Selah March

201 and I'm...outta here!

2008-05-28T18:18:00.003-04:00

The dark side called and I came running, baby. After three years and two hundred posts on Blogger, I've made the switch to WordPress and I now live HERE.

Go read about the contest I'm running to celebrate both the new website and my first release with Red Sage.

I've imported all my old posts, but this site will stay up for at least a while. Also, my main website at SelahMarch.com will shortly be defunct as I switch that domain over to WordPress as well.

Come on over. Or...you know...don't. Entirely up to you. :)

Links on the topic of Erotic Romance Writers vs. Asshats, Round Eleventy-billion-and-three.

2008-05-01T15:25:00.006-04:00

Lillian Feisty.

Alison Kent.

Larissa Ione.

Personally, I think the RWR should keep on printing those letters. These folks have a right to their opinions just like anybody else. Plus, it's highly instructive for those of us taking notes on how to write tight-assed, judgmental twits with major control issues.

There's gold in them thar fucktards!

(Did I call them enough nasty names? Yeah, I'm still steamed over the "prostitutes" remark. I'll get over it...eventually.)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

So. Miley Cyrus. cue rant

2008-04-29T11:44:00.006-04:00

First and most importantly? She's FIFTEEN. If anyone should be taking heat for this, it's her parents. Maybe some folks are savvy enough at fifteen to make better choices, but I'm not going to judge the kid. Seriously. FIFTEEN.

As for the "oh my GOD, think of the CHILDREN" brigade: My daughter is the tweeniest tween you'll ever meet. LOVES Miley like crazy. She hasn't yet seen these pictures, and she probably won't until and unless some little douchebag...pardon me, I meant to say "badly behaved fifth-grader who lacks supervision"...chooses to show them to her.

Because how many ten-year-olds do you know who read Vanity Fair? This is yet another example of the media creating the story...at least in terms of "how will this affect her fanbase?" Now the pics are all over, and I'm having to send my spawn from the room when the fucking TODAY show runs the story at seven-fifteen in the morning. (I counted the minutes they spent on it, btw. Several more than they spent on the tornadoes in Virginia or the explosions in Afghanistan.)

~Edward R. Murrow, please pick up the nearest white courtesy phone in heaven. We're in serious shit down here.~

As for the whole "she had it coming because she said she liked the pictures" thing - I suspect Miley DID like those pics. Thought they were way cool. Because she's a fifteen-year-old girl in America, the land of the free and the home of the "good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere, but whatever you do, DON'T GET CAUGHT" ethos. And I suspect that after the shit hit the fan and Disney called her on the carpet, she was embarrassed. Because, in addition to being human? She's FIFTEEN.

I remember fifteen. I remember some of the choices I made, and the very bad consequences of those choices. The regret and shame I felt as a result. I remember having no one in my life to tell me how to make better choices, and literally no healthy examples around me, so I had to learn by trial and error. And trial and error? Sucks. Hard.

Fifteen-year-old girls are supposed to have someone to examine their MySpace and FaceBook pages, supervise their slumber parties, grill their dates, set curfew, double-check their homework, and not let them out of the house in indecent outfits. Because they are FIFTEEN, and often not capable of taking care of themselves - at least in this culture. Over in the FLDS compounds in Texas, Arizona and Utah, a fifteen-year-old girl is often taking care of herself, a forty-year-old husband and three kids. But I digress. Although not really, because is this REALLY that different? Isn't it all exploitation of one kind or another?

So where the hell is Billy Ray, besides posing with his daughter in one of the creepiest shots I've seen in a while? Busy being no better than a pimp, that's where he is.

And I'll say it one more time: FIFTEEN.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

More shiny!

2008-04-28T21:34:00.005-04:00

~Phaze FANTASIES III -- including my long novella, "Hardcore" -- has been nominated in the "Best Other Works" category of the Gaylactic Spectrum Awards. In addition, "Mask" by James Buchanan, "Devotion" by Jade Falconer, and "Dragon's Fate" by Eliza Gayle -- also included in FANTASIES III -- have been nominated in the "Best Short Fiction" category.

The Gaylactic Spectrum Awards honor outstanding works of science fiction, fantasy and horror which include significant positive explorations of gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered characters, themes, or issues.

The Winners and Recommended Short List for the 2008 Gaylactic Spectrum Awards will be announced at Gaylaxicon 2008, held October 2008 in Washington DC.

~4 Angels from Donna at Fallen Angel Reviews for my 2006 Phaze short vampire/Urban Fantasy romance, "To Have And Have Not" :

"This short story by Ms. March grips the reader from the first sentence. The heat that's generated between these two characters scorches the pages. I love the uncertainty that Jack shows, even though he's an alpha male, not only about his relationship with Laura but about himself and what he's become since the Breach. Ms. March packs a lot feelings and insight into this 27 page story that readers will not only enjoy but will be telling their friends about."

~4.5 Blue Ribbons from Chrissy at Romance Junkies for my November 2007 Amber Allure release, SEVEN YEAR ACHE:

"What an unexpected treasure Selah March’s SEVEN YEAR ACHE turned out to be. This story is chock full of emotional situations, a little bit of suspense and lovable characters. Rafe and Jamie’s friendship is definitely strained after so much time apart and when they would have thrown it all away, the women in their lives, Lilah and Aunt Cindy, manage to get them to see the situation from a different angle. This is a wonderful, heart-warming story that will alternately bring tears to your eyes and then a smile to your face."

As of today, SEVEN YEAR ACHE is also available through Fictionwise.

~Yes, I know I said something about running a contest for "There Came A Killing Frost." I'm waiting on the okay from my lovely and no doubt incredibly busy editor.

~Last but nowhere near least, I failed to mention last week that my brilliant and ever-stylish crit partner, Barb/Caridad Ferrer, has finaled in the Oklahoma RWA Chapter's National Readers' Choice Awards with her latest release, IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ACCENT. Apparently, they have good taste out there where the corn is as high as an elephant's eye.

*exposes geekdom by humming "Little Surrey With The Fringe On Top" from memory*

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Shiny!

2008-04-22T17:46:00.003-04:00

THERE CAME A KILLING FROST, coming soon from eRed Sage (scroll down to June's releases).

I might run a contest to promo this release. Yep. Seriously considering taking that radical step.

Don't just sit there. Alert the international media. This is news, dammit.

*crickets*

Okay, FINE. As my mother once informed me in a fit of high dudgeon (I love that word, don't you?) you'll miss me when I'm dead.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Here's the thing, as my new BFF Dakota would say.

2008-04-19T19:31:00.003-04:00

I've been surfing about, reading posts and comments here and there about the "wildness" and the "tackiness" and the lack of "professionalism" here at RT. And you know what?

~If you go to a Romantic Times convention looking to hold onto your dignity with both hands? You're gonna have a shitty time.

~If you go with the intention of turning up your nose at behavior of others? You'll find PLENTY of opportunity.

~And if you sit at home and troll the Romancelandia blogs to find evidence of Authors and Readers Behaving In A Manner Not Befitting A Lady so that you'll have something to post about or comment on? You're an asshat with too much time on your hands. Get a hobby why don'tcha?

RT isn't RWA. This isn't news. RT doesn't want to be RWA, and I can't tell you how many authors I've heard say, "...and thank God for that..." in the four days I've been here.

RT is a readers' convention with a sideline of workshops for writers and booksellers. It's not all that different from DragonCon or some of the other fan conventions that also hold a few workshops for artists in various media. So I'm asking... please... pretty-goddamn-fucking-PLEASE...
...could we quit with the comparisons? I'd really hate to have to break out the fruity analogies again.

For the record, I've never attended an RWA national conference and likely never will. As I age, I'm finding myself more and more allergic to the snobbery and the categorization and the asswipery inherent in organizations like RWA. (Are you PAN? Are you Pro? Should I pucker up to kiss your ass or turn around and bend over?)

I'm having a good time in Pittsburgh. I've met people I like - authors, readers, booksellers, cover models, waitresses, chambermaids and hotel desk clerks (in no particular order) - and I've never once worried that my dignity is suffering as a result of the fact that the chick next to me is dressed as a Domme vampire with bat wings and a quirt, and the hunk o' beefcake on the other side of the piano bar is leering at my cleavage. I've done very little "professional networking," but I've sold some books, given others away (major highlight of my week: the waitress that squealed like a schoolgirl when I autographed a free copy of SIN STREET for her, and then put down her pad and tray to hug me), gotten solid info from editors, visited with old friends and made a batch of new ones. I'm satisfied. If that makes me "unprofessional," then bless my own tacky heart. They say water finds its own level. Mine appears to be the one without the stick up its ass.

Yeah, I know, my metaphors are big with the mixy. Bite me. But not too hard, as I understand my brand of "tacky" may be contagious.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

At RT no one can hear you scream.

2008-04-19T12:59:00.011-04:00

More Prom on crack.

Nine out of ten technicolor fairies who drink beer prefer Labatt's Blue.

Cindy Cruciger and MaryJanice Davidson. MaryJanice may or may not have a shrimp fork stuck in Cindy's ribs.

* * *

Prom in hell.

Check the eyes.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Pittsburgh FOR THE WIN!

2008-04-18T20:16:00.004-04:00

So I'm at RT. Guess I didn't make that clear in the last post.

Prom on crack.

Side o' beefcake.

More later.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Off to see the wizard.

2008-04-15T20:11:00.003-04:00

I packed false eyelashes, leopard-print platform stilettos, and a whip. Just sayin'.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

In which Selah has an epiphany right before your very eyes.

2008-04-03T11:59:00.004-04:00

I'm a bitch, I'm a lover
I'm a child, I'm a mother
I'm a sinner, I'm a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I'm your hell, I'm your dream
I'm nothing in between
You know you wouldn't want it any other way...
("Bitch," Meredith Brooks, Shelly Peiken)

Angela T's got a great post today at Romancing the Blog about some of the differences between romance heroines and urban fantasy heroines -- which I would categorize more as "female protagonists," since "heroine" (while a good shorthand term) tends to put me in mind of a feisty (shudder) redhead locked in a losing battle with Mr. I'm-Too-Alpha-For-My-Shirt for the prize of Who Gets To Be On Top Every Damned Time, Forever-and-Ever, Amen.

Anyway. I prefer to write heroines who aren't just placeholders for the reader who wants nothing more than the hormone rush of pretending to be the owner of the girly bits after which the hero lusts. And I like to read characters who are fully-realized individuals in and of themselves, and not just foils for the dark, tortured, INTERESTING hero.

I keep hearing tales of editors telling authors that their heroines are "too strong," and "not nice enough" and "unlikeable," which seems to be shorthand for "the average reader won't be able to relate to a woman with real flaws and an actual personality."

What thoroughly insulting bullshit. Not to mention...hello? Lilith Saintcrow's Dante Valentine? Jacqueline Carey's Phaedra, from her Kushiel series? Lynn Viehl's...well, every heroine in her Darkyn series, basically?

Wait. None of those books fall strictly into the romance genre, do they?

Uh oh. I IZ SENSING A PATTERN.

Great. Now I have to rethink my entire career. Like I didn't have enough to do today, with the whole being-a-bitch thing.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Meme. Because I'm just that lazy, oh yes I am.

2008-04-02T11:45:00.004-04:00

You’re feeling...shredded by the wood-chipper of life.

To your left:
~two metal hair clips (one pink, one black)
~address book
~phone
~pile of DVDs and CDs (specifically: Dark Angel, Season 2; Brokeback Mountain, collector's edition; KANE; and KANE: Acoustic Live in London)
~a sheet of scrap paper from my son's math homework upon which I attempted - and failed - to explain ratios and how they might be used in real life.

On your mind: The deadline I'm fucking up even further by blogging instead of writing.

Last meal included: Bagel, cream cheese, coffee.

You sometimes find it hard to...breathe.

The weather: Chilly and bright.

Something you have a collection of: Children.

A smell that cheers you up: Clean laundry.

A smell that can ruin your mood: Dog poop.

How long since you last shaved: Um.

The current state of your hair: Knotted on top of my head to keep it out of my face.

The largest item on your desk/workspace (not computer): Big-ass sculpture of three maidens dancing in a circle around a fire - the fire is actually a place to put a candle. At the moment, it's sandalwood. It was a Christmas gift from my mother. You wanna see pictures???

Your skill with chopsticks: Not bad.

Which section you head for first in a bookstore: New releases.

Something you’re craving: Peace of mind.

Your general thoughts on the presidential race: You know what? I've got enough people pissed off at me this week. Pass.

How many times have you been hospitalized this year: Nada, but I'm looking at three days in May.

Favorite place to go for a quiet moment: Define "quiet." I seem to have misplaced that concept somewhere along the way.

You’ve always secretly thought you’d be a good...mother. Today, I'm not so sure.

Something that freaks you out a little: Insects of any kind.

Something you’ve eaten too much of lately: Antacids.

You have never...liked memes. They seem sort of self-absorbed. And yet.

You never want to...be so out of ideas for original blog content that I resort to stealing memes from Cindy Cruciger. AND YET.

You're tagged, Caridad Ferrer, wherever you are.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Fruity!

2008-03-24T11:53:00.005-04:00

Once upon a time, there stood an apple orchard on a nearby hilltop in the beautiful country of Romancelandia. It was a perfectly serviceable orchard as orchards went, providing good fruit to those who wanted apples. It was, naturally, plagued by a few of the problems to which all orchards and groves and berry patches fall victim -- infestations and bad weather, including the occasional plagues of locusts and rains of frogs.

And then one day, after a particularly challenging growing season, along came an -- at best -- ill-informed Internet Tabloid Journalist.*

Tabloid Journalist: I'd like to see something in an orange, please.

Orchard: I'm so sorry, but I grow apples. Can I offer you a juicy MacIntosh? My Pink Ladies are lovely this year, as well. Not so much my Granny Smiths, though -- a drought in the early summer made them mealy.

Tabloid Journalist: No, I want oranges. Why don't you grow oranges?

Orchard: Because I'm an apple orchard, not an orange grove.

Tabloid Journalist: But if you grew oranges, you'd help more people. People in Romancelandia need the vitamin C in oranges to keep them from getting sick. You should grow oranges, and you should start immediately. If you don't, it's proof that you're worthless and don't care about the people who eat your fruit.

Orchard: Oranges are a wonderful kind of fruit, and I'm glad there are groves out there to supply them to the people who want and need them. But I'm an apple orchard. I suppose I could attempt to grow oranges, but since that's not what I was created to do, I suspect it would be a failure.

Tabloid Journalist: You SUCK!

Orchard: I suppose we could employ some kind of genetic specialist to try grafting a few orange branches onto some trees. Maybe we could create a hybrid fruit of some kind. But I'd have to take this issue back and discuss it with the entire tree membership. Changes of this kind take time, after all, and since the trees here signed up to grow apples, it might be a challenge.

Tabloid Journalist: You suck so much that I'm going to make a public example of you, you worthless apple orchard, with your nasty apples that are nothing like oranges. And when the people who read my blog make unkind, similarly ill-informed comments of a personal nature, I'll do nothing to stem the tide of poison. With any luck, it will seep into the ground and kill all your worthless, apple-producing trees. Because unless you grow oranges, and do it in just the way I suggest, you are dead to me, you worthless, apple-growing scum who clearly care nothing for the average Romancelandia eater of fruit. Do you hear me? Dead. To. Me.

~flounces off to find an ant hill to kick over, because she can and because it's perfectly legal, don'tcha know~

Have no idea what I'm babbling about? Consider yourself blessed.

Staring down a March 31 deadline. Will not be back to address comments anytime soon, but feel free to have at it.

* aka: Some Chick With A Blog.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Refugee from Laundryland.

2008-03-20T13:07:00.003-04:00

First a note for Miss Kate, who so politely inquired about the state of my plumbing: Got the biopsy results yesterday and the trouble is entirely benign, though still in need of a spot of surgery, thank you kindly for asking. :)

So it's been raining. Maybe you've noticed. And while we certainly aren't floating away like certain areas of the country, poor things, we are decidedly...damp. Moist, even. And not in the good way.

As a result, we're filming our own version of CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON. It's called FLOODED BASEMENT, BROKEN WASHER.

In other news, All Romance eBooks is offering a new Free Read program, and they've contracted the short novella I wrote for PBW's Ebook Challenge, "Dark of the Day." You can find it here -- a free download in PDF and HTML.

In still other news, the sequel to SEVEN YEAR ACHE (known alternately as "Brokeback on Crack") is proceeding nicely.

Here. Have an unedited excerpt from WILD HORSES, due out from Amber Allure/Amber Quill Press sometime in July:

* * *

“And this is our new hired hand, Kris Killborn.”

Kris stepped up, removing his hat and wiping his brow with the back of one grimy wrist. The blond guy moved first to shake his hand. Kris looked close, waiting to see if the big man would remember their earlier meeting in the diner.

“Hey, I’m Dex Egan.” Nothing. A practiced smile, a strong grip, and no recognition whatsoever.

The fat little fuck who called himself Troy Abrams shook Kris’s hand, too, without appearing to know him. But the tall, skinny one in the shirt with the letters embroidered over the left tit looked Kris square in the face. “Gaelen Ramsey, at your service.”

Yeah, this one remembered. His sneer said it all.

Kris let it slide. He couldn’t afford to make trouble no matter how bad his fingers itched to curl up into a fist.

Then the fourth member of the group stepped forward — the only one who hadn’t made an impression back at the diner — and all the prideful irritation simmering under Kris’s skin seeped away.

“Blake Talbot.” His voice was deep but smooth at the same time, with the edges worn down to nothing by a heavy drawl. The sun glinted off the silver ring on the third finger of the hand he offered Kris. “Good to meet you.”

He smiled, and it caught Kris by surprise. Like when he did the hung-over walk of shame out of some dude’s apartment on a Sunday morning and got smacked in the face by a sunrise right out of one of those paintings that sold for half a grand in a Missoula gallery. Not as pretty a Rafe — nah, nobody’s as pretty as Rafe — but there was something in how this Blake Talbot’s light brown hair fell in a wave over his forehead, and in the flicker of his lashes over his dark blue eyes. In the way his nose was a little too long and his mouth a touch too wide for his face. Something in the shape of his jaw and the curve of his smile that made Kris want to know how he’d look backed up against a wall and begging for it.

JT cleared his throat, and Kris jerked his hand away. While the others discussed plans for an afternoon trail ride, he stared out at the mountains and tried to pull his shit together. No matter what kind of signals he was picking up from this Talbot guy, the guests were off-limits — hadn’t Rafe said as much? And Kris needed this job. More than he needed to get laid, even.

Plus he was probably reading it wrong. What did some college boy from back east want with him?

But when he glanced back again, Talbot caught his eye and held it for a long count of five. Kris offered up a wink and a grin, and Talbot ducked his head and showed his dimples in a way that made something in Kris’s chest twist around and whine for mercy.

“Sandwiches in the kitchen, Killborn,” Rafe said, looking at him funny. “Go wash up. We’ve got another half-mile of fence to check before I need to start supper for the guests.”

Kris nodded, his eyes on the way Talbot’s ass filled out the dark denim of his too-new jeans as he walked away.

“Don’t even think about it,” Rafe whispered as he passed him.

Kris smirked and spit in the dust. No doubt Rafe’s advice was well meant, but it had come a wink and one slow, shy smile too late.

* * *

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Move along, little doggies.

2008-03-14T09:26:00.003-04:00

Nothing to see here. Today is a writing day, and that's stupendously boring for everybody except my two angsty cowboys who may or may not be getting busy down by the pond behind the bunkhouse.

But over HERE, you can read how my brilliant and ever-fashionable crit partner, Barb Caridad Ferrer, did a lovely thing for my upcoming b-day (which I was trying to ignore, but whatev).

And over HERE, you can read her Romancing the Blog column, which is a little sad, but not so depressing that you'll want to crawl back into bed or add a shot of Jack to your morning decaf.

Other than that, it's all angsty cowboys, all the time 'round these here parts, I reckon. You have yourself a nice day. *tips imaginary Stetson, looks longingly at bottle of Jack*

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Ow.

2008-03-13T18:18:00.002-04:00

A word to the wise:

When your ObGyn tells you that you need an endometrial biopsy, you need it immediately, and yes, as a matter of fact, it's going to hurt like hell?

BELIEVE HER. Take the nifty little pills she offers. Do NOT, under any circumstances, try to tough it out.

In other news, I didn't burst into flames, but I did burn a batch of cupcakes meant for the fifth grade bake sale. I'm trying to convince myself this is not an omen of things to come.

I'm mostly failing.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

"Been nice knowin' ya," said the little pile of ashes.

2008-03-09T10:54:00.004-04:00

Our priest is coming this afternoon to bless the house. This yearly ritual is prefaced by a thorough cleaning (because he really shouldn't be blessing the dust or the dog hair, although I doubt he'd mind it) and includes the kissing of crosses, the splashing of holy water into various nooks and crannies, and the chanting of prayers in first century Greek. House blessings take place before the start of the Orthodox Great Lent, which in this case is tomorrow, so we're sort of getting it in just under the wire.

The other yearly ritual that accompanies the house blessing is the part where somebody - usually my husband, but this year my eldest son beat him to it - makes the joke about how I'm likely to burst into flames when my lips touch the big, golden cross. Or maybe the holy water will turn into steam as it lands on my skin. Because of my unrepentant smut-writing, you see.

"Yeah, yeah. Ha ha ha. You guys should take that routine on the road and make us all millionaires," she says, looking surreptitiously to the left and right and sending up the same little prayer she says every year at about this time. "Lord, please forgive me for not being even a little bit sorry that I write dirty stories. Amen."

I figure between that and the thirty-dollar chocolate torte I'm serving post-blessing, I've got my sinning ass covered. But if, on the off chance, this is the year I go up in flames? I offer a little snippet of one of my several works-in-progress as a final farewell.

* * *

From Chapter 5 of NIGHTSHADE:

Nikolai turned away and faced the gathering storm. When he spoke again, his voice held a note of regret Daniel hadn’t heard before. “I did not know of this shameful trickery.”

“And if you did know? What would you do? Doom me to a lifetime of obedience, poverty, and the Brotherhood’s special version of chastity?” Daniel shrugged. “It’s done now. I know my duty.”

Nikolai didn't answer.

Daniel waited. The moon went into hiding behind the storm clouds, leaving only the tiny bulbs strung in the maze hedge to light the space around them. The wind picked up, blowing the scent of Masticha in his face, and he breathed it in as if it were pure oxygen.

Finally, Nikolai turned. “You say you know your duty. How much do you know, Daniel? What do you understand of a Champion’s needs?”

“I’m willing to learn, my lord.”

Nikolai stepped nearer and closed his fingers on the collar at Daniel’s throat. “Then learn this, my Squire. You will come to me of your own free will or not at all.”

Daniel heard the fabric tear as if made of paper. “My lord, Holy Protocol says—”

“There is nothing holy in the Brotherhood’s protocol. Do not speak of it again in my hearing.” He ripped at Daniel’s uniform once more, rending it to the waist. “You try my patience.”

“I’m sorry, my—”

“Call. Me. Nikolai.”

“Nikolai. I’m sorry. What do you want me to—”

“You must choose.” He fisted his hands in the torn garment. “Now, in this moment, before my appetites get the better of me and your chance is gone.”

“Choose? I don’t—”

“Hush.” He shook Daniel, pulling him off his feet. “I offer these options — live as my Squire in the chastity our friend Bastiaan considers such a burden, or live as my true companion. Mine in body and soul. Do you comprehend what that means? Do you?”

“I think so.”

Nikolai lifted him till the only toes of his boots touched the gravel. “Your choice, Daniel Nightshade. Tell me now.”

His choice? As if he could fathom life with Nikolai wrapped up in the blanket of his power, enduring the fever his touch and scent aroused, but never knowing any resolution to the tension between them?

Daniel grabbed at the sleeves of Nikolai’s coat and strained upward in his grip till his lips were just a hairsbreadth from the Champion’s. He held there a second, sharing breath with Nikolai as the wind blew around them and the thunder’s complaint grew from a grumble to a shout. Then, ignoring training and Protocol and following only base instinct, he nipped at Nikolai’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

Nikolai gasped and shoved him away. He ran his thumb over his lip and stared at the red smear. “This is your answer?”

