The deed is done

I've been posting about my writing follies. The last book, Settler's Mine: The Rogue didn't go nearly as fast as I thought or wanted it to. It turned into what I think is a great book for it.

Let's hope the editor thinks so. It's in her hot little hands.

I have started a new story and plan on keeping some regular "office" hours in which I do nothing but write on that book. It's already going quickly so let's hope that continues.

I seriously feel like I'm riding the wind lately. Things are so so so busy, I don't feel like I'm getting any time to smell the roses, heck, there's been no time to look at roses.

I'm thinking about trying to declutter my life in many ways. Not just of junk but I really need to get back to what's really important. The writing.

We will see how that goes.

Mechele Armstrong
www.mechelearmstorng.com
www.melanylogen.com

Letter to a Reader

I get a fair bit of fanmail.

Not so much that I can't keep up with it, but enough to let me know that my work is being read and discussed and appreciated. That's validation for a writer. Sure, we all want, need, and appreciate reviews, but there's something about a reader taking the time and trouble to personally contact you that is different.

For one thing, the reader is risking something. Possible rejection. Suppose the writer is offended? Or just...well, ignores the letter? For another thing, the reader has nothing to gain. There is no audience to be impressed by the reviewer's way with words or clever insights. There is no one to fill in the silences. It's a private conversation. Taking the time to personally write a letter to an author whose work you enjoy takes effort. It's like going that little extra step of sending a small gift to your hostess after a wonderful weekend stay. It's kind and it's generous and it's gracious.

So I thought I'd address some of the comments that typically pop up in letters from readers.


Dear Gentle Reader,

No need to apologize for "disturbing" or "bothering" me. I don't want you to think that I'm sitting here shooting paperclips across the room, but I'm never too busy to hear from you. The day that I am too busy to hear from you, my dear reader, is the day I hang up my quill pen and ink well.

I do not think you are being "too forward" by approaching me or offering your thoughts on my stories. To be honest, I always find your thoughts interesting. Yes, you do sometimes get it wrong, but so (apparently) do I!

(That's where you chuckle, dear gentle reader, 'cos I'm teasing you.)

I often say that we writers write for ourselves, but we publish for others. It's my pleasure to share these stories with you -- I'm glad you're reading my work and that it's moved you enough to want to talk to me about it. And I mean that whether you liked the story or had some problems with it. I'm not going to pretend that I'm going to change the stories I write just to please you, but I am genuinely interested in what worked or didn't work for you. No, I'm not going to be mad at you because you write to tell me you didn't understand something or something bothered you or saddened you.

By the way, dear reader, it's okay to gush. Almost every single one of you apologizes at some point for "gushing." I have a feeling we authors define gushing differently from you readers.

Dictionary definition of gush: to express oneself extravagantly or emotionally; talk effusively: I LOVE your work!

You know, just as you had to work your nerve up to write me, so it takes me effort to put my work out there for others to read. Writers, like everyone else in this world, get a lot more rejection than they do gushing praise. Even after we convince an agent or a publisher to take a risk on us, we still have to win over reviewers and booksellers and...you.

So it's nice -- really, really nice -- to hear that you liked my work. And you don't have to qualify that because I know my work isn't perfect (only too well) and that everyone doesn't love me all the time. Sometimes the best medicine in the world is simply to hear what I'm doing right.

Don't apologize. Really. I think I speak for all writers when I say feel free to gush.




Finally, dear reader, you don't have to apologize for liking the books you like. I don't care that you're a middleaged married woman or a seventy year old man in the midwest or a college kid in England. I'm not judging you, and if I was judging you, how harsh a judge could I be when I'm the one writing the stories you're enjoying so much? I'm writing for myself, remember? I'm writing the kinds of stories I would love to read, so apologizing for liking my work is really not necessary. In fact, you're...er, making me laugh nervously because if you're uncomfortable, what should I be feeling for writing this stuff?

Anyway, that's it, dear reader. Thank you again for writing. For going to that little bit of extra bother, for taking the trouble to say something positive and encouraging to me when you could probably use an encouraging, friendly word yourself. It's funny the way your letters always seem to come when I need them the most. You're very good about that -- and it's one reason I keep publishing my stories.

