Black Gold has a tentative release date of November 23 with Loose Id! You heard it here first, literally.

Black Gold is a m/m glam rock fantasy about a punk rocker and a pop star finding love and making beautiful music together in a world of spin, fame, and money that threatens to tear them apart.

(hello)

See, for a long time I wasn’t feeling very motivated to write things. You know how it is, you just left fandom, you want to tackle original stuff, but suddenly you have to deal with new voices, a new world, new situations. You’ve gone from a very controlled universe to Anything You Want.

It’s big. Too big. You don’t know where to start. So, you hit Duotrope.

And sure, it’s great for tracking your submissions, for knowing when things are due, when to follow up with a publisher. But it also lists calls for submissions. You read through one, and you’re inspired. you write it up, edit it, send it off, it’s accepted. Win! It’s such an exciting, euphoric feeling, like you not only got inspired, but you actually got someone to agree to not only read your non-fandom work, but also to urge others to read it as well.

That’s how they hook you.

You see, it started off small with a few short stories, but it’s grown into an untamable beast of WIPs, stories in revision, stories that are sent out, stories that you sent out and you’re editing. Folders upon folders of drafts, outlines, notes, research, but too little time to focus.

And that’s when it sets in. The block.

It’s not for lack of knowing where to go. You have these stories outlined. The research is done. Characters are named, their quirks documented. All you have to do is sit down and do it.

But then, where to start? Is it that WIP that you’re 20k into that you decided needed at least another 20k to feel complete? Is it that new story you just got all hot and bothered for, but isn’t due for a few months? Or do you go for some easy wins with anthos that you know you could knock out in a few hours?

I don’t know. That’s my problem. I don’t know when to stop. I try. Believe me, I’ve tried. I don’t even log into Duotrope anymore. I trash their weekly emails, not even looking for new calls for submission.

But then, there are more. Twitter wants attention, I should be blogging, too. Oh and that chat, you need to be witty in chat. And what about those lovely authors that comment on your blog? You really need to go read their blogs and comment.

Too much. And all of it things I want to be doing.

But that’s why I’m here. Because I don’t know how to stop. Or where to start.

Surely I’m not the only one. What about you? Start to finish WIP and bugger the rest of it? Keep nipping at each story, calling it progress each time?

Anyway, I’ve recognized that I need help and that’s why I’m here. Thank you.

(wasn’t that brave?)

Even though it is theoretically a convergence of people who have the same interests as me, being social on demand is difficult. Especially in person. Frankly, I find it a miracle I even get through a 40-50 hour work week without busting a cap in someone’s ass. Sharing a room at a convention? Feggetaboutit.

But really, conventions are a small part of fandom. And in spite of my curmudgeonly attitude about being social, I do miss the social aspects of sharing my stories. I miss having people quote back parts of my work they found hilarious or scary or whatever. I miss the world and the characters (though arguably, Draco’s never left.)

There were a lot of reasons around pulling away from fandom and not many of them have changed. I see an LJ post by an old friend and recognize the names responding. It makes me a little sad to have lost touch, but then, I also feel like I needed to move on.

This isn’t to say that some of the same issues that haunted fandom don’t haunt the professional world. If anything, some of these darker aspects are heightened because now there’s money involved. But there are also a lot of professionals who don’t make everything personal, who keep that distance, and can agree to disagree.

As much as I’d love to write more fandom work, I’ve gotten myself so obligated professionally, it would have to be pretty short and sweet. I’m hoping the new season of “Merlin” will shake something loose. I keep getting notices from FF.net that people are discovering those shorts I posted and it makes me smile. But we’ll see.

How about you? Did you come to writing from somewhere else and get homesick?

It was in the upper 90s and a lot of the trail was directly in the sun. So it was pretty darn hot. But that in itself says a lot about the area and the kind of work that people were doing out in that kind of weather.

