Dyeing for Her - new Sophie story!

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Projects update #18,624

I’m starting to feel a little wheee! again about all the projects on my plate right now, so what better than a blog post to get them all straight in my head?

• erotica story—finishing this one up for my non-public pen name; hopefully done tonight or tomorrow
• Ghosted (novel-in-progress)—doing a read-through and taking notes so I can finish the damn thing
• anthology story—I’ve been invited to pitch an idea for an anthology of stories set in a big-name author’s world. The pitch is due by December 1, so I’m currently re-reading some of the books to re-familiarize myself with the world. (I own, um, 13 books in the series. I don’t have time to re-read all of them…)
• Sexy in Your Stocking (holiday erotica collection of stories by me as Andrea Dale, my coauthor Teresa Noelle Roberts, and our joint author Sophie Mouette)—ebook is designed, cover is designed, need to design POD interior
• “Dyeing For Her” (Sophie Mouette short story)—cover is designed, ebook is designed, need to convert ebook and upload to various sites
• copyediting job—in progress; it’s short so I should have it finished tomorrow
• proofreading job—will start after the copyediting job is done; thankfully also short

There’s also the work I’m doing for Lucky Bat Books, which obviously I can’t discuss in detail here. Right now I have two potential clients, and I’m still reading through all the information I need to do the job and familiarizing myself with the way they do things. They are being very patient with me as I ask a million questions.

And let’s not talk about the two other novels I need to finish, the one I need to redraft, and the three novellas I want to write…ideally by the end of the year….

Wheeee!

New job with Lucky Bat Books

I have exciting news! I’m the newest Managing Editor of Lucky Bat Books!

Lucky Bat Books is a new kind of publishing company for the 21^st century. They’re a full-service publisher that accepts awesome books and makes them more awesome, working with the author every step of the way—but the difference is, they don't keep a percentage of the author’s income. The author pays for the work we do—and they pick what work they need—and then all the income from the book goes to them.

Lucky Bat also offers LB Press, for authors who want to do some of the work themselves and set up their own publishing company or otherwise indie publish on their own. Those authors just pick the services they need—a strong copyedit, say, or book design.

As a Managing Editor, I get to do all of the fun stuff: work with authors and shepherd their book through the publishing process, developmental edit, copyedit, proofread, design ebooks and print books… About the only thing I’m not going to do is cover design, because while I’m a competent enough designer for simple covers, I don’t have the background or training to do anything complex. Which is fine, because Lucky Bat has a stable of tremendous cover artists (and other staff)!

I’ll be doing this on top of being a writer and publisher/small business owner, but it means I can still work at home in my jammies (or, ahem, nothing at all), so there’s really no downside. I’ve done some freelance work for Lucky Bat over the past couple of years, and I’m so looking forward to helping more authors see their dreams become reality.  :-)

Guest Blog: Teresa Noelle Roberts and Cougar's Courage

I’m in love with Jack Long-Claw, my shapeshifting cougar shaman hero in Cougar’s Courage (Duals and Donovans: The Different, Book 3). He’s sexy and brave and clever, quick with a quip as well as a spell. And poor Cara, my heroine, how could I not love her? She has to come to terms with a lot over the course of this book—and falling for someone who isn’t human is easy compared to most of it.

But I’m just as in love with two of the secondary characters, Grand-mère and Sam Many-Winters, aka Gramps. Grand-mère is old. How old? At one point she condenses the history of white people in Canada to about three sentences, because from her ancient perspective, that’s about as long as their puny little history deserves. She’s not actually a goddess, but people have worshipped her. And she just loves interfering in the lives of her descendants, especially their love lives.

Gramps is a less formidable character. He may be a powerful human shaman, but no one’s ever mistaken him for a deity. For one thing, deities aren’t prone to wearing Bugs Bunny boxer shorts over their jeans instead of under them. On the other hand, he’s good friends with Coyote, the Coyote. They watch Warner Brothers cartoons together on a TV that doesn’t actually plug into anything. When the book starts, he’s fallen into depression after the death of his only child, Cara’s mother, has stopped practicing magic, and may die as a result. Luckily Cara and his good friend Coyote pull him out of his funk.

