Cool, but slightly mind boggling

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Cool, but slightly mind boggling

This post has been lost.

More title help?

You’re all going to be fed up with this, I can tell.  But this is the last one for a while, because it’ll be months before Pilgrim’s Tale is in need of re-titling, if I’m ever lucky enough to get it (a)finished and (b) accepted by a publisher who thinks its temporary title is not snappy enough.

The one I need help with today used to be called 90% Proof, but when I decided that was an ill-fated title I submitted it to Carina as Poison and Poetry.  I’ve just got my content edits back on it, along with the suggestion that Poison and Poetry doesn’t cut the mustard either (why would you want to cut mustard, btw?)  So I need a new title, and I’ve had so many great suggestions from my friends for titles for other books over the years that I thought I’d ask again.

This is another Age of Sail novella;

It is 1779.  Robert Hughes, a Lieutenant in the British Royal Navy, is in love with his fellow Lieutenant, Hal Morgan.  But Morgan only has eyes for their Captain, William Hamilton.  Sick of watching Hal miserably eat his heart out over Hamilton, Robert determines to seduce him.  But Hal is a tough nut to crack and demands proof of love before he will submit.

Robert’s attempts to usurp Hal’s love for Hamilton lead him to expense, embarrassment, the threat of exposure, and mortal danger from the French.  Also into rather more hard work than he was prepared for.  If only Hal was more susceptible to the lure of perfume and bad poetry!

So something about proof of love, or fighting obsession with poetry would be appropriate.  Or something else entirely which I am too stupid to see.  I quite like “The Poetry of Proof” but I don’t know if that sounds any more romantic than what I had before.  Any suggestions?

The universe will honour your intentions

by putting obstacles in their way.  Heh, no sooner had I said “I’m going to be around more on social media.  By not having a strict schedule to blog, I’ll actually end up blogging more,” the editing for Poison and Poetry (real title to be announced later) landed on my desk, along with four guest posts to write blogs for, and this while I had also decided that, no matter what, I would still do my 1000 words a day of writing.

I’ve also recently, for the sake of my physical and mental health, determined to walk down to the village church every day (thus getting physical exercise) and spend a while in prayer (thus getting the mental and spiritual benefits of meditation, which frankly I badly need.)

Oh, and I have also added an hour’s whistle practice to my daily schedule, forgetting somehow, that there are only so many hours in the day.  But it’s got to be done – there are dancers depending on me.

So naturally the first thing that got kicked in the teeth was twitter and this blog.  Things with deadlines always come first.  Not that the deadlines are close – they aren’t – but the mere fact that they have deadlines at all means that I won’t be comfortable until they’re done and turned in.

So, off to write another blog post which won’t actually be seen until around the launch of By Honor Betrayed (which is actually not that far off now.)  If only I could positively think the universe into doing it for me.  What’s the point of this pseudo-psychological magic if you can’t snap your fingers and have everything you need appear in a flash of green light?

(/sarcasm.  I’m actually completely in favour of deciding to do something and then doing it.  I’m less in favour of the idea that you only have to think it hard enough and the universe will do it for you.)

A very Morris week

I was very bad last Saturday and totally forgot to attend a chat for members of the Macaronis.  In my defence, my husband had come home with tickets to see the Demon Barber Roadshow, and after that everything else fled from my mind.

Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t look at this picture without a massive internal squee.  Is this not the coolest thing ever?

So at the prospect of a night in the theatre watching a roadshow based on a fusion of hip-hop, clog, rapper and morris dancing, I dropped everything and ran out, only regretting that I hadn’t taken time to change into my morris kit first.

This will give you a better idea than I can about what I saw

but it was indeed well worth all my enthusiasm, though I was a little disturbed by the fact that they made the morris dancers the bullying thugs of the dance world.  (Frankly they probably had to, since the morris jigs they wanted to show off are designed as a kind of male ritual display and challenge, where “I can leap higher than you,” stands in for “I can give you a good kicking.”)  The jigs were fantastic.  All the dancing was fantastic, as was the music, and I grinned until my cheeks hurt, and then I carried on grinning.

I wasn’t grinning this weekend, though, as – speaking of music – I had my first Coton dance out in which I was the lead musician.  For a while there I thought I was going to be the only musician, and I was petrified.

There’s a long story behind this that basically starts around this time last year when I picked up a pennywhistle for the first time and discovered that (unlike the recorder) the fingering was simple enough for me to remember. I’ve always wanted to play some kind of melody instrument, and through the years I’ve picked up all kinds of things to try and play them, and every time I’ve failed.  So basically I have never played anything (except the drums) before this year.

