaws and strengths.

Check on my secondary characters so they don’t overcome my protagonist.

Brainstorm tertiary characters to provide more suspense or excitement through the story.

Use lots of sensory details, including all five senses, to stimulate emotions.

Write dialogues that echo the characters’ personalities and show actions instead of telling too much through the narrative.

Choose a distinct setting that fits the plot and intrigues the reader.

And for all means, keep the voice steady throughout the story.  This one is so hard I write it at the end of the list while it bugs me much more than the other components of the list.

A writer’s to-do list is by far the longest and the most demanding of all lists.

The worse part is that it is a list that never exactly provides the relief of a plain old list.

Remains the writer’s worry: did I really need a list?

But something l read last night reassured me.

One of the members of my critique group is writing a biography.

I’m a die-hard fiction reader and writer. I know, I know, I should read every genre. I love poetry too – although I don’t write any in English.

So to enlighten my shabby knowledge of nonfiction children’s literature, I read Charles and Emma The Darwins’ Leap of Faith from Deborah Heiligman.

This book got so much praise and awards that the author must have written a list to remember them all.

And guess what I found?

Charles Darwin wrote lists too!

He even made a list of pros and cons when he considered marriage.

To Marry or Not to Marry.

Very Shakespearian approach. Darwin didn’t even have someone special in mind when he wrote his list.

He began with lots of cons under Not to Marry. He ended up with fewer pros under To Marry.

And yet he married Emma Wedgewood.

It is said that, “In her presence he found his happiness, and through her, his life.”

So when someone makes fun of your writer’s list – long or short – just smile and remember Darwin.

Or say, “Some lists are worth every single word.”

I wore black and white checked capris with elastic suspenders lined with protest buttons. Give peace a chance. Make art not war. I (heart) New York. My shirt was an old Hanes undershirt I had scribbled on with sharpie markers. Pictures of a paintbrush, drama masks, music notes, a book. Words like creative, love, music, earth. It was career day and I was ready.

Sister Diane passed a microphone around the room, asking each student what their costume represented. A nurse. A doctor. A firefighter. My palms sweated as the mic made its way toward me. It was heavier than I expected.

“I’m going to be an individualist.”

The teachers didn’t smile at me like at the other kids’ ambitions. My school saw no virtue in deviation.

Most of us pursue the destinies someone else told us we wanted. We go after the white picket fence, the 401k, the American Dream, although many of us don’t stake our worth on whitewashed posts, never retire from our labors of love or didn’t dream the way they told us to, in the first place.

I pursued the “practical” journalism degree a school counselor suggested. A decade or so later, I sat sweating in my conservative suit, staring across my mahogany desk piled with press releases and news clippings at the decorations I’d brought to my government office, where I spent my days writing press releases, speeches and columns under someone else’s name.

“What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?”

A friend had given me a black journal with that saying on the front upon my graduation from high school. It sat next to a troll doll in a sequined red cape, a defiant smile on his rubber face. Despite, or perhaps because the diaphanous butterfly on his head, he was inarguably male.

“That’s whimsical,” my boss said, gesturing to the troll. She was the sort of woman who got practical haircuts. “Most people just bring in pictures of their families.”

But I wasn’t most people, although I pretended to be. I pulled on my staid polyester separates every morning, wrote words that came out of my head but not my mouth. One day, my eyes caught the notebook, my head remembered my middle school promise and my heart wondered how I had ended up living someone else’s dream.

Several weeks later, I handed in my government ID, packed up my desk and left to pursue a graduate degree in creative writing. Although I have since wandered through hallways hung with equal amounts of happiness and heartbreak, I never looked back.

What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?

Today, I sit in my studio at the Vermont Studio Center, where I am spending six weeks writing in the snowy hills where life distractions can’t find me. That same notebook sits on my desk, full of scribbles on the kaleidoscopic snow falling outside my window, the river chortling over the rocks, the sense of calm that comes from the writer’s life I have chosen against all “practical” inclinations.

I am a reporter at a small-town newspaper, telling stories that matter to that demographic. I am a writing teacher, guiding others toward the best way to share their stories. I am writer, who finally knows what makes my heart beat when I think about what that means.

When most people consider rebellion, they see smoke bombs, shouted slogans and waving signs. I hear the voice that whispers in the silence of desperation, when it is given the space to recall what the spirit wants, independent of everyone else’s expectations.

What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?

Seriously. This one’s explicit. Read it — and enjoy it — in private.

I certainly did.

