The Wyvern's Lair - Katherine Wyvern's Blog

The darkness of a poet's heart

2012-02-16T10:23:00.000-08:00

A poet's heart - K.W. 2011

Once upon the time there lived inside a poet a bunch of little naughty poems.

They dwelled all together in a dark and secret place deep into the poet’s soul, where nobody could hurt them or make fun of them, but as they grew and grew they began to long to be out in the sunlight which they had only seen far up and away, through the pupils of the poet’s eyes.

And so it came to pass one day that the eldest, boldest poem, despite the poet’s warnings, escaped into the world and went to live alone in a far off place, where it thought it might meet its Muse one day.

It is not known if it ever met this Muse or not, but it had never much counted on it, because even a little poem knows that muses are touchy, aloof creatures. Still, the poem was happy to sit there in the wind and sun and meet people sometimes, and life in the open didn’t seem so dangerous after all.

And so one day another poem, the youngest and smallest poem, escaped too. It was a cheeky little verse with no shyness at all, and one day, lo and behold, the great Muse of All Poems picked it up, and patted it on the head and paid it a nice compliment.

Then there was great tumult in the poet’s soul, and all the poems rebelled and made a great mutiny, and some of them jumped off the poet’s walled heart and out into the wild world, because they thought that they had a better place to go.

But the Muse who had lured them out was not there to catch them when they fell, and they felt very silly and confused and a little bruised, and so, after a while, a bit shamefaced, one by one, they all quietly returned home.

And there they are to this day, huddling together in silence, safe and hidden, in the echoing darkness of the poet’s heart. And if ever they long to see the light of day, they only look at it from far, far away, through the skylit pupils of the poet’s eyes.

K.W. 2011

Happy Valentine!

2012-02-14T08:12:00.000-08:00

Valentine - K.W. 2012

"We picture love as heart-shaped because we do not know the shape of the soul. "

Robert Brault

Valentine is my Birthday!

2012-02-11T09:22:00.000-08:00

It is a well known fact that hobbits give presents away on their birthday.

A cursory examination of my person (ridiculously small, pixie ears, round nose, likes mushrooms, only furry feet missing) is proof of my Shire-ish origins. So here I am, looking forward to distribute presents on my birthday.

Leave a comment for a chance to get a free PDF copy of my book (the first chapter is there already).

And Happy Valentine!

-:-

BLACK CARNIVAL

To Frederick

Who sets the mood

Lights fires

And shares fantasies

“Chi semina spine non vada descalzo”

(He who sows thorns should not walk barefoot)

Ancient Venetian Inscription.

Chapter One

The text had appeared on my pocket-pad with a little mute buzz on a Monday morning, while I was, of all places, in Paul's office, at what I was pleased to call my part-time job. I was yawning. A scatter of printed garden plans was spread all over the large table with pencils, notes and plant catalogues scattered on top. Paul was drawing squiggles on one of the prints, which I knew represented, in his intentions, a rose bed.

"Pink roses here. And here. And all the way to here," he said, squiggling diligently all over a vast stretch of what had been a harmless lawn until then.

"You gotta be kidding me..." I said, surreptitiously reading my p-pad.

"What's wrong with pink roses?" he asked with a little frown, without looking up.

"Everything," I said in a moment of distraction; then I immediately recollected myself, slipped the p-pad into my pocket and turned back to our plans.

"Pink roses, excellent," I said with brittle cheerfulness, and he finally looked up at me.

"Are we having a communication problem here?" he asked.

"No, not at all! Please go on, I 'm listening."

Even if I was occasionally allowed to do some actual garden planning for particular customers, by far the bigger part of my job in Paul's firm was simply to translate his besquiggled print-outs into artsy, hand-drawn garden plans. These invariably sold his rather insipid projects to his befuddled customers, people who obviously had contrived to earn enough money to pay a landscape designer but were for some inexplicable reason unable to choose twenty plants on their own. Paul's business was pretty old-fashioned, his approach to garden planning cautious at best, and his clientele unimaginative in the extreme. Pink roses featured heavily in my life at that time.

It was hardly a very rewarding job for a twice-graduated art student with a secret longing for darkness and greatness, but art did not seem to pay bills for unconnected painters right then, and I needed to take whatever job I could get to make ends meet. I had spent the last three years after leaving the Academy drawing gardens for Paul and illustrations for gardening magazines.

