by Jean Roberta
In Victorian novels (as well as those from earlier eras), heroines are saved from starvation and disgrace by offers of marriage from gentlemen of means, or by inheriting money from unexpected sources.
I seem to be a Victorian heroine, not that I was facing starvation or any more disgrace than I’ve faced for the past forty-some years.
Last week, I went to a lawyer’s office to pick up a very large cheque (5 figures in Canadian money) and bring it to the bank to park it in the joint account I share with my spouse Mirtha. This windfall is the last installment of my inheritance from my parents, who both passed away in 2009. There will be no more money from that source, and I will probably never hear from my two sisters again, since they will have no reason to forward me their emails about family financial affairs.
The amount in my bank account is already earmarked for some big projects: fixing the roof of the house where my younger stepson lives, still owned by Mirtha and me, and renovating the basement of our own house. (Since all the stuff down there will have to be cleared out, this project can wait until spring.)
I’ve already registered us to attend Eroticon in London, England, in March 2018. I hope we can meet up with erotic writers I already know.
I’m not sure an inheritance can be considered a “triumph,” since I didn’t do anything to earn it, but it’s certainly good news.
A character in my most recent story is saved from entering the oldest profession by parallel news about money from an estranged relative. The story itself is far from a triumph, since it was rejected by Delilah Devlin for her upcoming “bad boys” anthology about pirates. She explained that some of the stories she received had enough sex in them, but not enough romance for her "bad boy" series. Fair enough.
Considering that my story, “Launched,” takes place in the imaginary world of my novella, The Flight of the Black Swan, romance between a woman and a man would be quite a stretch.
The narrator, Lady Florinda, escapes from the family mansion in 1861 rather than be forced into an arranged marriage. She dyes her hair and finds a job as a barmaid called Flossie in a certain pub, the Fairy Ring, that caters to the Green Men’s Society of gentlemen who prefer other gentlemen.
Two of Flossie’s devoted customers turn out to be bisexual, and the three of them enjoy a romp in her little bed-chamber, where her two friends encourage her to join them on a stolen ship, The Black Swan, to evade the police. She says she just couldn’t, but tells them she will join the demimonde on land.
One of the men, himself a nobleman in disguise, gives her some good news:
Bruce used his shirt to wipe my face, my belly and my thighs. “Dearest, please don’t sell yourself to every man in London. I couldn’t bear to think about the treatment you could receive. You have resources, you know.”
If he meant my face and my body, how else could I use them except to barter for the necessities of life?
He changed the topic of conversation, or so I thought. “Did you ever hear of Lady Cassandra Hightart, your father’s cousin and my aunt by marriage?”
“Yes,” I told him, “but she never came to visit. I thought her cold and rude, or possibly insane.”
“That’s what you were told.” The look of sympathy in Bruce’s ocean-blue eyes was unsettling. Colin looked from one of us to the other as though watching a game. Or a duel.
“Your father never forgave her for leaving most of her fortune to you in her will. She took a fancy to you when you were a tiny girl just learning to speak, and you asked to use her parasol to shelter your favorite doll from the rain. She decided that if she never had children, she would make you her heiress. That was why she was banned from your house.”
For a moment, I was speechless. Bruce held me as I tried to digest the news.
“She has gone to her reward, as you probably know.”
“I didn’t.” I was growing indignant at my father, whose control over me was more important to him than my welfare. My mother surely would have protested against his methods had she lived.
“How smashing!” said Colin. “You’re going to be a lady indeed. Not to us, though.” He squeezed one of my nipples.
My body reacted, but my mind was whirling. “What do I need to do?” I asked Bruce.
“Before we go to sea, I shall introduce you to the solicitor handling the will. After that, it should be a simple matter of blocking your father’s interference. You’ve come of age, so he can’t claim to act in your behalf.”
Tears poured from my eyes, but now they were signs of joy. “Thank you,” I sniffed. “Thank you for this.”
“You can still whore about,” Colin advised me. “All the best ladies do.”
Another consideration presented itself to me. “How long have you known about Lady Cassandra’s will?”
Bruce looked away from me. “I knew before my own disgrace. Then, of course, I was banished from my own home, and I never had a chance to speak to you before finding you here. Why would I tell you something that might send you away from me? From us.”
