Saturday, December 31, 2011

New Year - Old Year and Everything in Between

Yesterday, when LRC announced the nominees for the 2011 Awards, I thought I was prepared, because the moderator had sent a note earlier in the week, informing me that Ty Hard was included. I'd had several days to put on my game face, plus I was traveling, so I wasn't able to see the announcements live, as they were posted. 

Then I saw the lists:

2011 Best GBLT Book Nominees

Damon Suede - Hot Head
Laura Harner - Ty Hard
SJD Peterson- Quinn's Need
Margie Church - Hard as Teak
Amber Kell-Trials of Tam
TJ Klune-Bear, Otter & The Kid
Patricia Logan-Captive Lover
Brannan Black-Wolfman 4: Salvation
Laura Tolomei-Re-Scue
RJ Scott-Texas Winter
DC Juris-Orion's Way
LA Witt-Ex Equals
Cat Grant- Once a Marine

Best Cover of 2011 Nominees

Damon Suede-Hot Head
Laura Harner-Ty Hard
Andrew Grey: Work Me Out
Cherise Sinclair: Club Shadowlands 6: To Command and Collar
SJD Peterson-Quinn's Need
Silvia Violet-Paws on Me (Serve & Protect)
Serena Yates-Convincing Landon
Carol Lynne-Sunset Ridge
Desiree Holt-Bite the bullet
Johnny Miles-Learning to Samba
GA Hauser-Down and Dirty
Sandy Sullivan-Two for the price of one
Cari Quinn-Unwrapped
Lee Brazil-Loving Jacob
Sherrilyn Kenyon-No Mercy
JD Robb-New York to Dallas
Lacey Alexander-Hot for Santa
Ally Blue-Convergence
Damon Suede-Grown Men

This qualifies right up there with the other holy shit moments of my life!

I certainly wasn't very articulate about my name on the list with some of my own favorite authors - mostly because seeing my name there leaves feeling an intense need to apologize. (You when you walk into the wrong bathroom. Awkward.) So please, let me take a moment to rectify my deplorable manners.

Thank you Dawn Roberto, Love Romances Cafe, and all the LRC loop members. The nominations for GLBT Book of the Year and Cover of the Year are the perfect final cap on a banner year. These are two more milestones on the road to becoming an author. I am honored and humbled to be considered and included with this list of authors and artists. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

2011 was a truly amazing year for me. I started the year with two published books through Cobblestone Press, and a New Year's resolution or goal of finding an agent or publisher for Highland Shift before the end of the year.

I ended up on a  very different path. I formed my own publishing company, fought to get paid for the books I sold through my former publisher, and formed lasting friendships and partnerships with some amazing writers and one very special artist and writer.

My world is a better place because of knowing so very many of you, but especially Dan Skinner, Lisa Worrall, Mercy Celeste, and Liz Crowe. I look forward to growing our relationships in 2012.

So here's the 2011 published list:

Forbidden Love
Highland Shift
Honey House
Ty Hard

The 2012 list includes a mix of LE Harner and Laura Harner books, including MMF, MM, and MF, plus a new MM vampire series and a MM Gothic novel. There are also plenty of your old favorites:

  • Highland Pull, Book 2 in the Highland Destiny Series (March, 2012)
  • Highland Push, Book 3 in the Highland Destiny Series(October, 2012)
  • Redemption, Book 4 in the Three's Allowed Series (February, 2012)
  • Book 5 in the Three's Allowed Series (September, 2012)
  • Hold Tight, Book 2 in the Willow Springs Ranch Series
  • Taking Chance, Book 3 in the Willow Springs Ranch Series
  • Shades of Blue, Book Two in the KC Carmichael Series (May, 2012)

And a couple completely new series that I will blog about this week:

  • Continental Divide, a MM international detective series with the fabulous Lisa Worrall (February, 2012)
  • Deep Blues Goodbye, a MM series about a reluctant vampire (January, 2012)
And one more- an epic project, that promises to be like nothing you've ever seen before.

