Archive for October, 2011

A grand old row…. for days

The muse and I had been having a knock-down, drag-out. It was over point of view, of all things, and brought Ordinary World to a screeching halt. I’m like Esteban in that the best way to get me to do anything is to goad me into it. So! The little bitch picked a fight, trying to get me to write and to make me see something clearly. Acting like a scorned lover in the process.  I’m being hard-headed and I’m not giving in. For days. So, being the twat he is, he kept singing Walk Away to me all week.


Such a diva.

I tell the husband just now that I’m blogging about fighting with the muse.

“Who is Muse?”

Bless him. I spent ten or fifteen minutes ranting about things he really knows nothing about, because he is not a writer nor even a reader, and he pretty much told me what I already knew. Just like most everyone else did. I have to rewrite the damned thing.

Which is, of course, what the MUSE said, but he went further by saying, “You’re just being lazy. You’re listening to too many people, confusing yourself with so much information and not doing what you know good and well that you need to damned do. Fix it.” Feather boa waving, with the threat of a flounce out the door.

Don’t tell the muse he was right. He’s impossible to live with as it is, damned diva bitch.


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I am eternally thankful for anyone caring enough to ask me anything about what I’m writing. I’m just not used to it happening outside my little universe that I have built up around me. Even my husband doesn’t ask me. I think he’s afraid to. It’s a brand new experience that I just have to get used to.

And I enjoy pointing out every time I fumble with something because I’m picking on myself.

*GASP* They KNOW! And they’re asking questions?! omg….

Well, yeah, you cocky dumb ass. You kinda’ talk about the shit constantly, right? What do you expect? 

I’ve been doing this for a long, long time behind closed doors and quietly. Now I’m not being so quiet about it and I find it hilarious beyond measure that I either get giddy-stupid, like when Sinead had me quoted in her blog, or go complete deer in headlights and can’t utter a word, like Saturday night.

So, please, please do not think I’m picking anyone but myself. I have to give myself a hard time just because I can.


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It’s a TRAP!

Boy, I was blindsided last night. Saved, but not really, by the husband changing the subject to Anne Rice.

I was standing in the smoking area at the local hockey arena and was suddenly asked a question! Seems at least SOME of my day-to-day, flesh and blood friends actually do read all my Facebook bullshit and know I am writing.  *gasp* What have I done?! We had been standing there talking about gods only know what, when Cheryl (I think it was Cheryl, I was so stunned I’ve forgotten) pops up with a question.

What is your book about?

I look up, Lynn is looking at me, Cheryl is looking at me, a few other faces join in. I’m like a deer in fucking headlights and ***(see below) FEEL surrounded by villagers with pitchforks. I stammer, “Vampires.”

Oh, boy. That’s all I had? *sigh*

Bobby comes to the rescue by telling everyone he thinks I’ve shot myself in the foot by picking a fight with Anne Rice. Hell, I’ve been dead in Anne’s ass since Memnoch, that cat fight is nothing new, has been raged very publicly through the internet for a decade and is eternal. But I sorta have shot myself in that anything I write now has to be good or I’m gonna look like an idiot. So, yeah. I’m being overly critical about everything I write. That conversation gives me a few minutes to think of SOMETHING to say about the subject of the book in particular. Epic fail. ***I have performance anxiety like a bitch and just could not spit anything out.

***I flat do not do well with unexpected questions out of the blue where my writing is concerned. No one should take that personally, ever. It’s the whole performance anxiety thing as well as being that I don’t discuss it on a regular basis with flesh and blood human beings that are not writers themselves. It’s almost like it’s a dirty little, NOW very public, secret of mine. I’ve always been a writer. Betcha’ that a LOT of people don’t know that because I just… don’t…. talk about it. *shhh* One writer can look at another and say, “You’re a sick bitch.” And the other will say, “I know.” And grin and move on. With non-writers that conversation goes that way not so much. *shrug* So! *shhh* It’s been a rule. Don’t talk about Fight Club.

Well, now I gotta because I’ve thrown it out there. Shit.

After we move on from Anne, I manage to say I’d been “writing” this story line for about 13 years (it’s actually been longer) and just decided it was what I needed to do. I’d finished the paralegal thing and this is a bucket list kinda thing.  Cheryl is kinda making the ‘oh’ face. Christ. What did I not do? Tell them what the book is about.

So…. here goes. At least with me sitting here typing, I’m not looking anyone in the eye and to erase any stammering, I just hit the backspace key. LOL!

An Ordinary World

Once upon a time in 1996, in the blistering heat of a New Orleans July, we find sixteen year old Lien doing his level best to get into college, and drive his father batty with his running around with his best friend, Marcel. Lien is a trip, he’s also pretty damned cute (understatement of the decade), and Tulane is his dream. He wants college, parties, friends, maybe a boyfriend.

