Well, we’re here - on the other side of the world. “blinks*

I’m sitting in a hotel in San Francisco with one anxious eye on the clock for when my access runs out. And I’ve just been talking to DD via Skype, complete with video. Arthur C. Clarke said, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” How true. There she was, my darling, and I even got to talk to the cat! (Being a feline, he wasn’t particularly impressed!)

SF is great! I’m totally charmed by the architecture and the different neighbourhoods and by how out there and sort of laid back everyone is. I don’t know if it’s a West Coast thing or possibly American, but people here are NOT backward in coming forward. They’re kinda loud. But in such a nice way you couldn’t possibly take offence. I’ve never been to such a multicultural town, the range of faces and accents is remarkable, but they’re all Californian.

Not only that, but the courtesy and charm of sales staff is simply extraordinary. They’re so polite, so enthusiastic, so helpful. Honestly, they’ve got it down to a fine art. I bought a pair of expensive jeans this morning and a top, but as the lady said, they do look good on me.

We’ve driven over the Golden Gate Bridge, been to Muir Woods and seen redwoods, checked out Sausilito. I’ve never seen anywhere so damn foggy. It just rolls in off the bay and lies there like a blanket. Not my idea of California at all.

I realize this isn’t the most brilliant picture, but I borrowed DD’s camera and still haven’t read the instruction book. But I did take it with my own fair hands! Aren’t these houses gorgeous, they call them “Painted Ladies.” Must cost a small fortune - in every way!

There’s so much else, but don’t have room because I’m going to run out time.

But I wanted to thank you all. Why? you may well ask. As the plane lifted off I had what I can only call A Moment. I got all teary with pride and gratitude. Because this Great Adventure is something I gave to My Beloved and myself, I made possible with the stuff I made up out of my own imagination and wrote down. But then - you guys buy it and read it. You spend your hard-earned cash. I owe you a debt of gratitude. (And My Beloved kisses your hands and feet. Don’t giggle out loud now, he has whiskers.)

Thanks heaps.

If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting. You will only see this message once, I promise!

I thought the time would never come - but here I am, struggling to keep my eyes open, but so excited I can’t settle down to sleep. Tomorrow, My Beloved and I board a plane for a Great Adventure. We haven’t had one of those since we lived in London in the years BC - Before Children.

We’re going to the USA, a first for both of us. Starting in California, where I’ll be attending the Romance Writers of America National Conference. That will be fun enough - I love consorting with fellow writers and I’m going to parties and events and dinners and awards. (Like the Passionate Plume Awards, for which TAILSPIN is a finalist. Ahem!) I have half a dozen packets of Tim Tams in my suitcase. I’m sure I’ll be welcome.

We’re going to Yosemite and the Big Sur coast. Then we’re flying to Vancouver and doing one of those Rocky Mountains train trips and a short Alaskan cruise.

So what does this mean for Under and Over? I’ll try to post every couple of days, as usual, but I’m not certain of my Internet access, so it may be spotty. Or it may not.

Bye, bye. See you soon!

Congratulations to Lyn Taylor!!

Lyn wins a signed copy of A RED HOT NEW YEAR, four sizzling stories, including my own effort, Coming on Strong. Lyn, send me your snail mail asap, so I can pop the book in the post before I leave for San Francisco - this Saturday!

To celebrate, here’s an excerpt. Coming on Strong is the second of my Kaminski Family stories, the first, Come Howling (do you discern a theme here?) is in the Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction 1 anthology. It was so much fun to write about the Kaminskis, who are a little…um…unusual.

There’s even a podcast and a trailer for A RED HOT NEW YEAR! So if you’re curious about what I sound like… At your own risk, okay? The hero, Sam, is a gorgeous rugged Aussie, which is why I did it, accent and all.

“I’m back!” she called, opening the door. “Do you like Chinese?”

Silence.

“Sam? Where are-”

The bathroom room door opened and Sam Jones appeared out of a billow of steam, wearing a towel knotted about his hips and nothing else. The take out hit the floor with a soggy thud, followed closely by the beer.

The view from the bedroom door had been stunning enough, but this was even more so, because now Gina received the full brunt of his personality, the intensity of the blue eyes, the flashing grin-along with a chest a mile wide, decorated with a silky mat of hair that dived happily beneath the towel.

