The Art of Writing the Novella

I have to admit I haven’t mastered it, but I did want to free associate a bit about writing this art form. And there’s no doubt of it, writing a satisfying novella is a challenging art to master. In a novel you can really stretch out and explore characterization, motivations and nuances. But in a novella, you’ve only got so much room to use. Everything has to be tight; no frilly extras here, no venturing off into the unexplored territory on the horizon.

It has some similarities to writing a screenplay from a novel, although the analogy isn’t entirely spot on. One of the things I find similar is that I think it takes more work on the viewer’s/reader’s part to make leaps and connections. What was eight pages of plot or foreshadowing in a book becomes a line of dialogue or a dark, significant glance in a movie. I know it’s traditional for book lovers to disparage that a movie never matches up to the book–and yes, I’m guilty of this big time–but I have a feeling if I ever attempted to write a screenplay or direct a movie that was originally a book, I might be a bit more compassionate in my judgment.

It strikes me that all the rules that are true for a novel are exponentially true for a novella. Plunge the reader into the action or conflict immediately, for instance. If it’s true for a novel, it’d be best to do the hook in the first paragraph, line or word of the novella. Write tight for a novel becomes, write like you own the last pen on earth and about an ounce of remaining ink for the short.

A good novella is clean and lean.

And then…there’s the BIG issue with characterization. How to show genuine character depth and avoid clichés and stereotypes when one is writing a short? I’m sure there are plenty of authors who, like me, have groaned in misery when they heard the criticism that the characterization was insufficient in their short. There are no limits to the complexities and nuances of human character; but yes, there are limits on my word count. The same sort of struggle occurs in a novella when it comes to building genuine emotional connection between characters.

I think Jaci Burton is quite talented in penning a novella. I’m envious of my friend Lacey Savage’s ability to write a compelling short.

What are some of your favorite novella authors? Any writers have tips on writing a lean, mean short?

I believe very strongly in appreciating the little things and not taking anything for granted. So my post today is all about my little, simple pleasures. Warm woolen mittens, whiskers on kittens, here are a few of my favorite things.

Hot soup on a cold winter’s day. I simply love winter. It’s my favorite season. I know I’m in the minority on this one, but I prefer cold weather to hot. When autumn arrives with that fresh chill in the air, I rejoice the way others do on the first warm day of spring.

The way my cat Wiggle snuggles into my arms between me and my laptop. He’s got a great purr and he always knows right when I need to hear it. He also drools, but that’s a subject for a different post.

Getting up in the morning, drinking a hot cup of coffee and watching the news. It’s a simple pleasure I enjoy.

A little space. I always have been and continue to be someone who needs time alone.

The first two long drinks of a cold coke on a hot day.

New makeup. I’m not a big shopper. I think I’m missing a girl gene because shoes and purses and clothes shopping doesn’t do much for me. I do love a new shade of lipstick or eye shadow that looks good on me, even though as a harried writer and mom I don’t wear makeup all that often.

Talking and laughing with my daughter. I think my little girl is the smartest, most interesting person I know. I adore her and five minutes in her presence makes everything that’s bad good again.

A nice cheese spread on bread warm from the oven. Yum.

Warm water. I’m a cancer. Give me warm water and room to splash and soak.

The color green. That color is a reminder to me that although everything must die, it always returns in a changed form. It’s such a fresh, lovely color. Looking at anything green makes me feel happy.

Dark chocolate and red wine, preferably together.

Market spice tea, found at Pike Place Market in Seattle, WA.

What are a few of your favorite things?

First, an announcement…

Good With His Hands by Michelle M. Pillow

For sale from Ellora’s Cave!

Photographer Teresa Kelley is on assignment to shoot old ghost towns and desert scenery. What she doesn’t anticipate is that scenery including the delicious Max Draper. The sizzling desert sun isn’t the only thing heating up the abandoned mining town when the hot, muscled and oh-so-sexy mechanic offers to give her a hand. Dusty floorboards and ghost tales aside, Teresa finds herself on the other end of the lens when she and Max are caught in flagrante delicto by an unexpected… assistant.

Since this book has to do with photographing spirits, I thought I’d share info on one of my latest research projects for Paranormal Underground Magazine.

~***~

Memento Mori: Photographing the Dead

These days when you talk about photographing the dead most people think about capturing apparitions or orbs, but in the early stages of photography the concept had an entirely different meaning. With the affordability of new photographic techniques came the practice of memento mori, “remember death”, or post-mortem photography, in which people hired photographers to photograph the corpses of their loved ones before burial. This sometimes included the remains of deceased pets. Though now seen as a macabre practice and used as otherworldly movie props in such films as The Others to build supernatural suspense, in the mid-1800’s photographing the deceased became a culturally accepted practice to help memorialize the dead and to help with the grieving process.

