Blogging with AMANDA YOUNG

This Friday, August 14, I will be interviewed at the "Romance Without Inhibitions" blog of prolific, multipublished (including at Loose Id and Amber Allure) author Amanda Young. If you think her tagline is an overstatement, just take a gander at some of her ballsy titles: A Kinky Orgasm, Triplesex, Hard Candy. Now that's laying it on the line.

So please stop by to celebrate quality smut for the discriminatingly oversexed. Your comments will, as always, be welcomed! (Click on the post title to get there, but don't expect to see me until Friday.)

How many books are too many?

Dear Author recently ran a poll (click on post title to view results and responses) that asked readers if the amount of published fiction should increase, decrease, or remain the same. The largest percentage of respondents voiced a desire to see fewer fiction titles published and a belief that too much of the stuff being put out was crap.

I'm resurrecting this topic because two of my publishers have recently made mention of a heavy influx of submissions over the summer, resulting in big additions to their stables. What does this mean?

Well, it probably means different things to readers, authors, and publishers.

For the companies: more writers = more releases = (ideally) more income. All publishers are scrambling for bigger pieces of the pie. This is a completely logical business goal. But, as stables grow, the multitude of new titles must somehow be accommodated. One way is to increase the number of weekly releases. Another is to increase the length of time between manuscript acceptance and publication. In any case, the business model is bound to change.

For readers: more published writers = more available books. Is this a good thing? I'm not sure. Many fiction readers complain their TBR piles are out of control. Many, like the respondents in the DA poll, have said they're dismayed by diminishing quality. Many admit their book-buying budgets are already stretched to the limit.

For authors: more fellow writers = more competition for release dates and royalties. Hard to get around that fact. As the pie slice expands for publishers and readers, it shrinks for the creators of the product. Only authors with huge, well-established followings are immune to this rather dismal outcome.

I've been through a "growth spurt" at EC, and it wasn't pretty. When that company doubled its number of weekly releases, my royalties immediately plummeted, and I wasn't alone. From what I've since seen and read, EC now issues titles just about every day of the week. They currently have ten "new releases" posted on their home page. If you count the other covers displayed there, some of which are print editions, 23 books greet you at the mouth of the Cave. Wow.

Anyway, I'd like to hear your input on this subject. How much reading material is too much? Or is there no such thing? Do you avid readers feel more is always better? Or do you think that when companies start popping out more and more titles, it's an indication they've lowered their standards for acceptance? Have you noticed a decline in quality that seems to correspond with a rise in the number of offerings? Or has quality remained consistent?

What's the optimum number of weekly releases per publisher? By that I mean, a number that satisfies your book hunger yet doesn't stress your budget or muddle your mind?

Authors, what's your take on publisher expansion? Has it ever affected you adversely, or aren't you fazed by it? Do you see it in a positive light, and if so, why?

I confess, I get the jits when one of my publishers introduces a plethora of new authors. My experience with this sort of development hasn't been good. Sad to say, becoming a better or more versatile writer isn't the solution -- not when readers are bombarded with a blinding number of choices.

My greatest fear as a craftsman is feeling forced into "assembly-line production" mode, which often seems like the only way to succeed at this gig. And, damn, I just don't want to go there.

Author Marriages

I've always found this an interesting aspect of publishing -- authors who get together, or are thrown together, between two covers.

These are obviously symbiotic relationships. (Symbiosis is a kind of mutual parasitism, which isn't a had thing in terms of species survival. Or writer advancement. In fact, it's a very good thing, since benefits flow both ways.) But what kind of symbiosis is going on in Authorland? Is it crass, creative, or convivial? Or all three? Or something else entirely?

A crass motive -- or maybe I should call it "pragmatic," which is less perjorative -- would involve an author seeking to enlarge his own footprint via another author's established fame, growing fame, industry connections, marketing savvy, fanbase segment -- you know, the aspects of the business that put a shine on reputations and money in the bank. Creative motivation is fairly self-explanatory. The parties are driven by a desire to stretch their wings, take some imaginative chances, and perhaps learn from each other. Conviviality as a basis for partnership simply means two writers genuinely like each other and think they'd have fun working together, maybe to alleviate the essential loneliness of this profession.

Just an aside: I wonder what brought Stephen King and Peter Straub under the same covers? Does anyone else have the feeling they probably did better as singles than as a couple?

So here are my questions. Why do you think writers hook up? And unhook? Have you ever seen evidence of unhappy or even disastrous pairings? Do you prefer to read collaborations or anthologies? Have you ever been able to untangle the authors' voices if the book is a collaboration (say, the voice of Vivien Dean from the voice of Pepper Espinoza in a Jamie Craig story)?

Feel free to throw in any other observations. I am, as usual, curious.

The Aisle of the Forgotten

Establishments that sell used books mean one thing to me as a reader and something else entirely as a writer.

I've been a bookstore habitue since high school but didn't discover used-book shops (or is it shoppes?) until college. Now I can't stay away from them. No other type of place in my experience has offered excitement and tranquility in equal measure. No other type of place has so transported me.

The thrill of discovering a beautifully written, bound, and/or illustrated book is a thrill with shimmering edges that never go dull. Add to this the unexpected, occasional joy of easing the covers apart and finding an old bookplate or bookmark, a flattened four-leaf clover or rusty rose, a Victorian calling card or WWII ration coupon. The crispness of the text in a seventeenth-century volume is astonishing. Each letter has visible depth. The yellow brittleness of some twentieth-century paper is poignant. Leaves flake at the touch.