Yes, he is GAY if you want a label! I’ve found it’s really more that supernaturals have enough different things to worry about – like fangs, claws, maybe demon summonings, definitely just staying ALIVE – than what label they put on their sexuality.

All he wants is just a normal life. (An Ordinary World, anyone?) Of course, there’s a problem with this. Lien is not human.

He’s a leopard shifter, sort of like a werewolf to explain to the non-paranormally inclined reader. He belongs to a group of leopards, a pard, that inhabits the territory around the Honey Island Swamp just outside of new Orleans. They’re pretty old school, hard core about heritage and very proud, they keep to themselves for the most part and run a fishing/shrimping company. Lien’s father is Julian. Julian is the Ra, the king, of the pard and sports a Cajun accent from Hell. Julian is not only in charge of his own territory, but he polices the unclaimed swamplands to keep the peace. Hard to do because Delacroix, the neighboring wolf pack, are a bunch of hard-ass pains in the asses that make the leopards look like the Brady Bunch. The kicker here? It’s getting close to time for Julian, who has reached his early sixties, to step down and turn the pard over to the new king. Who is Julian’s heir apparent? Not Lien.

One, that’s not how they do it; they name their successors. Two, Lien is different. Telling you how different he is would spoil the story for you, but he’s so different that some of the pard just don’t like the boy. The named successor, Fernando, being one of them.

To make the situation worse, the leopards don’t like vampires. They have a one word rule about them in their hand book beside the question on personal fraternization.

It says NO.

Back in New Orleans at a place called Luce (loo-CHAY), we have Esteban Marquez. He’s a Spanish bred vampire and over five hundred years old. Depending on his mood, he’ll say he was twenty-five or thirty when he was made. He is married to a “unique” vampire named Nita Marquez. Just the mention of her name makes his eyes roll and his temper flare.

Luce is a consortium, which means it’s a gathering place for supernaturals of all kinds. It’s a bar, a hotel, a dance club, and Vampire Council outpost. They have one in every major city across the globe. Vampires and shifters are the main visitors, but you will find faeries and demons, witches and such. And some things even I can’t put a name upon. Nefarious is a good word to describe the goings on at Luce. Esteban is Master there and serves as judge, jury and executioner when the supernaturals of New Orleans get out of hand. Without him, New Orleans would be a blood bath and the powers that be in the human government know it, so they tolerate Luce and everything that comes with it. Luce consumes all of Esteban’s time and energy, save when his wife is being a pain in his ass. (You could also equate the book’s title to Esteban, but you’ll have to read to find out why.)

And lo! Someone, in his first three years of taking the position of Master, has tried to kill him by burning Luce down around his head. You see, there is a strange connection between Esteban and his lady, Luce. One that now has Esteban wounded and the Vampire Council on his back because they think he’s too weak to hold New Orleans after all. They’re just chomping at the bit to take it away from him. Which would be BAD for Esteban in more ways than one. His wife wants to help him in a way that only she can, a way that will solve everything. He just wants her to go away, but…. for reasons he may or may not say (because I’m still editing that speech), he does not make her leave.

One thing that could help him, help that he would happily accept, is something he does not have. It’s called a One. One shifter meant only for one vampire. A bond so sacred that even the Council has laws that back their significance.

A small part of proving that Esteban, with no help from anyone, is strong enough to keep Luce is by keeping the truce he made with Julian three years ago. The truce: The leopards handle swamp business, Esteban handles city business and neither the two shall meet. It’s a pact. Leave us alone, we’ll leave you alone. We’ll cooperate if we need to, but lets just stay away from each other, m’kay? However, there is a clause that says one will without fail come to the aid of the other should they ever ask. The key word is ASK.

Never will you meet two more hard-headed men than Julian and Esteban. Throw Lien into the mix and…. oh, boy.

Can you see where this is going?

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Needless to say….

Those sentences from earlier today look very little like that anymore. Este was being a diva and not wanting to speak, so we did the one thing we know will get him talking. We started vomiting out words and Julian picked a small argument with him. Once you get to read the book, you will notice Este likes to argue. Just for giggles, this is who he’s arguing with.

I’m kidding, but I’m not. Julian has an accent that nails Justin Wilson and looks rather like him, only Julian is a bit younger. Behind that bewildering accent is one very smart, very worried cookie. And he should be worried, just not about Este.

Word count is rising again. 52, 761


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TURAC Resurrected

TURAC is The Unholy Roman Armandian Church and

We Are The Abandoned of God…..