I actually liked plants; they made good models which stayed put and did not complain of back-ache after posing for twenty minutes, but I was beginning to feel a certain obscure restlessness at the bottom of my soul. Paul wanted plain pastel drawings, claiming that his customers were intimidated by anything as artsy-fartsy as watercolors; the flower paintings had to be precise, unimaginative and rigorously, geometrically arranged on white backgrounds. It was hardly an artist’s life. The truth is that I was a true romantic at heart. What I wanted was a wilderness of free-flowing inspiration, untainted beauty, sublime, all-consuming passion. The whole Sturm und Drang program. Well, according to the text in my p-pad, all of that might be on the way for me.

"Friend of friend needs artsy pics 4 book on Black Carnival. Interested?"

Was I interested? Was I interested? As a matter of fact, I was so interested that in the haste to get down to business I stumbled on the doorstep and practically fell nose down in the cafe where Ray had invited me to meet his friend and his friend. Typically, my tightly packed portfolio broke open in the fall, scattering drawings all over the floor. Some of these were my best flower paintings, which I had brought to show off my technical prowess. Not the stiff illustrations I did for the magazine, but complex, multi-layered, softly lit paintings which I did for myself. Other drawings were of a different nature. When a helpful barman ran towards me to assist me in retrieving my scattered art-work, I blushed crimson and hastily stammered that no, I was perfectly all right, no need to bother, it would take me less than a minute to put everything back together. It was useless. In an untimely fit of chivalrous solicitude the barman, a young fellow with endearing puppy eyes, kneeled on the floor and began collecting sheets of paper from under tables and chairs. Then, excruciatingly, he slowed down, hesitated, stared and gasped. When finally he stood up to pass me the sheaf of papers that he had amassed, he was speechless and had a rather glassy expression in his eyes.

"Thank you, sir," I said with all the coolness I was capable of, and hastily stuffing my drawings back into the treacherous folder, I made towards my friend's table, at the back of the cafe.

"Spectacular entrance, Ivory! I am so proud of you!" Ray giggled idiotically and then proceeded to introduce me to his companions, named respectively Pierre and Angela. It was Angela that interested me.

She was a rather tall, elegant woman, probably in her fifties, with nice, almost formal manners, very short blond hair and a curiously hesitating way of speaking, as if she was always a bit uncertain of where her sentences would end up. Everything about her, in truth, had this quality of slight indecision. She wore tall heels, but her dress was rather demure, some truly nice jewelry but no perfume. It was difficult to imagine her writing books about anything, let alone the Black Carnival.

"So, my dear,” she said when I was settled, “I saw some of your work. Ray showed me. I like what I saw, or I would not be here, obviously. Did he tell you about my book, dear?" she asked, after Ray had strategically ordered me a stiff cocktail, at four in the afternoon.

"Only very generally. But I brought these."

I passed her my ruffled portfolio; Angela flipped over the flower pictures with barely a glance and concentrated on the other drawings.

"Oh dear!" she said, going from sheet to sheet. "How delightful... elegant, and sensitive, yes... you do have a talent. Your eye for the lines of the human body is quite exquisite, yes, yes... these are very, uh, classical, of course. You will need to, how shall I put it? Have you ever been to NeuVenedig, dear?"

I shook my head. How could anyone on a student budget travel to Cydonia, one of the farthest outposts of the Pan-Galactic Colonial Union? As a matter of fact, I had hardly ever travelled off-world at all. But I had seen pictures of course, both of the town and the Carnival, and I told her so.

"Well, you cannot illustrate my work unless you see the Carnival first hand. This is a bit of a pet project of mine. You need to capture the atmosphere of the place, the spirit... Money is not an issue. I have contacts and friends. There is some interest behind this, you know, collectors. Can you travel, dear, like, basically... now?"

I was taken aback. I had supposed that I would be asked to illustrate the book from photographs. Turning indifferent shots into nicely composed and rendered paintings was one of my favorite tricks. I could work with models, thanks to the years at the Academy, but it had not occurred to me that I would be requested to do so, or that I would be asked to travel to NeuVenedig in person.

"Er... I could, theoretically," I said. Then I began calculating travel time in my head, and I blushed again. "You really mean travel to NeuVenedig during the carnival?"

It was an idiotic question, but I suppose that my brain was momentarily whirring blankly in my head, lost in visions of... I swallowed and looked at Ray, pleading for help, wondering if this was a complicated joke of his.

