Control! (#selfpublishing #kdp #smashwords)

By Lisabet Sarai

I published a book this afternoon, on Smashwords and Amazon KDP.

The process took about three hours, including creating a cover and wrestling with Word formatting. Oh, there was also some time consumed by a power outage that killed off our router for a while.

Of course, this volume—Divided We Fall—is just a 7500 word short story. A novel would have taken me longer, simply to get the formatting right. Nevertheless, self-publishing is definitely the way to go if you’re the type who likes instant gratification.

That’s not the main reason I’ve embraced the process, though. The most desirable aspect of self-publishing is the way it gives you almost total control.

You have control over the price. I’m convinced that many of my romance novels would sell much better if my main romance publisher didn’t charge so much (six or seven bucks for an ebook novel!), but there’s nothing I can do about that. My contracts state quite clearly that the publisher has final say over the selling price.

In addition, for a self-pubbed book, you can change the price when you want, if that suits your marketing strategy. Especially with Smashwords, it’s extremely easy to set up a discounted price for a limited period of time, or even make the book free for purposes of promotion. Amazon requires a bit more time and work to modify prices, and is rather hostile to free stories, but I gather even that can be arranged if you can document that the book is free on other platforms.

When you self-publish, you have control over the cover. Granted, this is a mixed blessing when you have only basic graphic arts skills, like me, but at least I don’t have to put up with covers that I hate. (If I have to look at another waxed, muscular male torso, I might vomit.) Most of my self-published books have simple covers based on a single stock photo. However, at least they don’t look like every other book that’s out there. Furthermore, if I decided it might be worth it, I could always pay to have a professional cover designed. And it would be exactly the way I wanted it. I wouldn’t have to negotiate with the art department, or accept a bland cover just because it matches the style of an imprint.

Finally, the most important kind of control, for me, is control over content. When I’m working on a book that I intend to self-publish, I don’t have to please anyone but myself. I can break genre rules right and left, if that suits me. I can use any sort of sexual terminology and portray any sort of erotic activity, without either being censored or accused of being coy. I don’t have to satisfy an editor or convince anyone that my book “fits” the publisher’s image or supposed readers.

I truly love the freedom of self-publishing. I should say that I consider publishing with Excessica to be self-publishing as well. Their cooperative model means that authors have full control over, and responsibility for, content, price, cover, editing and release date. Excessica handles the final formatting and submission to different publishers, plus adds the book to their own on-line store, and takes a 10% cut in return. I appreciate having someone more skilled handling these tasks, and am happy to pay for that.

So what’s the down side of self-publishing? It’s often claimed that self-published work sells more poorly than books released by publishing houses. Maybe that’s true for some people. As for me, all my books sell poorly. I think the titles I have with Excessica are probably my most popular right now—not counting Raw Silk, which continues to find new readers eighteen years after its first publication.

Obviously you’ve got to put in more effort editing your self-pubbed books. If you’re not confident about your own grammar and spelling, you need someone else to help. However, I’ve read (and reviewed) plenty of traditionally published works that suffered from inadequate editing. Signing a publishing contract does not guarantee that you’ll get great editing—nor does it free you from the ultimate responsibility for your words.

Self-pubbed books used to get less respect, but it’s not clear to me that this is still true. Many authors with stellar reputations are going the self-pub route for at least some of their work. I recently read a wonderful self-published title by K.D. Grace, for instance.

If you think that a publisher is going to be much help with marketing—sorry, but you’re deluding yourself. Publishers may have their own branded channels—web site, Facebook page, Twitter account and so on—but honestly, they are as clueless as the rest of us regarding the magic formula for selling books. You’ll have to market a traditionally published book as actively as a self-pubbed one, without having some of the same tools.

I could go on, but I’ve got three other blog posts to write today, so I’ll let my fellow Grip people expound further. (I’m especially interested to read what Cameron has to say, given that he has just started a publishing company.)

However, I’d like to share the blurb for my new book with you, because it’s a charity volume in response to the recent U.S. Election.

All proceeds from the book sales will go to Planned Parenthood. Right now they need all the help they can get!