“Nngh,” she said eloquently.

“Bugger!” Sam’s brow creased as his gaze dropped. “That’s no way to treat beer. Lucky they didn’t break. Here, let me-”

He bent to scoop up the bottles and the bag, giving her the best view possible of the fluid play of muscle and sinew, the strong knobs of his spine. Gina swallowed.

God knew how far her tongue was hanging out, but when Sam straightened, his cheekbones were stained with pink. “I’ll put these in the kitchen, shall I?”

Wordlessly, she nodded, and he edged past her, smelling of soap and shaving cream and masculinity. His bare chest grazed her arm and she had to suppress the startled twitch. Unable to help herself, she swiveled to watch his ass flex under the towel as he padded down the passageway, so that she was standing in the same place when he returned.

His composure regained, he paused when he reached her, looking down into her face, his blue eyes dark as dusk on the water. He tapped her nose with a long forefinger and Gina gurgled. “Guess I’d better dress for dinner?” She nodded. That slow smile broke over his face. “Don’t start without me, okay?” She nodded again.

Sam took two steps toward the spare room. Something near the back door made a sizzling noise and the lights went out.

“Shit!” They spoke simultaneously.

The darkness was as thick as a blanket, the cabin so isolated there were no street lights.

“It’s probably a fuse.” Sam’s voice came deep and reassuring. “Find me a torch and I’ll fix it.”

“Yes.” Gina licked her lips. “I think. Maybe there’s one in the kitchen.”

“Good-oh.”

She sensed his body heat as he took a step closer. “Sorry,” she muttered, moving to the right.

Sam grunted an acknowledgment and took a step to his left, just as she attempted to shift out of his way. In the same direction. Abruptly, they were standing breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Nudged off balance, Gina reached out in a panic, clutching at skin and chest hair.

“Ow.” Sam picked up her hand in his big one and transferred it to the smooth hard swell of his biceps. “Hang on here if you’re scared, darl. Doesn’t hurt as much.”

Oh God, she was going to die! Self-combust, right here in the dark! “I’m not scared,” she husked. But you should be. Each scale of the pattern burned individually beneath her skin and the fire flowered deep in her empty, weeping core, all the flesh there throbbing like a jungle drum in tune with the hammering of her heart.

“Don’t give me that. Gina, you’re shaking.” A big warm hand rubbed soothingly between her shoulder blades, clasped the nape of her neck. It paused. “Crikey, you’re hot! You’re not sick? Do you have a thermometer?”

“No, but I remember.” Gina had to stop and clear her throat, relax her death grip on hard biceps. “When I was ill, my Mom used to bend down and put her cheek against my forehead. Did yours do that?”

“Yeah, when I was a little fella.” His voice came softly out of the gloom. “Hold still.”

His hands slid up her arms to rest on her shoulders, pressing her into a wall of warm, hard muscle. Soft, silky hair still damp from the shower brushed her cheek and she tilted her chin. Slowly, oh so slowly, Sam bent his head until his clean-shaven cheek rested against her forehead. His skin was cool and smooth, with a hint of the underlying heat of his blood. Gina closed her eyes, luxuriating, sensing the soft whisper of his breath, blessing the complete absence of light. All she had to do was rise on tiptoes and turn her head the slightest bit to bury her nose in his neck.

“Gina, you’re burning!” She felt his throat vibrate as he spoke.

“I know,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.” Almost gladly, she stopped fighting, let the fire roar right over her, incinerating every particle of common sense she’d ever possessed. He was so wonderful, Sam Jones, so perfect. The fates had conspired to give her this man, and the concealing dark. She’d be mad to pass the opportunity by, regardless of the consequences on the morrow. There’d never be another chance like it.

“Yes, but shouldn’t we-”

She nipped the smooth skin below his ear, soothed the spot with her tongue.

Sam’s whole body went rigid against her. “Christ!”

“You can say no,” she breathed into his neck, trailing small, stinging nibbles along his jaw. God, he tasted fabulous, like salty, honeyed sin.

“No?” he croaked. One hand slid up under her hair, cradled her skull. “You think I’m crazy?”

