Subjective

The older I get, the more I come to understand how subjective "truth" actually is. We recall moments from childhood with an exactness that cannot be questioned. Until someone else who was there corrects you on key points. Key points which were absolutely unquestionable in your own mind.
By that time, of course, it's almost impossible to know which of you has remembered it correctly, or at least the closest to correctly. By that time it really doesn't matter, either. You each have your truth.

I don't tend to get people asking me about my own stories, and the veracity of events within them. In a way that's kind of weird since nearly all of my stories are set within the real world, for the most part. I have a single paranormal story, and the rest are contemporary erotic romance. I know of people writing bear shifters and aliens who get asked if their stories really happened!

My answer, were I asked, would probably be some kind of vague half-and-half statement about stories being based on true events, or inspired by them. For the most part that's exactly how it happens for me, and I'm certain for a lot of other writers, too.

As I alluded to in my first paragraph, we're all writing fiction every moment of our lives. Our brains are processing "truth" through layers of memory and filters of emotion. Not just the emotion of the moment, but through the memories dredged up by any one event, we could be processing the "right now" through the emotions of "last time this happened" or even "the first time this happened". Plus we all have a tendency to remember events in the way which suits our own purposes. Either we make ourselves a victim or a victor, but we try like hell to avoid being the asshole of the story.

So if our everyday lives are essentially fiction, then it stands to reason even the truest of true stories will still be filtered and colored.

I've received a fairly scathing review recently for one of my characters acting in a way the reader thought was unrealistic. (Their review was far more emotive than I'm making out!) I actually agree with that reviewer to a certain degree. My character was behaving in a manner which was perhaps over the top, or perhaps inconsistently. My counter, were I to be silly enough to contact the reviewer, would simply be that I'm writing fiction. I strongly doubt people read erotic romance for its gritty reality and the way it shows relationships as being a long stream of waiting for each other to finish using the toilet. And waiting another ten minutes when your partner finishes in there.

Following from Lisabet's point on Monday, I feel the best service "truth" can do in our stories is to inform our characters. When I visited my friend and co-author, Katie Salidas, in Las Vegas last September, we were chatting about this very thing. Her example was one I thought summed up the whole concept very well.

Katie writes vampires. Not only vampires, but the great majority of her work is in various vampire genres. Now obviously, she doesn't know what it's like to crave blood. But as a smoker who's tried to quit, she knows only too well the sensation of a bone-deep craving that's just not good for ya. She channeled that feeling most directly into her character Alyssa, the star of the Immortalis series, and her teething (heh) troubles when she was turned. But it's there across the board. An authenticity to the blood-lust. (She also brings that same seed of craving, but with a different overall tone, to her werewolves).

For me, the most obvious and direct channeling I do is in the way my heroes revere the full bodies of their curvy heroines. His description of her body, and the way it turns him on, is always drawn directly from my own experiences. This is a constant in my stories, because it's a constant in my life. It's my smoking. It's my truth.

Sex Education #powerplay #teacherstudent

I've been pretty open for the past year or so that I not only write as Willsin Rowe, but also as Abi Aiken. (Heck, I have three other pen names, too, but I keep those close to my chest).

And while I had a couple of solo titles out as Abi, right now I only have co-written titles out. Among those titles (all written with the lovely Rozlyn Sparks, which is the pen name of my even lovelier friend, Katie Salidas) are two trilogies. These trilogies both deal with different types of power play. The first one, Consummate Therapy, is the story of a stressed out female billionaire who's exhausted all means of mainstream therapy in trying to deal with her career-based anxiety. Her doctor ends up sending her for "Submission Therapy", where she gets taught, over the course of the three titles, the benefits of being able to let go. To allow others to do their jobs without her micromanagement. And in effect, to know her place.

But it's the other trilogy I'm focusing on today. It's called "Sex Education", and is a fun little romp between a flighty college student, Chelsea Hopkins, and her favorite teacher, Professor Blake. Again, it's a form of power-play, but while there is a D/s vibe to the stories, for me the kernel of the relationship is Blake's ability to draw her focus, to distract her from her mild self-harming tendencies... and to know that her place is in fact far more elevated than she feels.

As I was searching for an excerpt, I found myself drawn back into the banter and the voice of our main character. I feel she exudes an identifiably human weakness, as well as an internal steel she's reluctant to acknowledge. For those of us with Y-chromosomes she also pulls at several strings... not just the one between our legs. She awakens the very male desire to protect and even nurture. Sure, Professor Blake might force a cold shower on her as a form of nurture... but men and women tend to nurture in different fashions anyway! Heh.

* * * *

Excerpt from "Extra Classes" (book 3 in the Sex Education trilogy)
by Abi Aiken & Rozlyn Sparks

She glanced over the list of classes and nodded as she saw each grade. Mostly C’s a few B’s, pretty well par for the course for her. Passing was all that really mattered to Chelsea, and she’d done enough in every class to scrape through.

And then one grade in particular slapped her in the face and sent a shower of icicles through her blood.
Hands shaking with rage, Chelsea nearly crumpled the paper she’d just printed. How could he? Her heart was a war drum setting the pace as she stormed out of the building on her way to Professor Blake’s lecture hall. 

Rage made her deaf to her surroundings, and tears blinded her. This wasn’t the plan. Today was supposed to mark an end to the secrets. It was supposed to be the first day of the rest of her fucking life. This wasn’t how it was meant to play out at all. She gripped the treacherous scrap of paper in her fist as if it had a life she could squeeze out of it.

Even in heels she managed to almost sprint up the short flight of stairs and into the brownstone building without a single stumble. As she made plans get to the bottom of this—and quickly—she couldn’t help but think on how anger suddenly gave her mind the focus it always lacked. Well, not always. Professor Blake had tapped all kinds of reserves inside her. Which just made this betrayal sting even more. 

The lecture hall was empty, thankfully, because after cooling her heels in that cattle call of students she had no patience left. In through the hall and down the steps, her heels clip-clopping the whole way like a pantomime donkey, she found the door to his private office and threw it open. 

“You failed me!” Okay, so it would have been kind of smart to see if he was truly alone before screaming her accusation out at the top of her lungs, but smart had left the building. Chelsea still struggled with the whole concept of self-control. It seemed to be something which happened to other people, not her.

For all the noise and bluster of her entrance, Professor Blake seemed utterly unmoved. He simply sighed and finished writing in his notepad before looking up to meet the angry glare of his student and lover. “Sit down, please, Miss Hopkins.”

“I will not.” Her voice sounded almost alien to her, the words squeezing out of the tiny spaces between her gritted teeth. “We were supposed to be celebrating tonight. We were finally going to be able to acknowledge our relationship.” She held out the mangled page, pointing the end of it at him as if it were a dagger. “And you failed me!”

Professor Blake adjusted the glasses up on his nose and fixed Chelsea with a look so cold and calm that the heat of her anger cooled in an instant. His eyes told her wordlessly she’d crossed a line. She wracked her brain to remember anything he’d said to her that she could have somehow misunderstood.

Before opening his mouth, Professor Blake turned to his file cabinet and selected a folder. He eased it open and glanced at the contents for a moment before speaking.