Daniel stopped just short of rolling his eyes. “You need me to say the words?”

Nikolai’s face darkened. “Before this night is through, you will say those words and more. I promise you that.” He lifted his head and sniffed the air. Then he smiled, slow and wicked. “Choose a number. Choose wisely, my Squire.”

“Fifty.”

Nikolai nodded. “There is a fountain at the center of the maze. Listen — you will hear it above the wind.”

Daniel strained his ears. There... Yes, he could hear the muffled burble and splash.

“I will count to fifty. Then I will give chase.”

“Is this what you call foreplay?”

Nikolai shrugged. “Call it an ancient rite — the hunter and his virgin prey.”

Daniel felt heat rise in his face. “Sorry I asked.”

“You must reach the fountain before I lay my hands on you.”

“And if I don’t?”

Nikolai’s grin deepened. “Run. Now.”

* * *

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Give Me Liberty (and a really nice Camembert) or Give Me Death.

2008-03-07T10:43:00.005-05:00

Thanks again to Kerry Allen for pointing me to this recent post on Romancing the Blog.

While I appreciate where the "quality over quantity" folks are coming from, I have to say that their approach - cutting the number of books published in order to somehow cull what they consider "unworthy" entries into the marketplace - makes the kind of sense to me that pretty much doesn't.

First, of course, comes the logical query regarding the subjectivity of the entire endeavor: Who decides what constitutes "quality" romance fiction? I wouldn't want that responsibility. Nor am I comfortable giving it to any one individual or group of individuals. Free enterprise dictates that the marketplace decides what gets published, and while the marketplace does tend to lag behind public taste at times, I'm pretty comfortable with that model. It's slow and unwieldy - and yes, sometimes excellent work is overlooked - but it's got to be better than the alternative.

In our little village (population: 1593...saaaaLUTE!) we have one grocery store. It's not very big in terms of square feet and shelf-space. And guess what? The selection sucks. Not a huge variety of goods, and not much depth within each category.

I shop there because it's less than a mile from my house, and I'm a lazy beeyotch who can't be bothered to drive ten miles into what passes for the nearest "city" and hit the mega-market. But when I do happen to meander out of the village and choose to do my shopping in a store five times the size as my local market, what do I find? People driving from all over the county - and in many cases, from outside the county - to buy their foodstuffs there.

Why? Not because they enjoy fighting downtown traffic or the amazing (and often confounding) crowds that block the aisles of this grocery store, but because of the SELECTION.

Not just Philly cream cheese and Kraft American and Helluva Good cheddar in every imaginable degree of sharpness...but hunks of Stilton studded with cranberries or apricots or sometimes - but not always - dates and walnuts. Not just chicken and beef and pork, but lamb and duck and fish that doesn't come breaded and frozen. Not just strawberries in season, but papayas out of season.

You get the idea.

If this mega-market ever opens a satellite location in our tiny village - which is unlikely to the point of impossibility, but a lazy beeyotch can dream - I don't imagine I'll hear too many folks complaining that they can't find what they like because the selection is too damned overwhelming.

I'm sure the counter-argument for this would be that groceries are one thing, and art is another. Granted. But art is only experienced as "art" in its creation and its consumption. The middle part of the process is marketing and sales. Fiction - even romance fiction - is a product, and as Kerry says, if the publishers are going to start limiting selection, they're not going to cut the Philly cream cheese and the Kraft...their biggest sellers. It's the dates-and-walnuts-studded Stilton that's going to go first.

And as a lazy beeyotch with an abiding love for well-made cheese, I think that would be a damned shame.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Scenes from Casa de Crazypants

2008-03-06T09:56:00.003-05:00

Me: Sit down. Seriously, take a load off. You're making me dizzy with the pacing.

Him: You know what Tolkien said? In that poem? Remember?

Me: Yeah, I know. "Not all those who wander are lost." But you? Are not wandering so much as walking back and forth over a ten-foot stretch of Linoleum. Now sit your ass down and eat a goddamn cookie.

Him: Are these raisins or chocolate chips?

Me: Where are your glasses?

Him: *looks at me blankly*

Me: Take a leap of faith and eat the cookie.

Him: I don't know. Maybe you're trying to poison me.

Me: Dude. Seriously. *brief pause* What would Gandalf do?

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Deepish sorts of thinky-ness re: ATONEMENT.

2008-03-03T09:02:00.003-05:00

WARNING: Spoilers ahead for the film version of Ian McEwan’s ATONEMENT.

Full disclosure: I haven’t yet read McEwan’s ATONEMENT, though it’s been on my TBR pile for some time. The following comments are applicable to the film version only.

I understand from conversations with others that the plot of the book and the movie are essentially the same: Brit Boy and Girl fall in love circa late 1930s, as the world slides into war; Girl’s Younger Sister, in a fit of jealousy and adolescent self-righteousness, tells a fairly horrible lie about Boy, sending him to prison and later to war; Girl and Boy suffer beautifully for one another as Younger Sister grows up and realizes the error of her ways; Girl and Boy die, separately, of the horrors of war; Younger Sister spends the rest of her days attempting to atone for her misdeed.

A sad story, though beautifully acted and filmed. I saw it as a Brit/WWII version of COLD MOUNTAIN (a book and movie roundly despised by contemporary lovers of romance) in some ways, as many of the same struggles were showcased: love, hope and faith in the face of the misery of war. Even the refrain of “come back to me” resonated in a very Nicole Kidman-struggling-with-a-Southern-accent kind of way. And, of course, the ending...painful, yet hopeful.

But I came away feeling slightly dissatisfied with ATONEMENT because the two lovers, Robbie and Cecelia, had so little screen time together – much like the old-fashioned historicals that often left the hero and heroine separated for huge chunks of the book – that I found it difficult to care very much about their doomed love.

What did leave a sharp impression on me was the last scene – Vanessa Redgrave, playing Younger Sister in her golden years, being interviewed regarding the release of her final novel. She had this to say:

“So, my sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for... and deserved. Which ever since I've... ever since I've always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life. I'd like to think this isn't weakness or... evasion... but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness.”

I’ve been reading online message boards at various review sites, and posters appear to be of two moods regarding Briony’s atonement for the ruining of Cecelia and Robbie’s lives. Most folks seem convinced that Briony did nothing to make up for the suffering she caused as a jealous thirteen-year-old. The fictional happily-ever-after she gave Robbie and Cee could never be enough to atone for the truth of their last, miserable years apart. The film failed for a good number of people who viewed it this way.

While I understand that point of view, I’m more interested in looked at ATONEMENT as a work of metafiction (a type of fiction that self-consciously addresses the devices of fiction. It is the literary term describing fictional writing that self-consciously and systematically draws attention to its status as an artifact in posing questions about the relationship between fiction and reality, usually, irony and self-reflection. In a sense, it can be compared to presentational theatre, that does not let the audience forget they are viewing a play; metafiction does not let the reader forget he or she is reading a fictional work. ~ Wikipedia) that addresses the writer’s responsibility to her audience in terms of shedding light on “universal truths.”

In 1950, during the height of the Cold War, the author William Faulkner won a Nobel Prize for literature. In his acceptance speech, he had this to say:

“Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. [emphasis mine] Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” ~W. Faulkner, December 10, 1950, Stockholm.

For me, this is what Briony is talking about when she says “...what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that?” She’s attempting to give some meaning – find some “universal truth” – the suffering of her sister and her lover. Her version of that truth would likely be “loyalty, faith and true love are rewarded by ultimate happiness.”

But are they? They certainly should be, but we know real life often doesn’t work that way. Which is maybe why we, as romance writers, create the stories we do, in which true love has its chance to overcome the odds.

Perhaps Briony’s atonement – which consisted of personal sacrifice in the form of nursing broken, dying men as well as her final “gift” to Cee and Robbie – can be seen as inadequate from a personal standpoint. Certainly, in the movie we’re given no indication of the state of Briony’s personal life. Did she meet her own true love? Did she find perfect fulfillment elsewhere, in her work perhaps? The film gives no clue, other than to picture her very much alone in the moment she gives her final interview.

But even this would not be enough to make up for the pain she caused, would it? Even if she spent her entire life in enforced solitude, would it be enough?

I think maybe that’s not the point. I think maybe only the effort to atone is the point. It’s in the effort we make to be worthy human beings that the beauty lies, just as the journey of life is the point of living, and not the destination at the end. And while “happily-ever-after” may give us that “God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world” sense of satisfaction, is not the very struggle to find and preserve true love, however it ends up, a lovely reminder that we AREN’T just a collection of glands, after all?

So while ATONEMENT can’t possibly be called a “romance” in the sense of the current romance fiction tropes – girl meets boy, girl loves boy, girl loses boy, girl gets boy, HEA – the fact that it celebrates what Faulkner calls “universal truths” – means it succeeds. At least for me.

But then, I loved COLD MOUNTAIN, so maybe I’m just bent.

SelahMarch.com – Romance of Dubious Virtue

Pain is weakness leaving your body.

2008-02-29T11:20:00.004-05:00

I appreciate the few little notes I've received asking where the hell I've gone and what the fuck do I mean by disappearing like this for days and days at a time. But while sharing my current difficulties would no doubt make ME feel better, it won't do a thing for anyone else, except perhaps for those who take joy in others' suffering, and they're likely too busy parboiling puppies to notice. (Don't roll your eyes like that, it's unattractive. You know who you are.) Suffice to say I'm alive and writing, which isn't the same thing as "alive and kicking," but it's close enough.

In the meantime, check out The Gruesome Origins of Five Popular Fairy Tales, courtesy of Cracked.com. Because what's a little pederasty, ritual mutilation, and cannibalism among friends?

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

It's not dead, Jim.

2008-02-19T16:19:00.005-05:00

I got green, and I got blues
And every day there's a little less
Difference between the two
So I belly-up, and disappear
Well, I ain't really drowning
'Cause I see the beach from here.
~Drive-By Truckers, "Goddamn Lonely Love"

As it's been noted (thank you, Ferfe) I'm not so much with the here-ness. Still trying to break through the block of a lifetime on a book with which I've fallen in love...but which most emphatically doesn't love me back. Unrequited passion is a bitch. We'll work it out, though, me and my muse. He'll keep telling me I'm a hack, and I'll keep trying to prove him wrong, and together we'll force the words into their proper order.

In the meantime, I read this essay over at Romancing the Blog, and walked away with a vague sense of...I dunno. Dissatisfaction? Confusion? Some juicy fast-food combo meal made from the two, with a supersized side of WTF?

But then I read THIS, and I felt better.

And hey, FANTASIES III (2007 EPPIE-nom'd homoerotic antho that includes my novella, "Hardcore") is out in print, in case anyone's interested.

REVIEWS for "Hardcore"/FANTASIES IIII:
4 Angels!
"As the longest story of this anthology, 'Hardcore' is just that - a hardcore story about revenge, sex and dealing with the unexpected. Jesse and Sean are spellbinding and disturbing all at once, but you will have a hard time moving away from this story."
~Isabella for Fallen Angel Reviews

"The plot never slows down, and the interaction between Jesse and Sean is great to watch. This is March's first foray into gay romance and I'm impressed at her characterizations. Sex scenes were beyond hot and tastefully done, with just the right bit of kink. They were also free of trite expressions. 'Hardcore' is a great read and I look forward to more from the author."
~Ryes for Rainbow Reviews

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

DAY 54: Watch her wallow.

2008-02-05T16:50:00.000-05:00

Can't eat (unless you count the chocolate I'm not supposed to touch). Can't sleep (unless you count three hours of dreams in which I'm chased through dark streets by evil monks). And the moon, she is on the wane, which means my body is deep in the Ninth Circle of Hormone Hell.

I'd go for a walk to clear my head, but it's thundering. In the Northeast. In effing FEBRUARY. (But Global Warming is a mythical lefty construct, so I guess I'm just imagining that phenomenon, and so are my poor dogs, with the panting and the drooling and the trying to fit their big, furry butts under my chair.)

And the Book That Would Not Die? Is now, officially, UNdead. And haunting my ass (hence the dreams about evil monks). Even the kinky smut is hard going. Heh. I said "hard."

My kingdom for a thousand decent, usable words a day. I'm lucky if I get five hundred.

My next book? Something MUCH lighter: More sexy cowboys doing each other in the hayloft. I can't wait.

At least the cat is cute.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

The Book That Would Not Die: DAY 47

2008-01-29T18:52:00.000-05:00

Fresh out of anything remotely interesting to say that doesn't involve Greek mythology, Apocalyptic prophecy or kinky sex with toys -- but fearing the threats of dire retribution from her brilliant and ever-stylish crit partner if she doesn't update soon -- the desperate blogger relies on pimping other folks' posts, making note of a recent review, and blathering on about the difference between dark fantasy and horror.

~Lilith Saintcrow, author of the excellent Dante Valentine series (among others), talks about the "visual writer" over at The Midnight Hour. Nifty.

*

~Maura Frankman of the Romance Studio gives DIRTY SHAME four stars and a nice review:

"Joey Fiorello is an out of work actress desperate for a job; she also has the voice of her dead sister constantly nagging her in her head. She answers an ad for a personal assistant and finds herself employed by the notorious Hollywood bad boy Dare Daniels. His agent assures her that she isn’t his type, she is short, dark, and curvy and he likes them tall, thin, and blonde. He also has a stalker who wants to kill him, but he doesn’t know that yet. Advised by his therapist to go home to work out his issues, the two fly to rural Kansas where Dare is definitely not the most popular guy in town. Hopefully the two will both survive the trip.

Joey is one of the best characters that I have read about in a while. She is definitely not the Hollywood ingénue type and she definitely has a Brooklyn attitude. Dare needs someone to kick him in the butt. He spends most of his time drunk or passed out and needs someone like Joey to straighten him out. The stressful situation brings them together and causes conflict at the same time. Dare has a pretty terrible secret in his past and the tabloids would love to get hold of it, they could also have a field day with the pair’s pretty public couplings. The tabloid reporter already in town nearly gets a really big story but for the tough Joey. The would-be murderer was a complete surprise to me, though all the hints were there. This is a very well done romantic suspense story with hotter than average love scenes and two charismatic main characters who really need each other, and don’t forget the bossy ghost!"

(DIRTY SHAME is available in ebook form, and in trade paperback as part of my SIN STREET collection.)

*

~I've heard it said that true horror can't be sexy. I'd beg to differ. One of the hottest scenes I've ever read happened in the first third of Uncle Stevie's PET SEMATARY...the bathtub scene? Anybody else remember that?

Yeah, I know, that book ended VERY badly. Or very well, depending on how you feel about the wiping out of an entire family, including the cat. (Okay, the little girl lived, but I'm sure she ended up being raised by the grandparents who caused most of the tragedy by fucking up her mother in the first place.)

I'm writing a book -- which started out as a novella and got away from me in the past week -- that I thought could be called a dark fantasy, but as the story develops, I'm seeing a real edging toward horror in at least two scenes. And I'm not sure where I draw that line, but like porn, I know it when I read it.

What I want to know is this: Where is the line for you? When does dark fantasy become horror? Is it all about the gore? Is it a certain kind of monster or bad guy or supernatural-ity?

Is it about the ending? (Happy ending = fantasy, sad/bad ending = horror. If that's the correct equation, I guess I'm writing dark erotic fantasy with elements of horror...maybe?)

And how do you feel about dark erotic fantasy versus erotic horror?

I'm askin'.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

L is for LOSER.

2008-01-23T21:56:00.000-05:00

Kate hath shamed me. To wit:

"you know there's a name for people like you, people who get other people addicted to their blog and then stop posting for days and days and days at a time.

The word might be "busy" or it might be some other b word.

and now I have barbra streisand singing in my brain "peeeeeeeeepllll who neeeed peeeeeeplllll" and I'll blame you for that, too."
~the inimitable Kate Rothwell

Yeah, you could call me busy. Or a bitch. I answer to both.*

I'm in the middle of a WIP that's taking over my life, invading my dreams, and otherwise kicking my ass. It's a dark, futuristic/post-Apocalyptic M/M erotic fantasy with BDSM elements (heh...d'you want fries with that?)

Working title: NIGHTSHADE. Due out from Amber Allure sometime in May.

Blurb:
A civilization thrown into hell by war and pestilence cries out for salvation. A band of Champions emerges from the shadows of chaos -- reincarnations of the old daemons and deities from times forgotten.

A young soldier maimed in an accident and no longer fit for the battlefield answers the call to serve. Daniel Willoughby is ready -- if not eager -- to fulfill his duties as Squire to Nikolai Thanatos, the Champion codenamed “Nightshade.”

Daniel is prepared to sacrifice his body, his heart and his soul. He’s about to discover Nightshade wants all that...and more.

Teaser:
Side by side they walked the path to the huge brick house. Each time Daniel tried to drop back in deference to Thanatos, the Champion slowed his pace. Finally, he stopped and confronted Daniel. "Why do you dally?"

Daniel's face flushed with heat. "My training. Protocol says--"

Thanatos loomed over him, leaning in close till his breath rushed over Daniel's neck. He bent and touched his lips to the stretch of skin just under Daniel's ear. Then he bit, pinching a tiny bit of flesh between the sharp edges of his teeth.

A thrill of pain, hot and sweet, shot through Daniel and he swayed like a stripling in a stiff wind.

Thanatos released him and whispered, "You asked me to test you. I warn you not to test me in return."

"Yes." Daniel's voice quavered and broke. "I'm sorry. Anything you want."

"Call me Nikolai."

"Nikolai."

"Louder."

"Nikolai!"

When the Champion spoke again, Daniel heard a note of satisfaction hidden somewhere in the gravel-rough rumble. "I am partial to a man who knows when to fight and when to give in. I think we will make a tight fit, you and I."

He ran his hand down Daniel's spine, from the nape of his neck to the swell of his ass. Daniel could feel the press and drag of each finger through the thin fabric of his duty-rig. "Do not keep me waiting, Daniel Willoughby."

He turned away. Daniel stood on the path, fighting to regain his composure.

Overhead, the Nightingale trilled.

***

So, anyway. That's why I've been a big, loser-y absentee landlord of a blog owner. I will endeavor to do better, if only to save Kate from a further plague of easy-listening earworms.

*Plus a handful of others, including "Ma, Mama, Mommmyyyyy, honey, and Her Royal Highness, Queen of the Manatee." **

**There's a story behind this one. No, I'm not going to tell it here. Meet me at RT in Pittsburgh and buy me a drink. We'll talk.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

My new cover makes me happy...

2008-01-15T10:05:00.001-05:00

...IN MY PANTS.

Ahem.

It's the little things. The fold of the hat. The belt coiled in his hand, which illustrates a minor, smutty plot point. The fact that both he and the shadowy chick in the background look pretty much EXACTLY like the hero and heroine of my story.

Cover art is always a crapshoot. Or, at best, Forest Gump's famous box of chocolates -- always sweet, because any cover means you've sold a book, but sometimes? You get the raspberry cream. Blech.

Coincidentally, PBW discussed this very topic yesterday.

*stares at new cover some more*

Yep. Happy. In my pants.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Subtlety, thy name is PBW.

2008-01-13T16:59:00.000-05:00

Lynn Viehl has what I consider to be the final word on the subject of holding unpopular opinions* in the current Romancelandia climate.

There's a reason I aspire to her level of sanity.

*Which is not the same thing as supporting plagiarism, for those still determined to confuse the two issues.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Random

2008-01-12T12:21:00.000-05:00

Remember last year's Rita awards? Remember how a bunch of folks were ASTOUNDED and APPALLED when my crit partner, the brilliant and ever-stylish Barbara Caridad Ferrer, won for Best Contemporary Single Title Romance with her Young Adult debut novel, ADIOS TO MY OLD LIFE?

Apparently, the 2007 Rita judges weren't the only ones who think Ferrer is a big slice of awesome with a side of awesome-sauce. Behold the interim results in AAR's 2008 Readers' Poll. Ferrer's 2007 release, IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ACCENT (also a Young Adult novel), is listed no less than three times -- "Best Romance," "Best Contemporary Romance," and "Most-Hanky Read."

To quote Barb, "I'm just thrilled YA can be held up against the mainstream adult stuff and work."

In other news, agent Caren Johnson is running a contest to celebrate the New Year. Check it out.

Also, I've been reading this blog, edittorent, quite a bit of late. Excellent advice from two very sharp editors. I'm learning stuff I didn't know I didn't know. Know what I mean?

Finally, I'm pleased to note that SEVEN YEAR ACHE made the #9 spot on Amber Allure's quarterly Bestseller List. Very gratifying. But I wonder what it says about me as an author that my M/M work outsells my M/F work by such a large margin? Or does it say something about the market? Hmmm.

ETA: Win a print copy of FORTUNE'S FOOL at Alison Kent's blog today!

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Once more, with feeling.

2008-01-10T09:46:00.000-05:00

Jenny Crusie has more to say on the difference between legitimate reviewing/reporting, and scape-goating. (Warning: it's long.)

Two things in this essay stood out for me. First, the fact that Jenny is so willing to admit her own failings in the area of "snide and demeaning." How refreshing to see someone step up and say, "Here's where I think you screwed up, but here's where I screwed up, too. I'll try not to do it again."

I'm the first to admit that I often descend into "snide and demeaning," (and on one notable occasion, "mere sarcasm") particularly when discussing the RWA, and often when attempting to dissect and understand the behavior of certain romance bloggers. It's not cool, because the tone adds nothing to the debate. Jenny's on the nose with that one.

I can't control the ebb and flow of the River Rancid, but I can refuse to drink from its waters. I will try harder.

Secondly, Jenny says this:

"It isn’t about being nice; nice has no place in communicating ideas. It isn’t even about being polite; that’s a social construct. It’s about figuring out what you want to communicate to other people and saying that, instead of going for the laugh and the superiority."

YES. A whole entire universe of YES.

Comments are running heavily in Jenny's favor, but it's her blog, after all. I'm sure the folks on the opposite side of the debate will rally their troops any time now. But here's the thing I really don't get: How can anyone with enough interest and smarts to follow the discussion this far conflate Jenny's dislike of the tone of the conversation with defending plagiarism?

I'm not buying it. And while I'm sure this will generate someone out there to think/say, "You don't know me and you can't speak to my motivations," I can't help but think that nonsense is just a cover for "Ouch, Crusie's right, we've been acting like asshats, but we enjoy it too much to stop."

Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe some folks really are that stupid.

Wait...was that snide and demeaning? I can't even tell anymore. *sigh* This is gonna be hard.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Jenny Crusie FOR THE WIN!

2008-01-07T20:52:00.000-05:00

Anybody who’s even marginally acquainted with me must know I couldn’t keep my grubby little paws off this one, right?

Cassie Edwards has allegedly plagiarized some work, apparently from a number of sources. If these allegations are true, then Ms. Edwards deserves whatever consequences are coming to her. No author has the right to steal, no matter how popular – and Cassie Edwards IS popular, which is part of another point that I’ll address later (and I’m sure you can’t WAIT).

So it was the Smart Bitches who outted Ms. Edwards' shenanigans, and that’s all well and good. Keeping the masses informed, one Bitch at a time. Works for me.

But there IS a finer distinction to be made here, and Jenny Crusie stepped up to bat and knocked it right outta the park.

After acknowledging that plagiarism is wrong, and Edwards deserves to face the consequences if she, in fact, has done it, and also acknowledging that the SBs have every right to hunt down the facts of the matter AND every right to review as “savagely” as they can, Jenny went on to say:

“I also think this site has made Cassie Edwards a scapegoat and a whipping boy, taking gleeful delight in pointing out how bad she is over and over and over again to the point where it’s close to harassment. The woman is a bad writer, we get it, we get it, so why did Candy give her friend one of Edwards’ books when she knows what outstandingly good books there are out there? Because it’s Cassie Edwards, and she’s so much fun to kick. The only thing I do not like about this site is the way Edwards is treated.