The other palm cupped her cheek, holding her steady. Firm, cool lips traced her eyebrow, whispered over her eyelid. A thumb stroked across her lower lip, pressed gently. She scraped it with her teeth, bit. Sam made an unintelligible noise, deep in his throat, as if something had snapped inside him. His fingers tightened against her cheek and his mouth came down hard on hers.

Why on earth had she thought his lips were cool? They were furnace hot, his tongue a searing brand that slid into her mouth like a marauder, a conquering king. Her head spinning, Gina strained upward, her breasts mashed against his unyielding chest, accepting the invader, loving it, letting it do as it willed. Oh God, yes, yes! The pattern writhed, turning her universe into a soft dark space of wet and warmth in which nothing existed except the urgent dance of lips and tongues and hard desire.

It took her long, drugged moments to realize Sam was withdrawing, very slowly and gently, but nonetheless. His arms were still banded about her, one big hand splayed over her ass, pressing what felt like a long, thick bar of molten metal into her belly. From neck to knee, there wasn’t room to slip a piece of paper between their bodies, but now his lips were feather light on hers, no more than the merest brush. Instinctively, she slid her arms around his neck and raised her head, seeking, chasing more of that addictive taste, feeling the towel begin to slip. She wiggled her hips against it, delighted.

“Gina.” It was no more than a rasp in the blackness. “Love, stop.” His chest rose and fell against hers, the breath sawing out of him. He sank his fingers into her hair, tugging gently. “Stop, I said!”

He might as well have dunked her in cold, greasy washing-up water. Ah shit! Tears of humiliation welled in her eyes. Abruptly, she jerked back, very nearly succeeding in tearing herself out of his arms. Reflexively, they tightened around her. “No,” he said. “No, that’s not what I meant. Strewth, I can’t see a fucking thing!”

“I said you could say no.” Gina braced herself on the hard slabs of his pectorals and shoved backward, feeling the silky hair tickle her palms. “Let me go!”

“Nu-uh.” He stepped forward, one thigh coming up firmly between her legs, so that she rode him, the thick seam of her jeans catching her quivering clit fair and square. As he backed her into the wall, the towel slid off completely, flopping softly over her feet, and her core released a slick gush of fluid. Oh God, she could smell her own arousal! What must Sam be thinking? She moaned her distress.

“Gina, listen.” He lowered his head, his nose brushing hers and she caught the gleam of his eyes. “Don’t push me.” His voice dropped an octave, the Aussie drawl very pronounced. “I’m within a hairs-breadth of shoving you against the wall and fucking your brains out.”

She froze, allowing herself to feel the bulky throb of his cock pressing into her stomach, the way he was crowding her, looming above her, so she felt small and helpless and oh-so-female. Surging up from the depths, her spirits rose so high, so quickly, the rollercoaster of emotions made her dizzy. Digging her fingers into Sam’s shoulders, she flicked out her tongue, licking his upper lip.

He groaned, the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. “Darl, it’s darker than the devil’s armpit in here. Tell me I haven’t got it wrong.” She sensed him run a hand through his hair. “Shit, Gina, you don’t know me from a bar of soap.” He swiveled his hips against her and she whimpered. “Jesus, I reckon I’ve got two seconds left- Talk quick.”

“Suppose I…” She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t hear herself think over the pounding of her blood. Something about the dark interfered with her inhibitions, made it an erotic dream, a fantasy in which all things were possible. In which she was bold and beautiful and impossibly sexy. “Suppose I tell you what I want. Explicitly.”

My baby’s gone and got herself a tattoo. Don’t get me wrong - it’s actually quite tasteful, a spray of snowflakes over her hip. On anyone else’s daughter I’d say it was quite nice, but on my little girl??

Oh. Oh…

This picture isn’t her, BTW.

And she’s not the only one. My son has an interlaced Celtic design up one bicep and he’s going to have it extended over his shoulder as soon as he can afford it. On any other man, I’d say it looks sexy. He has lovely golden skin and excellent muscle tone. (I’m a good breeder, okay?) But on my baby boy? Oh dear.

I’d be the first to say tattoos can enhance the body. Some of them are true works of art, really classy. After all, Brin in GIFT OF THE GODDESS has the most gorgeous dragon tattoo on his most gorgeous self. And the hero of my current WIP (Book 2 of the Four-Sided Pentacle series) is probably going to finish up with a small tattoo - to remind him of something.

