Author Alex Bowman Interview

Hello, Alex, thank you for joining us today. We are excited and honored to have you. Can you tell us a little bit about your background?

I was born and raised in Williamsburg, VA, which is a ghost town for a few months that explodes with tourists every spring through fall. I went to the College of William and Mary right in the heart of the Historic District, and I’m fairly positive I’ll die right here in the Commonwealth. The wine is too good here to leave.

What was your first book and how long did it take to get it published?

My first book as Alex Bowman was Losing His Religion. I was quite lucky and got a yes from the first publisher I submitted to, so I’m sure my story isn’t typical. I wrote it in three weeks and two months later is was available for sale.

When did you start writing m/m romance? What about this genre interested you the most?

I’ve been writing just about all my life and I’m published in another genre. A good friend had been nudging me to try MM erotic romance for the past few years. An idea hit one day that I really liked and didn’t feel like I could ignore and the Soul Collector’s world was born.

How long did it take you to get published? How many books have you written thus far?

I’ve published two in the Soul Collector’s series, plus I have a short in the Lover Unexpected Anthology from Evernight. That short is also the start of a new series of contemporary shorts wrapped around a troupe of male erotic dancers. Magic Mike came around and stole my thunder! But they’re pretty, so I’m not mad.

Do you write full time?

One day I hope to. Now, I have a boring job pushing papers. I’d love to be able to focus on writing only. I’m jealous of the authors who can do that!

Looking back was there something in particular that helped you to decide to become a writer? Did you choose it or did the profession choose you?

I was a chubby kid, always picked last for dodge ball. Books were a way to escape the world and all the hateful bullies out there. Being a voracious reader, writing just seemed to come naturally to me, but I never once imagined I’d be paid to do it. It humbles me every time I have someone say that they enjoyed reading my stories.

On a typical writing day, how would you spend your time?

First off, I need coffee to lubricate the brain and wake it up. Then I usually open up iTunes to listen to opera. Yes, opera, and no, I’m not stuffy, I promise. I love opera and it seems to make me very productive. Then I re-read at least the last few chapters to get back into the swing of things. Hour-long sprints from there on, until I can’t see straight or I have to leave the screen. If I’m lucky, someone will take pity on me and peek in and throw a sandwich or an apple my way.

Do you write right through or do you revise as you go along?

Typically no, unless I find a huge plot hole that I want to sew up. Those don’t happen too often, but no one’s perfect. Otherwise, I edit after I type THE END.

When it comes to plotting, do you write freely or plan everything in advance?

I am one of those weird plot-pantsers. I do walk into a new story with a very loose outline and a definite direction of where I want to go. But then sometimes tangents happen. Sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad. The second Soul Collectors novel was supposed to be completely different, but Sheriff Jason McCall came into a scene and took over from there. The original premise and plan got thrown into the garbage (which is a lie, because I realized that a huge chunk of it would be perfect for the third novel and I had no idea why I’d given it to Elia in the first place.)

What kind of research do you do before and during a new book?

Ultimately it depends on what I’m writing. Paranormal is freeing to a point that you are creating whole worlds that do not exist and are only limited by your imagination and writing skill. Research is not as in-depth as it would be on something like a Historical.

How much of yourself and the people you know manifest into your characters? How do you approach development of your characters? Where do you draw the line?

I think a lot of an author ends up in their characters. No matter how hard you work to keep your own POV out of it and let the character speak, you’re going to impact it in some way, shape or form. As far as development, that’s still something I’m learning as I go. I try to think about who the person is, where he came from, what he wants in his life, and how he’d react to certain situations before I ever write one word on a page. But even then, sometimes your characters challenge you or surprise the hell out of you. Jason is foul-mouthed. He cusses up a storm. Some readers may not like it, but that’s how he sounded in my head and that’s what got written.

How long does it take for you to complete a book you would allow someone to read? Do you write straight through, or do you revise as you go along?

If my muse is in a good mood, I can complete a near novel-length novella in as little as two weeks. And I typically write straight through without revision.

Writers often go on about writer’s block. Do you ever suffer from it, and what measures do you take to get past it?

I’ve had moments were I just didn’t “feel” a story was working for me and felt like I’d hit a brick wall. Usually I either take a break or pull out something else to work on that calls to me. I write every single day and have for the past couple of years. Though, sometimes a person just needs a day or two off, but those are rare.

When someone reads one of your books for the first time, what do you hope they gain, feel or experience?

I write to entertain, to make people forget their problems for an hour or two, just like books have always done for me. I would hope that they rooted for my heroes and wanted to see them come together and find happiness, and that my story was unique enough to make it an interesting read.

Can you share three things you’ve learned about the business of writing since your first publication?

1. Write every day.
2. If you want it to be a full-time career, don’t treat it like a hobby. Be professional in all things you do.
3. Continue to challenge yourself and develop your skill. Seek out information about the industry and the craft of writing.

Does the title of a book you’re writing come to you as you’re writing it, or does it come before you even begin the first sentence?

I’ve met authors who say they know the title before they ever put fingers to keyboard. Not me. I didn’t title Laying Down the Lawman until the day I submitted it to my publisher. Now that I unknowingly started a trend with the L-ing words, I’m racking my brain trying to come up with something spiffy for the third one. Spiffy isn’t me, though. Sigh.

How would you describe your sense of humor? Who and what makes you laugh?

I’m a bit of a Smart-Alec. (Jeez, that was bad.) I tend to love bawdy humor and things that toe across the PC line. But I also like things that make me think. George Carlin should have been made an Immortal.

What is the most frequently asked Alex Bowman question?

I’m a newbie here in MM land, so I’m still flying under the radar. The only thing I’ve been asked was when I was writing my next one. Suppose that’s a good thing?

What are you working on now?

The third Soul Collector title. It’s time to tell Graeae’s story. Now that’s a question I’m sure some people haven’t asked me but wondered. How to pronounce Graeae? I’ve personally heard it two ways. Gray-ee and Gree. In my mind for this character, it’s the latter.

I’m also working on the Men of Rock Candy short series.

What was the best piece of advice you’ve received with respect to the art of writing? How did you implement it into your work?

Speak dialogue out loud when you’re editing to make sure it sounds like something someone would say. I’ve been told that my dialogue is great, and I think that’s why.

When it comes to promotion, what lengths have you gone to in order to increase reader-awareness of your work?

I suck at promotion. I feel like a beggar on a corner, holding a sign saying “Please Buy My Book.” I guess my thoughts are that the writing will eventually speak for itself, one way or another. If you write it (and well), they will come. If it’s not good, it will drift and die. Oh, and I can die happy now that I’ve used a sappy Field of Dreams quote. Score! But with so many writers out there in writerland, I don’t know if my way of doing things will ultimately work. But for now, I shall keep on writing.

Writing is obviously not just how you make your living, but your life-style as well. What do you do to keep the creative “spark” alive – both in your work and out of it?

Reading what’s out there, seeing what wildly imaginative things other people in the author community write never ends to amaze me every day. That and porn. (LOL) I have a deep love of History and Sci-Fi, so in my off hours, I watch Nova or something on National Geographic. You would be amazed at what one little thing could give you that ‘aha!’ moment. I have been lucky so far that the well has never tapped out. I may hit that proverbial wall, but there has always been another story out there that I could move on to. I love writing. My mind is almost always churning with ideas, even when I’m pushing papers in a boring job.

What kind of books do you like to read?

Historical Non-fiction, Sci-Fi (RIP Ray Bradbury), romance in various forms.

If you weren’t a writer what would you be?

A porn star. LOL…I better watch it or I’ll get a rep for being a creep. A History professor. It’s what I should have done instead of what I’m doing now. But I was too lazy to do post-grad work.

Where did you get the idea for the stories you write?

A big slap on the back of the head from my muse? Stardust? I couldn’t say. They just come. Thankfully.

When it comes to the covers of your books, what do you like or dislike about them?

Oh, you want to get me in trouble with my publisher, don’t you? Naughty girl. I will preface this with the fact I love my publisher and I’ve gotten nice covers. The one for the Lover Unexpected anthology is absolutely gorgeous. Both Soul Collectors covers weren’t exactly how I envisioned the characters, but such is life. There are only but so many pieces of stock photography out there, and really it’s all subjective. What one person sees as perfect won’t be right in the mind of another, just the like books they cover.

Aside from writing, what else do you enjoy doing?

Traveling, fine wine, concerts, dancing, and four-wheeling in my Jeep.

Any special projects coming out soon we should watch for?

Just more from the Soul Collectors and the bad boys of Rock Candy. The Soul Collectors series has become larger than I ever imagined. It started with the idea for one book, but this is really a much larger story. As the world in the pages gets bigger and bigger, it will just keep coming I hope.

New writers are always trying to glean advice from those with more experience. What suggestions do you have for new writers?

If you feel overwhelmed, tear it down into smaller segments. An outline can break it up chapter by chapter as to where you want to go and give you direction. Then don’t look at it as a whole novel, look at writing just one chapter, which doesn’t seem so daunting. Eventually, those chapters begin to add up.

What future projects do you have in the works?

The next Soul Collector title and a new Men of Rock Candy short.

Can you please tell us where we can find you on the Internet?

My blog has details of what’s going on in my writing world, and readers can find me on Facebook: http://authoralexbowman.blogspot.com/ and http://www.facebook.com/authoralexbowman. As I said before, I suck at promo, so I’m not on either half as much as I probably should be.

Could you please share your favorite excerpt(s) from one of more of your stories with us?



This is from Losing His Religion and is in Ios’s POV. He’s trying to hold back the lust he feels for Jamie but he’s failing at it miserably.

He’d walked into this arrangement knowing Jamie would probably never accept him for what he was. So he’d decided before he’d finally gotten close to the human to keep his distance and ignore the lust he’d felt from the first moment he’d laid eyes on him. He’d already crossed that line numerous times, and he was sure it would continue to happen.

Maybe he should just tell Jamie the truth. Get it out in the open. Best possible scenario would have Jamie accepting him. Worst, Jamie would push him away completely and it would cut his romantic aspirations in the bud. It would also put Jamie in grave danger. He needed to prepare him first, before he told him the truth, give the human a fighting chance. Hopefully Ios could keep his dick in his pants long enough for that to happen.