So when I saw another ‘Cassie Edwards, ohmygod’ post, the fact that it was about plagiarism is not what annoyed me first, it was that it was another shot at Cassie Edwards, discovered because people were reading her to make fun of her again. She plagiarized, I hope she goes down for it. But she doesn’t deserve the constant humiliation this site heaps on her, nobody does.

I realize this will enrage SB fans. I realize this will make some people think even less of me than they already do and that opinion was pretty darn low to begin with. I’m good with that. Have a nice day.”

And OHMYGOD, I nearly had a spontaneous moment of sexual ecstasy there. Pardon me whilst I recover.

Okay. So.

Criticize the work. Criticize the author for producing the work. Everyone can learn from good, solid, insightful reviewing. But when the criticism slides into round after round of bashing, whom does that benefit? The segment of the audience who are in it for the cheap thrill of getting to be nasty virtually anonymously and with no consequences? The blogger who gets to vent and have her adoring readership tell her again how very clever she is?

I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who’s left feeling queasy by that behavior, especially when it’s practiced by folks I know to be otherwise intelligent enough to appreciate the distinction. And it saddens me when the only defense they can seem to come up with is "I never said I was a nice person." Lame.

My other point? Clearly, Cassie Edwards -- and Laurell K. Hamilton and a slew of other authors who are routinely excoriated online -- have a large and devoted audience. What is the average book reviewer saying to THOSE people every time they not only diss a book or report on an event in the writing community – ALL of which is perfectly reasonable behavior -- but savage the author to boot? Aren’t they saying, “hey, you’re too stupid to know a good book, AND the author with whom you may have a long-time literary relationship is pretty much a moron, too.” So when blogging reviewers (NOT necessarily the SBs) get all het up about authors allegedly bashing readers in these online dust-ups? Perhaps they should, for just a moment, consider the literally thousands of readers they routinely offend simply by being unnecessarily cruel to their favorite authors.

Do the SBs and their crowd have a right to bash? Sure they do. I’ve got a right to stand on the corner and berate my long-dead Aunt Marta for being an utter twat, too. Doesn’t mean anybody needs to hear that shit. Nor does it make me particularly classy to do it.

There’s a reason they call it the “high road” and it ain’t for the cannabis growin' in the ditch.

And now I’m going to go write Jenny Crusie a note, thanking her for speaking up. I may feel the urge to propose marriage. I will fight this urge. I may not win.

Jenny? You’ve been warned.

SelahMarch.com – Romance of Dubious Virtue

"There's a hole in the world like a great black pit...

2008-01-04T22:34:00.000-05:00

...and it's filled with people who are filled with shit!"

Ah, Sweeney. Murderous misanthropy at its finest. I wasn't nearly as disturbed by the gouts and gobs of blood as I was by watching...(slight spoiler ahead)...

...Mrs. Lovett's untimely demise. I adore Helena Bonham Carter. She's the patron saint of the profoundly weird.

So. Happy New Year. The bleak midwinter approacheth -- my favorite season. I'm working on a very dark futuristic fantasy featuring fresh, creamy innocence despoiled by Death incarnate and made to like it and beg for more. I've peopled it with vulgar, greedy, and ultimately inconsequential despots, vicious men of the cloth with nasty turns of mind and secret agendas, and a whole boatload of kinky sex -- using the online writing/reading/blogging community as my template, obviously. And a happy ending. Because this is ROMANCE, baby.

The working title of this homage to the sick and twisted is NIGHTSHADE, and it should be released by Amber Allure sometime in May.

Also, SEVEN YEAR ACHE made the top ten bestseller list at Amber Allure for the second month running, so yay for the cold, hard cash, yes? *sigh* That resolution to be less crass lasted a whole four days.

Oh well. Maybe next year.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

On the banks of the River Rancid...

2007-12-20T08:30:00.000-05:00

I was going to do a Thursday Thirteen on why I love, adore and worship the comedian Kathy Griffin, but this takes precedence.

Go here. Read this.

Now, I'm the first one to admit to my own mental deficit when it comes to business. An MBA I shall never be. But I've pondered this and pondered it, and I'm really not seeing the connection between PBW -- or any other author -- giving away free ebooks and the "undercutting" of other authors' advances.

One would think that if any undercutting were going on, it would be in sales of the professionally published books of the author giving away free samples of her own work. Because basically, we're talking about a well-published, best-selling author doing a little self-publishing on the side. A reader MIGHT think..."Hey, why should I buy her books if I can get other work by her for free?"

Of course, that's not what happens. Hence that whole "best-selling" thing.

But for other authors to point to self-pub-as-promotion being the cause of lower advances? Not huge with the sense-making. Also, reeking strongly of the rancid bitterness that too often flows like a river through the hills and dales of Romancelandia.

"PBW doesn't play the game. She writes in too many genres. She's not a member of anything. She doesn't attend conferences. She doesn't do signings. She doesn't do chats. She pays no attention to reviews. She doesn't send bookmarks or postcards or widgets. Her books aren't even really romance. Plus...she gives them away for FREE. I do ALL that useless self-promo stuff, yet SHE sells like ribbed-for-her-pleasure condoms on the first day of Spring Break, and MY advances are down. Clearly, SHE'S the problem here." *

Me? I think advances are down across the board. I think the industry is in trouble -- much the same kind of trouble with which the music industry seems to be afflicted.

I think publishers as a whole are so busy staring myopically at the bottom line that they can't see how badly they're screwing themselves (doesn't that make an interesting image?)

I think marketing departments have more power than editorial departments, and this makes for shortsighted choices that reward mediocrity and reject originality.

I think people are reading less, and are less interested in books that challenge them in an age where just catching a flight out of state for Thanksgiving dinner with the cousins presents seemingly insurmountable obstacles that could conceivably include a strip search if you happen to wear the wrong damn bra.

I think nothing about this is going to change anytime soon.

What I don't think? Is that PBW -- in ANY of her incarnations -- has much to do with it.

Well. Maybe the global warming thing. Jeez, we gotta watch her every minute, don't we?

*This is me being merely sarcastic again and trying to imagine what could POSSIBLY be going through people's brains when they make these amazing accusations. I apologize to anyone who thought I was quoting a real, live individual.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Zuzu's petals!

2007-12-19T10:05:00.000-05:00

For the past several days, I've had the Eagles' recent top forty hit "How Long" running on an endless loop through my head. Which is sort of weird. Love the Eagles, but generally it's "Little Drummer Boy" that gets stuck this time of year. So last night, I sat down and listened to the lyrics. Apparently, my subconscious has been telling me to get a grip, already.

See, me and Christmas have never been the best of buds. For years, I blamed my distaste for the season on a difficult childhood that made Christmas a crapshoot from one year to the next. Too many presents under the tree invariably meant that somebody, somewhere had cut corners on the light bill, the rent, the necessary amount of fuel oil for the furnace, and we’d be paying the price sooner than later. Add to that the added layer of excitement that celebrating the holidays with an alcoholic in the house always lends to the proceedings, and...well. I used to figure I had a good reason to be Grinchy on a regular basis.

And every year, something happens. Usually it’s something small. Inconsequential. Nothing more than the merest excuse to ruin my mood and churn up a whole butt-load of “Bah! Humbug” in my wretched little soul. Next thing you know, I’m drowning in a toxic brew of eggnog and self-pity.

Like a bluebird with his heart removed
Lonely as a train
I've run just as far as I can run
If I never see the good old days
Shinin' in the sun
I'll be doin' fine and then some

How long, how long
Woman, will you weep?
How long, how long
Rock yourself to sleep

Last year? It was the fully-decorated tree crashing down TWICE into the center of our living room and smashing ornaments right and left that ruined Christmas for me. It made me ANGRY. And part of me STAYED angry, although it was nobody’s fault and like I said...just an excuse.

I've been doin' time in a lonesome prison
Where the sun don't shine
And just outside the freedom river runs
Out there in that shiny night
With bloodhounds on your mind
Don't you know it's the same sad situation?

How long, how long
Woman, will you weep?
How long, how long
Rock yourself to sleep

This year? Not such a little thing. Darling Daughter has come down with a painful illness. Until yesterday, said painful illness stumped the local medical community – including her sainted and hardworking father – and had her mother (that would be moi) scared shitless and courting nightmares of flesh-eating bacteria.

There were puzzled frowns, and long recitations of health history, and threatened tests that involved needles and CAT scans of her skull, while Mama Bear tried to drown her stress in raw cookie dough and neglected her writing, her domestic duties, and most everything but Darling Daughter and the obsessive playing of online Solitaire to quiet the demons that whispered of evil, face-consuming microscopic bugs.

Everybody feels all right
You know, I heard some poor fool sing...
(Somebody oooh...)
Everyone is out there on the loose
Well, I wish I lived in the land of fools
Where no one knew my name
But what you get is not quite what you choose

Tell me, how long, how long
Woman, will you weep?
How long, how long
Rock yourself to sleep

But today? Dawned new and bright and shiny. Modern medicine prevails, Darling Daughter is nearly back to her charming self, and that cookie dough is about to meet a hot oven by way of a greased pan. There are presents to be bought and other presents to be wrapped, clothes to be laundered and meals to be cooked, homework to be checked and writing to be done. And seriously...how long can one woman weep over stuff that happened thirty years ago?

I’ve decided that just as I can choose to be happy on a daily basis no matter what circumstances serve up, I can choose to enjoy Christmas.

Well...it's a work in progress. But I'm really, really trying.

And this I know for sure: Self-pity is for suckers, and it is, in fact, a Wonderful Life.

How long, how long
Muddy river runs so deep

How long, how long
Goodnight baby, rock yourself to sleep
Sleep tight, baby, rock yourself to sleep
Buh-buh-buh bye bye, baby, rock yourself to sleep

SelahMarch.com – Romance of Dubious Virtue

Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit.

2007-12-14T09:44:00.000-05:00

There was a glitch in the EPPIE judging for the GBLT category. They announced the new list today:

Category K – GLBT

The Lost Temple of Karttikeya
Laura Baumbach
Loose Id

Phaze Fantasies III
James Buchanan,
Jade Falconer, Eliza Gayle,
Jamie Hill, Selah March,
Yeva Wiest
Mundania Press/Imprint - Phaze Books

Chiaroscuro
Jenna Jones
Torquere Press Publishers

Finding Jason
Lyndi Lamont
Amber Quill Press

Ghosts
Olivia Lorenz
Torquere Press Publishers/Imprint TOP SHELF

For Better or Worse
Jodi Payne
Torquere Press Publishers

Hearts & Bones
M. L. Rhodes
Amber Quill Press

Persistence of Memory
J. M. Snyder
Amber Quill Press

***

Six Phaze favorites deliver stories of homoerotic passion and romance.

Mask by James Buchanan: Don Hector Luz Aritza and his mayordomo y compañero Martín have been lovers since they were boys. Now that the Don is to wed a Frenchwoman, Martín must use magic and love to fight of the woman who wants to tear the lovers apart. Set in Colonial Mexico, Mask weaves the mysticism, suppression and magic of legends of the old southwest into a tale of two men who must fight to be together.

Devotion by Jade Falconer: Marcus was Prince Wilhelm's personal slave. The prince desires his lovely slave, and they share a bed every night. Their love transcends all convention; but when a new slave, Frederic, threatens their idyllic existence, will their love prevail? Or will misunderstanding forever tear them apart?

Dragon's Fate by Eliza Gayle: Called to service after a Bone Oracle reading, Kian strives to become the best D/s trainer that he can. But after meeting the bad-tempered and wildly sexy Fae Prince who would prepare him, Kian can’t deny the overwhelming attraction he feels for Garon. Can he let go of his life long belief of Dominance in favor of a different role?

Forced to train a Dominant Dragon, something he swore he would never do, Garon took him home. Irritated with his Father’s demands, Garon sought to quickly train the Dragon and send him on his way. But he didn’t count on Kian responding to every demand he made or the repercussions of bringing him to his knees.

Heads or Tails by Jamie Hill: Jeff Roberts' life is all planned out for him. He's engaged to the boss's daughter, and eventually he'll run the construction/real estate company he works for. It's going to be the perfect life.

When Kurt Lacey joins the construction crew, Jeff is suddenly fighting urges he'd forced himself to repress. There were male lovers in his past, but deciding that wasn't what he wanted, Jeff proceeded to 'go straight'. Kurt has other ideas, and one night together has Jeff rethinking his life. Does he want to be secure, responsible and boring? Wild, exciting and nontraditional seems like lots more fun. It all comes down to the flip of a coin—and whether Jeff chooses Heads or Tails.

Hardcore by Selah March: Disgraced police officer and psychic empath Jesse Bonham is a man with a mission -- eliminate the thug that ruined his life. Student and part-time bartender Sean Carr wants no part of Jesse's vendetta, no matter how hot he finds the ex-cop. When Jesse kidnaps Sean to use as bait, they discover the meaning of "out of the frying pan and into the fire."

Behind the Beard by Yeva Wiest: Madly in lust, handsome young counselor Byron Jones hides his secret self. The object of his attraction: Lord Richard Kincade, the Queen’s most sought after barrister. With the help of two conniving old codgers, a mischievous miss, and some six-legged buggers, Byron “wigs out” to capture the heart of Lord Kincade.

This story proves the bell of the ball just might be a beau, but everything depends on who is really hiding behind the beard.

Length: Quasar (114K words)
Rating: 4 Novas

Excerpt from "Hardcore" by Selah March:

"You need to use the john?" Bonham asked him, his voice gruff but subdued. "Maybe take a shower?"

Sean shook his head. "I'm good." He slid out of his damp jacket and shivered as the cool air struck his bare arms and neck.

Bonham began rummaging around in the oversized duffel he'd carried in from the truck. A few seconds later, he came up with a fresh set of clothes. "I'll be twenty minutes or so. Then we'll see what Manuel left us to eat, and maybe start a fire."

Before he could think, Sean heard himself saying, "You're not gonna tie me up?"

Bonham shot a glance over his left shoulder. "I thought we'd save the kinky shit for when we know each other better."

"Funny. You're a real comedian for a convicted killer."

Bonham was next to him in under a second, his fingers digging into Sean's bicep. He stared up into Sean's face, his lip curled into a snarl, and said, "Watch your mouth, kid. You know nothing about me, so don't pretend you do. You won't like the results."

Sean knew he should let it drop. He knew it like he knew he wanted to feel Bonham's hands on more than his arm or his wrist. Which is probably why he said, "You mean like the Incredible Hulk? I won't like you when you're angry?"

The pupils of Bonham's eyes dilated, just like they'd done back at the bar, the first time he'd touched Sean. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Something like that, yeah." He let go of Sean's arm and stepped back. "It's an eight-mile hike to the highway. With the rain like it is, you'd drown before you made it, and that's without me chasing you down and knocking your dick in the dirt."

"And you're so sure I can't hotwire that piece of shit you parked out front?"

Bonham stepped back again, far enough to make a show of looking Sean up and down. He snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure." Then he went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Sean listened to the creak and thud of the pipes as the shower came on, and considered his options. He could make a run for it, but Bonham was right -- an eight-mile hike in the dark and mud and pouring rain didn't exactly appeal to him, especially since he'd likely get lost. And he couldn't, in fact, hotwire a truck or any other kind of vehicle. So that left two choices: seduce Bonham and disarm him that way, or try to get the jump on him using good old-fashioned violence.

Everything being equal, the first option was a lot more attractive. But for all his jabber during the drive to the cabin, Sean didn't have the first clue how to handle a guy like Bonham, who was plainly a hell of a lot more complex than Paco Sanchez. He suspected Bonham wouldn't be taken in by a submissive pose and a blowjob, and Sean wasn't sure he was willing to go any further with a stranger.

Even a beautiful stranger? Even if it might save him from eventually being murdered by said beautiful stranger? Yeah, okay. That was reality here -- Bonham was a killer, and he'd do well to remember it.

He heard the shower turn off and looked around the room with rising panic, searching for a weapon. There, by the fireplace. A poker. He grabbed it, positioned himself to the left of the bathroom door, and waited.

The door opened, letting out a rolling wave of steam that smelled like soap and freshly-scrubbed male. Sean watched Bonham step through the doorway and counted...one...two...thr--

He felt it all before he saw anything...mostly because he'd shut his eyes, which only proved he'd never make much of a ninja. Bonham's hand came out of nowhere, grasping his wrist and twisting until he released the poker. Bonham's body, in nothing but jeans, pressed full-length against his. The older man's wet hair dripped cold on his chest, the water seeping through his tee shirt. Sean took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked down.

"See," Bonham said, smirking up at him yet again in a way that made Sean want to bite right through that pretty lower lip, "See, now...that was a mistake."

***

Happy weekend, everybody. :)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Donning the shiny purple hat of pimpitude.

2007-12-13T18:38:00.000-05:00

Winning the Rita your first time at bat: A boatload of blood, sweat and tears.

Going to hardcover for your third contract...on a partial, no less? Countless hours of toil, revision, and IMing your crit partner while mainlining coffee and M&Ms.

Being chosen as "chica lit" author Mary Castillo's top pick for 2007 in the New York Daily News: Priceless, my friends. PRICELESS. (click over to page 3 and scroll down)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Hee!

2007-12-10T10:03:00.000-05:00

Look! She's not only brilliant and stylish, she's got a hot ride!

In other news, our Phaze anthology, FORTUNE'S FOOL (previously available only in electronic format) has been released in print.

Four mistresses of erotic romance present a collection of tales destined to get pulses racing. Sexy psychics offer delectable divination in the past, present, and future.

KING OF SWORDS - Biana D'Arc: Sparks ignite when a psychic meets a special ops warrior aboard a space station. When enemies attack, will close quarters and danger draw them together?

TEMPTING FATE - Eva Gale: An up-and-coming banker falls for the town palm reader. She might be breathtaking, but a spinster from a notorious psychic family is hardly the career boost he wanted.

MIRANDA WRITES - Cassidy Kent: A novelist becomes a fortune-teller for book research. When an FBI agent mistakes her for a counterfeiter, danger and romance ensue. Will she meet her deadline... or wind up just plain dead?

FLESH AND BONE - Selah March: Captured by the murderous dominatrix Madre Donnatella DeTagliera, Detective Marcus Colton is about to suffer a slow and agonizing death. Only English professor and reluctant psychic Leah Benjamin has any hope of finding him in time. But Leah's history with the Madre puts her in a dangerous position. Can she save Marcus? Or will Leah be caught in the Madre's web of torture and death a second time?

December 2007
ISBN 978-1-59426-855-7
Length: Quasar (96K)
Rating: 4 Novas
Price: $15.00 in trade paperback

5 Angels: "A darkly disturbing, yet well written novella, 'Flesh and Bone' brings the dark side to life. Full of disturbing imagery and debauchery there is still a wonderful romance and a believable bond between the hero and heroine. I am truly amazed by the fact that a normally unpalatable topic drew me in and kept me enthralled. Very well done Ms. March.

...FORTUNE'S FOOL is an amazing anthology that I do suggest you pick up."
~Serena for FALLEN ANGELS REVIEWS

5 Coffee Cups: "'Flesh and Bone' by Selah March carries the reader into the dark macabre of something so sinister and alarming, one wonders will Leah and Marcus ever escape the madness. Ms. March pens a great tale that pulls the reader into the visualizations and depravity, yet allows passion to stir between Leah and Marcus.

...FORTUNE'S FOOL is a stirring selection of stories that lend great creativity between four talented authors. Each character has an individualism that stands out and brings a certain aura to the storyline. I found the themes cleverly created and look forward to more pleasant tales from these amazing storytellers."
~Cherokee for COFFEE TIME ROMANCE

***

EXCERPT from "Flesh and Bone," part of the FORTUNE'S FOOL anthology, available now in print from Phaze:

"It didn't work," he said. His voice was a gritty rasp.

"It's all right." Leah stepped forward and tried to catch his eye. Couldn't let him get too much into his own head, or this would end in disaster. "I thought maybe it would take more than once."

"More than once?" He sounded more weary than surprised. "Can't do that again. It'll kill me."

"Don't be so dramatic. I'll tell you what will kill you -- the Madre, and she'll take joy in doing it slowly if she comes back and you're still...all worked up."

He shook his head. "And you're so sure she won't kill me anyway. Why?"

"I'm not sure. But which way would you rather die, Detective? A quick slash to the throat, or..." She glanced over her shoulder at the glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. She knew what was likely inside. Bladed instruments crafted for flaying skin from muscle. Vises made to crush small extremities. She looked away and shuddered.

"Point taken."

She nodded. "And if we're lucky, she'll only beat you and leave you alive to play with tomorrow. That would buy us some time."

His smile was wry. "Yeah, that sounds like my kinda luck." He cleared his throat and shifted his knees on the floor. His cock bobbed with the movement. "I probably should've asked you this before, but...even if you could find a paper clip or something, you probably can't jimmy the locks on these, right?" He shook his wrists in the shackles.

"Sorry, Detective. I'm an English professor, not a cat burglar. I could quote you some Shakespeare if you're bored."

He grinned. "Thought so."

"What?"

"Never mind." He sighed and rolled his shoulders. "All right, let's get on with it."

She saw the muscles in his abdomen quiver as she approached. She reached out her hand to touch him, and he said, "Wait."

"What?"

He inclined his head, looking every-so-slightly sheepish. "I feel like I should...I dunno...kiss you or something."

She felt her face open up into a smile -- her first since she'd landed in this awful place. "That's not necessary. This isn't a date."

"No, but I'd feel better about it."

She stepped back again and considered him. "I'm going to say no, Detective. But I'll tell you what -- if and when we get out of this alive, I'll let you buy me dinner. And if that goes well, I'll let you kiss me good night."

"Are you always this tough?"

She thought of Ray Delacroix's poor, twisted ear and smiled wider. "You have to catch me in the right mood. I'm going to touch you now."

***

Happy Monday. :)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Hit and Run.

2007-12-06T17:53:00.000-05:00

I'm not really here. No. Really. Not.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Humpity II.

2007-12-05T19:01:00.000-05:00

Two posts in one day?? InconCEIVABLE.

So Ferfe has commented on a post at Boxing the Octopus. And while I'm not necessarily all about theme and subtext in my day-to-day writing -- which is not to say I never consider it, just that I don't obsess over it -- I do think what Ferfe has to say about voice and building characters that breathe rather than cutting out paper dolls is spot on.

Also, my process is fairly torturous (PBW? If you're out there? You might want to look away at this point.) in that I pick apart and rewrite every phrase, sentence, paragraph and scene until it portrays exactly what I want it to portray, as deeply in the characters' voices and heads as I can possibly get. Which means I'm slow. VERY slow. But when I'm done, I have a complete work that may need editorial revisions, but never full rewriting.

So whilst the "just write" thing might work for some, it leaves me thoroughly unfulfilled. And since I'm doing this as much for the serotonin rush caused by accessing the creative parts of my brain as anything else, I guess I'll keep doing it my way, which is apparently the exact definition of "trying too hard."

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Shockingly Crass.

2007-12-05T09:12:00.000-05:00

Am I happy? Oh, I'm HAPPY.

Because it's the holiday season? Because my kids' report cards were stellar? Because my family is healthy? Because my writing is going well?

Nah. Looky:

November 2007 Top Ten Bestseller List for the Allure imprint at Amber Quill Press:

1. Out Of My Mind - M. L. Rhodes (Gay / Contemporary)
2. Secret Lovers - Cassie Stevens (Gay / Contemporary)
3. My Only Home - Pepper Espinoza (Gay / Contemporary)
4. Sully's Heart - Adrianna Dane (Gay / Contemp. / Western)
5. Seven Year Ache - Selah March (Gay / Contemp. / Western)
6. Saved By Sam - Deirdre O'Dare (Gay / Contemporary)
7. Crushed - J. M. Snyder (Gay / Contemporary)
8. ...And To Hold - Pepper Espinoza (Ménage / Bisexual [M/M])
9. A Matter Of Necessity - T. D. McKinney (Gay / Suspense)
10. Take Me Out - Gabrina Garza (Gay / Contemporary)

It's all about the cold, hard cash, people. Or, as a Rhodes Scholar once put it, "It's the economy, stupid!"

In other news, Kate Rothwell holds forth on the nifty varieties of crazy you can stumble across at your average RWA chapter meeting.

