Sunday, June 15, 2008

Blog Closing, moving

For those of you who still frequent this blog, all activity is being moved to my new group blog at
Please adjust your bookmarks accordingly, and visit my blog for a wicken new summer quickie might just win a great prize!


Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Dusting off Cobwebs/Excerpt Day

Yes, the blog has been growing cobwebs of late. I do apologize for that. But I haven't been idle, I swear. :D How I prove it to you with an excerpt from my latest WIP seeing as how its off to my editor by tomorrow night?


The hangman's noose weighed heavily on Nikolai's shoulders. 'Twould all be over soon.

Even as the executioner positioned the slip knot over his Adams apple, Nikolai could summon no remorse. Such an ending had been inevitable, he supposed, given the flamboyant reputation his sexual exploits had won him.

At least he could take comfort that he’d fall into his unmarked grave with no regrets save for the risks he’d taken with his immortal soul. The jewels he'd won from Irissa, the Earl’s wife, in exchange for his physical affections had gone far in feeding the children of the peasants whose lands the Earl had usurped.
How ironic that it was Irissa’s accusations of theft that finally brought him here, to meet his Maker.

Now, the children whom the spoils he’d won that night fed stood beneath the gallows, their faces buried in their mother’s tattered gowns as they wept. Somewhere in his travels he’d heard that God counted the tears of children. Could the prayers of the innocent possibly serve to spare him from eternal damnation for the sacred commandments he’d broken on their behalf?

He could only hope so.

Nikolai firmed his jaw, standing tall as the bailiff climbed the gallows, reading the long list of charges leveled against him.

He was no thief and Irissa knew it.

His gaze trailed over the restless throngs in search of his accuser. Staring beyond the crowd and across the public courtyard, he fixed his stare upon the tower balcony, where Irissa sat at her husband’s side. Though her chin was hitched high, her ashen complexion and swollen eyes told him that she would suffer far more for the false charges she’d proffered than he.

The last time he’d kissed her goodbye, she pledged him her heart as her delicate hand pressed a strand of pearls the size of robin’s eggs into his palm.
Now, those supple fingers counted rosary beads, her lips moving in silent prayer.

As the gallows collapsed beneath his feet, his ears rang with the cries of the children for mercy on his soul’s behalf.

Then, from the eternal darkness, he heard the brushing of wings as a voice moved over him…

Nikolai. A thousand children’s prayers have been raised on your behalf. Because you have protected the innocents with your life, your immortal soul is hereby consigned to serve as the Ninth King of the Christmas Kingdom. Turn the heart of the Last Unbeliever and you shall earn your place in Paradise. Fail in this task and your soul shall be returned to the eternal damnation your mortal sins have earned you…

Tomorrow, news of an amazing contest for young writers, hosted by the author of a book I've waited for a lonnnnnnnng time, Jerk, California.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Business of Writing

Rumor has it that in order to submit a series for editorial consideration, I must first come up with a *gasp* brief series overview. The requirement sounded easy enough--a one page, typed overview of the story's overall premise.

Oh. My. Goth.

I have slaved over this thing for days and it :) But I think its getting there since my 14 year old didn't exactly barf when I read it to her.

So, here we have it--the sum total of my week's work. Pathetic LOL.

Fang Cell
Series Overview:

Some legends are born. Others are made. But the legend of FANG CELL was forged at the gates of Hell itself.

On December 21, 2012, the world of Naval Special Operations changed forever.

Now, a virtual warfare experiment gone wrong has torn a rift between the virtual realm and the physical one. The war game's fearsome supernatural warrior, Ryder Black, has been catapulted into physical reality. Capable of assuming the form of the Cerberus who guards the gates of Hell, he holds the power to summon demonic scourges upon the heads of his enemies.

Now Ryder Black’s DNA is being exploited by a ruthless Navy Captain hell bent on creating an immortal army known as Fang Cell.
Discovering that the war game’s highly addictive substance known as Immortium has entered reality along with Ryder Black, the Navy now holds the power to cage and control the supernatural operatives like animals. The hopelessly addicted Fangs are forced to do a madman's bidding on the battlefield, or to face a hellish withdrawal from the substance they would gladly kill for one more dose of.

But the balance of power over the Fangs is threatened by the discovery that there is more to Immortium than its ability to render the Fangs compliant. When human women begin shooting the mysterious drug for its unmatched aphrodisiac effect, the Fangs begin to learn that the will of the heart is far more powerful than the evil aspirations of a madman. But can the power of love possibly be enough to stop a self-serving Naval Officer from unleashing the scourges of Hell on an unsuspecting world?

