Silk & Shadows

Having recently been in summertime Florida, my definition of hot has changed.

Hot romance brings ideas of energetic romping to some. But by another definition of hot, I envision lounging on beaches with somethingtinis, palm trees rustling in that oven-baked breeze. Bring on the lifeguards and minions with sun tanning oil—all that heat would make for a more passive love scene, something languid and sleepy. For the livelier games, I’ll wait like a basking lioness until the sun goes down and the ambient temperature cools to the point where movement seems like a possibility. Where the hot love scene means sand between your toes, give me the midnight beaches.

In another definition, hot might be a matter of taste. One could have spicy romance in a Southwestern style, bent over bowls of chilli in a land of red tablecloths and Spanish rhythms. That’s where the burn on the tongue works lower and lower, heating everything until your whole body is aflame. There’s a lot of excitement in every spoonful, and one has to be cautious of those hot peppers. Heart burn can have many meanings, too.

Romance for the writer invokes all those meanings and more. Sight and sound—his voice, her body—are important, but touch, smell and taste give the most powerful opportunities to set the scene. When the lights go down, it’s our primitive perceptions that rule, and it’s those that have to be somehow translated to the page. Unless an author can find the right balance of sensory description, the fire in the blood and the sooty firefighter who comes to fan those flames are colorless backdrop. Without the word play that charges the senses of the reader, romance scenes are mechanical at best.

Not as easy as it sounds. There’s purple prose in every author, and here is where it wants to leak out. Fits of giggles are not the desired result.

Unless of course, you’re trying to write about a hellhound and a vampire. Then everything gets a bit strange and you end up with something like the excerpt below. This is a draft from FROSTBOUND, the book I’m working on. Disclaimer: What makes it to the printed page might be quite different:

“Are you saying I’m a liar?”

Lore looked unimpressed. “You’re on the run. I found you with a bloody corpse. You use a knife with considerable skill. You’re something more than you’re saying.”

He turned and opened a drawer in a tall dresser. From where she was chained, Talia couldn’t see what was in the drawer, but heard the scrape of metal on wood. When Lore turned back, he had another set of silver handcuffs in his hand.

Talia scrambled backward, squeezing herself into the corner where the bed met the wall. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Extra insurance.”

She jerked at the chain with frustration. “Damn you, leave me alone!”

“It was your choice, me or the police.”

Lore reached over her, his big body stretching easily over the wide mattress. Talia shrunk against the pillows as his face came too close to hers. She could smell that burnt chemical scent on his clothes again, as if he’d been at an industrial fire. Beneath it was the musky scent of man–except it wasn’t. It was richer. Darker. Hellhound. The hair on her neck ruffled. Must be the demon blood, because Mrs. McCready’s cockapoo never smelled that good.

But there was no way she was letting him chain her other hand. His face drew close to hers, a mixture of caution and determination in his dark eyes. She flexed her fingers, calculating the angle between Lore’s nose and the heel of her hand. With enough force, the right blow could knock him out. The squishy mattress would cost her momentum, but she was willing to give it—him—a shot.

Damn! He anticipated her move, his hand rising to block her, so at the last second she changed angles and went for his holster. Lore solved the problem by dropping on top of her, pinning her under his weight. Suddenly her nose was buried in his hair, her breasts crushed under his broad, strong chest.

“Get off me!” she hissed into his ear. His neck was right there, pulse pounding like forbidden candy. She’d heard some vamps liked demon blood.

Talia felt the strength in his body as he moved, the stretch and pull of muscle under cloth. She tensed, wanting the freedom to fight but only meeting a solid wall of hellhound wherever she moved. Lore grabbed her right wrist. Nuts! She cried out, the sound plaintive.

He stopped moving and simply held her there, their faces a breath apart. His eyes were so dark, there was almost no distinction between the iris and pupil.

“Are you going to be good?” he growled.

Talia squeezed her eyes shut. “Please don’t cuff my other hand. You don’t need to. I can’t break free.”
Her voice cracked, finally giving way to the terror of the situation. She was too young a vampire to break the silver cuffs, and not nearly as strong as a hellhound. She might as well have still been human.
Helplessness brought back bad, bad memories.

“Do you promise to be good?” This time the question was gentler.

She nodded, hating herself for her eagerness. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

She was lying. He had to know that. It was the first duty of a prisoner to escape—even if she had no idea in the world how she was going to do it.

He rose up on hands and knees. Talia was trapped beneath him, caged by his limbs. The feel of his warm hands still clung to her skin. His touch had been businesslike. Appropriate, if chaining up a woman ever could be described that way—yet now there was something in his expression as he stared down at her, he second set of cuffs still dangling from his hand. Something other.

The look pinned her like a stake.

