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Today, meet Loveyoudivine author, M. King. (again. I've posted about her a few times) That's because she writes books I love to read, all along the GLBT spectrum, from angsty to fun, gay, lesbian, and even, occasionally, she slips a straight romance in there. The lady can write. Here's a little about her. M. King lives and works in a damp, verdant corner of South West England, where she may usually be found behind a keyboard and a vat of coffee. Under various pseudonyms, she writes a wide array of vibrant, compelling fiction, ranging from hot erotica to mainstream and literary fiction, frequently with a strong GLBT focus.
You can find more about M. King and all the people she is at www.flippedfrogcollective.com – where authors, and worlds, collide  Now I've blogged about her books, Deamon, and Breaking Faith, before, but here's a new one:Whistle Bait: 1950s-set lesbian erotic romance
Betty Shaw’s best friend, Lois, is the type of girl Betty’s always envied—not that she wants to admit it. By turns flirtatious, controlling, and downright manipulative, when Lois drags her to a double date at the movies, Betty can’t say no, and she ends up in a whole world of humiliation. Yet, just as she thinks the night can’t get much worse, Betty meets Paula, and everything starts to change. Her shoes sank into the boggy ground, so much softer now than it had been when they arrived, and she knew Ricky must be getting out of his side, too, but she couldn’t see anything except the rain and the black-and-white ghosts of the movie flashing back off row after row of parked, wet cars. For a moment, Betty thought to go to where Hank’s Buick was parked and hammer on the window for Lois, but—like almost every other couple here tonight—she knew Lois probably wouldn’t even hear her, and besides, right now the thought couldn’t cut through Betty’s gut-deep fury. This was all Lois’ fault anyway, and she would never, ever forgive her. Ricky was out of the car now, making his way toward her, his hand gliding along the hood as he used it to keep his balance. The rain slicked his skin, the silvered light of the screen flickering over him. A defiant, ragged noise—not quite a scream, not quite a cuss—broke from her mouth, and she ducked back between the rows of cars, running as fast as she could with the mud and puddles splashing up her legs, pulling her back down with every movement. Betty yelped at the feel of her garter belt snapping, one of the clasps giving way under the strain. She pushed on, past the oblivious shadows in the faceless cars, and she was vaguely aware of the blurred flash of neon that must have been the concessions stand, and that must mean she was close to the way out. Betty had no idea what she’d do or where she’d go once she did get out, but that didn’t seem to matter, because she was just running and running, and she barely noticed the figure she collided with until it was almost too late. She hit at speed, and the other person cried out, and then before she knew what had happened, Betty had hit the ground, her ankle turning out awkwardly and her hand grazing painfully on a sharp stone. The shock of the impact winded her for a minute, and she sat there, dumb and blind, shallow breaths coming fast, high in her chest. “Are you all right? Hello? Can you hear me?” She looked up, blinking into the rain. Somewhere, a low rumble of thunder rolled, the yellow underbelly of steel-gray clouds painting the evening sky. A faintly familiar face frowned down at her in concern, and then the girl from the concessions stand was kneeling at Betty’s side. One warm, gentle hand came to smooth back the escaped tendrils of her hair, and Betty felt all the makeup Lois had so lovingly applied sliding in the rain. It stung her eyes, but all she could see was Paula, her mouth moving and odd, disjointed words coming out. “Come on. You come with me. I’ll get you cleaned up. Can you stand? Oh, that’s right…there you go. It’s not so bad. Come along, honey, this way.” Betty stood, wincing at the flare of pain in her ankle, wiping her palm on her borrowed dress before she realized she’d left a smear of blood behind. A torn garbage bag—Paula must have been carrying it when Betty cannoned into her—had disgorged its load of crumpled paper cups, soiled napkins and old food onto the muddy ground, and Betty thought for a moment she ought to stop and try to help tidy up. Paula tugged at her hand. “Don’t be silly. Leave that. Come on…that’s right, you lean on me. We’ll take a look at that ankle, too.” Obediently, Betty limped where Paula led her, around the back of the concessions stand. She pulled back the already dislodged chain link and ushered Betty through, into the alley that lay beyond. Betty ducked nervously beneath the wire and glanced around. Though a little glad she hadn’t had to walk past all the cars, she had no idea where this dank, dim place opened out to, nor how she was supposed to get back to the bus stop. Just follow the road, she guessed, though the thought of trying to walk anywhere right now made Betty feel sick. A set of steps led up to a brick wall—the back of the diner they’d passed on the way in—and an old wooden door. Confused, Betty just stood there, hugging her arms to her cold, wet dress, her whole being useless and stupid. Paula took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She glanced at Betty and smiled. The rain had flattened that glossy high ponytail considerably, damp rat-tails framing her face. “It’s okay, I’m not kidnapping you. This is the diner I work at during the week…you might have seen it on your way in. I’m always telling Mr. Menkin he could make more money staying open on weekends, but he’s a stickler for Shabbat. Come on.”