So Bruce had resigned himself to my refusal to join him on a stolen ship, even if Colin hadn’t.
All we three had left to do was to clean up after ourselves in every sense. Luckily, there was some water in the pitcher on my trunk, which I used as a dressing-table, and I poured it into the basin to wash myself as well as I could.
I would have many opportunities for luxurious baths in hot soapy water in the future. For now, I wished to make myself presentable while avoiding an emotional scene with my two dear friends, from whom I would soon be parted. When I wiped my cunny with the edge of my wash-cloth, it was smeared with blood.
“Flossie.” Bruce’s low voice sounded almost like a lullaby. “Please let me keep the evidence as a souvenir.” He pulled the cloth from my hand, and I let it go. If he wanted a souvenir of my entry into sexual womanhood, that meant he didn’t intend to forget me.
We were all washed with tears again when we said our private goodbyes. Colin looked very downhearted when he realized that our paths had already diverged considerably. “We can send you letters,” he promised. “I’ll bring paper to write down our adventures, and when we meet other ships, I’ll ask them to take our epistles to you, in care of Mr. Robin Straw at The Fairy Ring.”
“I’ll watch for them, Colin. Please write to me too, Bruce. If you wish to send me private messages in code, use French or Latin, and I will use a dictionary to decipher them.”
My hairy, muscular man pressed me to his chest, and I could feel his heart thumping. “We’ll return someday, Florinda, and we hope you won’t shun us when we do.“
“Not even if I’m the wife of a prince. I wouldn’t marry any of them, but if I did, you would still be my honored guests.” For that, I received a kiss on the mouth from the man who held me, and a playful smack on the bottom from the other.
Bruce reluctantly opened his arms to let me dress myself in clean underthings and the same gown in which I had come upstairs, in what felt like a different age. I couldn’t afford to stop appearing as Flossie the Raven-Haired Barmaid until my affairs were settled.
And that is how I was launched into my present life, before the Black Swan played a celebrated part in the American war, and returned home in triumph. Just as my heart-brothers, the Green Men, have no regrets for anything they have done, neither have I.
I don’t know when this story will be launched on the world, but it probably won’t be any time soon. It could become part of a fleet of stories in the world of the Green Men.
Since I’m not planning to quit my job, however, I have a mountain of student essays to mark before launching into any new writing projects.
Showing posts with label Historical erotica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Historical erotica. Show all posts
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Friday, April 24, 2015
Illusions by Candlelight
By Jean Roberta
There is so much to say on this topic that I hardly know where to start.
At one time, I didn’t think it was possible to write explicit sex scenes in the style of some past era. I probably believed that sex hadn’t been discovered before the time of my parents’ courtship (WW2, hubba-hubba). Then I read The Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica, edited by Maxim Yakubowski (circa 1999). Those stories were both hot and realistic, and some were set in times and places before the Christian Era.
I wanted to write that stuff, but I wasn’t sure I could.
A lot of popular historical art that has been produced since 1980, approximately, manages to produce the flavor of a past era, but with full use of current technology and the relative freedom of a culture that isn’t dominated by a Church or an all-powerful Emperor. Historical movies that fit that description include the painterly films The French Lieutenant’s Woman (with a kind of Victorian palette) and Goya in Bourdeaux (which looks like the kind of film the Spanish painter Francisco Goya would have produced if video cameras had existed in the 1700s). Then there is Schindler’s List, set in the 1940s and shot in black-and-white, but with a crisper, clearer chiaroscuro than you can see in any movie actually made in that time.
The literary version of that kind of thing avoids the kind of euphemisms that were generally used in “literary fiction” (as distinct from “porn”) right up to recent times. (Try reading Hemingway’s famous line that “the earth moved,” or the intense abstractions in D.H. Lawrence’s sex scenes, or Radclyffe Hall’s version of lesbian sex: “And that night, they were not divided.” See if you can keep a straight face.)
Like Lisabet, I love the Victorian era (1830s-1900), though the Enlightenment and Romantic eras seem fun too (mid-1700s-1830s). I like the combination of a culture that is now far enough in the past to seem exotic, yet close enough to our time that the literature actually written in those days is still comprehensible. The language doesn’t need to be translated.