There will be a few more surprises along the way, too. 

I look forward to spending 2012 with you, and I thank each and everyone of you for reading, for chatting, and most of all, for being my friend. 


PS- this year's goal is to make writing my full time job. I'll let you know as soon as that happens!

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Unshakeable FaithUnshakeable Faith by Lisa Worrall
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I loved this book! Brody and Nash grow on each other, and the reader like a smoldering fire fanned to flames. And not just once.... This books takes the reader on an emotional roller coaster that is as hot and steamy as a summer afternoon in Texas. The characters are richly drawn, with every emotion ringing true, Unshakeable Faith tells the story of finding true love and the lengths one man will go to in order to bring that love back home - even when everything and everyone tells him it is a lost cause. A lovely story - bring tissues...

View all my reviews


Of all the bars in all the towns in all the world, the stranger walks into Brody Tyler’s. With no memory and a name he chose from a newspaper, Nash is a gamble—one Brody is willing to take. It isn’t long before Brody and Nash fall in love, but then a tragic accident shatters their cozy world, resetting Nash’s memory once again.

The “new” Nash Walker is a businessman with a bottom line, and he doesn’t care what or who gets stomped on. Waking up in a hospital bed after a hit-and-run with no idea where he’s been for the past six months is bad enough, but someone trying to kill him is even worse. Enter Brody Tyler, accidental bodyguard.

Brody’s determined to help Nash remember and bring back the man he loves. Nash thinks Brody’s a drop-dead gorgeous pain in the ass. If only he could remember….

BRODY turned the glass over in his hand and held it up to the light, checking for smudges before rubbing them away with the clean bar towel. He smiled as he glanced around the empty bar—hisbar. Brody had practically grown up on the stool behind the bar. Tyler’s had been his grandfather’s place and his great-grandfather’s before that, and where he’d spent most of his summers. When he was a little boy, his pappy had let him put the peanuts into the little dishes for the tables. Then, as the years passed, he was given a cloth and allowed to clean the tables, then the bar and, finally, he graduated to a summer job mixing cocktails and opening beer bottles. “Money ain’t worth nothing if you ain’t worked for it, Brody. You remember that,” Pappy said time and time again in his harsh, Texan bark. “Just because you come from money, son, doesn’t mean you don’t have to earn your own.” 

Brody knew he was fortunate to have grown up in one of the wealthiest families in San Antonio, but Pappy’s words had struck a chord with him, and he’d never coasted through life on his parents’ shirttails. He’d decided against taking the easy route and stepping into a tailor-made role at the successful Tyler home-improvement chain, instead working his way through college and grad school to pursue his love of architecture.

He’d only been out of grad school for three weeks, the ink on his degree barely dry, when his grandfather had been diagnosed with cancer. Spending hours by Pappy’s bedside, they’d shared memories, Brody had read To Kill a Mockingbird to him, and more often than not, they just sat in silence, each garnering the comfort they needed from the other’s presence. During one of those long days, Pappy had told Brody he was leaving the bar to him, but that he wanted him to sell the place and use the money to set up his own firm. 

Ten days later he held Pappy’s hand as he took his final breath, and after they’d buried him beside Grams, Brody had left the wake at his parents’ house. He’d had no idea where he was going—maybe his subconscious had been guiding him, maybe it was Pappy himself, he didn’t know—but he found himself standing outside Tyler’s, the key in his numb fingers. 

Inside, gazing around the empty room, inhaling the familiar smells and assaulted by a myriad of memories, Brody knew he could never part with it. He’d taken off his black suit jacket, picked up a bar towel and a glass… and he was still doing the same thing six years later. Not many twenty-seven-year-olds had their own successful business, and he knew how lucky he was. He’d already had a large clientele of regulars, and after some modernization, word of mouth had made it one of the most popular bars in town. It might not have been the life he’d envisaged, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

Stacking glasses on the shelf behind him, he glanced up at the mirror when he heard the bell indicating the arrival of a customer. Unable to contain the breath that escaped his lips or the sudden speeding up of his heartbeat, his gaze tracked the man’s path to the bar. 

