News & Newsworthy
February 24th, 2008
Sorry to be late! I’ve gone through another round of kids with stomach bugs, and have some big revisions to do on my WIP, and the time just got away from me.
I’ve wrestled the revisions under control and have a clear plan of what I need to do, so now it’s a matter of putting the words to the page. Hopefully, the right words this time. I’ve also realized that I can’t write a book from a synposis. I need to do an synopsis that gives me the feel for the story and its emotional highpoints (and basic plot) and then write an outline.
It’s always a learning process.
Since it’s winter I have to hurry out and take the kids up for some skiing, so I’m going to post a small excerpt of my upcoming BLACK SILK—out so soon, April 2008:
One glass of champagne for courage.
Maryanne handed her empty flute to a barechested, masked footman, who whisked it away. She couldn’t help but stare at his finely hewn, bronzed muscles, such a startling contrast to his immaculate powdered wig and black breeches.
Her invitation had gained her entry to Mrs. Master’s salon, but she rather felt as though she’d walked into hell. Surely hell was as hot, as raucous, and smelled as strangely. Decorated in Eastern fashion, the salon was a sumptuous den of gold and scarlet, velvet and silk. Pillows spilled everywhere, on daybeds and on the floor. Couples and groups explored pleasure in sensuous and astonishing positions.
Behind her mask, Maryanne’s cheeks heated. She pushed aside a spray of glittering red beads that dangled from a swinging lamp.
Most of the women strolling about were completely nude, and they encouraged the handsome gentlemen to paw, pinch, or kiss them in any place desired before inviting them to play on the cushions. A few wore virginal gowns of pale silk, like hers, so she did not look out of place, at least.
How would she find Georgiana in this crush?
“My dear, you must be parched.”
Another glass was thrust into her hand. She half-turned and the gentleman bowed. Lord Craven. She almost dropped the glass. Lord Craven had been featured in many of her authors’ books. The acts he enjoyed gave her nightmares.
He plucked the glass from her fingers, his smile dazzling. Craven was a handsome man, a fair-haired gentleman with angelic blue eyes, long lashes of gold, and lean, sculpted form. He held the glass to her lips. “Such a delicious brew is not to be wasted.”
This was a smaller glass than the one that had held champagne and the fluid within was a deep burgundy. What harm in a sip?
But Craven tipped up the glass, and the liquor was sweet, intoxicating, and tempting. She continued to drink. At his laugh, she saw she’d drained the glass.
He gave her a leering wink and raised his hand. Instantly another tray of champagne was presented. “To cleanse the palate.”
It was true. The drink was…clinging to her tongue, sickly sweet. She took the champagne. He grabbed a flute and drank it in a gulp. “Do you dare, my dear?”
His smug smile irritated. “I’m not a fool, my lord.” She thrust the glass back, untouched, on a passing tray. She did not have to do as Lord Craven asked.
“Ah, the timid and pretty kitten is now a lioness.” But his smirk became a beaming grin of delight.
Understanding dawned. Most jades would not be concerned about becoming drunk. She had given away a clue that she was not a lightskirt.
Blast.
Lord Craven raised his hand. In the blink of an eye, men surrounded her, gathered by Craven. They made a circle—eight of London’s most desirable gentlemen.
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February 6th, 2008
I’ve been caught up in the administration of writing for the last couple of weeks, and am so thrilled to be back working on my current story. Thanks, Pam, for posting the link to the article by Martin Amis. I was really struck by this passage of Mr. Amis’ about Pride and Prejudice: “Even now, as I open the book, I feel the same panic of unsatisfied expectation, despite five or six rereadings. How can this be, when the genre itself guarantees consummation ? The simple answer is that the lovers really are made for each other – by their creator. They are constructed for each other: interlocked for wedlock.”
How can an author make the reader believe in the happily-ever-after, i.e. make the reader beliebe the hero and heroine will be sixty (or so) and still finding passion together? Passion heightened by the long understanding of lovers, and made all the more intriguing by the secrets kept for a lifetime. (Honestly, would anyone admit to their spouse what they really fantasize about?)
Mr. Amis’ idea intrigued me because one of my critiquers said the same thing of my first Bantam Dell book. She told me that she felt I created heroines and heroes who belonged together. And the truth is, I consciously want to do that. The hero has to give the heroine something that she can’t find in herself. He has to challenge her to grow. He has to complement her. On the fundamentals of life—money, morals, children, dreams and hopes, they have to be on the same page, at least eventually. In short, they have to be capable of having a strong partnership through life.