When I started writing, I saw older books -- some of them, anyway -- in a different light. Because I haven't lived in or near a large city in a while, I've been getting used books at resale shops and library sales. It's at the former that I've found row upon row of the Forgotten.

The Forgotten are usually novels with modest bindings, missing dustjackets and, often, the former owners' signatures scrawled on the inside front covers. (Sometimes, on a rear flyleaf, you'll even find a penciled grocery list.) They were written by women with names like Helen Constance Wiggins and men with names like J. Henry McElroy--names sturdier than the authors' books and reputations turned out to be.

Every time I see one of the Forgotten, I feel a drizzle of sadness. And I smell the unmistakable odor of kinship. I imagine how Mary Kelmsford Johnson must have felt when she got that letter of acceptance from her publisher -- how her pride swelled, how her future suddenly blazed with brilliant promise. She'd become an AUTHOR. People would read the words that flowed from her heart and take those words into their hearts. She would leave her mark on history . . .

How seldom it turns out that way. For every William Faulkner or even Louis L'Amour, there are untold hundreds of Bertram R. Youngbloods and Margery D. Pilsmeyers. Their legacies are books with cheap, scuffed brown or blue bindings, sans dustjackets, languishing on resale store shelves. Not a single shopper is willing to fork over a dollar, or even a quarter, to read their once-precious words.

So here we are, a whole new crop of hopefuls, wondering if we should make book trailers and invest in refrigerator magnets to help our stars shine brighter. Here we are, waiting with crossed fingers and bated breath for our accolades, our five-somethings reviews and bestseller rankings, each time our words appear before the public. And when that recognition doesn't come, we feel the breath of Helen and Bertram and Margery stirring the hair on our napes as they whisper, "Don't worry. Someday your work will be welcomed. We've reserved a place for it in our aisle."

What a profoundly humbling adjustment in perspective.

Too many "unworthy" writers getting published?

Emerald Jaguar, aka emmyjag, offered up an interesting question recently about who's to blame for published books that are riddled with errors. Is it the author's responsibility to put out polished work? Or the editorial team's? The discussion (a good one, too, accessible through the post title) resurrected a question I've occasionally tossed around in my mind.

What's the publisher's role? What's the reader's role?

It seems to me, the final arbiter of quality is the publisher. That's where the buck stops. It's the company that sets the standards for its product; it's the acquisitions editor(s) who, in accordance with those standards, must decide whether or not to give new material a chance. I can't help but wonder how, if a submitted manuscript is dreadfully written (loaded with spelling, grammatical, and syntactical errors; lacking in plot consistency; burdened by wooden dialogue and leaden characters), the damned thing gets accepted in the first place!

And the damned things do get accepted. All the time. For electronic and print publication. I suspect we've all read the output of verbally challenged writers. I don't mean people who have an essential but occasionally flawed command of their craft, I mean those who don't seem to realize authorship is a craft.

So maybe they have active imaginations capable of churning out plot devices like there's no tomorrow -- say, dragon-shifter ghosts that haunt the British Isles, looking for reincarnations of their former soulmates . . . or whatever. Maybe they have a real flair for dreaming up kinky sex scenes. Both of those capabilities are just dandy, but they don't amount to trail of rat turds if the writer doesn't have a sound command of both the language and the fundamental elements of fiction.

To quote comedian Ron White, "You can't fix stupid." Were I an editor who had some corned beef hash of a story thrust at me, I sure as hell wouldn't know how to turn it into New York Strip. And the author sure as hell wouldn't know, either, because s/he thinks that hash is New York Strip.

Ergo, it's publishers who must bear the brunt of responsibility for what kind of product they put before the reading public.

But . . . but (and here's something else to consider) what's the role of consumers? If the reading public gobbles down the hash without complaint, publishers have no incentive to improve their menus.

Whaddaya think?

What's better: crazy diatribes or crazy book titles?

So I go on my little late-night blog tour, just to see what's up in different sectors of the 'Sphere, and I come upon not one but three diatribes (I like that word better than "rants," which is really starting to bore me). Shee-it! One of 'em sent my eyeballs into orbit around my brain, because it was so godawfully lonnnnggggg and lacking in simple sentences that it managed to obscure its own point . . . if there was one. Another sent my brain into orbit around itself, because the "message" was both very earnest and just freakin' nonsensical. (That combination always makes me feel I've been dropped into a Lewis Carroll book.)

To put my head back into balance, I went to Oddee and found much more enjoyable kinds of weirdness. So, just in case you need the same adjustment, check out these lists:

fifteen insanely titled books,
twelve more insanely titled books, and
the final ten insanely titled books.
(You'll get to see the covers, too, which I think really enhances the experience!)

All of a sudden, Mormons are HOT.

Who'd a thunk it? The Osmonds wanted to be perceived as hot but failed. Quite miserably. Nevertheless, they set the stage. Then Mit (Mitt? Mitttttt?) Romney came along and tried to be -- in an appropriately understated way, of course -- Mr. Hottie of the American political scene. (What the hell does Mit stand for, anyway? Or is it German, as in "With" Romney? Sind Sie mit Romney oder gegen Romney? ) Anyway, he didn't quite make the cut, although he definitely caught our interest.

