Just finished writing the sequel to Caged last night. I'll wait a few days to clear my head and start the first reread. Hopefully it will be published in a few months.
Phew.
Still not sure about the name.
Can't wait to work on the cover. :)
Bey
Tears
I don't cry a lot. In fact, I can't remember the last time it happened. I can think of one time, and that was nearly three years ago.
I don't like crying. Some say it's catharsis. To me, it's just a stuffy nose and a slight headache if it goes on a bit. I have other ways of relieving tension.
I have an ex who used to argue that I was heartless because I don't find certain movies sad.
Just today I was talking to someone about how I don't like endings, so here are four movies I can't watch the end of for fear that they'll make me cry... because it happened before:
1. Brokeback Mountain - watched late at night at the office along with too much to drink. Cried like a baby.
2. Terminator 2 - need I say more?
3. Armageddon - ok, I may have daddy issues.
4. Dances with Wolves - Ugh. Two Socks.
I watch these but turn them off before the Bad Things happen. Cowardly or just avoiding a stuffy nose? Take your pick.
What movies make you cry?
Sarge
Down on my knees in mud made from equal parts dirt and blood, I survey the damage done to Sarge. His left eye’s completely gone; it’s just a big, wet red hole where the charge went in. Thankfully, it’s cauterized some, so the bleeding is minimal. There’s nothing I can really do about it; he’ll have to get it replaced at the chop n’ change at HQ, and that’s a half-hour hike that might as well be on the other side of the planet as long as the sun’s still up.
I pop open a compartment in my hip and take out a pin-sticker of hubba bubba. I jab it into his neck and sit back to check if any of this goddamned blood is my own while I let the painkiller work its magic. HeBA, or Hexa-Benactryl Almeanotroxene, is a synthetic compound that’s part homegrown and part alien; the fact that the shit is bright fucking pink gets me thinking that the squinters and grinders that make it were actively hoping for the nickname.
It doesn’t take long. The hubba’s pretty potent. Up until this point, the Sarge’s been staring off to the side, his face tense, not saying a word. The wound’s gotta hurt like hell, but this is the Sarge. He’s a legend. Hell, even I’d be tempted to cry a little if some asshole blew a hole in my head. When he finally turns to me, his right eye looks blankly somewhere over my shoulder, and there’s no expression on his face.
“Soldier?” he says, like he doesn’t know who I am. He’s still not looking directly at me, and it dawns on me right then that maybe he can’t see.
“Y’sir,” I reply. My voice is in the basement end of the register, all gravel and boom. Half of what I say ends up sounding like a grunt, but that’s fine with me. I don’t say much.
Outlaw Reviews gives Caged 9/10 stars!
Nancy at Outlaw Review writes:
"I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with these three men as they fought, loved and hurt. Their many adventures, the steamy sex, and the memorable secondary characters made this story a joy to read. I especially loved the badass Katherine, whose relationship to Jon was almost sisterly and I even liked Baltsaros’ ex-wife, Abetha, who went through changes of her own. Jon’s growth throughout the story was very convincing and well portrayed. He’s a solid character with the right mix of strength and compassion that brings all three men together..."
Orbiting
All it takes is for me to see that look in his eyes. That look. It's like a punch to the solar plexus. I can't breathe. There's panic. It hurts. For a moment the world narrows down to one tiny, sharp point that prods the part of me I rarely use. The one that pumps the blood through my veins.
Then the visions come, rapid-fire and unsympathetic.
I can't look away if they're inside my head.
»»»»»
On my knees, his head on my lap. Beneath my palm is a hot, slick mess of blood. I can feel how it pulses out of him. People say blood is sticky. It's not sticky. Sticky is the drip of honey on your shirt; sticky is the orange juice you dropped on the linoleum last night when you needed something to wash the sour taste from your mouth. Sticky is sweet things that don't dry.
Blood ain't sweet.
Blood is tacky. The way drying glue is tacky. Though my palm threatens to slide, my fingers are dry and stiff, and if I were to lift them away, the skin of his neck would stretch a little with the pull. I don't let go. I wouldn't.
His eyes plead with me, but there's no hope. I can hear a chopper in the distance. The smell of blood is so rich and meaty I can almost taste it. There's a tear on the tip of my nose, but it never falls.
»»»»
He's in a plane. I'm in a different one. It's not like Top Gun; the kites we're flying have props. We're making a final pass. There's a bullet that punches through the cockpit and cuts through my pant leg, but I don't feel a thing. I don't know if it's because of the adrenaline running cold in my veins or if I was just a lucky bastard. My radio gets it a second later, and I'm alone in the sky.