Because when things get tough, Cara and Jack need the wisdom and experience of Gramps and Grand-mère to save the day.

Here’s a brief introduction to Gramps in action:

“The green button means go, right?” He began to dial. “What do you think? 1-800-COYOTE sounds promising.”

“I was kidding, Gramps. The phone doesn’t work anyway.”

Gramps cackled so loudly they could probably hear him above the Arctic Circle. “It doesn’t matter if the phone works, Cara. I’m calling Coyote. If he wants to take the call, he will.”

He held the small red-and-silver device out a little gingerly and dialed.

Despite a dead battery and no signal, she could hear it ringing.

She froze when she heard a voice.

“Coyote’s not home right now,” it said. It was raspy, whisky-and tobacco-laced, prankish and intimate, yet doing its best to sound like a machine. “Or he is, but he’s eating or fucking or napping and doesn’t feel like being interrupted. Please leave a message at the sound of the…”

Then the tone changed, no longer pretending to be a recording. “Sam, where have you been? Your time’s almost up. Expiration date quickly approaching. But I don’t think earth’s quite done with you yet.”

Cara didn’t think her grandfather, with his weathered bronze skin, could turn pale. She was wrong. Then again, she didn’t think a cartoon sledgehammer could pop out of her phone and bop her grandfather on the head. “I never left you, Sam Many-Winters. You’re a moron. I’ve. Been. Right. Here. All. Along.” The last six words were punctuated by more bops on the head with the impossible hammer. The blows didn’t seem to hurt. If anything, each one left Gramps looking more focused and determined. “All you had to do was ask properly, and by properly I don’t mean one more snore of a ritual, but in your own way. Now that you finally did, yes, I’ll take you up on that steak—with a side of whoop-ass for sorcerers.”

And a little taste of Grand-mère:

The visitor wore a pale buckskin dress ornamented with beads and porcupine quills, not a fashion statement but traditional Native clothing, and no coat despite the frigid February weather. Her silvery braids were fastened with rawhide strips. Not something you saw every day in Toronto. Maybe the old lady figured serious business like a visit to the police station merited her version of a weddings-and-funerals suit or dress uniform.

“May I help you, ma’am?” The unusual visitor had roused her curiosity, which could only be good.

“No, but I can help you, Cara.”

How did she know Cara’s first name? Her name plate just said Mackenzie.

The elderly woman extended a small, bony hand, and Cara instinctively took it. She expected it to be icy. Instead, it was hot. As soon as they touched, Cara felt like she was focusing properly on the other woman for the first time. She blinked and recognized her visitor at last. “Grand-mère? Is that you?”

It couldn’t be. Cara had been ten the last time she’d seen the elder of her mother’s village, and the old lady must have been over eighty then. But the woman nodded and smiled. It was an odd smile, like a tree smiling, serene in a way that you didn’t normally see on a human face. “Of course it is, silly. Who else would I be? It’s time to come home, Cara. Come to Couguar-Caché before it’s too late.”

Couguar-Caché—“hidden cougar” in French—her mother’s ancestral village. A place so remote Cara had never been able to find it on a map, even though she knew she’d been there as a little girl. Yeah, just where she wanted to visit in the depths of winter.

As the old woman spoke, the room closed in, leaving only Cara and Grand-mère. The rest of the squad room was still out there—Cara could hear voices, a ringing cell phone—but they were hidden somehow, masked by a fog. Grand-mère had been seated, but suddenly, with no transition Cara noticed, she was standing in an archway made of snow-weighted evergreen boughs. Behind her, where Cara should have seen Dalhousie’s chaotic desk and the captain’s neat one, was forest and snow, woodland twilight and the corner of a log cabin. A cold, bracing wind blew through the archway, smelling of snow and pine and wood smoke. Somewhere in the background, she could make out a tall man with long dark hair. He turned and looked through the weird portal straight at her with intense amber eyes. He was movie-star gorgeous.