But in the world of books? WHOA. Jump back, Jack!

First, Stephenie Meyer, bored hausfrau and reluctant author extraordinaire, decides to kill some time by trying her hand at writing. Why not, eh? She doesn't have to work thanks to hubby's considerable earning capacity, and since she really doesn't give a rat's ass about the craft of fiction, she can just go ahead and dabble around to entertain herself. But something entirely unexpected happens. Whoosh! -- down comes the angel Moroni with more golden plates, but on this set are inscribed holy words called the "Twilight" series. Young girl gettin' jiggy with a hungry vampire, both quivering with unspent passion. Meyer looks at the first book and says, "Jiminy, will I have to claim this came out of me?" And the angel answers, "First of all, my name isn't Jiminy. And you betcha, babe. The book sucks too bad for me to claim it, but you'll be well compensated for your embarrassment."

It isn't only in the realm of hetero romance where Mormon sizzle has been sending out steam signals. James Buchanan's most recent release, Hard Fall from MLR Press, features a gay Mormon hero (and, from everything I've read, is an infinitely better book than Meyer's dreck). Then that incomparable greenhouse of eroticism, Ravenous Romance, followed suit by publishing a most provocatively titled short story, "The Missionary and the Artist," which also features a gay Saint.

Makes me want to move to Utah, I'll tell ya.

I wonder which religion or denomination will generate the next eruption of verbal smexxin'. Got any ideas?

Throwing the Perfect Wankfest

Seems like every couple of weeks (hell, maybe more often than that, but I don't get out much) a wild 'n' crazy go-round kicks up in Writer Land. Some people have a genuine flair for staging these kinds of things. I don't. So, of course, I had to make a study of them.

From what I've been able to gather, there are certain components essential to a successful Wankfest. Here's a bulleted checklist I've compiled. Should you ever want to launch your own Wankfest, just make sure you have the following:

• Live Journal account. I really don't know why this is important, but it sure as hell seems to be. LJ is the preferred venue for Wankfests.


• Attitude (and plenty of it). Now pay attention, because there's a difference between a mere rant and a Wankfest. Attitude in and of itself has many variations. Basically, there are "acute" or ephemeral attitudes, like the one I have this week because some virus has invaded my body (or the one you might have because your partner has been a complete dickhead or your computer is being difficult or your boss is a complete dickhead or your kids are acting up or your publishing company is rife with complete dickheads). Then there are "chronic" or permanent attitudes, which stem from fixed mindsets and the issues that trip our self-righteousness triggers. Acute attitudes usually result in mere rants; chronic attitudes are the true progenitors of Wankfests. (Of course, there are exceptions. With some people, the acute and chronic are inextricably linked.)


• A worthy enemy or enemies. Well, duh, you can't work up and keep up a proper head of steam without someone or something out there stoking your ire. So choose your enemies well. Make sure he/she/it is good for at least a week's worth of wank. Wankfest attendees have short attention spans and lose interest if one trebuchet full of shit isn't quickly followed by another, even bigger hurl.


• Like-minded allies. It's tough to be the only person on your side. You need homies. Homies will cover your back when you're away from the computer and out dealing with those RW forces that have made or helped make you ornery to begin with. Homies (cynics call them "suck-ups" or "sock puppets") will also reinforce your sense of moral rectitude, which in turn contributes to your . . .


• Stamina. A Wankfest is essentially a war of attrition. You must be able to hold out longer than your opponent(s). You must be able to fling the conclusive glob of really stinky shit when your enemy least expects it and isn't ready with a comeback. This amounts to having the last word, and it is the last word that (you can only hope) will stick, so to speak, in attendees' minds.

CAVEAT: Based on my observations, Wankfests can be like crack. Stage them sparingly. If you attend them, pop in and out without drawing too much attention to yourself, lest you end up being affiliated with one side or the other. And, if you're an author, always remember:

The Beginnings of Stories

Sometimes, when I'm sitting alone on the deck on a summer's evening, I'll start writing and continue writing until the light wanes. These dashed-off beginnings don't usually evolve into anything; there's invariably more important work to tackle.

Other authors likely do this, too -- engage in a kind of stream-of-consciousness fictional interpretation of their moods or current situations or environments. The snippet below is an example. I've always been intrigued by the genre called "magical realism" and, someday, would like to explore it. (I've always been intrigued by Drollerie Press, as well, and would love to get something published there one day!)

So here's an untitled scrap. It ended with the bloom of night. The porchlight was too weak to write by, and any room within the house would've destroyed this odd little vision.

* * * * *

Just before the deer began to move, the sky looked like watered silk. Its color wasn’t even. A large, faded patch in the northwest gradually deepened to cornflower blue in the southeast. There was a pinprick in the fabric. Arcturus, perhaps, shining through the rent threads. Or maybe Vega.

I didn’t know anymore. Couldn't remember.

Light silently seeped away. The determined chorusing of small creatures, hidden within weeds and grasses, signaled its passing. Swallows moved to their nests, relinquishing the air to bats and harrying insects.

I waited for the deer. Sometimes their steps were tentative, almost awkward. Sometimes they bounded confidently between the pines. Sometimes they paused, turning amber-bottle heads to look in my direction. Sometimes they were oblivious of me.

A moth fluttered past, close to my face. I fancied I could feel a delicate dusting of powder on my eyelashes. Why, I wondered, did they carry powder on their wings?