“Whatever I may be in the privacy of my own home Miss Hopkins—and whatever personal relationship we may have—is secondary in importance to our professional conduct when we are on school grounds. This is an institute of higher learning. It is not a meeting place or a social club. And though your pouting behavior might give lie to the statement, this is not high school. Here, we cease to be lovers, confidantes, even friends. We are here for the furthering of education. Your education. The amount you pay for this privilege should give you pause.” He tossed the file in front of her. “And this mockery of an examination result should fill you with shame. You have spat on all your good work, and more cuttingly, on all of mine, as well.”

The file landed open and her final test lay on top, unfinished. Barely even a mark on it besides her name. If memory served, it had been a bad day. One of what she thought of as her insect sessions, where she was buzzing from thought to thought with nothing really to land on. In truth, she really hadn’t wanted to take the test. Professor Blake had been riding her hard—in class and in bed—preparing her for that test. The pressure had built up in her head so much she froze when the moment arrived. Of course, that was no excuse. But the brat in her had told her she could use her sweet young pussy to get away with it.

Clearly her inner brat was an idiot.

After giving her a moment to take in the document, he scooped it up and slid it back into the folder, clapping it shut so sharply it felt almost as if he’d slapped her. “I do not even know at the moment where to begin.”

He turned crisply and shoved the folder back into the cabinet. It was maybe the first time Chelsea had ever seen his actions driven by anger.

“You have disappointed me beyond words, Miss Hopkins. And your actions leave me disappointed with myself for all the leniencies I have granted you.”

“Leniencies?” Chelsea felt her eyes gaping along with her mouth. “What leniencies? You ignored me for the past week, except to single me out in front of everyone for any tiny mistake I made. You loaded me up with all sorts of shitty mumbo-jumbo and called it advanced reading.”

“Miss Hopkins…” His voice once again crackled with warning, but Chelsea was on a roll.

“And you’ve taken up so much of my time with your fucking sex games. That’s why I failed. I had no time to sleep, let alone study.”

He whirled to face her again, his blue eyes bright and sharp. “Miss Hopkins, you will hold your tongue. I demanded of you nothing which you were unable to handle, nor unwilling to give. Either in work or in… play. You have repaid my efforts with tardiness, bratty behavior, and an arrogant disregard which borders on professional suicide.”

Tears burst from Chelsea’s eyes as she took in the blunt force of his disappointment. She wished she’d taken the seat when he offered it. Her knees were suddenly on the verge of failing her, but to sit down now would feel like yet another loss.

“Miss Hopkins, I presented you a golden opportunity to excel. As has so often been the case throughout your life, it is your attitude which has been found wanting.”

He paused as he lowered himself into his leather chair. And then hit her with the hardest blow in his arsenal.

“I feel we need to take some time apart and reevaluate our situation.” 

It couldn’t have hurt more if the blow had been physical. She wanted to scream the word, no, but her throat was too dry to speak. Her mouth, however, gaped open. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. It was only one lousy test.

One test that made up the majority of her semester grade. God, she was so stupid. Had she really thought her skills in the bedroom would let her coast through? Had she been thinking at all?

“Now, if you please, I shall need you to take your leave. Some of your classmates made at least a token effort, and I have appointments to see several of them and discuss the futures they saw fit to strive for.” Professor Blake’s eyes returned to the notepad on his desk and he picked up his pen as if this conversation had no effect on him. Even his hand was rock steady as he made notes on the test papers.

Sometimes Chelsea wondered if he was part machine. His emotional control was so complete at times it was hard to believe he was the same man who could bring her to a roaring climax with only his tongue.

The world had gone numb for a moment, and Chelsea wasn’t sure how to act, what to do, where to go… and whether any of those mattered at all to him anymore.

“I–I can do better.” She summoned up all the voice she could and still only managed a mumble. 

“It is my awareness of that very fact which makes your result so disheartening, Miss Hopkins. Now if you please, I’m busy. Go home.”

Perspective

It seems, these days, gratitude can be a strange and mythical beast. I don't mean it's gone from this modern world, to be replaced by entitlement and expectation. I do think both of those elements have grown exponentially, but for the most part I believe they're built on a solid foundation of the things in life we should be grateful for.

Now I realize I'm risking coming across in a "you kids get off my lawn!" manner. But the truth is, the longer we live, the more material we have for comparison. The downside is that for most of us, our nostalgia glands get more and more active with the passing of every year, which leads us to potentially romanticize pain, suffering and poverty.

I'm certain that when we focus on our entitlements (as we see them) and our expectations, we automatically take our blessings for granted. And I know for certain I'm guilty of this. Those of us in self-employed creative fields tend to gravitate toward that kind of thinking, because we're so clearly putting parts of ourselves out for public scrutiny, much more than an employee of a multinational company (for example) might do. So we seek an external validation which is most certainly not owed to us by anyone.

Our constant outward focus then leads us to focus almost entirely on what we don't currently have. This is excellent for our ambition, and our quality control, and our productivity. Where it lets us down so many times is that it takes the focus away from the simple aspects of our own blessed existence which afford us the very freedom to put our work out there. Shelter, food, clean water, free time, electricity, interwebz access, a computer (however basic)... these are parts of life so common to so many of us in the First World that we (I) overlook just how goddamn amazing it is that we have them at all. And what all of these have in common with our entitlements and expectations is that nobody owes us any of them.

We sit and yell because our internet pages are slow to load. Or only half as many people bought our book as we'd hoped. Or that someone didn't "get" our story and gave it a 2-star rating when clearly if they'd only taken an extra few minutes to really understand why my character acted that way then they totes would have given it a 4-star. Minimum.

That's not to diminish the relative importance of fast internet, poor sales or unhelpful reviews. It's just to say what a luxury it is to be able to dedicate so much of my harrumphing time to them.

It's interesting to look, even briefly, at what kind of results gratitude can give us. Studies have shown marked increases in personal happiness, social acceptance, health, and even sleeping, all by someone adopting a more grateful attitude. Some folks like to keep a gratitude journal. I've seen a gratitude movement many times on Facebook (people posting one thing every day for which they're grateful). Whatever form it might take, it still pulls the focus on to what a person has, rather than what they have not. It still feeds the insatiable me-beast, but it helps to slot that beast into the vast jigsaw puzzle of life.

So let me take this moment to express my gratitude.

I'm grateful for all those things I mentioned above (shelter, food, etc). I've earned them, but that should never negate one's gratitude. I'm grateful for my beautiful family. I'm one part of what made that family what it is. One of our boys is a special guy who'll almost certainly never be an independent person. We also went within a hair's breadth of losing him when he was almost 2. So I greatly appreciate having that stable and loving unit around me and within me.

I'm grateful for the opportunity to pursue my childhood goal of writing stories and having people read them. Like most writers, for me it's always felt as though there's a well of words constantly bubbling over within me, and pouring them out, organizing them, coaxing them to play nice... it creates equilibrium in my life and my psyche. By extension, I'm grateful to those who read my words. Even more grateful to those who enjoy them, and say so publicly!

I'm grateful to those who've helped me along the way, simply for helping me. Equally, I'm grateful to those I've helped for allowing me to do so.

And I'm grateful to have this platform on which to express my views. Because the world will roll along whether I post here or not, and whether I write or not, and whether I make covers or not. None of us is irreplaceable, so to have the opportunity to connect in various ways, like we do these days, is worthy of celebration.

A Snippet of a Close Call

For about six years, maybe more, I've had a vampire story which I keep putting aside in favor of other stories (and cover art). I desperately want to finish it, but there are some gaping holes in the actual storyline which I've not managed to plug yet. I have bunches of scenes, and a start, and a finish... but my arc has more missing segments than a dissected millipede.

