10/31/2014
10/30/2014
Am I a Writer Yet?
Whilst
drinking coffee this morning, I stumbled
over this article: http://thoughtcatalog.com/ryan-holiday/2014/06/can-you-call-yourself-a-writer/
And
I began to wonder … (Yes, yes, I realize that I was procrastinating.)
For
many years now I've called myself a writer. I have always secretly wanted to be a writer. In seventh grade
I wrote a short Halloween story for the school newsletter. I followed that with
a Christmas story. Then nothing. I wrote essays and read obsessively. I wrote
poetry- most of it pretty bad. When I went to college I studied English and
Composition, and the very first elective course I ever signed on for was
creative writing, in which I learned that I knew nothing.
Which
was fine. College for me consisted a great deal of learning that all the myths
I'd convinced myself were true in high school were false. My parents were smarter than I was. They had
I
earned a degree in education and put my writing dreams on the back shelf. I forced
myself to be content with writing unique essays, and supporting myself.
Bah.
I
read great books and I envied the people who could send me soaring to new
dimensions and new worlds with their characters and settings. I gorged on
mysteries and romances and fantasies, and I went to work and supported myself.
I
graded essays and corrected grammar and tried to encourage young minds to think
great thoughts in a logical manner.
And
I won't say that I withered and shriveled, out of my element. I was a damned
good teacher and I still receive emails and calls from former students saying thank
you… you taught me to write and I just got into Harvard, or I got my PhD, or
I'm getting married on Saturday and I wrote my own vows.
But
one day, I stopped supporting myself and moved to the country. I had a whole
new life, outside the city, without the pressure of work, and it took me a
while to relax and recover. I soaked in the slower pace, the more earthy
pursuits, the less stressful environment.
And
one day, as I drove across country, a story unfolded in my head. I remembered
that
sensation. That wonderful, enthralling, eagerness when you tell yourself a story…when you meet people who live in your head for the very first time and the outside world turns gray and the inner world bursts into vibrant, ultra-rich color.
Mack
and Lex told me their story from beginning to end in an eight hour drive from the
east coast to middle America, misunderstandings and conflicting plans, what
they liked to wear and eat. The things – the insecurities— that stood in their
way, that prevented them from being one hundred percent together and invested
in each other.
Oh. This wasn't a
mystery or the great American novel I'd fantasized about writing in my teen
years.
Oh no.
This
was…romance. In a form that didn't even exist when I was a kid.
This
was a short story- about two men falling in love and figuring out how to be
together.
It
wasn't literary.
I
couldn't do this.
But
I couldn't shake it either.
When
I got home, I went to bed and I told myself my story again, fine tuning bits of
it as I drifted off to sleep. And when I woke… I made the coffee, sent the SO
off to work, and I sat down at my computer and I started typing.
That
was how I spent August of 2010. Typing my story. Fixing my typos. Proofing and
rewording and making it shine. And researching. I knew my story wasn't what
traditional big six publishers were looking for. It was too short for one
thing. And too Gay for another.
I
made a list of eBook publishers – much more gay friendly than the Big 6—and I
studied their guidelines on submissions. (*eye roll* Now there's a discussion
topic for another day.) I carefully packaged up my baby and sent a query to the
first publisher on my list, then I sat back and waited. And while I waited,
another story came to life. I started work on that story, getting it on paper,
figuring out how to make it work.
I
didn’t call myself a writer yet.
Even
though I spent a good six hours a day actually typing and a great deal more
time networking and building an author presence on line, and learning about the
world of writing, I didn't call myself a writer.
Then
I got my first rejection on my first story. A milestone. It was kind and
helpful and very detailed.
I
set aside my current projects and started revising my first story. I made it
more active, intensified the conflict, and I finished my second story.
I
had two completed novellas, and I'd learned that the 21st century
had something called self-publishing. Alternatives. I had choices. And I had
two perfect vehicles for exploring those choices.
I
took my second story, and I submitted it to a publishing house that specialized
in eBooks and judging from their catalogue of offerings, did quite well with
gay romance. The other, I decided to self-publish. I would conduct a grand
experiment, I told myself, to see which method of publishing suited me better. I
self-published one book and sat back to wait on word from the publisher about the
other.