Yours sincerely,
Josh

Dreaming Can Be Such An Adventure!!!!

Hey all,

I'm still here in Singapore and will be for another month. Then we will be winging off into China, Japan and hopefully, India. Heck, we might even go stand at the base of Mount Everest for all I know. We go where the wind blows us and we've been blown around a lot.

But we are loving it. The great thing is...we get to see so much of the natural world this way and for us, that's like a little slice of Heaven. Both Jonathon and I are total nature lovers and would much rather be camping in the woods than sitting in a five star hotel. Call us crazy, but listening to a coyote call or watching fireflies dance and play is much more relaxing for us than a day at the spa.

And we have really been able to indulge over here. Even though Singapore is very much a city, there are pockets of wild places in and around that you just don't expect. I've actually sat in a rainforest and dreamed up a great new paranormal series which I can't wait to get to. There is something about walking through the forest primeval that just sets my imagination a dreaming.

I thought I'd share a few of the places I've seen over here and how they are going to go into my sensual tales. Since most of my stories either are set in or seem to have to do with the great outdoors, I think this type of inspiration is worth every second!!!! So here we go. Join me as we travel to some of the places you'll see later in my books!

This first picture was taken in the Labrador Nature Reserve. It is the last rocky coastline in Singapore and protected from any use except scientific. I took one look at it and saw a world where there is more water than land and this small outcropping is valued because of it's pristine shore. That book has already been dreamed!

This path was one of many we traversed in the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve. When I saw this, I kept expecting wraiths and hobbits to leap out at me! This path will have it's place in an upcoming fantasy book where everything is alive and nothing is as it seems.

This picture was taken just after an afternoon rain shower in McRitchie Reservoir National Park. The mist was creeping through the trees and every which way you looked, rain droplets as big as your fist kept crashing through the leaves to splash on the forest floor. Cicadas were so loud we couldn't hear ourselves talk. A perfect setting for my sci-fi book about the Panthera people who without an infusion of fresh DNA will die out like the other species on their planet. Their solution? Human females.

Not all nature is above ground. This cave, also found in the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve, is one that will be found in my upcoming shapeshifter series about snakes. Dry and cool, it is perfect for what I have in mind for these hot snake men.

What is more beautiful than a rainforest? I've seen several now in my life and each time I'm taken back by the beauty and the splendor of them. And this rainforest will be used as one in my sequel to More Than a Warrior. This is Dyas' story as he, Jhoral and Lanai search for his love, Jhoral's sister Jhara, who has been kidnapped by rebels.

And lastly, this beautiful sunrise picture was taken off the southernmost tip of Asia, in Malaysia, at a place called Tanjung Piai. I did a week long writing retreat there, and when I awoke to this spectacular sight, I knew I'd use it in a book. A sci fi book where the planet is so close to the sun the sky is a constant pink and orange and humans have adapted to the heat by only fishing and hunting during the early hours of the morning and during the dusk time. This adventure story is one of my hottest yet!

So, there you have it. Just a peek into my imagination as well as the beautiful sights I've seen on my journey. For more travel blogs make sure you subscribe to my CHAT BLOG! You'll even get a free gift out of it!!! See HERE for details!

Have a great rest of your month. I'll be back in May if I can, with some stories about my travels in China!!!

Hugs to all,

CJ England

Follow Your Dreams

http://cjengland.com/warrior/morethanawarrior.htm

http://cjengland.com

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CJsaysFollowYourDreams/

Why erotic romances? Is it more than sex & lust?

Hello everyone! My name is Sloan Parker and I’m new author with Loose Id. My first book, More, an m/m/m erotic suspense was released two weeks ago and today is my first day to blog here at Loose Ends.

I'd just like to take a quick moment to say thanks to everyone who’s already picked up a copy of More. I appreciate you taking a chance on this new author. It’s been a thrill to hear directly from readers and to have my book on the digital shelves alongside many of my favorite authors. Huge thanks to everyone who worked on More, including a special thank you to my editor Antonia and to April Martinez for the gorgeous cover.