Shakespeare’s era (approximately 1590-1616) is a little more remote, but as Sacchi demonstrated, it’s still possible to write a story with a Shakespearean feel that doesn’t require pages of footnotes to be understood. (And on that note, William Shakespeare was born AND died on April 23. We can still drink to his memory a day late.)
Then there is the Renaissance and before that, the Middle Ages. Linguistically, 1100-1450 (more or less) was the era of Middle English, which definitely does not look or sound like modern English. Here is a famous passage (part of the Prologue of the Canterbury Tales, circa 1380s), which I can still recite from memory:
WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages):
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.
(There are many more lines, but these are the ones I remember.)
Anyone who wants to set a plot in an English-speaking environment before the mid-fifteenth century, and lure a non-scholarly 21st-century audience to read it, has to improvise a lot.
In order to write a story set in the universe of King Arthur (though technically, it’s about his conception), I reread my old copy of The Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Mallory (mid-1400s).
Here is the beginning of my story:
My lord, the Duke of Cornwall, has accepted Christ Jesus as his savior for a score of years. As his lady, I have a duty to pray as he does before our people, whatever I believe in my heart. My lord’s honor deserves no less.
How different things were when the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone commanded us to follow our hearts. No man took offense if his lady held a paramour in her arms before the Beltane fires, nor would a good woman try to keep her wedded lord on a short tether throughout life. I remember a time when love was not confined, but I was a little maid who barely understood it. I was simply Igraine then, and I was too merry to be wise.
Now I wait alone behind the thick stone walls of Castle Tintagel for news of my lord Cornwall, and of the King that I love beyond measure. They plan each other’s destruction, and I fear for them both.
I’ve written elsewhere about the challenges of writing this story. The editor to whom I sent it liked the style, but didn’t find the story sexy enough, even after I had revised it to give Igraine more, shall I say, physical ecstasy. Her emotional ambivalence (the King and the Duke are threatening to tear the kingdom apart over her – oh, for the love of all the saints!) seemed inherent in the original story. Whether this story will ever find a home remains to be seen. I might have to rewrite it as straight historical fiction, with much of the sex kept out of sight.
Since Annabeth was so flattering about The Flight of the Black Swan (set during the American Civil War, 1861-1865, and slightly beyond), I’ll introduce the narrator, Emily (represented in the audio version by a British actor, Catherine Carter). Here are her opening lines:
Almost the worst thing that can happen to a young lady is to be loved by her parents.
Consider it: attentive mothers and fathers do all in their power to protect their daughters from risk and notoriety—in short, from every experience which gives savor to life. Fortunately, I approached the age of majority with my most exciting memories of childhood intact.
The book is available in several formats from Amazon and from the publisher, Lethe.
I would love to read a sexually-explicit version of the gothic novel Wuthering Heights (written in the 1840s, but with much backstory set in the late 1700s). Since a certain British publisher has been soliciting raunchy versions of the “classics” for several years, I suspect that someone more qualified than I will write it before I could finish the necessary research. But then, there are quite a few intense female-female relationships in the fiction of that era that would benefit from a clearly lesbian interpretation. :)
There is so much to say on this topic that I hardly know where to start.
At one time, I didn’t think it was possible to write explicit sex scenes in the style of some past era. I probably believed that sex hadn’t been discovered before the time of my parents’ courtship (WW2, hubba-hubba). Then I read The Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica, edited by Maxim Yakubowski (circa 1999). Those stories were both hot and realistic, and some were set in times and places before the Christian Era.
I wanted to write that stuff, but I wasn’t sure I could.
A lot of popular historical art that has been produced since 1980, approximately, manages to produce the flavor of a past era, but with full use of current technology and the relative freedom of a culture that isn’t dominated by a Church or an all-powerful Emperor. Historical movies that fit that description include the painterly films The French Lieutenant’s Woman (with a kind of Victorian palette) and Goya in Bourdeaux (which looks like the kind of film the Spanish painter Francisco Goya would have produced if video cameras had existed in the 1700s). Then there is Schindler’s List, set in the 1940s and shot in black-and-white, but with a crisper, clearer chiaroscuro than you can see in any movie actually made in that time.