Watching Jamie’s smaller frame, his hips rolling as he walked, brought his attention to his rounded ass. Licking his lips, he imagined holding on to that as he surged forward into his body, his ass gripping him like a fist. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, but not before his dick had caught wind of the vision. His hard-on popped up and throbbed against the zipper of his jeans, making him suck in a breath from the torture.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie turned around as he asked. Their gazes caught and then his eyes wandered further down and caught sight of Ios’s erection.

Ios nearly groaned from the wave of desire that rolled over Jamie’s face, and could have growled as the human tightened his features to hide his response. He sensed Jamie’s confusion, had all along. And it was more than just his being attracted to another male. The human’s thoughts were scrambled, disjointed. Some things he was actually able to hide away, deep in the recesses of his mind, but the emotions he felt ran closer to the surface. Ios could pluck them easily, but couldn’t get to his memories.

It didn’t matter. He seemed quite capable of seeing the visions running through Jamie’s mind now and they were worse than those that had caused the erection in the first place. He fisted his hard cock in one palm through his jeans, the fiery trail the little human was taking him down enough for him to lose his control. And potentially, his mind.
“Keep thinking those thoughts and you are going to get fucked, hard. And exactly the way you’re currently imagining.”

Silver Publishing Author: Julie L. Hayes

For Love of Max by Julie L. Hayes

Blurb:

Life is truly beautiful! Richard actually asked me to marry him, do you believe it? Of course there’s a small hurdle we have to cross – namely that gay marriage isn’t legal here in Missouri. But it’s a start, right?

Things are looking up for us, now that I know the truth about Richard. Our careers are doing well, we’re blissfully happy together, and Mother has given us her blessing! My sister Diana is going through boyfriends like some people change clothes, I wonder if she’ll ever find Mr. Right? Cat’s cousin has turned out to be a real interesting character, and the most interesting thing is – he’s a werewolf! And more disturbing than that, I think that maybe my father (that shadowy figure who’s never figured in my life) might just be someone named Jason. It’s a long story.

Just when I thought I had things figured out, they change, and I find out that what I thought I knew was just so much nonsense. In other words – lies. Who can I trust? Other than Richard, of course. And what should I believe? And why does it seem like the world is trying to shake me out of my lycanthropic closet?

What’s a gay werewolf to do?

Excerpt:

“Max, quit wiggling and stand still!” Richard admonishes me, “or I’m going to get mascara in your eye, and that won’t feel good at all. Not to mention it might get infected.” Obediently, I still my movements. I don’t relish having that wand shoved into my wide open orb. Or anywhere else, for that matter. And as squeamish as I am about germs, I’ve no desire to find myself fighting some sort of ocular infection either.

I’m not very sure about this, not sure at all. Yet I’ve allowed myself to be talked into it. Naturally. My silver-tongued boy of mine can talk me into just about anything. This can’t be news to any one of you, whether you’ve been following this tale from the beginning, or arrived at any point in between. Max in Richard’s hands is simply Silly Putty.

“There!” he exclaims with satisfaction, standing back to admire his handiwork. I can see by the gleam in his eyes he’s very pleased with the result. Lust exudes from every pore as he scans my form. I pirouette prettily for his inspection and delectation as we stand together in our bedroom. I’m garbed in an ensemble consisting of a red silk corset, black garters, strategically torn black fishnets, and black platforms which if I’m lucky I won’t fall from. I also have a face full of cosmetics—white foundation, blue shadow, kohl mascara, and eyeliner enough for several people. I draw the line at lipstick, though; I find the texture of it abhorrent on my lips. I don’t even care for ChapStick. Richard accedes to my wishes. Says he prefers my natural shade anyway. It makes it that much easier to kiss me, which he proceeds to demonstrate. And if you haven’t guessed from that description what we are about, it’s Rocky Horror Picture Show night, and I’m dressed as Doctor Frank-N-Furter. Richard’s been trying to get me to do this for some time now, and I’ve finally given in. Or given up. Surrendered. Cried uncle. However you want to say it, I’ve done it. Richard will play Rocky, of course, in a tight gold lamé Speedo which makes my blood pressure rise just looking at it, causing other things to rise as well.

“You’re sure it’s not too cold for that?” I ask, nodding at his skimpy costume.

“I have you to keep me warm, sweet thing.” How can I argue with that? I can’t, of course.

Not that I intend to let him walk out of the house like that; he’s going to wear a long coat over the requisite white bandages, both of which only come off inside the theatre itself, and only to the gaze of the Rocky Horror aficionados. I myself have a black cloak, ala the mad doctor, and I won’t take it off ’til then either. Unless I regain my sanity in the meantime, and refuse to take it off at all. Is that very likely? You tell me.

“You know something,” he says, his eyes continuing to caress my costumed figure blatantly, “I think if you offered yourself up for the Virgin Auction, you’d probably fetch a good price. I’d certainly bid on you.”

“Fat chance of that,” I snort derisively, “I know better now. And besides, I no longer qualify as a virgin, as you very well know.”

He smirks at me in return. “I’ve quite taken care of that, haven’t I?”

“Very funny, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. Besides, I wasn’t a virgin when we met, if you’ll recall. You didn’t seem to object then, now did you? No, I was talking about the first time we went to see Rocky Horror, which would be the only time that we were actually virgins. In that respect, that is.”

He moves closer, his arms sliding around me, his hands caressing my buttocks through the medium of the silken material between us. “You wouldn’t even dress up,” he remembers, a soft smile gracing his face.

“No, I wouldn’t.” No argument there.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he echoes, his lips running softly over mine, “and if you want to be technical, we didn’t even get to see it, did we?”

No, we didn’t. All my fault. That time.

Is the White Knight in Shining Armor Passé?

Remember Marian the Librarian, Meredith Willson’s heroine in The Music Man? Brash, bold and independent, she braved the ignorance of the town she lived in regarding her relationship with an older gentleman, and with her book knowledge and her intimacy with such scandalous authors as Balzac and Rabelais! She was the subject of gossip by every biddy in town, but she never backed down, nor apologized for who she was! And yet even she sat in her window seat, gazing up at the full moon with dreamy eyes, and professed her desire for a white knight on a noble steed to come into her life.

Times have certainly changed. Back then, normalcy consisted of the man of the house as the breadwinner, who braved the big bad world every day in his quest to make a living for his family and bring home the bacon so his wife could cook it up. She, on the other hand, took care of the house and children, and found fulfillment in being housekeeper and nanny. An unpaid job, perhaps, but a very important one. Those times are for the most part gone. While there are still women who do not work outside of the home, they are now the exception, rather than the rule. It’s really only been over the last thirty to thirty five years that these changes have been wrought. When I was married to my first husband, back in the mid-70’s, it was expected that I would stay home and he would work. The fact that that didn’t last was not a testimony to anything but my bad taste in men.

Now the economy requires that both the husband and wife work in order to support the household, not to mention that there are households with only one parent, who have no help in that regard. What of the jobs that were once the purview of the housewife—the house and the children? At first, the wife was expected to not only work a full-time job, but to juggle the rest of it as well. And not complain about it. While her hubby came home from work, and relaxed in front of the TV with his newspaper, while he waited for his evening meal to be served.

Well, the times, they certainly have changed. Women took a good look at their lives and said wait just a minute buddy, it’s your house and your kids too. You’re not special, lend a hand. And many did. Some who didn’t quickly found out the meaning of the word d-i-v-o-r-c-e.

So, what has this done to that old bastion of female escapism, the romance novel? The hero has undergone some dramatic changes. Women have stopped looking for that white knight on a steed who’ll carry them away to a mythical land of milk and honey and love everlasting, because they know that’s a dream, and it doesn’t exist. What they want now is a man who is capable of changing a diaper, fixing a broken sink, searching for a lost dog, and being thoughtful and caring, while remembering all major holidays and special occasions without having them imprinted on his forehead. And he doesn’t have to be Mr. Hunky to do it. Face it, Mr. Hunky’s nice to look at, but muscles and dreams only get you so far.

Women have also changed in their romance novel reading habits with the meteoric rise of the m/m romance novel. Men and women both have embraced this genre, and their attitudes and lifestyles are reflected in the various heroes that can be found on the market. While there are plenty of Mr. Hunky’s out there, there are also men who are beautiful inside and normal guys on the outside (except to their partners, of course).

One book that never fails to come to mind when I think of a regular hero is Bernard: Diary of a 46 Year Old Bellhop, by SL Danielson. Bernard is 46, overweight, suicidal—and yet underneath it all beats a good heart, one which the writer reveals in the course of the novel. While his crush/partner, the gorgeous doctor who saves his life and steals his heart has character flaws of his own that aren’t immediately apparent on the surface.

Today’s hero has to do more than look good, he has to be useful. And he has to be caring. Men born and raised in generations past were taught not to show their feelings, so they didn’t. They held back in many ways, while the women were taught to accept what was offered to them. Today, the men have gained the right to show their emotions, while the women are free to stand up and say no, that’s not what I want.

Maximillian Montague is the hero of my series, To the Max. At forty-four, he is a nice looking guy, but no Adonis. He’s intelligent, caring and sensitive—and he’s gay. Plus he’s a werewolf. It’s hard to tell sometimes which causes him more problems. Maybe it’s his family and friends?

The second book in the series has just been released by Silver Publishing—For Love of Max, which continues where the first one left off. Having overcome adversity and heartbreak in the first book, you’d think Max’s life is happy and on course—not! Life is throwing him some more curves, ones that he has to deal with, including an issue which he never actually expected to have to deal with in his lifetime. Amy, the villainess from the first book, is still around, and she just may have competition for the title of worst person in Max’s life. With Richard by his side, Max feels he can weather anything. But can he? Only time will tell!

Hunky heroes are still around, of course, and always will be, but let’s hear it for the every day Joe who barrels into our lives in his used car and his sensible shoes, and his heart of gold!

Thank you for having me here today, Amber! And thanks everyone who stopped by! Tell me about the heroes in your life and what they mean to you! I’d love to hear about them!