"Well, when else, dear?" asked Angela. "I am really sorry about the short notice... I will tell you honestly that I had agreements with a different illustrator, but there has been a, uh, accident. I can hardly wait for four years till the next Carnival… I really, really need an artist now, sweetie."

"Listen," she said after a few seconds, "I need these illustrations to be something unique. I could have used photos, but anyone can do that nowadays. These..." she said, finally looking at some of the flower paintings. "I like the light of these the detail, the subtlety. I would love something like this, but, well, different subject of course..."

She shot me a significant look.

I was caught half way between incredulous happiness and unease. The unease was partly due to a sudden appalling attack of shyness, which I hastily proceeded to drown in my cocktail, and partly to practical considerations. There was my ridiculous but reliable job with Paul to begin with. And also something else.

"Um... I heard in the news that there is some unrest among those Sand Riders of theirs," I said.

"Oh, they won't bother you, my dear. The unrest, as you call it, is merely diplomatic talks, meetings and negotiations. The city is perfectly safe. I should know. I have friends there. Friends who would welcome you and show you around. You will like it, you'll see. You are not, uh, how shall I put it...?"

A moment of embarrassed silence followed until Ray smiled a dirty little smile and chortled.

"She'll manage just fine, Angela,” he said. “Just fine. You’ll see."

****

I landed on Cydonia exactly in the middle of the carnival festivities.

I left the D-Terminal under a pitch black sky full of unknown stars and travelled by speed-train to the station of NeuVenedig. The train crossed the lagoon in a blaze of white light, and the air shouldered aside by its lightning-like passage carved sharp ripples on the dark waters, as if my arrival had stirred the very sea with a whisper of great things to come. I smiled, despite the fatigue and dull headache from the D-Passage.

The station was packed with people travelling in from the Perimeter and clueless off-world tourists like me, all of us already masked but milling around, uncertain, like sumptuously decorated sheep.

Here I had the first impression of the Carnival, which was first of all a mass of bodies packed so tight that even moving a step in any direction was a serious undertaking. I crawled away from the platform, first with a feeble exhibition of good manners and then with a more and more determined application of elbows, slowly making my way towards the open, trying not to lose my little luggage in the press. Finally, after being nearly squeezed, punched and trampled to death half a dozen times, I got out or, to be exact, I was ejected from the crowd inside the doors into the slightly less packed crowd outside.

Under the unvarying dark sky, the old city was ablaze with light from millions of fire-bulbs, which tinged the ancient buildings with a flickering golden glow.

Between the station and the Canal, a packed crowd of masked revelers was moving slowly towards the Ponte degli Scalzi; the canal-side was a dazzling, swirling maelstrom of beauty. I smiled enraptured at every mask, every feathery, lacy wig and diadem that passed under my lofty look out at the top of the steps of the station.

I had hardly set foot into the city, and I was already drugged with the sensual beauty of the Carnival.

All but the drunkest wore furs and velvets to keep out the cold wind and the pale sand blowing in from the desert. Under the heavy cloaks, the finest laces, beads and pearls twinkled, shone and glittered at every step. Every cut of dress, every shape of mask and hairstyle, every manner of costume was represented in this magnificent free-flowing parade of sartorial skill, but all the costumes had one thing in common: they all were black, their somberness relieved by silver, gold, glittering gems and glimpses of silky bodies, white powdered hair, sparkling eyes, laughing mouths. Long slashes in the rich skirts and sleeves showed skin and shapes, veiling, unveiling, revealing, suggesting. The real carnival fineries would be uncovered more boldly in the sheltered porches, arcades and patios and in the echoing grand halls of the palaces of the old city.

The Grand Canal was a glittering river of reflected flames, a stream of liquid fire snaking across the town, carrying on its shimmering surface a harlequin flotilla of quiet power boats, gaudy lantern-dressed galleys, tiny sandolos, colorful racing caorlinas, fast, rakish viperas, heavy, slow barges full of luggage and merchandise, automated waterbuses packed with passengers. And, of course, shiny, black gondolas, with tall curvy prows and sterns, and nimble gondoliers who stood at their single oars waiting for passengers, or darted their long boats around with marvelous ability, turning in and out of narrow side-canals, cheerfully unconcerned by the throng of craft that crowded the water. The sharp steel figureheads of the gondolas often passed within an inch of the next boat, brushing but always avoiding by just a hairbreadth some disastrous collision.

The din was deafening.

