Where's this story going?

Not many people realize it, but I don’t unilaterally fall in love with my stories. Don’t believe me? My hard drive is riddled with fragments and false starts that have never seen daylight, simply because they weren’t up to my standards or something was inherently wrong with them.

Take, as a case in point, “Ancient Magic.” I started this story back in June, with pure intentions and what I thought was a good idea. The problem was — it involved vampires.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with vampires. Check out my backlist, both here at Noble and elsewhere, and you’ll see vampires are a big part of my writing. But that was part of the problem: I’ve already got an established vampire mythos I use. (No, they don’t sparkle.) To create a vampire who would work within the framework of the world I was in the process of constructing, I would have had to go back to the drawing board, so to speak. Besides, I’d already done vampires for the Red Roses and Shattered Glass anthology, so I wanted to try something unique. 

So what did that leave?

Angels? Nope. As much as I love them and exploring their erotic potential, I’ve already got plenty of those in my backlist, thanks just the same. Werewolves? Heh. I’m holding off on doing any more of those until I see how “Dancing On Flames” performs. Ghosts? Been there, done that, also in the Red Roses and Shattered Glass anthology.

I winced, cursed, swore, damned my absolute stupidity, questioned whether or not I was worth my keyboard, poked, prodded, and generally freaked out. Every combination I could come up with that seemed to fit with the “Timeless Desire” theme opened up whole new vistas of suckitude, and for the first time in my professional writing career I started to seriously consider the idea I might not be as immune to  writers’ block as I’d like to believe. For me, this simple statement is an admission tantamount to a deathbed conversion.

Then the answer occurred to me. So simple and laughably obvious that I’d managed to completely ignore it.

Why not make the main characters human?

*Gasp.*

Sure, in most of my stories, there’s a human or quasi-human protagonist. But they almost invariably have some special talent or capability that removes them from the average press of humanity. In the case of “Ancient Magic,” I decided to go a different route and make my characters fully human, devoid of special or unique talents. No telepathy, no fangs, no magic. Just two people who were intended to be something more than what fate made them, but nevertheless capable of amazing but not supernatural deeds.

In fact, the only things I kept from the original three and a half thousand words of what started as “Night Eternal” were the setting and Varath’s name. The setting was inspired by the image of a ruined Greek temple; antiquity has always fascinated me, so Hell or high water, that element of the story wasn’t to be touched. Varath had a perfectly good name, so why waste time seeking something better? 

While I was having my mental slugfest with my muse over the whys and wherefores of the story, my time to finish the story was inexorably running out. The contract had already been inked; the clock was ticking, and lost in the fog of battle with my recalcitrant plot, I didn’t notice until an email arrived in my inbox.

“When are you going to have the story done?”

Sometimes, you just need a good, sharp poke with a long stick. So I sat down and started to work. In two days, “Ancient Magic” was completed. I fired it off and anticipated a scathing email which boiled down to “WTF do you think you’re trying to pull?” 

You’d think I would’ve known better; after all, Bryl hasn’t kicked back one single story I’ve subbed for Noble yet, so it would stand to reason after five accepted submissions it probably wouldn’t happen now either. But the first few days after I put in a submission are always characterized with a slightly panicky air of “Oh, shit. This is where everyone’s finally going to realize I’m a living monument to ineptitude and shouldn’t be permitted anywhere near the company of real authors.”

It’s admittedly a little melodramatic, but it’s part of my mojo. The stress over whether or not my work will be judged worthy inspires me to work all the harder, and some of my best writing has come out of post-submission jitters. And frankly, I fear the day when I don’t get that gut-clenching shrieking fear when I send out a manuscript, because that will be the day I lose my edge altogether.

Did I succeed with “Ancient Magic?”

You tell me.

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Don’t forget to leave a comment for your chance to win some great prizes, and then click the Special Blogs button to continue on the “Timeless Desire” blog tour!

Stop The Press!

It’s been a month full of accomplishments and anxiety for me. I’m not even going to TRY to lie about that.

Since the beginning of June, I’ve accrued a host of truly amazing reviews. Red Roses and Shattered Glass was given a very nice review by Whipped Cream Reviews, primarily due to the efforts of H.C. Brown, Justine Elyot, and Indigo Skye. “Angels Would Fall” received a five-cup review from Happily Ever After. I’ve found myself queried for permission to quote blogs and responses to articles I’ve written. My fellow Noble authors have kept my personal blog jumping with interviews and guest blog posts. 