And
I started my next book.
And
I still didn't call myself a writer.
Self-published
books didn't really count, did they? That fact was hammered home to me by a
casual Facebook friend who asked in private chat, "Well, what was wrong
with your first book that you had to
self-publish it?" OUCH! Yeah, not a writer yet.
In
November of 2010, I sent book #3 off to a different publisher, because the publisher
who had book #2 wasn't very speedy in their decision making process. By December
I had a contract for book #3 from the publisher and five finished manuscripts
plus one self-published piece.
Could
I call myself a writer then?
Fast
forward four years. I call myself a writer today. I have written over 50 short
novellas and short stories. Roughly half are self-published, and half with publishing
houses. When did I make the change from "not-a-writer" to
"writer"?
I
don't honestly know. I know that writing has changed from fun to work to fun and
back again a hundred times in the last four years. I am either swimming in self-doubt
and hate every word or patting myself on the back for my sheer genius. Sometimes
in rapid succession over the same bloody sentence.
Such
is the life of a writer. We soar on wings of inspiration and belly crawl
through pits of despair, sometimes before we finish that first pot of coffee.
We
don't need someone else telling us when we can have the title. Some of us are
born with it, some of us earn it, and some of us wear it awkwardly, questioning
its fit for our humble efforts. When you're a writer? You'll know it. Most
important of all, just keep writing. Write bad poetry, and insightful essays,
write blog posts and 144 character tweets. Write short stories and flash fiction
and novellas or whatever floats your boat.
Because
that's the one thing you have to do in order to call yourself a writer.
You
have to write.
That
is all.
Write.
Who
cares what you call yourself?
Write.
Who
cares what other people call you?
Write.
10/29/2014
Spooky, sexy, fun! #mmromance #shortstory #ghost
ENCOUNTER
I absolutely loved this story. I am such a sucker for a love that someone will go to any length to find. Yep I was hooked with this one. Swoon! MMGood Book Reviews
Three
short, sexy, stories- sometimes spooky, sometimes tender, sometimes romantic. A
collection of fast reads for when you just have a few minutes.
Encounter:
A nervous wannabe actor slips away to steal a smoke at an audition and finds
more relaxation than he expected.
Finding Justice:
When Justice figures out his boyfriend considers him nothing more than a piece
of ass on the side, he takes matters into his own hands.
Nick:
Insecure nurse Nick discovers something about his rock star boyfriend he just
can't forgive.
EXCERPT
What are you doing back here?" The
slightly breathy, barely audible voice brushed like a caress along Trevor's
tense nerves. A slight breeze blew Trevor's hair into his eyes as the stranger
stepped from the shadows.
'Back here' was a dark secluded little
alcove behind the wings of the drafty theater that Trevor had considered a safe
place to steal a smoke and calm his nerves. Apparently it wasn't as unused as
it appeared. He dropped the butt of his cigarette to the battered linoleum
floor and ground it out with the heel of his boot. Smoking hadn't helped his
nerves. Usually it did. His therapist claimed it was part of an oral fixation,
related somehow to childhood neglect. Trevor found that difficult to believe,
but then the therapist had yet to meet his over indulgent, too involved mother.
He spent half his childhood in prayer for a little benign neglect.
He refused to stand up straight and act
embarrassed though. He'd just stay right where he was, leaning comfortably
against the dingy wall, looking casual, he hoped. Nausea still cramped his
belly at the prospect of actually auditioning for a singing part in the
Halloween musical. He waited a moment for a lecture on smoking in a public
building. Nothing. Just patient silence.
Trevor narrowed his eyes and turned his
head to flick a contemptuous gaze over the intruder. He raised his pierced brow
in smooth interrogation. He'd spent hours practicing the technique in front of
his bedroom mirror last year. Useful, suave and attractive, he hoped. The
newcomer wasn't someone he'd ever met before, therefore probably not someone
who belonged backstage either. He knew most of the people involved in the
community theater one way or another. He'd spent the last seven years working
on the sets and doing walk-on parts, after all. That changed this year.
He shifted slightly, rocking in place.