Series blurb: Welcome to an America where the non-human Different and magically gifted humans live among ordinary people. Witches are both feared and honored, but shape-shifting Duals are treated as second-class citizens. The Agency, a government agency that’s supposed to monitor illegal uses of magic and Different abilities, has developed its own dangerous agenda. But when Duals and witches join forces, the Agency and other bad guys aren’t going to know what hit them.

And neither are the witches and Duals. Witch magic grows from the positive energy of love and sex–and the only thing better than one Dual is two of them! And then there are shamans, who work their chaotic magic to comfort the afflicted and shake up the comfortable. Once shamans get involved, everything gets weirder…and sexier.

Novel Blurb: Toronto cop Cara Many-Winters Mackenzie is still reeling from her fiancé’s murder when her orderly life takes a turn toward the weird, complete with voices in her head and phantom bleeding wounds.

This violent awakening is the rise of her Different gift—a chaotic, Bugs-Bunny-on-crack magic that she must learn to control before it destroys her. There’s only one place to get help: her mother’s ancestral village, and a mentor who seems to have stepped straight out of the smoke of her erotic dreams.

Cougar Dual Jack Long-Claw reluctantly agrees to take Cara under his wing, though he’d much rather take the beautiful city girl into his bed. As he guides her through a crash course in shamanic magic, sparks fly—some sexy, some snarky. But when an ancient enemy attacks the village, they must work together to hone a magical weapon against certain destruction.

Common sense tells them it’s a terrible time to fall in love. Their spirit guides have other ideas. And shamans who don’t listen to their spirit guides are dead shamans…

Warning: Hot shape-shifting feline hero. Strong but shell-shocked heroine. Snarky, meddling spirit guides. And lots and lots of sex: angry sex, crazy sex, magical sex, and just plain sexy sex.

Amazon US/Amazon UK/Kobo /Barnes & Noble Nook/Samhain

Like the sound of this? I’m running a contest on my own website for a chance to win this book and the first book in the series, Lions’ Pride. Commenting here or at my site enters you. Comment here and there, get two entries.

Guest blog: Alison Tyler and Dark Secret Love

I'm delighted to host Alison Tyler on my blog today. Alison is a phenomenal writer and editor (and I'm not just saying that because she buys my stories and says nice things about them, I swear!), and she has a new book out, Dark Secret Love. She's here to give you a taste of what it's about….

Thrift Store Whore

by Alison Tyler

For want of a better word. I mean, I suppose I could say “thrift store slut,” but where’s the fun in that? I have been one—a fan, a convert, a member of the cult—for more decades than I care to share. Ever since I first tucked a rumpled one-dollar bill in my pocket, I’ve gone in search of a second-hand haven in which to find treasure.

Because that’s what thrift store aficionados (find a rhyme for that, I dare ya) do. We search, we dig, we paw through the racks. We press up against the glass cases and yearn for the sparkly, twinkly, dime-store gems displayed within.

I learned to drive so I could get to the clothes-for-a-pound stores in the Mission. (There, I would buy old bowling shirts embroidered with different names in that gorgeous curling handwriting.) I figured out how to read a map (not my forte on the best of days) in order to find the Haight/Ashbury’s mecca of thrift.

I was ridiculed in school for my response to any praise of my wardrobe. Someone liked my blazer? I’d inadvertently, unconsciously, share, “Oh, I got it for a quarter.” I wore chrome ID bracelets jangling on my wrist, each one emblazoned with someone else’s boyfriend’s name. (Or someone else’s ex.)

For years, I sported a watch fob as a choker, with a big man’s ring hanging from the center. I thrust my fingers into the hole absentmindedly, stroking my talisman from long ago.