And my brilliant and ever-stylish crit partner, Barbara Caridad Ferrer, has a guest-blog up at the blog of her lovely agent, Caren Johnson.

Next up, pics of my electrified front yard, because I KNOW you can't live without sharing in that special joy.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Google THIS.

2007-11-30T08:19:00.000-05:00

So PBW wants to know who my dream publicist would be (check comments here for full conversation on topic). You know...in the unlikely case that I'll ever need a publicist at all.

Tom Welling or Josh Holloway? Tom Colicchio or Michael Kors? (Barb suggests Jensen Ackles, but that would never work. Brain-melting lust is detrimental to a solid working relationship. Plus I'd asphyxiate myself by feeling compelled to keep my little Buddha-belly sucked back against my tailbone at all times while in his presence. Blue-in-the-face STILL isn't a good look for me.)

Any publicist of mine would need nerves of steel, a strong stomach, and the ability to chuckle through all manner of adversity. And he or she would have to find a way to impart a little class to this operation. Not an easy mission when the following Google search terms lead straight to my door:

"smut writers" - (You rang? And hey…top of the page! Mom would be so proud.)

"high school stereotypes" - (Started out as The Brain. Ended up as The Slut. Shit happens.)

"three holes, no waiting" - (Not yet, but I'm not ruling it out. In my FICTION, people. Jeez.)

"does anal sex sell at ellora's cave" - (You bet your seven-speed vibrating butt-plug it does, darlin'.)

I dunno why, but when I try to envision my perfect publicist, I hear this voice in my head: "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Hmm. Smart, loyal, brave, good with a weapon, not afraid to get down and dirty when the circumstance calls for it.

Yeah. He'll do.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Humpity.

2007-11-28T13:37:00.000-05:00

The inflatable mattresses are stored away, the refrigerator is empty of leftovers, the turkey carcass has been used to make soup, and the Christmas lights are lying in a huge tangle on the living room carpet, waiting to be hung.

But Kate? She wants me to blog. With nothing to say that's even a little bit interesting, I'll have to resort to tossing out tidbits I've found elsewhere.

The ever-brilliant and stylish Barbara Caridad Ferrer's been buying vintage fashion again, and making me feel like a schlub in my jeans and sneakers. Nothing new there.

Cindy Cruciger's posted the first chapter of a new work: SNARK.

Mrs. Giggles is wise and wonderful (and makes a few of us feel QUITE vindicated) on the subject of romance bloggers trolling for drama.

And PBW shames the slacker in me with her essay on Necessity versus Creativity.

Something interesting better happen around here pretty damned soon, or I'll be reduced to chatting about my upcoming mammogram, and nobody wants THAT.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

A 22-caliber kind of post.

2007-11-17T13:34:00.000-05:00

Bullet points. Because I'm just THAT lazy.

~Wicked late on this, but my fabulously brilliant and ever-stylish crit partner, Barbara Caridad Ferrer, has been quoted in the New York Times regarding the dress she wore whilst winning a 2007 RITA.

~During Creation Con in Chicago last weekend, SUPERNATURAL actors Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki received a presentation and gifts from the US military in recognition of the first and second seasons of their show being the #1-requested DVDs by soldiers serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. If you're not watching this show? You should be. Here's a link to a video of the presentation. It's very moving, IMHO.

~I'm reading REJECTION, ROMANCE AND ROYALTIES: THE WACKY WORLD OF A WORKING WRITER by Laura Resnick, also known as Laura Leone. For an honest and frequently funny look at what it's like to try to make a living as a genre fiction writer, I can't recommend this book highly enough. A quote on the topic of reviews and reviewers that I found particularly apt:

"Art is subjective; therefore, of course, opinions about a novel will always be varied, and often even conflicting. I certainly don't enjoy bad reviews, but I accept that disliking my work is a perfectly fair and valid response when reviewing it.

However, when reviewers get absorbed in their own speculative theories, make inaccurate accusations, are deliberately cruel, or get inappropriately personal, many writers -- understandably -- get annoyed.

...Overall, the conclusion I've come to over the years is that nasty and sloppy book reviewers would probably go about their work very differently if they were the victims of the sort of careless, ignorant, scathing public commentary that we must regularly endure as novelists. Since that's not likely to happen soon, however, I continue to follow advice than an acting teacher of mine, years ago, attributed to Sir Laurence Olivier: 'If the reviews are bad, you can't believe them. If the reviews are good, you can't believe them. Your job is just to go out there and do your very best work every show, eight shows per week.'"

~That said? I'm choosing to believe the following review of my novella "Hardcore," (part of the Phaze FANTASIES III anthology) by Ryes at Rainbow Reviews:

"The plot never slows down, and the interaction between Jesse and Sean is great to watch. This is March's first foray into gay romance and I'm impressed at her characterizations. Sex scenes were beyond hot and tastefully done, with just the right bit of kink. They were also free of trite expressions.

'Hardcore' is a great read and I look forward to more from the author."

~I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year for the clan, so if I show up here or anywhere else online in the next five days, please beat me about the head and shoulders with a frozen drumstick and tell me to get back in the kitchen where I belong, 'k?

Have a happy. :)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

New Release: SEVEN YEAR ACHE

2007-11-11T20:57:00.000-05:00

My husband took one look at this cover, made an undignified squawking sound and fled the room.

Me? I'm particularly fond of the treasure-trail-in-silhouette aspect, as well as the nicely-defined flank region.

So...it's out. Part of the "You Make Me Live" AmberPax collection, the theme of which is "manlove amongst bestest-friends-forever."

This particular story involves an M/M/F ménage à trois of sorts. See, while the primary relationship is between...oh hell. If you've read this far and still give a high-howdy-do, just go buy the thing.

Yeah, this self-promo thing is really starting to come naturally to me now...

TITLE: SEVEN YEAR ACHE, part of the "You Make Me Live" Allure AmberPax
AUTHOR: Selah March
GENRE: Contemporary Western/Menage (M/M/F)
PUBLISHER: AmberAllure/Amber Quill Press
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-153-1 (Electronic)

Take one bitter, unforgiving Montana rancher. Add a washed-up country music one-hit-wonder afflicted with low self-esteem. Mix in a ranch cook with a painful secret in her past. Bake in the hot August sun until steamy. Will serve three.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

'Atta boy, Clarence

2007-11-08T08:41:00.000-05:00

"She'd better keep her mouth shut or her sales will drop and her career will be in the toilet."

That's me paraphrasing something I keep reading over and over and over in various places using various sorts of language. But the thing is? In my case? Not so much, really.

I can't speak for anyone else, but every time I let myself be weak and participate in a little Romancelandia free-for-all, my Fictionwise sales spike. This year's post-RWA conference Battle of the Bloggers saw a rise of between 5% and 10% in sales of my work there. Which really? Isn't saying much, because I'm hardly a bestseller on my finest day. But it does seem to point to the above statement being a crock of the ripest kind of bullshit.

So. I will continue to try to avoid this painful, pointless nonsense when I can, but not because I fear for my career. You know, every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings...

In other news, the countdown to the end of the first round of the Brava novella contest has begun. I'm trying to be very Zen about the whole thing. I'm failing. Hold me.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the water...

2007-11-07T19:13:00.000-05:00

A quote from a famously long-winded commenter on a busy-as-a-bee romance review blog (to which I will not link because that might besmirch its pristine rep, and we can't have that, can we?) :

"So now I start wondering things like: where does Caridad Ferrer stand in all of this? Her blog is linked on Ferfe's page and she's March's friend. I have several question marks like that, around authors and bloggers who haven't ever publicly indicated that they're not on board with the mudfest. Not that any of those authors or bloggers may care one whit, but I can't imagine I'm the only one asking those questions."

I'll answer that question with a question: So now busy authors juggling multiple professional commitments are required to keep abreast of blog-wars in which they have no interest AND make sure all bloggers linking to them are on the politically correct side of any controversy?

SERIOUSLY?? Dude.

Get. A. Life.

Buy one if you have to. Put it on freakin' lay-a-way for the holidays. Anyone with that many "question marks" around the idea that an award-winning author doesn't have better things to do with her time is in serious need of a hobby.

A note to all authors in my sidebar: that target on your back just got bigger. Want me to de-link? Drop me a note, no hard feelings. It's Amnesty Day here at Dubious Virtue, in honor of folks with too much time on their hands and not near enough common sense.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Oh, good.

2007-11-05T20:38:00.000-05:00

She's back.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

PIMPAGE: "Desperate Measures" by Eva Gale

2007-11-03T10:16:00.000-04:00

BRAND NEW RELEASE FROM PHAZE.

TITLE: "Desperate Measures"
AUTHOR: Eva Gale
PUBLISHER: Phaze
GENRE: erotic historical romance
BUY IT HERE.

"There was a time in Dorthea Grady's life when she remembers being content. But when her husband died, she learned it was an illusion. Seamus O'Conner was, at best, a pornographer. But when a widow walks into his studio he rediscovers the art in his profession. When two lost souls are brought together by Desperate Measures, the last thing they expect to find is love."

What reviewers say about Eva Gale:
"Ms. Gale pens a fantastic plot, some incredible writing and explosive heat that captivates."
Linda L. for The Romance Studio

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Photographic evidence.

2007-11-01T18:21:00.001-04:00

My daughter pronounced us the "second scariest house in town. High praise, indeed.

Imagine, if you will...It's an hour after sundown. A country road not wide or well-traveled enough to deserve a yellow line down its center. A house set back a ways from this road, the front yard shaded by big maple and birch trees still in full -- if colorful -- leaf due to the unseasonably warm autumn weather. Hear the breeze as it rustles these leaves and beneath it, hear the strains of eerie music -- the soundtracks from the movies HALLOWEEN, POLTERGIEST, and THE OMEN -- wafting from somewhere unseen.

We don't get tons of trick-or-treaters. A good Halloween -- good weather, on a weekend -- might bring a hundred. Last night, despite the warm breezes, we had only fifty or possibly fewer because it was a school night. But we tried hard to entertain the ones who did venture out.

I especially enjoy trying to terrify the over-10 set, who often treat the entire Halloween enterprise as one big joke. If I can get a few to jump, maybe let loose with a nervous laugh, I'm happy.

The graveyard and the other creepy decorations are more for the little kids. It's enough to make them slow their headlong rush down the driveway towards the candy. I try not to make them cry if I can help it.

Sometimes I can't.

This year, the big-ticket purchase was a strobe light, and that's not saying much as I picked it up at Spencer's for less than twenty bucks. Everything else, which the exception of some new burlap and bloodstained bandages, came from the Halloween treasure-trove I've been collecting for the past 15 years or so.

The flashing from the strobe helped distract the "audience" from the main event...
Ah, the sweet sound of pubescent laughter giving way to shouts and shrieks as I stagger out of the trees, shambling and weaving across the yard with a bucket of candy in one hand and the other outstretched in what can only be described as a threatening manner.

Pants: $24 at Old Navy, three years ago
Turtleneck: $0 (found it in my husband's closet)
Jacket: $0 (see above)
Mask: $1.99 at Spencer's last year
Hat: $14.99, also Spencer's last year
Scaring the living CRAP outta the snarky fifteen-year-old prima donna who lives down the street?

Yeah. Priceless.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Compare and Contrast: War of the HALLOWEENS

2007-10-31T09:10:00.000-04:00

(Looking for the "Don't be a Halloweenie" contest? Scroll down to the previous post.)

All righty, class. Today's lesson is on the relative merits of remakes of classic horror movies. Would anyone like to address this topic?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

WatcherDon! Go for it, dude.

"About two and a half years ago, Halloween began to frighten me again. The very word was enough to fill me with dread, but it wasn’t a spooky type of fear. It was one borne of a certain amount of dismay and tinged with despair. Rob Zombie was going to remake…no, wait…reIMAGINE the original John Carpenter classic “Halloween.”

Carpenter’s film was one of the only movies that ever really scared me when I was growing up. It remains, in fact, the only film that has ever given me nightmares, and it gave me quite a few of them over the years, especially as a teenager. It was one of the only movies that touched on my own fears and awakened my own sense of mortality. After all, if you didn’t want Jason Voorhees to hack you up, you could just stay out of the campsite with the awful reputation. If you were concerned about getting attacked in the shower, don’t stay in the creepy off-highway motel with the lonely manager. Stay away from the big house on top of the hill, the creepy castle, the graveyard at midnight. All of these seemed fairly logical ways to avoid sudden and terrifying death, right?

But “Halloween” brought it right into a suburban/small town neighborhood. Right into the home. Carpenter’s Michael Myers…or The Shape, as he was called in the shooting script, was Evil on two legs and he was hunting in living rooms and bedrooms that looked a lot like your own, on sidewalks and streets that could be right outside your door.

The other thing that terrified me about Carpenter’s little low-budget movie was the fact that it wasn’t as simple a matter as it’s so often described. Veteran producer Moustapha Akkad, who financed the first film and kept the series going through the years often repeated the initial pitch for the movie – “The babysitter to be killed by the bogeyman.” True, but there was another whole side to it.

Unlike Jason or Freddy, who typically had only their teen victims to contend with, Michael Myers had the machinery of authority out to stop him. The police were looking for him. His psychiatrist, arguably the single man who knew him best, was out to stop him. To me, this added a weight of realism that the other slasher films just didn’t generally have. After all, if a mad killer was stalking my neighborhood, I would take some comfort in the fact that the local police were on the lookout for him. But…they were looking for Michael…and it didn’t help.

As I grew older, of course, the sequels came along, some of which did their very best to undermine the effectiveness of the original. More kills, more blood, more “inventiveness” served largely to put Halloween adrift in the same sea of gore where all the other slashers lurked.

And now they had turned it over to Rob Zombie. The thought alone was enough to make my blood run cold. What would he do to my cherished childhood nightmare?

For those of you who avoid such things, Zombie has built himself an interesting reputation as a filmmaker. Like Tarantino, his interest is firmly embedded in the schlock of the grindhouse cinema, and his previous films House of 1,000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects were monuments to B-movie excess. Profane, guttural, gory, but handled with a to-hell-with-it attitude that forces the viewer to play along for the ride. Subtle, he’s not – and the subtlety of Carpenter’s version was always one of the things that made it work.

Recently I was able to acquire a workprint copy of Zombie’s “Halloween.” Please do not contact me to ask where I got it, because I am not at liberty to say. The workprint is substantially different from the theatrical release, and there is some hope that it will be released on DVD with the theatrical cut in a bonus package, but the details are still under negotiation. That being said, the workprint appears to have been Zombie’s original intention for the film, and the changes made to the theatrical version seem to reflect studio involvement afterward.

Carpenter’s original and now classic opening takes us from the point of view of the killer as he stalks and murders a teenage girl. The reveal at the end of the sequence shows that the killer is a six year old boy with a perfectly normal, almost angelic appearance.

Zombie sets out to take on all comers with his own opening. Michael is now about 10 years old, a misfit in a heavy metal tee shirt with a predilection for harming small animals and a simmering rage that threatens to boil over at any moment. His mother (played by Zombie’s wife, the beautiful but earthy Sheri Moon) is called into the school to meet with child psychologist Dr. Samuel Loomis (Malcolm McDowell.)

McDowell’s portrayal of Loomis is markedly different from Donald Pleasance’s obsessive and almost campy take on the role. McDowell’s Loomis is pompous and phony, a Rasputin-like character who spends the opening third of the film attempting touchy-feely methods of reaching young Michael before giving up on the young man entirely and embarking on a speaking tour to promote his book on the “evil” that lives behind Michael Myers’ eyes.

Like almost every male character in the picture, the younger Dr. Loomis sports scraggly, shoulder-length hair that appears to be a Zombie trademark. Everyone has it – Michael’s abusive stepfather, Michael himself, his sister’s boyfriend, male victims, even the sheriff. Loomis, however, appears to be making a statement with his locks, perhaps because he wears a short cut later in the film. With Loomis, it feels inauthentic, as if it’s part of his schtick, another piece of fakery, this one designed to show how hip and non-conformist he is even as he dribbles pop-psych pablum from his lips.

Young Michael’s simmering rage boils over on Halloween, 1978 (a nod, no doubt, to the year of the original film’s release) with a rampage that sends him to Smith’s Grove Sanitarium and destroys his entire family. Zombie once again diverges from Carpenter by putting so much emphasis on the backstory. For Carpenter, Michael is terrifying because he is so mysterious. Zombie makes an earnest effort to illustrate the care and feeding of a serial killer, including the known circumstances and warning signs that appear to be linked with real-life cases. Michael is an outcast at school, preyed on by bullies. He has conflicted and disturbing feelings of sexuality brought on by his mother and her career as a stripper. He is abused by an alcoholic stepfather, robbing him of a positive male role model. He abuses animals. He is filled with violent rages. He feels the need to conceal himself behind masks and locked doors. He is a ticking time bomb, and young Daeg Faerch delivers a powerful performance in the role.

Michael is then locked away in the sanitarium, but while Carpenter picks up the story immediately with Myers’ escape, Zombie takes his time. We see Loomis attempting to reach Michael. We see the effect his incarceration and madness have on his mother.

The escape sequence in the workprint is different from the theatrical release, and both are more violent and gruesome than the original. From here on, most of the film mirrors the original release, but it’s not unlike Frank Miller’s take on Batman in “The Dark Knight Returns” – everything is exactly the same, but it’s all completely different. Dr. Loomis trails Michael to Haddonfield. There is a sheriff, this time played by a woefully underused but still brilliant Brad Dourif. And there is a night of terror on Halloween. Along the way, Zombie takes time to offer alternatives to some of the plot gaps in the original – the iconic mask has an origin, for example, and this Michael does not somehow learn to drive during his incarceration.

The original trio of girls – Laurie, Annie, and Linda – are back, but they are rougher around the edges. While Annie and Linda were prone to drink some beer or smoke some weed and fool around with boyfriends, there was a teenaged innocence to them. Not so with their newer, more profane and outrageous counterparts. Linda is actually unlikable in this new version, and Annie is saved from being detestable only by the charisma of Danielle Harris (who returns to the series after two outings as young Jamie Lloyd in Halloween 4 and 5.) Scout Taylor Compton is at first shrill and irritating as Laurie, but she eventually settles down into a somewhat dorky but endearing character who is miles away from Jamie Lee Curtis’s quiet, repressed take on the part.

In the end, however, the hairdos and the Tarantino-like profanity are merely window dressing to cover the real difference between Zombie’s and Carpenter’s treatments of the story. It all boils down to Michael, and Zombie’s conviction that making Myers more “realistic” in terms of what we understand about the psychology of the serial murderer can serve to make him even more terrifying.

I have to say that it doesn’t, although I give Zombie top marks for his effort. It is interesting and fresh to look harder at the psychology of such an iconic character, but in the end, Michael is less frightening when he’s easier to understand. Zombie’s Michael Myers is evil, yes, and brutal – but he is also somewhat tragic and human. There are reasons, however twisted, for his actions, and those reasons strip him of the essential randomness that made a 12 year old boy wake up in a cold sweat. This Michael never made me wonder if somehow I might be next, and while that makes him more complex in the long run, it makes him that much less scary.

Rob Zombie’s Halloween workprint gets three and a half pumpkins out of the original’s five. "

Thank you, WatcherDon. Very impressive. You get the extra cookie.

Give yourself a Halloween gift and check out Don's fiction here.

And don't be a Halloweenie! Enter the contest.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Don't be a Halloweenie. Enter the contest.

2007-10-27T11:15:00.000-04:00

My clever and adorable crit partner, Eva Gale, and I have decided to run a little contest in celebration of the holiday. Winners will receive that best treat of all - FREE BOOKS.

Da Rulez:

1. Use the links in my blogroll (to the right) to collect the following:

* The title of Laura Bacchi’s AmberAllure release, listed on the right sidebar of her blog.

*The title of Eden Bradley’s latest release, the cover of which can be found near the top of her blog page.

*The title of Caridad Ferrer’s latest release, featured prominently on her blog.

*The title of Annie Dean/Ann Aguirre’s upcoming release, available for pre-order at Amazon.

*The title of Meljean Brook’s upcoming release, coming in February 2008.

*The exact number of children Eva Gale has spawned in her short but busy lifetime.

2. Comment at each of these 6 blogs. Tell the author Selah sent you, and wish her a happy Halloween.

3. Send the answers to me at selahmarch@gmail.com.

4. Go to Eva's blog and check out HER contest. More free books, more chances to win.

The first five folks who provide a correct list AND comment at the authors' blogs will receive their choice of two (2) ebooks from my back-list.

Here is said back-list for your perusal.

"Moondance"– erotic horror
"To Have and Have Not"– erotic urban fantasy/romance
Fortune’s Fool (including my novella “Flesh and Bone”) – erotic paranormal romance
Phaze Fantasies III (including my novella “Hardcore”) – erotic M/M paranormal suspense/romance
“Her Black Little Heart” – erotic Regency romance
“Lie To Me” – erotic romantic suspense
“Dirty Shame” – erotic romantic suspense
“Skin Deep” – erotic romantic suspense

For those of you who already own my entire back-list (and you know who you are) I’ll be thrilled to my black-lacquered toes to provide you with a voucher to receive 2 free ebooks of your choice at a later date.

Finally, one GRAND PRIZE WINNER out of the five initial winners, whose name will be chosen at random from the depths of my Witchypoo hat by one of my spawn, will also receive a copy of my print release, SIN STREET.

Contest begins now. Contest ends midnight Thursday morning, November 1 (EDT). Prizes will be sent shortly thereafter.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

The perils of fan-girling editors.

2007-10-27T08:35:00.001-04:00

Once upon a time, a long time ago (we're talking "publishing" years here, which are like dog years but with fewer fleas...one hopes) I got myself a girl-crush on the senior editor of a smallish NY house. I heard her speak good common sense at a conference, followed that up with an appointment during which she was kind, inspiring and hilariously funny, and came to believe she and I were a creative match made in heaven. So I submitted a novella to a contest with which she was associated and lo and behold! She liked my work. She liked it so much that she called me at home on Halloween afternoon in 2003. At the time, I was elbow-deep in a pumpkin and trying to keep the six-year-old from gutting herself with a carving knife, but I put it all on hold to talk to her. She was her usual charming self when she requested my novella, and I tricked-or-treated with stars in my eyes that year.

Sadly, that project was never meant to be for a number of reasons that don't matter much anymore. But I never lost my admiration and respect for this particular editor, and I still hope to work with her someday. I've never met another industry professional who's entertained or encouraged me as much...until recently when Paula Guran signed on as editor for Juno. I don't always agree with everything Paula has to say -- we will probably forever be at odds over the proper spelling of the word "wracked" -- but I find her blog posts and essays fascinating, and I appreciate her passion for books.

Paula's got an interview up at Reading in the Dark. It's chewy and juicy and controversial in the best way. My attention was caught by this quote in particular:

"There is the idea that "romance", which is read primarily by women, is of a lesser literary quality. And it is true. Not *all* romance, of course, but a lot of it. Plus a sizable number of romance readers want the same formula over and over; they don't want a higher quality. Before someone gets ticked off about me saying those things, let me point out that the same could be said of horror during its brief boom in the 80s. Most of it, but not all, was poor quality and, at the time, the public didn't seem to mind."

It interests me how, when discussing the lack of respect so many folks have for the romance genre, the finger is almost always pointed at an unfair bias or prejudice against women's fiction in general. Not very many people seem to be willing to say what Paula says above -- that a lot of the romance genre is, in fact, formulaic and not particularly well-written.

Look, I LOVE Twinkies, but I don't confuse them with fine French pastry. And from my point of view, an awful lot of our beloved genre leans toward the Twinkie side. Which is not to say Twinkies -- or formulaic romance written specifically for an audience that wants just that -- shouldn't exist. All hail the Twinkie, people. It's a junk food staple, and like the classic "girl-meets-boy, girl-loses-boy-through-Big-Misunderstanding, girl-gets-boy" romance trope, the Twinkie has a shelf-life of about a billion years. But nobody is going to give it any awards for either nutrition or gastronomic excellence, and you don't hear Hostess bitching about that, either. They don't need to bitch. They sell TWINKIES, and they get rich doing it. Respect and awards are for those who spend a lifetime creating the perfect Amaretto Torte.