Please welcome Sarah Goodwin

Can you tell us a little bit about your background?

I’m a 21 year old pagan from Hertfordshire, a lesbian, and a recent graduate of Bath Spa University. I love shoes, and I overshare.

What was your first book and how long did it take to get it published?

My first book was ‘Me and Mine’, and as I self-published, it was quite easy to get it published. It was hard getting people to read it though.

When did you start writing m/m romance? What about this genre interested you the most?

Ah, this is embarrassing. I started writing m/m romance because I’m into fanfiction, and last year I got really into Supernatural. I was really bad at writing m/m sex, but I was reading so much of it that I couldn’t help but try to write it. I also had a serious problem with depression, and writing romance was the only thing I wanted to do. But really, what I love about the genre is writing characters who aren’t as emotionally literate, or expressive as stereotypical heroines.

How long did it take you to get published? How many books have you written thus far?

I’ve written a few books that will never see the light of day, because I’ve been writing ‘novels’ since I was 14. I self-published ‘Me and Mine’ and then followed it up with ‘Ink’. I’ve also written a children’s story called ‘Cloppers the Unicorn’ and at the moment I’m approaching publishers with a chick-lit novel I wrote this year.

Do you write full time?

No, sadly. I used to write around my job as a housekeeper, but since I’m now unemployed, I spend a lot of my time being ‘inactive’ and then making sudden leaps towards my laptop. I spend most of my time reading.

Looking back was there something in particular that helped you to decide to become a writer? Did you choose it or did the profession choose you?

I had a wonderful teacher when I was 8, called Miss Doke, and she was the first person who really got me into books. My parents were always taking me to the library and reading to me, and I suppose I grew up turning things into prose, rather than trying to paint them or sing about them. I’d like to say that I can’t stop writing, but, I’ve never actually tried to.

On a typical writing day, how would you spend your time?

Checking my email, drinking tea, shouting ‘Why aren’t you working!?’ and then talking to myself to get myself to write. I impersonate an American accent (not well) and have intense little talks to myself.

Do you write right through or do you revise as you go along?

I write the whole thing through, and then I read it through once it’s finished. I also have friends who proofread for me, and who point out that Montana has no coastline, so why are my characters on a beach? That kind of thing.

When it comes to plotting, do you write freely or plan everything in advance?

I start writing, usually with the aim to get my two main characters together and into bed. And on the way there I get a handle on who they are. After that, all the complicated plotty stuff occurs to me while I’m in the shower, or while I’m cleaning the toilet.

What kind of research do you do before and during a new book?

While writing I usually google as I go. If I need a place name I’ll find a map, if I need a type of car I’ll look that up. The only thing I really sit down and make sure I do is a map of the character’s home, otherwise I end up accidently contradicting myself and saying they have five bathrooms or a purple bed or something.

How much of yourself and the people you know manifest into your characters? How do you approach development of your characters? Where do you draw the line?

I usually imagine a lot of what my characters are like, and try to pretend that I’m them. But they all get influenced by other things, not really people I know, but things I’ve read, or films I’ve seen. They develop when things happen to them, and I have to reassess how they’re going to deal with them.

How long does it take for you to complete a book you would allow someone to read? Do you write straight through, or do you revise as you go along?

It takes…an amount of time. I wrote my chick-lit in around ten months. ‘Me and Mine’ took around six. But however long it takes, I’m never ready to have someone read it – I just get really stressed out and then my friend Vikkie takes the book away and makes me stop.

Writers often go on about writer’s block. Do you ever suffer from it, and what measures do you take to get past it?

I do get it. I have it now as a matter of fact. I tend to just leave it, there’s no point straining, you’ll just get writer’s hemorrhoids. Eventually I want to write enough that I’ll just write, usually fanfiction, and then I can get back to work.

When someone reads one of your books for the first time, what do you hope they gain, feel or experience?

I love making people cry. For I am Satan. Seriously, I love making sure that I have lots of cliff hangers, dramatic speeches and grand chapter endings. And it’s all geared at making people cry.

Can you share three things you’ve learned about the business of writing since your first publication?

Well, never give up, obviously. Be a little arrogant – because no one is going to read your book if you say ‘oh…it’s sort of OK’. Number three would be…write what you want to read, and you’ll be happy with it. Write for someone else and you might hate it.

Does the title of a book you’re writing come to you as you’re writing it, or does it come before you even begin the first sentence?

I titled ‘Me and Mine’ when it started life as a fanfiction. I think I was going to come up with something better, but I never did. I give things names just so I know what to call them, and then they grow around their names and kind of turn into them.

How would you describe your sense of humor? Who and what makes you laugh?

I think I’m very sarcastic, and deadpan. I find all kinds of stuff funny, but especially whip smart comedies and good books – ‘Love and other near death experiences’ by Mil Milington made me laugh ‘till I cried.

What is the most frequently asked Sarah question?

‘Shouldn’t you be working?’

What are you working on now?

I’m trying to start a new book. I have no idea what it’s going to be about, or whether it’s going to be m/m. I’m kicking around an idea involving amnesia.

What was the best piece of advice you’ve received with respect to the art of writing? How did you implement it into your work?

First year at university – show, don’t tell. I don’t always obey it, but I’ve tried to show how my characters are feeling, rather than stating it.

When it comes to promotion, what lengths have you gone to in order to increase reader-awareness of your work?

I started out telling my fanfiction followers about it, then randomly plugging myself on writer forums. I’ve handed out leaflets and given away hundreds of free copies…short of tattooing the title on my face, I’ve done everything I can.

Writing is obviously not just how you make your living, but your life-style as well. What do you do to keep the creative “spark” alive – both in your work and out of it?

I talk to myself. I spend a lot of time alone, just talking to myself, and thinking about things. I buy stupid things like cowboy boots and record players. I act like a total tit, read lots, watch a lot of Grays Anatomy, and generally invite random crap into my day.

What kind of books do you like to read?

Free ones. No, OK, I like good books, because bad books make me angry. I like drama and romance and suspense and cleverness. Most of all, I like books that have lines which stab you in the heart and linger there – books that can slit your throat with a sentence (and make you cry).

If you weren’t a writer what would you be?

Unhappy. Or happier, I honestly don’t know. I always wanted to be a hermit. Or a florist.

Where did you get the idea for the stories you write?

I think of the stories I’d like to read, and if no one else has written them yet, that’s what I write. I look for the most painful things that could happen to a character, and I make them happen, and then look at what’s left afterwards. Mostly, I get my ideas from a lifetime of soap opera watching.

When it comes to the covers of your books, what do you like or dislike about them?

I like that they’re unique, and drawn by a friend of mine for free. I hate that I can’t draw, and that her versions of the characters never look like the people in my head.

Aside from writing, what else do you enjoy doing?

I love cooking, and singing. But I’m a terrible singer. I love shopping, but I have no money and I have no luck with clothes. Mostly, I enjoy dicking about.

Any special projects coming out soon we should watch for?

A friend is currently trying to turn ‘Me and Mine’ into a stage play. I’m looking forward to seeing it.

New writers are always trying to glean advice from those with more experience. What suggestions do you have for new writers?

Listen to criticism, even when it makes you feel crappy. Unless you honestly think the criticism is utter balls – in which case ignore it. You’re the writer – it’s your choice.

What future projects do you have in the works?

Other than writing? I’m trying to perfect my cherpumple recipe. It’s a three layer cake, and each layer has a pie baked into it (cherry, pumpkin, apple). Tricky.

Can you please tell us where we can find you on the Internet?

I have a wordpress account with the imaginative title ‘Sarah Goodwin – Writer’ and my twitter is @JollySnidge.

Could you please share your favorite excerpt(s) from one of more of your stories with us?

Ahhh! I don’t know…but, at random, maybe -

The priest drops his head into his hands and says, so quietly that Jude almost misses the words.

“I love you…and I cannot bear to condemn you…not to this…” he looks up. “Jude…I’m…monstrous…I…” Words fail him and tears burn in his eyes.

Jude’s on him in an instant, arms closing around him, bundling the slimmer man against his chest and burying his face against the top of his head. Sebastian’s whole body shakes with his first sob, and he can’t, he just can’t, not anymore. He can’t pretend that he isn’t just a man, that he isn’t scared and lonely and just so, unbearably human. He’s disgusting and he’s weak. Jude rocks him gently, shushing softly with every harsh sob that comes from the other man.
“I love you.” Jude murmur’s against the priest’s hair. “It’s ok…it’s alright…I love you, Sebastian.”

Still, Sebastian can’t stop crying.

Lost and Won by Sarah Ann Watts

September 1651

It was evening when he came in sight of his home. The Grange nestled in the valley, surrounded by orchards and fields of corn. There were brambles in the hedgerows and rosehips glowed orange. Summer was fading into autumn and there was a chill to the wind that penetrated the tears in his buff coat. The scent of new mown hay lingered in the air, dispersing the stench of blood, fear and smoke that clung to him even though he had left the battlefield many leagues in his wake. Some stains you couldn’t cleanse, though he had halted to wash at every stream he crossed.

The window panes caught the light of the setting sun. No smoke drifted from the chimneys. Philip shifted in the saddle and bent to pat the mare’s neck. “It’s good to be home,” he murmured. Even as he said it he wondered if he was talking to reassure the mare or himself. He would be better for fire and food and the peace of his own hearth.

Old Silas raised his billhook as he passed. “I hear tidings of the battle,” he said, “a great victory for the Commonwealth.”

Philip was so tired but he smiled and said, “Yes, a great victory, praise the Lord.”

He thought back to the violence and the fear and then later the lines of wretched prisoners. Cavaliers in blood stained finery, lace torn from their shirts to bind wounds. The enemy, finally defeated, trailing their pride in the dust.

In the end after all the skirmishes and despite the desperate heroism it had been a rout. The New Model Army moved in, implacable like their leader, and although the cursed royalists fought bravely, they were no match for discipline and superior force.