I think the photos turned out well. The yellow house is the plantation house, which is right about the size I was hoping for. There are out buildings for not only the out house, but the kitchen, the loom/weaving area. And, of course, the well. Something out there bit my toe and I had to sit down for a few and rub the ouchie. A wasp kept buzzing me and eventually landed on my husband’s sleeve. Brave girl that I am, I ran away and let him deal with it.

The barn is more of an immigrant barn, but it had some of the tools of the trade I thought were important.

We checked out the Native American area, but there really wasn’t a lot there. I did fall in love with that giant tree and took many shots of it. I think that tree will make appearances in many stories.

See the whole Pioneer Farms Slideshow

I’m still working out this whole marketing thing and one thing I see and hear a lot is: Readers want to see your picture. They want to connect with you.

And, if you dig around not very deeply, you’ll find a picture of me. A slightly older picture from a modeling shoot I did a couple of years ago. And really, a couple of years. Not the “a couple of years in the grand scheme of the age of the world, 20 years is barely a blip” sort. The make-up and shadows are dramatic. You may or may not recognize me on the street. But it’s me. If you’re just dying for a face.

But here’s the thing: is that really what readers want?

Now, I’m in a semi-unique situation in that what I write is primarily gay. I sort of think my mug (no matter how great the picture) is distracting and maybe worse, a real turn off.

I’m up front about being a lady—I am who and what I am and don’t have the cash to change it. It’s not that I’m hiding that. And I don’t think I’m horrible to look at. But I just don’t see why anyone would want to see the man behind the curtain.

I’m going to say this with love, and don’t get offended (she says, knowing what’s about to come out of her fingers) but there are certain author sites I’ve seen where the author is working as the model and face of their work that made me embarrassed for them. They were primarily het writers and maybe that has its own set of rules, but really, I mean, really?

It makes me wonder whether the author pic isn’t a function of an author’s ego rather than what a reader wants. I really don’t know. I can only speak from experience in the mild disappointment I felt in how Chuck Palahniuk looked. Not that it mattered or that I stopped reading his work…but the not knowing let me make him what I wanted him to be.

But, it also told me that he wasn’t putting himself in the stories. Maybe it’s just me, but when I see the author’s photo and then read their stories and their heroine or hero looks exactly like them, it totally creeps me out.

Rationally, I know that stories are often fantasies, wish fulfillment that you can share with an audience. It’s not really how I write (another reason for m/m? you tell me) but I get that a lot do. And, if the heroine is a dumpy brunette who is whisked off on an adventurous life with a vampire, that’s pretty easy for readers to identify with (ouch, hurt myself with that one—covers dumpy brunette hair.) But do you really want to see how dumpy and brunette I am?

God. I just realized that all this time I’ve missed the point of the song “Words” by Missing Persons by thinking she’s asking “Do you see me? Do you care?” But no, it’s “Do you HEAR me?” which would make sense, since you don’t see words.

I mean, other than on a blog. Or a book. You know what I mean.

But seriously, look at her. I can’t concentrate on what she’s actually saying. Dayum. I forgot how hot she is.

As this is a historical story that I’m pretty sure will be antebellum South, I’m reading about plantations and slaves. No, it’s not a slave story. But it’s part of the life of a planter and they will figure into the plot at some stage, so I’m pawing through some fairly depressing history.

Back when I was 12 I was one of a few students that represented our school in a Texas history competition. This wasn’t because I’m so damn smart as much as my a fairly gossipy Texas history teacher who told great stories got me hooked and the rest of it just stuck. It’s the stories that are interesting, not the dates. At least, to me. And sort of the story of how we are here. Why there are so many damn German towns in Texas, things like that.

What I also discovered were a number of historical houses and tours right here in Austin. There’s even a historical reenactment place not far from my home. History is so much more interesting when you can touch it. Anyway, that’s what I’m currently up to.

Also, I’m going to fire a gun. I know, right? I live in Texas and don’t own a gun or a horse. Actually I did shoot a gun before and rode a few horses, both of which I chalk up to a misspent youth. Now I have to do it alllll over again. Once more, with feeling.

You can buy it right now at Noble Romance  if you’d like, or you could stay and read another excerpt and buy later!