The literary version of that kind of thing avoids the kind of euphemisms that were generally used in “literary fiction” (as distinct from “porn”) right up to recent times. (Try reading Hemingway’s famous line that “the earth moved,” or the intense abstractions in D.H. Lawrence’s sex scenes, or Radclyffe Hall’s version of lesbian sex: “And that night, they were not divided.” See if you can keep a straight face.)
Like Lisabet, I love the Victorian era (1830s-1900), though the Enlightenment and Romantic eras seem fun too (mid-1700s-1830s). I like the combination of a culture that is now far enough in the past to seem exotic, yet close enough to our time that the literature actually written in those days is still comprehensible. The language doesn’t need to be translated.
Shakespeare’s era (approximately 1590-1616) is a little more remote, but as Sacchi demonstrated, it’s still possible to write a story with a Shakespearean feel that doesn’t require pages of footnotes to be understood. (And on that note, William Shakespeare was born AND died on April 23. We can still drink to his memory a day late.)
Then there is the Renaissance and before that, the Middle Ages. Linguistically, 1100-1450 (more or less) was the era of Middle English, which definitely does not look or sound like modern English. Here is a famous passage (part of the Prologue of the Canterbury Tales, circa 1380s), which I can still recite from memory:
WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye,
That slepen al the night with open ye,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages):
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.
(There are many more lines, but these are the ones I remember.)
Anyone who wants to set a plot in an English-speaking environment before the mid-fifteenth century, and lure a non-scholarly 21st-century audience to read it, has to improvise a lot.
In order to write a story set in the universe of King Arthur (though technically, it’s about his conception), I reread my old copy of The Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Mallory (mid-1400s).
Here is the beginning of my story:
My lord, the Duke of Cornwall, has accepted Christ Jesus as his savior for a score of years. As his lady, I have a duty to pray as he does before our people, whatever I believe in my heart. My lord’s honor deserves no less.
How different things were when the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone commanded us to follow our hearts. No man took offense if his lady held a paramour in her arms before the Beltane fires, nor would a good woman try to keep her wedded lord on a short tether throughout life. I remember a time when love was not confined, but I was a little maid who barely understood it. I was simply Igraine then, and I was too merry to be wise.
Now I wait alone behind the thick stone walls of Castle Tintagel for news of my lord Cornwall, and of the King that I love beyond measure. They plan each other’s destruction, and I fear for them both.
I’ve written elsewhere about the challenges of writing this story. The editor to whom I sent it liked the style, but didn’t find the story sexy enough, even after I had revised it to give Igraine more, shall I say, physical ecstasy. Her emotional ambivalence (the King and the Duke are threatening to tear the kingdom apart over her – oh, for the love of all the saints!) seemed inherent in the original story. Whether this story will ever find a home remains to be seen. I might have to rewrite it as straight historical fiction, with much of the sex kept out of sight.
Since Annabeth was so flattering about The Flight of the Black Swan (set during the American Civil War, 1861-1865, and slightly beyond), I’ll introduce the narrator, Emily (represented in the audio version by a British actor, Catherine Carter). Here are her opening lines:
Almost the worst thing that can happen to a young lady is to be loved by her parents.
Consider it: attentive mothers and fathers do all in their power to protect their daughters from risk and notoriety—in short, from every experience which gives savor to life. Fortunately, I approached the age of majority with my most exciting memories of childhood intact.
The book is available in several formats from Amazon and from the publisher, Lethe.
I would love to read a sexually-explicit version of the gothic novel Wuthering Heights (written in the 1840s, but with much backstory set in the late 1700s). Since a certain British publisher has been soliciting raunchy versions of the “classics” for several years, I suspect that someone more qualified than I will write it before I could finish the necessary research. But then, there are quite a few intense female-female relationships in the fiction of that era that would benefit from a clearly lesbian interpretation. :)
Thursday, April 23, 2015
More Into This Than I Thought
by Annabeth Leong
I never seek out historical fiction. In fact, I confess to an inner sigh at the thought. There is something about the phrase "historical fiction" that seems like too much work to me.
Then I think about my favorite things, and the historical pieces start stacking up.
I'm not sure if Jean Roberta will be too modest to talk about her own work, but I love The Flight of the Black Swan madly. Not only is it hot and wonderfully shameless, it has one of my very favorite historical elements: boats. Women running off on boats has always been an instant sell to me, since way, way back, when I first read Avi's The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle. If Amazon ever makes a bestseller list highlighting those titles, I will go bankrupt.