The sky’s color sank to indigo. Dull light from somewhere limned the jagged silhouettes of the pines.

I wished upon the still, yellow spark in the sky. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight ...

“It could be a planet, you idiot,” I whispered, and then finished the rhyme. I could be as idiotic as I wanted; there was no one around to judge me.

The night, or something concealed by it, spoke. I believed the deer had arrived.

“Why are you here, Darien? Why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must know something.”

“I believe I was ... cast out.”

“From where?”

“The place I thought was my home. The place I was born to. Where I ran with a dog named Brownie and built fires against the dark and laughed as the juice of ripe berries trickled down my chin.”

“You were wrong for that place?”

“I must have been.”

Lessons from Literotica, Part II

So, what do I do when I finish a book? Have a cigarette and a glass of Dom Perignon? Drop onto the couch and scrub all coherent thought from my mind by watching Sci Fi Channel movies? Hell, no. I treat myself to a session of Lessons from Literotica! (Can't afford to stop honing my craft. Not for a minute.)

In this installment, I practice the delicate art of collaboration. (Well, not really.) Below, in boldface, are actual lines from actual stories at my favorite free erotic-fiction website; they're not my words. Following them are my additions/continuations. (I admit, I did have to clean up some of the punctuation to make for more seamless transitions. But I left much of the original stuff as it was found.)

* * * * *

"If you don't stop that, I'm going to...to...to come."

"I want you to" you breathe softly, "All over everywhere!"

"Listen, moron," I tell you. "In case you haven't taken a reality check lately, everywhere is a honkin' big place. You think I got nuts the size of Jupiter's moons? And even with these toasted almonds I do have--guess what? We're in a closed car rolling through Jiffy Wash! Are you gonna clean up the mess, dumbass, or should I just open the windows?"

* * * * *

"Please oh pleease pleease, god I need you I can’t take this, please please" was all that escaped my throat in a hoarse whisper between stuttering breaths and muffled sobs. And let me tell ya, I was pretty damned disappointed in myself. I should've been able to do better than fourteen words, even with the extra vowels and in spite of my hoarse, stuttering, sobbing breathlessness. I mean, I've been practicing in-bed begging for, like, years.

* * * * *

While I was in the midst of my incredulousness he entered me. I went from there to dismayedness to pissed-offedness. In my awedness, I'd overlooked a need for carefulness. Because, in his excitedness, he'd fallen into stupidness. Bastard isn't wearing a condom, I thought in the midst of a wave of homicidalness.

* * * * *

“Fine I’ll give it to you. My fat hard 9 inch cock inside your tight pussy, bitch. Spread em, whore,” he demanded, pulling my legs apart.

“oh god yessss” i moaned.

I've always been a sucker for the sweet-talkers. And this adorable buckaroo could lay it on ... thick as honey.

* * * * *

She slowly released her lips from around the tip of his penis and let the saliva ooze down. Because she'd heard somewhere, possibly from a sexually confused televangelist who'd suffered irreparable brain damage while stumbling in and out of the closet, that nothin' says lovin' like gobs of spit crawling amoeba-like over a flaccid dick you have to hold beneath the cap just to keep it from folding over.

Yum.

* * * * *

Running her fingers through the pubic hair, again she felt the matted feeling of sweat, dried cum, saliva and her own juices from last night but, hell, she'd have a shower later and clean up. Maybe. She shoved her fingers through it again, or tried to. Yeah, nice. Like last year's lutefisk encrusted in the beard of a drunken Norwegian fisherman. She figured it was good for another week, at least. Her hand moved lower and she rested it over her vulva mound again, as she had done a few minutes ago in bed, felt her outer fanny lips. And then, drowsily, she thought, Shit, wait. Should there be two pair? I can't remember. Oh, damn, there could be Americans reading this. They're going to think this is a story about filthy, reeking female aliens with double sets of labia growing out of their arse cheeks like bloody flippin' gills! The idjits.

* * * * *

“I’m not really a slut” she stammered, “its just that the way you kissed me awakened an uncontrollable urge, I felt like such a dirty girl a slut, your slut! and I wanted to get dirtier and sluttier and taste your cum!” she went on, a look of confusion on her face. “I have to go this isn’t right!”

I smiled as she went through the door. I allowed a few minutes before I sent a text message to her mobile phone “Yes you are my slut, and you will do as I say Lisa, you will learn to crave the taste of my cum, and allow me to take you for my pleasure (signed K).

It took another 15 minutes before she replied “yes I will be your slut, teach me! use me! please! L.”

I chuckled to myself as the seed of a plan grew in my minds eye.

[Note from KZ: I'm afraid I can't work on this one. It's so exquisite, I feel daunted.]

* * * * *

Carol latched onto his lips with hers. She turned the key in the lock. That'll teach him, she thought with vicious satisfaction.

Kathy saw his tight ass staring her in the face. Pity he couldn't coax it into relaxing. It had such beautiful blue eyes.