Divided We Fall by Lisabet Sarai

Multiracial erotic romance, 7500 words

Hate takes too high a toll

Linh’s three year old brother has wandered out of Viet Village into Niggertown. Despite the danger, she has no choice but to go looking for him in hostile territory. She manages to convince the rifle-toting guard at the entrance to the black ghetto to help her search, using a mixture of bribery and bravado. As they comb the desolate streets of Niggertown, seeking any trace of Duy, Linh discovers that the barrio’s inhabitants aren’t necessarily the violent, drug-addled brutes she’s been taught to hate, and by the time Linh and Steel have rescued the injured toddler and spent a long night hiding in a derelict building, she has come to understand who are their real enemies.

Get your copy at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/699997

Avoiding Close Calls (#deadlines #stress #dreams)

By Lisabet Sarai

I dream about missing deadlines. My plane has already boarded, while I’m not even finished packing. I’ve got to teach a class in ten minutes, starting with the quiz I use to make sure everyone arrives on time, but I’m still half an hour from the university. Then there’s the classic anxiety dream where I realize I have an exam scheduled today, yet somehow haven’t studied or attended class for a full term —astonishing given how long it’s been since I graduated!

While these aren’t exactly nightmares, their regular recurrence testifies to my concern about the issue. In the real world, I work hard to avoid this sort of close call.

My DH and I are the kind of people who arrive at the airport more than the recommended two or three hours prior to departure, just in case we encounter some unexpected obstacles. I’ve spent a lot of time hanging around in airport restaurants, gates and lounges. On the other hand, in four decades traveling around the world, I’ve never missed a plane (though we almost didn’t make a connecting flight on a recent trip to China, due to poor planning on the part of the airline).

I spent sixteen years in school and university. In that entire period, I don’t remember ever turning in a late assignment—or “pulling an all-nighter”, as we used to call it. I’d start tackling homework or term papers the very day I learned about them. Now, when I have a commitment to produce some sort of work, I plan my schedule way ahead of time in order to make sure I can fulfill my promise. Occasionally I’ll experience problems and discover my effort estimates were too optimistic. I don’t react well to that sort of stress, as my long-suffering DH will attest. And when I have a challenging deadline, one I fear I can’t meet, I seriously suffer.

Not everyone is like me. (My students, in particular, seem to feel little distress about upcoming deadlines.) I’ve met people who seem to get a thrill out of living on the edge, cutting their margins to the absolute minimum, gleefully living one day at a time without concern for tomorrow’s looming responsibilities. I’d like to say that I envy them their lack of tension, but honestly, the prospect of being like that fills me with horror!

Our topic this fortnight is “Close Calls”. Some readers might argue that almost missing a deadline, or a plane flight, doesn’t capture the real meaning of the term. A close call, they’ll say, is a near-disaster that could not have been anticipated or avoided. My experience with the landslide in Peru, the subject of my post here when our topic was “Near-Death Experiences”, might qualify. Almost being discovered in flagrante by a parent or authority figure could be an equally good, though less severe, example. Having the condom break the day before you ovulated would definitely fit the topic. If you have any control, though, it’s not really a close call.

I’m not completely convinced. Obviously external circumstances cannot be predicted. The drunk driver who almost but not quite totals your car may be beyond your control. The earthquake that levels the town while you happen to be away on business; the fanatic who barges into the movie theater to mow down a dozen people, after you decide at the last minute to see a different film; the brick tumbling off a building that lands on the sidewalk two feet ahead of you; these all represent lucky escapes from dire events that could easily have impacted you. No deliberate action on your part could have prevented the terrible outcomes you barely avoided.

However, I think that some “close calls” are the direct result of the choices people make. People take risks, choosing to ignore the potential consequences. Indeed, risk can add to the excitement. I considered writing a quickie for this topic about having sex in a public place and nearly being caught. (I refrained, figuring Daddy X could do a much better job.) Without the danger of discovery, public sex wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

Some people prefer to push things to the limit. They don’t start on assigned work until the night before it’s due. They show up at the exit gate five minutes before it closes. They enjoy tempting fate.

Not me. I’m a pussy when it comes to stress. I recognized that I can’t control the universe, but I’ll do whatever I can to avoid close calls in situations where my actions make some difference.