The stranger looked to be about the same age as him, and probably around six feet tall. But it wasn’t his height and age that had Brody’s cock twitching in his pants. The guy was basically the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, man or woman. Putting the last glass on the shelf, Brody picked up the towel and began to rub down the sleek wood of the bar top. He failed dismally in his effort not to stare as the man settled himself on a stool, and cursed inwardly at the press of his wayward dick against the denim of his jeans when the man ran a shaking hand through short, light-brown hair, causing his tight T-shirt to cling to the muscles of his lean chest.

For God’s sake, snap out of it, Brody! He threw the towel over his shoulder and pushed his chocolate-colored bangs out of his eyes. Could you be any more obvious? Stop drooling over the poor guy and go serve him. Brody squared his shoulders, grabbed a beer mat, and walked toward the end of the bar, hoping desperately that the butterflies flapping up a storm in his stomach weren’t about to fly out of his mouth. 

“Hey,” he said brightly, slapping the beer mat down on the bar in front of Tall and Gorgeous. “What can I get you?”

Brody’s stomach hit his shoes when the stranger lifted his gaze and he looked into the prettiest green eyes. No, not green, too ordinary. They were the deep sea-green of a stormy ocean, splattered with gold flecks and rimmed with long dark lashes, and he would have been more than happy to spend the rest of his life gazing into them. Yeah, thank you, Oprah—just get him a drink!

Green-eyes scanned the array of alcohol on the shelves behind Brody and shrugged. “I’m not sure.” 

Brody’s brow furrowed at the weight of those words, as if it had taken an incredible effort to voice them. When the man glanced at the rows of beer and then back at him, Brody was sure his heart actually skipped a beat at the innate sadness in his eyes. “Hey.” He reached out without thinking and placed his hand over Green-eyes’ hand where it lay on the bar. “Are you okay?” His breath caught in his throat at the well of tears in the gaze that flitted to his and then away.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Brody glanced at the clock on the wall and made an executive decision. You’re the boss, dumbass, every decision you make is executive. Ignoring his inner voice, he tossed the bar towel into the basket beneath the bar, grabbed two bottles of beer from the shelf, put one down in front of the stranger, and smiled reassuringly. 

“Here you go,” he said softly. “You look like you need someone to talk to. And who better than your friendly bartender? I’m a good listener, honest. You have to be or they won’t let you into bartending school.” He felt something warm unfurl in his gut when the man’s lips twitched. “Listen, I’ve got a couple of hours before this place starts filling up, so what do you say I turn over the closed sign and we chew the fat for a while?” He held up his right hand as if to swear an oath. “I promise I’m not an axe murderer, and they assure me the insanity has skipped a generation.”

Brody waited as Green-eyes seemed to weigh up the suggestion for a few moments and then nodded. Brody’s smile grew wider and he strode across the room to turn the sign on the door, flick up the lock, and pull down the blind. He noted the way Green-eyes nervously studied the label on the bottle of beer, and frowned in concern when the man started as Brody sat on the stool next to him. 

Picking up the second beer, he took a long draw before turning on the stool to face the other man. “Hi, I’m Brody, Brody Tyler, the owner.” He held out his hand and his gaze snapped up when long fingers folded around his and he felt a sharp shock of static pass between them. Judging by the man’s intake of breath, he’d felt it too. Clearing his throat, Brody tried not to drop the hand he held as though it were a hot potato and raised an eyebrow in question. “And you are?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I don’t remember,” Green-eyes replied in a tired voice. “I have no idea who I am.”

HALF an hour later Brody sat opposite him in one of the booths against the wall, both of them drinking their second beer. Brody had listened, his gaze widening more and more, while the other man gave him the condensed version of his last three months. Told him how he’d been found in an alley with a knife in his side and a fractured skull. His face so badly beaten that it had taken a couple of months for the swelling to go down and the bruising to fade, and for him to even resemble a human being. 

