Sunday, 14 April 2013

I'm a terrible blogger.

I love to write, so why am I such a terrible blogger? People tell me they want to know more about me and my "voice". I don't know why.

I write dark romance with a message. I think I do. Love definitely doesn't come easy to most of us and the path is filled with pitfalls, some of our own making. And keeping love, maintaining the relationship is the hardest part of all, although some of it just comes naturally. Communication, however, not so much. I'm not great at reading minds. So talk to  me. (I'm telling the man in my life that btw.)

I have faith in love. I do. But it's a fragile thing, if deep and abiding, so a contradiction in terms. And there's all kinds of love besides romantic love, as many as there are different kinds of kisses.

I recently wrote a novel in a style much different than my usual. The publisher didn't like the style so I obligingly changed it but felt like they'd pulled my writing heart out. I was scared it would make my fans dislike me and turn away. But it was okay for some and the others, while not pleased, cut me some slack and indicated they can't wait for my next book. I love my fans. A different kind of love.

I love my kids. And my husband. I love my friends. I love to write. I love my pets. How fortunate I am to be able to feel so deeply. But I'm still a terrible blogger!

Here's an excerpt from Club Pleasure 7:

Only her rage, the basest form of survival, the absolute of last resort provided the strength. That fury, fuelled by abject despair and crushing emotional pain perversely saw her through.

“Are we done?” She shaped and fit the comment as one to signify the end of a discussion, perhaps a negotiation, even a meal.

The words dropped into the tiny gap between them. She ignored her vulnerability, her naked, open self before his complacent, fully clothed form. He’d  opened only his fly during the entire event. Event? Yes, that sounded right. An event, something to attend, to go to, to take part in. She’d been the event, truth to be told. He’d opened his fly and pulled his cock out, long and hard and thick, the plum sized head weeping for her. He’d fed it to her in slow, velvety, delicious increments to the very back of her throat and she sucked and drank from it with blind appetite, past caring about their audience or the previous audience participation, needing the taste and texture of him to supplement her sexual satisfaction, no, to fulfill it. To take and to give. From this day forward, and she was destroyed.

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