He saw his cock waving in the air and, after a moment's hesitation, waved back.

~~~

Phrew! Well, enough for tonight. My creative juices are tapped out.

Update: The Book Nobody Wants

Do NOT follow this cliched advice: "Write what you love." Well, go ahead and follow it if you must, but don't expect to get published.

Poor, uncategorizable InDescent is still making the rounds and bouncing off pigeonholes into which it just can't fit. This hybrid urban fantasy/journey of self-discovery/m-m erotic romance has no niche!

Objection #1 - The villain isn't villainous enough. (Uh...that's because he isn't a villain. A wannabe villain--yes. A little bit of a prod, an antagonist, a foil--maybe. Primarily, though, this superficial, self-centered doofus serves, through contrast, to highlight the essential albeit flawed nobility of the protagonist and his lover. If the book has a villain, it lurks within the hero's internal landscape. In other words, he's his own worst enemy...and must come to realize that.)

Objection #2 - The "love interest" doesn't appear until halfway through the story. (Not entirely true. He isn't part of the on-scene action, although his presence is felt nearly from the start. When he does show up in person, things really start getting intense.)

Ah, well. I never bothered actually responding to these objections. There's no battling publishers' models or genre norms, and there's no point in trying. I learned that a long time ago. All one can do is swallow and move on.

So just bear in mind when you write what you love that it may not fit current fiction formulas. Be prepared to put on your patience-pants.

The Art of the Succinct Reply

My pal, Ho Lee Zhit, recently groaned while reading a blog post somewhere, "Oh, no. Another 400-pound diva has entered the room!" When I asked for an explanation, Ho Lee remarked that people seem to take themselves (and their pursuits, which they consider an integral part of themselves) very seriously these days, and there's increasing evidence of this on blogs.

So I did a little investigating. Sure enough, I found a plethora of long rants, sniperish bursts, skirmishes, excruciating examinations, analyses, and justifications, and just generally enough hot-air huffing and puffing to contribute to global warming -- if, that is, it were coming out of mouths instead of fingertips.

Umbrage, umbrage everywhere.

Posters, I realized, could easily and effectively make their points with far less expenditure of energy. In the interest of lower blood pressure and unstressed attention spans, I compiled a list of succinct replies to Internet statements that people -- and authors, in particular -- seem to find irritating.

* "Your book sucks."
* "Take it up with God. S/he dictated it; I'm just a stenographer trying to get by on a lousy $125.44 a week."

* "Your book's title sucks."
* "If all you can manage to get through is a book's title, you might consider enrolling in a remedial reading course."

* "Your book's cover sucks."
* "If all you can manage to do is look at pictures, you might consider giving up reading as a hobby."

* "All romance novels are crap."
* "Of course they are. That's why people read them. Life is so unrelentingly fine, we must escape its cloying clutches now and then lest we get spoiled."

* "You're not gay."
* "Yes, I am. And proud of it. If you don't believe me, go fuck yourself. Or Ted Haggard."

* "You're not straight."
* "Yes, I am. I just wish I were gay."

* "You're not bi."
* "Well . . . sometimes I am and sometimes I'm not. It depends on who's sitting next to me at bar close."

* "What you said is offensive."
* "It offends me that you called my statement offensive. I refuse to type another word until you apologize."

Ho Lee Zhit approved of these, saying, "Yep. A hint of diva is better than the whole smelly, vermin-picking gorilla."

"This is bad!" I heaved.

EDITED TO ADD: I have another post, from June 14 of this year and also tagged "language," about dialogue itself--in this case, sex-scene dialogue, which people actually wrote. Really, truly, actually wrote.

My previous blog was, in part, about winning a book when you don't get to choose the book you want to win. Oh, my. I was recently the recipient of a historical romance, issued this year by a major print publisher. Not only was it riddled with anachronisms (e.g., yuk, as an exclamation of disgust; two cents' worth; the last straw), it had the most stupendous, dizzying array of dialogue tags I've ever, EVER seen between two covers, paper or electronic.

What I found most annoying was how seldom characters "asked." Almost invariably, they "queried."

Where have all the good editors gone? Into e-publishing?

As you peruse the list below, keep in mind that each of these words was used as an indicator of a character speaking (like the way I used one of them in my post title). I kid you not. Comma, end quote, tag -- in that order. Many were followed by some rip-roaring adverbs, too, which put extra kinks in my occipital cortex and temporal lobe.

I have to confess I've employed many of these tags myself. Most authors have. "She asked" and "he answered" and "she said" don't go far in the descriptive department. Said-said-said can also wear on a reader's nerves. But . . . but . . .

Well, just check out the list. I doubt it's complete; I surely missed some because, frankly, I did have better things to do. By the way, I didn't bother jotting down the more common and acceptable tags, like "whispered," "murmured," and "replied."

Fellow e-authors: hold your heads high! Keep in mind this attractive trade paperback came from a big, snazzy New York house. Now go get a supersized beverage and settle in.

acquiesced
admonished
advised
affirmed
agreed
announced
apologized
applauded
averred
barked
beckoned
bellowed
beseeched
bit out
blazed
boomed
breathed
cajoled
called
ceded
chastised
chided
chimed in
choked out
chortled
chuckled
commented
concurred
confirmed
continued
corrected
countered
cut in
declared
demanded
denied
derided
elaborated
encouraged
enjoined
exclaimed
explained
exploded
expostulated (Wow!)
faltered
fired back
gasped
greeted
growled
grumbled
heaved
hesitated
hissed
imparted
implored
inquired
insisted
interjected
interrupted
invited
maintained
mewled
mimicked
mused
needled
nodded
offered