Brody sipped on his beer as the soft Texas drawl explained how he’d woken up in the hospital after surgery, scared and alone, with no idea who he was. There’d been no wallet or driver’s license in the suit jacket he’d been wearing, so the police assumed he was a victim of a brutal mugging—the wrong place at the wrong time. They were unable to find anyone fitting his description on their database, and had put his picture on the local news station, but no one came forward to claim him. 

“I woke up in that hospital and I’d never been so terrified in my entire life,” he said on a smile. “Or at least I don’t think I had—how would I know? Maybe I wake up in the hospital all the time.” His lips lifted in a wry smile. “Sorry, thinking about this can kind of make you go a little crazy.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine how terrible this must have been for you,” Brody said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t remember a single thing? You’ve not had any flashes, you know….” He shrugged, aware he was babbling but unable to stop himself. “Feelings of déjà vu?”

“Well there are two things I know for certain,” he replied. “I don’t like Jell-O, in any flavor, but I dolike beer.” He smiled and took another sip from his bottle.

Brody laughed boisterously and chinked their bottles together before downing the remainder in his own. “What about a name?” Brody voiced one of the many thoughts racing around his brain. “Surely they had to call you something for the last three months?” 

Green-eyes shrugged. “They called me Paul—one of the nurses who took care of me, Anna, came up with it—but I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right, you know what I mean?”

“How come they let you out if you still can’t remember who you are? Did they say if you’d ever remember anything?” There was something about the man in front of him that made Brody want to wrap him up and keep him safe. He couldn’t explain it. Never had he felt such an instant connection with a guy. Sighing, he mentally shook his head. Jesus, Brody, you don’t even know if he’s gay. Hell, he probably doesn’t even know if he’s gay. He watched from beneath lowered lashes as the other man drank the rest of his beer before answering, and heat uncurled in his lower belly as those beautiful, full lips closed around the lip of the bottle. 

Shit. I am so screwed

Noting the suddenly nervous way his gaze flitted from Brody’s face to where his fingers were picking at the label on the now-empty bottle, Brody reached out and placed a hand over the scratching fingers, stilling their movement. “What? What happened?”

“They had no reason to keep me. I mean, I’m healed, just not up here.” He tapped his forehead and his lip curled up derisively. “They have no idea if I’ll ever get my memory back. They said I might wake up one morning and remember everything, or it could be gone forever. But two days ago—” he paused and looked around as if he were making sure they were still alone, “—I was in the john down the hall from my room, when I heard the doctor and two nurses talking about me. They said they couldn’t give me the prolonged care I needed and they should refer me to a ‘specialist’ rehabilitation center,” he said, using finger quotes.

“A specialist rehabilitation center?” Brody asked, suddenly realizing that he still held the man’s fingers in his own. He withdrew his hand as casually as he could and leaned back against the cushion.

“That set off alarm bells in my head. They were going to send me to some nut house and I… I couldn’t let them.” His tear-filled gaze locked with Brody’s. “I’m not crazy. I just forgot a few things, like my name, where I’m from, and anything to do with, oh, I don’t know, forever. But I’m not crazy, so….” He dropped his gaze again.

“So?” Brody prompted.

“I stole the guy in the next room’s clothes and some money out of his wallet,” Green-eyes said on a rush of breath. “I wrote down his name and address, and I’m going to pay him back, honest. Then I snuck out. That was the day before yesterday.”

“Jesus.” Brody drew out the word, feeling that the moment warranted it. “Wait.” He frowned as his brain caught up. “The day before yesterday? Where did you sleep last night?”

Green-eyes blushed and muttered, “In an alley. I didn’t have a choice.” He groaned at the incredulous look on Brody’s face. “I didn’t have enough money for a motel. I washed up in the bus station bathroom this morning. What’s so funny?” 

“I was just thinking. You’re not a very good thief. Couldn’t you have stolen a wallet with a credit card in it?” Brody chuckled softly as Green-eyes’s lips twitched in response to the tease.