I practiced desultorily for most of the year.  Then at the beginning of this August my husband told me that Coton were desperate for musicians and wanted me to come along and learn their tunes.  Their practice season starts in September.  So I buckled down and practiced every day for a month, and by the time September came I was shakily OK in about 13 of Coton’s tunes.  Enough to tootle in the background while one of the established musicians did the heavy lifting of playing the tune repeatedly without any mistakes, keeping in sinc with the dancers, remembering where to speed up or slow down, and where the A and B parts come in.

Then one of the musicians left to have twins.  One fell off the stairs and broke her hand, and suddenly I was the only musician they had available to play for a paying gig.  No one really minds if you mess up a for-fun dance out in front of the local pub, but a dance out where the side is dancing in an arena in front of a crowd and getting paid for it is another matter.

Oh s**t! I thought, and made myself sick with nerves for about two weeks beforehand.  Fortunately, Joachim, one of the Riot’s musicians, volunteered to play too.  Unfortunately, he didn’t know any of the tunes, and though he picked them up enviably fast, it still left me with the responsibility of being the rock of the team – the one who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t mess up.

The day came.  I hyperventilated, my legs shook and my vision went weird.  To make matters worse, they couldn’t hear us, so someone stood beside me and held a microphone over the whistle – ensuring that every mistake would be amplified.  At the last moment we decided to do a dance Joachim hadn’t learned, so he gamely tried to pick it up as I went along – which was extremely distracting.  And in the one tune I was good at, the whistle clogged up with moisture and wouldn’t play.

It was a baptism of fire and I’m glad it’s over.  But I did it, and I did it in front of a paying audience who applauded at the end.  So I feel I can now officially call myself a musician.  Albeit only a folk one

Here is one of the tunes I played.  (Though not in this instance played by me.)  Just ignore those silly men in the background and concentrate on the whistle.  That’s what I do

Prospective dates for the Under the Hill duology

Woo!  I have a duology.  That sounds very fine.  Even better is the fact that I can now say that Under the Hill: Bombers’ Moon should be out in April 2012, followed in May 2012 by Under the Hill: Dogfighters.  I sent off the cover art sheets today, so it’s all beginning to feel a bit more real.

On the blogging front, I’ve been second guessing myself again recently.  One of my many problems is that I do have a tendency to follow advice, and in this case it has been the advice to think of my blog as a marketing tool and a way to build my authorial ‘brand’.  I read, all over the place, that should commit to updating it on a regular basis, and I should make sure I only put stuff up on it that reflected my brand.

The result of which was that I made a resolution to post once a week on a Monday.  And then I immediately couldn’t think of anything to blog about.  I have a group of interests that looks like a lotus flower, it’s got so many separate petals, but whereas all the things that interest me are united by virtue of interesting me, that’s about all the link there is.

I should (according to this advice)remember that I’m a m/m romance writer, and blog about m/m romance.  But that’s terribly limiting.  Besides, all my friends are writing about m/m romance, and covering all the topics I could possibly think about better than I could.  Also – to be frank – I find it easier to say what I want to say (if anything) by writing a story than I do by sitting down and attempting to analyse it in some kind of meta post.  I enjoy reading other people’s theories, but formulating my own feels like letting the genie out of the bottle.  That genie could have been powering a story instead.

I could write about writing – but what do I have to say that’s different from what everyone else is saying?  No one needs my inchoate thoughts when they could just buy a ‘how to’ book and get it all in one spot.

So I think I’m going to go back to posting whenever I like, about all the stuff that is irrelevant to my brand but interesting to myself.  Since my brand as an author is to be the author that I am, surely nothing I find interesting is irrelevant to it?  Even if it is Nazi talking dogs or Steampunk cell-phones.

A love v hate relationship with first drafts

I’ve finally got into the swing of writing The Pilgrims’ Tale this week, and my conflicting relationship with first drafts is out in full force.  On the one hand I’m full of excitement at the unplanned things my characters are doing and the ways in which they’re doing them.  Today, for example, I’m thinking “Ooh, Leofgar, you’re unexpectedly awesome, aren’t you?!”

Which is great.  But on the other hand, the other part of me is riding along going “for crying out loud, you’ve already used that simile fifteen times this paragraph.  And why is Wulfstan spouting all this pop psychology?  He’s not supposed to know this about himself until at least half way in.  And why have you left a potentially good cliffhanger in the middle of the chapter only to send them all shopping?  You’ve lost all your writing ability, haven’t you?  I kept telling you it would happen, but did you believe me?  Did you?”  And that’s very tiresome.