In 1839 portraiture became commonplace, as inventions like the daguerreotype, an early kind of photograph, made it possible for the masses to afford to have their pictures taken. The shorter exposure times made sitting for a portrait not only feasible but more practical than it had been in previous years. Hitting the height of its popularity in the mid-19th century and dwindling toward the late 1800’s, post-mortem photography persisted well into the 20th century in some Eastern European cultures. What, by today’s standards, may seem morbid was in fact a reflection of the average 19th century person’s ability to understand and deal with death. These pictures were often included on mantle places, mingled with pictures of the living, or sent to distant relatives who could not make the trip to pay their respects.

High mortality rates meant many people didn’t always have the opportunity to get their picture taken when they were alive. Every household was touched by death. According to Ancestry.com, “in the United States in 1850, the average life expectancy at birth was 38.9 years” and the “infant mortality rate in 1850 was 217.4 per 1,000 births”. It is this high mortality rate in children that accounts for the numerous post-mortem images of Victorian children. With so much death, the Victorians were more adept at dealing with the grieving process than we are today and these photographs were an important step in their process.

Earlier photographs were often close-ups of the adult’s face or full body shots of a child. Loved ones were rarely posed in a coffin. Before the advent of the funeral home, bodies were laid out in at home in a parlor, kept cool by a block of ice. It’s not so unusual then that people would want to remember their loved one in a natural setting. Often, they were laid out on a bed or couch to look as if they slept, or arranged in poses meant to mimic the living. Props, such as toys, religious items, or flowers, were added to the scene. In some cases eyes were left open or the photographs were later doctored to paint pupils over the closed eye lids and to add a rosy flush to the cheeks.

Sometimes even the living relatives were included in the photograph, posing with or, in the case of a young child, holding the deceased. Children normally were posed on a couch or crib. When they were held by a living parent, they were posed with their eyes closed. Adults were more commonly pictured sitting up in chairs, braced into place by special frames. It wasn’t until embalming practices improved after the Civil War that people could be preserved long enough to be photographed inside their coffins, which were made to order and not readily available the day of death. By the time corpses were photographed in coffins, less effort was made to make them appear more lifelike.

Other variations of the post-mortem included mourners holding a photo of the deceased, family members photographed by a shrine dedicated to the passed loved one including a photo from the deceased’s life, or the funeral goers surrounding the open coffin. Today, the post-mortem photograph is more of a strange curiosity to be wondered at and collected. One of the largest collections in the United States is kept by the Burns Archive at www.burnsarchive.com. Other web sources include Paul Frecker at www.paulfrecker.com and at The Thanatos http://thanatos.net. All three of these sites show a tasteful representation of the subject and are not gory.

~***~

I just found out that my first audio book is to release next month! Last Man on Earth, 3/29/2010!

Hi everyone,

I normally consider myself a very patient person.  I don’t mind waiting for a lot of things.  I don’t mind waiting in line, I don’t mind waiting at a red light, and I don’t even mind waiting on hold all that much.

However, waiting to hear back from someone who is reading your work is agonizing.  I can’t figure out why.

We wait so often in this game called publishing.  At first we wait with our hearts in our throats for the reaction of that special person we trust to read our early writing efforts.  You can’t seem to breathe right, your palms sweat.  What if they don’t like it?  Am I kidding myself that I can do this?  What if it’s nothing but junk?  Minutes can feel like eons waiting for that first response.

That is a terrible wait.  Oh, but the joy doesn’t end there.  Eventually we branch out.  Then we wait for comments on fan fiction forums validating our ability to tell a story.  We hit refresh like it’s the trigger on a slot machine and hunger for a new response.

Then we wait for critique partners, beta readers and mentors.  We wait for feedback that will help hone our stories, illuminate the concepts we just can’t seem to get a firm grasp on.  We wait for contests, first we wait for the feedback, then we wait for victory and that chance we’ve been waiting for all along, a read from an agent or editor.

Oh, and let’s go ahead and ponder the agony of that wait.  That’s when dreams really do seem to hang in the balance, and during the whole time you wait, you wonder, “Is this it?  Will this be my break?”

Then you get the call, but the waiting doesn’t end there.  You wait for revision letters, hoping you didn’t let your editor down. You wait for cover art, hoping your cover will make you sing from the mountaintops, not wallow in a tub of chocolate frozen custard.  You wait for reviews, hoping against all hope that you won’t be cut down at the knees when you’re struggling so hard to keep climbing.

You wait for new contracts, new chances.

But most of all you wait for readers, wait for the day someone lets you know the liked what you wrote, and hope you write more.

That makes all the waiting worth it.