When I consider more deeply, I think part of it is that I'm not endlessly interested in every little detail. The clothes alone don't get me, nor do the events or the particular places. There are, however, things I really like. I'm interested in manners and protocols and the conflicts they create. Because of that, I've gradually had to admit a great weakness for regencies or anything Jane Austen-y.
While I'm plugging other people's books, here's another: Sense and Sensuality: Erotic Fantasies in the World of Jane Austen, edited by the excellent J. Blackmore.
A great deal of last week was dominated by a frantic and obsessive reading of Penelope Friday's Petticoats and Promises. This is, wonder of wonders, a lesbian regency romance. I am no expert, but it felt accurate to me, and did engage with issues of the scandal that would result if the romantic connection between the two main characters was discovered. It has some erotic scenes, but I'd say it's on the romance side of the line.
Anyway, as I was reading I kept thinking I would read the hell out of this genre if it was more of a genre. I even spent a couple days googling "lesbian regency romance" and various combinations thereof to see if I could find a list (and I'll gladly take recommendations in the comments!).
I think a lot of what I'm interested in is rebellion, no matter when or where it happens. It's particularly fascinating in a restrictive historical context. As people have pointed out, there are pitfalls to this. It's easy to understate the challenges characters are facing, or to overlook the way a character would likely think as a product of his or her time. When it's done right, it can make me ache and thrill.
My own historical writing is usually on that theme. I'm thinking about stories like The Miracles of Dorothea of Andrine, which I researched for extensively. It's deep in church politics, about a bishop investigating a woman who's been put forward as a candidate for beatification. What he finds, however, is that the woman in question has been heading a matriarchal Virgin Mary-worshipping sex cult.
I normally avoid advertising my own work here, but today is sort of fortuitous—it's the cover reveal day for Liquid Longing, which is a collection of many of my erotic speculative fiction stories and novellas. A lot of the pieces are set in fantasy versions of historical locations. In addition to the religious novella I already mentioned, there's also a piece set in ancient Tokyo, several stories set in ancient Greece, and one inspired by Mongolian legend. The cover artist put a lot of incredible research into creating the cover I'm posting here. Since I've already crossed the line, I'll also mention that I'm looking for people interested in reading advance copies of this book as well. Feel free to shoot me an email or ask me about it in the comments. I will warn that these stories are erotic, not romantic, and many of them are dark or taboo.
I feel like I've been incredibly scattered in this post, and I apologize for that (and for my lateness). I hope I'll get it together for a better essay-style thing next time! And I guess I should try to write an erotic story about a woman running off on a boat. :)
I never seek out historical fiction. In fact, I confess to an inner sigh at the thought. There is something about the phrase "historical fiction" that seems like too much work to me.
Then I think about my favorite things, and the historical pieces start stacking up.
I'm not sure if Jean Roberta will be too modest to talk about her own work, but I love The Flight of the Black Swan madly. Not only is it hot and wonderfully shameless, it has one of my very favorite historical elements: boats. Women running off on boats has always been an instant sell to me, since way, way back, when I first read Avi's The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle. If Amazon ever makes a bestseller list highlighting those titles, I will go bankrupt.
When I consider more deeply, I think part of it is that I'm not endlessly interested in every little detail. The clothes alone don't get me, nor do the events or the particular places. There are, however, things I really like. I'm interested in manners and protocols and the conflicts they create. Because of that, I've gradually had to admit a great weakness for regencies or anything Jane Austen-y.
While I'm plugging other people's books, here's another: Sense and Sensuality: Erotic Fantasies in the World of Jane Austen, edited by the excellent J. Blackmore.
A great deal of last week was dominated by a frantic and obsessive reading of Penelope Friday's Petticoats and Promises. This is, wonder of wonders, a lesbian regency romance. I am no expert, but it felt accurate to me, and did engage with issues of the scandal that would result if the romantic connection between the two main characters was discovered. It has some erotic scenes, but I'd say it's on the romance side of the line.
Anyway, as I was reading I kept thinking I would read the hell out of this genre if it was more of a genre. I even spent a couple days googling "lesbian regency romance" and various combinations thereof to see if I could find a list (and I'll gladly take recommendations in the comments!).