I think the main reason why I like doing the second draft better is that, when I’m editing, the second voice is usefully and happily doing its job, and not just hanging around like a ghost at the feast, yelling “boo!” and frightening the living daylights out of me.

Welcome to Kay Berrisford

Today I’m handing over my various blogs to Kay, whose debut novel Bound for the Forest came out yesterday, and is all lovely fresh and new   She’s talking about something dear to my heart, which is the link between Fantasy and Historical fiction, and how sometimes it can be difficult to tell which is which.  Over to you, Kay:

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Fantasizing about History: Bring on the Dragons!

I am a relative novice to fantasy fiction, although it is a genre I’ve loved all my life. I feel more at home in the world of historicals, having gobbled up everything from Umberto Eco to Sarah Waters and, of course, our own Alex Beecroft’s brilliant Age of Sail novels. But fantasy? Help! I’ve read the usual suspects, including Tolkien and Pratchett, and some great m/m fantasies and paranormals, but still feel I’ve hardly scratched the surface.

I always believed that if I ever got a book published it would be an historical. Yet when I finally sat down to write my first m/m romance, I could not keep fantasy at bay. I started off with a captain returning from the wars against Napoleon to reclaim his lost fortune. I ended up in the old English greenwood, a realm of fairies, green men, magic oaks and all kinds of rituals and sexual shenanigans that one would not have got away with in St James’s Park in 1817 (at least, not in daylight hours.)

After briefly pondering, I blamed history itself for my unlikely detour. English history, like all histories, is rich with tales of folklore and fantasy, with mythical and quasi-mythical heroes like Robin Hood and King Arthur. I’m far from the first to have utilized mythology to inspire my fantasies. Most famously, J.R.R. Tolkien drew upon his studies of Anglo-Saxon and Norse texts to inspire Middle Earth. And the reverse is also true. Quasi-fantastic stories passed on through oral or written culture have informed the writing of history itself. Think of Romulus and Remus, descended from gods and Homeric heroes, raised by a she-wolf and then proceeding to found Rome. The Arthurian legends, as we understand them today, were largely formulated by Malory (fifteenth century) and nineteenth-century romantics, but provide a powerful vision of early medieval England that influences many fictive romps. England was never like Camelot, but the fantasy has a history too and, maybe more significantly, it’s a fun place to be.

Of course, we cannot eschew research and simply make up everything we write about the past. But while we strive to avoid anachronisms, particularly those that throw a reader out of the story, the fantastical nature of so many historical sources presents us writers, like historians, with a far more exciting task than merely looking up “how life would have been.” As for bringing fantastical elements into historicals, one of the challenges is to consider how people in a specific time or place would react to extraordinary happenings. Would the Ancient Greeks have been any more shocked by a dragon soaring over the Acropolis than the scholars of eighteen-century Oxford would have been by a fire-breathing monster sweeping betwixt their dreaming spires? It’s a fun question to ponder.

So thinking upon the closeness of fantasy and history has made me realize that writing buccaneers besieged by mermen or steampunk Victoriana is neither wrong nor new. We’re just continuing a tradition that has its origins in the mists of time: fantasizing about the past.

My debut novel, Bound for the Forest, a historically-set fantasy, is out now, published by Loose Id.

Bound for the Forest.

Genres:  LGBT, nontraditional sexuality, historical, fantasy, paranormal, BDSM. Novel, 68000 words.
Blurb: Regency England. Ex-soldier Brien returns home to encounter Scarlet, a dashing young thief who steals more than he bargained for. In order to retrieve his family’s riches, Brien forces Scarlet to lead him deep into the Greenwood, a realm of magic, sex, bondage and blood where they must discover their true feelings for each other before the forest spirits enslave them both.

Extract

Scarlet slammed his fist onto the counter, knuckles clenched white. The jars clinked out a warning, and the captain closed in at his side. Brien touched Scarlet’s shoulder; despite himself, Scarlet felt his anger wane a little. He screwed his eyes tight. Brien’s heavy breath rustled the hair on his brow.

“Listen, Scarlet. I’ll tell you what you are. I’ve known it for some time now.”

He shuddered only slightly as Brien’s thumb traced the line of his cheekbone. “When…when you first saw me, you told me I was a pixie. But you meant that…as something dirty.”

“Maybe I did back then, but I don’t think so anymore. You’re a beautiful man, and you’re strong too.”