That’s the accomplishment side. On the “anxiety” side of the ledger is the three works in progress I’m juggling in tandem. The Evil Day Job, which finally managed to push me one step over the edge, launching a search for something else. ANYTHING else. Anyone hiring in the wilds of Texas?

The biggest nail-biter in my world, however, has been a full-length novel that I started in April and completed in Mid-May.

Well, as of last night, my cuticles are safe. For now. (Yeah. I used the word “cuticle.” In proper context, no less. And that’s as close to a manicure as I’m ever likely to come.)

A lot of readers had a lot of wonderful things to say about my writing, especially my “Angel” stories. A few in particular I actually printed out, so that I would have them at convenient eye level in my more self-critical moments. The only major criticism, and the one that became a resounding chorus in the back of my skull, was: PLEASE tell me there’s more!!

You, the reader, asked for it. I heard you loud and clear. And unless something catastrophic occurs, on August 1^st, your wish will be granted.

I’m proud to announce that Noble Romance has accepted Angels Cry, the full-length novel tying together the threads of “Angels Would Fall” and “Angel Of The Morning.” A lot of new characters will be entering the scene, and all Hell is about to break loose. 

This is a rough draft of the blurb, so don’t be surprised if there are some changes in the final version. But it’ll give you a taste of things to come, I hope you enjoy it!

Angels Cry

Moradiel, the Soulbearer, and his human consort, Ariel, are barely managing to stay ahead of the wrath of the Angel of Death. Azrael is growing more impatient by the moment; he wants Moradiel punished and Ariel dead once and for all, and is not particular about how the task is accomplished. Knowing this, Moradiel’s fellow angels will offer him only limited aid, if they don’t try to kill him outright. In desperation, the fugitives seek refuge in the last place in Creation any sane being would look for an angel: Sin City. Las Vegas, Nevada.

Maddened by Moradiel’s defection from the heavenly Host, Azrael isn’t sane. When he arrives in Sin City to exact vengeance on Moradiel, he leaves Moradiel with a chilling warning: He intends to use Ariel for his own twisted pleasure before consigning her soul to Infernos.

But darker news still awaits them: Because Ariel did not die at the ordained time, Moradiel has started the entire universe on an inexorable countdown to oblivion.

A countdown that began with the first breath Ariel ever drew on Earth. . . .

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Writing Through The "Hard" Parts*

*Yes, the triple entendre was intentional.

     One of the most commonly held misconceptions about erotic romance writers is that they've only got "one thing" on their mind. 24/7/365, sex, sex, sex, is all we think about. While this may be true for a lot of erotic romance authors, I'm not one of them.
     Something that people often forget to take into account is the fact that I have a household to keep running, bills to pay, and the ever-present and oft-lamented day job to deal with. I'm a human being, and so am subject to all the frailties of the flesh. That means that I get tired. I get injured.
     And sometimes, to my utter disgust, I get sick.
     Most times, illness isn't that big a deal; a few days of discomfort, a day in bed, and it's more or less sorted. But what happens when the ailment is more serious? Like, say, a kidney stone?
     If you've never had one, I highly recommend, given the chance, you take a pass on the experience. Trust me when I say it's not the kind of thing you'd mind forgetting, if you ever could. If you have had one, and are currently squirming in remembered anguish at your computer right now, I feel your pain.
     Literally.
     The trouble is, I can't write an erotic scene if I can't feel it. I have to be able to experience it with all five senses, regardless of whether or not I actually have the real-life experience or capacity to do so. I have to be able to feel it and get turned on by it myself if I'm going to write it; otherwise I'm going to read it and it will feel hollow and unsatisfying. If it feels that way to me, how will it read to my audience? Simple. It'll look exactly the same. Result? That scene will never see daylight.
     As evidence, I refer you to "Espiritu Sancti." Although I'm not a lesbian, not being a female, I can and do appreciate the female form to a degree that borders on...well, not obsession, because that would be unhealthy and make me out to be some ooky stalkerish type. Which I'm not. Last I checked, anyway. But you get the idea.
      Now, the problem with any illness concerning the male plumbing is that it makes you feel about as unsexy as you can get. That sounds odd, coming from a guy, but bear with me here. A woman has a bad hair day. A PMS day. A just generally "I feel like Hell, look worse, and don't want to be bothered, so don't even think it!" day. And I'm going to let you in on a little secret.
      Guys have their own version of this. If you've seen Bill Engvall talking about "bad weiner days," believe me, he's not exaggerating. I have days when I get out of bed and every hair's in place, I'm sporting just the right amount of bad-boy stubble, and all my clothes drape over me like they were tailor-made. Those are the good days.
       The next day, I may wake up, look in the mirror, shake my head and say, "Jesus. Does your undertaker know you're up?" Those are the days when it doesn't matter how close the shave is, how much gel I put in my hair, or how much I spent on my threads. I look and feel like shit, at least in my own eyes.
       Now, let's take the latter day. Add in the feeling of having been kicked in the testicles. Repeatedly. From the female point of view, you've been kicked in the side. Repeatedly.
       How sexy are you going to feel? I'm going to bet the answer is, "NOT!"
       I'm no different. When the idea of getting aroused causes me physical pain, I can't write erotica. It's not that I don't want to; I'm a guy. Anything that has to do with sex, I'm good with. When I'm on my game, then I'm the 24/7/365 guy I talked about earlier. But I shy away from anything to do with it when I don't feel sexy. My equivalent of the "so what if my hair's in curlers, I'm not wearing a smudge of makeup, and my sweatpants were last a color I could define when Reagan was in the White House?" day.
     But just because I'm not feeling sexy doesn't mean I can't still offer up a little something for your reading pleasure. So, since I did an excerpt from "Angel Of The Morning" not that long ago, I'm going to leave you with this sexy little vignette from Red Roses and Shattered Glass. I hope you enjoy it!