I watched in wonder at the miracle in front of my eyes.

Old Earth was an abandoned wasteland, yet under this alien sky, between the desert and the polar seas, the glorious Republic of Saint Mark, the Serenissima, the Floating City of Masks, Queen of the Adriatic, Old Lady of the Lagoon, was alive again.

I made my way to the water front, crossing with enormous difficulty the almost solid current of human flesh and, with a good deal of screeching and waving, I finally managed to hail a boat, a small sandolo, not as glamorous as a gondola but sufficient for me and my meager belongings. I gave the boatman the cryptic address of Angela’s NeuVenedian friend, Mr. Lukan Løvensgård, and sat on my cushioned seat while the beauty of the old town unfolded in front of my eyes.

I was deposited on a small elegant landing, on a lesser canal, and directed to a narrow alley, or as the locals called it, calle. There was a painted wooden portal set deep into a tall wall. An ornate doorknocker activated a buzzer somewhere inside. I had hardly banged the knocker once when the portal silently opened, letting me into one of those unexpected hidden courtyards so common in NeuVenedig.

It was a roughly square, cloister-like, quiet space surrounded by window-pierced walls on three sides, with a porch on the fourth and over that a balustrade, and the main door to the house, accessible through the magnificent staircase that climbed up at a corner of the garden. The space in the middle was covered in perfectly swept pale flagstones. Spreading shadow-trees stood in beds dug at three corners, their leathery, purplish, palmate leaves curled tight under the long winter night. Tall desert laurels in carved planters lined the edge of the porch, their sharp, crystal-studded, carmine leaves glittering darkly in the light of the fire-bulbs. A gorgeous sculpted well-head stood in the middle. And nothing else. No pink roses, thank god. Indeed, the unusual light cycle of the NeuVenedian continent made gardening in the town a bit of a special challenge. The sparse local flora had been massively improved and genetically modified in the effort to create suitable garden plants and agricultural crops, and the results were, to say the least, bizarre. I walked across the courtyard and stepped up the staircase, on top of which the ornate door was already open.

A tall, straight, white-masked figure waited patiently just inside it. For a moment I thought it must be my host, but then something in his stance and dress told me he was more probably a butler of some kind, a sort of semi-mythical creature that I hadn’t met very often in my life.

"Hello," I said, approaching with some hesitation. "My name is Ivory Blake. I believe, er, I think Mr. Løvensgård is, er, he knows of my arrival?"

“Of course you are expected, Miss Blake," said the butler, with punctilious emphasis, as if somewhat disgusted by my imprecise command of basic everyday conversation. “Please come in. The maid will show you to the parlor. You may leave your luggage in the hallway.”

He pronounced the last sentence as if the idea of having my plebeian suitcase anywhere else in the house was an offensive prospect. I wondered if I was supposed to shack up in the courtyard, under the porch, or in the entrance. I was somewhat daunted by all this formality and by his mask, a menacing white bauta, the most unfriendly and least attractive of the traditional Carnival masks. However, Lukan Løvensgård was, according to Angela, one of the richest men in NeuVenedig and could hardly be expected to bestir himself to open doors and fetch suitcases for lowly guests of my sort.

The aforementioned maid emerged from the shadows in the corner of the entrance behind the butler, as if she had just walked out of the wall, and she beckoned to me mutely with her hand. She wore a plain black velvet mask without a mouth, a moretta, a mask, as I would afterward discover, held in place with a button held between the wearer’s teeth. I shuddered; the black, lipless face was creepy in the gloom.

I followed through a rather dark corridor with spot-lit artwork exposed in little niches in the walls; the maid walked too quickly for me to take in much detail. Finally I was silently shown into a beautiful hall.

Parlor was not in fact the word I would have chosen to describe the room, given its proportions. It was large enough to serve as a moderate ball room, with smooth pale wooden floors and dark slate-grey walls. The high ceiling, lit by soft hidden lights, seemed to float weightlessly over an extraordinary frieze of spotless white stucco. The architectural beauty of the room was such as to require no other décor, and the few pieces of furniture, a low but chunky crystal table, plain buff leather seats and sofas, a few lamps, were all as sober and unobtrusive as they could be.

Yet I immediately perceived that the room itself was nothing but a frame, a huge decorative frame to set off the largest art screen that I had ever seen in any private house. The sofa I was shown to was placed in front of it, at a perfect distance to appreciate the display. The room was dimly lit, just enough for ambiance and comfort, but it was awash with turquoise light from the screen, which was glowing faintly and seemed to draw the watcher into its watery depth by the sheer intensity of contrast between its vivid colors and its shadowy surroundings.