As was his duty he had chased down wounded men, rounding them up like animals and haltering some for slaughter. He remembered the execution in the cold dawn and the triumph. There had been no glory in that. The lord had died bravely but the young king, the greatest prize, had fled, shielded by his followers. They laid down their lives for him as once men laid down their cloaks so the foot of the monarch should not touch common ground.

There was a price on his head now, one thousand pounds. A fortune to be gained by those eager to hale him to die on a scaffold like his father, the enemy of the people, King Charles the martyr. It was rumoured great Cromwell himself had stood at the bier of the dead king and murmured, “Cruel necessity.”

Philip prayed this battle at last might bring peace.

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Silver Publishing Author TN Tarrant talks about The Absent-Minded Astrophysicist

A month later they were sitting in the park, enjoying the nice warm day, with Empress staked out on a leash so she could enjoy the grass. Jared had never seen a cat accept being on a leash, but Empress truly didn’t seem to mind. He was sitting with his back against a tree, with Liam between his legs lying back against Jareth, and watching Empress stalk some unfortunate critter through the grass.

Jareth chuckled as he rubbed Liam’s stomach, enjoying the feel of the man in his arms. He smiled to himself as he felt Liam tense then relax. Even through the shirt Jareth could feel some of Liam’s scars, but he said nothing, trying to make it clear they didn’t put him off. “That is the only cat I’ve ever seen that wants to go for walksies. How did you train her to the leash?”

Liam snorted. “I try to remember to exercise a little, at least. Keith made a joke that I should walk her often then I wouldn’t have to clean a litter box. I didn’t realize at the time it was a joke, so I got a pretty little harness and a leash and I just started walking her. I kept the litter box though; we don’t like to have to go out in the rain or snow.” Liam shrugged as he hugged Jareth’s arms tighter to him. He loved sitting like this, Jareth made him feel like he was surrounded in the warmest, cuddliest blanket ever. Jareth didn’t seem to mind that Liam liked to touch him, almost constantly. Indeed, Jareth seemed to share that tendency to touch. He smiled as he recalled the blush on Jareth’s face when he admitted to being a tactile junkie. He’d certainly seen the proof of it the first time Jareth invited him to dinner at his new apartment. Everything, the furniture, the bedding, even in the guest room, was all chosen for how they felt to Jareth. He liked soft fabrics and smooth woods. He also discovered that while Jareth often worked with his hands, which should have left them a bit rough-skinned, and even callused, he used a special exfoliator for his hands, to keep them smooth and soft. That was an even deeper blush that Liam had been immensely charmed by, when Jareth had found Liam in the bathroom, examining the hand scrub. As he threaded his fingers through Jareth’s, he admitted he liked how those smooth, soft skinned fingers felt in his.

They both laughed quietly as Empress froze, only the tip of her tail flicking, then pounced. After a moment’s futile fighting on the critter’s part, Empress triumphantly brought it to them, jumping onto Liam and dropping a half-dead beetle in his lap. Liam screeched softly and batted at it—sort of. Empress, looking ferociously pleased with herself, pounced on the terrifying creature, and saved her human, picking up the beetle and leaping from Liam’s lap. Jareth chuckled as Liam watched his beauty of a cat, grinning. Then Empress came bounding back, climbing up Liam’s body, head-butting him, and giving his cheek a rough lick, before curling up on Liam’s chest, as if his and Jareth’s entwined arms made a nest just for her.

They talked lazily for a bit. The ground was still half frozen but Liam found the blanket Jareth had them sitting on insulated them from the ground’s chill very well, making it easy for them to stay out. Despite the warmth of the sun, it was only barely turning to spring here, and still cold most of the time. Empress woke from her nap and jumped down to explore some more, and Liam gasped as Jareth’s hands began to wander, exploring through Liam’s shirt intently.
“Do you want me to stop?” Jareth’s deep voice whispered in his ear, a little roughly. Liam shook his head. He dropped his head back, surprised at how good it felt when Jareth’s finger brushed over his nipples lightly. He bit his lip to keep the noises in his throat to himself. It would never do to behave too much the wanton. “You feel so good in my arms, sweetheart.” A tender kiss landed on his temple. “So good to hold you like this, Liam.”

For a few blissful minutes, Liam enjoyed the soft, teasing touches, until the voices of others intruded. Liam stiffened in Jareth’s arms, blushing furiously. He even tried to crawl out of Jareth’s lap. “Oh, no, sweetheart,” Jareth refused softly, gently but firmly keeping Liam close, although he stopped the caressing. Jareth soothed him, encouraging Liam to relax again. “It’s okay, baby. It’s my fault, I got a little carried away, forgot where we were.”

As mortified as he was at nearly being caught behaving like a slut in public by the group of young teenagers that were now approaching the tree where they sat, part of Liam was glad Jareth forgot. It was an even better indication of how Jareth might really feel about him than the erection pressed against the small of his back as they leaned together against the tree. Slowly Liam relaxed again, but other than holding him just as close before, Jareth didn’t try to resume fondling him again. Liam missed the intimacy, but was glad at the same time. He wasn’t sure how much of that he could handle.

They sat cuddling and watching Empress play for another hour before they reluctantly left the park. Empress walked all the way back to Liam’s house, happily exploring as they went, and Jareth held Liam’s hand, something Liam discovered he really liked. More than handholding in public wasn’t really to Liam’s taste, but it didn’t seem to be Jareth’s either, another level they clicked on. The “idiasshole” as Jareth had taken to calling the ex-boyfriend of Liam’s, hadn’t allowed any public indication that they were involved during their brief affair. Jareth seemed to have no problem with it anywhere but at work, and that was just a matter of behaving professionally.

For the rest of “the Absent-minded Astrophysicist,” here is the link, I hope you enjoy my book! https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/products_id/1049

S.A. Garcia from Silver Publishing is here with an excerpt!

EXCERPT:

The decorative trio strutted across the tree-choked park. Fabion slowed down to examine the trees. Too many dead branches allowed the weak sun to leak past their skeletal shapes. The park looked worse than last month. How disturbing.
A few yards away, a large cluster of grubby humans stopped eating their picnic lunch and stared in open awe. Today’s relatively mild pollution allowed the frail humans to remove their breathers. How rare. Fabion performed his number two wave and smile combo. They waved back. Smart of them to acknowledge his legendary beauty.

Lanaro sniffed in disgust. “Talk about slumming! Why do you want to acknowledge those scruffy breeders? It’s bad enough they keep popping out their ugly brats. At least elves understand control.”

More like male elves were close to sterile and the female elves had almost vanished. “Lanaro, your nasty attitude is why the humans hate us. I don’t care if they enjoy the park. As long as they don’t bother me, I don’t bother them. Let them enjoy the trees.” Or what was left of the blighted growths. Fabion shivered in distress. The dying foliage worried him.

He needed to set that problem aside for later. A more important issue harassed Fabion’s nerves. The supermodel needed to urge Hestran to not hang around Lanaro anymore. The bigoted elf emitted toxic vibes worse than the poisoned sea. Even now his ill temper probably contributed to each tree’s sad demise.

Fabion turned away from Lanaro’s downer attitude and resumed walking. A small human girl, her pale, freckled face showing more dirt than flesh, raced up to him. Her filthy fingers tugged at his trouser leg. Hey! Her grip almost made Fabion yank free. Watch the dirt, child, these wheat-hued, hand-spun silk trousers cost plenty!

Fabion calmed down and recovered from his near recoil. He needed to stop fretting and act benevolent. Good promotional work helped maintain his smokin’ hot image. Never let a scandal-mag asshole using a long-range-laser digital camera capture nonsense. Snap, click, boom, reputation as a sweet, generous elf shot to smithereens. Scandal rags loved ripping down pure elves. To date, Fabion had conquered the silly mess, but then again, bribes always solved a few ugly, drunken problems.

Behind him Lanaro gagged in fresh disgust. “Gross. I’d kick that foul thing back into last century.”

What a supreme asshole. Despite his annoyance, a radiant smile brighter than the dim sun shone forth on Fabion’s face. He pitched his melodic voice into a wise, sincere tone. He imagined the ancients had sounded fuckin’ similar. “Yes, my little one?”

The walking dirtball smiled and clapped in glee. “Pretty elf, please touch my head!”

How quaint. Before he bent over, his fingers discovered a few hundred credits hidden in his vest pocket. Whoops, he must have skimped on Matt’s tip. No, his fingers had unearthed his emergency cash stash. Good.

Why did some human children regard an elf’s touch as a spiritual blessing? Aside from his incredible beauty and superior strength, Fabion owned no magical powers. Still, making a human happy appealed to him.

His blinding smile shone down on the unclean waif. Fabion leaned over and gingerly patted her snarled hair. What felt sticky? Did something squirm against his fingers? Fuck-a-yuck! His free hand slipped the child the credits.

“There, my dear girl, is this what you want from me?”

An excited squeal rang free. The dirty child curtsied and adoringly kissed Fabion’s clean fingers before she scampered off to where her less bold, yet equally soiled, friends huddled under a struggling magnolia tree. Delighted squeals and adoring exclamations drifted toward him along with curtseys. How cute.

Those wise children understood the kicky score. Fabion blew the happy tykes many sweet kisses. His act caused a tremendous giggling fit. He smiled and bowed.

Whispering occurred until the girls stood in a line and curtseyed in solemn unison.

Fine style. Fabion snickered in delight and waved goodbye. Okay, ego boy needed to move along.

“You touched that walking germ factory! She looked like she hadn’t bathed in months.” The shuddering Hestran almost hyperventilated in distress. “Fabion, why? Why do you do such rash things? Aren’t you going to de-germ yourself?”
Could his boyfriend sound a little more snotty? Fabion didn’t appreciate how Hestran slathered de-germer over his thin fingers.

“No, because we can’t catch human diseases! I ain’t fucking worried about it.” Fabion exhaled and forced himself to smile. “Please, Hestran, today I enjoy my glittering king of the advertising world status even if our world is a filthy, polluted armpit. Think, my killer new contract with Celebrant Sparkling Herbal Drink tucks another primo feather in my crowded cap. I feel fucking wonderful. Don’t you feel happy for me?”

Hestran pouted again. “I can’t believe you agreed to work with a Walmontech-owned company.”