ordered
panted
persisted
petitioned
placated
praised
pressed
pressed again
probed
proceeded
prodded
promised
protested
pronounced
purred
pursued
queried
questioned
reasoned
refuted
reiterated
rejoined
remarked
reproved
responded
returned
roared
scoffed
shrugged
sighed
smiled
snarled
sneered
snorted
sobbed
spat
sputtered
stammered
stated
swore
supplied
taunted
tried to agree
vowed
warned
whimpered
yawned

Contest Conundrums

Aside from being a wonderful word you won't likely see in text messages (and that alone is reason enough to make it a wonderful word), a conundrum is often what I face whenever I consider either entering a contest or running one.

Entering Contests. I don't have too much time to enter contests, unless it's quick 'n' easy to throw my name into the hat and/or I really want to win a particular prize. Often, contests just end up pissing me off . . . or making me feel guilty.

That mess now being run at Samhain seriously pissed me off. One day, when I was between chapters of my WIP, I thought I'd give it a go. Shit almighty.

I ended up feeling like the victim of a fraternity hazing. This is supposed to be fun? I kept asking myself as I trolled through fifty effing websites, looking for a certain icon. Worse yet, whenever I found that icon, I usually couldn't read whatever damned title was printed on it!

It was definintely not fun. In fact, it put me in a boycott mood. Before I knew it, I'd wasted many irreplaceable hours and darkened my sunny disposition.

Authors who are cunningly manipulative -- i.e., bury their clues or answers in the bowels of their sites and make entrants click . . . and click . . . and click through endless book lists, blurbs, excerpts, buy links, testimonials, photos, buddy links, blog posts, chuggedychuggedychug -- are not doing themselves any favors. I assume they figure that by trapping entrants within their online labyrinths, said entrants will gobble every word on every page and salivate over covers and be swept into the Land of Awe by that parade of "4" and "5" reviews. NOT. The inconsiderate assumption that readers have nothing better to do with their time than spend it spelunking through linked caverns of self-promotion is, purely and simply, offensive.

Lesson: From now on, as soon as I see a "Scavenger Hunt" that will make me feel like I'm Dumpster diving, I'm gone.

Winning Contests. Over the years, I've won maybe four book giveaways. Total. Only one win, Blind Eye's Tangle anthology, made me sing "Celebration Time." The other three titles weren't of my choosing but were picked -- randomly, I assume -- from groups of books being offered in mass giveaways. (You know how that goes.)

When I have no interest whatsoever in the title I end up with . . . my heart, it sinketh. I always feel obligated to try reading my prize. The least I can do is give it a chance. But I'll tell ya, I've ended up with three stinkers out of four wins, and not being able to get through even the first chapter of a book fills me with guilt.

Lesson: No more entering giveaways unless they're for titles that have piqued my interest or by authors I know are good.

Running Contests. Almost invariably, this is a depressing exercise. I've been doing it on and off for several years now, usually on my publishers' chat loops but sometimes in other places (e.g., TRS, various Yahoo groups, and the like). Two of the three books I've offered through The Romance Studio's Book-a-Day Giveaway were never claimed, even after I sent the wieners big ol' upbeat congratulatory messages. And never once has any winner through any venue emailed me with any kind of feedback -- good, bad, or indifferent. I feel as if I've shot these downloads into black holes.

Lesson: As yet undetermined.

Tribes

The longer I'm in this business, the more tribal the writing community seems. I don't yet belong to a tribe. I'm the Happy Wanderer (or, sometimes, not so happy). Occasionally, temporarily, I sneak into tribes. Usually, though, I just circle around or amble past them.

So what constitutes a tribe? A group of writers and/or readers who are bound by a common interest or faithful to a particular leader. (Tribes have a lot in common with high school cliques, it seems.)

There are likely tribes within RWA--frequently warring tribes, no doubt. An entire stable of authors at a particular publishing house can be a tribe if that publisher is small enough. If a publisher is larger, there are tribes within it (like writers who band together to form group blogs or critique circles, or authors who've been with a company since its inception and are the revered "veterans"). Individual authors can have their own tribes, and industry bloggers have tribes of supporters and tribes of detractors. Subgenres are also spawning grounds for tribes.

It isn't easy to break into many of these close-knit communities. In fact, sometimes it's impossible. But if you want to be part of a tribe that does admit new members, you have to work at it -- earn your body art, so to speak. This is a delicate process. You can't just burst into a tribal council meeting and shout, "I want to be part of this tribe!" Oh no.

Every tribe has its own unique standards for acceptance. Maybe you have to be exceptionally sharp and witty. Or exceptionally level-headed, a natural mediator. Maybe you must demonstrate selflessness, or a happily blind devotion. Maybe you simply need to be docile but persistent. On the other hand, maybe you must shine, brilliantly and irresistibly. Sometimes, a limitless talent for schmoozing does the trick.

I've seen and read about such tribes in action, and their dynamic continues to mystify me. Maybe we writers (and some readers) are like clubby high schoolers, with our need for approbation and our silly sensibilities and our conviction of a superiority that never gets recognized quite enough. It's as if we're constantly crying, "Leave me alone to pursue my art!" -- and then, in a pathetic whimper, add, "But don't leave me alone too much for too long."

Nominate yourself, then beg for votes.