The hour had grown late and it had been an exciting day, a fact the Governor used as grounds to excuse himself for the night. The stern look he shot Conrad suggested he might also want to retire early.

Instead, Conrad took Ezhno by the arm and walked him outside and to Conrad’s work shack. The weather was surprisingly pleasant given how hot the day had been. The two men navigated the long walk over a small bridge and through a stand of weeping willows abutting a huge oak.

Ezhno jumped when Conrad pushed what appeared to be a piece of bark and a door clicked open.

“Is the door in the tree?”

“It’s not actually in the tree. I didn’t want to cut into it. It’s a regular door with a lever. I painted it in imitation of the bark. It’s dark so it’s difficult to see, but I think it’s a good facsimile for tree bark as no one’s ever found it before. Not even my mother.” Conrad shut the door, directed Ezhno’s finger to the spot beside the door, and once again, triggered the lever.

The door clicked open. “Brilliant! The camouflage as well as the mechanism is extraordinary.”

A bit flustered by the blatant compliment, Conrad passed him to enter the workshop. He worked quickly at lighting the lamps and candles he had scattered around, using a simple striker mechanism that sparked the wicks to flame. The gaslights gave the metallic implements and in-progress creations a romantic radiance.

Ezhno moved through the room slowly, touching nothing, but now and then bending over as if to inspect springs and tiny gears. He stopped at a long table, the table with Conrad’s completed creations, including several miniature mechanical animals. They were simple toys really, driven by gears and winding, but obviously intriguing, for Ezhno continued his inspection.

After an initial pass, he picked up a squirrel in a red military suit, and, finding a turnkey in its back, wound it up. The squirrel performed a joyful jig, waving its arms and legs. Then, it lurched forward, its arms drooping when the energy waned.

Ezhno broke the silence. “You want them to last longer?”

“They last longer if you spend more time warming them up.” Conrad smirked at his own joke. He picked the squirrel up and spent a few moments winding it. He released it back onto the table, where it danced and waved gleefully with no intention of stopping.

“I like the animation. The painting and shaping is very creative.”

Conrad picked up his squirrel and smiled at it fondly as it danced on the palm of his hand. “They were some of my earlier works, admittedly. When I was younger, my father and mother were too busy with politics to spend much time with me. I made my own friends.”

“Sounds lonely.”

Face warm, Conrad sighed, worried he’d sounded needy. “I was, I suppose. Back then. But I don’t regret my loneliness as it took me down the path of learning to make these diminutive creatures. I began to see how things were put together and how my experiments could make life easier or bring joy into people’s lives.” He set the squirrel down as it stalled.

Ezhno placed his hand on Conrad’s. “You have a sweet spirit, a good heart.”

“My father tells me I have a good heart, but I don’t think he means it as a compliment.” Conrad looked at Ezhno’s hand on his. Taking a chance, he turned his hand over and caressed the underside of Ezhno’s palm.

In response, Ezhno brushed his fingertips over Conrad’s wrist. “What do you think he means by it?”

Conrad bit his bottom lip, unsure he wanted to voice his thoughts. He’d never spoken his fears to anyone but his mother before, and his father would disapprove. He inhaled.

“I think he’s worried I’m vulnerable because I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

“What do you think?”

Looking sideways puckishly, Conrad said, “I think he’d be surprised by how much I think with my cock.”

Ezhno threw his head back and laughed. “Most men do. Few admit it. But I know that’s not all you think with. Your cock didn’t create all of this.” He squeezed Conrad’s hand and slipped away to a row of tables covered by white sheets.

Immediately, Conrad tensed and blushed as he tried to squeeze past Ezhno. “These aren’t finished. They’re not presentable.”

“I want to see what you’re working on, not just your finished pieces. Maybe it’s something similar to my ideas and we can share our experiences and frustrations. Of course, I won’t press if you would rather I not look . . . .” Ezhno arched his brows.

Conrad chewed his thumbnail, a horrible habit he thought he’d left behind long ago. Realizing he was engaged in such behavior, he gave his hand an accusing look, as if it had forced itself in his mouth, and dropped it to his side.