As Mr. Amis states, why are am I, as reader, on the edge of my seat, wondering whether there will be a happily ever after, even though I know there must be one? I think the mystery and excitement is in the process—and in the waiting for those moments of revelation. What I’m hanging on for is to see how each character will grow—because that’s the way they will complete each other. Unless the character changes, there can’t be the partnership. What keeps me turning the pages is the excitement of each step in the process and the pain/reluctance of each character to take that step. In Pride and Prejudice, Lizze could have accepted Mr. Darcy’s first proposal with money and security in mind. She doesn’t because he hasn’t grown yet. We might know there will be a marriage at the end, but the mystery to me is: will it be made for the right reasons, or the wrong ones? Will there be happiness? Will it last?
Now I’m preparing to work on my second book for Bantam Dell. I’m writing an erotic vampire romance right now for Aphrodisia and letting my next sensual historical romance percolate. A while ago I talked with my agent about book 1. She mentioned that I could choose a titled hero for book 2. And I could. But my heroine has survived an abusive marriage, attended a sex club for couples with her late husband, and is generally steeped in scandal. She was championed by her best friend even when everything looked black against her—did she murder her husband or not?
Even so, she could have fallen in love with an earl or a duke. How, after all, could a gentleman bring a scandalous widow into his family? But suddenly the hero stepped into my story. He’s not titled—he’s a bastard son. As a youth, he was involved in a horrible murder (he’s still heroic, though, as will be seen). He is tormented and at the start of the story, he has a death wish. These are two people I believe can believe in each other, even when the rest of their world doesn’t. It’s early days yet, and things may change for this story, but this hero and heroine are calling to me. And if I’m passionate about them, I know they are going to be passionate about each other.
What keeps you turning the pages of romance when you know there’s going to be a happily ever after ending?
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January 18th, 2008
Why do I have chocolate in my peanut butter? I’m working on my first historical with Bantam/Dell which isn’t erotic, but which have had sex scenes that I have lovingly created and which do exactly what I wanted them to do. (Yay!) And early readers have said they are very hot (whew), hot enough to please my erotic romance readers but not too far out there to maybe…well, scare a reader not ready to go that far. I’ve realized it’s getting more and more difficult to make the distinction, something we’ve talked about here. Sensual romances are now hotter, and erotic romances may start without a sexual “bang”, so defining the two is complicated.
Anyway, while I’m tuning up this WIP, I’m also writing an erotic paranormal. The sex scenes there? Not so good. Originally I decided that I would go all out and write a very sexy book. Perhaps a capture/bondage story—a way to push my boundaries. At the very least, the entire plot would focus on the sexual encounters and how the emotions and pleasure shared redeemed my vampire heroes and teach my virginal heroine a thing or two about life, adventure and happiness.
But it’s just not working that way. My heroine is not about to have sex with two notoriously evil vampires, regardless of whether my plot demands that she do it or not. She’s a strong woman with some dormant magical powers of her own and while she might be ready to start surrendering her heart, she’s not about to let a couple of vampires tie her up and have their way with her.
I know my story will resolve itself, but I wonder, for other authors out there, what do you do with heroes and heroines who want to take their own path in the story? And for readers, have you read books when the sex felt forced or contrived?
In other news, I’m going to be doing a book signing at our local sex trade show, Sexapolooza. This is my first time at an event dedicated to all things sexual, so it’ll be interesting! I’ll let you know all about an innocent’s journey there later on.
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December 22nd, 2007
Well, the holiday season is starting! Last Saturday morning, we were in a clinic with one child, who was a brilliant red, and who turned out to have scarlet fever. (Thank heaven for antibiotics). And last night, child #2 threw up a few times. Looks like that might just be too many holiday party cookies on top of a big ball of excitement. That’s why I was late in posting—a morning at the office, and some “barfy kid” patrol in the afternoon. But he’d much better and was sleeping like an angel on the sofa.
I’m sure everyone is having a hectic time. If it’s not the Christmas preparation, then it’s the realization that 1) it’s the end of the year and 2) people are away for 2 weeks. That always spurs me into desperate action. I finally forced myself to outline my next erotic historical vampire in detail today. No working from the 1 page synopsis in this time. I’m going to try some greater organization in 08 (ho, ho, ho).
I wish everyone a happy holiday. Soon we’ll be thinking of New Year’s resolutions. My kids have already suggested less junk food and more exercise (for me), so I’ll have to think of my own. And I’ve told them that all I really want for Christmas is sleep.
Since BLACK SILK is set in the winter (around Christmas), I thought I’d include an excerpt:
“Both, perhaps.” He sat on the edge of her bed and held out his hand. “I don’t feel as though I am in mourning anymore. Not now that you have come into my life, Maryanne.”
“That is so….” It was as if doves took flight inside her. To think she had made such an impact. It stunned her. “Wait right there.”
He leaned back on the bed, propped on his elbow, all six delicious feet of him sprawled over her ivory silk sheets. And she shook in her slippers as she went to her wardrobe and dipped to slide out her secret from beneath it.