And so long as Kinsale and Crusie and Viehl and a small host of others continue to craft the fine French pastry of the genre, I think we'll be fine.

So. I had a larger point, but now I'm hungry.

Oh, right...fan-girling editors. The biggest drawback? I'm terrified to submit my work to my personal heroes of the publishing world. A disappointing outcome would be like receiving a form-letter rejection from St. Peter at the pearly gates. ("Dear Recently Deceased...Thank you for trying to get your pathetic self into Heaven. Unfortunately, your soul is not quite what we're looking for at this time. Thank you for considering us. Sincerely...")

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

2007-10-15T21:02:00.001-04:00

My first memory of being scared out of my tiny wits was delivered to me by none other than Mr. Walt Disney. I was four years old and sitting in the big chair in our living room. It was an early winter's evening. Only one lamp was lit in the far corner of the room. My mother, thinking to entertain me, hauled out the brand new SNOW WHITE long-playing record she'd just bought me -- the kind that has the story on one side and the music on the other? I'd loved BAMBI and CINDERELLA, so she figured (I'm sure)...dwarfs? Diamond mines? A prince on a pretty pony? What's not to like?

And everything was going swimmingly until the story got to the part where, after the wicked queen changes herself into the hag and poisons the Too-Stupid-To-Live heroine, a big storm comes and knocks her off a cliff, kicking and screaming her way down to her death on the jagged rocks below.

Just to be clear -- it wasn't the change from beauteous, if slightly psychopathic, queen to ugly witchy-poo that scared me, nor was it Snow White falling down dead from a chunk of rotten apple. No, it was the villain's death that gave me nightmares for months. When I close my eyes, I can still hear her shrieking. I think I honestly believed they killed some poor old woman to make the record, and it horrified me. It also put me squarely on the side of misunderstood and abused villains pretty much for life.

And me and the Mouse? We haven't been what you'd call "close" ever since.

So when I tell you that I've spent the past five days fighting the crowds at DisneyWorld in an epic battle that will go down in history as "Me vs. The Happiest Place on Earth," you'll feel my pain. In case anyone's interested, the Mouse won, and I am forever vanquished. Picture that wicked queen in full hag-mode tumbling backwards off the mountain, howling like she's being gutted, and you'll get the general idea.

But on the plus side, I returned to find this beauty in my mailbox. SEVEN YEAR ACHE, part of the "You Make Me Live" Allure AmberPax collection, is due out November 11.

For your entertainment -- and minus the grisly death of a poor, misunderstood old lady who was only looking to protect her retirement fund -- I give you a little taste of my angsty bisexual cowboys, otherwise known as its working title, BROKEBACK ON CRACK.

Take one bitter, unforgiving Montana rancher. Add a washed-up one-hit country music wonder afflicted with low self-esteem. Mix in a ranch cook with a painful secret in her past. Bake in the hot August sun until steamy. Will serve three.

From Chapter 6 of SEVEN YEAR ACHE:

"Sit," Jamie said and took a seat himself on the sofa across from the doors. Bo and Patch settled on their bed in the far corner of the room, next to the dark, cold fireplace.

Rafe chose the armchair on the other side of the big maple coffee table and concentrated all his attention on the condensation forming on the bottle in his hand.

"Rafe, look at me."

He glanced up and straight into that bright stare. "Jamie--"

"No. You listen now. You shut up and listen." His words were short, his voice low and urgent. "I spent the past seven years tryin' to figure out what the hell I did wrong. How I managed to fuck it all up and drive you away."

"Jamie--"

"I'm talkin' now, God damn it." Louder, sharper. Like he didn't care who heard. "At first I reckoned I'd get over it. Figured guys missed their best friends when they grew up and moved away."

"Look, Jamie, I'm--"

"I swear to fuck, Rafe, if you don't shut the hell up..."

Rafe nodded. "All right. Finish. But then it's my turn."

Jamie's eyes narrowed, but he returned Rafe's nod. "Here's the thing...about Roseanna? She was sweet, and we might've made a go of it, but she wasn't you. Seein' her mouth wrapped 'round my dick -- no matter how good it felt -- didn't make me miss watchin' yours suckin' on a sourball any less." He paused to clear his throat, like the next part was somehow even harder to spit out. "Seven years, Rafe. Wishin' you were here to see what I made of the ranch. Wishin' you were here to ask 'What should I do?' about this or that. And jerkin' off in the shower thinkin' about you."

Any sound Rafe might've made died on its way up out of his throat. All of a sudden the room felt small and close and stuffy, like it hadn't ten seconds before. And Jamie, sitting there, looking at him. Waiting on him. Waiting on his answer.

After a good thirty seconds, he set his beer on the floor next to the chair and said, "That's fine, Jamie, but that's just sex. And I'm not willing to trade it for..." Rafe sighed, ran a damp hand over his face and started again. "I've had a lot of sex, Jamie. It's good, but not worth losing a friend over."

He watched Jamie lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees. He remembered Pop sitting just the same way when he had a point to make. "That's why you walked out on me after what happened behind the Hotspot? Christ, Rafe, you're an idiot."

"Yeah, maybe. But I figured you were gonna hate me either way, and it was better you hated me for leaving than for staying." There it was, laying him bare. All his fear, and how certain he'd been that once Jamie realized what they'd done --what Rafe had let them do -- he'd turn away from him, disgusted.

"I don't hate you, and I never would."

"You say that now."

"I'd have said it then, but you didn't gimme a goddamn chance." Loud again, and frustrated, and if he didn't shut up they'd have Cindy down here asking what was wrong. He took a raspy breath Rafe could hear from ten feet away and said, "What about now?"

Rafe shrugged. "What about it? Things are pretty good. Like I said, I don't toss away what I've got, unless I hear a better offer."

Jamie slammed his bottle down on the coffee table and got up on his feet. "I've been offering. In the barn this afternoon--"

"That's your dick. I can get that elsewhere."

"Yeah. I noticed." Four long strides and he ended up right in front of Rafe, glaring down at him with hot eyes.

"What the fuck does that even mean, Jamie?"

"You and Kris Killborn. Saw you two talkin' between sets. Saw how he looked at you. You gonna tell me you didn't see?"

Sweet baby Jesus, the man was crazy. "What difference does it make? I'm not in town with him. I came home." Rafe pulled himself to his feet and met Jamie's hard stare face-to-face.

"It makes a difference, Rafe. A big, fucking difference."

Shit. He's jealous. JT Crosby -- well-liked, successful owner of the Lazy C and all-around respected member of their little corner of heaven -- was jealous over Rafe McCaffrey, the charity case his Pop had taken on as cheap labor. It shouldn't have brought back that tight, full feeling in his chest, or made him want to smile so big his face was likely to break off and drop on the floor. But it did.

"You think that's funny? You son-of-a-" Jamie grabbed his shoulder in one huge hand and wrapped the other around the back of Rafe's neck. When he spoke again, he used sharp, hard little kisses on Rafe's mouth as periods between sharp, hard little words. "You. Belong. To me."

"Jamie--"

"Shut up and let me fuck you, Rafe, before I lose my ever-lovin' mind."

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Dean, you ignorant slut: SUPERNATURAL Season 3 Premiere Recap, Part II

2007-10-07T12:43:00.000-04:00

Oh, don't look at me like that. You know it's true.

Back at Ye Olde Homestead of Tamara and the late, much-lamented Isaac, Possessed!Geek Walter is tied to a chair beneath a Devil’s Trap, effectively imprisoning him, and Tamara is shrieking at Sam. She wants to go back and slaughter the demons that killed her husband. Dean wants to go with her. Sam says it’s suicide -- Dean doesn’t care. He’s “already dead,” or so he says. Jeez, dude, you’ve got a whole freakin’ year. More double cheeseburgers to scarf, more twins to fuck. Hell, with your face, you could probably score triplets. Just please be sure to film it for posterity, yes?

Sam wants to know how the two fucktards...excuse me, the two intrepid warriors...plan to kill the six demons they’ve left behind. “Can’t shoot ‘em,” says Sam. “Can’t stab ‘em, and they’re not just gonna wait in line to get exorcised, inconsiderate asswipes that they are.” Oh, wait. That last part is mine.

Tamara is still shrieking. Okay, look. If I’d just watched my husband drink drain cleaner? I’d probably be unconscious on the floor. So...yeah. Lots and lots of sympathy for Tamara. But the shrieking? I’ll say the same thing I said to Ava in episode 21 of Season 2 -- unless there are vermin CRAWLING ON YOUR BODY, there is simply no reason to be that shrill. Ever.

Luckily, Bobby shuts down the argument by announcing that he knows what and/or who the seven demons are. He’s as freaked as we’ve ever seen him -- which is saying something, because Jim Beaver has played Bobby pretty damned cool and confident up until now. To see him rolling his eyes and gesticulating and speaking in an urgent stage-whisper like this is...sort of discomfiting, actually. Dude, cut it out.

Dean mugs for the camera, plainly making light of Bobby’s distress, and THAT’s fun. And then comes what’s arguably the funniest moment of the night. Bobby describes the Seven Deadly Sins as personified by demons, and Jensen Ackles rips off an okay, not-great, but certainly passable impression of Brad Pitt’s famous line from the movie SEVEN: “What’s in the boooooxxxxx???”

This isn’t what’s funny, though. As I said, the impression is only okay. It’s the reaction of those around him that gets me. They stare at him, completely stone-faced. Either they don’t get the reference -- which, not very likely -- or they’re appalled by his poor taste in light of Isaac’s death. And you can HEAR Sam thinking, “Dean, you ignorant slut.”

Tamara goes off on a rant again, and it takes Bobby to talk her down -- the cold, steely-eyed Bobby we’ve all come to love. (I’m going to assume the little over-acted freak-out of his was a momentary aberration and forgive it, ‘k?)

Cut to the exorcism scene. They ask Possessed!Geek Walter questions he refuses to answer until Dean splashes him with holy water, and can I just say ‘thank you’ to whomever lit this scene and chose to give Ackles all those lovely close-ups? Walter natters on about how happy the demon population is to be freed from hell, piling more guilt on poor Sammy and Bobby, who seem to take it all to heart in a way Dean doesn’t.

This is the thing -- I should want to SMACK this guy. I should want to watch this demon suffer and die. And I don’t...not like I wanted Meg to suffer and die. Not like I wanted the Yellow Eyed Demon to hurt. He’s just not doing it for me as a villain. And that’s too bad.

Even when he launches into his sermon about how humankind is no better than demonkind, I’m not impressed. When he calls Dean a “walking billboard for gluttony and lust,” all I can think is, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” From Dean’s smirk, one can surmise his thoughts run in much the same direction.

This is clearly supposed to be the set-piece scene in terms of “message” for the episode, and the only thing that resonated for me in the demon’s entire monologue was his comment that humans are no more than animals -- horny, greedy, hungry, violent beasts -- and only because of the slight frown Ackles pulls at the words that makes me wonder what Dean’s thinking and when he’ll let the rest of us know. ~fangirly sigh~

Bobby posits that the rest of Envy’s posse will be coming soon. Dean offers to stay behind and slow them down while Bobby, Tamara and Sam “head for the hills.” Not surprisingly, Sam has ISSUES with this plan. He says, “If we’re goin’ down, we’re goin’ down together, all right?” -- which is one of those lines you just KNOW the writers put in there to get the Wincest-loving fangirls all riled up. Heh.

They let Tamara do the exorcism honors, which turns out to be a mistake because when Envy has left the building, Walter the FormerlyPossessed!Geek is dead. Ouch. Clearly, Tamara missed the first half of the “saving people, hunting things” seminar.

Cut to a shot of our boys prepping for battle by the golden glow of candlelight. (And again...did Ackles spend his ENTIRE hiatus bathing in the juice of the rare and delicious Pretty Fruit? Because GUH. Emphasis on the GUH.) Dean and Sam go several seconds without speaking as they ready their weapons, and then there’s this...THING...where they stare at each other across the room for a long, silent moment, and there’s TENSION, people. Some will say it’s just the boys being hyper-aware of how they’re all about to die. Some will say it’s the acknowledgment of normal sibling affection. But come on -- they’ve been about to die countless times before, and as much as I love my sister, I NEVER look at her like THAT.

Just sayin’.

This yummy moment is broken by the radio kicking on in a creepy old hymn that sounds half “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?” and half “Skeleton Key.” Dean cocks his sawed-off in that way he has -- you know what I mean? -- and says, wearily, “Here we go.” ~le sigh~

Close-up of a salt-line, and that’s pretty cool. Then Isaac -- or the demon possessing his corpse -- starts yelling for Tamara, first begging her to help him and then accusing her of abandoning him, just like she did their child, who was apparently killed by something that went bump in the night. She’s instantly hysterical -- oh, will you STOP with the SHRIEKING already -- and Bobby has to hold her back, blah blah blah. Eventually, she gets her shit together and takes down the demon in her husband’s body by skewering him with this special, demon-killing stake made from magical Peruvian wood. Gee, I can think of at least three other episodes where THAT shit would’ve come in handy. But let’s not pick nits, shall we? Although I’m betting this particular brand of stake will come in handy again before the season is out.

The other five Deadly Sins demons invade the house. Bobby lures one beneath the Devil’s Trap by pretending to be all terrified and shit, and...PSYCH! proceeds to exorcise him. (“Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son.” Heh.)

A slender, attractive blonde follows Dean down a hallway, knocks the flask of holy water out of his hand, and smiles at him. “I suppose you’re lust,” he says, looking a little freaked.

“Baby, I’m whatever you want me to be,” says Blondie. Dean’s not impressed, but Blondie swears she won’t hurt him. Not right away, anyway. Not unless he wants her to. (See: every Dean pain!kink fic ever written.) She places a hand on his shoulder. His eyes get big -- along with, one can only assume, other parts of his anatomy -- and he grabs her and kisses her.

Cut to Sam confronting three others demons led by Pride and hey...why didn’t they get THIS actor to play Envy? He’s WAY scarier.

Pride knows Sam, who was supposed to be the Boy King or some shit, but Pride is all...prideful and doesn’t give a crap about Sam’s speshulness.

Back to Dean, making out like a madman with Lust. If her gasps and breathy moans are any indication, she’s enjoying it. So much, in fact, that she doesn’t notice as he guides her to a bathtub full of a holy water. Wow...so what they’re saying is...the hotness that is Dean Winchester can overpower even Lust. Dean out-lusts LUST.

Yeah. Okay, I can get behind that.

He grabs her and dunks her into the bathtub repeatedly, and one must assume that this incapacitates her because...

…back to Sammy and the trio in the next room. Pride’s got Sam by the neck and is choking him. It looks like lights-out for our favorite Sasquatch. Yep, Gigantor has breathed his last (again), no doubt about it...but wait! It’s Daphne to the rescue, with her improbable hair and her Knife of Demon-Slaying Goodness!

She dispatches two demons -- let’s see, one assumes Tamara did in Gluttony out on the front steps, we know Dean’s got Lust covered (heh), Envy is gone and Pride is accounted for...that leaves Wrath, Greed and Sloth. I suppose Fat, Drunk and Stupid downstairs with Bobby is Sloth, huh? So Wrath and Greed go down to Daphne’s prowess with a magical blade.

Pride lets Sam go and makes a grab for Daphne. Sam spins around, recovering AMAZINGLY quickly from being choked nearly to death, and clocks Pride a good one, sending him back toward Daph, who finishes him off with a final slice that’s kinda nifty, as you can see the blade protruding inside Pride’s open mouth. Sucks for the guy whose body is possessed though, huh? As well as the other two Daph took down. Not coming back from THAT noise. Oh well.

Sam: (gasp, choke, cough) “Who the hell are you?”
Daphne: “I’m the girl that just saved your ass.”
EARTH VIBRATES SLIGHTLY AS ENTIRE AUDIENCE GROANS.
Sam: “Well I just saved yours too.”

You tell her, Sammy. Pardon me while I go collect my eyeballs from where they rolled out of my head and down the street.

Daphne: “See ya around, Sam.” And...she’s gone. He tries to follow her, but she’s pulled a Houdini. Because...say it with me, folks...she’s just. that. good.

Crap, there go the eyeballs again.

Cut to three demons in a grave. Dean and Sam are making with the salt and the gasoline. Tamara watches as Isaac burns on a pyre many yards away. Sam asks if Dean thinks she’ll be all right, and Dean answers in the negative. Here comes Bobby, who says the “pretty girl” and the “heavy guy” will survive their possessions and exorcisms with a lifetime of therapy bills ahead. So...wait...what about Walter, the original Bearded!Geek? Where’s HIS body? Maybe it’s in the grave and you just can’t see it?

Sam wants to know about Daphne’s magical demon-dispatching knife. Dean wants to know “who was that masked chick?” and how come a girl can fight better than Sam? (Oh, Dean. Good thing you’ve got the market cornered on Pretty, because you’re SUCH an asshole sometimes.) Sam wants to know what other nifty shit they’ve let out of hell. Dean lights the grave.

Tamara takes her traumatized leave. Bobby reminds the boys to keep their “eyes peeled for omens” and “he’ll do the same.” Sam asks him if he thinks they can win this war. Bobby doesn’t answer.

Sam wants to go to Louisiana to visit a hoodoo priestess who can maybe help get Dean out of his deal with the Crossroads Demon. Dean says no way, no how, ain’t happenin’, and suggests Reno instead.

Sam’s had enough. Pissy bitch-face in full force, he confronts Dean about his cavalier attitude toward his own upcoming demise and damnation. Dean explains that if they try to get out of the deal he’s made, Sam drops dead.

Sam wants to know why his brother would ever make that deal. Dean has no qualms in stating, right up front, that he can’t live without Sammy. Awwww.

But now Sam calls him selfish for making him live without Dean in a year. Dean agrees -- he’s totally selfish, but thinks he’s entitled after everything he’s done for his family, and if Sam doesn’t like it, he can SUCK IT. Okay, not really.

Dean says he’s tired. He considers his deadly deadline a “light at the end of the tunnel.” Sam reminds him that the light he sees is hellfire. Dean’s all “what-the-fuck-ever, dude.” He’s got a year to live and wants to make the most of it by killing “evil sons-of-bitches” and raising “a little hell.”

Sam: “You’re unbelievable.”
Dean: “Very true.” ~smirksmirksmirkitysmirk~
Me: “Crap. Catch those before they make it to the next block, will you?”

Next week: See Dean confront his own mortality in the form of a kid you know damn well isn’t his, because primetime TV doesn’t play that way.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Supernatural Premiere Ep Recap: TWoP can SUCK IT.

2007-10-04T16:19:00.000-04:00

WARNING: If you are one of the handful of SUPERNATURAL fans in the known universe and do not wish to be SPOILED for the Season 3 premiere, read no further.

Seriously. Scoot. Get outta here. It’s on TONIGHT, for God’s sake -- surely you can wait that long?

No? Pathetic. But no more pathetic than I, who couldn’t wait and therefore downloaded the episode from iTunes last night, within milliseconds of it becoming available.

I thought I’d try my hand at a recap, since I’ve been banned from TWoP (Television Without Pity, self-purported inventors of snark) for smarting off to a moderator -- he SO had it coming, the pedantic twit -- and am boycotting the site in protest. Yeah. That’ll teach ’em. :p

Thus, the first half of my SUPERNATURAL Season 3 Premiere recap. Because somebody clearly has way too much time on her hands.

“The Magnificent Seven”

THE ROAD SO FAR
(also known as “Previously, on Supernatural...”)

BONG! BONG! BONG! (Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls, Dean-baby. Seriously. Don’t.)

Ooh, new title cards. No more “chick-in-a-white-nightie-being-charred-on-the-ceiling" type flames...now it’s pitted silver lettering with rising...steam? Smoke? Ghostly essence? Whatever. It’s white and misty, and it doesn’t matter because...

...look! Dean’s ass! In flimsy blue hospital scrubs! And the reaper from the Season 2 premiere in her original, phantomy, not-pretty-brunette form. In voiceover, Dean intones much blah blah blah about how Dad’s gone, and it’s just them, and they need to carry out his legacy, which means killing as many “evil sons-of-bitches” as they can. In the meantime, we see Sammy have his come-to-Jesus moment from “Houses of the Holy,” and then…

...Metallicar! Cresting a hill in the sunshine to strains of mullet rock guitar, and can I get an amen?

Next come quick shots of:

...Dean shooting a ghost in the face...Sammy fucking a pretty brunette werewolf...Dean kissing a blonde in a bar...a creeptastic full moon...the boys running through a dark cemetery...the walking, talking, rotting corpse of another pretty brunette...another cemetery shot, this one from the Season 2 finale...Sammy shooting a -- yeah -- pretty brunette zombie (different one this time) in the face...pretty brunette Crossroads Demon giving up the ghost (sense a pattern?)...a window explodes...Dean bursts through a door, gun drawn...Sammy fucks the werewolf some more...Dean smirks into the camera...Sammy grins...a room explodes, showering a tied-to-a-chair Dean with debris...Dean stakes a vampire with what looks like a flagpole...Sam sets a corpse on fire...Dean crawls out of a manhole, looking displeased...a blue, tattooed genie threatens Sam with his fiery-hand-of-badness, and Sammy reacts by swinging a knife...a shirtless Dean sits up in bed, looking confused...Sammy practices Flashlight!Fu...Dean smirks some more...imaginary hookers crawl across a bed...DEMON!...Sammy nails demon with iron poker ~snerk~...METALLICAR!...Dean checks out a grave...Dean gets the crap kicked out of him by aforementioned imaginary hookers...Dean shoots a werewolf...stuff explodes...Dean grapples with a shapeshifter and gets a handful of EWWW...METALLICAR!...Sammy engages in a little hand-to-hand...Dean loads a clip into his favorite automatic...a doorway glows with otherworldly light...Sammy beats the hell out of a SWAT team stormtrooper...Dean and Bobby (yay, Bobby!) grab weapons from the trunk of Metallicar...a disembodied hand grabs a knife...Dean warns Sam...Sam takes the knife in the back...Dean yells...Sam falls...Dean runs...Sam dies...*sob*

Sorry, needed a minute.

...Dean approaches the crossroads, in the mood to make a deal...Sammy lies dead, blue and mottled on a stained mattress...Dean makes that deal with -- wait for it -- a pretty brunette demon...Dean seals deal with kiss as Sammy chokes back to life...Sammy shoots guy who stabbed him, looking disturbingly drunk and surly while he does it...the Yellow Eyed Demon hints that Sammy came back WRONG...Dean bleeds prettily...Dean shoots Yellow Eyed Demon...door to Hell opens, unleashing more demons than you can shake a stick at...Bobby says “the war’s just begun”...Sam looks concerned...Dean looks like he’s going to Disneyland...and...

Cut to black. Sweet fancy Moses, that fucker was almost a full two minutes long.

NOW

Oak Park, Illinois. A suburb of Chicago, if I rightly recognize the fake skyline in the distance.

A darkened street. Bearded guy exits house with trash. His high-waisted, polyester trousers and short-sleeved, button-down shirt scream “GEEEEEEEEEEEK!” He looks longingly at the shiny new car in the driveway next to his, comparing it to his own rustbucket.

Then! The trashcans bang and thump for no apparent reason. The streetlights blink on and off. Anyone who’s ever seen even a single ep of SPN waits for the inevitable...

...DEMON! Or, in this case, demons. Puffy plumes of black smoke fill the sky, knocking Bearded Geek down. One of them pries open his jaws and shoots into his mouth, and it’s not nearly as erotic as it sounds. Bearded!Geek opens his eyes and...

...it’s the Shiny Black Contacts of Demon Possession! Bearded-and-Newly-Possessed!Geek stands up and watches as the other demons rain down on Chicago, a
smug smile on his fuzzy, possessed face. We’re in for it now.

Cut to black...aaaand...new title card! In place of flame-y explosions, we have bruised-looking, smoky clouds with SUPERNATURAL in the pitted silver superimposed over top. Which makes sense, if you think about it. The Yellow Eyed Demon is dead, no more mommies or girlfriends will be flambed on the ceiling, time to move it along, thematically speaking. Then!

