Writers write, that’s what we do. Find out why and how in this new Blog Hop for 2014:
I’d like to thank Jami Denise for tagging me on Friday in her blog.
Check out Jami’s writing. Her Jayne series rocks!
It’s fascinating to read about how other writers approach their art, and I’m so excited to invite you into the world of my own process! With this blog hop, I’ll be answering the same four questions as prior participants. Here’s my gist:
1)What am I working on right now?
Here’s a teaser for Message to New York and an introduction to the main characters:
She scrubbed the dishes in silent musing, alight on her thoughts and wistful in her unawareness when Maxim stopped her hands in the sink, spinning her around with a sloshing of bubbles. He pushed her silk-seamed nylon clad legs against the white wooden surface with his shins, and placed his hands on the countertop on either side of her.
Ginny’s breath escaped her with his name floating in it. “Max . . .”
Bending and running his nose along her ear, he murmured, “We can’t do this.”
“I know.” She turned her head away from him, glancing about with the awareness of a lark to make certain they were alone and no hawks lurked.
“Then why don’t you stop me?” he asked, uncaring whether they were alone or not. “You pulled me in when you should’ve pushed me away. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, settling her eyes on him when none had happened upon them. “I wanted to feel something. To feel human again.”
“And that’s all I am?” he questioned, leaning back with a frown marring his face and hurt tarnishing his thick baritone voice. “I make you feel human? Shouldn’t I make you feel less than that, Your Royal Aryan Highness?”
She slapped his face before realizing she’d lifted her hand. “You’re a terrible ass sometimes, Maxim Schneider. Why don’t you go in there with Miriam and the other Juden if you feel so strongly against my intentions. I don’t owe you any—”
“You do owe me, Elsa,” he declared in a surging promise centimeters from her lips. “You’ve awoken a warrior in me who won’t let someone—anyone—tear this new piece of my world away. I’m driven to destroy those barbarians because I want to prove to you that I have it in me.”
Her heart stuttered and slowed and sped and swirled—a million emotions at once. “I’m not a damsel in distress whom you have to rescue and ward off dragons for.”
“The Nazis are a dragon.”
“Ja, but you’re no knight in shining armor, Herr Schneider,” she declared, allowing her voice to raise enough so he’d understand the full implication of what she said. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of on my own. You want to be a warrior and prove something to me? Prove to me that you’ve kept your humanity in tact. Read to me again. Show me the depth of knowledge you possess, and that, Max, is how you defeat dragons.”
Ginny walked away, leaving him standing in the kitchen and leaning against the counter. If he wanted to wage war on the will of the Germans, he’d have to grasp the fact that she’d be leading the battle; it wouldn’t be won with swords and spears, but with an unsurpassed desire for betterment.
“Mmm,” I moaned as I ground my pussy harder against him. God, he was good. Even my dirtiest teenage fantasy could not hold a candle to the real thing. But fuck all the make-believe. He wanted me now.
“Shit,” he cried out. Suddenly, I found myself on my back as he took the upper hand, hovering above me and slamming into my body. “Fuck, Wini . . . I’ve waited so long to do this to you.”
My writhing stilled. What?
“What do you mean?” I asked, pulled from the carnality of the moment by his shocking confession.
“I’ve wanted you for years.” His reply came through gritted teeth. He’s . . . what? No. No. No! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I was here to take what I wanted—what I couldn’t have back then. I was the seducer now, and he was my toy. He wasn’t allowed to have desired me before and was certainly not allowed to speak of it if he had. He’d had so many opportunities back then. This was all for me.
I used my force to roll us back over. When he was underneath me again, I pressed as hard as I could against him, forcing my hips down to meet his. The tightness was forming deep in my belly, readying itself for explosion. A teenage girl’s fantasy of making love with a boy she craved would be translated into a woman fucking and climaxing and squeezing around the gorgeous man’s cock—taking.
Tony reached down to where our bodies met, touching my wet flesh as it swallowed his body, and rubbed my swollen clit. Fireworks exploded around me. It was unlike any orgasm I’d ever experienced, and it was far better than my vibrator had ever produced. Perhaps it had been the years of pent-up sexual frustration, or maybe my natural attraction to him, but this climax was phenomenal.