Man, this bugs me . . . along with words like trope and meme. I fully understand the impulse to tout one's achievements. Hell, we all do it, since precious few others tout our achievements for us, unless there's some kind of symbiotic promo-stroke going on. So anyway, what's up with these contests where authors not only nominate themselves but then buzz all around the Internet, intruding on loops and blogs, screaming VOTE FOR ME! VOTE FOR ME! For some reason I've seen a lot of this in the past couple of weeks, and it's worked its way under my skin like a chigger.

My immediate response to "Vote for me!" is "Why?" Or maybe, "Is there at least a free beer in it for me?" WTF? I can forgive politicians for vote trolling -- hell, it's what they were born to do (you didn't actually think they were born to govern, did you?) But when writers do it, BLECH. Absolutely the last person I'd ever vote for in any kind of contest is the one who acts like s/he is entitled to my damned vote.

This is only the second in what's shaping up to be a series of rants. Blame it on November. I've always hated November, and I especially hate it this year because I'm facing a goldanged spindly-legged Cornish game hen stuffed by Pepperidge Farm for Thanksgiving. Oh, fly me to the moon!

Owners and editors . . . as writers?

I've pondered this subject on and off and still haven't lit on an attitude I'm comfortable with. (Yeah, okay, so I dangled a preposition.) I've been an editor at two different houses: first, the august Llewellyn Publications, known for serious nonfiction works on every aspect of occult studies, e.g., astrology, witchcraft, high magick, divination, the afterlife, psychic powers, etc.; second, a micropublisher that specializes in regional, local, and family histories. Whenever I wrote anything during my tenure at either company, it had to do with my my job.

Since I started publishing my own fiction several years ago, I've noticed that many e-pub owners and editors are also writers. I can't speak about larger print houses, because I have no experience with them, but a lot of peeps in e-publishing seem to like working both sides of the desk.

Is this good or bad? Is it neither good nor bad? Can it be both?

This situation does have distinct pros and cons. There've been some notorious instances in e-publishing of owners allegedly writing under multiple pseudonyms and giving themselves preferential treatment. Teddypig, a reader and reviewer, recently posted on this topic at his blog. Other companies have been accused of the same shenanigans. I suspect it's damned tempting to further one's own writing career in this manner ("Hey, I'm the owner of this sandbox!"), but it certainly isn't ethical.

On the other hand, many owner-writers like Tina Engler (aka Jaid Black) at Ellora's Cave, Margaret Riley (aka Shelby Morgen) at Changeling Press, and Treva Harte at Loose Id have done little or no spotlight-grabbing beyond what's necessary for promotion -- and I mean the promotion of any title. In their stadiums, or sandboxes, the playing field is level. Margaret Riley has said that her experiences as an author have helped her be a more responsible, and responsive, e-pub owner, and I don't doubt her one bit. She's a marvelous lady.

The issue of editors who are also published or aspiring authors is a bit thornier. On the plus side, a writer understands other writers . . . or should. We all have similar aspirations, fears, concerns. There is, I believe, such a thing as a creative mindset. So far, so good. We're cut from the same cloth. We're simpatico.

BUT.

What happens if a writer-editor starts imposing, however inadvertently, her authorial voice and/or viewpoint on the work of her "editees"? It's always a possibility.

Then there's the matter of prioritizing. I know how rabid I am about writing. When I'm on a roll, I often won't bother answering the phone; I resent cleaning and cooking; I don't venture outdoors or even watch television. Coffee, potty, and letting the dogs in and out are about all that can drag me away from the computer. This isn't a good place to be for editors, however. To excel at what they've been hired to do, they can't put their own projects first. Emails need promptly to be answered; paperwork, shuffled; manuscripts, evaluated or edited; batches of material transferred to scores of different people. Any delays or mistakes resulting from an editor devoting too much time to her latest and greatest brainchild are . . . well . . . inexcusable.

I've often considered getting back into editing. I have the credentials, and I sure as hell need the money. For the reasons mentioned above, I've invariably scrapped the idea. The impulse to fashion my own stories is too strong. I'd be guilt-ridden as hell if I started neglecting my obligations on either side of the desk . . . but one side, at least, would certainly suffer.

RIP

One of my books is no longer in the left column--an old-school, sweet romance that's always been near and dear to my heart and touched some readers, as well. Wha' happen?

Well, you see, I'd been selling Silvermist through an outfit called eBookLove. It was kind of like a microscopic version of All Romance eBooks, except the rights for all titles posted there had reverted to the authors (meaning there was no publisher behind them). I'd contracted directly with eBookLove to sell Silvermist. Since I'd received no statement in recent months, I hopped on over to the site . . . only to discover it no longer exists!

This is no big deal, really. Silvermist, as it stands, is too much of an anachronism for today's market, and the rights to it are still mine. But I was rather disappointed to realize that the site's owner, my first editor in e-publishing, never bothered to alert authors about eBookLove's demise. It's rather embarrassing to tell readers a book is available when it has, in fact, evaporated from cyberspace.

Anyway, I'm curious about what other writers do or have done with earlier works that aren't under contract. Ditch 'em? Rewrite them to bring them more in line with today's tastes? Cannibalize them and use characters, settings, and/or descriptive passages in other works?

Is it possible to write M/M fiction without pissing off 3,684,963 people?

Yikes-o-rama. Some months back I started compiling, in my head, a list of M/M fiction irritants and no-no's culled from various book reviews and blogs. My conclusion? Ain't no romance you're gonna create involving two (or more) men that won't trip somebody's trigger. I'm not talking about writers and readers who have an aversion to the subsubgenre itself; I'm talking about writers who write gay and readers who read gay.