What I've discovered by re-reading the parts I've already written, though, is that I'm in love with both leads again. Susana Solos is an early-thirties career detective whose hatred of paranormal beings stems from a tragedy many years before, when she'd just graduated from the academy. Ryan (who for some reason doesn't yet have a surname!) was a police officer who was turned vampire against his will. They're forced to team up and the sparks fly (who'd a thunk it?!)

This particular snippet takes place on top of a skyscraper. I haven't settled on a city yet, but after my trip to the US in September-October, I'm leaning toward New York.

All the usual caveats apply, of course. Unedited, unfinished, unpolished...

* * * *

“You have to go so close to the edge, blood-boy?”

“Aw, sweet. You’re worried I’ll fall?”

“I’m worried I’ll push you.” I couldn’t keep the waver out of my voice. Ryan clearly noticed it, too.

“So it’s heights for you, huh? And smiling, of course.”

“What the hell are you—”

“Your biggest fears.” He stood on one leg and leaned way over the side. “It’s weird how phobias lose their edge when you discover they no longer have any power. Like when you realize you’re stronger than your father. And angrier. And it’s only habit that keeps you cowering.”

I couldn’t remember a time Ryan had spoken so freely.

“Daddy issues, deadman? Surprised you haven’t, y’know… dealt with that already. Bleh bleh and all that shit.”

He stood straight and adjusted his shoulders, casting off something invisible. Women’s intuition is nothing like vampires’ glamor, but suddenly there was a little crack I could wedge something sharp and irritating into.

“I mean, you’re lucky in a way, Bloodster. You can pass judgement on your daddy without worrying about hypocrisy.”

“Fuck you, Solos.”

“No, really. You know…'cause you’ll never be a daddy.”

At first I thought there was a chopper flying in from a distance. Then I realized it was Ryan. Growling.

Next thing I knew I was dangling over the edge of the building, suspended by the throat in the hydraulic grip of a pissed-off paranorm.

“You think just because it’s illegal that I won’t kill you, Solos?”

He emphasized the concept with a squeeze of his fingers. I grimaced, but managed to suppress the groan welling up inside me.

“Just make sure you do it all the fucking way, tick-boy. None of this half-assed undead shit.”

He darted his tongue across his mouth, his eyes wavering as he caressed the tips of his fangs. I knew enough about these freaks to know those points were like miniature cocks. That for him, licking those sharp little pricks was like rubbing himself.

“Getting off on something, leech?”

His eyes changed. They seemed to cross just a little, like his focus shifted to something an inch in front of my face. He stepped back and lowered me until I could get my toes onto the edge of the roof, but kept me leaning back over the abyss. 

“Let go of me, deadman. I dare you.”

It felt as if his fingers rippled against my skin. A beast beneath his skin searching for a way through. His breathing grew slower and deeper. I thought for a second he was actually going to pitch me down to the street.

“Shut up, Solos.” It was barely more than a whisper. “Calm down… and shut up.”

“What do you care how calm I am?”

“Shh...” As he brought his other hand up to the line of my jaw he winced. Like he was fighting his own actions. He pressed his thumbs in against my neck on both sides and made circles, running his skin across the flesh beneath. Like it was my pussy and he was searching for my clit.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I was still supremely aware of the yawning mass of nothing behind me, and I needed for him to either drop me or pull me back to safety. My heart was pounding with the stimulation of imminent death.

Then it came to me. With every thud of my heart his eyes wavered, his breath pulsed. Like the throbbing of orgasm. He could feel my blood.

“You gotta be kidding, vampy! You’re getting off on me?”

Now his voice took on an almost serpentine sibilance. “You can’t possibly understand, Solos. It’s nothing to do with you. Right now you’re just a drug to me. It doesn’t matter how much of a bitch you are.”

A shudder passed through his body, loosening his grip, and I slipped backward slightly. A burst of adrenaline kicked through me and he sucked in a guttering breath, turned his face to the sky and bared his fangs. The primordial fear of predators gave me an extra kick in the heart and he moaned in response. He made small choking sounds, his face slackened, and I was sure I was a goner. Then he winced and pulled me forward, throwing me to my hands and knees on the concrete of the roof.

I heard him land on his back right beside me and I glanced over. He had tiny spasms wriggling through him, like nervous tics. Shrugging one shoulder. Balling his hands. Working his mouth.

His breath punched in and out for a moment. A final sough of release gushed from him and signaled an end to his epileptic dance.

“Was that what I think it was, Bloodster?”

“You don’t… understand us… at all, Solos.” A couple more ragged breaths. “Blood is not just our food. It’s… like our faith, and our dream, and… well, it’s like sex was when we were human.”

“So you really were getting off on my pulse?”

He simply nodded.

“You didn’t just come did you?”

“Y’know, Solos, if you truly want to fight us, you really should get to know us better.”

“You did! You fucking pervert!”

He shook his head. “It’s not like it is between humans. Or I suppose, it’s not like it is for a human male. I didn’t just shoot my load or anything. It’s more like for the human females. It’s a rippling sensation that passes through–”

“So, what do you call it? A goregasm?”

“That’s cute. Fuck you.”

“Thought you just did. Maybe you should get around in rubber gloves. Save you some embarrassing moments.”

Random Reading

Unfortunately, my “what I’ve been reading” list is pretty unspectacular this time around. Oh, I’ve been nibbling at dozens of books, but nothing’s really bitten back. The main reading I’ve done has been my own upcoming release, “Playing House”, which hardly counts since that’s for work (although I’m really enjoying reading it as well!)

The main other reading I’ve done has been essentially forced upon me in a way. Despite the fact I’m over here in Australia, the great majority of my Facebook friends are in the US. And most of them have had opinions leading up to the election, and even stronger opinions now it’s passed. On one level it’s important to pretty much everyone in the world. But on a more real level it’s simply none of my beeswax. But it’s been occupying a lot of my attention.

If I were to give that reading any kind of review it would probably be four stars for entertainment value, one star for accuracy, two stars for character development… and I’d probably leave a long and wandering comment about how not a lot of it was believable!

In a general sense, my reading has ranged from bear shifters (both alien and earth-origin) to post-apocalypse (still, including those good ol’ brain munchin’ zombies) to Motorcycle Club dark erotic romance. And a couple of days ago I picked up the three-book boxed set of Tamara Rose Blodgett’s “Death” series. I haven’t started reading it yet, but it’s a series I’m making all new covers for (including that box set), and it’s always a bit of a buzz when you can see your own work on a Kindle!

So really, that’s about it for me. Sorry it’s not more exciting, but I’ve struggled to land a keeper, so to speak.

* * * *

COMING SOON – PLAYING HOUSE

Neat freak Lucy has a strict “no boys” policy when it comes to housemates… until fate and finances twist her world into knots.

Curvy redhead Lucy Featherstone has elevated her love of books to a romantic, but whimsical, climax. Her used bookstore has lent comfort during breakups from cheating assholes. It’s given her a sense of precious order in an increasingly chaotic world. And if it could just make her some damn money, everything would be just peachy.

Now, with her best friend moving out, suddenly Lucy’s mortgage is in danger. And the only solution is to break her biggest rule, and let a smelly boy move in. But when that boy happens to smell like sandalwood and sex, and look like a Greek god, Lucy’s grip on her rules—and reality—becomes that much harder to keep.