Brien’s hand slipped down to cup his face, and Scarlet’s eyes flew wide. He closed his fingers on top of Brien’s, but he could not bring himself to push him away. It had to be that natural draw between them that Arya had told him about, and damn it, Brien’s touch sent a flash of fire through his veins. “I’m not strong,” he stuttered. “I’m not like you.”

“I never said you were like me,” whispered Brien. “But you are strong. You fight hard, you’re as stubborn as steel, and it’s not magic that makes you so damned irresistible.”

“Irresistible? But…but I thought you wanted Urhelda?”

“No. You know as well as I that there is nothing between me and that girl that can ever compare to this.”

With that, if nothing else, Scarlet could not bring himself to argue. Brien’s breath scorched against his lips, his large frame cocooning tighter about Scarlet’s by the heartbeat. He could feel his body surrendering — and, so much worse, his mind. He wanted this so much.

“The spirits…are real.” Scarlet’s voice sounded strained. “How can you even question it? It is everything in this forest — and this thing between us. It’s…it’s the reason it’s so hard for me to fight this.”

“This is called attraction, Scarlet. This is about the pleasure of another person’s company, and about simply wanting to be together. This…is what’s real.”

Brien grasped him by the shoulders and shook him gently. Scarlet’s lips were already parted in a silent gasp when Brien plunged forward to claim them. The touch of his mouth was even more exhilarating than Scarlet recalled, his overpowering flavor spiced by the gin. Scarlet felt his senses lurch as he raised himself onto his toes, parting his lips wider and inviting Brien to intensify the kiss. Coarse stubble scraped his chin, and he dug his fingers into those broad, flexing shoulders. Yes, this is what they came here for.

Buy it now link: http://www.loose-id.com/Bound-for-the-Forest.aspx

For more info visit http://kayberrisford.com

Discounted books, music ramblings, guest post

So, I continue to phase in and out of life on line.  I’ve been avoiding the computer most of the summer, but I really ought not to just disappear like that, and this post is an attempt to come back.

(As an aside, I’ve seen advice on line saying “for God’s sake don’t start your posts with ‘so.’” However, Seamus Heaney translates the Saxon “Hwaet!” with which the Beowulf poet starts his epic not as “Listen!” but as “So…”  And I reckon that if it’s good enough for the Beowulf poet and for Seamus Heaney, it’s good enough for me.)

Part of the phasing out was down to frantic pennywhistle practicing (two or three hours a day).  I reaped the benefit of that yesterday when I made my debut as one of the Coton Morris Men’s musicians at the Thornham day of dance.  Fortunately I was not alone – I was accompanying one of their long term experienced musicians – but I didn’t disgrace myself, so I feel pretty accomplished about that.  Another year’s practice or more and I might be able to join in during the music session afterwards.

I was also dancing, so I was dressed in my Ely and Littleport Riot kit, but I’ve bought a black waistcoat for when I’m at events just as a member of Coton, and I’m scouring the charity shops for a pair of black (or white) jeans.  Two sides at once, who’d have thought it?

In slightly more relevant news to the world of m/m romance:

My books are apparently now available on Ebook Eros, and there’s a 20% discount on them for the next 30 days.  You have to enter Beecroft-eros-14534 at the checkout to take advantage of that.

And tune back in here on Wednesday, when I’ll be hosting Kay Berrisford, a great new m/m author who will be talking about the influence of British Folklore on Fantasy, and her new book, Bound for the Forest.

Welcome to Erik Orrantia

Today I’ve got the honour of handing my blog over to Erik, author of The Equinox Convergence and the Lambda Award winning Normal Miguel.  I was fortunate enough to read Normal Miguel when I did cover art for it – a gorgeous book, full of life and detail, and with a scene in it that made me weep tears of joy.  (If you know me, you know it takes a special writer to do that to me.)

Erik’s novels so far have been set in the vibrant setting of small town Mexico.  This being a blog read by people who are interested in history, I asked him to tell us some more about the history of that culture and what makes it so interesting to write about.  Here is what he said:

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From Province to Pages

Rumor has it that when Hernán Cortés demanded golden treasure from Moctezuma II in the early sixteenth century, the Aztec god-emperor brought him corn. I guess after crossing the Atlantic in his fleet of ships, Cortés didn’t have much of a sense of humor, though Moctezuma II wasn’t trying to be sarcastic—to the Aztecs, corn was a blessing from the gods. The Spaniards took him prisoner, burnt his feet, and about a year later killed him. The details of the preceding are still debated by historians, but whatever the case, an era of European colonization began, or perhaps more accurately European invasion, massacre, and plunder.

