Writing Dirty Books

I know several people who write erotic romance, both straight and gay stories.  Their sex scenes are, um, let's say explicit.  Terminology is raw, with lots of oportunities to make use of it.  Nudge, nudge.

By comparison, my sex scenes are tame.  You might have to read 100 pages before you find one.  Maybe 200!  I'll tell you what happens, but the emphasis will be on their emotions.  Romance, you know?  Then again, if you're used to reading Dan Brown or Sue Grimshaw, the scenes are a bit lively.  So let's say I write sexy romance.

But that's winthin the romance writing community.  Outside of it, definitions are a bit less exact.

Scene:  I am introduced to my neighbor's adult son, who is visiting.

Neighbor:  This is our neighbor, Starr.
Me: (shaking his hand)  Hi.
Neighbor:  Starr's the one who writes the dirty books.
Me:  Well, they're not really...
Son:   Oh, you're the one!

Sigh.  I guess that's me - the one who writes dirty books. 

They Love Me, They Love Me Not

I possibly shouldn't write this.  It's arrogant and picky.  But darn it, this must happen to all authors.

My first e-novella, "Wild for the Girl," was released last month, and in three days my latest novel, "Gold Fire," will be out.  That means reviews for both are beginning to pop up on various web sites.  Nothing's better than to hear someone say they enjoyed your book, the characters were great, and the plot was fun . . . unless the way they say it is grammatically incorrect.  Painfully so, like fingers on a blackboard.  Like, my characters are "well wrote."  It grates on my useless but fairly earned English degree.

Does that mean their praise for my writing is uninformed and worthless?  (We'll ignore any criticism, because obviously that's just crazy talk.)  Does it negate all those nice things they said?

Nah.  I think it's like the way I appreciate a painting by Monet.  My knowledge of artistic technique is limited to staying inside the lines; Monet's way over my head.  But I'd still put his pictures on my wall, and reviewers who don't know a verb from a past participal will still buy my books.  So their opinions are valid.  Even if they're not well wrote.

The Difference Between Men and Women

The Set-Up:  A contractor is working in my kitchen this week.  He's listening to a John Grisham book on tape as he works, and we've discussed Grisham's books.  Also the fact that I write romance novels. 

The Scene:  I walk into the room as Grisham (on tape) recounts a sex scene.  Actually, he describes his character's confused feelings about the woman after having "done the deed."

contractor:  "See?  Grisham writes romance, too."
me (smirking) "Sex isn't the same as romance."
contractor:  "Yes, it is."

The end.

Hook Them When They're Young!

Romance comprises half of the paperback book market.  Mysteries, science fiction, fantasy, mainstream fiction, etc. - that's the other half.  Readers love romance! 

Why?  MUST YOU EVEN ASK?  What's life without love?  But in case you feel you've somehow been manipulated into liking romance stories, into expecting a muscular, dashing hero to swoop a scantily-clad heroine into his arms. . . um, maybe you have.

See any similarities?

We suck in all those malleable young minds so that years later, when they see an echo of that childhood fantasy on the bookshelf, they snatch it up without question!

(The author of this book, Cheryl Ann Smith, is a good friend of mine, so I don't think she'll mind this free advertisement.  And remember, it's the publishers who pick the covers, not the authors!)

Writing With A Reluctant Muse

Time to write my next book.  I set a trap for my missing Muse - an open Kindle with two new romantic suspense downloads, a glass of wine, and a fleece afghan.

Within minutes she fluttered over, eyeing the set-up suspiciously, then settled delicately onto the Kindle's home page.  She tiptoed across the screen and bent over to read the new titles, glowing with anticipation.  I leapt from behind the recliner and snatched her by the wings.

"#&!@%!"  She struggled, taking futile swings at the air.

"Time to go to work, lazy bones."

"Ef you!"  She spit pixie dust at me.  It drifted down to the cat sleeping on the couch.  He looked up, blinking in surprise, as if he'd just been struck by a brilliant idea.

"Save it, fairy," I told her.  "I haven't written in weeks and I'm going to need all the inspiration you've got."

"Buy a thesaurus," she said.  "And stop pinching my wings!"

"It only hurts because you're out of shape."

"I'm in prime condition!"  She arched her back in fake agony.  "Ow!  Ow!  You're killing me!  Someone help..."  She paused in mid-complaint.  "What's that?"

I dangled her in front of the computer monitor, the ultimate temptation for a Muse.  "That's my opening scene."