Coming Soon – "Playing House"

That's right, I finally have another book getting ready to leap forth into the great unknown. It's only been ten months... *cough*

Now, what does a new release have to do with costumes? Why, just that my two main characters actually met at a Christmas party, where one of them was dressed in a rather unflattering way. Since I rarely post any excerpts, and since this one actually fits the theme, I figured I'd have at it!

So here's a little snippet from early on in "Playing House". As with all my Willsin works, my heroine is delightfully curvy, with the kind of wide hips that could see a man through a hurricane, and the kind of smart mouth that could pin him to the wall. The difference with this story is it's more of a romantic comedy. It's just one with the bedroom door wide open.

(Incidentally, I'm straight and married and all that, but if Daniel, the cover model down there, were to ask... well, who knows what I might end up doing...)

* * * *

He flashed that annoyingly beautiful smile at me again and I couldn't stop myself from smiling back. Why did he have to be so damn personable and attractive? My brain was ordering me to reject him, but the rest of my body had other ideas. Stupid, treacherous hormones!

Toni and I sat on the sofa across from him, setting ourselves up like job interviewers. Mark bent and picked up the teapot.

“Lucy, you take yours with a dash of milk and a drizzle of honey, right?”

“Th–that’s right.” Again I glanced at Toni. I still hadn’t worked out her agenda, but it was clear that, in her head, this was a done deal.

He filled my cup to exactly three-quarters and then turned to Toni. “White with two?”

She nodded and he prepared hers, then sat back down.

“Aren't you having any, Mark?” I asked.

“Oh, no. I'm a coffee drinker. Never developed a taste for tea.”

“Hmm...”

For some reason that felt like a strike against him. I'd never taken to coffee, either the taste or the smell. But if he moved in he'd be filling the house with the pungent aroma of brewing beans. On the other hand, if it masked the smell of sweaty gym socks, then perhaps it was something I could live with.

He ran a hand back through his hair as he put one leg up over the other. It almost seemed he was part of the furniture. “Yeah, I worked my way through college as a barista. I even thought about giving away the studies and buying a little place of my own.”

“Why didn’t you?” That interested me more than a little, since essentially I’d done the same thing, only with books instead of beans.

Mark shrugged, with his eyebrows as much as his shoulders. “Practicality, I guess. There’s a zillion cafés out there, all fighting for a limited number of customers. Until the zombie apocalypse hits, people are always gonna need IT experts.”

Toni chugged half her tea and put her cup down, looking from Mark to me and back again. “Look, let's cut the crap, okay? Luce, you need someone to move in ASAP. Mark needs somewhere to live, like, yesterday. I know you guys have only just met, but I've known you both for years. You'll suit each other. Trust me.”

“That's not strictly true.”

I glanced over at Mark. “Sorry?”

“We have met before.”

I shook my head. “No. No, we haven't.” I knew that for sure, simply because if we had, he’d have featured in every erotic dream I’d had from that moment on.

“I'm not surprised you don't remember. It was at our work Halloween party last year. You went with Toni, because Robert couldn’t make it. You were dressed in black and you must have dyed your hair for the occasion. That’s why I thought you were a brunette.”

Scanning my brain, I strove to recall the night in question. I suddenly cringed as it came back to me. It happened to have been exactly one month since I'd sent Cameron packing. Pretty much my only memory of the evening was how quickly the vodka in my glass kept evaporating. “Oh, god. That’s right. I didn't hurl on your shoes or anything, did I?”

“No, you weren’t that drunk.”

“Huh. We must have met early in the evening then.”

“Yeah, we did. But I meant you wouldn't remember because I was in costume. Frankenstein's monster. It was pretty lame, but I don't usually go to those things. I didn’t really have the hang of it.”

“That was you?” I'd been halfway down that slippery slope of sweet, sweet alcohol at the time. “Did...we talk at all?” I bit my lip, hoping I hadn’t embarrassed myself.

He chuckled lightly. “Yep. You said my costume was probably an improvement on my real face.”

“Oh, god.” I hid behind my hands, peeking through my fingers at Toni who could barely contain her giggling. “I didn't really say that, did I?”

She just shrugged. “I don't know. I was racing you to the bottom of the bottle. Plus I believe I spent most of the night sexting Robert from one of the private offices. But given what was happening in your life at that point, then yeah. It sounds like the kind of thing you'd say.”

Then my memory clicked. That’s why his scent had seemed familiar as he’d walked in. There had been a hint of bourbon on his breath that night, but his blend of cologne and detergent had squirreled into my subconscious. I remembered, though, that it was the rich masculine tang of a healthy young man that had really shaken me. That must have been why I'd insulted him. I’d been scared of how delicious he’d smelled, and how warm it made me feel. 

* * * *

This story is in the late stages of editing now, and hopefully I'll have it out before November leaves us. My main stumbling block is that it's soooooo long (I love telling people that). It's at around 70,000 words now, which might come back a little with these final edits, but of course, it's also entirely possible it will grow a tad. I'll definitely keep folks appraised of release dates, too. I'm putting together an ARC (Advanced Review Copy) group as well, which is all kind of grown up and mature. And totally unlike me!

The Disapproval of Strangers

From the early years of life we encounter detractors of all kinds. Sometimes we learn to just roll with the criticism, other times it seems impossible not to take it as gospel. It can be as personal as hell, but there’s still an element to it which is bearable, because it’s a genuine exchange. Face to face, the person insulting and the person being insulted are potentially on level pegging. The insulter runs the risk of direct physical repercussions. At some level they’re actually genuinely invested in the exchange, even if all they’ve done is call you names.

With the explosion of social media over the past ten to twelve years, though, one of the most noticeable effects is a plethora of new people to hate on you. And plenty who love on you as well, but this blog is about the detractors so let’s save the lovers for laterz.

Probably my biggest bugbear with the communication of social media is the evil twin version of my favorite part. Its immediacy and vitality. The fact you can have a real-time conversation with someone in another country is still exciting to me, even after ten years of doing it. Firstly through email, now more generally through Facebook.

But because of that same immediacy, misinterpretations seem to abound far more easily. I made a post on Facebook about that very thing late last month and am cannibalizing it for this blog, in fact.

My feeling is that many forms of social media offer us a “disconnected connection”. We interact with the pictures and words of people we, in all likelihood, will never see in person. Often not even on video. Just static pictures and quick stabs of text. 

On many occasions, you’re probably dealing with someone you consider a friend, but even so, conversations are often limited to nothing but the words. No vocal tone, and no body language. Mistakes can come much more easily, but at least with a friend there’s usually the benefit of the doubt. They might think you’ve said something terrible about their mother, but they’ll wait for you to explain or they’ll politely enquire.

In the hurly-burly of general social media, such as commenting on a Facebook post, you open yourself up to all kinds of people. Unlike your friends, and even unlike your childhood detractors, these strangers have absolutely nothing invested in the exchange. They can crap on your comment with no repercussions beyond what they choose. They can drop their “gold” and never return to the thread.

And so often, our beautiful English language becomes a type of Rorschach test, where folks look at your words and find a butterfly. Or a serial killer wearing a corset.

