Oh, GOD, that face!

My heart-throb (or something-throb) on the cover of Anna Campbell's Tempt the Devil. Damn. I mean, really . . . holy hot freakin' damn. I look at him, and I feel as if I've spent the last twenty years in a women's prison. Know what I mean? Fuckshitdamn, Nathan. Phrew!

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!

Ponder this.

I lifted the following couple of paragraphs from "The Naughty Bits," an excellent blog and review site overseen by the incomparable TeddyPig. (To visit it, click on the post title.)

When I was in the military, they gave me a medal for killing two men and a discharge for loving one.

~ Inscription on Leonard Matlovich’s tombstone

TeddyP goes on to explain, "On June 22, 1988, just a month before his 45th birthday, Matlovich died of complications from HIV/AIDS. He was buried in the Washington, D.C. Congressional Cemetery because no military graveyard would [allow his interment]."

That simple, breathtaking inscription summarizes some of the incomprehensibly twisted attitudes that dominate this culture. Killing (the right people) is praiseworthy; loving (the wrong people) is damnable. And there are far too many religious, civic, and governmental groups determining who the "right" and "wrong" people are. Not only are fundamental human rights routinely swept away by these bullydozers, but most individuals either sanction the madness or just don't give a rip.

Persecution doesn't only occur in the broad abstract, in public arenas. If we look hard enough -- or even not so hard (just turn on the damned tv!) -- we can find evidence of it in our personal and professional lives, as well. I've seen that evidence on a former lover-become-friend, Paul, whose wrists bore the scars of a teenaged suicide attempt. I've seen it in a talented transgender silversmith named Fran whose pain was almost palpable because s/he couldn't afford appropriate medical procedures or drugs. Hell, I've seen it in the writing community, where even erotic-romance publishers are loath to stand up and speak out, and professional organizations stink of bias against GLBT fiction.

There's plenty of prejudice to go around, no doubt about it. All kinds of prejudice against all kinds of people for all kinds of reasons. It slithers continuously beneath the skin of our society. But I firmly believe that sexual prejudice is the one remaining form of contempt that's widely and openly tolerated . . . and, often, encouraged. Even the hippest comedians feel comfortable joking about queers.

If more people were aware of Leonard Matlovich's epitaph and took the time to ponder it (fat chance, sayeth the cynic in me), this might change. If more people pulled their heads out of their asses and tried breathing in the mind-clearing air of reason (ditto), this might change. Those are, however, enormous IFs.

I hate feeling like some sour misanthrope hunkered down in a little house in rural Wisconsin . . . but, hell, I just keep seeing more and more reasons to love and admire my dogs.

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?

OBSESSED doing well, thank you very much.

I'm enormously grateful for the reception Obsessed has gotten. Bitten by Books and Rainbow Reviews gave it high marks. Raine at Joyfully Reviewed really, really liked the sex scenes (I'll spare you the rave, although it tickled me). She concluded with, "Do not miss out on Obsessed. I loved it!" and went on to give it one of these big, pink, recommended-read rectangles.

I was particularly moved by the following words from a reviewer at Literary Nymphs:

Obsessed surprised me. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but by the end, I realized how deep a story it is. Adin is an admirable man -- very loving toward his [girlfriend], but unable to shake the growing love for his best friend. Jackson possesses more than just physical strength, especially at the end, but it’s Celia who shines, even if she doesn’t take center stage. As someone who understands Adin’s plight, I couldn’t help but adore Celia for her loving, trusting acceptance of who he is and what he feels.

The love scenes are amazingly hot, but it’s the ending that got me. The very last scene has a beautiful, tear-inspiring, sweet moment. You’ll just have to read it.

So, thank you one and all. That goes for ordinary readers, too. The saga of Adin Swift and Jackson Spey is far from over. The steam has not yet dissipated (well, hell, considering they only see each other for a three-day weekend every couple of months, small wonder their hormones go into overdrive when they're together!) And their unique arrangement is not getting easier as time goes on. The groove is getting rougher, not smoother, the longer they proceed on its track. Jackson, still the emotionally guarded one, is having more difficulty than he'd like to admit . . . to Adin or himself.

