The Limits Of Willpower

By Ava March

“It’s the third house from the end. Left side. The white one.” As if that last bit was all that helpful. Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Most every house on his street resembled his own - a small white bungalow built around 1950.

“I know. I remember.”

Alex glanced to Mark. The man had only been to his house once. A handful of hours ago to pick him up, and it was dark now. He couldn’t help but be impressed.

Mark turned into his driveway and put the pickup truck in park. Without the noise from the street, Alex could hear the song that played on the radio. Billie Holiday’s scratchy voice seeped from the speakers in a low melodic rhythm. Old jazz? Interesting. He would have never guessed Mark was into it, but now, well, it seemed to fit him as perfectly as the navy polo that stretched across the broad width of his chest.

Discreetly rubbing his damp palms on his thighs, Alex shifted in the passenger seat and looked out the window. The outdoor light he’d flicked on right before leaving the house illuminated his front door. Well, he was officially home. Should he just get out of the truck, or did Mark want to kiss him? Or maybe he wasn’t really interested in him? Mark hadn’t said a word since they had left the movie theatre parking lot. Hell, Alex hated first dates. Truth be told, he sucked at them. Especially if he was attracted to the guy. Nerves clashing with the attraction heating his skin, tying his tongue into knots. Two hours at the theatre sitting next to Mark, so close every breath held a light, teasing hint of his cologne and every move brought some part of Alex’s body brushing against his…

“I had a nice evening.”

Alex swallowed, trying to find his voice, and looked to Mark whose shoulders were turned slightly toward him, left wrist resting casually on the steering wheel. “Yeah, me, too.”

Breath held and pressing down on his thigh to keep his leg from jittering, he waited as Mark’s gaze swept over his face. If he could just get past the first couple of dates. Past that awkward place where every word, every move, could be the wrong one. Constantly second guessing himself was damn tiring. He liked Mark, at least what he knew of him so far, and he was definitely attracted to him. He had a thing for strong, dark haired men and Mark, even with his good looks, didn’t seem to be an arrogant ass. A definite plus.

The song faded, offering a brief moment of silence before another began.

And then it occurred to him. He’s waiting for you to get out of the truck, idiot.

Disappointment and embarrassment washed over him. “Thanks for the movie,” he mumbled, as he reached for the lever on the door.

“Alex.”

“Yeah?” he said, turning back to Mark. But the word was lost in his throat as warm lips met his.

****

Contemporaries. I love to read them. Most of my favorite of favorite books are contemporary m/m romances. But as much as I love them, I simply cannot write them. My voice just isn’t suited to them.


It’s odd. It’s not like I talk like a woman from Regency England in everyday life. But if I tried to write a contemporary, my heroes would come out sounding like stuffy old men (did you notice how there isn’t much dialogue in my short little scene? - yeah, that was on purpose *g*). It’s like my muse has one track - historical - and that’s all it can do. You’d think with the amount of contemporaries I have read, that some of it would have sunk into the writing part of my head. But nope.


I tried once, a couple years ago, to start a contemporary. The idea for the scene was right there, I could see it playing out in my head, but damn if it wouldn’t go down onto the page. Seriously. I couldn’t even get past page one. Very frustrating exercise in futility.


And that little scene above? Took me two nights to write.


I’ve come to accept that just because I love to read something doesn’t mean that I can write it. It’s like the time I tried to learn how to play the violin. I bought one, practiced every night for like a year, and…damn I sucked. Will power can only go so far. At some point talent has to kick in, and like with my violin (that’s really pretty and has a beautiful rich tone…when my hubby plays it, that is), the talent for contemporaries just isn’t there for me.


Fortunately, I love historicals, too. Love my men in their stark white cravats and embroidered silk waistcoats. Love how they are mindful of the rules of proper decorum, but are very willing to throw the rules aside when behind closed doors. Still, it would be nice if I could write a book someday where my heroes could hold hands in public. Ah well, since that time will never come, I’ll get my hand-holding fix from books written by authors who have that talent to translate today onto the page.


Authors like Devon Rhodes. :D A huge thanks goes out to her for the invitation to guest post on Oh Get A Grip! *muwh* She knows I love her ;)

Thanks!


Ava March

-----------------

From Afar - Samhain/Feb 2009
Convincing Arthur - Loose Id
http://www.avamarch.com/
http://www.avamarch.blogspot.com/
M/M Erotic Romance…in the Regency Era

A Beatific Bard I Am Not

By Devon Rhodes


Disquiet.


I list to port
Sailing upon unfamiliar seas
Without a compass.


Silken threads bind.
Insecure in my security,
Uncertain.

A feathery touch doesn't reach
Yet leaves a bruise.
A scar.

A brand.


Marked invisibly within,
Anonymous, I move among the hordes
Alone.

Recognition is impossible.


With a stretch of flesh
The impermanent grafts,
Never to sunder.


A crack.

Snap.


Pain is fleeting but irrevocable
As I move beyond
Vows.


Creation degrades.
Erodes.


Hull is breached,
She is boarded
By a fated foe.


Irrelevancy.


Capsize complete,
The impact inevitable.


Awaiting salvage.


******

I have a very organized mind for the creative sort. I drive with a bird's-eye view map in my head, I'm equally at home with literature and accounting, and although I love the blurred edges of Impressionism, I am comfortable, happy with its definition of images, boundaries.

Anything abstract takes me right out of my comfort zone. I like to be able to clearly label things, have organization in my world.

When it come to either reading it or penning it, poetry makes my heart stop...not in a good way. Too open to interpretation, too vague, too few rules. Now, I'm sure that someone who is an afficianado of poetry will tell me there are rules, however my mind can't wrap itself around them or easily sense their boundaries. They are not readily apparent to me, and my mind revolts when I try to read it.

Even my sample above, to my mind, came out more like a draft of an idea than poetry. Time and again, I had to restrain myself from breaking into prose. I tried my best to feel my topic and take the process seriously, but I felt silly writing it, and even more silly putting it out there for others to read and roll their eyes over.

I love the idea of free-flowing thought and truly admire those who are able to express themselves in this manner.

But I ain't a poet...and I know it.


Historicals are a different matter. I absolutely love to read a well-done historical, of any subgenre. And I aspire to write one someday. However the attention to accuracy, the placement of things and events, the language and vocabulary, all overwhelm to make it seem a daunting task.

Every time I attempt one, the littlest details pull me right out of the story.. Was that even a word back then? What did they call underwear in that period? How did you address someone of that rank again?


Before long I've lost my thread amongst the minutiae. Harrowing to say the least, especially for someone who writes by the seat of their pants often as not.

But I do love the craft of historicals done well, and I haven't given up all thoughts of attempting one.

My guest blogger this week, Ava March, has a beautiful historical style and voice which effortlessly pulls the reader back into the Regency period, whether in her Ava m/m novellas, or what I call her "hot het historicals" as Evangeline Collins. Sigh. So wonderful.

A published historical by Devon? One day, I hope.

Poetry? Not so much.