      Until next time,

      Best,

      J.S. Wayne

             Excerpt from "Espiritu Sancti"

             It was a fine night, cool but not unpleasantly so, and the stars and a sickle moon hung in the sky as if placed there specifically for their benefit. It was then, while they stood next to each other, not quite touching, that Lilliana began to speak of her loneliness.

            "It has been a long time since I've had a lover. My last love affair ended badly, and ever since, I've kept people at a distance. Have you ever been wounded by love?" Lilliana turned the full force of her eyes on Isabel.

            Isabel thought it over. "I . . . think so," she said. Her fingers clenched, belying her apparent hesitancy. "My last boyfriend was a real bastard." She added bitterly. "He was a football player and fucked his way through the entire cheerleading squad while we were together. I thought he was going to marry me." She  finished, her tone changing from venomous to pensive as she thought of how foolish she'd been. She dropped her gaze to the floor as a hot flush spread across her sharp cheekbones.

            "Bah!" Lilliana waved her hand dismissively. "Men will say whatever will make a woman do what they wish. There is no more truth in men's words than those of a mockingbird. Only a woman can truly speak with complete candor to a woman. May I be candid?" Her eyes bored into Isabel's.

Lilliana's eyes seemed to gather the light of moon and stars and transmute into silver. They were the most striking eyes Isabel had ever seen; Isabel's knees went weak for the second time that night, this time with desire.

            Unconsciously arching her back a little, revealing her throat, and pushing her full, firm breasts outward, Isabel let out a quavered, "Y-yes."

            "I want you tonight." Lilliana reached out one cool finger to trace it gently down Isabel's cheek. "I want to love you. Will you allow me?"

            Isabel's eyes slid closed, and she gasped a little at the sensations stirring deep within her. She made a tiny whimper of a sound; whether it was acceptance or negation, she could not have said. But Lilliana allowed her no chance to consider the matter further. Pressing her lips against Isabel's, she lightly flicked her tongue against the soft gates. As if she had spoken a magic word, Isabel's lips parted to permit Lilliana full access. Her tongue darted and probed. She caught Isabel up in a fierce yet tender embrace, crushing her breasts against Isabel's. Lilliana's arms ratcheted around her, as if the woman feared Isabel would fly away if the grip were loosened.

            Isabel was interested in going nowhere except deeper into Lilliana's embrace. She'd experimented, certainly; who hadn't tried it on at least once with a member of their own sex? It was almost a rite of passage. But she had never been kissed like this before. The arms which held her were feminine and shapely but in no way weak. The woman's mouth touched her as light as a breeze but seething with passion the likes of which she had never known.

            She moaned against Lilliana and pressed herself more fully into her mysterious lover's arms, her blood singing at the wonderful feel of another female body against her own. Lilliana deepened the kiss, as if trying to inhale Isabel's very soul.

A Legend In The Making

     Before you look at me that way, no, I'm not talking about myself.
     I don't have nearly that much self-confidence.
     What I am talking about, I hope, is the story arc I've just "officially" begun with "Angels Would Fall."