The intruder was a very attractive someone, with a lithe muscular body poured
into black skinny jeans and a tight black long sleeve tee. Pale, lovely classic
features, deep dark eyes a guy could get lost in. If this kid could sing,
Trevor faced stiff competition for the role he wanted. "Hi. I'm Trevor
Adams." He licked his suddenly dry lips lightly. Another drafty little
breeze stirred the hairs along his collarbone and he shivered a bit.
The dark eyes lit with a glitter of
interest. The boy glided forward, strangely graceful, plump ruby lips stretched
in a flirty smile. "I'm Caspar Thorpe. People don't usually see me back
here. It's nice to meet you, Trevor." He extended a pale hand. Trevor
wiped his own damp palm on his jeans and reluctantly took Caspar's hand. It was
soft and cool in his grip, oddly soothing and he felt nearly as reluctant to
release his grip on the hand as he'd been to take it in the first place.
"Are you trying out for the Haunted
Theater performance?" Please don't
say you want to be Vlad. Caspar intrigued him. Trevor found him incredibly
attractive and didn't want to be put in a position of rivalry with him. The
other man's words sank in slowly. Duh. If
he's backstage and people don't usually see him, then he's not an actor, huh genius?
"No, no." Caspar shook his
head slowly, "I'm more of a special effects guy. I do sound."
BUY
LINKS
10/28/2014
FREE READ! CHANCES ARE #mmromance #erotic #serial #FREE
Start your adventure today!
Pulp Friction 2013
The beginning of a reading saga
unlike any other!
CHANCES ARE
An ARE Best Seller
Excerpt:
"I have to go.
Gerry leaves now. Sorry to leave you hanging." I had to get behind the
bar. We do a steady business with the cops and the neighborhood people, and
even though it was ten o'clock, I had four more hours until closing.
"Call me."
His voice was husky and I fancied I heard just the slightest clink of that
metal stud clicking against his teeth.
He wasn't the first
visitor to my office, not the first face I'd stared at, trying to forget the
one that was burned into my retinas, but he was different. I might have to get
his name. Shit. I don't think I even gave him my name.
"I'm Chance, this
is my place. You want me; this is where you can find me." I won't call.
Been there, done that. Got the emotionally stunted psyche to prove it. I shoved
him out the door ahead of me and let it close on our little interlude with a
sensation akin to gratitude.
The problem with that,
of course, was that it wasn't my name. My name was actually Aaron Dumont.
I picked up the name
Chance as a kid when my grandma kept telling me "Chances are you'll come
to no good, just like your pa." She had said it so often, it just kind of
stuck. I've been Chance ever since. When she passed away and left me the
remains of her estate, I sold everything but a few special items then invested
it all in a nest egg for a rainy day.
I figured that's what
she'd intended it for anyway. She'd said as soon as I joined the police force
back in the eighties. "Chances are you'll come to no good there. It's a
dangerous job and you're an accident waiting to happen."
She was right too. That
nest egg came in handy after the not-so-accidental shooting that ended my
career. After my injuries healed and the physical therapy was done, I loafed
around doing nothing for a bit, sinking into depression and dying slowly inside
of sheer boredom. Then I found the bar, and Chances Are was born. I don't know
if the name was a tribute to the woman who loved and understood me or a fuck
you to the one who ruled my childhood with an iron fist. Since they're the same
ruthless, gently bred Southern lady, I don't spend a lot of time dwelling on
the motivation behind the name.
Every night found me
here, polishing glasses, pouring drinks, and soaking up the world. I got to
talk shop with local law enforcement without being responsible for the
paperwork. The neighborhood itself was eclectic and I got plenty of customers
in on any given night who were prone to chat and flirt and sometimes, like the
rookie, even a little more.
He was still there,
watching me when he thought I wasn't looking, taking the ribbing his buddies
were dishing out with a flush and a faint smile. I was impressed. Rory Gaines
had backbone. I liked that. It kind of made me want to test his limits, crush
his spirit, just to see if he'd let me, but I knew that was the bitterness of
lost love, and I'd never actually do it. I don't think.