ONE WEEK LATER

A close-up of Sam, and Christ on a cracker, I can count his pores. Who thought THAT was a good idea? He’s reading Faustus by flashlight in the front seat of the Impala. He glances up and...guh.

Dean. In a wifebeater. I think I need another minute.

Okay, so, yes. Dean, in a white wifebeater, giving Sammy the double thumbs-up through what appears to be a motel window, and then shutting the curtains. Bachman Turner Overdrive’s “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet” plays in the background. The silhouette of a nubile young woman appears against the curtains, and Dean removes her shirt without so much as a “come here often?” Sammy is somewhat amused. Me? I’m a teensy bit squicked. I mean, I totally understand that he’s a dead man walking and needs to get it where he can, and I fully support five-minute-long montages featuring Jensen Ackles’ naked ass ANYTIME they wanna go there. But something about this scenario just doesn’t do it for me. Maybe it’s the cheese-factor. Maybe I prefer my cheap, meaningless sex a little darker, a little more gritty. Maybe I’m just jealous.

ANYWAY...Sam’s cell rings, and we cut to Bobby speeding down the highway. They discuss how Sam plans to get Dean out of his deal with the Crossroads Demon.

Cut to Dean’s silhouette against the sheer curtains. He’s...dancing? And laughing. Pure. Stinky. Gorgonzola. (And, in my humble opinion, fairly out of character. Dean Winchester does not DANCE. Not even when he’s about to get laid.)

Bobby asks where Dean is. Sam answers, “Polling the electorate.” ~snort~ Nice one.

Bobby and Sam move on to discussing the demon war at hand. Cut to Sammy knocking on the motel door, and a shot of a lingerie-strewn floor. Sam’s head peeks around the corner and we hear, in this order: a manly huffing that instantly brings to mind Dean...ahem...exerting himself, and then the ecstatic moans and whimpers of not one but two women. Sam is distressed by whatever it is he sees and WE DON’T GET TO SEE, GODDAMMIT.

Cut to Metallicar cresting a hill to the tune of Dean’s joyous whoop. He’s pretty pleased with himself, is Dean. Sam wants to gouge his own eyes out with Dean’s knife. Dean refers to his “beautiful, natural act” with his recent bed partners, “the Doublemint twins.” Classy. The scent of Limburger is strong with this one, master.

Sam does his best not to lose his dinner all over the dash...and really? I’d like to say I see his point, but the last thing HE fucked sprouted fur and fangs. Not a lot of room to talk, there, baby bro.

Onto more important matters. Sam relates that Bobby thinks he’s found something...and we’re suddenly drowning in a lukewarm puddle of poorly-written exposition. Blah blah blad-diddy-blah, DemonCakes. Dean uses the word “bupkis.” Sam looks bemused. MOVE IT ALONG, already.

Cut to farmhouse just outside Lincoln, Nebraska. Bobby’s waiting as the Impala pulls up. Dean’s eating something greasy for breakfast. He justifies this with yet more exposition about how he’s only got a year to live, and he’s not sweating the cholesterol. In his defense, Ackles tosses off this info-dump with all the disgusted apathy it deserves.

They enter the house. It reeks of death. You can tell by the way all three men pull the “God, this house reeks of death” expression.

After much flashing of weaponry in search of the source of the stench -- during which Ackles as Dean looks especially fine...something about the lighting maybe? Can you tell I have a brotherly preference? -- they find a family in the TV room, very much dead. More stench, a few flies...okay, I believe it. They’ve convinced me. Seriously. Ew.

But Dean still looks good. He hears a noise, goes outside to investigate, and gets sucker-punched for his trouble by a large, African-American man with a big ol’ rifle who, it turns out, is a friend of Bobby’s, along with his wife. Isaac and Tamara are their names.

Cut to evening in a new location -- a three-story house surrounded by lots of leafy vegetation. No title card to explain. Okey dokey.

Dean is on the phone, schmoozing the coroner’s assistant. Her name is Jenny. He says that’s a beautiful name. I laugh out loud because, as every reader of SPN-based RPF (real person fiction) knows, “Jenny” is the go-to nickname for Jensen Ackles. I assume the writers know this as well. If not...well, cute coincidence. Unless you’re appalled by RPF, of course. Then forget I said anything.

While Dean does his thing, Tamara and Isaac show what an adorable duo they are by bickering amiably about where they keep various demon-hunting supplies. (Okay, so it's THEIR house. Got it.) Dean gets off the phone after promising, with an eloquent grimace, to share an Appletini with Jenny, and tells the gang that the family from back at the farmhouse died of dehydration and starvation, in spite of the fully-stocked kitchen mere yards away. Apparently, to quote Dean, “They just sat down and never got up.” This makes no sense to anyone in the room, but I get it...only because I’ve been spoiled for this episode and know that it features the Seven Deadly Sins as demons.

And me and Sloth? We go way back.

ANYWAY. Dean wants to know their next move. Isaac says there is no “we,” ’cause “this ain’t Scooby-doo." Glad to hear it, buddy, but tell that to Daphne, wouldja? She’s about to make her first appearance and frankly, I’d rather have the Great Dane, slobber and all.

Isaac has no intention of banding with the morons who opened the hell’s gate and got them into this mess in the first place. Sam and Bobby look shamefaced. Dean looks pissed. They all part ways, and...

There she is. Daphne, otherwise known as the new, regular addition to the cast. (No, her name isn’t REALLY Daphne. We don’t learn her real name in this ep. But I? Will ever after call her Daphne, because it pleases me to do so. Nyah.)

She’s lurking in the shadows, doing her best impression of a broody, pissed-off prom queen. Because every effective hunter of demons wears long, hot-rollered bleached-yellow hair hanging loose over her shoulders and FALSE EYELASHES. SPN hair and makeup can suck it too.

Cut to daylight scene in clothing store. Possessed!Geek walks in, checks things out. Approaches pretty blonde, suggests that the bright green shoes currently being fondled by another woman are exceptionally attractive, and touches her shoulder, thereby infecting her with...lemme see...envy? Green shoes, get it? Yeah.

Blonde ends up beating other woman to death on the windshield of her own car to get the shoes. There may or may not have been eyeball poppage involved. I refuse to rewind and check.

Cut to Sam watching CSI types take samples from the murder scene. Dean is inside the shop, hitting on a sales assistant, which he calls, “Comforting the bereaved.” Sam pulls the kind of bitch-face that only Jared Padalecki can get away with and tries to make Dean feel guilty. Dean turns it around on him by reminding him of his imminent death and how he just wants to have some fun. Sam, ever the sucker, buys it. Sort of.

Bobby shows up dressed in a suit, having just impersonated an Assistant DA. He tells the boys what he’s learned about the murder, which is basically nothing. They notice a security camera in the corner and view the tape. Yahtzee! Possessed!Geek is now on their radar.

And oh, look. Daphne’s back, trailing Sam down the street and disappearing when he turns to look. Because she’s just. that. good. ~insert eyeroll~

Cut to night scene, parking lot outside bar. Bobby and Dean in front seat of Bobby’s car. (NOT the Metallicar, it’s important to note). It’s after midnight and they’ve got bupkis. Again. But the rain-splattered windshield makes pretty shadows on Ackles’ pretty face, so it’s all good.

Sam pounds on the window, startling Dean, who’s not amused. Then he shoves his Gigantor self into the back seat, mashing Dean against the dashboard, and I AM amused. Sam has discovered Possessed!Geek’s real name, which is Walter Rosen, and that he’s been missing from his home for a week. The boys decide he’s possessed. (And Jared Padalecki sounds like he hails straight from West Texas...which...true, that. But SAM is from Kansas, dammit. Get a grip on that accent, boy.)

That’s about the time ol’ Walter makes his appearance. While Bobby counsels caution, Dean’s all “he kills someone and we just sit here with our junk in our hands?” (You so know Ackles wanted to replace “junk” with “dick.” And...um...hey, I’ll hold that for you, Dean. You know...in the interest of supporting the fight of good against evil and stuff. Ahem.)

But it’s a moot point, because Isaac and Tamara show up, and we cut to the inside of the bar where they’re planning on taking Walter down. Things go bad fast, and suddenly the couple is surrounded by seven demons of obviously evil intent. The boys are pounding the front door, but it’s locked and barred. A demon -- well, a demon-possessed human -- puts his hand on Isaac’s shoulder and tells him to drink a bottle of drain cleaner, which he promptly does to the tune of Tamara shrieking in the background. Yick. He falls down, presumably dead. Helllooooo, Gluttony.

Then it’s Tamara’s turn, except...yes! Here comes the cavalry in the form of Bobby’s car crashing through the front doors. The boys jump out, spraying holy water in an EXTREMELY cool and well-choreographed fight scene. Dean wrestles Walter into the trunk of the car, which has a Devil’s Trap symbol on the inside of the hood, and then jumps into the car himself. They take off with Tamara screaming in grief, leaving six pissed off Deadly Sins demons behind them.

Cut for commercial, and because even I have only so much spare time to waste on this. Back tomorrow with the second half. Or the next day. We’ll see.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

What if they held a blog-war and nobody came?

2007-10-03T11:07:00.000-04:00

First -- because it deserves to be first, and not buried beneath the rubble of rant I'm planning -- Eva Gale gets 4 Stars from The Romance Studio for 101 Degrees Fahrenheit!

A quote:

"This is one erotic connection that creates a hot, dynamite, sensual read, packed inside this page-turner."

That's my girl. :)

On to things less important in the larger scheme.

See Jenny Crusie discuss readers who turn their dissatisfaction with a book into a personal attack.

See Jenny further defend the rights of authors to respond to personal attacks.

This, in particular, resonates for me:

"So you handle it by looking at the whatever the attack was and telling yourself, 'Deep breath, she’s her and obviously miserable or she wouldn’t be wasting her time spreading bile, and you’re you and you’re happy. Let it go. You win.' And then one day, you don’t let it go. Because it’s not okay. You cannot insult me (or in this case, my friend) and feel betrayed when I respond; you can not take the low road and then be outraged when I come down to join you, you cannot call me names and then say, 'Not fair!' when I tell people that you called me names."

See many readers and authors support Jenny in her cry of "Foul!"

"...'mean girls' … i.e. women who specialize in relational aggression count on the silence of those they attack. They need it to thrive, like e.coli on an agar gel (lab nerds will get that). So if the Y’s who attack others (and her letter was an attack, not a criticism) don’t like getting ‘outed’ they shouldn't write letters that won’t humiliate them if they are published. No complicit silence for mean girls (and mean boys although male social aggression is usually in a different form). You don’t get a carte blanche to attack people just because you aren’t famous and they are. They are allowed to fight back."

From the same commenter:

"In addition, I don’t think Y 'messed up.' I think she attacked … why should you expect privacy in an attack? If you are that certain you are right you shouldn’t care if your letter was printed. Unless you know you were being a flaming twit and don’t want ‘others’ to know you feel free to express your opinion as a personal attack on someone. If she had wrote 'I think your book did a disservice to quilters and did not represent us fairly. Since others will read your books please consider the fact you may be damaging the reputation of our community.' That would make it an opinion and a criticism. There is a big difference between 'I disagree with you' and 'you suck, Yankee.'

(The above is a point I've tried to make a few times with a few different folks and failed, miserably. I chalk it up to my own inability to communicate effectively, because it SURELY couldn't be that although the concept is simple and straightforward -- it's okay to tell me you don't like my shoes, it's not okay to say 'you're an ugly ho-bag with no taste' -- these folks choose not to comprehend it because it runs contrary to their personal agendas.)

See some -- including a few of The Usual Suspects -- turn out to say, yet again, that authors have no business voicing opinions about others' opinions of their work.

"I see Crusie’s post as a warning. Beware all readers who attempt to make criticisms of an author. If you aren’t as clever as us, it will go badly for you."

(And yet again, the apparently conscious decision to conflate "criticism" with "personal attack." It boggles the mind, doesn't it?)

See Jenny be Jenny, much to the amusement and delight of her fans.

"I think trying to explain my position again or clarify some of the things you misinterpreted would be fruitless since our disagreement is based on that fundamental difference and that is not misinterpreted. I understand that you feel the post reveals a lot of unflattering things about me; they’re all true."

And then see the crazies crawl out of the woodwork in full force. Jenny says:

"In other news, this discussion is now being discussed elsewhere as an anti-Christian rant:

'Supporters of the Famous Author whose blog it is, took gleeful flight into really vicious anti-Christian 'comments.' Just, boom – let’s trash Christians. Let’s do it in an unlimited and really ugly way . . . . I do wonder how great the distance is between the virulent anti-Christian ranting on blogs such as the one I mention, and the rounding up of Christians for labor camps? Just wondering when the hate gets its legs under it and starts killing people. I mean, it looks to me as if some of the readers/commenters on that blog wouldn’t mind at all setting fire to a church full of Christians – well, white Christians. Wouldn’t want to be racist.'

Jenny again: "I did a search for 'Christian' of both Argh posts and the comments. Nothing. Then I did one for 'God,' and after adjusting for swearing, there were a couple of references to 'god-fearing,' playing off my comment. So I thought you all should know I’ve brought you down with me.

For the record, I’m Lutheran.

Isn’t it fun being a published writer?"

Go here to see some folks be appalled by a reader/reviewer calling an author a few truly vicious names in a review (and in later comments on the author's blog).

See said reviewer strongly suggest that the author shut up and write. Because THAT's new and original.

See some wonder how things have degenerated to this point in a community supposedly built upon that most positive and uplifting of genres: Romance.

See me roll my eyes. (But not at you, Jordan. You ask the right questions.)

It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt, right? And it's all downhill from here, because too many people -- readers AND authors -- are quick to jump on the bandwagon of "online readers/bloggers/reviewers are entitled to air their opinions, no matter how vile and intentionally hurtful those opinions might be, without repercussion or the kind of public confrontation that would, in the real world, tend to make them think twice about tone and intent." In other words? The normal rules of civilized social discourse no longer apply, ladies. That thing flapping against your back? It's not a cape, it's a target.

So here we are.

Lie down with dogs? Get up with fleas.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Dorito crumbs, queer romance on the side: ORDER UP!

2007-10-02T10:41:00.000-04:00

My brilliant and always fabulously stylish crit partner, Barbara Caridad Ferrer, has a column up at Romancing the Blog about how it's the little things that keep us sane.

Mostly, it's the little things that drive me batty -- and if one more person leaves Dorito crumbs on my pillow, he or she will find themselves in a UNIVERSE of hurt -- but I appreciate the sentiment, and the fan letter she quotes is a thing of beauty.

In other news, Romantic Times has reviewed Suz Brockmann's latest (ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT) which features an M/M relationship, thereby breaking their policy of not reviewing queer romance. Instead of going with my knee-jerk reaction -- Hey, Hypocrites 'R' Us! What happened to "M/M romance is to romantic fiction as Yoga is to NASCAR"??? -- I've decided to take it as a sign of good things to come. MAYBE if they don't get a thousand angry letters, and MAYBE if not too many people cancel their subscriptions, and MAYBE if they get a bunch of messages saying "Hey, that was cool, why don't you review more M/M romance?" (that's a hint, btw) they will change their general policy in the near future.

It's not like I don't understand how the publisher is under pressure to cave to the belligerent homophobes -- I do. And I sympathize to the degree that RT will continue to get my business in the form of a subscription, ad revenue, and convention fees. But bravery in the face of ignorant bigotry would earn them my undying love and respect, as well.

For anyone interested, I'll be at PhazeChatters tomorrow for an all-day fiesta with several other authors. Contests, prizes, filthy excerpts, much giggly banter filled with double-entendre and innuendo. You know -- the usual drill.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Watch me be RANDOM.

2007-09-27T16:16:00.000-04:00

Behold the cover art for the "You Make Me Live," AmberPax collection, which includes my long novella, SEVEN YEAR ACHE. Angsty gay cowboys, y'all. No shit -- for the first three months, its working title was "Brokeback On Crack."

Also, posted my entry to the Brava novella contest today, because even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while.

My fabulously adorable crit partner, Eva Gale, has a new blog and it's JUICY.

Stumbled across this yesterday: SIN STREET for sale through a Christian music site. Now I'm 99% sure this is connected to Amazon because I recognize the one and only review that's been posted...but still. I mean, I've got nothing against Christian music, but I can't help but think somebody's gonna get all offended and pissed off by this, somehow.

And Ferfe is back, heaven bless her snarky little fingers.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Disturbing the crap outta the readership, one reviewer at a time.

2007-09-19T10:10:00.000-04:00

4 Stars from Romantic Times for SIN STREET:

"This anthology has it all: action, suspense and fully developed characters that vibrate with sexual tension. 'Dirty Shame' has the most compelling and sympathetic characters, but the other offerings don't disappoint. March expertly crafts provocative and suspenseful plots with sizzling love scenes to engage the most discerning of audiences." ~Keitha Hart for Romantic Times Book Reviews

Nice. Of course, insatiable praise-whore that I am, I have to wonder what I need to do to get the whole four-and-a-half enchilada.

***

4 Angels from Fallen Angel Reviews for Phaze FANTASIES III:

'Hardcore' by Selah March:

"Jesse is out for revenge and he really doesn’t care who he needs to step on to get it. But when he kidnaps Sean, he gets more than he bargained for – how will they survive to explore what they have found in each other?

As the longest story of this [FANTASIES III] anthology, 'Hardcore' is just that – a hardcore story about revenge, sex and dealing with the unexpected. Jesse and Sean are spellbinding and disturbing all at once, but you will have a hard time moving away from this story." ~Isabella for Fallen Angel Reviews

Hmm...that's the second Fallen Angel reviewer that's called my work "disturbing." I sense a trend. Mwahahahahaha...

***

In other news, remember a few months ago when I hinted around about having something to announce? Yeah. I sold a short story to Red Sage. Working title: "There Came A Killing Frost." I expect it'll be released as part of their new electronic line sometime between now and the end of the year, but I don't know for sure. The really special news? It's my first sale that came with an advance -- a small one, but hey, it's something, right?

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Well, that sucked.

2007-09-14T11:39:00.000-04:00

My enforced hiatus from the 'Net is over, praise be.

It wasn't all bad. Got a lot of laundry done. Cleaned a few closets. Lost five pounds without trying too hard. I believe I'll try a few more of these little sabbaticals in the near future, but not for three weeks at a time, and most emphatically NOT when I'm within a few days of a hard deadline.

Got a couple good reviews whilst I was away, including a 4 Star barn-burner from Romantic Times. Will post them soonish.

Happy weekend. :)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Lightning strikes.

2007-08-27T13:07:00.000-04:00

No, I didn't sign a five-figure contract or even snag the attention of a top-name agent. But a ball of electricity DID land in my front yard late last week and fry my six-month-old iMac.

With any luck, only the motherboard will need to be replaced (prayers and good wishes on that score gratefully accepted) and I'll be back online inside of a week.

In the meantime, Caridad's new book got a nifty review at PW.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Shiny!

2007-08-21T09:31:00.000-04:00

It's raining and 53 degrees here, with an expected high of 58. I have a SPACE HEATER POINTED AT MY FEET...but only because I refuse to wear socks in my own house only 2/3 of the way through SUMMER.

But hey, maybe the sun is hiding because she's jealous. No way can she outshine my two FABULOUSLY TALENTED crit partners and their glow-in-the-dark achievements today.

Check it out:

Today is the official publication date for IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ACCENT, Caridad Ferrer's second release with MTV books. Sure to be a hit following her amazing, RITA-award-winning debut, ADIOS TO MY OLD LIFE, this book tackles some very dark stuff on its way to a happy, satisfying conclusion. You loved ADIOS? You'll love ACCENT, too. Check Barbara/Caridad's blog for further info.

And the folks at Romance Junkies have once again showcased their very good taste by giving the Phaze FANTASIES IV anthology -- including Eva Gale's excellent erotic steampunk novella, SCORPION'S ORCHID -- no less than FIVE GOLD RIBBONS and a stellar review. Read the review here.

So all in all, a pretty damned good day, sun or no sun. :)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Yo.

2007-08-13T05:34:00.000-04:00

Out for a week on family vacation. Intend to return with renewed sense of purpose and lust for living. Will probably just get sunburned.

If you're bored and feeling positively desperate to know more about me or you'll simply EXPIRE, check out my new interview at Sensual Reads and Reviews.

Have a lovely week. :)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Bra-less in the Dairy Aisle: Musings on anonymity online and in real life.

2007-08-06T10:01:00.000-04:00

Anonymity. Some people thrive on it. They lurk, post comments without attribution, and send less-than-friendly emails with the subject line “Listen, bitch,” which they do not sign, and assume I have neither the time or energy to go about hunting down IP addresses and narrowing down culprits. (They’re right, btw.)

And while I’ve never sent an anonymous email in my life, and don’t see the point in commenting on blogs or message boards without leaving my name, I understand and sympathize with wanting to hide your real-life identity. I’ve never made any bones about the fact that ‘Selah March’ is a pseudonym. I took the name at the request of my husband, heretofore known as ‘Dr. March,’ after it became clear that my writing was going to be heavy on the kiss-kiss, bang-bang. If not for his worries regarding the safety of our children and his professional reputation, I’d be writing under my own name. So I don’t consider my use of a pseudonym to be either cowardly or hypocritical, but merely a concession to the concerns of someone I love and someone who, incidentally, makes it possible for me to spend hours writing each week in the first place.

But anonymity and I have a strained relationship. I want to be who I am, in front of God and everybody. Along these lines of discussion, I meant to write about THIS three months ago when it was fresh and exciting.

What? You mean not everyone finds the study of world demographics as thrilling as I do? Pfffffffft. I find it fascinating that more people live in cities than in the country worldwide. With the exception of one long, dark year right after college graduation, I’ve never lived in a city. Doubt I’d survive the experience, were I to try it today. Almost didn’t survive it the first time, and that “city” had a population that scarcely topped 25,000. Kudos to those who negotiate urban and suburban life with grace and aplomb. Sadly, it’s not within my natural skill set. I suspect I'd end up on the evening news in a report that concludes, "...before turning the gun on herself."

As I’ve mentioned before, I live in a small town -- a village, in fact -- with a population of less than 2,000 souls. There are a handful of tiny cities -- populations of less than 300,000 -- within easy driving distance, but the Big Apple, Philly, Pittsburgh and Boston are all so distant that if you plan a trip to any of those teeming hives of human activity, you have to tack on one day just for travel time. In addition, the region’s second largest industry is agriculture -- and we’re not talking big, feed-the-nation-sized farms, here. It’s all Mom-and-Pop-and-maybe-the-kids-if-they’re-interested dairy farms, running a sideline in roadside produce stands and stalls at the local farmers’ markets. Rural. VERY rural. To the point where some folks -- not a lot, mind you, but a few -- still keep and use outhouses on their properties.

What makes this area unique is that the first largest industry happens to be education. With an Ivy League university just twelve miles from my village and a cluster of smaller private schools within an hour’s drive, plus arguably the best state university system in the country, we’ve cornered the market on learnin’ as a business. This makes for a fascinating mix of folks, especially in my little town, where you’re more likely than not to stand in line at the bank between a multi-published and nationally revered expert on ancient Roman culture and a guy in overalls and a gimme cap with cow shit on his boots. And make conversation with both of them. At the same time. About local or national politics. And discover, much to your bemusement, that you all basically agree.

I never feel more blessed to be part of this community as when the dog days of summer roll around.* It’s invariably humid here, and a relative few of the homes tend to be centrally air-conditioned (for we are thrifty Yankees who don’t go in for such nonsense when spring and summer only last five months altogether) and you can always take a running jump into The Lake (note capitalization) if you feel the urge. But no matter how miserably sticky we get as a population, there is ever time and energy to stop on the street and inquire after another’s spouse, children, dogs, cows, corn crop. I’ve lived in a number of towns as small and smaller than this one, and I have to say that I’ve never encountered people as interested in others’ lives as I’ve found here.