I was vaguely aware of my name leaving his lips over and over again as he spilled into the condom. We stilled, slowly coming down from the euphoria and bliss.
Gingerly, I climbed off his relaxed body, and he whimpered at the loss of contact with my warmth. I was nearly lost to the orgasmic haze, but I forced myself to focus on the task at hand—getting the hell out of his room. Scooting off the bed, I bent to gather my clothes. My suit was wrinkled but wearable, and my right shoe was halfway under the bed.
“Wini? Please . . .” he mumbled, trailing off incoherently and reaching out for me. “Stay. Please?” I glanced down at him. His eyes fluttered closed and his extended hand dropped to the bed.
I rolled my eyes. Men. So tired after sex. At least it helped make the escape a bit easier. Quickly and quietly, I exited the room, marching down the long hallway and as far away from him as possible. It wasn’t a walk of shame, but of triumph. I’d won the battle.
The summary from Sanctum Prime, book one in the Ravage Trilogy:
Raine James grew up in an period of prosperity. The United States had entered an era of peace that lasted for twenty years. After resurfacing from a devastating deficit at the beginning of the 21st century, the country has been experiencing a golden age. But, when the first female President is elected and she decides to take on Wall Street and the corporate tycoons, a large organization of conservative militia decides the time has come to overthrow the presiding liberal government.
From the first shots fired in a Texas courtroom, to the assassination of the President, America changes irrevocably.
Raine’s parents gather her and her little brother and make a midnight escape into the mountains above the city of Boulder, Colorado. For several months, they hunt and fish in the wilderness as they witness the battles below. Continually, they make their way deeper into the backcountry.
When more refugees happen upon them, a community of dissidents is formed. One of these refugees is Grayson Brádach, the son of her father’s closest advisor. Raine and Grayson discover the need for companionship, though Raine refuses to fall in love with him, convinced that they won’t live much longer. When Raine discovers a secret at the most inopportune time, will she change her mind and let herself fall into his strength?
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
A great question that may be impossible to answer. I think the telling piece is that I’ve become a “genre buster” as my dearest friend, Kimberly, calls it.
I have an obsession with angst; perhaps it’s an enchantment – a possession by the demons of the foreboding and trepidatious world of writing pain and suffering. I even hold an Angst workshop – Angst: 101 – for aspiring writers and authors alike to develop their characters and their characters’ emotional traumas/worries/fears/stresses/depression.
I’m the Queen of Angst, or so I’ve been told, and I cherish the title.
Will there be a coronation, I wonder?
3) Why do I write what I do?
Now, don’t take my debut novella, which is a completely different genre than I associate with, as my style or “what” I really write. It was written for the love of writing, for the love of sex, and for the fun it brought into my life.
My true writing – the words that make worlds spin – is heavily influenced by writers like Plath, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and this lovely little lady we like to call Honeybee. All of these listed here were/are masters of words, and I am happy to find pieces of myself in them.
Literary fiction calls to me like nothing ever has before. It allows for a deepening growth for characters I haven’t seen in other genres, but also provides for wondrous plot development. I write what I do because, as Plath said, “…there is a voice within me that will not be still.”
There’s a deep love of history bred and born into me from a strong family heritage of nationalism and ancestral knowledge, and I have a fixation with the early 20th century in particular.
4)How does my writing process work?
What a fantastical question.
- My process begins with an idea – usually beginning with a song (for example, Hello LAlaland was inspired by the songs “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and “Love The Way You Lie” by Eminem and Rihanna; Message to New York was inspired by “Savior” by Ally Rhodes and “Mad World” by Gary Jules [not the Tears for Fears version]; The Ravage Trilogy was inspired by “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons).
- I move from my wild imagination into a world of strange names and interesting faces. I like to know whom I’m writing before I put a face on them. I’ll create their basic features, generally, OR I’ll flip in a completely different direction and write a dramatic scene with them before I even know what they look like, feel like, taste like.
- Character personalities MUST evolve. The most basic drafts rarely see good character(s), and that’s because characters are beautiful creatures – fetuses in a womb of your pen and fingers and paper – who develop and grow over time. Characters are like ogres (I know some of you just read “orgies” . . . naughty people, you), and as Shrek said, “Ogres are like onions.” I often claim I’m adding layers to my character’s literary onion; instead of peeling and chopping them, I’m the soil and water they’re growing in.