Whoa, jump back, Jack. The butt bug is biting tonight!

I finally started jotting down all the stuff people have griped about. Here's a list of what they find laughable, repellant, tiresome, stupid, unrealistic, adolescent, and/or indicative of general cluelessness:

• "Emo" characters (This term has become WAY more inclusive than it should be.)
• Exceptional endowment (The pink torpedo is out; the pink Twinkie is in . . . as far as it can go, that is.)
• Too much sex
• Too much swallowing of the salty snowball during sex
• Too little sex
• Too little swallowing of the salty snowball during sex
• "Odd" positions during sex
• Too much talking during sex
• Too little talking during sex
• Too much BDSM
• Not enough BDSM
• Blue eyes (!)
• A history of abuse as a child (Guess that's old news. YIPPEE! Child abuse no longer exists!)
• Tension or plot conflict that involves homophobes (Guess they're old news, too. YIPPEE! Vicious, mindless sexual prejudice no longer exists!)
• Love at first sight (Well, yeah, that's baloney--eHarmony be damned.)
• Arousal at first sight (*Ahem.* Just take a gander at some of these photos http://www.model-book.com/nathan/flash/portfolio/index.htm and then start singing "How Dry/Soft I Am". Lesbians, by the way, are excluded from this challenge.)
• Protagonists who claim to be straight and only get bent with and for each other. (It's the "I swear I have always been and will always be straight" part that makes this oxymoronic. But I don't know of too many writers who try to peddle gay or bi heroes as hardcore het's.)
• The deep end of the sensitivity pool: too much crying, too much schmaltz, too much angst (Where's the line and when is it crossed?)
• The shallow end of the sensitivity pool: too much hard-nosedness, too much glibness and flippancy, too much insouciance (Ditto the above comment.)
• Too many cops/detectives/cowboys (For me, at least, they are getting stale. I have a hard time being engaged by characters who remind me of the Village People, although some authors can pull it off.)
• Lack of alpha traits and a plethora of "womanish" traits
• Too much cussing (See above.)
• Unrealistic dialogue (See above.)
• Obligatory HEA (I agree with this one.)
• Too much pondering of emotions
• Too little attention to emotions
• Lack of chemistry (How published authors can produce a lack of chemistry between two protags in a romance is beyond me.)
• Use of animal similes/images/metaphors/sounds (Kind of difficult to steer totally clear of them, especially when it comes to dialogue tags . . . those repetitive buggers.)
• Menages that involve two gay men and a woman (I must admit, this plot device does bewilder and annoy me.)
• Pointless drama (I'm not entirely sure what that is.)
• Female characters who are a.) villains/foils, b.) goddesses/Earth Mothers, c.) ignorant of their men's true sexual preference, d.) you name it.

Shee-it, see what I mean? I'm left asking myself, what the hell does qualify as getting it right? Damned if I know . . .

What is the fiction writer's role in our society?

I've asked myself this again and again, as my finances go down the tubes and I wonder why I can't bring myself to stand over a deep-fryer at MacDonald's (because, you see, I'm an old bag with no marketable skills to speak of; writing is what I do best).

These thoughts were prompted by a conversation I had with a good MF at a local watering hole. (Note: I was raised in taverns, because my parents were tavernkeepers in Milwaukee. I learned from a very young age that the best learning comes from such places -- not colleges and universities and overpriced online programs, not seminars and conferences and "retreats". The most trenchant of life's lessons come from ordinary people who are scraping by, doing the best they can to survive. And this was a realization that came to me after I'd earned degrees and worked in the "professional" world.)

Anyway, my MF is in his mid-forties and dyslexic, but a helluva mechanic and carpenter and just plain decent man. He has the opportunity to apply for a job that pays $52k a year, which is a lot around here (and I mean double the average annual income). Only, the job is empty bull-work. None of his interests or skills would be brought into play -- no building or fixing or problem solving, just a lot of driving and humping . . . and not the good kind.

He's very torn about this. He has kids and responsibilities, but he also has a wife who's had an affair and isn't particularly into him anymore. He'd rather, he said, "live like a bum" than bust ass doing something he finds soul-numbing. He craves purpose and challenge and, more than anything, a sense of fulfillment. He also craves appreciation for his efforts. And he has plenty to bring to the table in return for these gifts.

I listened and absorbed.

It got me wondering: What the hell do we tale-spinners have to offer that enriches people's lives? Are we making, or trying to make, a genuine contribution to society or just indulging our egos and/or our sloth? And how do we perceive our contribution? Would society be any worse off if we didn't do what we do? Would we even be missed? (Well, yeah, writers like Nora and Stephen and JRW and LKH and other acronymous bigshots would be missed, no doubt, but what about the rest of us literary gnats?) Should we all be doing something perceptibly and demonstrably useful instead of making up stories?

I suspect most writers are thinking, People need escape from humdrum and sometimes ugly realities. We provide that escape. Indeed we do. BUT . . . couldn't one-tenth of the authors now in existence provide adequate escape? Aren't the rest of us as interchangeable and replaceable as paper clips? Honestly, I sometimes think people would get way more of a bang out of a perfectly executed burger than any book I've written!

Sorry for the existential issue-raising, but I'm genuinely curious about this. I suspect artists throughout history have asked themselves the same questions. How important is it, both personally and socially/culturally, for people to do what they're good at, even if it doesn't yield tangible results like food or widgets or big economic rewards?