As I polished the shot
glasses, I was giving serious thought to actually going back to my office and
digging that business card he'd given me out of the trash can. When the front
door burst open and smashed into the wall with a sound so akin to gunfire that
several of the off duty cops in the room dropped to one knee and reached for
weapons they weren't supposed to be carrying in my establishment, I forgot
about everything else.
Available
in:
Adobe Acrobat, Palm DOC/iSolo, Microsoft
Reader, Epub, Mobipocket (.mobi)
Get
your free copy today at
10/27/2014
Story Orgy Presents: Prince Charming #mmromance #storyorgy
Good morning Story Orgy readers! Welcome back to Monday!
Two new characters, an all new story. Well, not quite all new. Someone or two of you might recognize at its core a flash piece I wrote some time ago.
Prince Charming
copyright October @ Lee Brazil
copyright October @ Lee Brazil
Chapter One
“He reluctantly handed over”
Cold wetness seeped through the denim of my
jeans, creating a trail of icy goose bumps all across my body.
"Sorry." A strong, tanned hand dusted
with fine dark hairs and blunt cut nails hovered in my field of vision. The
tail end of what turned out to be a long, dramatic swirling tattoo just touched
his wrist.
I stared, bemused. The hand wavered, then
withdrew.
"Are you all right?"
Allowing my gaze to expand beyond the hand,
which I suddenly couldn't believe I hadn't accepted, my jaw dropped. The man
who'd crashed into me belonged anywhere on campus but barreling through
the Language Arts department office door. He was young, broad, golden in hair
and skin. A whole aura of Prince Charming hung about him, and my fingers
suddenly itched to pick up a pencil and transcribe sonnets to his beauty and a
character that I just knew was as lovely as his person. "I'm
okay." And so I would be, just as soon as my heart stopped racing and my
vision returned to normal, because right now it seemed that somehow landing in a
mop bucket on my ass had caused me to see blurred golden halos and narrowed my
vision to a tiny circumference centered exactly on his concerned face.
He stood watching as I awkwardly fumbled my way
out of the water, grimacing as the liquid dripped down my body. I had to give
him credit though, true to the noble character my imagination had imbued him
with, he didn't laugh at my predicament. I stood before him pretending to a sang
froid that I had never felt in my life. Recalling that he had come from my
office, I ventured to address the Prince. "Is there something I can assist
you with?" I was late, having lost track of time in the upper rooms of the
library, pouring over a volume of fifteenth century French poetry. I had
interviews scheduled for interns for the fall semester, and I couldn't decide
whether to hope he was or wasn't one of the candidates.
"Yeah," he breathed softly. Then
before I had a moment to realize what he was about, soft plump lips brushed
over mine, and a delicate tongue swiped a tender touch over my lips before he
retreated. "I had an interview scheduled, but I think I changed my mind. I
don't want the job."
Stunned, I wrestled the demon of desire his kiss
had unleashed back under control. He wasn't a prince, but a demon sent straight
from hell to tempt me to indiscretion. "You can have the job too." I
heard the words, and couldn't believe they'd come from my mouth. No fucking way
I wanted this man for my intern. And no way he could miss the implication, I
was his for the taking.
Smiling gently, he combed his hand through my
hair and cupped my cheek. "Oh hell no. No need to complicate the power
dynamic between us."
"Then I have interviews."
"I'll wait."
“Um…” Wait? He was going to wait? For me? For
what? “They could take all afternoon.” I licked my lips, tasting him there.
Stifling a whimper, I shifted foot to foot.
“Hey, I don’t have anything else to do. Why
don’t you go on and clean up?” The Prince nodded at the empty secretary’s desk
behind me. “I’ll tell whoever comes for your next appointment that you’re
detained for a minute.”
“I…” Was uncomfortable as hell. “Thank you.”
Forcing myself to pass by The Prince without looking back over my shoulder was
difficult. As in finding the Holy Grail difficult. Slaying dragons difficult.
Fuck it. I sneaked a peek and caught him watching me, eyeing my ass as though
it were something special. It wasn’t. I couldn’t ever lay any claim ot physical
fitness, not like this paragon of masculinity. I had muscles, but mostly by
default, from climbing stairs and racing around lost or tardy. Every year I
resolved to join a gym and work out, or take up jogging or biking. Something
physically active. But the bottom line was, I had never pursued fitness beyond
actually joining a gym.