In L.A. I continued to shop almost exclusively at thrift stores. How else to stand out? How else to be different?

In Dark Secret Love, I described a packing scene. Sam’s going on a trip to New York, without Jack.

“You’re only bringing black.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s sort of morbid.”

“It’s New York.”

I’d been to Manhattan often enough to appreciate the different dress styles of the coasts. Where you could wear flirty sundresses all year round in L.A., New York's a much more dramatic environment.

“I like you in color.”

“You’re not even going to be there,” I grinned at him. “How will it bother you if I’m all in black?"

“I’ll know,” he said, teasing me. “I’ll feel it.”

*****

The hotel is gone now, to my supreme distress. But it was my favorite spot in New York. So hip, with the most beautiful staff, and an ultra chic lounge. The elevators were lit in different colors: red, orange, purple, and green. The bar was insane. So dark. So sexy. And the tiny little guest rooms charmed me with their black-and-white checked floors, boasting only enough space for a bed and a miniscule dresser. A huge painting took up the wall behind the bed, adding the only color to the room.

I fit in perfectly in my black attire, as I’d known I would. I felt a rush of freedom as I walked through the city. I had three appointments over the next few days: with my new publisher and two magazines. But I had nowhere to be that first afternoon, and I walked through the neighborhood, trying to decide what to do. Where to go.

It’s not surprising that I ended up in the hotel bar at the counter, trying to read in the dim light and failing. I had my manuscript with me, the revised one that I was going to turn in to my publisher in person. I drank tequila, slowly, savoring the sensation. Several boys flirted with me, but I brushed them off. I wasn’t interested in a New York fling. Not with Jack waiting at home.

Thank fucking god.

When I went back up to the room, I was sweetly tipsy, but not drunk. I got my key in the lock, and opened the door, to find Jack—on the bed, fully dressed, reading the paper. He smiled at me as I stood there in shock.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “After you left this morning, I booked the next flight.” He stood up and pulled me into his arms. “I couldn’t—“

The room was so small, and with Jack, his height, his power, it seemed smaller still. I thought about the boys in the bar, and I wondered if Jack had come because he didn’t trust me. But I didn’t ask. The answer wouldn’t have done me any good.

“Where were you?” he murmured as he kissed my neck. “I’ve been up here an hour.”

“I was downstairs.” I pulled away from him, so that I could set down my purse and the folder holding my manuscript and take off my sweater. “In the bar.”

He kissed my lips, tasting the tequila.

“You’ve been a good girl?”

And there it was.

“Of course.”

“Not chatting up any local bucks.” This wasn’t a question.

He’d seen me. That was obvious. He might even have been in the bar with me. The room was so dark and I’d gotten myself a corner spot. I hadn’t been looking around at all, because I hadn’t been expecting Jack.

“A few guys tried to buy me drinks, but I didn’t let them.”

“No,” Jack said, pulling now on my dress, tugging at the tie on the side and then flipping open the two buttons, so that the fabric came off in a wave. “You wouldn’t have let another man buy you a drink.” I was in my stockings—black, sheer—and these beautiful glossy high-heeled Mary Janes. My bra and panties were matching black satin, and I had on a thin beaded choker, my only jewelry. Jack slid one finger under the necklace, testing it, and then spun me around and undid the clasp. He must have been carrying the collar in his pocket, because I felt him buckle the thick leather into place. Had he carried the collar on the plane, stroking the buckle absentmindedly as he drank his first-class champagne?

“Now,” Jack said, spinning me around and then standing back, admiring me. “What should I do to you first?”

I still shop at the thrifts. I’ll never overcome my desire for treasure.

Alison Tyler’s twenty-five erotic novels include Dark Secret Love and the upcoming Delicious Torment (both from Cleis Press). Her novellas include Tied Up & Twisted (Harlequin), Those Girls (Go Deeper), and Banging Rebecca (Pretty Things Press). Visit her at alisontyler.blogspot.com 24/7 because sleep is something she least likes to do.