Writing

Who me?

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I'm ridiculously bad at talking about myself. I am. Always have been. I'm much better at sculpting a conversation... turning it into an interesting discussion on philosophy, religion, art, or science.

I am also good at making people talk about themselves. I'm a good listener. I keep secrets. I give brutally honest advice.

But about me? I feel like there's not much to say. I'm just... me. I do my things.

Was talking to an old friend yesterday who happens to be a writer. They asked me about my writing. Cue my scrabbling to find the right words to explain just the gist.

I look like I'm in pain when I'm trying to explain what I do and quickly manage to shift the conversation to another topic.

Phew.

Am I embarrassed by what I write? Not at all. I think it's great. I just don't have the language to talk about it.

Writing is an intensely personal thing, more so than painting ever was... and I need to learn to write about writing.

 

My Head

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People always want to get inside my head. Women more than men, but they both say the same sorts of things:
"What's going on in your head?"
"I want to see what you see."
"Can I take a look inside your brain."
"Give me a look into your mind..."

Went out the other night with friends to pub quiz. Got asked a variation of the above by a slightly-drunken S.
B: Why does everyone want to see inside my head?
S: Because! I need to know...
M: Ohhh that's not a great idea. First off there are far too many walls in there. Then, if you do manage to get in, you'll never make it out alive. You'll stay trapped in there. Forever.

I like my friends.

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My head is in a slightly weird place these days. I was planning on continuing with Sword but Stripped, the third book of the Baal's Heart trilogy, wouldn't let me go so I started writing that instead. I'm about a chapter in and so far so good.  However, the weather's been fucking with my sinuses again so I've got a headache half the time which sucks.

It took me 82 days to write Caged. Sacrificed took me 173 days to write. I wonder how long Stripped will take me? When I wrote Caged, it was the only thing I was working on. I had two other projects on the go during the time I was writing Sacrificed. This time around... oh I have too many projects competing in my head. I should really focus on one thing at a time.

 

 

I am

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A liminal space where pain courts fear, and pleasure flirts with madness.
I am nothing.
I am yours.

Whittled down to a single need, I feel what you want me to feel.
I am lost.
I am found.

The Tin Man’s Puzzle

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This is how it works:

First I hurt you. 

I find all your cracks and pull you to pieces; I unmake you.

I leave you a sobbing mess on the soft bed when I'm finished with you.

Skin wet. Heart slows.
Eyes gentled. Hands gentler still.

Now let me put you back together.

All your little puzzle pieces. The corners and edges and all the ones that look identical but that I know are as different as the sun and the moon.

Breathe. I have you. You did so well.

I am proud of you. 

 

Are you ready? It's your turn to hurt me.

Only you have the key to open the tin man's chest and pull out what's inside.

 

 

Michelle at Joyfully Jay gives Caged 4.75 Stars

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Every once in a while, there's a review that really touches me to the core. This is one of them.

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"I have to start by calling attention to the writing itself. It’s exceptional. When I take a break from reading and have to take a moment to get reacquainted with my surroundings, it’s just not possible to be pulled any more into a story. The use of words landing in the exact perfect place, the small intricate details woven together, and the flow of moving from one page to the next, perfectly illustrates Deckard’s talent.

The story is set in a historical period, but does not focus or dwell on a lot of historical details. The well researched details are in the scenes themselves that slowly sneak up on you to give you a full picture of where you are. It’s the description of the laces and the material of the men’s pants, their boots, the type of shirt (or lack of shirt) they are wearing, the color of the bedding, the placement of items in a room, the detail on a window, and then all of a sudden Baltsaros walks into his quarters and you can picture him and what his room looks like without having been given a list and an information overload of details. That is an art form."

Read the Review at Joyfully Jay

Beth Brock Gives Caged 4 Stars

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Pirates, adventure, romance, gay sex, a titch of MMF, a splash of BDSM, and a dash of MMM.  This book has everything.  It’s refreshing to read a MMM Romance that blows convention out of the water...

Read the whole review at Beth's blog

Sarge

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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.

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Orbiting

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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.

Caged – feedback

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The reviews of Caged are fascinating. No one ever spends this much time analyzing or discussing my paintings.

I sometimes wonder if I should write a post addressing some of the common issues that people have or wait until someone just asks me why I chose to write it the way I did.

What do authors normally do?

I've never been one to write about any of my work. I'd rather leave that up to other people.  I mean - I know my book. I wrote it for me. I feel odd even having left a tiny review of it... for the same reason that I would feel uncomfortable saying to someone: "Hey look at what I'm wearing! Isn't it well put together? Aren't my shoes nice?"

Not that I'm interested in defending Caged. I'm really not. I have little interest in that sort of thing in general.  Everyone's opinion is completely valid in my opinion. I just wonder if folks would benefit from knowing what in the book is done on purpose or if will just leave them scratching their heads even more.

...

Edit: Though, thinking about it now, I might end up frustrating people if they do ask me questions. I've never been good at answering anything straight if I can avoid it:

"Oh... but what do you think it means?"

A Real Book

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The one year anniversary of the day I sat down and started writing is coming up at the end of the month. I'm going to do something special for it... haven't decided what yet.

Sometimes I'm honestly worried about this sudden, new obsession - because that's what writing is for me now. Is it a symptom of something insidious, like a brain tumour? Seriously... I went from writing approximately zero words a year to 400k (over my combined projects). By the time it's exactly one year (June 28th) I will probably have hit 425k.

Originally, the plan was to publish Caged and then wait a few months before starting Spires. What ended up happening was that I wrote the first three chapters of the sequel before I published the first book.

Guys, I'm already working on the third in my head and I'm still about ten chapters out from even finishing the second.

I guess I caught the writing "bug"?

 

One of the funniest reactions when I have a friend over and they pick up the paperback copy of Caged I have here is: "This... is a real book."

Yes. It's a real book. This is what I meant when I said I wrote a book. :)

I'm also rather enjoying reading everyone's reactions to it, positive and negative. It's been a pretty far-out experience so far.

I can't wait to finish Spires...

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Wondering which retailer pays me the most?

#1 is Payhip. Not a retailer, but an online shop that I've set up myself. This is where I make the most return on my books.

Then after that it gets a little complicated, but these are the three best choices:

At Eden Books*, I make 70% royalties for all titles.

At Smashwords, I make 60% royalties for all titles.

At Amazon, for books OVER $2.99 (USD) I make 70% royalties and for books UNDER $2.99 I make 35%

So... if the book is under $2.99, buy from Eden Books or Smashwords.

If the books is over $2.99, buy from Eden Books or Amazon.

But best of all, buy from my Payhip store :)

Questions? Contact Me!

*Not all my titles are available at Eden yet as of 25/09/23 - I'm working on it.

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