I’d like to thank the readers of Paranormal Romance for making Beyond the Rain a Pearl finalist.  I am so honored I’m speechless.  I’m in awe of the other finalists, Susan Grant, Linnea Sinclair, and Catherine Asaro, women I have admired for years.  The wait to see who wins isn’t going to be hard, because I already feel I’ve been blessed.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Jess Granger

So Anton had a release yesterday, book three in his urban fantasy series. When I first heard about his book coming out, I was like, DAMMIT, he’s doing psychometry! Why couldn’t I be first with this? And I was quite annoyed that I had near two-year wait before my book came out, because it meant he got the jump on me. But then I came to realize there’s plenty of room for all because look how many dang vampires there are running around book world. We’re fine with two psychometrists. Maybe I’ll even write some cross-world fan fic about Corine making out with Simon, but I won’t show anyone because that would be dirty and wrong.

To prove my good will, I’m pimping his hero, Simon Canderous (being partly named after the best KotOR character, he had to be awesome. And he is!) Without futher ado, here are his sexy books.

Don’t you want them? Yes, you do! But first, enjoy this quickie interview with Anton himself.

1) If you had only bacon, bread and peanut butter in the house, what would you make for dinner?

My love of bacon is well evidenced by my fantasy writer physique. For my recipe, I would roll the bread to form a ball around a core of peanut butter. I would then wrap a slice of bacon around it and fry the whole thing. The fat of the bacon would help crisp up the bread and it would be delicious. In theory, anyway. I might also just eat bacon out of a weaved bowl of bacon that I make.

2) If Simon Canderous were a pair of shoes, what would they be, and why?

Doc Marten’s, the mid height ones. Dependable, utilitarian, and great for kicking ass. Also, resistant to lycanthrope fur and brains wipe off them without discoloring the leather.

3) Do you ever dream about zombies? Why or why not?

As a long time fan of the Resident Evil games (hence using the last name Wesker in my series), I’ve been plagued by them. Lately I’ve been having more of them, but that’s due to sitting down with my friends for some co-op in Left 4 Dead, which mixes up slow and fast zombies, which adds a whole new level of terror. For the record, I am a bigger fan of slow zombies. They seem comical at first, all slow and shambling, but they never tire and eventually they WILL get you. Zombies represent the slow march of the inevitability towards death. Fun right? Remind me why I play these games. Whee!

4) How did you get to be so awesome? Was it a gradual development or did you come into your awesomeness all at once?

I’m like one of the X-Men when it comes to my mutant awesome powers. Like many of the students at Xavier’s, my powers awakened once I hit puberty, and after a quick but awkward phase, I blossomed into the awesomeness that is Anton. Anyone who knew me from my childhood and disputes this, is full of lies! Lies, I tell you! Please note that it is no coincidence that you too are awesome. There may be a correlation that involves the fact that both our names start with ‘An”…. [Interviewer's note: I think he's onto something here.]

5) What do you want readers to glean from your books, if anything?

There are hidden messages in the book that I desperately want people to tune into. Unfortunately, they are subliminal messages, instructing readers to run out to the stores with an insatiable desire to buy all three books, a set a week, over and over.

Actually, the real message is to have fun. I want people to be entertained. If there is a message, though, it probably is that it’s much harder to be good than evil. I find writing about characters who struggle to do good fascinating. Plus, it’s delicious fun torturing those goodie-two-shoes.

So now you know Anton a little better. Actually, probably not, since my interview questions are dumb, but I never claimed to be Barbara Walters. Hopefully you laughed a little, and even if you didn’t, you’ll never get those two minutes back. I’m so sorry.

Moving on! I know you’re really about the loot, so I’ll be giving away TWO FULL SETS of the Simon Canderous books. That’s two lucky winners who can glom Anton in one long, sweaty orgy of weekend reading. (You did process the last part of that sentence, right? I am in no shape or form promising Anton’s services in any capacity.)

To enter, you post a comment answering this question:

If someone with the gift of psychometry read your most cherished belonging through psychometry (that’s getting information by touching an object), what would they learn about you? And game on!

Contest ends Friday. Void where prohibited. Open to people who live in any country Book Depository ships to. Yes, I like you and think you’re pretty. Do not taunt happy fun ball.

ETA: WINNERS! Jackie U & Theresa! Email ann.aguirre at gmail.com with your full names & addresses to collect your prizes.

The sequel to The Ghost and The Goth, tentatively titled Princess Poltergeist, is finished! I sent it in to my editor today.

Whew. I feel this huge sense of relief, but also a weird feeling of loss, too. That book has been living in my head for just short of a year, and while I’m glad it’s finished (at least until edits come in), I also kind of miss it.

Writing, I think, is all about choices. Which story to tell with these characters? You can use many of the same elements and come out with a completely different book. Sometimes that is what I struggle with the most–what story am I telling?

I think about all of that while I’m driving, doing laundry, walking the dogs, waiting in line, etc.

And for this book, those choices are done, which is a strange sensation.

I need to start something new and soon! Fortunately for me, there’s a third book still ahead.