Cortés was followed shortly by a host of missionaries, pious and impious, including Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians, and Jesuits, purportedly to convert the millions of indigenous to Christianity—to save them. By about 1600, two thirds of the indigenous population were wiped out by disease such as smallpox, massacres, and forced labor. Not incidentally, gold and silver had been discovered, and the “modern” countries of Europe were in a sort of global competition of expansion. Hence, Spaniards poured into Mexico in large quantities at a rate proportional to the subsequent export from North America of gold, silver, and other precious minerals.

Six or seven hundred miles north of Mexico City where this story began, a Spanish conquistador by the name of Francisco de Ibarra settled a town 50 miles from the Pacific Ocean called El Fuerte, in the state of Sinaloa. At the time, however, it was known as the territory of the Tehueco and Zuaque indigenous tribes, fierce warriors who didn’t take kindly to squatters. For de Ibarra, the location presented an ideal location as the gateway to the vast territories of northern Mexico, California, and Arizona, and it sat at the foothills of the Sierra Madre west of what’s called the Copper Canyon. These days, it’s a popular tourist destination, but back then…well, let’s remember it wasn’t named the Copper Canyon simply for its yellow hue at sunset. In the canyon they met the slightly more docile people called the Tarahumara whom the Spaniards used as labor and eventually pushed off their lands and into the cliffs by the mid 17^th century. (You can see some photos and greater discussion on the Tarahumara on my blog, Building Up the Equinox.)

In previous blogs (see link directly above), I wrote extensively on some indigenous tribes that inspired an important part of my latest release, The Equinox Convergence(Etopia Press, 2011). A part I haven’t discussed in detail is the small, “colonial” town. One of the main characters, Bennie, is a young man from a town such as El Fuerte which I named Carritza. I took the liberty of placing the town much farther south near Acapulco, but in reality small towns such as El Fuerte dot the Mexican map at 50 or 100 mile intervals. Most of the travelers simply pass by, or maybe stop briefly for a bite to eat or to get some gasoline. But for true fans of genuine culture, this is where the metaphoric gems lie (the real gems were taken centuries ago).

Saunter down the cobblestone road, and walk into a mercado where fruit vendors peddle fresh stacks of mangos and papayas beside butchers who weigh out fresh chicken feet and cow heads by the kilo. Roadside restaurants serve home-style food at bars with rickety stools and the apron-wearing matron waves at teenagers passing by on their way to the local hangout. In El Fuerte, that means they’re going to La Plazuela, the town square, where the young and young-at-heart stroll the romantic walkways between hedges and old-time lampposts. They stop for a cup of corn loaded with butter, lemon, and chile sauce, or a plantain big enough to share, topped with brown sugar and served on a ruffled paper doily. A band plays in the large gazebo in the middle of the square, children hold balloons, and police stand outside the city hall across the street in a small circle—an old-fashioned chat. Stores and homes, painted in the traditional colonial style of white above and red below, line the roads, their tall wooden doors boasting the grand knockers and other antique features forged by blacksmiths a hundred years or more ago. In many ways, especially for a metropolitan guy like me, being there is like time travel.

The other aspect of the town is the warmth of the people. Unlike living in Tijuana where neighbors, usually people from random parts of the republic, hit the garage door remote before their car’s completely inside or slam the gate before you might get a glimpse of them, people in the province still wave hello, invite you inside, and offer you coffee and gossip. They probably figure they already know you—everyone knows everyone—or if they don’t, they figure they want to. Granted, people are now becoming a bit more wary as the Drug War is pushing the business and its concomitant violence into the outskirts of the formerly safe hubs. Luckily, the people haven’t yet gotten over their friendly nature, so the small towns haven’t lost their charm.

Soon I hope to be in El Fuerte again and see those colonial buildings, remnants of a sometimes unpleasant, sometimes prosperous past. I have to recall that the root of “colonial” is colony, or in other words, invasion. I also consider the struggle of the peasants in the various revolutions throughout Mexican history, and the unfortunate, upsetting plight of the indigenous. “Lo pasado pasado,” people say, “The past passed.” Many indigenous tribes now thrive and many aspects of the country are improving. I guess we say, “It is what it is.” Anyhow, my partner Francisco and I will be making the trip to El Fuerte for Christmas to visit his family in his hometown. Who knows what they’ll surprise me with this time? I’ll keep a notepad handy for book ideas. In the meantime, I hope you’ll visit my website, http://erikorrantia.com, leave your fingerprint there, and maybe get a chance to check out The Equinox Convergence or my other book, Normal Miguel(Cheyenne Publishing, 2010).

Salud, felicidad, y suerte!

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