In later life those of us who go on to work in creative fields tend to unwittingly court detractors from far and wide as a direct effect of us putting so much of ourselves out there. Not necessarily our personal lives, but every piece we create in any field bears part of our souls, or some such fancy-pants malarkey. It’s inevitable that someone hating on my story is really hating on the precious wonder which is me.

Touching on part of Giselle’s blog, the way I see all this relating to writers and writing is through reviews. Fly-by one-stars are not uncommon these days, and there isn’t really any ground I can stand on to say any review is or is not warranted. For myself, I struggle to think of a genuine (i.e. non-scammy) book I’ve ever seen which would truly deserve only one star, but others feel differently and that is, of course, their right.

What does bother me about it, though, is again the lack of investment. Where a book critic is paid by a publication to accurately review a story, they have something to lose by being untruthful or juvenile or just plain wrong. And that is, their job. That’s obviously not true for our keyboard warriors out there.

But what I’ve come to realize is how easy it can be to simply put aside the distraction of detraction. Whether it’s someone’s utterly bizarre comment on Facebook which shows they completely misunderstood your meaning, or a rant-infused review of your book which makes you doubt they even saw it, let alone read it, there’s one piece of Willsin’s Wisdom which gets me through.

The only power in a stranger’s disapproval, is that which we give it.

Readin', Readin', Readin'... On The Brains They're Feedin'...

Okay, so I'm still devouring zombie fiction like zombies devour brains in fiction. For many of the same reasons as before. Enjoyment and research.
I've joined a bunch of different groups on Facebook dedicated to those who read and write zombie and post-apocalypse fiction, and through one or more of those groups I was shown a trailer for an upcoming movie, The Girl With All The Gifts.

From watching the trailer, I learned of the book by the same name and went straight to my local library's website to put a hold on that baby.
I was not sorry. In my summation here I'll try my best to avoid spoilers, but I might accidentally let one or two slip. If so, I apologize in advance.
This book, by M.R. Carey, lit me up in much the same way as my other favorite in this overall genre (The Reapers Are The Angels, which I mentioned in my previous What Are You Reading? blog). The Girl With All The Gifts, to me, stands slightly apart from the great majority of zombie-based stories, for the way it integrates the zombies ("hungries"). For the most part, they fulfill the role of force, plot point, motivation etc. Their existence is what makes this particular world what it is. Zombies make the world go 'round, the world go 'round...
It's the fact there are at least two kinds of hungries which make this book stand apart from so many others, and the focus on the second kind—hungries who are not mindless brain-chomping automatons—is the major manifestation of this difference.
What strikes the hardest with this story, though, is the line-blurring which results. If you've watched the trailer up there, you most likely have worked out one of the integral parts of the tale: that the cute kiddies in the wheelchairs, all bound up, are the second type of hungry. Thinking, feeling beings who just happen to also be deadly carnivorous monsters.
I found the interplay between the major characters to be wonderful. Not too many of them like each other, and some actively hate the others. And that's just the humans. Throw in the "junkers"—humans who decided not to join our main group which is overseen by what's left of the military and government organizations—and we have tensions galore.
Though she's a major player, the character of Dr Caroline Caldwell (played by Glenn Close in the movie) is by no means a hero except in her own version of the truth. I found her utterly fascinating, though I suspect some integral elements of the book version were not carried through to the movie. In the book she has a strong streak of vanity which manifests most obviously in her near-obsessive application of bright red lipstick. Obviously something which is totally unnecessary in a post-apocalyptic world.
Her vanity is fueled in part by wounded pride, having been left off the specialist teams which were first sent out, many years before, to battle the hungries when they first arose. To find a cure. She was, in essentially the most qualified candidate not to have made the cut. Her chief desire throughout the story is some form of redemption, which really has I told you so as its dark heart.
The tensions which arise between the emotionally-guarded Sergeant Parks and the guilt-ridden bleeding-heart-ness of Helen Justineau was another major cog which drove the overall engine. Having said that, barely anyone in the story manages to avoid tensions with Sergeant Parks, who is essentially the spine of the group, and of the story. When all others are despairing or panicking, when there are no answers, he's the one who makes the hard decisions. Which only makes others hate him more in most cases.
There were a few sections which had me giving the book a bit of side-eye. Occasionally there are some hefty info dumps. Those are well-written and all, but what struck me the most was that they were often between two characters who already knew all the info being dumped. That simply struck me as a little odd.
The final payoff of the story had me holding my breath as I read. I can't even really explain how I felt, because even my reaction runs a risk of being a bit of a spoiler. But if you're into post-apocalypse, if you're into stories which veer toward literary fiction but with a heart of action and suspense, I highly recommend giving The Girl With All The Gifts a try.
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As a side note, and because this blog is really more about the erotic and romantic genres, I'm also in the middle of reading Pack Challenge by Shelly Laurenston. It's book 1 in the Magnus Pack series. This book was gifted to me, and I gotta say, I'm really enjoying it. It's sassy and snappy, and pushes all the right buttons for paranormal e-rom. Some sections I've found a tiny bit difficult to follow, in part because there are several characters overlapping each other (interrupting, getting physical, that kind of thing). In fact, it's in part the smoothness of the rest of the writing which makes these sections harder for me as a reader... because I'm greasing through it quite quickly and find I've not concentrated as well as I should have! But overall, a very sexy read so far.

False Sense of Entitlement

At the end of last year, all of us here at the Grip made suggestions for topics. This one actually happens to have been one of my suggestions. Yay me!

All right, so entitlement is something we’ve probably all experienced before. After all, the word technically means “the fact of having a right to something”. That could be something as simple as your weekly wage. You’re entitled to receive that as recompense for doing your job. Or something as basic as respect, which should be afforded every person until such time as they show they’re not worthy of it.

Where the trouble starts, and indeed where my inspiration came from to suggest this as a topic, is really that ever-growing bugbear, a false sense of entitlement. Truly it seems to be more rampant with every passing week.

We authors usually experience this phenomenon in the form of piracy. Folks uploading our books to pirate sites, and others taking advantage of it. There was a reasonably large furore a few months back when someone on Facebook made a public post requesting links to download books for free. That was dealt with in the way you’d expect… most people piling on and saying “yeah, we want the freez too, maaaaan”.

The occasional voice of logic and reason got in there and pointed out it was actually stealing. That these people were essentially taking the money from the authors’ pockets. To which one person replied “I think [the authors] make enough”, and to which another replied “yo, but we’re poor” (I don’t guarantee I have those quotes verbatim).

Look, in all seriousness, I don’t have a lot to add to that. People steal stuff and claim they were too poor to buy it. That might be true, but it’s one thing to ask for something and explain you’re doing so because you’re poor. It’s a whole other to be running down the street with it and yelling over your shoulder “yo, but I’m poor, man”. Doesn’t quite feel the same. And seriously, if simply being poor was the problem, I doubt they’d be stealing books rather than food or clothing.

The thing about it is, though, it’s not just books. And the other thing about it is that most humans, including authors, are totally cool with all kinds of entitled shit… until it hits home.

Comedian Bill Burr observed a few years ago that in the case of stand up comedy, people were generally happy to laugh at edgy material that poked fun at religion, race, sexual orientation etc. That is, right up until that material infringed on their particular edge. When a comedian was making fun of others, then it was jokes. Now he’s making fun of me, “he’s making statements”.

How is this relevant to the point I was heading for?