I had a huge collection of gym membership cards,
but none of them had ever seen any action. Kind of like me.
“Yes?”
Startled back to awareness, I spun back around
and headed into my office, my inner sanctum, my hidey hole, shutting the door
firmly behind me. The soft chuckle I heard on the other side of the door wasn’t
malicious or unkind. It didn’t remind me of the mocking laughter of my
classmates decades earlier or the wicked humor some of my students displayed. I’d been the butt
of enough cruel jokes over the years to recognize that when I heard it.
This laughter was heart warming and arousing. It
reminded me of the soothing hugs my mother had given, the tender promise of
support and understanding.
Fortunately for me, clumsiness was a common
enough occurrence that I did indeed have a change of clothes in my office.
Clean jeans and a dry t-shirt were folded on the bookshelf, under a copy of
Chaucer that I’d had since my own undergraduate days, a gift from a favorite
professor. One who had perhaps been more of a hindrance than a help, though I’d
had the biggest crush on him at the time of our liaison.
In fact, Jay Sinclair was probably the basis for
my reluctance to take this Prince on as an intern. I’d been in that position,
sleeping with someone who was in a position of authority over me. We’d both
claimed that it wouldn’t affect our professional relationship...but it had. How
could it not? It was actually a relief that the golden prince didn’t expect to
work with me.
I couldn’t imagine anything more guaranteed to
distract me from my work than that beautiful tanned skin, those thick
muscles...Damn it!
A sharp rap on the door drew me back from the
lure of his body. His...I hadn’t even had the forethought to get his name! My
potential new lover…
Scratch that. His intent had been clear. My new
lover had to go by some name, other than Prince. The knock sounded again.
Grimacing, I yanked the door open and met his amused gaze. “What’s your name,
anyway?” I demanded.
“Lucas Thorne.” He handed me a stack of papers.
“I took the liberty of removing my resume from that pile. You won’t need it.
Also, your second appointment is late, so I’ll inform him when he gets here
that he is out of the running.”
“Oh.” I glanced down at the papers, without
seeing them. I knew breaking eye contact was just a ploy, a lame attempt to
disguise the way my heart had tripped at his commanding attitude, the way he
just took charge and assumed that of course I wouldn’t want to hire a man who
was tardy to his interview.
Punctuality was probably a good thing, but I’d
never before felt qualified to criticize anyone on that aspect of their
performance, as I myself was notoriously loose with times. “Er…” Lucas probably
should know that about me before he decided that we were going to do this
thing, shouldn't he?
“You haven't changed yet,” he chided. “Go on.”
He accompanied the words with another one of those poetic little smiles that
made my brain freeze and my belly burn.
“Yes.” I stumbled backward into the office, and
Lucas closed the door again. This time, I forced myself to change, but the
whole while that I was stripping off the wet jeans and underwear and replacing
them with the clean dry ones, my ears strained to catch any hints to what
activities were occurring in the outer office. Like a teenager, I craved the
sound of his voice already, and every time I thought I heard the deep tones, my
heart throbbed in the back of my throat.
This couldn't really be happening to me, could
it?
Hot young men didn’t just...claim me.
I wasn’t the type to attract a lot of attention,
on the short side of average, the thin side of fit, the … boring side of
intellectual. Not that he could know that, because all I’d managed was to sound
like an idiot when we spoke anyway.
He knocked on the door again, and this time I
was ready. “Come in.”I called, kicking my wet clothes under the desk.
“I’ve explained to Simon that you aren’t
interested in an intern who cannot tell time, but he insists on hearing it from
you. Would you mind?” The charming smile wasn’t in evidence now. His voice was
steely and resolved, and his shoulders tense. I was suddenly determined to do
whatever was necessary to bring back the relaxed, pleasant smile, the air of
easy going authority.