“Well, it’s just . . . those creations, in particular, are much, much, much more personal.”

“I want to get personal with you.” Ezhno’s voice was warm and rich and his words held such promise.
Conrad could not resist. He stepped away and nodded.

Ezhno pulled the sheet back with a dramatic flourish, as if performing the end of a magic trick. While Conrad appreciated drama in many forms, it was painful to watch Ezhno puzzle through the many strange coils and implements.

At first, Ezhno picked up stray gears, bringing them to his eye for closer inspection and then setting them down. He appeared to be avoiding the rubbery object held up by a copper and gold etched stand. The machinery glittered with several silvery cylinders strapped to a few larger gears.

Once Ezhno touched the seven-inch, pink rubber covered cylinder attached to the mechanism he seemed more enthused. Suggestively ridged with what could have been veins, the device came to a rounded tip head. He circled his fingers around it as he crouched, examining the springs attached to the base of the rubbery protrusion.

“There is something alluring about this piece.”

Stepping next to Ezhno, Conrad traced his fingers over the shaft as he eyed Ezhno pensively, unsure if he was being teased. “Can you tell what it does?”

Ezhno turned it to the side, examining the mechanics more carefully. “It appears to jab. Perhaps a mechanism of this sort would be helpful in a fight if you put a knife on the end.”

“Um.” Conrad covered his hot face with both hands.

“Is it for jousting?” Ezhno flipped the switch and the machine began to jab at the air in a thrusting motion, moving firmly forward and then back. The cylinders created humid smoke that puffed into the air like hot breath.
Conrad opened his hands so they cupped his face, preparing to hide again quickly should the need arise. “Are you making fun of me?”

Ezhno cocked his head like a confused dog. “No, no. I would never make fun of you. I’m trying to figure out what it’s for.”

Exhaling, Conrad dropped his hands. They hit his thighs with a smack. He reminded himself Ezhno was on his side. The man had a very liberal attitude and it was possible he would understand. This could be his one chance to find out how to make it last longer, too. It was a pain to have to refill the water fuel halfway to ecstasy.

“It’s a . . . um . . . well, I call it a Fucking Machine. For one’s pleasure.” The heat rose in Conrad’s cheeks, but he kept his gaze level with Ezhno’s.

Ezhno punched the air. “Your pleasure? But all it does is thrust.” Again, he bent to eye the machine more closely, only to leap to his feet a moment later, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes. “Oh, I see. Well, that’s . . . an impressive size.”

“I used myself as a model.”

“Oh.” Ezhno’s gaze snapped to the front of Conrad’s trousers.

“Do you really think it’s impressive?” Conrad was better endowed than most of the men he’d been with, but no one had said it aloud.

With his dark coloration, it was hard to tell when or if Ezhno ever blushed, but by the way he squinted and smiled awkwardly, he looked embarrassed. “It looks big for something going there. At least to me.”

Conrad was delighted to be thought of as impressive but it would be impolite to brag.

“It’s not an invention most people would appreciate. I’m proud of how it turned out. However . . . .” He ducked his head. “I do wish it would last longer.”

“Yes. Certainly. I could help you. How long does it currently last?”

“Usually around fifteen minutes.”

Ezhno raised his brows. “A respectable time, given its occupation.”

Conrad looked at the dildo. “With a partner, I’d agree, but without the sounds and warm skin of another person, my um . . . well . . . the . . . er . . . the act of coming to fruition, let’s say . . . takes longer.”

“I understand.” Without wasting a moment, Ezhno pulled out a pair of gold-rimmed round glasses. The lenses deformed his eyes. He knelt so the machinery was at eye-level and switched it off.

Popping off the casing, he set to work, examining the pistons and then asking for a screwdriver. He fiddled with gears, seeming to find places to tighten, to loosen, and to snap into and out of place. Scanning the table for spare parts, he changed out the springs and switched one gear to a bigger, thicker one.