She resisted the urge to curl into a ball, an instinctive urge to cover her vulnerable parts. He was looking at her as if he’d just decided she might be good to eat—in more ways than one. Worse, she wanted to respond.

Talia swallowed hard, putting all her defiance into her eyes. Refusing to cave.

“Bad dog!”
 

STATUS: Breaking from writing for dinner, a la grill
MOOD: Content

I live in Texas, and where it gets very, very hot, so my recipe is cool and involves very little prep! I make it often, and take it to bbqs and always get a lot of requests for the recipe.

BLACK BEAN SALSA
1 can of black beans, rinsed
1 can of whole kernel corn, drained
1 can of Rotel tomatoes with green chilies (Original), slightly drained
1 medium red onion, chopped
1/2 tsp garlic powder
2-3 good squirts of fresh lemon

Mix all ingredients, and chill for several hours.

Or don’t. It’s still good if served immediately.

Serve with tortilla chips.

Enjoy! I’m going to go enjoy, and frost my red velvet cake.

My parents had one of those two-hot-dog hibachi grills. I’m not sure what it was good for, since it was cast iron and unsuitable for backpacking. I think it might have held half a dozen charcoal briquettes if you stacked them carefully. A burger would have overwhelmed it.

In later life, I attempted back yard grilling, but al fresco dining always resulted in el freezo. I seem to go for windswept properties designed to suck the heat out of food and/or blow dinner into the next yard. Happy crows, sulky me. Consequently, most of my satisfactory outdoor experiences have happened at other peoples’ parties.

One of my university friends had genius parents who could cook absolutely anything in tin foil. There I learned the joys of barbecue baked potatoes smothered in cheese, onions, bacon, and chilli if you had it. As a starving student, one of those babies could keep me quoting Swinburne for a week (three days if it was Milton involved—there’s got to be a 2:1 ratio of energy burn for Paradise Lost).

Other times, once we all got so busy that potluck became the norm and no one admitted to eating dessert anymore, I appointed myself salad girl. It was an easy role to uphold and dietarily correct.

Bean salad is a classic, but can be kind of boring. This recipe definitely is not and makes a good meal:

Cook 2 cups of fresh beans (green and/or yellow) chopped into 1 inch lengths
Add:
- 2 cans (drained) of mixed beans (kidney, white, pinto, etc.)
- 1 bunch freshly chopped parsley
- ½ mild onion, minced
- 1 cup mixed Italian olives (spicy is good)
Mix:
- ¾ cup olive oil
- 1/3 cup red wine vinegar
- 1 tablespoon crushed garlic
- ¼ cup lemon juice
- Handful of fresh chopped herbs (basil, oregano, and marjoram are all possibilities)
- Salt and lots of pepper

Pour marinade over beans and chill overnight.

And (not so dietarily correct) this is the best berry ice cream you’ll ever eat:

Crush 1 quart of hulled strawberries or raspberries. Add 1 cup of sugar and stand for an hour.
Dissolve a package of gelatin in 6 tablespoons of boiling water. Stir into berries. Add the juice of one lemon and cool until nearly set. Fold in two cups of whipped cream and pour the mixture into a wet mold (or just a pan if you don’t wish to get fancy). Chill for 12 hours if you wish to unmold it. Or, if you’re impatient, freeze for a couple of hours.

To me, summer just isn’t summer without a burger on the BBQ grill. I’m not much of a cook, so my food leans heavily on the talents of other people. Case in point: my burger recipe uses packaged onion soup mix.

- 1 pound of lean ground beef
- ½ cup of sour cream
- ¼ cup of bread crumbs
- ½ packet of dry onion soup mix
- Pepper to taste

Mix all ingredients in a bowl about an hour before cooking to allow the soup mix to soften and the flavors to blend. Form into patties and grill until cooked. Top with cheese and other fixings as desired, and serve inside a warm hamburger bun.

Jessa’s salad would be a delightful addition to your burger, or you could try this:

- 1 English cucumber, peeled, sliced, and quartered
- 30 grape tomatoes, halved
- Small block of feta cheese, diced
- ½ cup of olive oil
- ¼ cup of lemon juice
- 1 clove of garlic, pressed or chopped very fine
- ¼ teaspoon of salt

Mix cucumber, tomatoes, and feta in a medium sized bowl. In a second small bowl whisk together olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, and salt. Pour liquid mixture over the vegetables and toss.

I can make these recipes all year round, but they never taste as good as they do in the summer. Maybe it’s the fresh local ingredients, or maybe it’s the hot sun and iced tea. Anyone have a theory?