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I slipped a bit yesterday. About 500 words and because I expected to make my count later, I didn't enter it on the site. It was a day for clearing my head and then family obligations ate up my time. Shopped at Target and the get-up-and-out was actually just what I needed. Now, back to my fairy tale and if it stays stuck, I shall move on to a different story. Though, really, I want to put this one to bed. I started it almost 4 years ago. The ideas and plot kept waffling on me. The ending came to me this time and now I just need to write to that direction instead of wandering about in the wilderness. I was IM'ing with an old friend in the evening and The Dude wanted me to cut and paste the conversation into my current rough draft for word count. He said it counted as dialog. Right. Nothing at all to do with suns, moons, or Rubys. I did not do that. Those 500 words were legit draft verbiage. Frog Out |
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Today: 2,332. Total: 25,144. Halfway there! The word, I fancy, should be "w00t!" Of course, I have just started Chapter #4 out of an estimated forty, so . . . yeah. Then again, my original outline called for this chapter to be #6, so with any luck I will experience more compression and finish this side of 2012. Today I had my first spasm of "MUST REVISE REVISE REVISE," and I had to remind myself that this draft is supposed to be awful. On the bright side, I discovered yet again that needing to pump up my word count actually makes me willing to describe physical settings. Weird. Also, I discovered that if you need a cameo from a historical figure (like, say, Heraclitus) that doesn't fit into the plot, you can always chain him by the side of the road. Literally. |
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The Stupak amendment to the health care bill, which blocks even private insurance companies from covering abortion services, passed — with 64 Democrats supporting it. I don't have words. Well, not words permissible in polite company. What is wrong with these... people? I'm sure that some of them struggled with this in their hearts, and followed the dictates of their consciences. I'm also sure that a good number of them were just gaming the political game. Cold bastards. People getting sick, people dying, and these cold bastards are playing games for points for the next election cycle. Of those Democrats who supported this amendment, who was it that could not be moved by human suffering, but could be bribed by curtailing reproductive rights? Who was it that didn't care if they scuttled the larger issue, so long as they could put their pet agenda into the mix? Who was too cowardly to be seen voting against the bill, but hoped to kill it with an unpopular amendment? If you're curious, you can go here for the list. Though you'll have to ask them why. Edit: A PDF of the amendment is available here. |
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...why astatalk people feel the need to pirate my FREE reads off my website? Seriously! How much more free does it need to be than...well...free? And now they've diverted traffic from my website, besides stealing my books and my royalties. Why don't they just come and take the laptop out from under my typing fingers?
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Well, I did it. Moments ago, I clicked off the first few chapters and a rough outline of my YA urban fantasy/magical realism novel Ghosthand to The Agent. I am terrified. I am elated. I am terrified. And what shall I do to comfort myself? Write, of course. And what shall I write about? How about Ghosthand itself, as a little teaser, and to help myself process that, much like my eleven-year-old daughter, Ghosthand is now off at wilderness camp and I can't save it or help it, or hold its hand any longer. It will have to stand on its own three chapters. So here is a blurb about Ghosthand. I'd love to hear what you think. Seventeen-year-old, gritty Goth Olivia Black was born with a rare birth defect known as minus flesh. Instead of a skin, bone, and blood right hand, Olivia's hand is made of ethereal matter, or spirit energy. Everyone in Olivia's small home town is used to her hand, especially because she keeps it concealed under a leather glove, but in the wider world, minus flesh has become an issue of great conflict. Some people think that it is the next evolutionary leap, that humans are destined to throw off their flesh entirely and become beings of pure energy. Other people think that minus flesh is a defect, an abomination, or a sign of the Beast, and that anyone with it should be eradicated. Olivia just thinks of it as her ghosthand. Then one night, Olivia's ghosthand begins to do strange things, like pulling household items out of other people's chests. Between putting a boy in the hospital, getting arrested, and fighting with her mom, Olivia finds herself on the outs of her small town community. When a dark, young man shows up in place of her high school guidance counselor, asking questions about her hand, Olivia doesn't trust him further than she can throw him, but he just might have the answers she seeks. So, she takes a risk, and together they break into the Police Chief''s house to steal back the items Olivia's hand has been gathering from people. When the Chief catches them in the act and shoots the dark, young man in the chest, it doesn't even faze him and they make their escape, but Olivia has more questions than ever before. Who is this strange, dark man, impervious to bullets, who goes by the title of I'minus? Why is he gathering a rag-tag band of people with minus flesh? And why is Olivia the only female in the bunch? She'll have to go with him and his band deep into the south amidst the fanatics against minus flesh to find out, Want to go with her? |
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Wrote another week's worth of posts to preload on one of my blogs. Time spent writing: 1:05 |
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I've written more in the last 9 days than I have all year. Mostly, this goes to show what a craptastic year it's been. Nanowrimo has been good for me. I'm a little bit better than halfway through a decent zero/splat draft. I still have zero idea how it's going to end. No, I know how I think it'll end, I just don't know how I'm going to get there just yet. Really hoping I can find a way to do it without being truly and utterly horrible to my poor characters. It was nice to see that I broke 30k today. For 9 days, with two kidlets who aren't fully well - that's really not bad. It makes me wonder what I'll be able to do when the youngest is a little older and in school too... We shall see... But - back to the draft now. Just the draft. (and a few notes on how to fix it in revisions since I've thought of things since I started that I need to tie into the beginning.) |