With More’s release, I've been thinking a lot about writing and reading, love and passion. What is it about an erotic romance that works for me? What is it that makes me want to read another? And another? What draws me in to a love story? What made me want to spend hours writing my own stories?

Today I thought I’d share some of my answers to these questions. In no order, here are some of the reasons why I love romances (and erotic romances in particular):

• The discovery. For a new couple, there is so much to discover about each other. I love going along on that journey. Meeting someone new, seeing where the two characters fit together, watching as they discover each other’s personalities, the little quirks that make them individuals, as well as their discovery of each other’s physical needs and wants.
  
  
• The growth. I love when a character grows as a person through the journey of love and sexual intimacy. So much of who we are as individuals is influenced by our pasts, our previous relationships, and uncovering those histories (both as a reader and a writer) is fascinating to me. Using that history to shape their journey through a romantic, erotic relationship is even more so.
  
  
• The love. Experiencing those moments of falling in love with someone is one of the greatest joys of life. The next best thing, reading about that journey in a story filled with unique characters and an interesting plot. When it’s done well, it all ties together to create a beautiful story that says something about us as human beings.
  
  
• The humanity. I like reading about characters that are flawed, that have some major personal challenges they need to overcome in order to let another person into their mind, their body, their heart. I like watching them make mistakes and blunders, then watch as they grow and try to do better with each turn of the page.
  
  
• The tension. I like romances with heightened internal and external conflicts. Fill a romantic story with suspense or a mystery, as well as an interesting, unique conflict between the romantic leads and you’ll have me hooked.
  
  
• The sex. Well, I do like erotic scenes in my romances after all. Entering the bedroom through a moment of sexual play with the characters makes the story so much more personal. There is nothing we don’t see. It’s often a wonderful way to get a look at how the characters are growing emotionally. It also allows me as a reader to connect on a deeper level with the characters, to see who they are in their most sensual, private moments.
  
  
• The intensity. Erotic romances are filled with passion and lust in a way other romances aren’t. They make you squirm in your seat. They get your heart racing, your breath catching, often on page one. Many times I’m thinking, SLOW DOWN but I’m also thinking, KEEP GOING. It’s that push and pull, that rush of adrenaline, that intensity of attraction that makes the couple (or more) seem destined for each other. I like when they are just as surprised by their emotional connection as I was by their physical one. I find myself giggling at their naiveté. Did they really think it could be just about the sex, the lust? I love watching them get blindsided by both the passion and the emotions, watching them take that wild ride together.
  

So how about you? What do you like about reading romantic, erotic stories?

The Darkling Thrush by Josh Lanyon

New this morning from Loose Id. A magickal novel of looking for love -- and dangerous books -- in all the wrong places.

ISBN: 978-1-60737-563-0
Author: Josh Lanyon
Cover Artist: Croco Designs
Price: $5.99

BLURB:
Fed up with his desk duty in the Imperial Arcane Library, book hunter Colin Bliss accepts a private commission to find The Sword’s Shadow, a legendary and dangerous witches’ grimoire. But to find the book, Colin must travel to the remote Western Isles and solve a centuries’ old murder.

It should be nothing more than an academic exercise, so why is dour -- and unreasonably sexy -- Magister Septimus Marx doing his best to keep Colin from accepting this mission -- even going so far as to seduce Colin on their train journey north?

Septimus is not the only problem. Who is the strange fairy woman that keeps appearing at inconvenient times? And who is working behind the scenes with the sinister adventuress Irania Briggs? And why do Colin’s employers at the Museum of the Literary Occult keep accusing Colin of betraying them?

As Colin digs deeper and deeper into the Long Island’s mysterious past, he begins to understand why Septimus is willing to stop him at any price -- but by then, it’s too late to turn back.


From Loose Id

EXCERPT:


The letter was addressed to Mr. Colin Bliss.

It sat on my desk, propped against the framed photograph of me and Antony. This reminded me that, as we were no longer “an item,” I really needed to dispose of that photograph of me and my chief. It was bound to look a trifle kiss-ass, and I’d already done enough of that in every conceivable form.