In the meantime, though, I’m turning my focus to promoting The Ghost and the Goth, which will be coming out in July. So…in light of that, what kind of contests do you like? I’m looking for ideas. And I will have a couple of ARCs to giveaway when the time gets closer! Not to mention some prizes and other promo items.  :)

There’s so much to love about writing, but my favorite part is plotting. It’s the dreaming and world-building in my quiet office that brings me satisfaction. I like to move story ideas around, then move them around again. Pick, move, tear, replace, dream.

Recently, I sent a six-book series idea to my editor. I don’t know why six brothers came to mind. I’d written twelve brothers before in the Jefferson Brothers series. And I’d recently watched SEVEN BRIDES FOR SEVEN BROTHERS. Maybe that was lying around in the creative flotsam in my brain. No one knows how the writer brain works. It’s just go, go, gadget go, or something.

And so I began like this:

DR. DREAMBOAT AND HIS TWIN DARLINGS

Chapter One

Jonas Jones didn’t believe in magic. Nor did he believe in pushy old beloved aunts trying to rule from the grave, as Aunt Fiona obviously thought she would.

“You’re suggesting that your time is running out,” Jonas said to his aunt as she held court in the massive library at Rancho Diablo in New Mexico. His five brothers lounged around the room in various states of stubbled beards and dirty jeans, fresh from working the ranch. They were trying to help her out while on their Christmas vacations, though God alone knew that if anybody did not need help, it was their cagey aunt.

“I am seventy-nine,” Fiona said. “Please speak to me with respect. You make me sound as reliable as a bedside clock.”

“You’ve just told us that you’re leaving Rancho Diablo to one of us based on a dream you had,” Jonas said, electing himself, as the eldest, as spokesman for the brothers. “We’re more interested in your health than in your will, Aunt Fiona.”

“Oh, poppycock.” She sniffed, put out with him. No doubt she thought he was trying to mollify her, coddle her along and get into her good graces. It annoyed him. He was a successful surgeon. He didn’t need her ranch. In fact, he didn’t want Rancho Diablo. He made his home in Texas, in a cozy little area inside Dallas. Why would he want to give all that up to come work his butt off at Rancho Diablo?

“You want Rancho Diablo because it was your father’s,” Fiona said. “Let’s be honest about our motivations.”

If that wasn’t calling the kettle black.

“Aunt Fiona, I speak for all of us—” he indicated his lounging brothers who were only too content to allow him to beard the celestial-minded, determined aunt in her den—”when I say that we don’t believe in dreamscapes, incantations, voodoo, or rubbing the venerated bellies of mystical bunnies dating from the time of Lewis Carroll. So my motivation is simple. I came back to Rancho Diablo to visit you for Christmas because I love you, as much as you seem inclined to look for an ulterior motive. And that was it.”

Murmurs of assent rose from his brothers, though other than that, they seemed content to allow him to chart the course. His aunt gave him a disapproving sour look. She was a tiny woman, a bundle of petite dynamite in a navy blue wool dress. Her only concession to the bitter cold was what she called her bird boots—knee-high, lugged soles, fur-lined. White hair was pulled severely back from her face in an elegant updo she called a bird’s nest. It did have the same sort of peculiar order of a mourning dove’s nest, but it was attractive. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on the diminutive aunt, which made people at first meeting assume she was fragile.

She was not.

“Nevertheless,” she said, her eyes bright behind her glasses, “I am following my dream.”

“You do that.” Jonas stoked the fire. He wondered if it were be easier on his aunt if he had gas-lit logs installed in the seven fireplaces throughout the huge ranch house, decided she’d resist the implication that she couldn’t take care of her home herself.

“Since Jonas doesn’t care about his stake in Rancho Diablo, that leaves it to the rest of you to see which of you will take over the ranch. When I’m gone, naturally. Which might be any day now.” She held a tissue to her nose. “This is the third cold I’ve had this month. My immune system is so weak.”

Jonas straightened. “You said nothing about feeling weak.”

“Not that you would care, Doctor.” She rubbed her glasses clean and replaced them on her doll-like nose. “Burke, please bring the brandy. We are all in need of a bit of fortification. Except Jonas, who is always generously above the fray.”

Her lifelong butler went to do her bidding. Jonas sighed and sat down on the leather sofa where he had a premier seat to stare out the window at the frozen landscape. “I’ll take the damn brandy,” he said as Burke offered him a snifter. Right now, he could use a stiff one.

“The terms of the deal—which have also been written into my revised will–are thusly. The first of you who gets married to a suitable woman, has a family, and settles down, will then inherit Rancho Diablo. You may not sell the land or house, of course, without all six of you being in agreement. That is what was revealed to me in a dream.”

“When was this dream?” Judah asked.

Jonas was glad to hear one of his cowardly brothers speak up. He relaxed a little. Surely the rest of them could see that there were as many holes in this plan as swiss cheese. Honestly, what was to stop all of them from running out, hiring a woman to fake a marriage and perhaps a pregnancy, and then cashing in? He swallowed, not wanting to think about his little aunt turning up daisies. She was his favorite relative, the only parent they’d ever known, really.

