I’m over at Three Wicked Writers Plus Two today. If you want a chance to have your Blogger blog revamped, please click HERE!
I think all writers come to a point in their career, at least once, but in my case several times, where they wonder: How much further can I go in my craft? Have I reached a point I can’t seem to go beyond, and if I can’t, what happens next? Do I remain at this level and hope my stories entertain anyway?
I have just completed my first round revision of His Beautiful Wench
. In the original, Amelia and Emmett were a sweet couple who adored one another and had average sex. My editor, Jilly, asked that I expand the sex scenes—ten of them, oooh la la!—and draw the reader into Amelia and Emmett’s sexual world a little more. I wasn’t sure I could do that. I opened the edits and shook my head, convinced I couldn’t do any more than I’d already done. I wanted to cry. So I left the edits for a week, telling myself I couldn’t do it. Then I asked: Why can’t I? What’s stopping me doing this?
The answer is easy. Lack of self-confidence. I didn’t believe in myself enough.
So I began edits this Monday with a heavy heart, thinking I’d fail miserably. At first, I couldn’t push past the block that has been with me for a while with regard to certain aspects of my writing. But then something happened. I added to the sex scenes, and a new dimension appeared, a new side to Amelia and Emmett that wasn’t there before. They liked to play sex games now, and I just hadn’t realised that before. Over the past four days, I’ve gone back to each scene I added to and added some more, new shifts that surprised me and changed Amelia from a rather clinging female to an outright wanton wench! She now says things she would never have said before. Does things she would never have done. And wow, she’s now a 1800s woman who knows exactly what she wants in the bedroom and strives to get it.
All in all, I’m really pleased with the changes in this book. Even with the cuts I made later on in the story, I’ve written even more, taking the word count well over the original. I’m so pleased with how I learned to add more layers to my sex scenes and bring in more emotion. I’m excited now to apply this new knowledge to my future books.
Thank you, Jilly, for asking me to do this and for having faith, when I didn’t have any, that I could do it.
I worry whether I’m a prude. But I can’t be. I write ‘rude stuff’. So what was the deal with me the other day when I went blog hopping and happened upon a post showing male full frontals? I jumped back from the screen in shock. You know, my eyes went wide, and that silly little noise escaped, similar to the sound when you let off a little gas in public and didn’t mean to or you turn your ankle in the middle of a crowded street. You know what I mean. A strangled “Whoo!”
Yet I couldn’t resist scrolling down. For research purposes, I’ll have you know. That’s what I told myself anyway. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not against the willy. (I want to giggle because that word is just so stupid.) No, not against it at all. On this particular site the comments were many, with women apparently drooling over the various shapes and sizes and discussing amongst themselves which willy they would like in their lady gardens, which led to me leaving the blog feeling a little disturbed at my reaction. Am I abnormal to not want to gaze at all those men like that? I write about them using explicit words, for God’s sake, so what the hell was my problem? I put it down to me preferring non-visual willies, apart from my DH’s of course, and went along with the rest of my day.
Later, while out jogging with a friend, I mentioned my willy surprise. She slowed a bit as she got her phone out of her pocket. I assumed she was going to call her kids to check on them, but she said, “Oh, I have over 200 on my phone.”
“Yep, wanna see?”
“Uh, no,” I said.
“Oh, go on. There’s one I got sent today. Really weird.”
We slowed to a walk. She scrolled through her phone then thrust it in my face. Oh my bloody good God, there in front of me was a wooden willy.
“It’s wooden,” I said.
“No it isn’t. It’s this guy’s real piece. I’ve seen it on webcam.”
Now, how I didn’t faint I don’t know. This was my friend here, someone who had never talked in detail about sex much less admitted she has over 200 cocks on her phone and webcams with guys. Colour me shocked for the second time that day. Thankful I hadn’t let out that silly noise again, I smiled brightly and picked up the pace, hoping there would be no more willies for me that day.