It’s not a real biggie. I have just observed many authors who moan about their books being pirated, even going as far as doing the math. That the five thousand books downloaded from that pirate site would have been worth whatever… ten thousand dollars, perhaps. Yet so many of those same authors think nothing of finding a torrent and downloading, say, the entire Breaking Bad series. For free. As pirates.

Now it’s entirely possible the production companies who make those TV series (and movies, and albums etc) DO “make enough” and won’t be destitute because of the false sense of entitlement of those particular authors. And it’s entirely possible the authors are “poor, yo”, and equally possible their situation has been caused by, or at least exacerbated by, book piracy.

But are those authors acting any less entitled than the book pirates?

Personally, I don’t think so.

It’s really important to note, of course, that I’m making no sweeping statements here. I’m not suggesting it’s all, or even a majority, of authors behaving this way. I’m simply pointing out that I know some do. Some others take a much more laissez-faire approach. They don’t think twice about downloading a TV series illegally, but by the same token turn a blind eye to those who are pirating their books. Still not an ideal setup but at least not hypocritical.

Personally, I strive to keep everything above board. I do not download from torrent sites, and I do not actively pirate anything, nor do I accept pirated items. The trouble these days is how hard it is to avoid doing it even passively. Watched a song on Youtube? Was it on the artist’s own channel, or their company’s? If not, then it was probably there illegally and the artist makes no money from it.

On the author side of things, we’ve had a hand in exacerbating this situation. Offering ten novels in a box set for 99¢ was a great idea when it would get that bundle to the top 100 on Amazon, and perhaps bestseller status on USA Today and maybe even New York Times lists. It worked then, and because of that, it became a bloated market.

And now, the general buying public gets upset if they get ten novels for 99¢ and only like three of them. “I liked less than a third of these books… it was a waste of money”.

Meantime, the ten authors are each making under 4¢ per copy sold. So yeah… they’re poor, yo.

I’m sure we’ve all noticed the cyclical nature of it all.

So I suppose the end point of all this is that I’d urge those who create items which can be pirated to be part of the change they wish to see in the world. If you don’t want people pirating your books, then don’t pirate someone else’s movie, or album, or TV series. 

Will it stop your books being pirated? Hell no. But at least you won’t be contributing to the vicious cycle, and you can sleep long hours and wake to bright sunshine and everywhere you go pretty birds will land on your shoulder and sing sweet songs to you while your excess kilos evaporate from eating magical chocolate.

* * * *

EDIT: I also forgot to mention that, among other things I've been doing lately, I've also moved into creating pre-made cover art. These are quick and painless covers from the author side of things. Pick one, tell the artist the title and author name and, as they say in Australia "wah lah"!

I've made nine covers so far, in various genres. If you'd like to check them out, come on over here ––––> https://thebookcoverdesigner.com/designers/willsin-rowe/

Success At Many Levels

Success is, to me, a many-tiered beastie. We might as well opt for the standard kind of definitions and call those tiers “macro”, “meso”, and “micro”.

Mostly, my focus here will be around publishing, because that’s what we’re all about, right? But as with any creative endeavour, or really any kind of employment, it’s truly impossible at some level not to have the worker bleed somewhat into the work. So I’ll step across to non-publishing factors of success, as I see them, too.

Macro-success

I guess in our society, the most overt measure of macro-success would be chart-topping books, legions of fans, houses by the sea, yachts in space and all that kind of thing. Or simply the ability to live an above-average existence funded entirely by one’s royalties. A less overt, but still tangible, equivalent might be oceans of praise in the form of reviews. 

It’s also not impossible to have both of those examples at once, though of course we’ve all seen evidence that society has a self-regulating effect. In Australia we call it the “tall poppy syndrome” (and perhaps that’s more of a global term). Essentially, the gaining of mass popularity does tend to bring the trolls out from under their bridges and onto their keyboards. Sometimes they grunt out milder, passive-aggressive stuff about “liking this before it was popular”, which at the minimum implies they no longer do now it is. Inevitably, there will be more than enough folk who “must have read a different book to everyone else” or “can’t understand why anyone would even finish this”. Even that is a mark of macro-success; that you’ve done so well people need to question how it happened.

I honestly can’t venture an opinion on macro-success from personal experience. My greatest successes in publishing have come via cover art, and while my work might have been one factor in lifting a book to the New York Times bestseller list, let’s not kid ourselves that it’s any more than a potential contributor. 

As an author, I was once part of an anthology which reached #34 on the Amazon charts, and gained USA Today bestseller status, but while it gave me a buzz (and my healthiest-ever month of royalties by a factor of at least 10x), I knew the success belonged to the big names in the bundle, and they graciously carried me along in their luggage.

Meso-success

Again from a sales point of view, this would probably be measured as earning something around a living wage. Perhaps earning enough to pay the regular bills and cover mild emergencies, but not enough that you can buy a third car and pay cash for it. Receiving enough reviews, at a high enough rating, to score a Bookbub thingummy (’cause I clearly know what I’m talking about with this stuff!) Overhearing someone you don’t know say “oh, I’ve heard of her” or reading on social media that “someone told me he’s an asshole”. That the thousand people who read you really love your work, but it hasn’t transpired that another hundred-thousand people have discovered you.

But aside from those measurable and monetary moments, meso-success also exists in elements such as improving your completion rate. Most writers have anything from a half-dozen to several dozen stories on the hop at any one time. Personally, I think I have around thirty in various states of completion, which I think I’ve mentioned here before. One of the easiest parts of writing is getting the spark for a story and tossing words at it to see what sticks. Crafting that monkey into a complete and marketable beastie is a whole lot harder, and often it’s because of the fresh sparks of ideas coming along which won’t play nice with that three-quarters-written thing you swore you’d finish before leaping into something else.

So meso-success could be a behavioural thayng, too. Developing your own discipline to the point where you finish at least half of the stories you start. That’s a step I’m in the middle of right now. And as a side-note to that, disciplining yourself to write longer stories. Again, I’m doing that at the moment.

My old story, “Playing House” (written as Abi Aiken), was previously published at around 34,500 words. I’ve been ploughing through that baby for a few weeks now, and so far it’s gone past 59,000 words. Given that I’ve also removed sections and words from the original story, I’ve probably written another 30,000 words or so on this story. That means the new parts alone on “Playing House” are currently the second-longest story I’ve ever written! Behind the original version. And since I still have around 4,000 words I’ve not yet touched, who knows? As Adam said to Eve, “you better stand back… I don’t know how big this thing gets”.

Micro-success

Sales-wise, I guess the micro-successes are the days where you sell a couple more books than you expected to, or than your patterns would indicate. Tiny steps which can be celebrated as such.

Writing-wise, to me, micro-success exists in those moments where you craft a sentence, or a paragraph, which sets your mind abuzz. It can also come from that moment where you finish a thought or a theme you initiated three chapters earlier, and sometimes without having realized you’d even picked out that particular thread. When you go off-reservation without knowing where you’re headed and then stumble on something you never realized you were looking for.

And when you pull enough of those micro-successes together, they make your story essentially into a geodesic dome. The bigger it gets, the stronger it becomes.

Outside of writing, successes are defined in other ways, naturally. For me, as a husband and father who works from home at his writing and cover art, my micro-successes come in ways which would seem boring to 20-year-old Willsin. The days where I got the laundry washed, hung out, brought in, folded and put away before my wife gets home… that’s a micro-success. It’s one less thing she has to stress about, and her resultant happiness gives me a buzz in the belly. Having dinner organized and sometimes even prepared when she walks in… success! An afternoon that runs smoothly with my sons after picking them up from school. Yeah, baby.