“It wasn’t so much a dream, it was more a premonition,” Fiona said. “It occurred when I talked to a nice lady at the traveling carnival in October.”

Creed sat up. “Traveling carnival?”

“That’s right. She was standing outside her tent. There was a sign on it that said Madame Vivant’s Fortunetelling. Now, I don’t believe in those sorts of things, but several of the ladies from the Books’n'Bingo Society decided it sounded like fun. So we went in.”

Jonas heard his brother, Rafferty, groan. He agreed with the sentiment. Was their adorable, feisty aunt beginning to show the start of some affliction that would affect her mental capacity? His blood ran cold at the thought.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve invited her here tonight. Burke, please show Madame Vivant into the library.”

Jonas felt his jaw drop. The woman who walked in was a sight for sore masculine eyes. He could smell enticing perfume, hear the jingle of tiny charms she wore on silver bracelets. No more than five feet two, he judged, Madame Vivant was a delightful babe of about twenty-five—he’d bet the whole “dream” was a ruse for her to get hitched to one of them. Madame Fortuneteller his ass—more like Madame Shakedown Artist.–end

And so on, and so forth. It was a rough draft, but it was a start.  I obsessed over it for a while, then moved on.  I needed six titles, which would hopefully entice my editor and prospective readers. It’s always taken me days to hit on decent titles. Some get kept, some don’t. Went through several series name ideas, finally settling on Rancho Diablo after playing with several others. All the titles, the name of the series, even the characters, are all subject to change many times–if it ever gets out of the plotting phase and onto an editor’s desk, there’ll be more change. It’s the part where the mud gets cleaned out and you search for the clarity of crystal-clean story to the best of your abiility. Still having fun at this point.

Once I had all that somewhat under control, I decided I didn’t like the order of the brothers, and needed to change it all around. Ripping of hair ensued. Remember, plotting is my favorite part of the process! I promise it is.

The final stage is when I decide I hate it all, it’s too stupid for words. The reviewers will make bonfires out of it, the readers will bury the books in the backyard where nothing will grow for the next sixty years because the earth has been poisoned by the foulness of my writing. Once I reach the stage of despair and self-inflicted doubt, I have hit my personal flashpoint.

There’s nothing that can be done at this point. I have to send it to my agent and my editor, and let them decide whether or not it will get voted off of Publishing Island.

Now I’m not having fun anymore. If I picked the shoe on the gameboard, I wish I’d picked the top hat, so to speak. My least favorite part of writing–and probably every other writer’s least fave part–is the wait. Anything can happen at this treacherous point on the path to publication. The only thing that can be done–at least for me–is to occupy myself plotting another story. Or two or three, depending on the time of year and how much an editor has on her prodigous plate. Nobody likes the wait, but there’s no point wearing out your incisors and all your friends, so you turn the channel and focus on something else.  The really with-it writers probably take a break and make friends, organize their offices, shave their legs, etc., during their waits, but not me.  I belong to the Nervous School Of Writers, and so off to a fresh Page One I go.

Just about the time I think I’m going to go mad, I may never write another book because I can’t stand the not-knowing–I’ve sunk all my heart and soul into the project, and it’s just kind of, well, making me nuts not to know–the call or email finally comes.

And it’s either yes, no, or maybe, which happens in any job. And this one you can do with no makeup on, if you want to. You can write with your pets in the room, if you like. My Golden retriever loves to bounce my hand furiously as I write, and it’s a race to see how much I can get typed before he bumps me again. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and if he does it long enough, my hand will slide off the keyboard onto his head and ears, and then his belly, because he knows I’m a sucker for a needy, stinky dog.

And then after I’ve celebrated a new contract with the pet, or cried into his fur if it’s a no, thank you (the dog is really zen about tears but not so much about loud, vigorous celebrating), it’s back to plotting, which is my favorite part of writing, anyway.

I promise.

Comment for a chance to win a $10 Amazon e-cert! A lucky winner will be randomly chosen Sunday night!

Tina Leonard is celebrating recently selling the above proposal, and contracting for her fiftieth project. She is looking forward to her new six-book series, CALLAHAN COWBOYS, as well as a 2011 Christmas novella. DR. DREAMBOAT AND HIS TWIN DARLINGS has been changed to PETE’S THREE DAUGHTERS, tentatively scheduled for May 2011. You can find out more about Tina at www.tinaleonard.com, read her monthly Leonard Light column at www.freshfiction.com, or say hi to Tina on Twitter.

Just finished INSIDE OUT and have the end of book brain slump (not pretty, but at least my house is a lot cleaner and I manage to make real meals and stuff for the brood) So I saw some fabulous excerpts and thought, why not an excerpt from INSATIABLE?

PHANTOM CORPS: INSATIABLE by LAUREN DANE
Copyright 2010, Lauren Dane
All Rights Reserved, The Berkley Publishing Group
Releasing July 6

“Daniel.” She poked him. “Wake up.”