He then pronounced his repairs finished and flipped on the switch. With a few squeals, the machine began to move, pumping unhurriedly, but tirelessly with a slow, single rhythm.

As the machine pumped and snapped emulating a man’s penis sailing through the air, Conrad’s breath grew unsteady, almost to the point of hyperventilating. It was perfect—the perfect size, perfect weight, and perfectly ready for him to simply bend over. His cock thickened and pulsed. After a long day of denial, it would not be refused now.

“If it works as I believe it should, those new gears and releasing some of the pressure on the tension of the springs should economize the use of your fuel. I hope to have extended the life of your Fucking Machine to at least an hour.” Ezhno pocketed his glasses.

Conrad was excited by the possibility that he may never again need to get the attention of some brash boy or perverted old man to give him what he wanted. Perhaps he could reenter society now. His Fucking Machine would give him the sex he wanted without the social stigma. What could be better?

“I don’t have to tell you how important it is to be discreet about this.” Conrad fingered his cravat as his Fucking Machine plowed the air, begging someone to take it on.

You’ve gotta see what happens next

In celebration of the release of “A Certain Pressure in the Pipes,” my m/m Erotic Steampunk novella tomorrow, June 28, 2010, I’m giving away a free copy to a random commenter on this post.

That’s all you have to do to win.

1. Make a comment saying you’re interested
2. Leave your email address(with spaces or those clever ways of writing it making it inconvenient for spammers)
3. Do it by 4 p.m. CST on June 28, 2010.

Then I’ll do something magic like put the names on shredded paper in a hat or use some sort of black box randomizer to choose a winner for a free pdf.

Synopsis:

Conrad Lloyd’s father, Governor of an old west town, wishes his son wasn’t so interested in inventing, or men for that matter. It isn’t until Conrad meets Ezhno, a Native American inventor, that Conrad thinks he can find sexual and intellectual fulfillment all in one man. Will they find their way together despite the societal and familial divide that threatens to keep them apart? Or will Conrad have to satisfy himself with his steam-powered Pleasuring Machine?

Anyway, there are prizes and stuff and I’ll be giving away a book or two and sharing excerpts for my new m/m Steampunk story that’s supposed to be out June 28 on Noble Romance. I’m pretty excited about it and am doing interviews and podcasts and all of that fun stuff, so I’m sure you’ll be seeing all of that eventually. You can hear my strange take on the world and politics and world events.

Speaking of, if you follow my twitter you would’ve seen the exciting day in celebrity gossip. I’m not normally one to follow it, but there were bombs, gangrene, and kidnappings!

George Clooney says, “This is not the first bomb I’ve experienced.”

One year ago, Dean Winters died. But he feels a lot better now.

Kidnapped and forced to do drugs. Sounds like a party of three.

I’ve taken to microblogging more than anything else lately. I guess all my thoughts that go over 140 characters are going into stories.

“It’s not meant to be easy, it’s meant to be final.”

“I know, I just thought… I guess I thought that there would be all of you here and I’d feel that… connection. I’d feel like I’d met someone who understood me”

“But we’re just people, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dry your eyes. We could, you know, make friends, talk about our feelings. We could buy matching shoes, get apartments not too far from one another. People in bars could know our names until you met the one. And I met my one. We could have kids, boys for you, girls for me. We could joke about them getting married until they hit us. We could work for forty hours a week and make much less than we’re worth.

“We could get boob jobs or calf implants. We could look younger and fight death and terrorism and gravity while we’re at it. We could be good people who went to services every Friday morning, looking up at the glowing cathedral’s saints and thinking what an improbable lie it had all been and know that those thoughts alone would get you thrown out. And then where would you be?”

“That’s really the best we can aspire to?”

“Yes,” he whispered as he poured the laundry detergent into the bath soap. The fumes were sweet like roses gone moldy. The car was small so it didn’t take long for the hydrogen chloride to fill the confined space.

There wasn’t much choking, just a soft sobbing. A crumpled goodbye note fell from a cooling hand, dropping beneath the seats.

“I don’t know where to start.“