Once I finish my current contractual obligations, I'll be getting back to the big novel in which these men next appear together. Hope I'll be able to find a publisher for it. The story is the most emotionally intense and psychologically tangled one to date, and with some dark humor, as well. Celia will also be checking in at some point. Not sure when, though, or how.

There's fantasy. And then there's fantasy. And . . .

Long ago and far away, a man named Carl Linnaeus created a a system of taxonomy for classifying all living creatures. Remember it from your biology courses? The "kingdom, phylum, class, genus, species" -- and then some -- breakdown? Well, modern popular fiction has a taxonomy of its own. For example, there's no such thing as plain old fantasy anymore. I'm afraid I don't have the time to be as meticulous about categorization as Linnaeus was, but here are some distinctions I've noticed.

• Earthbound fantasy, historical. It takes place in the past, usually the distant (Arthurian or medieval) past, on our own planet.


• Otherworld fantasy, historical. It takes place in an alternate or parallel world, very much like earth, in a place and/or time period that has a feel similar to those on earth.


• Earthbound fantasy, contemporary, usually urban


• Otherworld fantasy, contemporary, usually urban


• Earthbound fantasy, futuristic, urban and/or interstellar


• Otherworld fantasy, futuristic, urban and/or interstellar


• Fantasies with and without epic battles


• Fantasies with and without female "heroes"


• Fantasies with and without dragons, faeries, elves, etc.


• Steampunk

Okay, I'm already tired. So which do you like best? I'm torn.

As I wrote my Galdeshian fantasies for Ellora's Cave -- Wing and Tongue, Cauldron of Keridwen, and Prince of Glacier Glas, I became immersed in the world. Even my authorial voice shifted, as if it had an automatic transmission, to reflect that world. These stories fall into the second category above, and they all have dragons. I adore writing about this "other-place" and its unusual society and inhabitants.

But when I wrote Hoochie Coochie Man, in the contemporary-urban category, I loved it, too. And I love InDescent, a work-in-progress, passionately.

But wait, there's more! Now I'm creating a futuristic urban fantasy series for Loose Id. The first volume, Looking for Some Touch, will be released in early November. And it features men with men, yet another sub-category of fantasy that's only recently begun to shine. Am I crazy about this series? Well, take a guess.

So, I repeat: Which type of fantasy do you prefer? Can you come up with other classifications?

Thank you, Babel Fish.

Somebody wants to befriend me on LiveJournal. However, everything on her page (I think it's a she) is in some Cyrillic alphabet (I think it's Cyrillic), so I of course had no idea what this person was about. I brought up Yahoo's most excellent resource, Babel Fish. It's the Dudley Do-Right of translators. And voila! My wannabe-friend's message became clear as . . . well, you decide:

This to you not after the samovar with the pancakes mother-in-law to dance.

I'm so glad this person found me. Now I'm not only in possession of a nugget of wisdom, I have a title for my new book. Can you guess what it is?

• Samovars and Pancakes
• The Pancake's Mother-in-Law
• Dancing with My Mother-in-Law
• After the Samovar with the Pancakes (Comes the Mr. Coffee with the Toast)
• This To You, Not My Mother-in-Law
• Babel Fish Translates George Bush's Last Speech

(Sorry, I have to go pee. My bladder can't take such harassment.)

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 . . .

A GHOST STORY

I wrote Gray Man, a ghost story, because I love ghost stories. And there are precious few of them in the realm of erotic romance. This one isn't scary--too much creepiness could easily have overshadowed or negated the romance factor--but it does have a touch of eerie. More important, it has a big serving of hope.

Coincidentally, there's a great guest-blog by Josh Lanyon, and follow-up comments, at Jeanne Barrack's spot, The Sweet Flag (http://thesweetflagmenlove.blogspot.com/).

Gray Man is coming out Friday, August 22, at Changeling Press. Here's the blurb, which is followed by an excerpt:

* * * * *

Emma Moore’s vacation along the lower New England seaboard had everything to do with bolstering her flagging relationship and nothing to do with finding ghosts. But when an eerie entry written in archaic script shows up in her diary, she suspects it might be related to the shadowy figure suddenly clinging to her boyfriend’s back.

A shockingly orgasmic ride on a theme-park roller coaster and the mystifying utterances of a psychic stranger only strengthen Emma’s suspicion that something, or someone, is going bump—and hump—in the night. Getting to the bottom of this disturbing yet compelling phenomenon seems her only recourse.