“Why?” he mumbled.

“Three hours are up.”

“No. I had another short dream. I had time left.” He rolled to sit up, and the cold air got under the blankets.

“I don’t think so. Maybe time moves differently in your ’Verse. But here we use chronos. Mine says our three hours have passed.”

He got out of bed, grabbing his pants and pulling them on.

“And even if you did have a short time left, you needn’t be so cross.”

“I have a very good internal chrono.” He went to wash his face and noted his skin had gone very pale and his hair very dark. After the pills kicked in, his eyes had gone from green to brown. He added a scar on his neck, leading up to his ear.

She barged around the corner to continue pestering him. “You’re a pain in the—” Her eyes widened. “You’re very good at this disguise part of the job. I should cut my hair, don’t you think?”

His gut cramped at the thought. “It’s very beautiful,” he said before he could say something sane and professional. “I mean, you’d still be beautiful with short hair and—”

She put two fingers over his lips and froze, before moving her hand away. Then she pressed her mouth to his. He hadn’t expected it, but he couldn’t step away either.

Her lips were sweet, sweet as the kiss was. A soft exploration of his mouth with hers. At first. It wasn’t so much innocent as it was unexpected. It snared him, much like her taste had. She was warm against him, relaxed, obviously trusting him more than any rational woman should have. His blood surged with need for her, with want, demand for more.

He fisted his hands to keep from hauling her against him, from stroking the elegant curve of her spine down to her ass. A groan bubbled from deep within his gut at the memory of the fantasy he’d had the day before. She sighed, taking it into herself.

It was when she stepped closer, her fingers digging into the front of his shirt, molding herself to his body and her tongue sliding into his mouth, that he finally found his sanity about a meter from where all the blood in his body had gathered.

“Seven hells,” he gusted as he set her back from him, holding her upper arms firmly. “That can’t happen again.” Her mouth called to him, those luscious lips just so slightly swollen.

“Why?” She licked her lips, and he groaned.

“Stop that. Carina, this is a bad idea.”

A smile played on her lips as she realized the extent of her power. Gods, he was in trouble now.

“Why? Really? You kissed me back. You’re attracted to me. I can see it. I can taste it.” She pressed fingers to her lips, and he struggled to breathe.

“You’re my cargo. You have something that could save the lives of millions. You’re . . . I bet you’re untouched, aren’t you?” He forged on without an answer. “I’m not. I’m not a nice man. I kill people. All the time. You need a nice man. A gentle man who can give you the life you were bred for.”

She waved a hand as she turned. He took advantage of her distraction and headed back out toward the main room.

“Where are you going? I need your help with my hair,” she called out.

“Tell me when to come back there.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair, standing it on end.

“Now. Gods, did your mother drop you on your head a lot as a child?”

“You’re pretty mouthy,” he mumbled as he headed around the corner and found her in little more than sheer underclothes. “Hey!” He turned his back. “You’re naked. I said when you were ready.”

“You’ll get hair in my clothes and it will itch. Cut it short.” She handed him shears as he turned back around and tried in vain not to look at the shadow of dark pink nipples against the pale material.

“Are you sure about this?” He sifted fingers through it, so long and soft. Beautiful and feminine. “If you braid it, you can tuck it into a watch cap, and no one will know the difference. Women of all ranks have long hair. You don’t have to cut it.”

She turned, so close she brushed against him. “Women of all classes have short hair, too. Do you like it?” Tossing her head, pale burnt-sugar hair tumbled around her shoulders.

The scent of her choked him in the best kind of way. This chemistry between them was so very delicious, even if he knew anything else between them was totally impossible.

“It’s lovely. It’s up to you.” He tried to step back, but he was boxed in, and she knew it.

“I am a virgin, you know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have desires.” She leaned in, brushing her cheek against his chest. His cock ached, the pulse as he got harder and harder was an angry throb. “I do. Have desires, that is. I’ve never had the opportunity to express them and certainly not with anyone like you. There’s no one quite like you, Daniel.”

“You’d do well to remember that, Carina.” He pointed to the stuff he’d left on a ledge near the basin. “You’re my sister again. We’ll call you Carrie, and I am Neil. We’re itinerant workers, looking to get on with the grain shipments. Do you know anything about wheat? It’s a crop brought from Earth, and I know it’s grown out here. We’re from Suerte.”

He managed to step neatly away once she’d turned to look. “I always wanted blue eyes.” She began to plait her hair into two long braids as she spoke. “I’ll keep it long for now. And I’m very well aware that there’s no one like you. This isn’t over.”

She wanted to laugh when he scurried from the room. An altogether new sort of power surged through her veins. Her allure as a woman wasn’t new, not really. But this sort of romantic chase, the sensual dance they did as he pretended to resist her, was something she’d never imagined, and it was thrilling.