But what is it with this passion for ink? You’d be hard put to find anyone under the age of thirty without a tatt somewhere on their person. Obviously, I need to catch up with shows like Miami Ink.

In fifty years, we’ll have a generation of wrinkled, tattooed bods creaking about with their walking frames. I fixed DD with my beady gaze and said darkly, “I hope you still like it when you’re eighty.” She just tossed her hair and smiled, being totally incapable of believing she might actually be that old - ever. They’ve both pointed out it could have been worse - like a skull with flaming eyeballs and a snake coming out of its mouth. Guess so. *sigh*

As for me, I’m pretty well ambivalent. If I was younger, I’d think about it seriously. Something small and sexy in a private place. Where I wouldn’t sag. But geez, I’d have to love that design! And it would need to be deeply meaningful if I was going to carry it on my skin for the rest of my life.

What do you think of tattoos? Slutty? Decorative? Important? Do you have one? If so, why did you get it? People’s reasons are always so interesting. Is there a difference to your appreciation if the tatt is on a man or a woman? Does it make a man sexier?

I loved writing STRONGMAN and I absolutely, flat-out adored writing the Epilogue for it. It was…um…very satisfying.

Don’t ask me what it is about two gorgeous alpha men loving each other. I dunno. More bang for your buck? *wicked chuckle*

If you didn’t know, the film, Brokeback Mountain, was the original inspiration for STRONGMAN. By the time the credits rolled up, I was in tears. I was also furious - what an appalling waste of true love! Fort is essentially Ennis, the character played by Heath Ledger. Griff turned out to be - well, Griff. He’s unique.

Elaine talked about the movie in a comment a little while ago -

Of course I couldn’t find another solution for them. In that time and in that society, they would have butted up against the brick wall of bigotry at every turn. The only solution would have been to take them to a totally different world. And that’s exactly what Strongman does. That story was responsible for helping me pull myself out of the funk caused by Brokeback Mountain. At least Fort and Griff made it. They’re happy. *sigh* There’s hope for every other couple after reading about them. Thank you Denise.

The link for the complete epilogue (two whole chapters’ worth) will be in my next newsletter - second week of July. http://groups.yahoo.com/subscribe/deniserossetti It’s my exclusive gift for the members of my newsgroup. Why? Because I love ‘em all to death for sticking with me, that’s why.

Also because I’ll be away from mid July to September, travelling in the US and Canada. And I feel bad, because my Internet access will be intermittent.

Here you go ~ BTW, the drawing is by John Singer Sargent. It encapsulates so much of what I’m trying to convey about masculinity and aggression and eroticism. And it’s beautiful.

Epilogue

The click of metal on metal sounded very loud over the sound of their panting breath, the breeze whispering in the trees. Six fucking months it had taken Griff to win a wrestling match with Fort - but now, Twister be praised, he had. First fall.

Carefully, Griff rose, backed away. Any second… One, two -

“What the fuck-?” Fort’s roar of fury shook the hidden valley. He lurched to his feet, awkward because of the wrists cuffed behind him. “You little shit, you cheated!”

Griff staggered over to a handy boulder and collapsed, his heart singing even as the breath rasped in his lungs. “No more than you did, that first time.” He shot the big man a feral grin, full of evil promise. “I wasn’t going to lose, not again.” Twisting around, he rubbed the back of his thigh. “Shit, I think I pulled something.”

“Serves you right,” said Fort sourly. “But cuffs, Griff?” They rattled as he tested them, the muscles writhing beautifully under olive skin. “Was that necessary?”

Griff straightened, brushing off the bits of grass, the crushed daisies, checking for bruises. He took his time, trying to still the internal trembling. He was naked, they both were, the daylight illuminating every muscle, every tendon and sinew, the scars on Fort’s huge body. “I didn’t think anything as flimsy as leather would hold you,” he said.

Exclusive to members of my newsletter group.

If you enjoy male/male romance, especially that written by female authors, what is it that draws you? Do you have authors to recommend? Josh Lanyon’s good, and I like Jet Mykles and Morgan Hawke when they do Yaoi.

I’m still astonished at how it pushes my buttons. Do you think that’s weird? (It’s okay if you do!)

If you don’t like it, what is it that turns you off?