Then I’ll write stories about those of you who dare to thumb their nose at danger. You’re much more interesting.

Insatiable

By Lisabet Sarai

I dream of heavy-laden banquet tables. Crisp-skinned, savory roast chickens, their walnut-and-raisin-studded stuffing leaking out onto artfully garnished platters. Barbecued lamb skewers arrayed on beds of saffron-scented pilaf. Broiled salmon brushed with tamari and garlic. Brick-colored candied yams piled into gleaming, sticky pyramids. Sweet corn glistening with melted butter. As I wander from room to room in this endless, deserted mansion, I spy a dozen kinds of cheese, two dozen varieties of olives. Dainty pastel-iced pastries tempt me. Massive apple and pumpkin pies tickle my nose with cinnamon and nutmeg. A fountain dispenses an endless stream of vanilla soft ice cream.

The mingled aromas of my favorite foods assault me. Saliva gathers in my mouth. My stomach growls. I want to eat it all. Confronted by such bounty, I don't know where to start.

Then I remember. I can't. I mustn't. Hunger tugs me toward the lusciously-arrayed buffets, but I must resist. Already I feel the flesh ballooning on my thighs and belly, from the mere thought of such indulgence. I run through the corridors, pursued by the scent of spices, roasted meat, caramelized sugar. There's no exit. I'm trapped.

I wake into a full-blown anxiety attack, my heart racing, sweat drenching my skinny, naked body. Calm, I must be calm. It's only a dream. I capture my bony wrist, encircling it with the thumb and forefinger of my other hand to reassure myself. I'm still thin enough. I'm still in control of that terrible hunger. I won't give in to it, ever.

I promise myself that I'll skip the slice of cantaloupe I usually eat for breakfast. Just in case. The gluttonous desires of my dream may have polluted me. Black coffee with artificial sweetener will be enough for today.

This is the nightmare of anorexia.

From the outside, anorexia looks trivial, capricious, especially compared to other forms of psychological illness like bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. “Oh,” people think. “She thinks she's fat. She doesn't like her body. She wants to lose weight. Nothing wrong with that, she's just taken it a bit too far. If she'd only start eating a little more, she'd be fine.”

The fact that our culture equates thinness with beauty makes anorexia seem almost rational. I can assure you from personal experience, though, that an anorexic is as crazy as someone who thinks she's Queen Victoria or who raves about being possessed by aliens. Anorexics suffer from equally disturbing delusions. We see ourselves as eternally fat and feel constantly threatened by our own bodies. When I was anorexic, I was possessed too, by a voracious demon whose hunger could never be appeased.

What the heck? you may be thinking. Hungry? When you're choosing to starve yourself? So if you're so hungry, then eat.

If only it were that simple.

I've come to understand that anorexia is not really about food at all. It's about control, or more precisely the fear of losing control. It's no accident that most cases afflict women in their teens, struggling to deal with all the changes of puberty and the pressures of emerging sexuality. Girls who have a perfectionist attitude tend to be more susceptible – you know, the ones who despair when they receive a grade of 98 instead of 100 or who spend hours every day practicing so that they'll make the varsity gymnastics team or the cheerleading squad or the All-State orchestra. That was me, the grind, the egghead, top of the class in every subject. We want to be good – the very best. And then we realize our bodies, our hormones, our desires are totally haywire. What we really want – oh, but it's unspeakable.

We can't control our carnal needs – indeed, consciously we might not even be aware of them – but food is something concrete, something we can manipulate and ration. We can apply the same discipline we exert in our studies, our athletics or our cultural pursuits, to cut down on the things that will make us “fat”. By depriving ourselves, we can prove how strong and pure we are. As our bodies shed the pounds, they become bright beacons advertising our virtue and self-control.

When I looked like a concentration camp victim, I thought I was beautiful.

Of course food is symbolic of other things as well. Like many mothers, mine equated food with nurturing, comfort and caring. When I rejected the (quite delicious) meals she cooked for me, I was rejecting her love. At least was the way she saw things. Meanwhile, I saw her as the enemy, trying to undermine my resolve to get my appetite under control – trying to “make me fat”.