“Certainly.” Brushing my hands together, I
approached the doorway. Lucas held his position long enough that I brushed
against him. The heat of his body was stunning, even through our clothes I
could feel a fingle of awareness, just zipping through me. It went straight to
my most sensitive spots, tickling at the back of my balls, tightening my throat
and belly. I gasped, shocked at the rawness of the feelings, the overwhelming
power of that brief touch.
Lucas fell back, extending a hand to indicate a
young man standing by the desk, fairly bristling with resentment. I blinked at
him, probably much like an owl or a mole caught in the headlights of a car as
it crosses the road “You’re um…” My scrambled brains fought to recall the name
of the man. Lucas had just mentioned it, hadn’t he? “Simon?”
“I have an appointment for an interview. I came
a long way.” He cast an angry glance at Lucas, and it was my turn to bristle.
“As Lucas just told you, I don’t have any need
for an intern who isn’t punctual.” I was proud of the way the words sounded,
calm, logical. The truth was I felt far from either. If it hadn’t been for the
stern expression on Lucas’s lovely face, I’d have hired the man on the spot
just to have the tedious chore over with so I could be alone with Lucas again.
“I’m not that late.” Simon argued, and suddenly
I lost all patience.
“You’re too late. And my next appointment is due
in just a few minutes. If I interviewed you now, then every one of my interviews
will be late.” Sourly, I offered a compromise that I didn’t really like. “If
you wait until the last of the interviews, and none of them suit me, then I’ll
interview you .”
“I have another appointment.” He sneered. “I
can’t wait.”
Lucas stepped into the breach, blocking my view
of the snooty applicant. “Then you’re wasting our time.”
Somehow, I'm not entirely sure just how, whether
he manhandled Simon or just outmaneuvered him, Lucas had the man on the other
side of the door before I realized what was happening. I blinked at him,
suddenly sure that the absolute best candidate for the job was standing in
front of me. “Are you sure you don’t want this job?” I reluctantly offered.
“Positive.” He stepped back in close, not even
bothering to close the door or hide his intent. Again, our lips met, and this
time the kiss was longer, more … everything. Our teeth actually clinked
together, my lips felt hot and bruised, and …
I was hiring the next damn person that walked
through that door, just so Lucas and I could go explore this lust in greater
depth.
Chapter Two
He was stunned.
He was stunned. I could tell by the way his jaw
hung slightly open and his gaze wandered from me to the office door, which had
just closed behind one Esme Cortez, my brand new intern for the next semester.
“You...did you even look at her resume?” He demanded.
“Yes,” Just long enough to find her name and
ascertain that she was indeed a Masters candidate at the school. “Can we go
now?”
His blue eyes lingered on the door. A frown drew
thick brows together. My heart faltered in its frantic race to beat its way out
of my breast. He was… displeased?
The urge to appease took over me, I began to
tremble. “I--”
“We’ll see how she does.” He turned back to me,
caught my hand. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Shaking my head, I dismissed the instinct to
cower. Visions of a glowering face, the faintest echoes my father’s angry voice
faded. This wasn’t like that. I hadn’t… He wasn’t…
“Professor? Don?” He snapped his fingers in
front of my face and I pushed those memories away, buried them as deeply as I
could, behind music that I loved and books that had saved me from moments of
terror, behind smiles that were freely shared with strangers and years of academic life
that were not soaked in fear.
“Yes, Lucas… Where should we go?” A new fear
appeared… Didn’t they always? What if we weren’t compatible? If he say...liked
hanging out at sports bars or the club scene?
“Your place?” He suggested smoothly. “I have
roommates, or I’d say my place.”
Of course he wasn’t going to suggest some frat
boy hangout. He’s an English major, dumbass. “Sure.” I tried playing off
suave again, but the closest I could get to that was Maxwell Smart. James Bond
was a dream life away. “Did you drive over?”
“I can follow you…”
If I let him go, he’d have the opportunity to
change his mind, to realize how ridiculous it was for him to want me. “I’m
parked in the faculty lot.” I patted down my pockets, searching for the keys to my Audi, conscious of his gaze on
me as I did. “I can give you a lift to your car and you can follow me home from
there.”
TO BE CONTINUED
If you enjoyed my post, click on over to the rest of the Orgiasts and read more!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