Okay, now I’m asking about newsletters, the kind that land in your inbox on a regular basis, maybe monthly. You know the sort - usually a Yahoo group you subscribe to. Your comments on the Great Bookmark Debate and the Care and Feeding of Books were incredibly helpful, so I thought I’d ask for your opinion again.

Lots of writers have newsletters, me included. They vary enormously, in content, in intent and in regularity. Mine’s here. If you’re curious but don’t want to commit, by all means subscribe, have a look and then unsubscribe. I’ll understand. Just ignore the pathetic farewell message. It’s designed to make you feel guilty. heh heh

All I know is that it takes a lot of time and energy for me to put my newsletter together, time I carve out from my other writing obligations, my family and my day job. Don’t get me wrong, I purely love doing it, but sometimes I wonder if it’s worth the hours I put in. Mine is announcement only, so it’s not a discussion loop in any sense, but I really do think of my newsletter readers as a kind of extended family. They’re very special to me.

So first - do you actually read the things? Perhaps you skim. ‘Fess up!

If you do read, beginning to end, what is it that gets you in? What makes you smile with anticipation when you see an author’s newsletter in your inbox?

Conversely, what turns you off? What doesn’t work? Hoo boy, I really want to know about this one!

Here’s a list of features to get you started. What works for you? Anything else you’d like to suggest? What sort of tone do you like?

• Sneak previews of upcoming books, excerpts
• Contests
• Freebies - like stories, or podcasts, or giveaways
• Personal info (but not too personal) about the author, some insight into their life/personality
• Photos of the author/family/holidays
• Photos of gorgeous men
• Book or movie reviews
• Articles and info about how to write/get published
• Exclusive rewards - eg special stories, pictures
• Being the first to know
• Regular features - eg a story, or a FAQ spot.
• Reviews of the author’s books

Would you prefer?

• A regular newsletter, say monthly
• A newsletter more like an occasional update, when there’s something important to say
• A blog, no newsletter

When I launched my newsletter, it was months ahead of the release date for my first book, GIFT OF THE GODDESS. I didn’t have anything to offer readers except entertainment. I certainly couldn’t afford to be handing out too many contest prizes. (I still can’t.) So I started a very silly, very sexy story.

Every month, I write a chapter of that ongoing story. The current one is called Rackety Kate and the Pirates. I’ve already finished The Amorous Adventures of Alice. Alice turned out to be the size of a decent novella, 30,000 words. Those are words I could have sold to a publisher, but I didn’t. I gave them away. Kate is meandering along the same way.

I try to make the story interactive by involving readers, asking them to vote on what happens next, or getting them to suggest a plot twist or a name for something. I leave every chapter dangling, like the Perils of Pauline. I don’t just write the thing off the cuff -I try to be funny, I try to be erotic. It takes time and concentration, not easy when I’m on a deadline.

I’ve also written an Epilogue for STRONGMAN, in which Griff turns the tables on Fort and thereby achieves his heart’s desire. I’m going to offer it exclusively to my newsgroup, a reward for loyalty and an inducement for new folk to sign up. Of course, they could bail out straight after they’ve read, but I have to gamble they’ll be entertained enough to stay.

Lora Leigh has over 60,000 people in her newsgroup. I think I have a way to go!

So, what do you think of author newsletters? Hmm? Am I wasting my time?

Not much time left! One lucky commenter in June will win an autographed copy of A Red Hot New Year, four sizzling stories to ring in the New Year, including my contribution, Coming on Strong!

Introducing the Passionate Ink Cyber Circuit: We’re a group of writers who belong to the Passionate Ink chapter of Romance Writers of America and write erotic romance. (See the links in the sidebar.) Once or twice a month our members will tour a recent release, so you get to find fabulous new authors for your TBR pile!

It’s my pleasure to introduce our next author out on tour - Alexis Fleming

The Book:

The love doctor is in…but can he take a dose of his own medicine?

Pan, the Arcadian god of lust and magic, has had enough of his restricted existence hidden away on Arcadia. When Cupid, the Greek god of love, suggests he live on Earth, Pan decides to give it a go.