Meso-success in non-writing terms, for me, might be things such as the family holiday we’re taking to the USA in September/October. With our special man and his unreliable bodily functions, this trip has been really hard to talk ourselves into. It’s now been 20 years since we’ve travelled overseas, and for most of that time we’ve been parents and house-owners. The fact we can not only afford the holiday, but can put on a brave face and say “we’ll do it in the face of the issues” is huge to us. Meso-success.

Macro-success? Well, my personal macro-success would be the stability of my family despite issues thrown at us. Having a special-needs kid can sometimes break a marriage, but it’s just made ours stronger. 22 years and counting, plus 6 years of living in sin beforehand! Staying in this one house now for over 14 years is a massive record-breaker for us. Our previous record was 3 years. This is the only house Mister Almost-13 has lived in, and it’s the only house Mister Special would remember.

And then there’s the wonderful Venn diagram… where all three types of success blend. Within writing, the micro-success of stringing together bunches of mind-buzzing sentences into paragraphs leads to momentum. Momentum leads to the meso-success of finishing more and more, and longer and longer, works. And while neither of those automatically leads to macro-success, the only sure thing is an unfinished work can’t possibly succeed.

And that same thing is true in life. If we don’t finish what we start, success is highly unlikely.

Braaaaaaaaains...

In case the heading doesn't give it away, what I'm reading is zombies.

Not only zombies. It's the greater genre of post-apocalypse that I'm reading, but zombies are my weakness. I've been through a bunch of books lately. So many I'd struggle to list off most of them. My most recently completed zombie apocalypse book was "The Horde Rises" by T.W. Gallier. It's book one in a three-part series, and I really enjoyed it.

(Side note: there are other ones, many of which I picked up for free on Amazon, which have not been pleasing to me at all. Some of them rife with utter rule-breaking annoyances, like using ALL CAPS in prose, and even parentheses within speech... and not just using parentheses, but using them to direct a comment to the reader, while still having those words contained within the speech.)

So as I say, zombies have been pushing my buttons for a few years now, and lately more than ever. I've put some thought into why that might be, and haven't really come up with anything concrete.

I suppose it's the idea of a body still moving and craving, even after death. The way they're portrayed as mindless beasts holds a fascination for me... imagining an existence where everything that makes a person human is taken away, without the relief of death. Or at least, not any kind of lasting relief.

Probably my favorite zombie book of all time is The Reapers Are The Angels by Alden Bell. I read it a few years back and found it achingly wonderful. Poignant and dark, but with an edge of hope running through it, too.

An honorable mention must go to The Road by Cormac McCarthy, as well. Though not zombies, it's very much post-apocalypse, and in the end, the zombies are very rarely the story when it comes to zombie fiction. They're more often a plot device than anything else. A force to reveal the nature of the human characters. So in The Road, many of the humans end up acting much as they would in a zombie apocalypse story.

I've come to realize one of the elements which makes any kind of post-apocalypse situation seem both attractive and compelling is the disenfranchisement so many of us feel with modern living. We're a society of specialists who rely on other specialists for the myriad things we never learned to do, or have since forgotten.

Post apocalypse breaks all that down. It pulls us down to the most visceral level of our abilities. Essentially, we all become stone age people. Pretty words or skillful book covers won't make a zombie stop biting my leg. The ability to wield a chunk of found wood has a much better chance.

I actually think in some ways zombie apocalypse stories touch on the same voyeuristic and self-serving parts of the human psyche as invisible man stories do. When we picture ourselves becoming invisible, one of the first ideas that seems to occur is to go hide in the changing rooms of your preferred gender for ogling. Or maybe heading into the bank and making off with stuff because you can't be seen.

Same thing in a post-apocalyptic world, really. Order has evaporated. Rules might as well never have existed. If Mikey Muscles wants to satisfy his greeds and hungers, well he's the biggest, strongest guy around... who's gonna stop him?

I'm also doing all this reading for a greater purpose. I intend to spread my wings and start publishing zombie apocalypse fiction, too. I have a bunch of stories under way, though they'll be under a different pen name. No sense in having people pick up a Willsin book only to find the characters eating brains instead of pussy...

Is that really the question?

I’m taking a slightly lateral view of this week’s topic. Not so much “what should I write next?” as examining the breakdown and fallout within publishing which can come from that very question.

Willsin Rowe, the cover artist, is a moderately successful entity. Willsin Rowe, the author, is not. I’ve been writing published works since early 2006. In that time I really haven’t sold many solo titles at all. Some co-written ones, and some stories in anthologies, have done moderately well, but my Willsin books just don’t sell. I say all that, not as a “woe is me” intro, but just as reference for a later point.

So, as I say, I write things, and not many folks buy them. Since I’m striving to make writing a profession, there is a balance there which I feel needs redressing. That imbalance in turn means my motivation gets impacted. So the question of “what should I write next?” gains a few extra bricks. It becomes heavier with every flop. Should I keep writing the stories my brain sends me? Or should I read the top ten bestsellers in my genre and strive to mimic those? (Or something else entirely?)

This question usually causes me stress, in the same way that any dualistic dilemma does. In this case, it becomes the battle between hoping your art can be discovered and also found palatable, and potentially subjugating it in the hope your skills will be strong enough to write something people buy (but which might not actually be something you write well).

Sitting at my computer every day, the temptation is strong to let that bitch we call “inspiration” take the lead. At any time I, and most other authors I know, tend to have several stories on the go. In my case, I think I have over two dozen in various states of undress. Deciding which one to work on can be a major decision.

But I shouldn’t fool myself… it’s just another form of procrastination. What I should be writing next is the story which will take the least time to finish. It might not be the one with the most words in it (or the one with the fewest words left to write), but heck… choose one and write that sucker!

Here in my dungeon, down with the other writers who toil but don’t sell, it can be extremely tempting to dream of how wonderful it would be to score a top-100 book. Life will be so much easier if I just get that hit. Everyone will know what my writing is like, and they’ll clamor for it. My backlist! My beautiful backlist! Everyone will snap those babies up! And with all that cash rolling in, I’ll be free to just write whatever I want… right?

Well, now. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

My sob story at the beginning about how few books I sell was, as I said, a reference point of sorts. See, the thing is, I know many authors who sell really well. I hasten to add I don’t know their figures, but I know the rough guides for how many books equals what position a book reaches on Amazon. I’m friends with people who sell more books in a week than I’ve sold in my entire ten years.

Why do I bring this up? Well, for street-cred, for one thing! Look at my shiny shoulders, where I’ve rubbed them on winners!

*cough*

But seriously, I bring it up because you know that beastly, crippling doubt I mentioned that comes from being (let’s face it) unsuccessful? From what I’m told, it’s there for those who have “made it”, too. In my case, the doubt is out there ahead of me. It’s a dark shape lurking around the next corner, or the one after that. It has the patience of a chess grand master, until I’m about to release a book, whereupon it screeches like a banshee while sinking its teeth into my pert posterior. 

My friends have passed those corners, and that particular doubt is behind them. Trouble is, it’s fast and it still has those mighty big teeth… and it’s chasing them with every step they take.