She squinted, then shot me a look of horrified disbelief.  "It was a dark and stormy night?  God, Ambrose, you need help."

"Like I said."

"No cliches!  How many times have I told you?"  She wiggled and made little fairy grunting noises as she scanned my desktop.  "Where's your notes?  What's the situation?"

Cautiously, I set her down.  She shook herself, scattering pixie dust, then walked with exagerated dignity to the legal pad on the desktop and began reading my notes.  I eyed the sparkling powder she'd left behind.  Brushing it into my palm, I patted it on my head.  Every little bit helps.

Meanwhile, my Muse was becoming interested.  "This sounds like romantic suspense."

"That's right."

"So she gets attacked in scene one?"

"If you say so."

"Of course she does.  Damn, Ambrose, how dumb are you?"

My Muse is rude.  She's also a sucker for a good suspense story.

"Her father just died, huh?  That's good," my Muse mused, reading my notes.  "But why are you starting at the funeral home?  A cemetery is creepier."

I typed a couple lines.  "Like that?" I asked.

She studied the monitor and tapped a finger thoughtfully on her chin.  "Make it colder.  Late fall.  And get rid of the stupid sunshine."

"Got it."  I backspaced and re-typed.

"Much better.  And the bad guy mingling with the mourners is good."  She read more, frowning.    "Where's the hero?"

"He's not here yet."

"Are you fucking kidding me?  Of course he's there.  Make it happen."

Obediently, I typed him in.

"Yes, see?  Like that."  She nodded approval.  "I like that she's suspicious of him and totally misses the bad guy."

"I have a good idea now and then."

"Not often enough.  Hey, where's that wine?"

"Later.  Write first."

She pouted.  "At least some chips, then."

"Trail mix."

She rolled her eyes.  "You are so boring, Ambrose."  She's wrong, of course, but I know better than to argue with her so I said nothing and waited.  "Okay," she fianlly said. "Let's get this thing moving.  Can we shove her into the open grave?"

"Absolutely!"  I typed, smiling.  "Welcome back, Muse."

End of Summer

My poor neglected blog!

It's been an eventful summer on the farm, mostly due to loss and near-loss.  A couple weeks ago, I lost the last of my chickens.  She let herself out and never came back - same as the one before her.  No trace left.  A Disney ending is looking more unlikely.

This means the chicken coop is now a cat house for Zoe, the little cat who bunked with the chickens.  So I dressed it up for her, going from feathers and hay to wood floors and rugs:

Zoe took one look and fled in terror.  Civilization is a frightening thing when you've lived your first ten years in a barn.  But she came back and gave it a try.  The bale of hay I added in the little room to the right probably helped sway her.

Hay for the horses - that's still a loss, but one I hope to correct this week with some outrageously expensive hay I will pick up myself an hour north of here.  The farmer hesitated when I asked if he'd ever put up that third cutting, which made me think he bought this batch at auction and is selling it to desperate horse owners like me.  I can only hope for a better growing season next year.  Global warming sucks in so many ways.

But this summer's near-loss has a happy ending - Fritz's hoof appears completely healed, to the point where my 30-year-old horse has actually broken into a canter. Several times!

Summer wasn't so bad, after all.

Fruitless

I took this picture last year, just fooling around with different shots in my back yard.

Same tree, this year.

 

No apples.  No apples on most of the apple trees in Michigan.  Reports says Michigan lost 90% of its apple crop to our late winter thaw followed by a freeze.  I never even saw the blossoms - the tender buds died before they were fully open.

 

We have 3 apples trees and a ton of crab trees of different types.  So I did a search.  In my front yard, I found the one and only crabapple of the year:

 

It's not a pretty one, either.  I'm not even sure how it formed - doesn't there have to be cross-pollination with another blossom?  If so, there must have been another blossom, and now at least one more crabapple somewhere in SE Michigan. 

 

We'll feel these repercussions for a year, and not just in higher prices for apples shipped here from someplace where Nature didn't go a bit crazy last February.  The deer and birds munch on crabapples all winter.  I don't know what will replace them.



Stupid White Guys

The day after the wholesale bulldozing of the previous post, these guys came by to "trim" the branches along the power line that runs to my and my neighbor's houses.  I let them in my pasture so they could get access to the lines, where they spent 5 1/2 hours topping trees and trimming side

branches on anything within 8 feet of the lines to save us from a power outage if a branch should fall in a storm. 