Pan establishes himself as the luuuuuv doctor and announcer for a nighttime romantic music slot with a local radio station. He plays his pan-pipes, enthralling all who listen. Cupid warns Pan that his days of playing fast and loose with women’s emotions are numbered. Sure enough, Pan meets Kris, the woman who takes him to task. The leather-wearing, Harley-riding, hard-ass psychologist has her own agenda, and it doesn’t include him. Before he knows what’s happening, she has turned the table on the god, and he’s smitten.

Kris is exactly the right medication, the perfect dose for the nomadic God of Lust, who has finally found a love of his own.

Who says Cupid has to confine himself to one day of the year?

PANDEMONIUM, co-authored with Lyn Cash, is the second story in the Sexy Mythconception series from Total-e-bound Publishing.

Click the cover to buy. Click here for an excerpt.

ABOUT ALEXIS

Alexis Fleming is one of those strange people who live inside their mind. No, she doesn’t hear little voices… Well, she does, just not the type you’re thinking of. Alexis’ world is peopled with interesting characters and exciting possibilities that come to life in each and every book she writes. Her first love has always been romance, whether on this world or the next. Hot, sizzling relationships with a dash of comedy and a few trials and tribulations thrown in to test her characters.

When she’s not tied to her computer creating sizzling stories to tempt her readers, she helps run a busy motel set on the edge of a national marine park in Australia. What better place to get inspiration for the tales she turns out? A glorious sunset over the ocean, dolphins playing almost in her front yard, suntanned bodies lazing on the sand… How could she not get caught up in the eroticism of that?

The Interview:

This is the bit where I get to ask all those cheeky questions. Nosy? Moi?

In which of your books is the heroine most like yourself?

I hate to admit it but I think there’s a little bit of me in every book I write. I guess it comes back to that ‘write what you know’ thing. I pull on situations I’ve been in or emotions I’ve experienced to flesh out my characters. Not consciously, but when I read over what I’ve written, I’m able to track it back to something that has happened in my life.

Then there’s the fact that most of my heroines are quirky, weird, irreverent, sassy-mouthed, fiercely loyal, and just plain crazy at times. Lol Guess you could say that’s me to a large degree. Continue reading »

It’s hard to believe, I know, but my good friend and critique partner, Christine Wells, seems to have incarcerated poor Lady Kate from The Dangerous Duke. The Unfortunate Lady appears to be locked up in some strange labyrinth called the Writer’s Mind, her only consolation a strange little device called a lapdog - uh, top.

The story so far: The Dangerous Duke heroine, Lady Kate Fairchild, has been kidnapped by Romance Bandits and taken to their Lair. As punishment for the pain she caused her creator, Lady Kate must write a Diary of her Adventures, while served cocktails by Sven, the resident Swedish masseur. The Duke of Lyle is self-appointed editor of this mass of over-sentimentalized text.

For heaven’s sake, go and talk to the poor woman! I shudder to think of what may happen to Lady Kate, who is, after all, An Innocent. (Well, more or less.) She needs distraction. Oh dear, oh dear.

One lucky commenter in June will win an autographed copy of A Red Hot New Year, four sizzling stories to ring in the New Year, including my contribution, Coming on Strong!

I’m sure there’s a place in Nature for ants. Of course, there is. But NOT in my damn bed, on my leg. BITING.

In the last year or so, since the drought really began to bite here, we’ve been plagued by ants. And it’s not just us, I hasten to add. I know I’m a terrible housekeeper, but everyone has the ant problem - even my mother, who is squeaky clean!

First there are the medium size black ones, swarming all over the bathroom sink, only slightly discomfited when I splutter toothpaste over them. You have to brush them out of the way to be able to wash your face without a formic acid surprise.

Then there’s the teensy weeny little black guys. I swear they’re lurking in the cracks in the kitchen wall, waiting for me to put down the knife and turn away from the chopping board. And then - swooop! The minute my back’s turned, the little buggers are all over. And lord, they’re strong! You can almost hear them singing, “heave-ho, heave-ho!” as they tug at some big crumb. Like tiny Volga boatmen. Sometimes, just for a change of pace, the microscopic red ones turn up. They look like moving dust particles.