     See, the inside of a writer's head is an awfully funny place. I don't mean Monte Python or the Swedish Chef funny. I mean, the men in white coats should be arriving in about ten minutes funny. And they're bringing a very special sport coat. It's unisex, in a very flattering off-white (used to be white, but ten thousand washings later, there's not enough bleach on the planet) and a unique design that fastens in the back.
     My own head is no different. Thanks to an article that a fellow Noble author linked to from "Scientific American," I can now take comfort in the fact that although yes, my mind is a sometimes-alarming place, it's really not my fault! But I digress.
     Inside my head, you could liken it to a carnival. There's the midway, with the rides and the games. There's the funhouse, the haunted house (in my own particular carnival, the haunted house is the biggest attraction-- go figure), the freak show, and, because my carnival's old-school, the peep-show. (Second biggest attraction. Um, wow. Is there a doctor in the house? I think I might need some meds. . .)
     This particular carnival also features a petting zoo. I wouldn't get too close to the llamas, though. And those cute little bunnies you're looking at? With their long lap-ears, twitchy little pink noses, and fluffy little tails?
     (Pardon me while I snicker.)
     Those little bastards are the reason that a writer's work is literally never done.
     You see, those aren't just any cute little fuzzy bunnies. They're PLOT bunnies. And, just like the more commonly known breeds. . . well, they breed. A lot.
      Some of them come up with sweet, dear little offspring that inspire poems about trees and lovely lyrical little vignettes about the perfect anniversary. When I got mine, though, I'm pretty sure that the guy who gave them to me had a telltale whiff of brimstone. Or really bad aftershave. Because my plot bunnies change after dark. Think Gremlins, only I didn't start out with Gizmo. I got Stripe right from Jump Street.
      Um. . .what?
      Okay. Moving right along. I wrote a sweet little short story called "Angels Would Fall." A couple of revisions later, I called it good and started hunting for a home for it. Enter Noble Romance (Thanks Jill, Bryl, Irene, Sara, and the rest of the crew!) and the official beginning of my career.
      Then the three-hundred ring circus (thank-you note to Dean Koontz; please don't sue me!) that I call my mind started revving up again. And to the slightly sinister sounds of the calliope, the plot bunnies started up. "Well, yeah, all's well for now. . .but you're not seriously going to leave it like that, are you?" My inner moron asked.
      "Why?" I snapped. "What's wrong with it?"
      "Oh, nothing," he said, scuffing his foot. "It's just--"
      I tapped my foot and looked pointedly at the clock.
      "Um, you left an awful big 'what if' at the end there."
      I read it over. I hate that guy. He's annoying when he's wrong, and infuriating when he's right.
      So I wrote another story. Kind of a follow-up, zooming away from Moradiel, my angel of death, and Ariel, his human paramour, to consider the ramifications of what he'd done to the Supernal and Infernal realms. (Heaven and Hell, in case I lost you there.) And lo. I wrote it. And beheld that it was good. And left the angels to their own devices with "Angel of the Morning," slated to be released May 16th. Time for another vampire story. . .
     Not so fast, Chuckles. Now here comes my inner moron again. Mumbling about, it's a good story, but. . . there's still something missing.
     I'm in the middle of a blog tour. Red Roses and Shattered Glass is about to debut any day now. I'm up to my ears in edits and don't have time for this. Never mind the "real" world drama. So I did what any stressed-out, caffeine-crazed writer would do.
     I took a baseball bat to him.
     He retaliated by throwing another plot bunny at me. This one was pregnant and ready to pop. Funny son of a bitch.
     Maybe they aren't plot bunnies at all. Maybe they're actually Tribbles. Furry vermin YiH'mey. (Pronounced YICK-may, that's the Klingon word for them. For the love of God, don't ask.)
     So I sat down to do another short. And I wrote. And rewrote. And facepalmed, headdesked, WTF!?ed, and generally, yes, whined. Because it wasn't working. I couldn't figure out what the problem was, but no matter how I tried, I couldn't make the thing mesh.
     Finally it hit me. I asked one person one question. The answer was what I expected, but confirmation from someone who knows is always good. I lit a cigarette and got to work.
     And now, honored readers, a full-length novel revolving around the events set in motion in "Angels Would Fall" is in the works. Whether it will ever see daylight is another matter entirely.
     But even if it's in my own head for now, I truly think I might be creating a legend in the making.
     Time will tell!
     Don't forget that Red Roses and Shattered Glass and "Angels Would Fall" are both available now from Noble Romance, and come see me and some of your favorites, and soon to become favorites, on the Noble Romance Authors' Blog Tour at http://www.nobleromanceauthorsblogtour.blogspot.com/! Win a few prizes and have some laughs with us!

      Until next time,

      Best,

     J.S. Wayne

     Writer: (n) A supernatural creature with the ability to alchemically transform caffeine, nicotine, and a dictionary into literature.