It was showing a magnificent painting the title of which, “The birth of Venus”, floated holografically in the foreground. A very classical choice of subject, I thought, but the artist had given the old mythical scene quite a new drift.

Instead of standing demurely on an improbable giant shell, covering her juicy bits modestly with her long hair, this Venus was being escorted or, to be precise, carried, through transparent foamy waves by a bevy of handsome mermaids and mermen, whose sinewy scaly tails shone and glittered in shades of teal and green, realistically distorted by the intervening water. Venus´ long auburn hair floated freely just under the surface of the waves, mingling with the sea foam. One mermaid held the apparently sleeping or unconscious Venus in her arms, looking down into her lovely face with the affectionate wonder of a nurse holding a newborn infant. The goddess was, in fact, not that young but still quite a bit younger than Venus was usually depicted, a girl on the very edge of womanhood: her small budding breasts pointed at the dark, stormy sky with tiny, tight, rosy nipples. Her lithe body was contoured by the lapping water, and exquisitely detailed water drops studded her unblemished skin. Another mermaid held up Venus´ left leg, the knee draped over her arm, providentially tipping the supine body of the goddess ever so slightly towards the onlooker. The right leg rested on the shoulder of a merman whose face rose out of the water just inches from the pale, fresh, perfectly bare sex of the sleeping girl. Its lips were impeccable in their lovely symmetry, lapped by sea water and foam; they had the tight fresh perfection of a dewy rose bud just unfolding to the first morning light, still night-cool and spangled with dew drops. The merman seemed to watch entranced; his dark hands lay wide open on the cusp of her lean thighs, stroking their soft skin and framing, as it were, the tender folds of her flesh with his palms and fingers. Only a moment of closer observation revealed that, just over the surface of the water, both his thumbs, side by side, were sunk deep into the girl’s narrow virginal slit. The face of the goddess looked supremely serene, almost blank; a sleeping child, but with the faintest shadow of a smile playing on her coral lips, dimpling ever so lightly her flawless peachy cheeks.

Despite all the drawing and painting of nude bodies I had done in the years at the Academy and since, I felt a blush rising to my face. The picture was so boldly conceived, elegantly composed and perfectly executed that I felt humbled by its mastery. The life size of the figures, the accuracy of the detail, the vividness of the colors, all made me feel as if I was intruding on some real life scene, and heaven knows the subject was provoking enough. Of course I knew that the picture was intended to provoke me, and I was determined not to take the bait, but the truth was that I felt a slick heaviness in my crotch just by staring at it.

That may be why, when a door opened at the far end of the room and steps resounded on the wooden floor, I jumped up with a guilty start, blushing violently. I turned round, feeling absolutely scarlet, while my host crossed the expanse of parquet in long quick strides and came to stand in front of me with a wide smile.

I was dumbfounded. His fame as an art collector, at least as reported by Angela, was such that I had imagined an ancient, venerable, patriarchal figure. The man in front of me, while not an extremely young man, could hardly have been older than forty or forty-five GSyears.

He was quite tall, slender as a whip, with nice long legs and a mass of very blond hair accurately brushed and tied back with a velvet bow. He wore a half mask of silk-embroidered black velvet edged with tiny jet beads, dark pants, shiny black half boots, and a flamboyant waistcoat, black silk embroidered in silver. His white shirt had puffy sleeves and a high collar, which seemed even higher because of the cravat wound around it, so arranged that not a glimpse of his throat could be seen. His light blue eyes looked almost colorless, framed by the dark mask. His skin was very pale, and he looked every bit as if he had just walked out of an old vampire book, except that his bright smile did not contain any pointy fangs. He wore thin leather gloves, dove grey with pearl white seams.

"Uh..." I said, undecided, "Mr Løvensgård?"

I extended my hand towards him, and he took it, turned it, brought it to his lips and gave it the shortest peck of a kiss. I just stood there blinking, dumbfounded by this completely unexpected way of greeting and by the exquisite softness of his gloves.

"Lukan, please," he said, gesturing to the sofa, were I sat abruptly, operated more by force of gravity than actual intention. His voice was a melodious purr that turned every word into a song.