I was sitting on my bed this afternoon fiddling with this blog and my STRONGMAN epilogue (more about that later). BTW, I write in bed a lot, with the laptop on one of those tray-tables. I was pretty well distracted, concentrating on hot man lurve, when a piece of my thigh went OW-W-W-W!!! Not only was it an ant, it was a big guy. What we call a green ant (though they’re really black). They generally terrorise the garden, being really aggressive, about a quarter inch long. Not only had he wandered indoors and sashayed across my bed, he’d chosen to climb up and bite me, while I was peacefully minding my own business. The bloody nerve!

So I hauled off and thumped him with my thesaurus. Not a pretty (lovely, beautiful, gorgeous, attractive, pulchritudinous) way to go. Do you know, he curled into the softness of the mattress and sneered at me?

I was so incensed, I brushed him to the floor, seized a shoe and beat him to a pulp, meanwhile yelling like kung-fu fiend. Then I went to the bathroom for the anti-sting cream. Had to send another squillion of the medium size guys to a watery grave so I could reach the cupboard without that crawling feeling. *sigh*

My karma is toast. Hope I don’t come back as an ant.

What’s your least favourite biteme? That’s what I made up as an all-purpose word for all manner of insects in my fantasy worlds. I thought I was pretty clever ’til Joey told me they call bugs biteums in the Deep South.

Or even your least favourite creepy-crawly? Where I live it’s sub-tropical, which is just lovely - except for the warm weather critters. We have ants, flies, cockroaches, mosquitoes, spiders - you name it. And they all want to live in the house, cheek by jowl with the humans. I’ll never forget the time I found a red back spider (related to the American black widow) abseiling down the wall towards my baby’s pillow. Squish!

And you can thank me. I found all these great colour photos of the above-mentioned little horrors. But I spared you. Aren’t I considerate? heh heh

One lucky commenter in June will win an autographed copy of A Red Hot New Year, four sizzling stories to ring in the New Year, including my contribution, Coming on Strong!

I’m a watering pot, I admit it. It’s really, really weird and often embarrassing. I tear up over all kinds of things, some of them completely stupid. My eyes actually well up and I sniffle. Okay, sad movies - well, that’s all right, only to be expected.

But happy endings? Duh! I feel like such a twit.

Then there’s books. What is this? With a movie, yep, I’m getting the visual, the violins on the sound track, the broken voices, the whole acting gig. Pretty powerful stuff, emotionally, so I can see how I’m affected. Movie directors are clever people and manipulating emotions is their business.

But the printed page? Come on!

These are paper people, after all. They aren’t real. How can they make me cry? But they do. Every damned time. Somehow, I’ve developed a relationship with people who don’t exist.

Then there’s animals. Serial murders, done in various grisly ways? No problem. But bring on a big-eyed kitty-cat or a dog with droopy ears and I’m a goner. Have them die and I’m in floods. I only have to think of my dear old Burmese boy who died peacefully in my lap at the grand old age of nineteen and I’m all teary. (Hang on, have to blow my nose.)

For example, there’s a section in Joey W. Hill’s The Vampire Queen’s Servant, about a horse. The horse is perfectly okay, BTW, it’s a lovely horse and very happy. But the scene is beautifully written and incredibly touching. I sniveled my way through the critique. Joey was delighted, of course. Cos she’s a writer and she’d “got” me. Wicked woman.

I have a quote on my website, Fledge’s words ~

Stories have a power, a magic all their own. Consider the fact that the actions, thoughts and feelings of people who have no existence in reality can make you laugh, make you weep. That’s the art and that’s the magic.
[Extract from the Prologue, Collected Tales of the Fair by Fledge, Story Witch of the Ten Nations Fair, edited by Miriliel the Burnished, 10,362 ATF]

Fledge is a story witch, a professional teller of tales - and she’s speaking for me. It is magic, in my opinion. A kind of amazing telepathy.

We writers are evil creatures. We love to know we made you care enough to shed a tear.

Perhaps you’re a watering pot too. Do you enjoy a bit of a weep or will you avoid a book (or movie) if you think it’s going to put you through the emotional wringer? I won’t see those three tissue-box movies, because I know I’ll be too upset.

Do you close a book with a satisfied sigh because you’ve had your “fix”? I can handle the ole heartstrings getting tugged, but there has to be an HEA, or I’m very VERY upset!

One lucky commenter in June will win an autographed copy of A Red Hot New Year, four sizzling stories to ring in the New Year, including my contribution, Coming on Strong!