Like most people who are fond of books, I have a terrifying TBR pile. Once a year I go through with a bulldozer and decree that if a volume has no home on a shelf, it goes to our local charity booksale. I feel good about myself for a few days, and then new books start creeping in, settling quietly on tabletops and neat stacks on the floor. In a month or two, I’m back where I started. Oh well, as addictions go at least it’s legal.

What’s on the pile for summer?

Vamps, weres, cyborgs - what’s not to like?

A diet book that actually makes sense. Bottom line: eat organic

This is an oldie but goodie. I’ve not read the League series before, but it’s proving addictive!

And of course, some research materials.

Stay tuned, I’ll be thinning out my stash of goodies from the RWA Conference in the weeks to come! See Jessa’s post for this week’s treasure…

What I’ve learned about writers’ conferences can be boiled down to the simple principle of: expect nothing, be curious, and you’ll probably be pleasantly surprised. At least in my case, what ends up happening is rarely what I planned for. I personally think there’s a Chaos Fairy assigned to writers’ events.

Once, when I was in the planning stages of going to WorldCon, I joked with my to-be-roommate about the cost of renting a suite instead of the standard double-double—the difference in this particular hotel was so outrageous, we surmised the suite’s bathroom must have gold-plated taps. Then, when the time came to check in, there was a room screw-up and no place to stay. We protested vigorously at the reception desk, and finally were given a partial suite at a bargain-basement price. Yup, it had gold taps. The poor porter must have wondered why we were laughing so hard. I spent most of the conference writing in the room, with its full dining area, living room and two elegantly-appointed bathrooms, because it was just so darned nice. Dream—or at least joke—come true! On the other hand, most of the writers I had gone to see never showed up. Win some, lose some.

Maybe I appreciate the random quality of these events because my life is usually overbooked. Sure, conferences have schedules, but after a few years the listed offerings pale beside the impromptu sideshows. I don’t need another seminar to inform me that I need a web page. What I need is a shake-up. Something surprising.

I certainly got surprises during the Orlando conference. For one thing, the blue, hot, steamy Florida atmosphere is the polar opposite of what I’m used to. It was green and beautiful, but a sauna. It forced me to stop racing around at my usual pace—and that’s not a bad thing. Besides all that:

• I met readers! Bless you for coming out to the signing! I was thrilled.
• For the first time ever, I met my editor and she fed a flock of her authors a very fine meal indeed.
• I had a fancy purple cocktail that tasted like cough syrup, but it was very pretty to look at.
• I danced, much to my surprise. Probably had something to do with that martini.
• One of my roommates, Jacqui Nelson, won a Golden Heart award for her unpublished manuscript. You go, girl!
• I met tons of people, including a first face-to-face with Jessa and Kim.
Plus, I got all the usual mixed messages about the future of the publishing industry. It’s heaven! It’s hell! It’s dead! It’s alive! It’s Undead! It’s zombified! Call an exorcist! Pass the purple martinis!

If you want to write romance, I’d definitely recommend the RWA National Conference experience. It has tons of information available—but not all of the valuable stuff is in the seminars. Wear comfy shoes and go for the adventure. At the very least, there’s a book’s-worth of characters to encounter.

That’s me, I’m a gawker. I’ve never been a blatant gawker though. I gawk … in secret!

For instance, I’ve never bought a copy of THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER, but I sure did like it when there was “nothing else to read” at grandma’s house. In my mind, I always thought, “I know that’s probably not even true!” but I loved to read those shocking stories about celebrities anyway.

It’s much the same thing regarding reality television. I rarely make a point to watch a reality show, but sometimes I get snagged and can’t look away. My favorite (shhhh!, don’t tell) has been the Real Housewives of Orange County.

I can’t imagine living such a materialistic, shallow lifestyle, where all I care about is what kind of car I drive, the status level of my address, what the neighbors are doing and WHEEE, MONEY! But gosh, it sure is fascinating to watch. I think part of me, shamefully, likes the superiority I feel in comparison. No, I don’t have the means to live an extravagant lifestyle, but by golly (!!) I do know the name of the US Vice President and what’s going on in the world beyond my nose.

But again … it sure is fun to watch.

Which reality shows are your shameful pleasure?

I don’t watch reality TV. Well, that’s not strictly true. When I’m trapped on the treadmill at the gym, it’s often on the wide-screens at the front. Watching it takes my mind off the fact that I’m (gasp) exercising, and I’m quite grateful for the distraction from my grumbling muscles.

One can’t help but wonder how contestants blunder onto these shows—many of them seem lambs lost in the woods of desperate circumstances. People unable to choose their wedding dress. Wedding planners leaping into the breach to save the day because someone fell into the cake. Nasty, knife-wielding chefs shrieking at their minions. People weeping as they do 3,185 push ups with a trainer ranting at them for eating a single chocolate covered almond. No, I’m not kidding. Who comes up with this stuff? I believe it was the philosopher Thomas Hobbes who declared life to be short, nasty and brutish. These shows confirm all that and add “ridiculous” to the list.