That is what could quite possibly be the last remaining TURAC t-shirt in existence. Poor thing is so faded, the letters not so blood red anymore. I wore it the first time I met Anne Rice. That was amusing.

It usually never comes out of the closet except to go to Nola, but – after taking the pics – I’m wearing it today. Sometimes, ya just gotta.

I forget my original title in TURAC. I was Battle Mistress for a while before the big hoo-ha.

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Saturday the 14th. *muahahahahahahaha!* Ten points if you get it.

((I know what today is. Humor me, geez. I’ve been writing all freaking day and I’m hysterical.))

More often than not, I forget half the stuff I have in mind to blog about. Lists are my friends, but only if I do not lose them.  I kinda’sorta shoulda’ done this yesterday.

The year was 1994, the day was Friday October 13th, and I was gonna get to play with The Cool Kids. I was gonna join The Great Family, The Luchabar Family. Anne Rice’s arch enemies. I’m going to become… a minion.

I’m stoked.

Waiting, waiting. Check email. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Check email. Zilch. All day. All. Day.

Talk about bursting my bubble.

Instead, I was “announced” the next day. Shit happens. But that’s ok….. Saturday, October 14th. *muahahahahahahaha!* Get the ten points yet?

La Dama de las Estrellas 

Lady Astrea

Oiler of the Sacred Hinge

Heir to the Luchabar Throne

Minion to Adonia.

The title grew over the years and I really can’t remember all the things that were added to it or how to correctly spell half of it. I went through a few “marriages”, so one added title was Queen of Dark Stars, I know. The Bitch With The Axe was trademarked. *preen* My vengeance over the color pink, notorious.

It makes me happy to remember ridiculous shit like this. Really, really happy. Growing up, I had a psycho-bitch for a mother and the “big things” just never materialized much, so I learned to love the “little things”. My grandmother’s house and building temples out of stacks of pennies. Feeding my cousin dead flies. One certain doll named Mrs. Beasley, though she didn’t look a THING like Mrs. Beasley from the tv show.  We couldn’t afford a real one, so my grandmother’s friend made me a doll with her own hands.

1967 Mrs. Beasley:

MY Mrs. Beasley today:

A little worse for wear and even wearing one of MY baby dresses, but try prying that doll from my hands. If you succeed, it’ll be only because my hands are cold and dead.

To this day, you can’t take me in a toy store. Gods forbid you take me to a Halloween store. I go all weenie and giddy real quick. Usually over a little nothing ghost statue or something shiny with spinny lights. But they’re neat to me. And while seemingly “nothing” and maybe even *gasp* weird to someone else, they mean something to me.

Little things.

Some of them are admittedly ridiculous, but if they make you happy, good for you. Me remembering this anniversary 17 years later makes me happy. It’s a “little thing”. A bunch of nutcase women (for the most part) dreamed up some damned “Family” and left an indelible mark on my soul. Just like that damned doll.

So. Happy Birthday, Lady Astrea. Good to know you. Glad you stuck around.

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For the moment.

I fixed the previously broadcast hissy-fit issue and even moved on to fix a POV snafu (read: head hopping in the multiplying zombie bunny, wtf was I thinking kinda way) in chapter three. Gotta tweak chapter four because of it. Gonna’ do that tomorrow.  Gonna work on putting chapters together and adding an entirely new one tonight. That’s gonna be just lovely. Julian is in it and he has a Cajun accent from Hell.

Right now, I’m going over my sticky notes.

Apparently, one should not blog about the writing process. IMO, this is reserved for the author who should be plugging their work instead of pitching hissies. I agree that when you have a product ready to market you should stfu about pulling your hair out and promote yourself to death in the best possible, least annoying way. I don’t have any work to seriously plug yet and, ya know, my life is boring. If it’s at all interesting, I’ll let you know. Save that note until later.

Perhaps I should be spilling secrets, teasers, if only little ones, about the characters and the plot. Hm. Well, I did vomit out a thing on Facebook and then took it down. I don’t have a clue what I did with it. (Thanks, Kal) There’s been a few things here and there, and some of the current blog readers remember Este from the Cafe days, but…… Save that note for the near future because it’s almost time to do just that.

Maybe drag out Photoshop and work on a cover idea as a tease. Save that note for maybe next week when my head isn’t pounding. Halloween is coming and it might be fun to throw something out there in celebration.

Work on the perkiness. Um, no. Trash.

Get more Goody Powders. Cross that one off as done, but will someone please get the damned monkey with the baseball bat off my head?

Review publisher lists, agent lists and the self-pub options. Goes back on the wall. It makes my head hurt even worse to think about that.

I need mindless drivel. Big Easy Brides comes on at 10 EST. Awesome. Just enough time.




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