Last Kiss

by Javier

This time I am not here to tell you about what happened during, rather that last kiss goodbye. The one that still today I think about, maybe because it was the first of it’s kind that has left this state of euphoria in me!

It has been another one of those marathon type of days for us. Every once in a while he asks me to take a day off from work just to enjoy ourselves all day long. See, he prefers intimacy during the day, not because his work schedule dictates it as such, but because he likes the idea that day light decreases obstacles that would otherwise prevent little subtleties from coming alive.

Today was one of those occasions where I remained face down in bed sustaining burdensome breathing while he stood back some distance for a better view of his craftsmanship. I wasn’t randomly laying face down, no sir, no. He had meticulously adjusted my position just so that all of my characteristics sprinkled with his work could be best viewed.

He had culminated the act spread out through my buttocks, spilling over between my legs. I had felt it when it first fell on my rear, then when he smeared it just so between my legs. For him, though, I can only approximate the sight. He never cared to take pictures, or film us to share our good times in the future. I too wanted to see the things he is privileged to that I just don’t get to see. But, all he did was stand back, stare, and smile. I often asked, what about the view is so attractive? He never really did say much about it, except that it was enticing. I was left to wonder if his climaxing on me was some type of claim to victory comparable to the breaking of the “marker-tape” at the finish line of a race. His way of saying “I did it”. A boost if you will, of some type.

I can imagine the sight of his residue dripping down from my buttocks, little by little sliding down, reaching my privacy. How I must look after prolonged periods of constant friction, the thrusting, piercing at different speeds, both sensually and aggressively. The type of event that upon culmination, she remains slightly open from the blood rushing in to alleviate the maltreatment endured.

That sort of journey that leaves me sensitive enough to feel the echo of my pulsating heart on her. Given that I wax, completely bare, I can only imagine the details to be seen, not a single anything obstructing the flowing liquid through her. To watch it flow from my butt, dripping down the separation of the cheeks, ever so slowly until my crotch greets it hello.

There he stood longer than normal, watching me, continuously licking his lips, smelling my scent attached to his hands… I could hear him inhale as if snorting lines of cocaine. I have this habit of clapping my gulets when he stares at his remnants sprawled throughout me. Initially it was meant to seduce him, but after a while I became fond of the feeling of the sticky substance against me. I wanted to feel it trickle down to sooth the front just as it had the back.

I often wondered if the warmth, when reached by the dripping substance would cause a similar reaction as lava does when reaching the sea, where steam is in a revolt. While maybe exaggerating, that is how hot I feel after one of his marathons. I am sure that the heat is not the sole comparable, but so the colour I must take upon. That reddish colour that skin yields after constant friction against it. I bet I would gawk just as he does, were I a man looking at myself.

It wasn’t the same goodbye I had grown accustomed to, the one that he would lay on top of me, pressing his pelvis on my buttocks, kissing my check, and off to the shower before leaving for work. This time he climbed on bed, but didn’t lay on me. Instead he ran his hands on my butt, running his fingers along the same paths taken by his residue; following it down to me, sliding his fingers and pushing out to the sides spreading me… still breathing heavily.

He sat between my legs, pushing them apart just enough to make room for him to sit down. He situated himself so that each of his hands held each of my cheeks, and proceeded to push them apart exposing me to the cool air. I felt his mouth on my buttocks at first, then he ventured where he seldom does. He molded his tongue meticulously to me, sucking, kissing, caressing with his hands, with his finger, though he never did penetrate me; all he did was sculpt me with his tongue. And though I was the recipient, and a willing one, this time I wished I could also be the benefactor. I wanted to taste him on me, I wanted to experience what the coupling of our saturation was like. His hands continued to parade the same areas as his residues, smearing it around on my body as well as on his hands. And glory, I tell you, because his mouth was traveling my deepest intentions, his face, lips, mouth, and tongue too were covered in both our lust. He shifted me upwards by the pelvis to facilitate his mouth upon me. His face was saturated, by us, his chin dripping with the marriage of our secretions.

He might have tried to clean me, but he failed. His mouth was overcome by my reaction, he had to swallow. The abundance was so extreme that there was just no place for it to go but his stomach. Still, he was undeterred, he continued to push me to multiple summits. I admit that there was something devastatingly weakening about the thought that he didn’t fear tasting himself, inevitably, swallow some of it…

When he concluded, he came up to kiss my cheek, I turned my head to meet his lips. I could taste the salty residue on his lips. The euphoria of he and I still present on his lips kept me from releasing him. I want to taste what he tasted, I did not want to miss a thing. All I wanted was just that one last kiss, just one to sooth my tongue with the taste, the scent in his mouth.