I picked up the cream envelope, studied it. There was no return address, which seemed curious. Brown ink. Another curiosity. Librivenators like myself -- in fact, most of the Societas Magick -- used blue. Other branches of the Arcane Services used purple. The general populace favored black. I couldn’t think of any particular significance to brown. Perhaps the author simply liked the color. The problem with book hunters is we see a mystery every time pen is set to paper. One of the problems, anyway. I’d heard I had others. In detail from Magister Septimus Marx.

The handwriting was spidery and elegant. Absently, I turned the envelope over and tried to peruse it. I can’t say I felt any kind of premonition. After all, my kind of trouble would hardly announce itself with heavy stationary and a fine hand. Who handwrote letters these days of the Varityper? Let alone letters like this one, which offered fleeting impressions of genteel age and sumptuous living: an elderly person…male…an elegant drawing room with heavy velvet drapes, marble topped chests, and a spread of tarot cards on the table…

I picked up the pearl-handled letter opener and slit the envelope open.

Dear Mr. Bliss,
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aengus Anstruther, and I have the honor of being the presul of the Museum of the Literary Occult in London. I hope I am not being unduly modest in assuming that you are familiar with our own humble efforts to preserve the written heritage of our metaphysical past….

Amateurs. All too often their helpful efforts were merely a guise for private collectors appropriating magical texts that more properly belonged in the official libraries. I glanced at the bottom of the note to see Mr. Anstruther was requesting a donation. He was not. I continued reading.

You, of course, are the gifted author of Secret Societies and Subversive Movements and the discoverer of Sir Florian Botolf’s memoirs. Recognizing that we share a certain fascination with lost treasures and written lore, and I would very much like to formally make your acquaintance and, perhaps, propose a small but intriguing venture if you will be in town on the afternoon of the 13th of this month. We are having a private showing of the Botolf Grimoire, and I would like to invite you to a viewing here at the museum at two o’clock. If you can attend, please confirm by telecom.

Sincerely,
Aengus Anstruther

The Botolf Grimoire. Mr. Anstruther certainly knew with what temptation to bait his hook. Not that I wouldn’t have been interested in a peek inside the Museum of the Literary Occult. It was one of several such places I’d hoped to visit when I first arrived in London eight weeks earlier -- before I’d been distracted by other things.
I frowned at the date, double-checked my calendar. The 13th was the following day. Not a lot of warning.

Now that I was no longer in favor, taking off for an afternoon might prove problematical -- or perhaps not. I had the impression that Antony preferred as much as possible to forget I still existed. It was Basil, Antony’s brother and the procurator of Leslie’s Lexicons -- a front for our local branch of the Imperial Arcane Libraries -- who was most likely to pitch a fit if I disappeared for the afternoon when I was supposed to be squirreled away in my cubicle translating and transcribing ancient texts. The least interesting part of the job for me. I liked the hunt.

I studied the number listed and then dialed it on the upright telefon on my desk, confirming shortly after with a curt young woman that I would indeed be available to attend the private showing at the Museum of the Literary Occult. I’d been hoping for just such an invitation, but had never been able to determine who exactly the presul was over there -- not that I confided that to Miss Mildew, nor would she have been interested as she obviously couldn’t wait to get back to organizing paper clips.

Hanging up the telefon, I glanced at Antony’s photo again, and turned it face down on the desk. He’d always looked rather supercilious in that picture, although at the time he’d gifted me with it, I hadn’t noticed -- I’d thought he just looked like his mind was on Important Matters.

When I glanced up again, Antony was standing in the doorway -- and his expression matched the one I’d just buried in papers.

“Basil seems to feel there’s a problem.”

Terrific.

I asked coolly, “With my work?”

“With your attitude.”

Can anything be more awkward than being dumped romantically by one’s superior? This is why one avoids office romance if one has half a brain. Too bad for me my little head got what the big head should have.

I said, “I have no attitude, Antony. I’m here to do a job and I’m doing it to the best of my ability.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Antony said, looking anything but glad.

He continued to stand in the doorway and frown at me.

“Was there anything else?”

“No.”