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Writing Characters With Character by S.A. Garcia

What would writers do without willful characters and their demanding ways?

During my writing, willful characters often pop into existence. A neighbor who has never emerged from their house opens the front door and wham, becomes an important secondary character. The one liner mailman worms his way into his own storyline. A gallery owner created to supply comic relief evolves to the point where he is special enough to deserve a spin off story. They want their time alongside the main character parade.

What do you do with a character who falls from the sky?

Believe it or not, Fabion, my character from “An Elf for All Centuries”, fell from the sky. His dramatic entrance into my writing world is fitting considering his drama queen status. He fell from the sky during a strange dream, landed splat in a mud puddle, started cursing, and needed a home. I hope the silly word mansion I constructed for his diva personality pleases him.

Other characters entered my life in less dramatic scenarios. Amando from “Temptation of the Incubus” always seemed to exist for me. Many moons ago, I read horror magazines like Creepy, Eerie and Vampirella. Anyone remember Vampirella, she of the skimpy red outfit and flowing black hair? I certainly do. Okay, enough drooling. When I was a kid, I had subscriptions to these magazines. Bless my parents. I remember reading a story about a succubus giving up her life to save her dying human lover. The story stuck with me until years later I decided to use the story as part of a far larger story based around a male incubus and his human lover. Enter Amando and Mads into my world.

Amando and Fabion have too much in common. They are both full of self-worth, sexy and own no problem in accepting their sexiness. Someday I want to lock them in a room and see what happens. Aw, come on, they will have sex. That’s a no-brainer.

Prince Linden and Alasdaire from “Canes and Scales” are another pair who has always been with me. In fact, they have been in many people’s minds. They are the fairy tale pair, the star-crossed noble and slave who fight past restraints and torment to love. They are an eternal pair descended from a common love of romance and the happy ever after ending, well, happy until something wicked comes along to screw up their romance. In their sequel, something comes at them like a screaming demon. Poor souls.

Speaking of souls, my characters Tristan and Marius from “To Save a Shining Soul” are another good example of the fairy tale pairing. A demon and a misplaced divinity student in Hell fall in love. They are definitely an archetypical pairing, geesh, probably something found in cave paintings. Good and evil hooking up. Tristan and Marius are as simple and as complex as that concept.

In my novel that won’t be out until September, my characters Carl and Marcelino are another variation on an archetypical pairing, the pot-smoking college professor and the sexy student. Granted they are a variation on the older man chasing the younger man trope, especially since Carl the professor is, in certain ways, less grounded than the younger Marcelino. No matter what, I had a blast writing them together.

Other characters such as torn-asunder, mmm, I love that term, Magus and Nick hope to see the light of day in my supernatural tale about the Shetlands. What about David and Nate, my poor characters stuck in a Victorian vampire mess? Or Petros, Rolfe, Nels and Aindrias, struggling to push their historical drama to the finishline? These poor men need freedom. I hope it arrives for them soon.

Then there is Patrice, a pushy little bugger who has been haunting me. He’s another bold character who introduced via a dream. He owns a leather bar/cafe, likes red leather pants paired with stiletto boots and fills in as a waiter. Patrice is proud of his round beer belly and seldom wears a shirt at the bar. Hard belly pinches turn him on. He is swarthy, black-haired, green-eyed, and handy with a switchblade. He hides a tattoo. Judging by his attitude, I know where he is inked. He displays one helluva tattoo, oh yeah.

Patrice keeps haunting me. He struts across the dimly lit bar carrying a menu to a man sitting at a back table. At least this character hasn’t named himself. The waiting man hasn’t ordered food since Patrice never reaches his table. Patrice struts but never arrives.

He performs this act on a regular basis. I often “write” myself to sleep, trying to work out a scene or where a story might go next. Even when I’m fretting over another story, Patrice insists on strutting with his menu.

I try to ignore him. Many other words need attention. Too many needy characters wait in line for editing and development.

Patrice wants to strut to the line’s front. Should I let him deliver the menu to the man at the back table? Damn, the second the menu slides into that man’s hand, the dude will name himself.

They will try to line jump but there is no way they are shoving past Magus, Nick, Petros, Rolfe, Nels and Aindrias. Their sheer combined angst will force Patrice and Mr. Table Sitter behind them. Before they act up, I promised Patrice and mystery man a place in one of my many plots in progress. I know where they will fit in.

Do you think they will be happy with my promise?

Cross your fingers. I do worry about Patrice’s switchblade skills.

Let’s hope my dreams bring less aggressive characters who act patient enough to wait their turn. It’s rough when a character displays too much character.

That seems like a good place to include an excerpt from An Elf for All Centuries.

BLURB:

Elf Prince Fabion enjoys the perfect supermodel lifestyle until wizard Matradorian chucks him back in time to save Henda, the sexy, powerful elf king. Since the death of his lover, Henda has lingered in a half-alive, half-dead state. Surprisingly, Fabion is a spiritual match for Henda’s dead lover, so only he can save the dying king.

Fabion uses his sexy bod and sweet lovin’ to revive the elf king. All seems well until he realizes that by saving Henda, his own timeline was destroyed and he must stay in this ancient land forever. Fabion pitches the biggest temper tantrum of any century.

Soon a new threat emerges which puts his life in fresh danger. Now who wants to kill him?

EXCERPT:

Henda body slammed Fabion into the sitting room table. Unnngh… wow, the hard, wooden table sure abused the spine. The frenzied Fabion was too busy holding on and gasping in wet, hot pleasure to protest. Fuck. Amazing. Did his powerful Henda have a cock or a telephone pole swinging between his thighs? Whatever this potent male swirled around in Fabion’s ass sure made Fabion experience twinkling stars, shimmering comets, and strange, lime-green light flashes. He imagined himself as a cup of coffee violently stirred by one long, hard spoon. Ouch, did those green flashes mean brain damage? His head had bounced off the sitting room wall pretty damned hard.

Crap-a doodle-doo-ooo-oo-ouch!

“Henda, what the hell are you—ooo—”

The powerful elf yanked him off the table and maneuvered them toward the bedroom. Fabion wrapped around Henda, laughed, and enjoyed the sexy ride down the hall. Yee-hah! As he walked, Henda continued jamming the pile driver into Fabion. Amazing. Yeee-haaa redux. The big dude hid hydraulics in his wicked cock!

Henda’s wanton actions stunned Fabion. Imagine, he had coaxed the stately big dude into acting like a rampaging sexual demon.

Pained ecstasy made Fabion whoop in amazement.

His smiling big dude gasped out a teasing question. “Am I too much for my youthful one?”

When he controlled his own gasping, Fabion nipped at Henda’s smiling lips. “Keep bringing it on, you wild thing! This is where I need you to be my perpetual motion machine. You can do me until I pass out. This is… you are… ooo, yeah, baby, please—”

Fabion squirmed in fresh joy. He bounced his ass up and down. He hoped his big dude managed not to drop him even as he tried forcing Henda to come before they reached the bed.

Loud gasps threatened their progress. “My love, I hate to admit the fact, but throwing you across the various surfaces exhausts even my royal stamina. Do you mind if we end our epic round of sex in our bed? I love ending in a traditional manner.”

“Traditional? You’re funny, Big Dude.” Fabion rolled his inner ass muscles.

“You are a lovely tease.” Henda carefully positioned them to drop in swift grace.

Fabion’s torso sunk into the bed. His pillow cradled his head. He stared up at Henda in amazement. “Big Dude, wow, what skillful aim. Thanks for not dropping me on the floor.”

“You act so dazed with sexual glory, I wonder if you would even notice.”

“You gotta point and wow, one fabulous point deep where it counts!”

Crooning in merry lust, Fabion arched his neck back and rolled his head against the feather pillow. He kept his long legs wrapped around Henda’s perfect waist. Wow-wowie. Yooowww, whatever happened deep inside him defined killer. “Hey, Big Dude, do that trick again.”

Henda chuckled softly and maneuvered his hips slightly to the left. “Is this what my darling one needs?”

“Woo, absolutely, Big Dude. Lover, are you sick of me—ooo, yeah—telling you how sublimely boffo you are?”

Another chuckle escaped Henda’s panting throat. “Boffo? Trust me, Fabion, you are the first one to call me boffo. I gather boffo is a pleasant thing to be?”

Fabion managed to laugh through his impending blast off. “Absolutely, Big Dude. Boffo ranks right up there with killer.”

Henda arched his back toward the ceiling. Yeow, perfect, the big dude slowly drove his cock back into Fabion in hard, incremental thrusts. His lover understood when to slow down the show. Excellent.

“You are killer boffo.”

Henda smiled over Fabion’s ecstatic face. “My dear beauty, you and I are going to sit down with a few bottles of, as you call it, tree sap vino and detail your strange utterances. How is killer a good thing?”

“Trust me, you studly elf, it is a compliment, like me saying ‘I dig how you do the nasty’. Crap, holy cats, lover, how do you make your amazing dick twist radically hard? Your new treat is wickedly hot.”

“My Fabion, tell me what pleases you, and I shall perform the act until you cannot stand the pleasure. I hate to sound boastful, but I can satisfy a lover for hours. Actually, since we act lively here, I fear I will not hold out as long as usual. I confess I am at physical limit.”

Whew, cool to realize Henda also suffered from exhaustion. Fabion felt less wimpy.

— End

Thanks for reading!

Who Am I?

Thirty years ago, I started writing m/m romance. My writing remained a secret lest my friends thought me a freak. Writing about men inserting tab A into slot B didn’t seem the norm for a female teenager. Reading Gordon Merrick, John Rechy and Larry Kramer helped me fill in informational gaps. Yes, I read those books only in my bedroom.

As the years progressed and I discovered my sexual path, I still wrote m/m romance, although the stories progressed from lurking in notebooks to hiding on the computer.

Now I am glad I kept the writing faith. Five published novellas and novels later, my life is a fun quandary of too many stories hindered by slow typing skills. I accept the silly challenge.