Leaving her lawyer-boyfriend behind in Boston to pursue his work and possibly an affair, Emma returns to the historic Connecticut inn where the intensely passionate Gray Man first appeared. What she discovers and experiences there bring her the most wrenching sadness and exhilarating hope she’s ever known . . . and the realization that there are no bounds in time and space any more than there are in the ocean that lies beyond her window.

* * * * *

As soon as her eyes opened to the sharp sunlight of a late-September morning, Emma realized she’d neglected to do something very, very important last night. Not only had she forgotten to stash her diary, she’d—

Oh shit.

Shooting a quick glance at Alan, who seemed to be sleeping soundly, Emma slipped out of bed and into her bathrobe and pattered as quietly as possible to the sitting room. Easing open the door, hoping its thin squeak wouldn’t wake her companion, she rose up on the balls of her feet and took three long strides to the desk. Sure enough, the diary still lay there, wide open.

Emma reached out to snatch it and stuff it into her pocket. Her arm froze in midair.

Beneath the final line of her entry, a single word had been written in a jagged, archaic script.

Yes.

Emma’s breath stopped. A prickling sensation wound simultaneously from the back of her neck and her solar plexus to the middle of her spine. As her skin pinched into gooseflesh, she shot a look over her shoulder. Was this Alan’s way of reassuring her? Had he altered his handwriting to make it in keeping with a seventeenth-century town?

As unlikely as it seemed—the man was singularly devoid of both whimsy and imagination—it was the only explanation Emma could come up with. Either that or she’d turned into a sleepwalker with multiple-personality disorder. Cautiously lifting the diary as if it might shock or burn her, she tiptoed back to her suitcase and once again secreted the book.

But her surprises had just begun.

"Getting ready to leave?"

Emma spun around. Alan, his face peppered with a sandy growth of whiskers, was sitting up in bed, watching her. He ran both hands over his head and stretched backward. Emma’s shock gave way to curiosity. She squinted, peered at him. There was something—

He frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Why indeed. Was his body casting a shadow against the headboard? Emma’s gaze shifted to the windows and followed the course of the incoming light. Yes, it was possible. But… "I, uh, was just wondering how you’d look with a beard and mustache."

Alan’s right hand immediately went to the lower half of his face and rubbed it. "Don’t even go there," he said.

"Alan, did you happen to get up in the middle of the night and go into the sitting room?"

He gave her a puzzled look. "No. Why would I do that?" Sliding to the edge of the bed, he yawned, scratched the middle of his chest and got up. "I slept like a log last night." He shuffled toward the bathroom.

Emma’s mouth fell open as she followed his progress. The shadow that was behind him in bed was still behind him, hovering at his back like some gauzy gray kite he was toting over his shoulder. It had a vaguely human form, but taller than Alan’s. Taller and unsettled, like a swath of fog.

~~~~~
From Gray Man, coming August 22 from Changeling Press
Copyright (c) 2008, K. Z. Snow

A Most Excellent Surprise from Blind Eye Books

If you visit this blog with any regularity (says the dreamer), you've read my effusions about Wicked Gentlemen by Ginn Hale. That startling and superior two-part novel caused me to begin keeping a close eye on Blind Eye, the publisher. (Click on the post title to go there.) It's an intriguing little pub, clearly dedicated to literary as well as graphic quality, so when it ran a contest . . . well, guess which book-whore sat up and took notice.

Yeah, you betcha.

Prizes for the winners? Copies of Blind Eye's recent anthology, Tangle, reviews for which I began devouring as soon as they appeared. And I was a winner--lord, what a rare occurrence--and my copy arrived today! I am so going to read this baby ASAP.

So thank you, Ms. Kimberling, for this unexpected gift. More important, thank you for running a classy, groundbreaking, risk-taking press, the products of which delight both the mind and the eye. I am officially one of your fangirls.

EDITED TO ADD: I've read two-and-a-half stories so far. Don't want to say too much just yet, but I really can't keep quiet about Jesse Sandoval's "Los Conversos". Just can't. I haven't read such numinous fiction in a very long time. (I was going to call it luminous, which is also apt, but numinous describes it more accurately.) Wow. If any story in this anthology surpasses Sandoval's, I'm afraid my head will spin right off my neck.