Only the passions stirred in the hearts of the Fangs by the women who love them will serve to elevate their stories into the stuff of legend.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

Excerpt Day! From Kiss of the Cerberus

"You want me."
Dana's fingers curled, gripping tighter around the base of her snifter as her spine stiffened. Just who did he think he was?
Trying to appear unaffected by his directness, his insolence, she swirled the amber liquid around in the glass, lifting it to her nose to inhale its heady fragrance.
She would not turn around. Not yet. Be still, Dana….
She knew the man belonging to that voice hadn't meant those words as any question. Instead, he threw them down in the same casual, matter of fact manner one might use to take note of the weather. And Dana didn't need to turn around to glean who it was that owned the resonant voice that had rasped those presumptuous words. She already knew. Ryder Black. The man--no, the Fang--that, if the truth were to be told, she had come here to see. To spy on.Perhaps even to seduce?
"Look at me," he commanded.
Nobody had ever spoken to her like that, much less one if his kind. She had come here seeking a mindless encounter, longing to feel, if only for just this one night, like a woman again.
Only the satin half mask she wore had allowed her the anonymity she needed to act on those desires. Instead of the celebration of her womanhood she sought, his callous words had cut through her ruse, her fantasy. Had made her feel like meat.

Dana slammed down the contents of the snifter, summoning the affront his rude comment deserved. When she finally did spin around on her barstool, she meant only to skewer Ryder Black, first with her glare, and then with a few caustic words of her own. I'll have you brought up on charges for that attitude, Fang...
The utterance died on her lips before she ever spoke. She could feel her jaw dropping as she saw how close he stood behind close that she could feel the heat from his body warming her cheeks. She had no choice but to tilt her head back, seeking the face that belonged to that immense body, that sonorous voice. Her stare hitching upward, she could find no safe haven on which to rest her focus. To regroup.
Her gaze rode all the way from the muscled thighs straining against worn denim up to a remarkably beautiful set of icy, silver eyes. Ryder Black was composed of sinew and muscle, all hard edges and musky male. The man--the fang--was huge, and though she was no small woman herself, Dana resisted the urge to cringe in his shadow.
The glare she'd meant to pierce him with retreated and her gaze fell, snagging somewhere between his belt buckle and his rough hewn jaw. Bravado fading, she tore her attention away from his broad shoulders, and clung to the relative safety of a button that was threading halfway out of its hole, threatening to open wider the collar of his white button down.
His every breath teased her with glimpses of well developed pecs and a light dusting of crisp, golden curls. Fisting her hand against the desire to reach out and help that button along in its journey, she felt her anger change into something else.
Look away, Dana.
And finally, her body relented, doing her mind’s bidding.
Resting her gaze on the mirrored wall behind him, she caught sight of her own face. If she were to believe her reflection as it stared back at her, her expression had already betrayed her. Her flushed cheeks and parted lips looked to her like a woman overcome with rampant desire.
Yes. He had spoken the truth, after all.
She did want Ryder Black. She wanted to grab him by both sides of his collar, not so much to choke those insolent words from him....but rather to free that button, ripping his shirt open, exposing his torso. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear his buttons pinging on the floor around them as she feasted her eyes on that gigantic body.
And that’s when she realized exactly what it was Immortium did to a woman. It caused the body to act, unedited, on the mind’s hidden fantasies. Before she knew it, the crisped starched collar of his white shirt crackled as she gathered it in her fists. One well-timed yank, and his neckline was open, buttons pinging around the floor exactly as she’d envisioned.
His shirt falling open to his waist, she gasped at the sight of him.
It felt as if she were standing outside herself, watching her body take on a will not her own.
Rather, his will.
“No, Ryder Black,” she whispered into his ear. “I believe it is you who came here seeking me…”

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

We Interrupt this blog for a moment of respect...

A year ago today, my best friend, Drea, lived--and died--my greatest fear. She left three beautiful children behind her, two of whom have autism. I thought after a year of a world without Drea, I'd be better, ok, and ready to say let her rest. But I'm not. If anything, I'm worse. Everything about Drea's death feels so preventable to me....and I'm in the "if only" stage. If only I'd been geographically closer, if only I'd protested louder when she had her gastric bypass....when she was already so weakened from MS.

Now the reality that Drea truly is gone has set in. So has the pounding guilt that I was the one left standing....when she was the one who deserved to get to go on. She had so many dreams, so few of which her health allowed her to fulfill. Yet she chased them to the bitter end.

I've already wasted more years of my life than Drea ever got to live.

When I learned of Drea's death, I made her a promise. I promised her I'd carry on for both of us, because so many of the dreams I had....and kept putting off until tomorrow, or the next day....were the same dreams Drea had. I'm trying to make good on my vow to live for the two of us.

In a year's time, I've made good on our shared dream of fiction publication. I'm struggling every day to make good on my promise to get back home so that if Drea's children ever need a stand in mom....I'll be there.