An Elf for All Centuries

S.A. Garcia’s World of Words

Facebook: Sandra Ann Garcia

Twitter: @SAGarcia_Writer

Blog: http://oscarsbruisedpetals.blogspot.com/

Silver Publishing Author: RJ Scott

Buy Link – https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/glbt-mystery-suspense-action-c-53_59/products_id/706/

Cody Garret arrives in England to restore Mill Cottage, but he’s actually come to heal. What he doesn’t count on are Sebastian Toulson-Brown and the destinies woven into the story of the mill, including the sycamore trees that surround it.

Cody Garret is only just finding his way after an abusive relationship ended with his ex in prison. Coming to England to restore Mill Cottage is his way of running so he has time to heal. His goal is simple—hire a company to help make the mill cottage saleable then go back to the States.

What he doesn’t count on is meeting Sebastian Toulson-Brown, the brother of his contractor and the man who may be able to show him he can stop running.

But first Cody and Sebastian must deal with the ghosts of lost loves and the destinies that are woven into the story of the mill and the sycamore trees that stand on its land, one of which might be the gallows tree.

~**~

About the setting of the book – my visit to a nearby village in England

The Gallows Tree is set in a village that is probably fifteen or so miles from me in the county of Buckinghamshire in England.

A beautiful village it is allegedly the most haunted village per head of population in the whole of England.

There are a few small houses, a mill, and a wonderful Manor House. There is also a beautiful old church with the most amazing headstones in the grounds. That is the entire contents of the village – yes places like this do exist!

The entire church is encircled with a stone wall and on the day I visited there was a very eery mist settled on the ground. It was autumn (Fall) and the ground underfoot was just as Cody describes when he first walks from where he is staying to the Manor House and stops at the Church.

There is an old ghost story about a young pregnant girl who commits suicide by throwing herself in the Mill Race and this was the perfect start for my story.

Hubby drove me over and we spent a long time wondering the beautiful village and fields. We visited the church where Tristan preached every three weeks, saw the Manor where the Toulson-Brown boys lived, and saw the cottage that I decided made a perfect Mill Cottage.

Photos:

Tristan’s Church near the Gallows Tree

The Manor House. Home to Justin, Sebastian and Tristan Toulson-Brown

The Inn where Cody stayed and saw the lovers kissing on his first night

Britain has the most amazing history and is absolutely the perfect place to set a romance and a ghost story.

The Village with the Mill. The river is what flows under the Mill.

Guest Augusta Li is here with us today to talk about: The Brush Whistler’s Song

Hi everybody! I’m Gus, and I’m so glad to be here again today. Thanks for having me.

I’m here to talk a little bit about my latest release, The Brush Whistler’s Song, a novella published by Storm Moon Press. I enjoyed taking a little break from writing epic novels (my last three have been well over 100K), but shorter works present their own set of challenges. My story is a fantasy and takes place in an alternate universe, so building a convincing and vibrant world within the confines of a novella takes extra care. Every detail must be carefully chosen and add to the setting while still moving the story forward. Likewise, the characters’ every piece of dialogue, gesture and thought must do double duty in a book as short as this: it has to advance the plot and reveal that character’s personality and motivations at the same time.

Writing a story around dubious consent was also a unique experiment, because I didn’t want to write anything glorifying rape or abuse. Instead, I thought it might be interesting to make Naja, the character Arjin thinks is restricting his freedom, actually trying to free him from the guilt and inhibitions imposed upon him by his strict upbringing. I wanted to make the captor the liberator. The execution of this was tricky, though, because I also didn’t want Naja to be preachy about his way of life being superior to Arjin’s. His lessons are very subtle nudges as he helps Arjin figure everything out. Exploring the psychology of these characters was both enlightening and frustrating at times, but I’m so glad I got to know these guys, and I hope you’ll like them too!

Here’s an excerpt from The Brush Whistler’s Song.

Arjin looked down at his bare feet, toenails painted crimson and adorned with impossibly tiny, clear gems. He stood on the border between the world he’d known for almost nineteen years and an ancient, alien realm that had been all but obliterated millennia ago. He knew he waited at the edge of destiny, and longed to take the last few steps to meet it. Instead, he remained still, with his head bowed and his hands folded in front of his belly, as he’d been instructed.

The layers of gauzy silk over Arjin’s face lent a hazy, scarlet cast to his odd surroundings, as if he watched the proceedings through a shifting, red mist. He shuddered despite the heat of the fabric piled over him. He wanted to avert his eyes, but curiosity, that irresistible Vice, defeated piety. Staring through the translucent, shimmering cloth, Arjin watched men he’d grown up beside unloading sacks of grain, barrels of fruit, dried meat, bolts of fabric, clayware, and metal utensils onto the smooth floor of geometric gold and cobalt tiles. Gifts, in tribute, like himself.

He wriggled his toes, girdled in gold bands. The metal bars in his nipples and navel itched, still healing, and he distracted himself by casting his gaze around the vast foyer. Refreshing, blue-gray shade draped the room, starkly different from the searing sunlight outside. Arjin felt a wave of nausea and panic ripple from the pit of his stomach and up his back. Forbidden things surrounded him: statues of nude men and women, lurid paintings, gratuitous arrangements of flowers, their petals lush and damp despite the dry heat, and mirrors. Mirrors adorned almost every wall, multiplying the sinful sights, volleying them back and forth into infinity. Despite his best efforts to resist, these illicit visions engaged Arjin’s eyes and mind; he’d never imagined anything like them and couldn’t look away.

The men finished unloading precious piles of goods, casting a final, sympathetic eye toward Arjin as they turned to depart. In response, Arjin raised his chin a little higher. They shouldn’t see him as a victim, but as a savior, and in time they would. Everyone would know his name one day, and it would be praised.

Pride, Arjin thought: the Vice he fell victim to most often. No matter how he tried to bury the evil feelings, they always surged to the surface. The High Cleric had known and had tried to beat it out of him, to no avail. He couldn’t help but feel some prestige at the task he’d been handed and would accomplish. Others should see his sacrifice and acknowledge what he suffered on their behalf. Not out of pity, but out of the respect he was due.

But they didn’t, and Arjin couldn’t break the ruse. He stood with his hands clasped, head bowed, and shoulders sloped downward, as he’d been coached to do all of his life. He had no way to measure how much time passed as he shifted beneath his coverings, his breath moistening the ruby cloth.

Finally, it came: the Ansari. Arjin had heard tales of it since he’d been a babe. While it might resemble a man, one of The Faithful, it stood outside human experience. Arjin’s people, with the blessing of the Father, had all but destroyed their vile race over a thousand years before. The Ansari that remained feared to show themselves, with the exception of this one and maybe a few others scattered around the civilized world. Arjin could see little through his veil, aside from its impressive stature and the dark clothing it wore. He shivered as it drew nearer, passing alternately from strips of shadow to shreds of warm, golden light spilling from the round windows high above them, though it still stood several hundred yards from him, at the opposite end of the vast hall.

Arjin noticed a curtain of dark hair swaying back and forth as the Ansari walked closer, in no particular hurry. He felt torn between terror at the thing reaching him, and eagerness to assess it up close and learn what sort of demon he faced. The High Cleric had explained some sort of ancient bargain allowed this Ansari to keep its lands and decadent palace of sin while its brethren had been hunted to the last member. Arjin’s people, in keeping with an archaic truce of their own, offered the creature a cache of gifts every decade. Every tenth tribute needed to be especially extravagant, hence the inclusion of Arjin in his translucent robes, painted body, plaited hair, and jeweled adornments. He made an exemplary gift. At least that was what the High Cleric hoped the Ansari would think.

Thanks for reading!

The Brush Whistler’s Song — Now Available from Storm Moon Press for just $2.99!

Gus’s blog: http://www.booksbyeonandgus.com/

Silver Publishing Author: Anel Viz is here today!

Anel Viz
E-mail: escuiruel@gmail.com
GLBT Bookshelf page: http://bookworld.editme.com/AnelViz
Les Ardoises
Silver Publishing, July 2012
ISBN: 9781614956297 (e-book)
Buy link: https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/new-release-c-1/products_id/1164/?zenid=f9763b251a069bb23bf11713d21a2117

New Lives (novel)
Silver Publishing, August 2012
ISBN: 9781614955597 (e-book), 9781614957621 (print) [print release date TBA]
Buy link: https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/coming-soon-c-2/products_id/1164/?zenid=226c2fd79ef4728e40af352e748a017e

Welcome back, Anel. It’s been about a year and a half since we last chatted with you. Have there been any major changes in your life?

Glad to be back. And this time it’s for a triple whammy—tow spotlighted books and an interview. Give me a hug.
What’s new? I retired from my full-time teaching job three months ago. I find I’m ten times as busy as I was before and can’t do as much writing as I’d hoped to. I’ve undertaken a number of new projects, but would you believe I’m working on the same novel I was the last time I dropped by? And if you compare this interview with my last one or if you follow my comments on the author groups I belong to, you’ll see I’m still the same old Anel Viz, whereas you guys have changed your name twice.

How did you happen to become a writer?

It’s a long story. I wrote a lot when I was kid; I even had ambitions of becoming a writer. I decided in junior high that my stories were crap (I was right) and gave up that idea. Then, back in December 2005, I was temporarily separated from my boyfriend by distance and at the same time happened to stumble on a gay story Internet site. I said to myself, “Hey, I can do that,” and began writing and posting dirty stories to relieve my frustrations. Call it “thinking off.”
It wasn’t long before my brief foray into brazen obscenity led to my present vocation, for another person on the site emailed me to say that my writing was “too elegant” to be wasting my time on porn, introduced me to m/m, which I didn’t know existed, and invited me to join his Yahoo group. I posted some stories and poems there, and almost immediately a woman who was working on a bookbinding degree asked me if she could publish some of my work as her master’s project. After that, I submitted a couple of stories to a now-defunct magazine and they were accepted. Another story was accepted by Forbidden Fruit (now resurrected as Wilde Oats). I also joined a flash fiction group and began to hone my skills. Then the guyfellow first “discovered” me asked me to write a vampire story for an anthology he was editing for Aspen Mountain Press. “Val” was my first publication with an established house.