I think a lot of what I'm interested in is rebellion, no matter when or where it happens. It's particularly fascinating in a restrictive historical context. As people have pointed out, there are pitfalls to this. It's easy to understate the challenges characters are facing, or to overlook the way a character would likely think as a product of his or her time. When it's done right, it can make me ache and thrill.
My own historical writing is usually on that theme. I'm thinking about stories like The Miracles of Dorothea of Andrine, which I researched for extensively. It's deep in church politics, about a bishop investigating a woman who's been put forward as a candidate for beatification. What he finds, however, is that the woman in question has been heading a matriarchal Virgin Mary-worshipping sex cult.
I normally avoid advertising my own work here, but today is sort of fortuitous—it's the cover reveal day for Liquid Longing, which is a collection of many of my erotic speculative fiction stories and novellas. A lot of the pieces are set in fantasy versions of historical locations. In addition to the religious novella I already mentioned, there's also a piece set in ancient Tokyo, several stories set in ancient Greece, and one inspired by Mongolian legend. The cover artist put a lot of incredible research into creating the cover I'm posting here. Since I've already crossed the line, I'll also mention that I'm looking for people interested in reading advance copies of this book as well. Feel free to shoot me an email or ask me about it in the comments. I will warn that these stories are erotic, not romantic, and many of them are dark or taboo.
I feel like I've been incredibly scattered in this post, and I apologize for that (and for my lateness). I hope I'll get it together for a better essay-style thing next time! And I guess I should try to write an erotic story about a woman running off on a boat. :)
Saturday, December 5, 2009
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
“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
Monday, November 30, 2009
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.
Friday, October 16, 2009
The Alternative to History
by Helen E. H. Madden
Let me give you a little history on my relationship with history. It all started with my parents. As far back as I can remember, our house was filled with books, many of them historical works. My dad was a history major and a career military officer. He devoured books on every war ever fought on this planet. He also had a passion for anything Irish. Being a historian, Dad had traced his family tree all the way back to Connacht during the great potato famine, and found it full of colorful characters who did some of the most amazing things. He committed their lives to memory, both his and mine, so to say I have a sense of my family's place in history would be an understatement. I can recount tales from my patrilineal heritage the way some folks recite American fables of Paul Bunyan and John Henry.
My mother also had a taste for the historical. She loved to read classic fiction - Louisa Mae Alcott, Gene Stratton Porter, Charles Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and so forth (all of whom wrote contemporary fiction for their time, but today their works offer a delightful peek into the past). To make sure I was reading, Mom always passed these books on to me and then quizzed me about them a week or so later. Nowadays she sends me books by more current authors, but the stories are still set in the past - turn of the century Egypt as realized by Elizabeth Peters; medieval monasteries brought to life by Ellis Peters; and Queen Elizabeth's court as depicted by Phillipa Gregory. Half of my library must come from Mom. The other half is from Dad. He loves historical fiction too, especially murder mysteries, and often calls to complain about the fact that someone (i.e. me or my mother) has once again made off with a book he just bought, and would I happen to have his copy of the latest Lindsey Davis and Steven Saylor murder mystery lying around the house?
I suppose at this point I should also mention that I grew up in southeastern Virginia. Within a half-hour's drive of my home, we had historic Yorktown, site of the last major battle in the American Revolution; colonial Williamsburg, the political heart of a fledgling US of A; and Jamestown, the first permanent English settlement in the New World. A little farther afield, there were more historical sites than you could shake a stick at, including Mount Vernon, Monticello, Petersburg, and Appomattox. I lived and breathed this stuff growing up, working for local museums and libraries and newspapers. I knew so much local history I cursed Disney to the seven hells when they put out that travesty "Pocahontas." I still live in the same area, so over the years I've watched entranced as archaeologists uncovered the original fort at Jamestown and brought up the remains of the CSS Virginia. I visit both historical artifacts whenever I can. They're still within half an hour's driving distance of my home.
So yeah, I get history. I can't not get it, living where I live, having the family I have. The funny thing is I often forget how much history I have with history. And so when it comes to writing, I usually veer off in the direction of the completely fantastic rather than look at what I've lived and breathed for so many years.