The superficially rational aspects of anorexia and the hostility that often develops between the sufferer and those who are closest to her make the disease very difficult to treat. If the disease is about control, what is the remedy?

I can't speak for others, but my recovery started when I learned to trust someone else enough to give up control. My therapist, whom I saw for more than four years, somehow convinced me that he could keep me safe, even if I started to eat again. He was the total opposite of the Freudian stereotype, a short, chubby, jolly Latin who had no qualms about giving me a hug. I guess I fell in love with him (Freud's transference, perhaps, or maybe something more genuine). He told me once that I could do anything I wanted, and he would never judge me. “If you decided to go to the moon,” he said, “I'd be here when you got back, applauding.”

It took nearly a decade for me to learn how to trust myself with food and eat “normally”. It was during that recovery period that I was first exposed to dominance and submission. I realized recently that surrendering to my master had much in common with trusting my therapist. Like Dr. R, my master didn't judge me. He embraced and celebrated my deviant desires. When I gave him control, the fear went away, to be replaced with a special peace.

To explore this connection, I recently wrote a short story about BDSM and anorexia. “Sundae, Bloody Sundae” was published in the Goldie-nominated charity collection Coming Together: Girl on Girl. Here's a snippet that captures the horror of being an anorexic who's forced to eat, even by her lover.

****

Ponticelli's was at least as good as I'd remembered. I ordered baked stuffed lobster for both of us, with a Caesar salad and a delightful bottle of fumé blanc. Jana was even livelier than usual, talking with her hands in the way she does when she's really excited. I ache to capture her birdlike wrists in my bonds and force her to stillness.

I must have been a bit drunk. Certainly I was hungry. In no time, I'd transformed my lobster into a pile of polished shell. Leaning back in my chair, satisfied and content, I noticed that Jana was not nearly so far along.

“Girl, you're not doing justice to this fine crustacean,” I laughed. “Come here.” I grabbed one of the claws from her plate, extracted a succulent chunk of meat and dunked it in melted butter. I held the dripping morsel to her lips. “Open wide,” I ordered.

If I'd consumed a bit less wine, I'd probably have been able to label her expression. Recalling that instant now, I realize that what I saw on her face was pure terror. At the time, I thought that she was simply being stubborn, refusing to part her rosebud lips.

“Jana? Come on now, eat it.”

She shook her head. “Please, I'm not hungry, Mel.”

“It's delicious. Have a bite.”

“No, really...”

“Do I need to pull you onto my lap, flip up your skirt and wallop your skinny ass right here in front of everyone?” A spark of lust mingled with the dread in her eyes, hardening my resolve. “Do as you're told.”

I smeared some of the butter over her lips. She shrank back in her chair, away from the laden fork. “Jana,” I warned, struggling to keep my temper in check. “You're disappointing me. I want you to eat the lobster.”

She knew me well enough by then to recognize that I was not going to back down. Like a slow motion film, she opened her mouth and allowed me to place the butter-drenched meat on her tongue. I watched her chew and swallow, then presented her with another piece.

“No...”

“Jana...”

Reluctantly, she accepted the tidbit.

“That's my girl.” She favored me with a weak smile. “Again, now...” I stopped feeding her after another few bites. She looked so uncomfortable that I thought she might not be well. I wasn't terribly surprised when she excused herself to go to the ladies' room.

When more than fifteen minutes had passed without her returning to the table, though, I started to worry. I paid our check, grabbed my shoulder bag, and headed after her.

I pushed open the restroom door. “Jana? Are you all right?” After the tasteful dimness of the dining room, the glaring fluorescent lights made me blink. It took me a few seconds to locate my lover.

She huddled on the tiled floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up, arms hugging her chest. Her cheeks were chalk white. Her eyes were closed, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her green hem had ridden up, exposing her lean, pale thighs. She looked forlorn and frail, like an abandoned child. A faint whiff of sickness hung in the air.

Comprehension smashed into me like a speeding truck. I crouched next to her and smoothed the fine wheat-blond hair off her clammy forehead. “Why didn't you tell me, baby?”

Jana's face showed far more pain than it ever did when I flogged her. “I – I was ashamed. I thought that if you knew, if you saw the real me, you wouldn't want me anymore... I'm foul, disgusting, an ugly, jiggling lump of blubber...”