I found it a lot harder to place my books after those first few were published, but the rejection letters I received were too flattering to discourage me. If a publisher told you, “I loved [Title]. It’s a wonderful book. You write beautifully. However, it’s not the kind of thing our readers are looking for,” you wouldn’t give up on a novel would you? Every book I’ve won an award for was turned down at least once, and I didn’t revise a single one of them before submitting it somewhere else. By now I have a fairly good idea of who is likely to accept what, and I seem to have found a home with Silver Publishing.

How many books have you written thus far?

Written or published? Not counting flash fictions and the smut I posted on line when I first started writing, by November I will have published (including the stories I wrote for Wilde Oats) five novels, seven novellas, twenty-two short stories, and four prose poem cycles — three of those novellas and eleven of the stories in single-author anthologies. Unless I’m forgetting something. It’s all on my GLBT Bookshelf pages.

Writing is obviously not just how you make your living, but your life-style as well. What do you do to keep the creative “spark” alive – both in your work and out of it?

If writing was how I made my living, I couldn’t afford a life-style. An idea for a story is all the creative spark I need, and the effort that goes into turning it into a book fans it to a blaze.

So where do you get the ideas for the stories you write?

Except for my flash fictions, all of which began with a prompt, and one or two things I wrote in response to a call submissions, I really haven’t the slightest idea. I can say what the germ for all my stories is, though: characters in a situation. The plot and back story evolve from there. Once in a while, I’ll use a flash fiction as my point of departure.

On a typical writing day, how would you spend your time?

Writing. Forgetting everything else I’m supposed to be doing. Eating, for example. At least I know when I need a potty break.

How do you handle interruptions when you’re totally wrapped up in writing?

I seethe internally. My mother has a knack for phoning me when I’m in the middle of composing an especially difficult passage or one that gets my juices flowing. (I mean my creative juices.) I wouldn’t mind if it were an emergency or something important, but 99% of the time it’s just to tell me she bought new cushions for the couch or what we’ll be having for lunch next time I visit. Then, five minutes later, she calls again, maybe even a couple more times, and my concentration is shot to hell. It may be hours before I can write another halfway decent sentence.

Do you write right through or do you revise as you go along? When it comes to plotting, do you write freely or plan everything in advance?

I’ve said this often, but it’s worth repeating. I revise as I write… constantly. And even if I didn’t, I couldn’t say I write straight through since I don’t begin at the beginning nor do I end at the end. I usually start somewhere in the middle, jump around, and gradually fill in the gaps. That means I have to check very carefully for internal inconsistencies when I’m done. On top of that, I’m almost always working on various bits and pieces of several stories at once. Since I don’t know what the plot is going to be, especially for longer works, there’s no way I can plan in advance. I would not advise anyone else to write like this (and I know of no one else who does), but it works for me.

How much of yourself and the people you know manifest into your characters?

Things that have happened to me and people I know show up as incidents in my books. I may have someone I know in mind when I create a character, but only rarely, and once I’m writing, the fictional character takes over and becomes his or her own person and any resemblance to the person I used as a starting point is at best tenuous. However, I am very much myself in my attitude toward my characters. I let my heroes “do their thing” and seldom develop an emotional attachment to them, though it has happened. As one reviewer said, “the more you read his work the more you recognize the wry, even ironic smile lurking behind the professionalism. It is a kind if somewhat amused or even skeptical view of people who struggle through their lives.” I think she’s absolutely right.

I don’t exactly understand why my characters take over my stories, but they do, and many authors claim to have a similar experience. In extreme cases, a minor character will decide to take over the story, and the plot goes careening off in a direction I never anticipated. That happened in my Wilde Oats novella, The Father of Free Men, where two women made the man who was supposed to the main character play second fiddle. I think that sometimes characters change because they conform to a name I innocently chose for them, but other characters change so drastically I have to give them new names. Bizarre, isn’t it?

Sometimes I pick names out of a hat (figuratively speaking), other times—especially with foreign names—I go to a “name your baby” site and choose a name for how it sounds or what it supposedly means. I took two characters’ names in “Les Ardoises” from French songs: Jules, qui rit quand on l’encule (= who laughs when he gets fucked in the ass), and Félicien (a rather out-of-style name in France) because the name is juxtaposed with Jules in a song by Georges Brassens.

Rumor has it you don’t like HEAs.

False. What I don’t like is facile HEAs I can’t believe in. I’ve lived long enough to have learned that “fuck and make up” doesn’t work. Or when it turns out after pages and pages of anguish that it was all a misunderstanding. Let’s face it, if a simple misunderstanding can send an entire relationship into a tailspin, there are some pretty serious underlying issues that need to be addressed, and until they are or the characters at least recognize the need to address them, your HEA is pie in the sky. Similarly, when the main characters struggle with a situation external to their relationship, such as the hostility of family members or the community, I find more cause for optimism in their ability to stand up to and endure that hostility than in everyone seeing the light and having a change of heart at the end. A lot of people say they read romance to escape from the awfulness of life, but when something is too good to be true it only reminds me of how bad things really are. On the other hand, even a sad story can show me worth is worth living. A bullied teen isn’t going to fall for empty promises like “Everything’s going to be hunky-dory,” but “It gets better” may give him the strength to go on.

So I would say all my endings are happy. (And let’s face it: even HEA is really HFN. Your hero could be run over by a truck or his house could burn down the next day.) The final pages of City of Lovely Brothers are a real tear-jerker, but just look at the wonderful years Caliban and Nick have had and how depressing their lives would have been if they hadn’t found each other. In the same novel, Darcy loses almost everything, but she can’t be broken. The resilience of these people is far more life-affirming than if some deus ex machina showed up to serve them happiness on a silver platter. An ending is truly unhappy only when the characters give up and succumb to adversity. My characters never do.

Have you ever written something and decided it was too controversial?

No, but my editors have.

What kind of research do you do before and during a new book?

I try to take nothing for granted and double check everything, mostly during. I’ve looked up dates, street maps, local architecture, railroad timetables, weather conditions, sentencing guidelines… you name it. I visited every location in P’tit Cadeau. When I write a passage in dialect, I run it by a friend who’s lived in the region. Of course, it inevitably turns out I took something for granted I shouldn’t have. A thousand blessings on my betas and editors.

When it comes to the covers of your books, what do you like or dislike about them?

Reese Dante does all my covers for Silver, and every one of them is fabulous. What I love most is collaborating with her to create them.

Okay, now tell us something about the two books we’re featuring today.

First is a novella that came out in late July. I have my fingers crossed the French title doesn’t discourage readers from giving it a shot. Les Ardoises is just the name of the restaurant where the main character, Félicien, works as a waiter. It’s a traditional boy-meets-boy romance—at least, I think it is. It’s also the third book I’ve set in France. I’ve lived a good chunk of my life in France, about fifteen years on and off, and I feel very much at home there, but you’re always taking a risk when you write about a culture that isn’t really your own, even when you write a part of your own country you didn’t grow up in or haven’t made your permanent home. It seems I nailed it this time, though. The book was reviewed on a French site, Blue Moon, and they say I captured their country “without sounding a false note” and my French characters are “so deliciously authentic we adopt them all without hesitation.” The review was posted over a month ago and I’m still walking around with a swollen head.

New Lives was released at the beginning of August. It’s a novel… sort of. It’s made up of four separate stories that with a little rounding off could stand on their own, each very different in tone—they run the gamut from pessimistic to madcap—so there’s something there for everyone. It’s equally possible everyone may find something in it not to like. I have no idea how it will be received, but the people I’ve shown it to have liked it a lot. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have shown it to them if I thought they wouldn’t. It’s probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever written. No, I take that back—ever published.

Any special projects coming out soon we should watch for?

Silver Publishing will release two-volume paranormal anthology, Horror, Dark and Lite, on October 20th, in time for Halloween. The “lite” volume contains four comic short stories, the dark, three gothic novellas. There’s a re-release of an earlier work from multi-author anthologies in each volume, including that vampire story I mentioned at the beginning of this interview.

What else are you working on now?

Nothing and everything. I had to drop whatever else I was working on to attend to the edits of Les Ardoises, New Lives, the two anthologies, the second half of Mom’s Boy for Wilde Oats, and a book of translations that will be published under my real name. What I pick up first when I’m done with those is anybody’s guess. I haven’t given up on my monster Egyptologist novel, The Pyramid of Nepensiret (I mean it’s very long, not that it’s about monsters), which is coming very slowly. Then there’s a historical novel set in France during the Hundred Years’ War, a contemporary novel about a married man in lust with a male stripper, a winter solstice story that might just turn into a novella—none of these have title yet—a Valentine’s Day story called “Epithalamion” that might also become a novella, a futuristic/SF novel called The Procedure, two sequels to The House in Birdgate Alley, and more. I can’t promise I’ll finish any of them, but I hope I do.

What future projects do you have in the works?

All my current projects are future projects.

If you weren’t a writer what would you be?

Gee, I don’t know—there are so many possibilities. A brain surgeon? the captain of a submarine? a big game hunter? an inside trader? a prophet? a tester for a sex-toy manufacturer? Actually, now that I’ve retired, I’m sure I’d be bored to tears and at loss to figure out what to do with my life.

When someone reads one of your books for the first time, what do you hope they gain, feel or experience?

Many people have told me my writing isn’t for everyone. (As if I didn’t know that!) Since nothing is for everyone, I assume they mean “not for all readers of m/m romance.” I do hope, however, that even readers who don’t like one of my books will recognize that they’re well-written and original and it might be worth their while to try some of my other books.

Above all, I don’t want to write the same book twice. I think m/m has enormous potential. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what the genre could become. I want to experiment with new themes, new structures, new approaches to a story; I want to extend the boundaries of the genre, to open new vistas; I want readers who think they “know what they like” to discover they like other things, too. Some readers will be confused, some will resist, but I firmly believe the genre will be the richer for it. Literature is a living organism, and what’s alive needs to grow or it will atrophy, die out, and be forgotten. I’m not talking about my books in particular—I’m not that vain—but of the genre as a whole.

What kind of books do you like to read?