If she had to risk her life, leave her family behind and hare off into new territory with a man like him, she planned to enjoy every moment of it.

After Laura Bradford made me an offer of representation in January, the women of this blog welcomed me into the fold with open arms and a lot of warmth. We share a discussion thread, and mostly that means that I eavesdrop on these talented ladies as they share industry tips and wealth of knowledge earned on the battlefield of publishing. I feel very lucky to be with them in the trenches, and I look forward to getting to know them better.

Now, on to my teaser. I’m not yet published, but I thought it would be great to give you a taste of my writing with the opening of my young adult novel, Touched. Remy comes from an abusive home, but she can heal people with her touch. When her father takes custody of her, she must deal with living with his new family in a new town. Enter Asher Blackwell, a boy with powers of his own. The secrets these two keep from each other could kill them both.

Okay. This is going to hurt like hell.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room, my movements piercing the alcoholic haze insulating Dean. He straightened to his full six foot three when he noticed me, his eye twitching when I stared back unblinking. Maybe he suspected I was a freak and it scared him. Maybe he was scared of himself, of what he wanted from me. I figured that’s why he mostly hit my mother when I wasn’t around.

Unknotting my hands from white knuckled fists, I hoped to diffuse the tension before it exploded.

“You’re home early,” he said, his heavy-lidded stare straying over me without meeting my eyes.

Tall and plain, I was skinny with no curves, but that didn’t matter. My skin crawled when his pale blue eyes tracked me through a room. I went out of my way to stay away when he was alone in the apartment, but sometimes he managed to corner me in the shadows of our dim hallway. Sick in ways I couldn’t cure, he’d crowd me with his hulking body and laugh when I’d lurch away to avoid his touch.

The funny thing was that Dean looked like the grown version of that charming, innocent boy all the girls crushed on in high school. He had soft, blonde curls and a friendly, open face that charmed the unaware. Perhaps that’s what had attracted Anna to him in the first place.

“Maybe I should call ahead next time?” I mused. “That way you could plan to finish beating my mother by 9:05, I can arrange to have the ambulance here by 9:10, and we can all be in bed by midnight.”

My flat voice held no sarcasm, only bitter resignation. Dean’s hands tightened into fists that could feel like steel. I’d stayed too long, trying to protect my mother, but Anna loved Dean more than anything. More than me. Dean loved how my father’s child support checks kept him drinking down to the worm at the bottom of his tequila bottles.

He stepped closer. “Gonna stop me, princess?”

My indifferent act never fooled him. After seeing Anna’s unconscious body on the floor, I wished I could kill him. I shuddered in anticipation of the brutality to come and the moment I would touch Anna. Never taking my eyes from him, I slid sideways to keep the threadbare couch and scarred coffee table between us. Anna moaned, and Dean’s gaze flicked to her, his lip curled in disgust.

“You think you’re a man because you beat up women?” I taunted to distract him.

His smile raised the hair on my arms. It was a smile of warning – a smile to predict the weather by because hell was sure to rain down on its recipient. “You think you’re better than me, kid, but you’re gonna respect me.” He whipped his belt from the loops of his dirty jeans. The buckle glinted in the light when he wrapped the black leather around his fist – a bright, shiny weapon.

Hate speared through me, along with paralyzing fear. Better to make him angry, I decided. Then, maybe, it would end faster. I sneered while sidling closer to Anna.

“Respect you? You’re barely human. A pathetic coward. You want to hit me, don’t you, Dean? Go ahead.”

I’d never ridiculed hi before and, within two feet of Anna’s limp body, my courage faltered. Stupid, Stupid. He’ll kill us both. At least the ghoulish waiting game would be over. He’d come close enough to touch me when I whispered, “I dare you to try.”

He charged and pulled back his arm to hit me as I stepped in front of Anna. His fist landed in my stomach, and I tripped over her. My head bounced off the wall with a dull thud. Dean’s hand clamped around my throat, stalling my fall to the ground as he pinned me, and I inhaled the stale mix of sweat and tobacco wafting from him. Cutting off my breath, he smiled and squeezed his fingers until the pain weakened my knees.

Anna rolled at my feet and screamed, “No!” She jumped on Dean, trying to drag him off me, her red fingernails biting into his forearm. Desperate for air, I clamped one hand on his arm and clutched my mother with the other.

My eyes squeezed shut. I’m dying, I thought. Then my ability to think fractured. The mental wall barricading my power collapsed and, without the defense, Anna’s pain thundered through me, allowing me to see inside her body. I noted two broken ribs, a concussion, black eye, and bruises scattered all over her body. Dots of color popped against my closed lids in a spectacular fireworks show. My lungs constricted, and I embraced Anna’s aches, healing them and grafting her pain to my own.

Dean’s grip loosened as he stumbled beneath Anna’s attack, and he yanked her hair to toss her away. She sobbed, and the storm inside me doubled and tripled in size. I had failed to protect her. Filled with rage, I imagined all my pain striking Dean down like fiery lightning.