“He only had fifteen dollars, so I left him five. I think it’s safe to say that whoever I was, it wasn’t a criminal mastermind.” Green-eyes smiled and put his hands flat on the table as if to push himself to standing. “Well, thanks for the beer, Brody, and the shoulder. But I think I’ve taken up enough of your time. I guess I should be going.”

“Where?” Brody asked, his eyebrows rising so high they disappeared beneath his bangs. “To another alley? Or a shelter where they’ll take what’s left of your ten dollars?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” 

Brody checked the clock; he was going to have to unlock the door soon. Willow and Kristie, his cocktail waitresses, would be arriving any minute. Thoughts bounced around his head like a pinball as he stared at the man opposite him. He had no idea what the hell he was doing, but one thing kept flashing in his head like a neon sign: Don’t let him leave! The thought of this lonely, scared man going out alone into a world he no longer knew had anxiety sending a shot of acid up Brody’s gullet. He wanted to help him—no, needed to help him. In his mind’s eye, Brody suddenly saw him huddled against a wall, desperately trying to fight off degenerates who were trying to steal his clothes, or worse—his virtue. His virtue, Tyler? He didn’t have time to reply to his subconscious as he reached out and grabbed the other man’s arm, pulling to make him sit back down.

“Wait! This is totally crazy, but….” Brody took a deep breath. “I’m guessing you need a job, and a place to stay, right?” He waited for Green-eyes’ nod before continuing. “Well, I need another bartender. I had to kick our last one to the curb a few weeks ago and I’m struggling up there by myself. You won’t get rich, but your meals are included, and—” he swallowed hard, knowing he was going to get an earful from Wyatt for what he was going to say next, “—I live above the bar and I have a spare room. It’s yours if you want it.”

Green-eyes stared at him in disbelief. “Brody, you don’t know me. Good God, I don’t even know me. How do you know I’m not an axe murderer? I can’t, it’s too much—”

Keeping his voice soft and low, Brody gazed into the other man’s eyes. “I know it sounds nuts, and you’re right. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But I tend to go with my gut, and I think you’re a good guy who’s had an awful thing happen to him. Besides.” He tilted his head and unleashed his dimples. “My Momma would kill me if I didn’t help you out.”

Brody watched a whole gamut of emotions cross Green-eyes’ face as he deliberated the offer. He understood his apprehension, how could he not? The guy had no idea who he was, where he belonged, whether there was anybody missing him. Then a complete stranger offers him a job and a place to stay as if it’s no big deal. Everything for this man was a big deal right now, he surmised. Everything must be so confusing in a world he suddenly didn’t belong in. Jesus, he was wondering what in the hell he was doing himself; he could only wonder at what must be going through the other man’s head. Keeping his face as impassive as he could, Brody sat back and let the other man think it through in silence. 

“Okay,” he eventually said, his lips curving into a smile. “We must both be nuts, but okay, yes.”

“Great.” Brody smiled, fighting the urge to fist-pump the air and do the Snoopy dance on one of the tabletops. “But before we do anything else, we have to find you a name you actually like.” When Green-eyes raised his eyebrows in answer, for the first time Brody noticed the smattering of freckles across his nose that were, quite frankly, fucking adorable. Pushing himself out of the booth, he strode across the room and grabbed the newspaper out of the rack on the wall. “Here, find yourself a new name,” he said, tossing it to him with a grin. His grin widened as the other man opened the newspaper, and he walked across the room to pull up the blind, turn back the sign, and unlock the door. 

“That’s it! That’s the one!”

Brody tried to catch the glass he was holding as it slipped from his fingers at Green-eyes’ shout. Stepping back to avoid the shards of glass flying across the floor, he looked up as the other man waved the newspaper at him as he crossed the room. “I take it you’ve found one,” he said on a chuckle, grabbing the dustpan. 

“Oh, shit, sorry.”

“It’s a bar, glasses get broken all the time, don’t worry about it,” Brody reassured, quickly sweeping up the glass and throwing it in the trash can. He looked into eyes that, for the first time, glowed with something other than fear and despair—excitement and hope. As he had done when Green-eyes had walked into the bar, Brody grinned. “Hi, I’m Brody.”