I read tons of all different stuff—fiction, history, biography, philosophy, poetry, theater, criticism, science, etc. When it comes to fiction, I read a lot of literary classics and books by contemporary non-American authors. Right now, however, I’m reading primarily m/m romances in an attempt to read at least one thing by every author I’m going to meet at GRL this October. It may be a mistake. Not that it hasn’t been enjoyable—I’ve read some damn good books—but I’ve never before read so much in a single genre at one time, and I’m starting to have trouble keeping track of who wrote what and which book is which. Sort of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? Maybe I should have been taking notes. Now I’m going to have embarrass myself and ask, “Remind me what it was about.” At least I can remember my own books. I’d like to think that’s because they’re one of a kind, but it’s probably because I wrote them.

Speaking for yourself, what makes something a good read? An exciting plot? Characters you can relate to? Hot sex?

Beautiful prose. The most interesting story cannot hold my attention if it’s told in clumsy, limping sentences.

What is the greatest challenge for you as a writer?

There are two pitfalls every author of romance, and gay erotic romance in particular, faces that I believe I have for the most part managed to avoid, although it has meant I must pay close attention when I write. One is creating dialogue that doesn’t sound like something lifted straight out of a self-help brochure when a character is baring his soul or offering another character advice (unless he’s doing it the the context of a support group). The other making every sex scene unique, no easy task since there’s only so much you can do to vary the mechanics. It follows that if all that happens in a sex scene is that two or three or more people have sex, you’ll give your readers something they’ve read countless times before whether the sex is loving or vicious, hot or unsatisfactory. One way I get around this is creating sex scenes in which a person’s bedroom behavior allows the reader to see more deeply into his personality. For Nick and Caliban in The City of Lovely Brothers, sex is an opportunity to let their hair down, and they always approach lovemaking playfully; in The Best Christmas Ever, Donnie is almost embarrassingly disingenuous in bed; F’elicien becomes a more sexual being under Joel’s tutelage in Les Ardoises; and Gérard Vreilhac is very different lover with each of his partners. Or, to choose an example from another author who individualizes all his sex scenes, consider Buck’s cocky come-ons or Les’s visit to the whorehouse in Victor Banis’s Longhorns. I also make an effort not to use certain turns of phrase that show up so often in sex scenes as to have become clichés.

But the greatest challenge for me is something I referred to earlier: walking the fine line between digging too deeply into my characters’ motivations and feelings and holding them at too great a distance for readers to feel close to them. I tend to err in the direction of the latter. Give out too much information and characters will remain the author’s creation; they will never take on a life of their own. When I start analyzing a character who has become a living, breathing person, I feel I’m editorializing, making assumptions I have no right to make, since I don’t know that person inside and out. The same applies to first person narrators, for while we are aware of our thoughts and emotions, do we know for sure why we feel that way? Do we really know what makes us tick? This is one of the issues I grapple with in the Kaleidoscope stories, an example of how I experiment with stretching the genre. The last thing I intended to do with that volume was conform to readers’ expectations, which is probably the reason why it left some of them puzzled or feeling somehow cheated.

Can you share three things you’ve learned about the business of writing since your first publication?

1) It takes a long time to build up a readership.
2) Promotion is vital. It’s how you sell books.
3) I suck at promo.

What was the best piece of advice you’ve received with respect to the art of writing?

Trust your instincts. (On the other hand, I have read some books by authors who should not trust their instincts.) Also, take everything your editor says seriously, then make up your own mind and explain your decision. In other words, trust your judgment but remain open to criticism. Your instincts will tell you if the criticism is worth anything.

As usual, we sent you a batch of joke questions to liven things up. Which three have chosen to answer?

a) If I came to your home and looked inside the refrigerator, what would I find? – I don’t know about you, but with all the leftovers in my fridge, I can’t find anything.
b) If I gave you an elephant where would you hide it? – In my refrigerator.
c) What would you do if you had a time machine? – Slow it down so I’ll have more time to write..

Can you please tell us where we can find you on the Internet?

Alas, my blog is moribund and my website long dead from neglect. I will eventually get my shit together and make a new one when I’m not quite so busy. I sincerely hope that doesn’t mean I’ll never get around to it. In the meantime, readers can access information about my published works on my GLBT Bookshelf page: http://bookworld.editme.com/AnelViz, and fans can email me at escuiruel@gmail.com.

Could you please share some excerpts from one of more of your stories with us?

I thought you’d never ask.

from “Les Ardoises”

blurb:

Félicien works as a waiter at Les Ardoises, a café-bistro in Villefranche-sur-Mer on the French Riviera. When his girlfriend leaves for a two-week visit with her family, he hooks up with Joel, an American in France for a business conference. Félicien has swung that way before and, secure about his sexual identity, thinks he doesn’t risk getting involved with a man as he might with a woman.

As it turns out, Joel will be in town more than just a day or two. He wants more than a one-night stand, and Félicien isn’t one to pass up a couple of days on a yacht with the handsome and sexually talented American. Before long, they’ve been seen together often enough for people to wonder if they’re in a relationship, and Félicien finds himself questioning who he is and what he wants from life.

excerpt (from chapter 3):

After half an hour of silliness, they returned to their private inlet and ate the oysters. They took turns slurping one of the briny creatures into their mouths and feeding it to the other with a kiss.

“Do Americans have a word for this kind of kissing?” Félicien wanted to know.

“I think we invented it. You make one up.”

“Un baiser à l’huître.”

“Sounds sexy.”

“It is.”

The last oyster was for Félicien. Joel pulled him close for the kiss, his hands tight on his buttocks. “Get below deck and I’ll show you how it feels to be taken out of uniform,” he said.

“Why not here?”

“It’s homier there.”

“Don’t just throw everything on the floor when you undress me,” Félicien warned as they started down the steps. “I have to look good for work.”

“Being extra careful with your clothes is part of the fun. But you always look good, even without them.”

“I have to pass inspection.”

“It really is a uniform, isn’t it?”

Joel turned the act of disrobing into a sensual experience. It was neither the kind of peek-a-boo tease strippers perform nor like opening a present. Rather, it was a slow unveiling, like carefully peeling back the petals of a flower just starting to open. When another expanse of skin came into view, Joel would run his fingertips over it, barely touching the flesh, then sniff it, blow on it, brush it with his lips. No one had undressed Félicien before. He felt self-conscious, even though he had spent most of the past three days naked in Joel’s company. For one, Joel was wearing his shirt, shorts, and sneakers. He was dressed when he’d stepped into the kitchen to watch Félicien in the shower, but Joel had acted casually then and being naked in the shower was normal, something Félicien did every day. To be naked is not the same as being laid bare. He’d had people check him out before and his doctor examined him once every year, but to be studied by another person lifts exposure out of the realm of experience into one of sensation. He felt as though he belonged to Joel, and it was a turn-on.

Félicien stood naked in the center of the cabin, wearing Joel’s gaze like the clothing that had been discarded. The longer he stood there, the more aware he was of his vulnerability and the gathering expectancy that enveloped them like a cloud.

Joel’s arousal showed beneath his linen deck shorts. He drew Félicien to him for a kiss, rubbing their groins together. He put his mouth to Félicien’s ear, blew softly and cooed, “You are so hot. I want to fuck you; I want it bad. Will you let me?”

from New Lives

blurb:

Three people trapped in dead-end situations give up nearly everything they’ve ever known hoping to find a better future:
Otis lives alone and without prospects in a dying Nevada village. He has lost hope the man who took advantage of him years ago will return and now dreams of becoming a porn star.

Jared, an abused runaway, can’t stay forever with the kindly trucker who picked him up hitchhiking. They need to find a safe place for him to live.

Larry Jordan, a closeted collector of valuable gay erotica, fears the residents of his conservative, middle-class community will soon discover his secret life. He has just one friend, whom he met only recently.

Three gay men who don’t know each other and never will, but whose stories intertwine in unusual and unexpected ways . . .

excerpt (from Part III, chapter 3):

About half an hour after he left, the window slid open and a man climbed stealthily in, dressed entirely in black—black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, a black leather jacket and black leather gloves. He wore a black party mask over his nose and eyes. Heavy black stubble covered his face below the mask, more the result of not having shaved for a day or two than a true beard, and his close-cropped hair was also black. Without the black mask and clothing he would not have looked particularly sinister, for he was diminutive in stature and had a boyish build, lithe and slender, but athletic, with muscular arms and legs.

The intruder tiptoed around the room, then took out a flashlight and left to explore the rest of the house. He did not go up into the attic; he may not have noticed the trap door. Before long, he came back into the bedroom, lowered the window shades, flicked on the light, emptied the clothes from the open suitcase onto the floor, and proceeded to rifle through the closet and chest of drawers. He placed what valuables there were into the empty suitcase, then left the room to look for more, and kept returning with the loot he found—Jordan’s VCR and DVD players from the living room, the clock radio, the silver from the kitchen, and other stuff.

The burglar turned his attention to the second suitcase, fumbling with the lock. It flew open, revealing its contents. “Now what the hell use is all this crap to me?” he guffawed. He slammed the suitcase shut, and began rummaging about the room to see if he had overlooked anything.

At that moment, Jordan walked into his room and smack-dab into the burglar. He had seen the light on in his room when he pulled into the driveway. While it was possible he had forgotten to turn it off, he knew for sure that he had not drawn the shades. He let himself into the house without making a sound and inched cautiously to the telephone to dial 911 before he crept upstairs. Entering the house was a brave if not particularly intelligent thing to do; confronting a burglar in the act of robbing his house was incredibly stupid.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Jordan exclaimed, as if it wasn’t obvious.

The burglar whipped a handgun out of his pocket and brought it down on Jordan’s skull, knocking him unconscious. Without taking the time to throw anything else into it, he hastily closed the suitcase to make ready his escape. He had been caught by surprise. He hadn’t seen the headlights because he had lowered the shades and the storm had drowned out the sound of the car, but it wasn’t loud enough to cover the approaching siren.

The burglar turned off the light, rolled up the window shade, reached for the suitcase, and tossed it into the yard. Then he climbed out the window and dropped to the ground just as the siren turned into the block. He grabbed the suitcase and ran behind the house, then down the alley and down another to where he had left his car, tossed his ill-gotten gains in the back seat and drove away.