And Drea, if you're standing over my shoulder, and sometimes I could swear to God that you are....your life isn't gone, sweetie. Yes, it's true, lives do go on, husband's remarry, but if I've learned anything about hearts in this world, its that their capacity for love is boundless. You are loved, Drea, and I promise you that your memory will last--will live--for as long as I draw breath.

I miss you Goon-bobble. I think I always will.

And I love you, too.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Kurt and Goldie Bringing Sexy Back

If the picture below doesn't make you believe in happily ever after, I don't know what will. We live in A culture that would have us believe that true love is deserved only by the young, the beautiful and the airbrushed.

But isn't true love born in the trials and tests of living?

Maybe I'm getting old, but for me, that's where sexy lives. And it looks like Kurt and Goldie have found the golden ticket--in each other.

Thanks, TMZ for one of the few positive, love affirming photos to ever appear on your site.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Red Sage Secrets, Volume 27...such good company!

It's official. My novella, Heart's Storm, has been slated to appear in Secrets, Volume 27, to appear at a bookstore near you in July, 2009.

It's a humbling moment once you've sold a piece to find yourself appearing in print beside some of your favorite writers. I'm thrilled to be sharing print space with my Red Sage sisters, Leigh Wyndfield and Nicole North.

I'll be putting up blurbs from each of the stories just as soon as we find out who the fourth author will be in this volume. But lemme tell're gonna love this book. A sweet talking rake, a passion struck mermaid, and a devilish, kilted hero who proves once and for all just what those bekilted highlanders really were hiding under those plaid pleats. :D

Friday, February 01, 2008

Get Your Freak on Friday!!!

Warning...this one is probably PG-13,so if you're squeamish about...anatomically suggestive portrayals of...umm....manhood...then his little celebration of some Grade A vintage beefcake probably isn't for you. ;c)


Thursday, January 31, 2008

What? I'm a writer?

Thanks to one of my twisted lit sisters, I've been reminded that this is supposed to be a blog about Barbie bashing...and...ahem....writing. You know, that which I do to avoid dealing with the *real* world. (Yes, Virginia, there is a world outside of your computer monitor...and it wants YOU!)

So. Writing. Yeah, I do that. And sometimes I agonize over it. Take this week for example.

I'm beginning to think I have some weird writer variant of OCD. Sure, I've been writing this week....for hours,honestly, but on the same scene. It's not a problem of plot...goodness, its a rip roaring one. Instead, I'm suffering this problem with aesthetics. But since I've got the action accounted for and the scene goal set, I should move on, right?

But I can't. I have this obsessiveness about how the words sound when they are read out loud and how they look as the reader's eye travels down the page. I like a certain ration of white space, which increases proportionately to the tension level in the scene.

So I agonize. Do the words flow? Do they chop, race, amble? Are the consonants hard enough and the vowels soft enough to take my reader where I want them to go?
If words aren't agreeing with the action on the page, then I can't move on. And once the words sound right, then guess what? Now the page has to look right. It simply must have the appropriate amount of white space to either draw the scene out, or give it the visual appearance of moving faster.

I wonder if anyone else is this obsessive? Is this some sophisticated way of avoiding the magic words--"the end"? I wonder about that, but I don't see my behavior changing, either. If I'm not aesthetically pleased with my prose....then I don't want to see it in print.

Yeah, I know. Freaky.

But then when did I ever stake clame to normal? :D What about the rest of my author friends out there? Do any of you have quirky habits that slow you down, but that you aren't willing to give up, either?

What am I working on? Kiss of the Cerberus, a hot romantic urban fantasy.

What am I listening to? The sound of my cat purring.

What's my goal for today? To lay the scene from hell to rest and move on for a Feb. 7 submission date. At this rate, I'll never make it. But moving forward, nonetheless.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Come on now, you KNEW this was coming....

Eeep! It's youtube to the rescue, and JUST as I'd begun descending into the depths of Barbie Bashing Withdrawal Syndrome (not a pretty sight, trust me. I was actually eyeballing pink prom dresses yesterday.....) Fortunately, my DD surfed me over to The Gothic Charm School with an eye toward correcting my blasphemous moment of pink perversion. :D

Enjoy. :D

Friday, January 25, 2008

Get your Freak on Friday....

Nothing like a man in uniform shaking his groove thang. :)

Friday, January 18, 2008

Don't Go to a Convention Without These!

My. Feet. Are. Killing. Me.

I can't count the number of times I said that at last years Romantic Times Booklover's Convention. Let's face it. Girlie shoes are not comfie. But somehow, an evening ensemble accessorized with sneakers just doesn't do it for me.

Now, we can have our heels...and our flats, too...all in the same pair of shoes!