In other words, we’re a nosy bunch who can’t mind our own business. But somehow, it works for us. You’ll note I’m saying this NOW when, to my knowledge, no one has a clue that when Mrs. March isn’t shopping, cooking, cleaning and attending PTA meetings, she’s writing dirty stories. We’ll see how I feel when that news ever breaks. I doubt it’ll take more than another five years or so. By then, I’ll have prepped the spouse and spawn on how to deal with nasty questions along the lines of, “Why does your wife/mother write that trash?” With any luck, they'll be able to answer something along the lines of, "Because that trash is putting me/my kids through college."

Right now, the purple loosestrife and yellow Indian paintbrush are blooming, the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye, and my dogs are panting too hard to bark at the squirrel sitting outside my office window chattering at me. When I drive into the heart of the village for groceries later, the store manager will mention that he noticed my older son is home for the summer, and ask why the lazy-good-for-nothin’-brat -- said with a huge smile so I know for sure he’s joking -- didn’t apply at the front desk for a job. The cashier will want to know if the new Bentley Little I bought last week was any good, and was it really gory or just a little gory because she’s been having bad dreams lately and did she tell me about her poor daughter who might need to go on medication for her migraines? I’ll meet at least two of my husband’s patients between the produce aisle and dairy case, and if I’m lucky, neither of them will ask me to ask him to fill a prescription. And everybody -- EVERYBODY -- will know exactly who I am.

Pain in the ass? You know it. Especially on days I'd rather not bother with panties, much less a bra, but know I have to lest someone notice my wayward jiggle and use it to embarrass my kids. And still, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

*unless it’s when the snow is hip-deep and the guy across the street comes over and cleans out my driveway without being asked because he’s been watching and knows my husband is often gone eighteen hours at a time.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Pimpery.

2007-08-01T18:06:00.000-04:00

Guess who was just invited to be a FEATURED AUTHOR at the St. Petersburg Times Festival of Reading? My brilliant and stylish crit partner, Barbara Caridad Ferrer, author of the 2007 RITA Award-winning ADIOS TO MY OLD LIFE, that's who.

She told me about it, had two slices of pizza to celebrate, and got back to work. Because she's a pro like that.

Says author Eva Gale:

"Daughter is praying to God that someone makes ADIOS into a movie. And she asks every week for the next one, IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ACCENT.

Every. Week.

This from a child who HATES to read."

(IT'S NOT ABOUT THE ACCENT drops August 21 at a bookseller near you.)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Surrender Dorothy

2007-07-31T16:07:00.001-04:00

(If you've had it up to here with the recent war of words between certain authors and certain bloggers, try looking at this instead: Another excellent review of ADIOS TO MY OLD LIFE.)

For those of you still hanging around, the rest of my post was inspired by this conversation.

Rather than hijack that poor woman's blog, I moved my final response here:

~To anyone who has ever bought a book of mine, considered buying a book of mine, or may sometime in the distant future consider buying a book of mine:

What you see is what you get. If you don't like my opinions, if you're appalled by how I present myself in public? I implore you not to waste your money on my work because you'll find many of my characters to be just as abrasive and challenging as their creator. Sometimes they get slapped upside the head for it. Sometimes I do, too. We muddle onward.

~To the various online blogger/reviewers with whom I've recently crossed swords:

This ain't my first rodeo. I spent years working in retail, business, and academia. I learned early that cowering in fear of other people's opinions or harsh words is the fast track to nowhere. If I lose readers because I choose to speak my mind...well, them's the breaks. I won't be bullied because some folks think they have less to lose than I do, nor will dire warnings of career disaster make me sit down and shut up.

Review my books if you've a mind to. Give them lousy grades, good grades, and anything in between. You'll receive a thank you from me for your effort.

Engage me in a debate, comment on my online persona, attack me for not holding my tongue when you think I should, and I'll meet you halfway every time. With luck, we'll part with a better understanding of one another. If not, so be it. I am at peace with either outcome. But don't kid yourself into believing I fear you. Not on my worst day, or your best.

To quote Glinda the Good Witch of the North, who was one badass mofo bitch:
"You have no power here! Now begone, before somebody drops a house on you!"

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

I can has a cookie??

2007-07-28T14:38:00.000-04:00

Somebody on the RWA Board took the time to do a little research on how epublishing works and as a result, the Board has revised its definitions. Because no matter how many folks SAY the RWA has the power to redefine the terms "vanity publisher" and "subsidy publisher" and the word "primarily"....honest and truly, people, not so much.

From the RWA National Offices:

"At the request of members, the Board has re-visited the definitions of 'Subsidy Publisher' and 'Vanity Publisher.' After considering the advice of legal and industry professionals, along with suggestions by our Publisher Recognition Task Force, the board met in a telephonic board meeting on July 25th and redefined the terms 'Subsidy Publisher' and 'Vanity Publisher' as follows:

'Subsidy Publisher' means any publisher that publishes books in which the author participates in the costs of production in any manner, including publisher assessment of a fee or other costs for editing and/or distribution. This definition includes publishers who withhold or seek full or partial payment or reimbursement of publication or distribution costs before paying royalties, including payment of paper, printing, binding, production, sales or marketing costs.

'Vanity Publisher' means any publisher whose authors exclusively promote and/or sell their own books and publishers whose business model and methods of publishing and distribution are primarily directed toward sales to the author, his/her relatives and/or associates.

RWA’s mission is to promote the professional interests of career-focused romance authors through networking and advocacy. Advocacy is one of the main reasons RWA exists, and since advocacy is included in RWA's core purpose, mandated by the Bylaws, the Board cannot simply decide to stop advocating for the fair treatment of RWA's members.

Though we know some RWA members disagree, when determining whether a publisher is a Vanity Publisher, RWA believes it is important to look at distribution of books. When a publisher does not pay an advance and does not become involved with marketing and distribution, it is, in reality, acting as nothing more than a consignment dealer for the book. Providing this kind of service requires little or nothing of the publisher, and the responsibility to market the product and drive traffic to single distribution point falls upon the author. There is nothing two-sided about this kind of arrangement, no give and take where both sides involved incur risk and both stand to gain. In this situation the author incurs all of the financial risk in attempting to market a product.

On the other hand, if a publisher doesn't pay an advance, but is investing time, energy, and money to provide alternate means of distribution, the publisher is at least somewhat invested in the product. This investment moves this relationship away from a consignment arrangement and closer to a two sided publishing agreement where the author and publisher are crucial to one another. Some of the methods of national distribution that benefit an author are: Advertising in national trade or consumer magazines, wholesaler agreements, Amazon.com-type internet bookstore agreements, or national chain bookstore agreements to carry a publisher's titles. Also included are exhibiting at national and/or regional tradeshows and book fairs as well as advertising to readers.

Right now, publishing is changing daily. Companies are rising and falling with alarming speed, but it is the writers who are being hurt when a company goes under or fails to live up to promises. There are, of course, many stable and viable publishing companies who have become established in the past few years, but even with those companies RWA must continue to advocate for the fair and ethical treatment of its authors, as it has always done with long established publishers. RWA welcomes the addition of strong, viable publishers because any increase in reliable, reputable avenues of publishing is good for writers in general.

There will never come a time, however, when a writer can afford to assume any contract is good. It will always be the author's responsibility to read all the clauses, question the ones he/she doesn't understand, find out what the industry standard is, and only then, with full knowledge, make the decision to sign or not to sign. The hard truth is that a Vanity Publisher or Subsidy Publisher is not, in general, as favorable to the writer as an advance-paying non-Vanity Publisher or non-Subsidy Publisher. RWA is not here to determine who should sign or not sign any specific contract. That decision remains solely with the author. But in its role as advocate for its members, RWA must take a stand."

***

So we're all legitimately published again. I feel so much better now. */sarcasm*

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Review: THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES

2007-07-26T21:48:00.000-04:00

The theory behind THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES -- three well-known authors (Jenny Crusie, Eileen Dreyer, Anne Stuart) combine talents to create a single novel -- is like opening a menu and finding your three favorite desserts combined into one. (In my case, it would be a honkin’ slice of sour cream lemon meringue-hot fudge sundae-cheesecake, but you’re not here to find out how I flirt with diabetic coma on a weekly basis, so never mind.)

You think, “Wow. All three at once. I wonder how that’ll taste...” And so you order it and you dig in and lo and behold...it ain’t bad. In fact, parts of it are downright tasty.

I’ve read a little Dreyer and a little more Stuart, and liked them both. I’m an inveterate Crusie fan, though, so I expected to love the Crusie contribution best. I wasn’t wrong. The characters she created in Mare Fortune, Crash (Mare’s one true love), and a cast of wacky supporting actors are the sour cream lemon meringue pie my grandmother made for every birthday I celebrated between ages five and twenty.

My next favorite was Anne Stuart’s contribution in the character of Lizzie. I guess she’d be the hot fudge sundae with homemade vanilla ice cream drowned in fudge made from real dark chocolate. Maybe some coconut flakes for texture. I found Lizzie loveable, if a little more dim than I generally like my heroines. Her soulmate, Elric, tended toward the typical paranormal alpha male -- inscrutable, arrogant and more than a little annoying at times, but I forgave him eventually. All in all, a solid effort.

Finally, Dreyer’s eldest sister, Dee, was my least favorite of the trio, which is not to say I didn’t like her...because hello? Cheesecake? The really good kind, straight from New York? But she’s a frustrating character for me, forever trapped by her own sense of responsibility and guilt, and carrying secrets alone, and I dunno...cardigan sweaters and her hair in a bun? Really? It made me want to rebel in solidarity with eldest sisters everywhere. Plus, her interactions with her one true love tended to be a little on the repetitive side. But hey...even when every bite of cheesecake is the same as the last, who’s complaining?

Together the three sisters were a delight. With a villainess, Xantippe, who is the perfect cup of espresso -- dark, bitter, and cleansing to the palate between bites of confection -- this book can’t miss. If I were a real reviewer giving it a real grade...hmmm...four and a half maraschino cherries out of five.

I highly recommend THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Upcoming review: THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES

2007-07-23T18:14:00.000-04:00

I generally don't review fiction here unless it's to give recommendations. I just don't possess whatever special skills it takes to criticize -- in the formal sense -- the work of others.

But I took a chance on a free ARC of the Jenny Crusie/Eileen Dreyer/Anne Stuart collaboration, THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES, which Ms. Crusie offered up in sort of a "viral blogging review fest," much like that of Alison Kent's COMPLETE IDIOT'S GUIDE TO WRITING EROTIC ROMANCE last year. So if anyone's interested, my review should be up tomorrow.

In other news...yeah, it got pretty ugly out there for a little bit, and I contributed to some of it. I stand by every word I've said, however, and will not attempt to excuse my fit of bad temper by saying I was provoked or moved to verbal violence by the words of others. That would be tacky. And while I may be a bitch of the first order, I do try to avoid the tacky.

Unless we're talking Swan Hats, because I'm ALL OVER that shit.

Moving on.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

My GOD, look what she's doing to that poor bird.

2007-07-20T19:35:00.001-04:00

Moving this conversation from the comments section because it deserves its own damn post. And then? I'm done with this issue. Two days of writing time and 6K words lost to this nonsense. I'm not a happy camper, and have no one to blame but myself.

First, the inimitable Ferfe:

"*vbg* At this point I'll take a decent rant from either of you but I'm not sure I can make it that long between "rant fixes" so Selah needs to schedule something in alternating months. I would rant myself but ...well ... my pilot light must have gone out or something. If I were going to rant, though, it would probably be about how annoying manufactured dramas in the blog-o-sphere are, and how one or two people saying something cranky in a private email is not worthy of 400 comments about a fucking swan hat. Or ... how everytime someone blindly agrees with Nora Roberts or apologizes profusely for "kind of" disagreeing with her, promising to buy more of her books in penance, I feel IQ points being sucked out of my head in much the same way a bot fly gets tweezed from it's nest under human skin while still in the maggot stage.

It's my own fault, of course. If I spent more time writing and less time reading the blogs ... sigh ... It's just ... They're like the four horsemen or something and we are missing the obvious end of days right there in front of us on our computer screens. But for a single, worldwide EMP event, we could have evolved. Now? All we can do is hope the great firewall of China will spread across the Web and save us from madness. ;-)

But you guys can rant on anything and I'd be happy."

My reply:

"Ferfe-o'-my-heart, I'm sorry. My Ranty McRantypants hat is in the shop this week, and I used up all the juice in the spare over at YOUR blog.

The sad thing is, I don't doubt Nora would agree with you. She seems a level-headed sort, and likely wouldn't mind someone saying, "Respectfully, I think you're fulla shit on this particular point," without then feeling the need to apologize. Only nicer, of course, and without the vulgar language.

The more I read on this particular issue, the more I really think it's never been about the costumes at all. I'm not absolutely certain what it IS about, you understand. But one Dead Poultry Chapeau and a couple of grown women in thigh-highs simply do not make for this much drama all by themselves.

And if it really IS about the costumes and whether or not we should wear them at certain events and what that will do to the level of respect we engender as professionals? Then truly, as a group we don't deserve to garner the level of professional respect we desire, simply because we want it so badly we're willing to savage our own to get it. Poor Marianne, Liz and Sherri. Sacrificed on the altar of Won't You Pleeeeeeeease Respect Us?

And as I said before -- on your blog, I believe -- I just don't care that much what total strangers think of me. And I still don't know if that makes my self-esteem too low or too high.

But I will say that I'm very tempted to show up at the RWA signing some year -- not as a member, you understand, just as a reader and rabble-rouser -- RIDING a swan and wearing thigh highs on every part of my body but the naughty bits. And won't everybody be sorry THEN.

Mostly the swan."

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Mr. Eastwood is ready for his close-up.

2007-07-18T09:42:00.000-04:00

AKA: RWA Nationals Round-up: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

The Good:

~ Barb/Caridad Ferrer's RITA win. However you may feel about the contest itself and the process by which the categories shook themselves out this year, the bottom line is this -- the book RAWKS, and deserves a RITA. The judges thought so, bless their brilliant and insightful hearts, and so do I and a slew of other readers.

Or to quote Jenny Crusie's comment:

"I haven’t read the other comments (sorry!) but these are the same kind of idiots who made the NYT start a children’s book list because Harry Potter was screwing up the NYT bestseller list.

A good book is a good book is a good book. The fact that Barb’s book won in a field of “adult” single titles tells you that it was head and shoulders above the others because there must have been some innate prejudice at work there--look at the prejudice in the comments against it--and yet it made it through to the finals and the win."

Yeah. What she said.

~ Bloggers, reviewers and fans at the conference. Apparently, some folks are uncomfy with this phenomenon, but the general consensus appears to range from "bring it, Bitches," to "meh, whatev." As far as I'm concerned, it's all good, since it makes for entertaining blog hoppage.

~ Candy's rack. 'Nuff said.

The Bad:

~ Bitter shrews who post anonymously. Yeah, we get it. You're miffed. But there are plenty of folks who disagreed with Ferrer's RITA win who managed to say so in a calm, non-insulting -- if not always coherent -- manner and weren't cowardly about expressing their opinions on the record. Have the ovaries to sign your name or STFU.

~ Organizational arrogance and/or incompetence. At first, it seemed like the RWA Board was attempting to redefine the term "vanity/subsidy press" to include any company that sold most of its books from its own website. Now it turns out they're only trying to redefine the word "primarily" to mean "exclusively." (They're allowed to do that -- they're the RWA.) Christ on a cracker, people. You want to be taken seriously? Admit you made a mistake. Or at least that expensive lawyer -- the one you hired with membership dues? -- made a mistake. Said it before, will say it again because I love the sound of my own self-righteousness in the morning: Accountability. It's a good thing.

~ Book "snatch and flippers." Although I'm still waiting for those folks who so vehemently defended selling ARCs on eBay to tell us how THAT is different from THIS.

The Ugly?

I understand there were costumes. And some pronouncements of "how unprofessional" to said costumes. Hey, I get that. If romance writers want respect, we should probably avoid the hats made of overstuffed poultry. On the other hand? At the moment, the RWA is looking (again) an awful lot like the Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight, with or without the Dead Swan Chapeau in the pages of the Dallas Morning News.

Maybe the costumes are the least of their problems?

***

Oh, look. I did a couple of interviews. Here's one from a few weeks ago, and a brand-spanking new one with Cindy Cruciger (REVENGE GIFTS, Tor, 2005). Enjoy. :)

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Sssssssssssweaty goodness.

2007-07-15T21:02:00.000-04:00

7810 words since Tuesday, which is somewhat below my goal of 2K per day. But still, not bad.

This week's gonna be killer, though, because I'll be breaking in my first pair of bi-focals.

Yes. It's true. I am an aged hag. Gloom, despair and agony on me.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Joy in Mudville.

2007-07-15T09:03:00.000-04:00

2007 RITA for Best Contemporary Single Title: ADIOS TO MY OLD LIFE, by Barbara Caridad Ferrer.

Can I get an amen, people? Truly, good things can happen to good people and their brilliant, beautiful books.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

crickets

2007-07-14T12:55:00.001-04:00

There reaches a point where the leadership of an organization becomes so self-destructive in its stupidity that those watching move beyond anger, beyond pointing and laughing, and on into pity. Now they're insisting they never, ever, not in a million YEARS meant to exclude epubs like EC, Samhain or Loose Id. We MISUNDERSTOOD their INTENTIONS. *insert wide-eyed pout*

Maybe because their intentions were couched in a shittily worded document that isn't worth the pixels it's transmitted in?

Juno Books editor Paula Guran makes excellent point about just how thoroughly the RWA has shot itself in the foot with this latest boneheaded move. Make sure you read the comments.

Is the lawyer they hired to draft the language in their latest policy change the ne're-do-well nephew of a board member? I'm askin'.

In other news, after cooking right along for the first four days of the Seventy Days of Sweat, I hit a spawn-shaped roadblock (my son is having issues with a bully at summer day-camp) and I now find myself 1800 words in the hole. But I'm pretty sure I can climb out again if I can convince my family to leave me the @#$% alone for a few hours.

Tonight is the Rita Awards ceremony. Every limb and digit on my body is crossed in hopes that my brilliant and ever-stylish crit partner, Barbara Caridad Ferrer, will win at least one of the categories in which she has finaled. God knows she deserves it, and so does her book.

And that's about it. You may have noticed that I'm trying to blog more often. That's in response to people who email me and say, "Why don't you blog more often?" Well, you see where that gets us. BORING. All I can do is hope the Rita ceremony provides fodder for more interesting posts. Who knows? Maybe they've planned an extravaganza of fuckery to rival Reno. One can only hope.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

It's Thursday, and I'm still a "vanity-pubbed" author.

2007-07-12T09:42:00.000-04:00

I thought maybe I would've cooled down a little by now.

Not so much.

Rather than rant, I'm just going to link to what some other smart people have to say on the subject.

This one is is a few years old, but I love it. "Tree Forts for Grown-ups."

Here's the perspective from soon-to-be-NY-pubbed author Maya Reynolds.

And here's what author Lynne Simpson has to say.

Finally, author Emily Veinglory destroys the EREC blog's G rating with her potty mouth. See? The RWA turns even the most mild-mannered of us into loud-mouthed little shrews.

Not that Emily is a loud-mouthed little shrew. That's all me, baby.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

The more things change...

2007-07-11T16:33:00.000-04:00

Today, when I crawled out of bed, I was the author of several short stories and novellas in both print and electronic format published by small-but-growing presses that either didn't yet meet RWA's criteria for publisher recognition or had no interest in applying for said recognition. And I was okay with that. My sales were up, my royalty checks getting bigger each quarter, and I had a growing and supportive readership.

When I crawl back into bed tonight, some sixteen hours later, I will be a "vanity/subsidy pubbed," as per the new RWA defintion.

"3. The Board updated the definition of Subsidy Publisher or Vanity Publisher to: any publisher that publishes books in which the author participates in the cost of production or distribution in any manner, including publisher assessment of a fee or other costs for editing and/or distribution. This definition includes publishers who withhold or seek full or partial payment of reimbursement of publication or distribution costs before paying royalties, including payment of paper, printing, binding, production, sales or marketing costs; publishers whose authors exclusively promote and/or sell their own books; publishers whose primary means of offering books for sale is through a publisher-generated Web site; publishers whose list is comprised of 50% or more of its books written by authors who are principals in the publishing company; and publishers whose business model and methods of publishing are primarily directed toward sales to the author, his/her relatives and associates."

Note, please, the highlighted sections.

Now, let me be clear: I understand that after the Triskelion bloodbath, they had to do something. I'm even okay with the new "thousand dollar advance for a novel, five hundred dollar advance for a novella" requirement. It'll cut out a lot of small presses and epubs, but you know what? It's their organization -- no longer MINE, most assuredly -- and they can recognize who and whatever they want to recognize.

But where do they get off changing the definition of "subsidy/vanity publisher" to meet their own ends? Last time I checked, "vanity/subsidy publisher" meant publishers who require their authors to pay for some part of the publishing process. The Board of Directors, in one ugly little fit of "throw the baby out with the bathwater," have attempted to marginalize multiple small but legitimate companies and thereby have marginalized hundreds of their own members who are published with these companies.

And they wonder why the RWA is becoming less and less relevant with each passing year.

If I'd bothered to send my membership dues in April, I'd be sorely regretting it now. As it is, the RWA can bite my "vanity pubbed" ass. Both cheeks. Make a meal of it, why don'tcha? Not another penny of my money, not another second of my time.

It's almost enough to make you miss Tara Taylor Quinn.

Oh, shut up. I said "almost."

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Seventy Days of Sweat: Drop and give me 400, bitch.

2007-07-11T09:17:00.000-04:00

Sunday, 7/8: 2041 words.
Monday, 7/9: 2055 words.
Tuesday, 7/10: 1609 words. Dammit. Four hundred short.
Wednesday, 7/11: Well, it's only nine in the morning, and I have to make up those missing four hundred first, don't I? Dammit. And I should warm up first. Wouldn't want to pull a groin muscle. :p

ETA: Check out the insightful and fabulous Smart Bitches review of Adios to My Old Life by my brilliant and stylish crit partner, Barbara Caridad Ferrer. Now it's onward to the Ritas, and after that? Total world domination. You heard it here.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Heart of a Slacker, Soul of a Sloth.

2007-07-07T19:50:00.000-04:00

So I signed up to do Alison Kent's "Seventy Days of Sweat" writing challenge. Read about it here.

I need motivation like this. Someone -- or something -- to beat me about the head and shoulders so I don't end up writing the last three chapters of both my summer projects five days before their respective due dates.

This is what I'm working on:

First one:
1) Title: Seven Year Ache
2) Hero Name/Occupation: Jamie Crosby/dude ranch owner.
3) Hero Name/Occupation: Rafe McCaffrey/failed country music singer/ranch hand. Yes, this novella has two heroes and no heroine. You do the math. ;)
4) Setting: ranch outside Kalispell, Montana.
5) Length: 5K words down, 25-35K words to go.

Second one:
1) Working Title: Cinderella Blue
2) Hero Name/Occupation: Ty Samuel/casino owner
3) Heroine Name/Occupation: Joni Pruitt/writer
4) Setting: small town in Nevada
5) Length: 25-35K

It's too easy for me to spend the dewy hours of early morning puttering among my petunias, and the humid hours of early afternoon napping in the air-conditioned confines of my king-sized bed. But no more! Two thousand words a day or bust (which will give me time and room to work on the novel-length project I keep avoiding by taking on shorter projects). And anyone who wants to can come around and slap me silly if I give in to my baser nature and fall behind. I'm sick of not having enough time to do a final proofread, much less a decent revision pass. It's stupid, unprofessional, and morally wrong. My editor and readers deserve better. Hell, the stories themselves deserve better.

Besides, there's prizes. We LIKE prizes.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

New Release: Phaze Fantasies III: HARDCORE

2007-07-02T20:55:00.000-04:00

“...and that’s when the chasm opened at her feet and sucked her into the fiery pits of hell, where she’ll burn in unending agony forevermore. The end.”

Yes, it’s true. I’ve crossed the line. Been lured, as my beloved and esteemed crit partner Barbara Caridad “Double Rita Finalist” Ferrer puts it, to The Dark Side. Phaze has released my very first M/M erotic romance, HARDCORE, as part of the Phaze FANTASIES III collection.