Maryanne’s cheeks were hot as she returned to Dash holding her muslin wrapped package “I smuggled it in—and it was the very devil to do so. I couldn’t risk having a maid find it during the unpacking. But I have a small compartment in my case.”
Dash’s mind ran riot. A whip? A large dildo? What would be Maryanne’s secret? Slowly she drew the muslin down, revealing curled pages, and then finally she flicked the translucent material away to reveal a stack of paper with an ivory ribbon tied around it. She picked it up, cradled it, and then handed it to him.
Handwriting, tight and neat, covered the first page. The writing angled in every direction as though the notes had been added haphazardly and at different times. Then he picked out the words: A Novel by M. Hamilton.
“This is your book. You wrote all this yourself?” He patted the bed beside him.
“Yes.” She laughed.
But it still seemed miraculous to him. That she had created a story and diligently set all these words to the page.
“No one has ever read it before. I’ve never shown it to anyone. I was always too afraid to let anyone see it. But I would like you to read it.” She ducked her head, cheeks pink. “You see, it is an erotic story.”
“Hell,” he muttered, instantly erect, lusty, yet completely astonished.
“You must wonder why I did it,” she hurried on. “And I really cannot say. I edited those stories for the courtesans who wrote for us, and I…I felt a compulsion to put down words myself. To tell a story. Of course, since it is an erotic story, I was hampered by a certain lack of experience.” She stood by the bedpost, her arm curled around it.
Too shy to join him while he read her book? “Not anymore.” He grinned, sat up, and spread his legs. “Come and cuddle between my thighs while I read.”
“I don’t know. You may find parts that are…silly.”
“I doubt that, love.”
“Or physically impossible.”
God, he was hard with anticipation. As he turned to the first page, he watched Maryanne. A curl brushed her cheek, she looked so sweetly demure. Then he looked to the first lines.
All the best for the holidays! And if you’ve thought of any inspiring resolutions already, please share them now!
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December 10th, 2007
In my formative years, I was as naïve and innocent as can be imagined. I knew nothing about sexuality, at least until I discovered some hidden books in my parents’ house and took a look, with my best friend, at her parents’ copy of “The Joy of Sex”. I wrote about this in my very first attempt at an erotic/coming-of-age story, and just for fun, I’ve posted a little of it here:
“Giggling, she promises to come right back, and runs out of the room. In an couple of minutes she’s back, pulls a book out from under the loose pajama top. The Joy of Sex.
I’m disappointed. A lot of hairy men and droopy women with saggy stomachs and description of a multitude of positions. I suppose the bodies are supposed to represent reality and not an idealized person, but if I wanted reality I’d buy myself a pair of binoculars and scan the windows of my neighborhood. Books are an escape, I believe.
Anne sighs. “I want to have a boyfriend this summer.”
“You want sex?”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far. I think we should both meet guys.”
It’s not a boyfriend that I want, but something physical that I don’t completely understand. Something to satisfy my restlessness, the ache within me. Someone on which to release the energy that builds up in me at times, until I feel like screaming and crushing something with my bare hands.”
I’m writing erotic romance because it always intrigued me how sometimes men and women can be physically intimate, while not even willing to have a conversation. It intrigues me how the physical part of sex—the caressing, cuddling, touching—gives a sense of intimacy that maybe just isn’t there. And that fascinated me about the role sex plays in romance. I couldn’t see how you could write romance without writing the sex. Getting naked with someone, exploring them, experiencing what you’re feeling (or not), what he’s feeling—what could be more critical to love and a relationship? I wanted to peek behind the bedroom door, because, back when I was a teenager who didn’t know anything, I needed to figure this relationship stuff out.
In my books BLOOD RED and BLOOD ROSE, I explored male/male relationships. I read stories written by men and found it intriguing that, as Pam mentioned on Friday, it is human nature to wonder about love and to wonder about whether he’s really into you (whether you are a he or she) and vice versa. I remember reading a story in an old-fashioned “confession” magazine. In this confession, a group of eighteen-year-olds set up house together—there are three or four couples. And pretty soon there are jealousies flaring and someone’s boyfriend fancies someone else, and people are going to bed with each other because they’ve just had their heart broken by someone else. I write menage a trois stories for my vampire series, and wonder, would it really work? People do live in successful relationships involving more than one partner. What intrigues me so much as a writer is the process of making that work.
As I was stretching my writing wings and taking that journey to learn about voice and story-telling, I took a fiction writing course at my local university with author Tom Henighan. Tom who looked at my early short stories and told me to write about what is really important to people. Their sex lives was one of the things he mentioned. And I though, yeah, that’s why I was sneaking books out of the bookcase—in the hope that I would learn about life. Maybe I should go there too.
And so an erotic romance author was born.
(Excerpt from “Brash”, WIP by Sharon Page ©2007)
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