I find my bearings. I cross the Channel. I'm home. I am a lucky, bloody bastard.
My heart beats loud in my ears—a liquid white noise I can hear inside my skull. The touch down is ropey because my hands are shaking. I know I'm bleeding now because I'm cold and my boot is wet. I don't care, because what cripples me is that I don't see his plane on the runway, and I can't see him in the air. I'm only told after I fall out of the cockpit that he was gunned down. Another punch to the gut, and I'm pulled away again.
»»»
Is it Nice? Barcelona? Palermo? I can see beautiful water beyond the high patio. Thin white curtains blow in the warm breeze. He's wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned. Shorts. He's tanned. His feet are bare.
For once we're not fighting for our lives. No, we're playing chess in the sun. That smile always gets me. I can't help but smile back. The way his hand curls around the piece suddenly reminds me of the way it looks curled around my wrist.
Oh, but we do fight... and fight. Behind those smiling eyes is that darkness he keeps there like a prisoner. I know that darkness well; we're old friends.
White shirt, white curtains, white sheets. There's blood on those white sheets; among the tiny, red rosebuds there's a full bloom. We fight until dawn. Then we're in the summer sun again, and we play another round of chess. He hates the way I make him feel; I hate the fact that I love him.
»»
I'm on my knees on the ground again. This time it's dusk, and it's really fucking cold. There are trees all around me. I'm back in uniform, and my horse has thrown a shoe. The horse isn't hurt, but I'm wrapping her hoof in my scarf even though the wind blows its ice down my neck. I can hear him get off his mount and walk to me. We're alone, so when he puts his hand on my shoulder, I lean against him. We're late getting back to camp. He knows it, I know it. Neither of us cares for the moment. Is he going to die on me again? Will I be the first to go?
More visions. More lives.
»
I blink, and they're gone. I can breathe again.
I don't want to breathe.
We're never quite in sync, never given enough time. Like twin moons orbiting something built from blood, love, and far too much pain. If I don't turn away, my eyes begin to burn.
They're not tears. They're more like memories of tears.
I push it all out of my head, reclaim the coldness I prefer, and I go back to breathing. Easy as pie.
Problem is, it'll take at least another beer just so I can look away.
Rustin Cohle
New portrait of Rust from True Detective. A long time planning.
These books I read
I used to read a lot, back before the writing bug bit me last summer. I would devour books, one after the other in quick succession. Sometimes up to 200 or so books a year.
This year, I think I've read three books so far. I'm currently reading Existence by David Brin, which I am greatly enjoying, but it's been weeks and I'm only at 10%. I think the only time I read is when I'm in the loo.
What did I use to read, you ask? Well... let me tell you! Wait. It might be easier to tell you what I don't normally read.
First off, I don't really read romance. I've been told on many occasions that I don't have a romantic bone in my body. I don't know if that's true or not, but I just don't get 99% of romance in non-romance books, so an entire book of romance would be lost on me, I think.
I also don't read erotica. I have a book somewhere in my collection that is pure smut. I think it's called Pick Up/Picked up, written in the 70's or 80's, and it's about a guy with a 12 inch cock. I found it in my grandmother's library when I was ten - I figure it belonged to my uncle when he was living there. Anyway... that was good for a few years, and so were the stories in my dad's Penthouses. But then I started having sex... and then the internet happened, and, well, words just didn't do it for me anymore.
(Porn. Porn does it for me. I'm very visual.)
I don't read YA. Twilight is YA right? I know that Hunger Games is (...right?). I didn't really like either. Though, I also have a hard time identifying with books written from a female perspective, and I think both of these were (...right? Sorry - I really don't know/remember much about either).
(And... what the hell is NA?)
I read everything else. On the very top of that huge list of genres are: Sci-fi, fantasy, distopian, and KGB/CIA/military/conspiracy books.
Some of my favourite books?
- Eisenhorn by Dan Abnett (and pretty much everything else I've read from him has been pretty fucking awesome)
- The Charm School by Nelson DeMille (almost anything he writes floats my boat, but this one's my favourite. Up Country is my second)
- The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay
- Cry to Heaven by Anne Rice (I know I said above that I don’t really do romance, but I have a thing for opera and the history of the castrati... and the relationship between Tonio and Guido hit something in me. I also rather enjoyed some of her vampire books.)
- Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by HST
Apart from books, I read medical journals. It's a weird hobby that started years ago when I started researching torture techniques used during the Inquisition. I'm absolutely fascinated by medical procedures, both ancient and new. I've also got a thing for genetic disorders and extreme body modification.
Maybe once I finish Spires, and Sword... and the third book in Baal's Heart I'll get back to reading? Maybe?
Warren Collen @ GGR Review calls Caged a “heck of a good read”
Ever since I was young, I have had fantasies of pirates and sailing the oceans. This book brought back some of those, and therefore made a heck of a good read.
The story is of Jon, a young stable man who, through a series of bad coincidences, and a whole lot of bad luck, ends up wanted for murder, and on the ship of Captain Baltsaros, and his first mate Tom. He is brought aboard the ship, against his will, after the Captain heard of Jon’s “special talents”. Through many rough seas in his relationship with the Captain, and separately, with Tom, Jon goes on an adventure that tests his beliefs and himself.
The Captain is an interesting character. He is strong, but is he evil or good? It’s really hard to decide. One page I was thinking evil, than he does something that makes him look good. And Tom, he is an enigma in himself. He acts tough, rough, and cold. But is he?
This story is full of suspense, and also mystery, adventure and romance. The sex is rough, as you would imagine on a boat of men, and the whoring on shore is well described. And the book holds a whole bunch of surprises as the story unfolds.
Read the rest at GGR-Review.com
Thank you Warren!
On pain, injury, and recovery… and how I’m an idiot.
I tend to put my characters through some really tough scrapes that they have to recover from so I thought I'd share some of my own experience with injury and recovery... I have nearly died from the result of injury or illness more times than I can count on both hands, but I'll only touch on injury and leave illness to another time.
I grew up in a family of superheroes when it comes to injury and recovery. Last year my dad nearly cut off his toes while cutting out rotten flooring in the boat. Bleeding everywhere, he laughed and took out a beer to drink before making his way to the emergency room to get stitched up. That's just the way my dad is.
When watching movies with my dad and brother, we tend to mutter things at the screen like: "Oh for fuck's sake... It's only a broken arm! Just splint that fucker and quit your whining!"
My brother and I both wound up with boxer's fractures (both fifth metacarpal). He laughed when the bone was reset. Me? I cut my cast off after three days because I had to take an exam and didn't want to reschedule (see, that wasn't exactly smart... I have a hard time opening jars with my right hand now).
It hurt, but it didn't hurt.
I've been hurt loads of times:
- When I sprained my back about ten years ago, the doctor couldn't understand how I had walked there.
- I'm pretty sure I broke my radius when I was seven years old but, because I wasn't crying enough, my mother didn't believe me, and I never went to the doctor.
- I severely bruised three ribs, but I went out clubbing the next night.
- I had major surgery a few years ago, and I was on my feet within hours.
- I've run on sprained ankles, I've hit my head so hard my skull is now dented, etc.
I tend to just brush off pain.
There is, however, one exception: luxating patellas aka "trick knees"
I am loose-jointed. What that means is that my limbs all hyperextend to a certain amount. It's a genetic thing, and it means I'm really flexible (oh yeah). It also means that my kneecaps are a little loose. There are exercises that I'm supposed to do to get the muscles to help keep my kneecaps from slipping... but they don't always work.
When you dislocate your knee it hurts like hell. I've done it three times now.
The joys of getting older is that you don't heal as fast, so the last time I dislocated my left knee (the trickier of the two) took nearly three months to heal properly. It actually still hurts.... I should probably see a doctor at some point.
Because I'm an idiot, and I should take better care of myself. Right?
Sex sex sexy sex sex sex
In starting this blog, I've been worried (ok, maybe not worried... I don't worry about a lot) about oversharing.
It's one thing to read about about fucking. It's another thing to read about an author fucking. Right?
See, there's a difference between fiction and reality, and I never know where that line is in terms of what folks want to hear from me. Notice how when people write reviews of really hardcore erotica books, they rarely ever mention the sex except to say whether it was hot or not? You don't generally get something like "omg, I almost came when Leo started fisting Guiseppe" etc. At least not that I've seen.
All this is on my mind because in trying to come up with things to say on my blog, I keep coming back to sex. I have a lot to write about when it comes to sex, and it's not explicit or anything. It's just fun stuff... but do you want to hear it?
If you don't... just skip this entry.
If you do, by all means, come right in.