- Putting words to paper or typing on a computer is rarely the daunting part. Hell, in the past two weeks, I’ve written over 30,000 words, doubling the length of my manuscript. However, if you don’t force yourself to do it each day, be it 100 words or 10,000, you’ll never get anywhere. As I always say, “Words don’t write themselves, and masterpieces seldom fall from the sky.” At times, I’ll write dialogue between characters to give them a voice before I create the bigger of context of what they’re speaking about. It can be a great catalyst for furthering your story.
- Writing a novel is like labor.
It’s always a great idea to have a writing partner and a pre-reader, as well as an editor at your beck and call.
For me, Eryn LaPlant, is the one holding my leg as I’m on the delivery table, screaming at me to “Push!” as I get the masterpiece out of myself. Morbid, right? Welcome to my angst.
Kimberly, my dearest twinsie is my brainstorm partner and my co-parent for these beautiful writings. She’s had as much a part in this creation as I have.
And there’s Honeybee, of course, my birthing coach, reminding me of the beautiful creature that will be born when I make it all it can be. Or maybe she’s the DNA helix, helping the words build from plain to spectacular.
- Editing: Once that bloody, fluid-covered, goopy first draft is out and your fingers are cramped from squeezing so hard, the best part comes. The skin to skin contact of your newborn manuscript, nuzzling your breast as you nourish and provide for its growth. Edit ruthlessly, however. Cut words as though they were sharp little fingernails, and pack fat on that baby manuscript so it can survive the winter of publishing criticisms.
You’ve created something new, something spectacular and beautiful. Cherish every moment of your majesty. Not everybody can create what you’ve done. You. Are. A. Superhero.
Well, I hope that was equally as informative as it was nauseatingly angsty (I’m sorry, I can’t contain the disturbing world inside me).
May your writing be as beautiful and perfect as the world in your head.
Be sure to check out the writers next week. I’ve tagged five amazing writers to find out what they have to say about the same questions!
These are very talented and creative goddesses.
Give them some love!
Hello to the world! I am Eryn LaPlant, a former slave for the working world and presently a woman of many trades. I am a wife, a mother, an antiques collector, a painter, a baker, a gardener, a photographer, a historian and my favorite by far a novelist (well except the first two in my list)! I feel like I have a lot to talk about and hopefully I can keep an interested following. Thanks for checking me out!
I have been enamored with the written word since I first learned how to put sentences together. As a child, Creative Writing was my favorite part of the day at school. There was nothing better than dreaming up imaginary worlds for the characters I’d come up with. In the years since then, I’ve gotten a Bachelor’s Degree in English with a double concentration in Literary Criticism and Creative Writing, which I did little with until I started writing derivative adult fiction in 2009. Now I’m finally an author, soon to be published with Samhain in January 2015. I’m also an avid reader, a caffeine addict and incessant gym-rat. I live in New York with my husband and a cat with a very unusual foot fetish.
Aspiring author of romance and suspense, working on my first novel. Avid reader, ocean lover, daydreamer. Wine, cake, coffee, books, in no particular order.
Fangirl loves tutus and pink hair.
Sad boys with guitars and little feminists with taped up fingers. Bad words and good food. Things that sparkle and things that don’t. Righteous Emo Cowboys and closet lesbians. Tart lemons and Jaw Porn. Liquored up jello and fan fiction. The ocean, even though it terrifies the fuck out of her and remembering the perfect song lyric and the perfect, poignant moment.
She hates your shitty tattoo, and assholes.
I began exploring my love for writing as a child, when I started penning original poetry.
However, it wasn’t until early 2012 that I picked up a pen to write my first full length story, inspired by a close friend’s evolving relationship with her best friend.
I like reading things that are on the sexier side. So that’s what I try to write, too.
At the end of the day, I guess you can say I’m a daydreamer and a word mixologist hoping to serve my readers up stories they can enjoy.
Born in New York, raised in Florida, and matured in Massachusetts, I consider myself a bit of an East Coast baby without limitations on a specific region. At the moment, however, I reside in Florida with my family.