Strong fingers clasped Brody’s tightly and pumped his hand up and down, a huge smile lighting up the beautiful face. “Hi, Brody. Good to meet you, I’m Nash.”

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Making a Molehill out of a Mountain

A week ago the gay fiction world had a different landscape. The authors of gay fiction could generally be categorized: L/G/B/T/Q/S/M/F with the S standing for straight.
Then we had the names: female/male/ambiguous (gender neutral or initials).
And finally, we had real name versus pen names. For those of you who think you know where I’m going with this, I ask that you please keep reading. I may surprise you.

A week ago I thought the biggest challenge of our genre was fighting the stereo type that women weren’t qualified to write MM erotica. Then a blogger pulled one of the writers out of the pen name closet, and I discovered something far uglier lurking under our pretty covers.

In 1959, a Caucasian journalist named John Howard Griffin underwent supervised medical treatment to turn his skin brown, and traveled through the Deep South as an unemployed Black man. He kept a journal of his experiences, and a few years later the book, Black Like Me, was published. It was an extraordinary account of his six-week journey into a world of white-only bathrooms, segregated lunchrooms, and where lynchings still occurred with disturbing regularity.

His book was a raw, often terrifying look at the world of a Black man at a time when America was still struggling to come to terms with the idea that separate was not equal and six years before the passage of the Civil Rights Act. The disturbing pace of change is fodder for another blog. Today, we are talking specifically about the world of gay fiction, particularly gay romance and erotica.  

More than thirty years after I first read Black Like Me, there are still lessons to be learned. Griffin came as close as any White man could to understanding what life was like for a Southern Black man in the late 1950s, yet no matter how dark his skin, no matter how terrifying his experiences, Griffin was still a White man. When his journalistic assignment was completed, he would shed his adopted identity and return to a world of White privilege. The reality of his race could not be completely erased in the name of journalistic integrity. This is not a criticism, by any means, merely an observation of the true difficulty of actually walking in another’s shoes.

It would have been completely inappropriate for Griffin to emerge from his “Black Like Me,” experience and offer advice “as a Black man.” Just as it is inappropriate for any author, other than a gay male, to offer advice or an opinion as a gay male. Period. Some rules are complicated, this one is not.

If you think all the rage and bitterness aimed at the outed author is about the right to use a pen name or gender identity – you aren’t paying attention. In the case of this week’s outed author, the false identity grew far beyond the cover of a book. Grew until the author was considered by many to be a subject matter expert on the gay male experience, and as such offered advice, reviewed gay fiction, and critiqued other authors in the genre.

There would still have been backlash if we had been talking about a onetime gender-bending experience and the author emerged with a story of “Gay Like Me” to tell – but this was not that story.

Drawing once more from Griffin, it’s clear he targeted his investigation to the volatile south for a reason. This was where the Black experience was the most volatile, most intense, most dangerous. It wasn’t chance that the Civil Rights movement grew from the fertile soil of discontent and deep prejudice.

It is safe to assume that the primary audience for Black Like Me, wasn’t the Black men living in the Deep South, who were all too aware of the reality of their existence. No, this was a book for the majority, a look into a world that was unimaginable, and would soon become untenable. However, the subsequent articles and the book also spoke to other Blacks living in different parts of the country, to people of all races, spoke to people of compassion and to people of hate. And therein lies my final lesson from this book.

This past week, women and straight males been publicly challenged by gay males who are questioning both their qualifications and their right to write MM fiction. I unequivocally believe that only a gay male has the right to speak as a gay male. Actually, I can’t even believe such an obvious statement needs to be made. However, I don’t believe that only gay males can speak effectively about the gay experience. Nor do I think we need over-analyze what many of us write.