The Blurb (for the entire antho):

MASK by James Buchanan: Don Hecto Luz Aritza and his mayordomo y compañero Martín have been lovers since they were boys. Now that the Don is to wed a Frenchwoman, Martín must use magic and love to fight of the woman who wants to tear the lovers apart. Set in Colonial Mexico, Mask weaves the mysticism, suppression and magic of legends of the old southwest into a tale of two men who must fight to be together.

DEVOTION by Jade Falconer: Marcus was Prince Wilhelm's personal slave. The prince desires his lovely slave, and they share a bed every night. Their love transcends all convention; but when a new slave, Frederic, threatens their idyllic existence, will their love prevail? Or will misunderstanding forever tear them apart?

DRAGON’S FATE by Eliza Gayle: (details unavailable at this time)

HEADS OR TAILS by Jamie Hill: Jeff Roberts' life is all planned out for him. He's engaged to the boss's daughter, and eventually he'll run the construction/real estate company he works for. It's going to be the perfect life. When Kurt Lacey joins the construction crew, Jeff is suddenly fighting urges he'd forced himself to repress. There were male lovers in his past, but deciding that wasn't what he wanted, Jeff proceeded to 'go straight'. Kurt has other ideas, and one night together has Jeff rethinking his life. Does he want to be secure, responsible and boring? Wild, exciting and nontraditional seems like lots more fun. It all comes down to the flip of a coin—and whether Jeff chooses Heads or Tails.

HARDCORE by Selah March: Disgraced police officer and reluctant empath Jesse Bonham is a man with a mission -- eliminate the thug that ruined his life. Student and part-time bartender Sean Carr wants no part of Jesse's vendetta, no matter how hot he finds the ex-cop. When Jesse kidnaps Sean to use as bait, they discover the meaning of "out of the frying pan and into the fire."

BEHIND THE BEARD by Yeva Wiest: Madly in lust, handsome young counselor Byron Jones hides his secret self. The object of his attraction: Lord Richard Kincade, the Queen’s most sought after barrister. With the help of two conniving old codgers, a mischievous miss, and some six-legged buggers, Byron “wigs out” to capture the heart of Lord Kincade. This story proves the bell of the ball just might be a beau, but everything depends on who is really hiding behind the beard.

***

An Excerpt from Chapter 6 of HARDCORE:

He was positioned between the bed and the bathroom door when Jesse emerged, clutching a towel around his hips.

"Stop. Don't move."

Jesse's eyes widened. In a way that looked almost like a reflex, a smirk curled the corner of his mouth.

Before he could say anything, Sean spoke again. "You'll notice the safety's off this time. You really shouldn't've underestimated me, you know?"

He watched Jesse's throat work as he swallowed. "Sean—"

"Shut up. Drop the towel and get on the bed." It wasn't easy to keep his voice and the gun steady at the same time. "On your stomach."

Jesse's brow crumpled in a look that screamed "confusion." Like a swimmer pulled out too far by a riptide and unsure for the first few seconds exactly what's happening. "What're you planning to—"

"I said shut up. Drop the towel. Get on the bed." Sean stepped forward and motioned with the muzzle of the .45. "Do it now."

Jesse hesitated another second, then moved in the direction Sean indicated, to the bed on the other side of the room. Sean stayed close to him, but not too close, in case he decided to pull some tricky move out of a ninja movie.

Sean watched as he dropped the towel at the last possible second, but stopped before actually stretching out on the bed. "I don't know what you've got planned, but if it's what I think—"

"Oh, I think we're on the same page. Down on your stomach, and grab the headboard."
Jesse's eyes flickered once, a glint of golden-hazel from beneath long, thick lashes. Then he did as he was told. Sean almost let himself be surprised. He never thought it would be this easy.

He pulled the handcuffs from his pocket. Now came the hard part—cuffing Jesse to the bed without fumbling the gun. Sean could hear his heart pounding in his ears. If he screwed this up...let Jesse get the better of him one more time...

Again, it turned out easier than he anticipated. Jesse lay with his head on one of the two pillows, his face turned away from Sean. There was tension in every curve and plane of his body—every muscle appeared coiled and ready to spring. But he stayed still, his hands fisted around the spindles of the headboard, knuckles white with the effort. Sean slid a cuff on one wrist, wove the second one between the headboard and the wall, and slipped it onto the other wrist. With each metallic click, Jesse's body jerked.

Sean cleared his throat. "This bed's pretty cheap-looking. You can probably break it if you try." He wasn't sure why he said it. Maybe just to have something to say.

Jesse turned his head on the pillow. Sean saw how the contours of his face matched the tortured lines of his body. He set the gun on the bedside table, and settled his hand on Jesse's shoulder.

The transformation wasn't immediate. It took a good ten seconds for Jesse to relax—for his brow to unknot, for the muscles in his back and ass and legs to let go of what looked like their involuntary clench. Sean watched it all, amazed at how just the single touch of his hand seemed to be enough to communicate what he intended.

Which was no kind of harm. He didn't play that way, any more than Jesse apparently did. Not ever.

He leaned over to speak into Jesse's ear. "I know you want this. You can pretend later that you didn't, if it makes you feel better...but I know. I could tell the moment I met you. The second I saw you."

Jesse made a noise—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Like honey poured over a bowl of gravel. It went straight to Sean's cock, the sudden redirection of blood flow nearly knocking him sideways off the bed.

He waited and watched Jesse's face. The older man didn't look at him, but he nodded. Once. Quick and easy to miss, but then he lifted his gaze to meet Sean's, and the yes was right there.

"Good," Sean whispered, and leaned in further to kiss him. Jesse twisted his head to meet him, his lips parting easy to let him inside. It was sweet like nothing Sean had ever tasted—the flavor of Jesse giving in.

***

Those of you who read and enjoyed FLESH AND BONE, my novella in the FORTUNE’S FOOL anthology released by Phaze in May, might be interested to know that HARDCORE is set in the same “world” -- the North Bay Area outside San Francisco and within a family in which inherited psychic ability is rampant.

My second M/M release -- this one a contemporary Western titled SEVEN YEAR ACHE -- is in the works, slated to be released by the new Allure imprint of Amber Quill Press in the Fall, and thereby cementing my place on The Dark Side forever. But never fear, fans of “het” romance. I’m working on an entry for the Kensington Brava contest, plus I’ll be announcing a contract for a novella featuring the boy/girl lovin’ with a brand new-to-me publisher before the end of the month.

In the meantime, don’t bother praying for my poor, damned soul. I’m rather enjoying the view from down here. For example, what they say about those Scottish lads and what they don’t wear beneath their kilts? All true. Yowza.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Like a Hoover, Baby.

2007-06-28T11:18:00.000-04:00

I've often bemoaned my suckitude at self-promo. Truly, I hate it with the fiery passion of ten-thousand stars gone nova. I'd rather be writing. Hell, I'd rather be washing a fat beagle with bad breath and a penchant for humping my leg. (Guess what's on my To Do list today?)

I've never gone the "widgets" route. No bookmarks, no pens, no magnets. I don't even have a business card. I did a gift basket for a con once. Have no idea if it sold any books, but I sort of enjoyed the process of putting it together. I do try to show up once every six weeks or so on a Yahoo loop chat organized by my publishers to post blurbs and excerpts and run a quickie contest, but I spend the entire time thinking that I sound like an obnoxious, self-absorbed loser who has nothing better to do than talk about her own stuff. Live chats in which I'm expected to banter extemporaneously about my writing while trading quips with other readers and authors? Gave those up for Lent two years ago and never went back. I salute those who enjoy them and can pull them off successfully, but...like a Hoover, baby. Seriously. I SUCK at it.

Which, frankly, is pretty much how I feel about blogging, but I figure that if you're here and reading, it must be for a reason. Unless someone is holding a gun to your head. Is someone holding a gun to your head? BLINK THREE TIMES if someone is holding a gun to your head to force you to read this blog. I'll call 911. No. Really.

Okay then. Check out PBW's post: Self-Promotion That Doesn't Suck.

Her list includes:

1. Previous familiarity with author's other work through excerpts and free stories, etc.

Check. I try to post excerpts will some regularity, though I could do better at that. And I've still got my free ebook from last year's PBW Ebook Challenge up on my website. (DARK OF THE DAY, a mildly erotic paranormal romance about life, death, and the spaces in between.) I've gotten a pretty good response from that -- a few nice letters from people who enjoyed it -- but I have no idea if it's sold any other books. I guess I'll take it on faith, since PBW tends to know what she's talking about.

2. Recommendation of friend.

I can't force y'all to pimp me. But I'd appreciate it mightily, for I am a big 'ho.

3. Reading about book on another person's blog or website.

I'm sending out more stuff for reviews on individual blogs, rather than the big reviewing sites, which my publishers pretty much have covered anyway. It's paid off in a few cases and I plan to keep doing it within reason. I've also done a couple interviews and give-aways on romance-related blogs. We'll see if it makes a difference.

I certainly could do more. I'm sadly remiss at the contest thing. Hmmm...

Okay, comment on this post and tomorrow morning sometime, I will randomly choose one winner from the comments to receive a free ebook of their choice from my backlist (basically everything but SIN STREET, which is only available in print). List can be found on my website, link below. Be sure to check the "books" link AND the "home" page for choices.

I suspect this won't work as well on a blog that gets relatively few hits, but we'll see. I'll try anything once. I have the scars to prove it.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

I Got Nothin': Part the Second

2007-06-25T08:31:00.000-04:00

Spent too much time plucking the dead blossoms off my petunias this weekend. Got a sunburn on my neck and upper back that's making life not worth the living. (Bitch, bitch, bitch, ad nauseum. Teach me to garden in the sunshine when I should be writing in the dark like the mushroom I am.)

I want to announce something in the worst way. Been wanting to do it for weeks, but I don't have the contract in hand yet, and I don't like to jinx it. So. Never mind.

Oh! I know! I did an interview. Here. It includes one of those headshots that you have taken at writing conferences before you know better. You have my permission to point and laugh.

Caridad -- otherwise known as Barb -- got an amazing review for a book that isn't even out yet. Caridad? Will soon rule the world. Wait and see if she doesn't. I'm first in line for the position of Evil Minion. She PROMISED.

Umm...yeah. That's about it. Aren't you glad you stopped by? :p

Edited to add in a totally random fashion:

Because that's useful information to have, oh yes it is.

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Me, with a heaping side of Me, bathed in a rich, gooey slather of Me-sauce.

2007-06-15T14:19:00.000-04:00

First, the good news: a nice (5 Angels!) review of FORTUNE'S FOOL from Fallen Angels Reviews.

Yes, the reviewer called my novella "Flesh and BLOOD" instead of "Flesh and Bone." Yes, she was less-than-complimentary about my beloved crit partner's story in the same collection. But still...kind words for a piece I really thought might tank with reviewers due to the exTREMEly dark and potentially squicky nature of its subject matter.

To wit:
"A darkly disturbing, yet well written novella, Flesh and Blood brings the dark side to life. Full of disturbing imagery and debauchery there is still a wonderful romance and a believable bond between the hero and heroine. I am truly amazed by the fact that a normally unpalatable topic drew me in and kept me enthralled. Very well done Ms. March."

Now? The better news: Annie Dean LIKES me. She reallyreally LIKES me. See? Look. See?? She thinks I should be FAMOUS.

I'd rather be rich, but I'll take famous, so long as it doesn't mean I have to wear underwear around the house.

And finally, the best news of all...which is not, in fact, really about me. See? I'm not as disgustingly self-absorbed as I think you think I think I am. Or something.

One of my other crit partners, the brilliant and excessively fashionable Barbara Caridad Ferrer -- she of DOUBLE-Rita finalist fame -- has sold herself another book. Behold:

ADIÓS TO MY OLD LIFE author, Barbara Caridad Ferrer’s A THIN LINE, a contemporary interpretation of Bizet's "Carmen" in which the fiery gypsy is re-invented as a modern-day dancer, torn between the attentions of a intense, disciplined music prodigy and a flamboyant soccer player, to Shelley Diaz at Dial, for publication Spring 2009, by Caren Johnson at Caren Johnson Literary Agency.

And REALLY finally, because it's Friday and I'm feelin' frisky, a very brief excerpt from my upcoming release, "Hardcore," my first M/M romance and part of the Phaze Fantasies III collection, due out the first week of July:

"You need to use the john?" Bonham asked him, his voice gruff but subdued. "Maybe take a shower?"

Sean shook his head. "I'm good." He slid out of his damp jacket and shivered as the cool air struck his bare arms and neck.

Bonham began rummaging around in the oversized duffel he'd carried in from the truck. A few seconds later, he came up with a fresh set of clothes. "I'll be twenty minutes or so. Then we'll see what Manuel left us to eat, and maybe start a fire."

Before he could think, Sean heard himself saying, "You're not gonna tie me up?"

Bonham shot a glance over his left shoulder. "I thought we'd save the kinky shit for when we know each other better."

"Funny. You're a real comedian for a convicted killer."

Bonham was next to him in under a second, his fingers digging into Sean's bicep. He stared up into Sean's face, his lip curled into a snarl, and said, "Watch your mouth, kid. You know nothing about me, so don't pretend you do. You won't like the results."

Sean knew he should let it drop. He knew it like he knew he wanted to feel Bonham's hands on more than his arm or his wrist. Which is probably why he said, "You mean like the Incredible Hulk? I won't like you when you're angry?"

The pupils of Bonham's eyes dilated, just like they'd done back at the bar, the first time he'd touched Sean. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Something like that, yeah." He let go of Sean's arm and stepped back. "It's an eight-mile hike to the highway. With the rain like it is, you'd drown before you made it, and that's without me chasing you down and knocking your dick in the dirt."

"And you're so sure I can't hotwire that piece of shit you parked out front?"

Bonham stepped back again, far enough to make a show of looking Sean up and down. He snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure." Then he went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Sean listened to the creak and thud of the pipes as the shower came on, and considered his options. He could make a run for it, but Bonham was right--an eight-mile hike in the dark and mud and pouring rain didn't exactly appeal to him, especially since he'd likely get lost. And he couldn't, in fact, hotwire a truck or any other kind of vehicle. So that left two choices: seduce Bonham and disarm him that way, or try to get the jump on him using good old-fashioned violence.

Everything being equal, the first option was a lot more attractive. But for all his jabber during the drive to the cabin, Sean didn't have the first clue how to handle a guy like Bonham, who was plainly a hell of a lot more complex than Paco Sanchez. He suspected Bonham wouldn't be taken in by a submissive pose and a blowjob, and Sean wasn't sure he was willing to go any further with a stranger.

Even a beautiful stranger? Even if it might save him from eventually being murdered by said beautiful stranger? Yeah, okay. That was reality here--Bonham was a killer, and he'd do well to remember it.

He heard the shower turn off and looked around the room with rising panic, searching for a weapon. There, by the fireplace. A poker. He grabbed it, positioned himself to the left of the bathroom door, and waited.

The door opened, letting out a rolling wave of steam that smelled like soap and freshly-scrubbed male. Sean watched Bonham step through the doorway and counted...one…two…thr--

He felt it all before he saw anything...mostly because he'd shut his eyes, which only proved he'd never make much of a ninja. Bonham's hand came out of nowhere, grasping his wrist and twisting until he released the poker. Bonham's body, in nothing but jeans, pressed full-length against his. The older man's wet hair dripped cold on his chest, the water seeping through his tee shirt. Sean took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked down.

"See," Bonham said, smirking up at him yet again in a way that made Sean want to bite right through that pretty lower lip, "See, now...that was a mistake."

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

Looky!

2007-06-10T08:47:00.000-04:00

I've got an essay thingy on love at first sight over at Romancing the Blog today. Check it out if you're interested.

And yes, I know they misspelled my name. It's my own fault for having such a weird name in the first place. *eyeroll*

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue

A man by any other name...

2007-06-05T15:28:00.000-04:00

...would smell as sweaty, especially after mowing the lawn.

Huh?

Sorry. Sudafed onboard.

Over at Romancing the Blog, we're talking about M/M romance and how it may or may not differ with regular, run-of-the-mill het Romance, with a capital R, and that stands for rhubarb, and that gives me hives. If you've been paying attention, you know I just finished final edits on my own very first M/M romance, (HARDCORE, part of the PHAZE Fantasies III collection, out next month) so I'm particularly interested in the discussion.

My goal in writing HARDCORE was to see if I could combine a classic romance structure (meet cute...ish, mental lusting, external conflict, internal conflict, more external conflict, black moment, climax, tender-slash-steamy denouement, happily-ever-after) with characters that think, speak, and act like actual men. You know, as opposed to the pseudo-men we see all the time in both M/M and het romance who not only analyze every passing emotion in precious detail, but then TALK about those details with an ease and articulation that no man, in the history of EVER, has talked about his emotions. EVER. EVER.

And since I'm also wicked stoned at the moment and have NO shame (zip, zilch, nada, none, and I'll probably feel really, really bad about this later) I'm just gonna go ahead and pat myself on the back, because I think I met that goal. My protags in HARDCORE are true pains in the ass as only real guys can be. Seriously. They say the GROSSEST STUFF to each other, and then laugh like it's FUNNIEST THING THEY'VE EVER HEARD....just like every guy I've ever known.

Now comes the interesting part: Will the readership for M/M romance want to read about real guys having sex and being gross with other real guys, even if it includes a strong undercurrent of solid -- if unexpressed -- emotion and all the standard romance conceits? Or will they prefer the softer, more idealized versions of men loving men, as so many seem to do when it comes to men loving women?

And how many licks DOES it take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Pop? Magic 8 Ball says...

...ask again later.

*sigh*

Cheerleaders and Church Ladies and Criminally Sadistic Dominatrixes, Oh...My...

2007-06-01T07:42:00.001-04:00

...GOD.

I don't generally do the "list of search terms for my site," if only because I hate to rip off other folks' schtick. But you'll be pleased to know that as of this morning, I reside at the top of Google's list for the term "criminal sadistic dominatrix."

My mother would be so proud. Not to mention my priest.

So with SIN STREET out, I'm fixin' to send copies for review, and doesn't THAT wrack the ol' nerves? The Smart Bitches have graciously agreed to have a peek. I'm hoping for a "C" or better, because humility is among my best traits.

FORTUNE'S FOOL has dropped as well -- don't I use the lingo with a certain je ne sais quoi? -- and I've finally finished that M/M novella I've been working on since October of last year (HARDCORE, part of the Phaze Fantasies III collection, due out in July). This leaves me at somewhat of a loose end in terms of writing. No deadlines until late summer. Guess I'll have to go on ahead and finish one of the three full-length novels sitting on my hard drive. But which one? The Medieval fairytale/fantasy with the light BDSM overtones? The contemporary romantic suspense with the young widow in love with her only-slightly-younger stepson? Or the post-apocalyptic futuristic with the twisted ménage a trois and the warped religious sensibility?

The fairytale is four years old, for God's sake, and I'll have to go back and revise it AGAIN, but it's the closest to being complete at nearly 80K words. The contemporary romantic suspense just isn't moving me at the moment, probably because I've written so much of it lately, but it's the most likely to snag an agent, or so I've been told. The futuristic -- well, that's my personal fave. That's a story I could let myself get lost inside. But it's seriously challenging, requiring tons of research for world-building, and if I REALLY want to interest an agent in the near future, it's not the most practical choice.

It's a QUANDARY, I tells ya.

What would Nora do? Probably go for the romantic suspense, huh?

But what would Paperback Writer do? I'm betting she'd tell me to go for the one that rings my bell. Because if we're not in this for the love of the story, what the hell are we doing here?

Speaking of which...I haven't commented on most of the recent romance community convulsions because I've been too busy (gasp!) writing, and because in the case of Ellora's Cave and Triskelion, I'm not involved on any level, so why should my opinion count for anything?

But in the matter of the new PAN regulations, I will say this: I didn't join RWA for a chance to sit at the cool kids' table. If I were to sell to an RWA-recognized publisher tomorrow, the chance to join PAN would be at the very bottom of My List Of Reasons To Break Out the GOOD (read: imported) Wine. Not that it makes much difference, because a) I'm not going to sell to an RWA-recc'd publisher tomorrow (by the end of the year, though? maybe, baby) and b) I've let my RWA membership lapse out of apathy and thriftiness bordering on pathology.

But if I did? And if I hadn't? Seriously, folks. Come on. Are we here to write books and make money doing it, or join clubs within clubs and play "Cheerleaders and Church Ladies" with our peers? This is the reason women will never rule the world. We, as a general thing, can't compete without making it personal, or pulling the victimization card. "But it's not FAAAIIIRRRRR!"

As I frequently tell my children -- poor little abused spawn -- life is hard. Publishing? Even harder. I understand Wal*Mart carries an excellent selection of fashion-forward helmets for just these kinds of occasions.

And because I'd prefer to end this on a positive note going into the weekend...LOOKY! The upcoming release from our favorite double-RITA finalist! Available for pre-order!

Happy weekend!

SelahMarch.com - Romance of Dubious Virtue (soon to be redesigned, blah blah blah ZOMGWTFBBQ)

Selah March

201 and I'm...outta here!

Links on the topic of Erotic Romance Writers vs. Asshats, Round Eleventy-billion-and-three.

So. Miley Cyrus. *cue rant*

More shiny!

Shiny!

Here's the thing, as my new BFF Dakota would say.

At RT no one can hear you scream.

Pittsburgh FOR THE WIN!

Off to see the wizard.

In which Selah has an epiphany right before your very eyes.

Meme. Because I'm just that lazy, oh yes I am.

Fruity!

Refugee from Laundryland.

Move along, little doggies.

Ow.

"Been nice knowin' ya," said the little pile of ashes.

Give Me Liberty (and a really nice Camembert) or Give Me Death.

Scenes from Casa de Crazypants

Deepish sorts of thinky-ness re: ATONEMENT.

Pain is weakness leaving your body.

It's *not* dead, Jim.

DAY 54: Watch her wallow.

The Book That Would Not Die: DAY 47

L is for LOSER.

My new cover makes me happy...

Subtlety, thy name is PBW.

Random

Once more, with feeling.

Jenny Crusie FOR THE WIN!

"There's a hole in the world like a great black pit...

On the banks of the River Rancid...

Zuzu's petals!

Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit.

Donning the shiny purple hat of pimpitude.

Hee!

Hit and Run.

Humpity II.

Shockingly Crass.

Google THIS.

Humpity.

A 22-caliber kind of post.

New Release: SEVEN YEAR ACHE

'Atta boy, Clarence

Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the water...

Oh, good.

PIMPAGE: "Desperate Measures" by Eva Gale

Photographic evidence.

Compare and Contrast: War of the HALLOWEENS

Don't be a Halloweenie. Enter the contest.

The perils of fan-girling editors.

Dean, you ignorant slut: SUPERNATURAL Season 3 Premiere Recap, Part II

Supernatural Premiere Ep Recap: TWoP can SUCK IT.

What if they held a blog-war and nobody came?

Dorito crumbs, queer romance on the side: ORDER UP!

Watch me be RANDOM.

Disturbing the crap outta the readership, one reviewer at a time.

Well, that sucked.

Lightning strikes.

Shiny!

Yo.

Bra-less in the Dairy Aisle: Musings on anonymity online and in real life.

Pimpery.

Surrender Dorothy

I can has a cookie??

Review: THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES

Upcoming review: THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES

My GOD, look what she's doing to that poor bird.

Mr. Eastwood is ready for his close-up.

Sssssssssssweaty goodness.

Joy in Mudville.

*crickets*

It's Thursday, and I'm still a "vanity-pubbed" author.

The more things change...

Seventy Days of Sweat: Drop and give me 400, bitch.

Heart of a Slacker, Soul of a Sloth.

New Release: Phaze Fantasies III: HARDCORE

Like a Hoover, Baby.

I Got Nothin': Part the Second

Me, with a heaping side of Me, bathed in a rich, gooey slather of Me-sauce.

So. Miley Cyrus. cue rant

It's not dead, Jim.

crickets