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Wal-Mart Bans Gay Couple More than that, they harass them, falsely accuse them, have the police harass them, take their kids away and harass them, and then expect the couple to pay Wal-Mart for goods they did not steal. Thanks to transversecity for the link. |
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While I was sick, my novelette, "A Memory of Wind," went up at Tor.com! I'm excited to see this piece published. I worked on it for about four years before sending it out. This story was very important to me -- some stories just feel more Significant than others you're working on, do you know what I mean? "A Memory of Wind" tells the story of the sacrifice at Aulis from Iphiginia's perspective. The original play that it's based on, Iphignia at Aulis, is told from the perspective of Agamemnon (Iphigenia's father) as he decides whether or not to kill his daughter so he can go to war. In 2006, I went to see a feminist reinterpretation of the play at the San Jose Reperatory theatre. The production was amazing, using dancers and music and really stunning actors to illuminate the play's relationship to contemporary issues -- but I found myself puzzled by the playwright's choice to write from the perspective of Clytemnetsra, Iphigenia's mother. I wondered whether Iphigenia would ever get her chance to speak. Here's an excerpt from the beginning of the story: I began turning into wind the moment that you promised me to Artemis. The piece is also available in audio, and downloadable in a few different formats. I'm really excited to see it online! |
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Dear Miz Manorz, I find myself flush with discomfort, and I hope you'll give my predicament a swirl. At my shared workspace, a sign over the privy clearly requests that writers of the male persuasion put the seat down when finished, yet at least one of my upstanding colleagues consistently leaves it up. I'm about to flip my lid! It not just the effrontery that peeves me so. It's also the idea that my female colleagues, in toto, might judge me the culprit! In loo of direct accusation, please advise me how I might call this breach of manners to the men's attention without upsetting the honeypot. Your priceless advice is of the first water, and I would be greatly relieved should you bowl me over with your insight. I can handle it, and I don't want anything to hit the fan. Signed,
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I've been thinking about the recent PW Top Ten List Debacle (short version: somehow, yet again, we get an all male list and the insistence that this only happened because we were looking for "the very best writers"), and wondering whether I wanted to yet again go through all the explanations about how, while such a list may have been made with good intentions, it nonetheless indicates unconscious biases that you need to make conscious so you can examine them instead of denying them, because you just don't get all male lists over and over again at random (the odds of that would be about 1/1000), and you also don't get them because somehow all the best books are consistently written by guys (which we all know from experience that just isn't true). But via |
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While I think this is an unlikely scenario, I want to make this statement before the Nebula nominating period begins on November 15th. Because my involvement in the Nebula voting system is pretty intensive right now, I will decline any nominations of any of my fiction this year. The system is new and I have to be able to oversee it without introducing a conflict of interest. |
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While I think this is an unlikely scenario, I want to make this statement before the Nebula nominating period begins on November 15th. Because my involvement in the Nebula voting system is pretty intensive right now, I will decline any nominations of any of my fiction this year. The system is new and I have to be able to oversee the volunteer team without introducing a conflict of interest. |
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Supper for Today, 1876, in a London Townhouse
 Gail's Daily Dose Your Infusion of Cute: Via my dear friend Bob.  Your Tisane of Smart: Short film about the UK steampunk exhibition. Your Writerly Tinctures: The power of giving books away. CAKE in Space: Back from agent, but now I don't have time for it.  It's official I've been pirated and also here. SPOILER ALERT! Amazon has posted Changeless cover along with blurb. Blurb gives bits of Soulless away so don't read if you haven't read the first book!Blameless: Handed in! Quote of the Day: "Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage." ~ Catherine Douzel
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Check this out: "Last Respects" was named by Diabolical Plots as one of the top ten stories published Pseudopod! The rest of the list is incredible, too (Yes, I've listened to all those stories myself). It's an honor to be in there with some of my personal favorites - like Doug Warrick's "Come to My Arms, My Beamish Boy," Mary Turzillo's "Bottle Babies," Paul Martens's "What Dead People Are Supposed to Do," not to mention H.P. himself. Let me give you a little background: Last month I got an email from a dude named David Steffen who was going through the entire Pseudopod backlog. He wrote to tell me how much he loved "Last Repsects" which, you know, made me grin like an idiot. But what made me smile more? Mr. Steffen had just made his very first short fiction sale to Pseudopod (which was what inspired him to catch up on Pseudopod, fall in love with it, and wrote the above article). There's something incredibly cool about getting a complimentary email from a writer who is getting his very first story published in the same magazine I got my very first story published in. A market I adore. So congrats to you, Other Dave! As a Pseudopod fan, I'm very much looking forward to "The Disconnected." It's funny how this little story I wrote a few years ago keeps coming back to surprise me. I'm really pleased it's done so well and so many people have enjoyed it.
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aggravated
working
sad