Whether the reader is a gay man or a straight woman or any combination listed at the beginning of this post, it’s likely he or she is interested in being entertained and possibly enlightened by our genre. Some readers will take comfort in knowing the author is just like them; that the author knows what it’s like to hide, to suffer, to hurt, to love, to have that first forbidden taste. Many other readers are satisfied with a good romance, with a touch of the ‘against the odds’ sensibility to take them away from reality for a time. They look for nothing more earth-shattering than a good read.

Griffin never intended to permanently become a Black man, nor did he ever profess to speak “as a Black man....” He also never claimed there was only one Black male perspective. What he did was bring a small slice of the Black experience to the rest of the world, into the pockets of America who believed there could be such a thing as separate but equal. His account was an in-your-face demonstration of the need for society to change. His was not the only voice, nor did it remain so. Black Like Me has its detractors, but ultimately, it was one more piece of evidence in the growing case for the need for change.

Through our collective works, we are also making a call for change simply by making the world of the LGBTQ community more accessible. Most of us never started out to change the world, yet we are an acknowledged, economically significant genre of fiction, that contributes to the growing voice for change, for equality.

Bottom line, the lessons I have taken from this past week: 

1. Authors, don’t lie. If you want to use a pen name, that is your personal business, but don’t create a false public identity and market yourself as an expert member of a group to which, by definition, you can never belong.

2. Our genre does not need to be a series of unrelenting “Gay Like Me” stories. Authors, stay true to the story you want to tell while respecting the class of people you represent. Never underestimate the power of your words, even in the most frivolous of stories. There is plenty of room on the shelf.

3. Let the writing speak for itself. Make no presumptions about the ability of someone to write from a gay perspective or tell a good story based on their body parts.

Let’s end it there. Let the writing speak for itself.


Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Monday, November 7, 2011

Daily Dose of DWS Photography!

In LE/Laura Harner News:
It's a busy week ahead, on the writing front. I am releasing two books on Friday! Whiteout and Rescued will finally be unencumbered by the former publisher.  New covers are on the right. Both are available for pre-sale at All Romance eBooks, and will be on Amazon and Smashwords this Friday. 

The work-in-progress seems to finally be flowing as well -my partner will be happy to hear. And once the two books are out the door, the WIP has all my attention. I plan to see the first draft of the WIP finished before Thanksgiving!

So, we all know why you're really here...I can think of no finer way to begin a very, very short EDJ work week than with a Daily Dose of DWS Photography!

Here's one of my personal favorites, and one of the artist's signature pieces. You may have seen the breathtaking B&W version previously, but this original version is stunning.
The Daily Dose:

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Daily Dose of DWS Photography

Beautiful art from DWS Photography!

This photo was removed by Facebook for excessive nudity or pornography. Sigh.
DWS Photography had a photo removed because someone went in there, opened one of the folders. Inside the folder, she saw something that offended her, so she reported the photo as pornography. Seriously?

You went to that site on purpose and then were offended by a beautiful piece of photography? Keep in mind, this is an age restricted page in FB and you only see the posts if you "Like" the page...and only see the photos in the folders if you go to the page and open them. Seems like a lot of trouble to me, for something you find offensive.
You'll notice there are plenty more photos on the blog that are more offensive, LMAO!
Leave Dan some love in the comments section!

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Six Sentence Sunday

Be sure to visit my other blog and the other Six Sentence Sunday entries. 

Not my usual topic on this blog, but I had a fun little ghost scene from my alter ego. It is almost Halloween, after all!

The Set up: Katherine "KC" Carmichael inherits a B&B called the Honey House from a virtual stranger named Joanne. KC is trying to figure what the con is, because she started working scams when she was just a little girl, and recognizes one when she sees it. But if this is a's a damned good one.

The Six:
“You’re pale as a ghost, dear.”

“Funny, Joanne,” I said, wandering around the room looking for the projector.

“Yes, I thought so,” the transparent figure agreed, smiling rather smugly. "Now, please sit down because I have very little time and you must have a lot of questions.”

“Look...not that I’m admitting you’re a ghost, but say you were...where exactly would you need to be?”

“Why Rome, of course."

Read Sample or Buy at Amazon 

Read Sample or Buy at ARe