I opened Nesta Webber’s excellent resource, Weird Words, and picked up my pen to make notations. I felt Antony watching me, but still he said nothing. Tall, lean, handsome in an inbred way like so many of the English aristocracy; Antony had sandy-colored, thinning hair, blue eyes, charmingly crooked teeth. What in the Name of All was it about him I found so irresistible? Even now when I couldn’t stand him.

When he finally turned away without speaking, I felt that inevitable lurch of disappointment. “Antony,” I said, and I winced inwardly at the urgency of my tone.
He paused, meeting my gaze. It was not an encouraging look. I said, “I’ve been invited to a special showing of the Botolf Grimoire at the Museum of the Literary Occult tomorrow afternoon. Is it all right if I take off early?”

“You’ve been invited?” He considered this, and said at last, “Of course. If you’ve actually received an invitation, you must go.” He hesitated. “I believe Magister Marx is also attending. You might have a word with him. Perhaps you can go together.”

“All right.” No way on earth was I going anywhere with that arrogant, judgmental bastard Septimus Marx.

Antony went. I rested my forehead in my hand, pretending to stare at the blank pages before me. Two months ago I’d arrived in jolly olde England as part of the colonial exchange program between bureaus of the Societas Magicke. And about four and a half minutes after I’d first arrived at Leslie’s Lexicons -- the dusty and labyrinthine monstrosity which served as the public face of one of the most extraordinary collections of arcane and occult tomes in the Empire -- I’d met Antony Leslie, the presul.

Antony was charming and handsome and knowledgeable -- and I was a long way from home. He took me to dinner, explained and thanked me for the important work we colonials were doing for the society -- and mankind -- and then he’d taken me back to my hotel and treated me to some of the best sex of my life.

Our affair lasted seven weeks. In addition to being charming, handsome, and knowledgeable, Antony was married. It hadn’t seemed like a problem initially. If there was a problem, it was Antony’s, right? But seven weeks later, seduced and abandoned (as they used to say in ye good old days) and having managed to thoroughly isolate myself from my colleagues, I began to understand that it was my problem too, and I had displayed some staggeringly awful judgment. Not least in falling for a man who wore ties as wide as Antony’s.

So I really didn’t need Septimus Marx looking down his long and arrogant nose at me or curling his thin mouth in one of those sneering smiles because he’d turned out to be absolutely right about…well, pretty much everything.

Marx also worked at Leslie’s Lexicon, although I was never quite sure at what. He was a Magister, a master of some field of study within the Societas Magicke, the branch of the Arcane Services that dealt with written magic. I suspected he was one of the dreaded Vox Pessimires, one of those taxed with the terrible job of destroying those magical texts too dangerous or powerful to remain in circulation -- or even on the shelves of the Imperial Arcane Libraries. Even if it was true, no one would admit it. The identities of the Vox Pessimires were protected. Perhaps it was necessary job, but most of us within the Societas Magicke found it despicable.

Which was probably why I was willing to believe it of him. Marx was often “in the field.” Although in his case being in the field seemed to encompass everything from conferring with black market book sellers to retrieving stranded colleagues -- which is how we happened to meet the day I arrived on English soil. Marx picked me up at the aeroport. He had been unimpressed then, and he was -- if possible -- less impressed now.

And I tended to agree with him.


From Loose Id

Weeee! My book is out!!

An Invitation: Ariel's Pet
Publisher: Loose Id, LLC
ISBN:978-1-60737-5761-6
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Price: $7.99

At last, Ariel and Dane can leave me alone and I can get on with my other stories. I truly enjoyed playing with my chef and her Dom, but I'm ready to release them onto the readers (**wicked evil grin here**) so they can see how bad the pair can play with one another.

I do have to admit though, the recipes I researched for the book have my tummy grumbling and my imagination reeling out of control. When you read the dinner scene, I'd love to hear what your opinions are regarding how much of a tease Ariel can be. Not to mention how well Dane is at turning the tables on his sexy cook.

Hopefully the readers who enjoyed Jennifer Cole's An Invitation: Alayna's Training will feel compelled to see how the story continues with my installment--An Invitation: Ariel's Pet.

I'll be wandering around the various loops today (don't you just love Spring Break!!) so feel free say hello.

Take care all,
Qwillia Rain