“What should I write next?” is just as important for someone who can’t find a hit as it is for someone who’s sold a hundred-thousand books. I might sit and moan, worrying that people don’t buy my books because I suck. Johnny Successpants might sit and moan, worrying that people will suddenly stop buying his books because they’ll realize he’s a fraud. He isn’t—he’s a great writer with a voice people want to read—but that black doubt is riding him so hard he can’t see the truth.

My answer for how to deal with this all came about by accident. And it’s one I’m still working around (after all, I only had the revelation yesterday).

When that big-toothed doubt-creature noms on my bits, I get churlish. In my case, I did a couple of sulky things on Facebook (nothing rude to anybody, just lashing out at myself and my so-called “author” status). When I get that way, I know it means I’m overdoing it, but my continued lack of success means I don’t feel I can stop.

Yesterday, my wife took the day off work. It was something planned for a week or so, but it just happened to coincide with my black depths. And though she knew I had work to do, and she did too, she suggested we take a short break. And I figured, “why not?”

We walked to a coffee shop not far from our house. It’s winter here in Brisbane, but by golly you wouldn’t know it. High 70sF temps, with bright sunshine and a cloudless sky. We walked through areas we know well, but which we usually drive. The difference between walking and driving is almost immeasurable. You can hear your own suburb, and smell it. You can see the details of the houses and the trees, which you don’t see when you’re driving because your main focus is on not killing yourself or anyone else with the ton of metal and flammable liquids you’re controlling.

Anyway, we had coffee and delicious cake-type things, and we reveled in being two adults without kids for a short time.

Walking home, we made sure to take roads we don’t normally drive on. Just for fun. We had every intention of starting work when we arrived home.

Instead, we took a trip in to the city. The event we planned to attend, we couldn’t. There was no parking available. So instead we drove down to our favorite park in all of Brisbane, New Farm Park. It’s right on the river, and it’s gorgeous. But before we got there, we stopped at a delicatessen and grabbed some meats, cheese and salad, and we had a picnic. We sat on a rug, nommed our stuff, let the sun warm us and again, reveled in being two individuals, and a couple. We’ve been married for 22 years, and together for 28, but I swear folks were looking at us as if we were each married to someone else and having a dirty fling with each other. We were touchy-feely, and celebrating how much we’re into each other.

We mixed it up. My wife was away from her job, which was what she needed. And I had my face in all kinds of places which were not my computer screen. (We’re two adults who had the house to ourselves, so you can make of that previous comment whatever you will!)

My point, though, is that we spent the day not working. Pointedly not working.

What I learned (and embarrassingly, not for the first time!) is that sometimes “what should I write next?” needs to be slightly truncated.

And we need to ask ourselves “should I write next?”

Push And Pull

Under my Abi Aiken name, I co-wrote (with Rozlyn Sparks) a trilogy of BDSM Billionaire stories. I’ve mentioned those before on here, I believe. “Submission Therapy”, “Occupational Therapy”, and “Immersion Therapy”. The Aiken & Sparks team also co-wrote a trilogy of professor/student power-play stories, the “Sex Education” series.

Those were both a lot of fun, and it was through the writing of those six stories I came to realize what it is I like about the sexual kind of power play. It’s the mental side of it.

So many jokes are made in mainstream culture about “whips and chains” and “spank me, I’m a bad girl/boy”. That’s all well and good, but of course it’s working with uninformed clichés, and based only on what folks see in passing. And for me, there is an undeniable physical beauty in shibari, for example, but it’s not something I particularly need or want in my life or in my stories.

No, for me, the greatest thrill in power play is the mind game, paired with intimate physical contact. I tend not to write too many toys, tools or accoutrements with any power based stories. When I write them, my focus is almost exclusively on male dominance and female submission (though there is at least one exception), and I truly do envision it much like the creation of art.

My canvas is the skin of her body. My brushes are the hands of her Master. And my inspiration is the meeting of their minds and needs.

Once again in a co-writing situation, I have two short, sharp stories out in a series called Stolen Moments. I’m writing these with the sexy Sassie Lewis, who not only is a dream to work with, she’s also a hottie who I get to see in the flesh almost every week. Sometimes several times. 

These stories almost qualify as free-writing. They’re done in two voices (his and hers), and we write them in to-and-fro sections. Literally. One of us will start the story in a Private Message on Facebook, then the other returns fire. Back and forth, back and forth, and all in one session until the story reaches a conclusion.

These babies come out with no set plan, and usually with no setup. It’s raw storytelling, and the editing process is as short and sharp as the writing. We clean up the mistakes and cut away echoes, and there’s not a lot more to it than that. In fact, we have a third complete story written, but we’ve chosen not to publish it, simply because it was forced in the writing process. The raw naturalness was not there, so the work is not reflective of the series.

The Stolen Moments series are basically as they sound… brief encounters between two characters we choose not to name. Are they the same characters in each story? Are they married? And if so, is it to each other or not? These are all scene-setting elements, and integral to the nature of the stories, but the heart of each story is the power differential between the characters, and the way it comes across.

Again, it’s the mental side of power. The fact these two characters know each other intimately. Beyond simply physical intimacy, they understand each other’s weaknesses and strengths, needs and wants.

She has an innate need to submit. To reach an internal nothingness which then facilitates a physical, mental and emotional release, through orgasm. His power comes through in the way he understands that, and her, so deeply. He revels in his own ability to suppress his base wants and needs in order to draw out the session and heighten the pleasure for them both. For example, though he might desperately want to sink his teeth into the ripe flesh of her nipple, he will instead caress that skin with only his breath. It’s the clear need he implies by withholding which intensifies the moment.

Her power manifests in a different way; through her submission. Using that previous example, it will be the way she angles her body to bring his entire focus onto the stiff flesh of her nipple. Placing the temptation before him to see if he can resist. That’s one way she will direct a scene, but not the only one.

Essentially, they both want instant gratification. What they need, though, is to take the scene to a far more potent conclusion. And for these two, it can only be done through the push and pull of temptation and resistance.

From "Need", the second story in the Stolen Moments series:

It’s been years since I quit smoking but I still remember what it was like. Those mornings when I’d wake up and light up. The first deep pull on the cigarette would bring my body and mind to life. And it’s like that with her. A kiss is never just a kiss.

She switches from gentle to full force arousal in seconds. The sweet soft caress of her mouth quickly turns to ferocious longing, but for the moment I can't tell who's leading who. All I can feel is the luxury of her gorgeous full-figured body against me. The round solidity of her ass fills my hands, and the ready way she curls those thighs around me as I lift her brings my entire body and soul to life.

The heat of her cunt radiates through the fabric and kisses my cock through my boxer briefs. Damn her. I'm making all the moves, yet she's still fucking driving it. It’s that ancient ballet between the sexes, where she leaves all the right gaps and I fill them like poured water. Everything she does is an invitation. With just her eyes she can pull me from slumber to fully-fledged raging hard-on in a matter of seconds. And with her mouth... oh, god...

She claws my naked back and pulls my hair, and it all hurts but not nearly enough. I need to dive into her, swim across that bountiful flesh, dash myself against every bone in her gorgeous body.

I climb onto my bed, holding her up as I balance on my knees for a moment, before we both crash to the mattress. Her fleshiness is the perfect cushion and my solid weight pushes a sweet moan from inside her.

The first two Stolen Moments books, “Feel” and “Need”, are both available on Amazon, and through Kindle Unlimited.