Violent red light sizzled between my hand and his arm. His face froze in horror as his body jerked and convulsed. A loud crack splintered the air – his ribs breaking or mine – and I passed out.

Some advice I recently received from my agent/goddess was that I need to shed my skin and go running in the rain. She meant mentally, of course, but it’s probably sage advice for anyone. I’m a bit out of shape but I love an adventure, so I’m going to do this with an edge. I’m going to wear expensive heels, and okay, I will be wearing one of those lacy Victoria Secret see-through bra/thong sets because sexy is good. I’ll need a new name. Remember, I’m gorgeous, fit, seen only by moonbeams, and you are, too, because you’re in this fantasy world with me.
So let’s start running!

NIGHTSPELLS
By Iris Sperry

The spell awakened me, beginning its nightly torture.
Tensing, I held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut, clenching my thighs tightly together, desperate to fight it off. The dark shadow slid over me as I lay on my stomach, my head barely settled on my pillow. I could feel lazy darkness stroke my body, a lover’s palm skimming my buttocks and the curve of my spine possessively. Enchanted fingers touched my breasts, teasing my nipples with familiarity, though I tried to squirm away. It is impossible to escape the torture chamber of one’s dreams, and the insomnia of a determined curse.
The darkness sent its smoothness down my body, licking the curve of my bottom cheeks with warmth and subtle intent. I moaned, beginning to need the heat, the sure seduction of my body. I wanted more, was being driven mad by what was just beyond my reach. My thighs seemed to relax and part of their own accord, but it was my own frantic wish for release that made me open myself to the magic. Languid, purposeful circling of my most private area pulled a cry from me that only my pillow heard; warm, wet juices spilled from me. Desire shifted to deep need; I cried out, begging my shadow lover for release.
And just as I begged, I heard my lover’s satisfied chuckle. He departed, leaving me gasping against the sheets, now clammy with the urgent needs of my body. Wracked by desire so sharp it had no end, I had no choice but to sink my fingers into myself to free my body from its prison. The climax I sought shattered me, drawing an agonized cry from my soul.  And then though I slept, I wasn’t at peace.
* * *
I went to the Chamber of Mercury for the assigned summit, groggy from interrupted sleep. My sleep patterns had been completely ruined for the past three months, ever since Marisa, my chief rival, had lobbed her spell at me. I’d consulted wizards and shamans to free myself, had tried any number of sleep potions to make me sleep the sleep of the dead. My lover was too thorough, the spell too deadly. It was a cruel spell, and Marisa had planned it well. I felt like my mind was no longer my most valuable asset in the world in which we fought.
There would be a day when I would sleep again, free of a lover who turned me to shivering, pleading jelly. It was a certain vow I made myself. Gulping hot coffee, I took a seat in the wide, stadium-seated Chamber.
“Hi.”
Sula, a fellow fighter, slid into the space next to me, plopping a bagel down on the glass desk top. “Cinnamon raisin.”
“Thanks.” I did appreciate the gesture. I just wasn’t certain I could eat. My body was being driven into a state of deprivation from which it never fully recovered.
“You have to eat, Eden. You look like you haven’t had a meal—”
I waved away her words. I knew I looked like hell. The mirror told me that every day. It was part of Marisa’s plan to wear me down, psychically and physically. “I’ll eat. I promise.”
Sula didn’t look convinced, but she wouldn’t press her point, either. She was too good a friend to heap more guilt on me. I was—had been—a top warrior for Mercury.
I would regain my razor-sharp focus and strength.
“You know they’re going to quarantine you,” Sula said.
It wasn’t a warning, just a fact of what we both knew. When wizards and renowned healers can’t fix your problem, the powers-that-be have to protect the kingdom. I’d considered the possibility that I was suffering from a deliberate infectious process. Yet our compound was a secure zone. Whatever was happening to me couldn’t be allowed to put other fighters at risk; there was no way of knowing what my body might be being used for.
I’d been allowed time to heal, and though I continued to tell the higher-ups that I was fine, the strain of the insidious attack showed on my face. I shrugged, though the dread of quarantine sent shivers of ice through me. “I’ll get lots of reading done.”
Sula was silent. I knew what she was thinking. Containment wasn’t a comfy enclosed pod with a pillow and blanket and meal service. The last fighter who’d had to be quarantined had been entombed in a rock and hurled into space, to orbit until recall.
Which could be hundreds of years of solitary time.
“Has the party started without me?”
Xhen slid in to my left. He was practically my brother, though I could still admire his hard strength. There was no other fighter like Xhen, in my opinion. The three of us had always made a formidable, unbreakable team.
But I’d crossed paths with evil, and in our world, the guys in the white hats didn’t always win.

Wanna win a $10 Amazon e-cert?  One lucky commenter will win–winner chosen on Sunday night!  Happy weekend to all!  Iris