Fate had other ideas. We see many other joggers while we’re out. One particular male gives me the bloody creeps, making me wary of every other male who passes. The Creep stares at us as he approaches and grunts when we’re level. He looks like those guys you see in the newspaper. You know the ones: WANTED! PEEPING TOM! Anyway, it wasn’t The Creep who jogged toward us but some guy we’d never seen before. Tight lycra shorts. Serious about his exercise. And as he neared, I saw he obviously only wore the shorts. As though a child had fashioned a sausage out of Playdoh, this guy’s winkle hung down his leg. Not excessively far, but enough so I could imagine the state of it if he got a little excited. I blushed at having spotted it, because really, I’m not into gawping at other men’s wotsits. He jogged closer—and his sausage expanded.
Now then. That wasn’t my idea of good scenery to jog to. Once again I let out that STUPID bloody noise and upped my pace, averting my eyes from his doodah and focusing ahead. My friend snorted—yep, she’d spotted it too—and we jogged past him as though we hadn’t noticed a damn thing.
At this point we were running down a track in the middle of nowhere, which always frightens me and, with The Creep in mind, I glanced back to make sure Playdoh Dick didn’t turn and follow us. And found him glancing back too.
Oh. My. God. My face heated like no one’s business, and I pushed myself to run faster, praying we wouldn’t see him again. It seemed my day was full of willies and I wanted no part of it. I mused that if DH came on strong when I got home, I’d run away from him screaming. There’s only so much a girl can take, and my God, I’d had enough already!
I’m excited to announce I’m now one of the five authors on Three Wicked Writers Plus Two! I’ll be blogging every Friday. Oh, I feel all giddy and silly. Please come on over!
Jonah Grey, driven by a lust for the blood of the legendary Chupacabra that murdered the woman who was to be his mate, jumps at the offer to leave the FBI and join Night Seekers, who are dedicated to hunting and killing the devil beast.
Then Jonah encounters a woman with whom he shares explosive chemistry that neither can deny—and sex that brings a level of pleasure neither has ever known. Soon he’s dividing his time and indulging in erotic bouts of orgasmic lust with Dakota.
But the devil beast must still be dealt with, and the wolf in Jonah won’t rest until the Chupacabra is dead.
Wild Irish, Book Five
Friday’s child is loving and giving…
Ewan Collins has had the hots for Natalie for years but she continually rebuffs him, supposedly because of their age difference. When Natalie comes to stay with the Collins family for a week, Ewan decides it’s time to make his move in a serious way.
Natalie’s been in a funk since celebrating another birthday alone. When Ewan proposes to help her “get a life”—seven lessons in seven days—she figures, what the hell does she have to lose? Ewan’s plans include tequila shots, fishing, karaoke…and other, more erotic hands-on demonstrations.
But Nat’s loneliness isn’t Ewan’s only obstacle. Tragedy in her past continually takes Natalie to a dark place her mind can’t easily overcome. With support, tenderness and love, Ewan plans to win over Natalie one lesson at a time.
Starting with lessons of the heart.
Sensual. Seductive. Sculptures so erotic they become a white-hot feast for the eyes.
That’s what New York art promoter Sloan Benton sees the day she discovers the talent of sculptor Dallen O’Neal. Dallen’s outrageous style gives Sloan a burning desire to learn more about him and the secret medium he’s using. He’s the sexiest, hottest, most dominant man she’s ever met and the best new talent in town, but she realizes too late that he’s also a painful, forgotten memory from her past.
Dallen O’Neal wants revenge. Sloan Benton crushed his artistic spirit. He couldn’t sculpt anything for years after her cruelty, but his desire for her never waned. When she accepts the invitation to view his work, then his challenge to strip naked for art’s sake, he discovers Sloan’s submissive side. They share wild sex and explore Sloan’s penchant for spankings. Sloan captures his heart, but he thrusts her aside, intent on vengeance.
Jealousy, sex, submission and a hint of exhibitionism mingle together, making Dallen’s need for Sloan…
White-hot and hard.