That's been changing lately though. After years of writing speculative fiction, I find myself creeping toward the sub-genre of steampunk. Suddenly, all that Civil War history comes surging back to me. The last time I visited the CSS Virginia, I studied the displays and exhibits with an eye toward story ideas. Letters from lovers parted by the war, cameo brooches and hooped skirts, all that antiquated machinery and the ingenuity that went into inventing it, and the wild adventures that followed... how could I not be inspired?
So I started boning up on history, and it amazed me while reading this week's posts that no one here at the Grip mentioned one of the most significant facts in the history of human sexuality - the invention of the steam powered vibrator. During the Victorian era, women were often diagnosed with a condition known as hysteria. Doctors treated the victims of this "disease" by masturbating their patients to climax. It was a great money maker for the medical community, but it was also an extremely time consuming treatment and patients often returned for repeat sessions when they suffered another lapse, leaving doctors' hands completely fatigued. Then in 1869, Mr. George Taylor invented the Manipulator, the first steam powered vibrator, thus freeing doctors from performing such an odious treatment by hand. Imagine the world today if history had been just a little different...
Bedside Manor
By Helen E. H. Madden
(originally published on the Heat Flash Erotica Podcast)
Dr. Galen Lucius studied the diagrams on his desk and frowned.
"Exactly how big is this... contraption, Mr. Taylor?"
On the other side of the desk, a man in a cheap suit cleared his throat. "The main table is seven feet long by three feet wide, raised four and a half feet off the ground. The drive train is powered by a steam engine, which we can set up in the adjacent room--"
"Good lord! You mean this thing will take up two rooms in my hospital?"
"Well sir, a steam engine is rather large--"
"Too large." Dr. Lucius rolled up the diagrams and tossed them back to Mr. Taylor. "And too impersonal. Mr. Taylor, doctors need to nurture an ongoing relationship with their patients. That means using a hands-on approach to treating disease. If we start using machines for such delicate operations as this, what's next? Self-circumcision kits? Do-it-yourself labor and delivery? No sir, here at Bedside Manor, we take pride in treating our patients with a personal touch, and no touch is more personal than this."
"But it's the wave of the future!" Taylor protested. "And these machines are getting smaller all the time. Next year's models will be small enough that you could set up several in a single room. Then you could treat multiple patients at once! More patients means more money--"
Lucius shook his head. "No, no, no. I'm a doctor, not a financier." He cast a critical eye over the fuming salesman. "You know, Mr. Taylor, recent research has shown that hysteria isn't just limited to women. Men can suffer from it too. You certainly seem to be hysterical right now. Perhaps you should schedule an appointment? You'll find I'm very handy at treating this particular disease."
"Ah, no." Blushing, Taylor clutched his diagrams to his chest and backed away from the desk. "Thank you, but I think it's time for me to leave."
He stumbled out of the office, leaving Dr. Lucius to chuckle to himself. "Machines to treat hysteria. What will they think of next?"
The office door opened and Nurse Watson poked in her head. "Doctor? Miss McFadden is here for her twelve o'clock appointment."
"Yes, yes, show her to the treatment room. I'll be right there."
Humming, he got up from his desk and sauntered out of the office. In the treatment room, he found Miss McFadden, a pretty but prim spinster in her early thirties, waiting for him on the examining table. She wore a white hospital gown and a hesitant smile on her face.
Dr. Lucius nodded to his patient. "And how are you today, Miss McFadden?"
"Oh, terrible I'm afraid. I've been so out of sorts lately. I'm agitated, nervous, I can't sleep..."
"Hmmm. Sounds like a relapse." Dr. Lucius lifted the hem of the hospital gown above his patient's waist to expose her naked pubis. "Never fear. The usual treatment should take care of all that."
"I hope so, Doctor."
Dr. Lucius gently spread Miss McFadden's knees. He slipped a finger between her swollen labia to rub gently at the small, pink clitoris he found there. As she began to writhe and groan beneath his ministrations, he mused. To hell with Mr. Taylor and his machines. There was so much satisfaction to be gained from treating one's patients. It really did require a personal touch.
****
If you're still not hooked on historical erotica, don't despair. I just published four contemporary erotica stories with Logical Lust. You can get them here!
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