So why do we watch them? I’m not sure, but as I trot on the high-tech hamster wheel (speaking of ridiculous), I’m utterly absorbed. Completely. Mesmerized. Some folks say it’s like watching a train wreck—it’s pure schadenfreude and we’re thankful it’s not us bawling all over national TV.

That may be true, but there’s also a huge yearning on the viewer’s part for triumph. We want the wedding to succeed; we need the heroes to stay on the island and the villains to go home in disgrace. Reality TV is packed with morality tales boiled down into their raw components, and a basic part of us is anxious to see them played out. Joseph Campbell would have had a field day with this stuff–forget the hero’s journey, this material is cutting to the chase in quick and uncomplicated sound bites.

Reality shows remind me of the medieval Everyman plays: Average Joe makes his way past the Seven Deadly Sins (substitute with challenges of your choice) to the pearly gates, succeeding because his faith is sound. Average Joe discovers worldly friends and favour melt away when Death (or the Bachelorette) arrives to test him. Only his Good Deeds remains to plead his case (bag the rose). Etcetera. Play the story out on a medieval fairground or the TV, the plot is pretty much the same.

Times change, but the trials of the human heart and soul still hold fundamental fascination. We still value honesty, optimism, and a protagonist who can stick it to the Devil—especially if he’s disguised as a celebrity chef.

Makes sense to me. Or maybe it’s just exhaustion 45 minutes into my workout. Speaking of the devil, could this treadmill possibly be purgatory?

I’m not a big reality TV fan. I’ve chewed my lip over a few Machiavellian episodes of Survivor, shuddered through several bug-eating incidents on Fear Factor, and thanked my lucky stars I’m not a candidate for an episode of The Hoarders, but I’ve never been caught up in the craze.

Except for the talent versions.

I adore So You Think You Can Dance. And I’ve watched many, many, many episodes of American Idol and America’s Got Talent. People are amazing. Absolutely freakin’ amazing. Getting a glimpse into the incredible talent that exists in the world never fails to thrill me.

And, surprisingly, I’m never jealous—probably because the finalists are so far out my league that making a comparison just isn’t possible. My singing is only bearable when muffled by the sound of the shower, and my dancing…well, let’s just say I move to the beat of a different drummer. A drummer no one else can hear. (Thank heaven.)

You will never find me in the audition line for a reality show. Unless they start a reality show for writers. Hmmm. I guess that’s unlikely. Watching writers write is a bit like watching paint dry. Perhaps I’ll just stick to Jessa’s reality show.

What about you? Have you ever been tempted to audition? If you haven’t, are you just waiting for the right reality show? What show would it be?

Embarrassment is a matter of perspective; I would almost say it is the province of the young, who do not yet understand the value of being ridiculous. Once you’ve worn sparkly silver platform heels, there’s not much else that life can throw at you. You’re officially a survivor.

When I look back at what was cool in my high school years, I find, oddly, it’s back on TV. Ozzy Osborne and Gene Simmons are reprising their roles as cultural icons in ways I would never have anticipated at sixteen. I think even then I would have had a sneaking admiration for their tenacity.

What was the young Sharon Ashwood devoted to in her teens? Glam rock, the more glittery the better. Alice Cooper had already (apocryphally) bitten the heads off chickens and David Bowie had already fallen to earth, but a secondary wave of costumed curiosities was strutting into suburban living rooms. On vinyl, of course. This was the dark ages.

KISS and Queen were my obvious choices because I’d grown up on comic books and live theatre. The sheer, unapologetic in-your-face of it all blew me away. It was a synthesis of a lot of my fixations.

As far as the actual music went, it was interesting times. Punk was just losing its bleeding edge. New Wave was still, well, new and occupying one or two New York nightclubs. Bands toured with convoys of sets and personnel because gas was relatively cheap and the carbon footprint wasn’t an issue. Green was still the colour of your face the morning after the night before. News of one’s rock idol doings came monthly from Creem Magazine and the Rolling Stone. It would still be another ten or fifteen years before the music industry crashed beneath the Napster bulldozer. This was the era when you’d stay glued to a.m. radio all Saturday afternoon to find out if Your Song had made it to the pinnacle of the Top 40 Countdown.

Fun times, and it’s refreshing that some of the spandex gods of those days are still around and still going strong. As for the reality TV appearances, I largely ignore the whole thing. Glam rock was always tongue in cheek—this is just more of the same. Embarrassing? Only if you have a sense of shame.

Yup, we will rock you—as soon as we can lever ourselves out of the La-Z-Boy.