We weren't happy to see them.  They did this last year, too, along the front of our property.  It wasn't pretty; whole trees were taken down, and hacked trunks were left lying along the easement for us to take care of.  My neighbor was furious - they made specific promises about what trees would be cut and how much, then took much more when she wasn't watching.  Naturally, she asked this crew for specific details of what they would take, and let them know how unhappy she was with last year's careless workers.  One crew member assurred her it wouldn't happen again because it was most likely done by their Mexican workers, whom they'd had to "send home" because they were so inept.  They were Mexicans, right?

Oh, my.

I like to think I'm fair-minded, but I'm a passive milktoast compared to my neighbor who's a vocal opponent of any sort of inhumanity or social injustice.  The world could use hundreds more like her.  She stared at the man, speechless.  Even dum-dum's co-worker stood in awkward silence.  I wouldn't have given two cents for the guy's chances, and can only attribute his survival to the early hour and the fact that they took us by surprise with their big trucks and wood chippers.  My neighbor seethed and hyperventilated, and finally bit out a sharp response.  No, they weren't Mexicans.  They were white men.  Stupid white men.

The guy should have been embarrassed, but he wasn't.  It went right over his stupid white head.

This Land Is Your Land (and the oil companies')

A story, because I love this land.

Four houses up the road from me, someone buried something 60 years ago.  The someone was Enbridge, Inc., a Canadian based oil company.  The something was an oil pipeline.  I never knew it was there. 

Should I have known?  No one was obligated to tell me.  My neighbor who owns the property it's on knew about it, but didn't give it much thought.  Maybe we all should have.

Enbridge has the world's longest crude oil and liquid pipeline system.  (That's from Wikipedia.  But if you want an idea of how extensive the oil transportation system is, check out this map .)  They've had a lot of leaks and spills.  Like, over 800 in a recent 10 year period.  A big one in Michigan in 2010 dumped close to a million gallons of tar sands oil into the Kalamazoo River.   They should have safeguards for that, right?  They do.  Operators overrode them when they signaled a problem.  Twice.  Hmmm.

So Enbridge wants to update these pipelines.  Good idea!  That inclues the one that runs just a few thousand feet from my house.  Right over my water supply.  Sounds responsible.  They'll just "seal" off the old line and put in a new one.  But, hey, times have changed and they want to ship MORE oil around the country right beneath our feet, so let's make it twice as big as the old one.  We'll just rip out whatever's in the way, because it's called "eminent domain."  Remember that from civics class?  You thought it was just for the state or the federal government, so they could build highways and such for the common good.  Nope.  They grant that right to Big Business too.  Your land is yours - except for the part that's theirs. 

It starts like this, looking all festive with their colorful pennants.

Then they bring in the heavy equipment, like this:

 

And this:

 

Enbridge can't park on the right-of-way they're ripping up, so they park beside it.  No one will miss this big tree, right?  It turns out it's legal for them to rip out stuff that's near their easement and that they say is in their way.

 

Hey, in another sixty years you'll never know the difference.

 

So yeah, I'm a little pissed off at the wholesale destruction.  Especially since I don't know what will happen when they need to bury their pipeline here - under the wetlands - where they aren't allowed to rip stuff out willy-nilly.



 

I talked to one of the workers about it, a woman directing traffic around all the huge trucks parked along the narrow dirt road.  And I learned more than the basic facts about what her employer is doing.  It's not Enbridge, by the way, it's the company that clears the land for them.  She's a single mom who was out of work for a year during Michigan's painful recession.  She was glad to get this job so she wouldn't have to lose her house.  Like so many people, she's willing to do whatever it takes to have a job, which for her means driving 90 minutes from her home in Battle Creek to Howell, where she then gets in a company truck and drives another hour to the work site here.  After a 10 hour day, she drives an hour back to Howell, then 90 minutes back to Battle Creek.  It's a long, tiring 15-hour day, but she's glad to have the work.  And she gets Sundays off. 

 

Ironically, guess what's right in her back yard in Battle Creek?  The site of Enbridge's 2010 oil spill that closed down 35 miles of the Kalamazoo River.  And now it turns out that Enbridge is providing the job that has saved her from losing her house. 

 

Nothing is ever black and white, is it?  But I'm still sick over the carnage that was wrecked through our peaceful rural landscape today.

Silver Sparks Vacationing Without Me Again

This time my last book is boating in the warm Gulf waters off Tampa.  (No, it wasn't there for the convention.)  Silver Sparks looks good in sea-blue!