****

I believe I'm past the point where I'm terrified by my own hunger. Now I feel tremendous sympathy for the girls and their families still trapped in that nightmare. I'd like to tell them that there is a way out – that I escaped from that haunted mansion to live happy and healthy into my sixties. Perhaps that's a message they need to hear.

Note: the images accompanying this post are drawings I did in art therapy, during the three months I was a resident in a state psychiatric hospital.

Hot Self-Loving

By Charlotte Stein (Guest Blogger)

I’ve recently started a story about a woman whose furtive masturbatory endeavours get her into all sorts of trouble. And I kind of wanted to talk about that, and how women never admit that they like to diddle themselves, even though any reasonable person would probably go insane if they didn’t rub one out on their happy pillow seventeen times a day.

Or is that just me?

But seriously though, that’s not me. I almost never use a pillow.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, what I wanted to talk about. Which is women and empowerment and doing yourself, etc etc. Only as is so often the case with me, I found my mind wandering to the thing it always wanders to, on those cold lonely nights with my pillow, Dave.

Cocks. Because I love cocks, and HOMG I love them even more when they’re being stroked. Hopefully by some dude who thinks he’s being sneaky, probably as he lurks in the men’s bathrooms of the office he works at, gasping against tightly pressed together lips with his hand probably stuffed into his pants because dear God no, he can’t do it right out in the open!

Especially when I’m only too willing to burst into said bathroom, and kick in the stall door, and most likely catch a dude having an innocent poo on the toilet.

But seriously, here’s a short excerpt from my latest just-handed-in-novel, Control, about how much I like the idea of catching dudes doing naughty things:

---

‘Gabe, are you all right in there?’ I say, and it’s so much like a game I could cry with happiness. I can feel it filling my chest as much as it’s filling other places, even when I try to hold it down.

Don’t, I think, don’t, but then he answers:

‘I’m fine. Really. Don’t come in here.’

And I’m not sure I can stop it. He’s playing, with me. It’s obvious. I think he means it, but at the same time...

The door won’t be locked. I know it before I even get close to trying it. And I just reach out and turn the handle and push it open, not quite bursting in because I’ll never be Delaney, but close enough.

He has his trousers shoved down— not around his ankles, in a pathetic puddle. Taut between his legs, and no further than mid-thigh. He hasn’t taken the underwear off, and it flashes pink and gleaming against his delightfully hairy and finely muscled thighs.

I can’t see his balls, because the elastic is cutting over them— likely too tight for comfort. Though I suppose that’s the point. It doesn’t seem to be putting him off to have a pair of little knickers, digging into him.

Quite the contrary. His cock’s in his fist, the ruddy tip peeping between his tense, squeezing fingers, everything so clearly ready to go off that I freeze in delicious anticipation. I run my gaze all over this frankly startling tableau — one that’s so sexy and dirty and fabulous that I’m sure he must have planned it just so, oh God, you little whore — just waiting for it to happen.

But I guess he’s in no rush.

---

And now you’re thinking that I hang around in noted masturbation spots, waiting to jump out on unsuspecting men. Does it say something about me that now all I can think is: IS there such a thing as a noted masturbation spot? If I go down to Kew Gardens one day and visit their animal topiary, will I find Furtive Freddy pulling on his plonker, behind the leafy hippo?

Because grudamn, let me get my butt down there, immediately. Men of the world, beware. I’m addicted to your wanking, and I’m only too willing to resort to nefarious means, to catch you at it.

---

Charlotte Stein has been writing for over ten years, and perving on hot dudes for even longer than that. However, it’s only recently that she’s had the courage to pair the two together and pen some critically acclaimed, steamy-hot erotic romances. She lives in Brit-land with her very own hunk of manbeef, and their imaginary dog.

You can find her at
www.themightycharlottestein.blogspot.com, usually in the middle of rambling about nonsense, squee-ing over her totally unexpected life as a writer, and generally lusting after seriously sexy men.

Control, her novel about a woman who can’t decide between a submissive and a dominant, can be pre-ordered here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Control-Charlotte-Stein/dp/1907016449/