"Well," he said, "I will have to complain to Angela. She just told me she was sending an artist. She did not say you were so young and so delightful. I have arranged lodgings for you which will grant you some privacy and independence. I regret that now."

He smiled again, and my silly heart fluttered. There, he had talked to me for less than thirty seconds, made me some insipid compliments, and I was already sold. Admittedly, I hadn't had a lover in a while. I had been too busy painting flowers and butterflies.

"I was not supposed to be here, actually," I said, trying to establish a professional tone in our exchange and failing. "There was another illustrator, but there was an accident, she told me, so she sent me instead."

"Well, what a blessed accident," he said, smiling. "Listen, my dear, if you are not very tired I will offer you lunch, walk you to your lodgings and show you the sights on the way. NeuVenedig is not large, but it’s amazingly easy to get lost. There are signs everywhere, but strangers just find them confusing. I am sorry about that. We are not assholes; it's just that this town is a mess. A delightful mess, of course."

He smiled at me again, and I nodded; to what exactly, I did not know. Just to his voice, probably. When he stood up and gestured me to follow him, I did so as meekly as a hypnotized lamb.

"Don't worry about your luggage," he said while walking out in the courtyard, after having picked up a coat and a walking cane, which he absolutely didn’t need. "You will find it waiting for you, unless you prefer to go by boat yourself of course. D-Passages can be exhausting, I realize that."

I hurried up behind him, squealing something to the general effect that I was perfectly rested and ready to go and do anything. He grinned, a cold, cynical and yet weirdly irresistible grin that left me melting behind my black half mask. Who is this guy? I thought. And how did Angela ever get involved with him?

In the next two hours, in a small, curiously old fashioned restaurant obviously not on the map of the reveling masses, I was fed like a princess on fried soft shelled crabs and steamed mussels, with dry, chilled white wine, smoked lamb and baby artichokes, with a robust red, and a delicious lemon sherbet steeped in vodka that, after the trip, the walk and the wine, left me half stunned but strangely happy. I was feeling dangerously light-headed when we left the restaurant, and it took me the entire walk to San Marco before the fumes of alcohol evaporated enough for me to look around.

The ancient majestic Piazza on the edge of the lagoon was a sea of revelers. Here were the most imposing costumes I had seen in the town. Human figures made huge by vast winged cloaks, tall head-dresses and fabulous feathery crowns seemed to sail over the packed crowds like black swans. But in truth nobody was sailing anywhere, because the throng was too packed even to walk. Crawling sideways through the press was all anyone could do. The quayside was alight with lanterns and shining fairy lights, and the moored galleys were all alive with parties on the decks. Here everyone wore masks, though not everyone wore clothes, but mostly they still had the good sense to keep their cloaks on against the chilly wind. I suspected that this might change later, at night.

We pushed our way over the worst of the crowd which was more or less stationed in the older part of the harbor and finally made it over the Ponte della Paglia, where the press seemed to be a bit thinner. On top of the bridge Lukan, who had been silent in the Piazza, where the din was simply too great for talking, gestured back towards San Marco.

“You must come in the morning if you want to see the palace and the cathedral. Hopeless after twelve.”

I nodded. He was fastidiously pulling back some locks of hair that had gone astray during the passage of the square and adjusting the embroidered wrists of his coat. He gave a vague wave towards the Bridge of Sighs, the Columns of San Marco and San Teodoro and the Campanile, clearly assuming that I knew already what was what and that there wasn’t any need to explain anything. He was only half right. I had hardly had time to really study maps and guides of NeuVenedig, and for the time being I was just lost in the general beauty of the place, unable to tell one magnificent building from the next.

As for him, he looked down a bit disgusted on the crowd in the Piazzetta. Later on I would learn he was mostly disgusted by having been squeezed, handled and fondled by half the revelers we had crossed on the way. Even in a mask and cloak his blond hair, elegant figure and pale eyes attracted quite a bit of attention, and he was a conspicuous target for many a roving hand in the crowd. I didn’t know at the time that it was quite a rare occurrence for him to cross San Marco during the height of the Carnival. The long walk along the Riva degli Schiavoni was easier; the crowd dwindled almost to nothing by the time we passed by the Arsenal, and the paved waterfront was empty when we reached the yacht quay. The solar yachts were a far more somber apparition than the galleys. Squatting silently under their solar shields, useless in this season, they waited for summer and the endless sunny day of NeuVenedig. Lukan walked up to a particular boat, which was moored far out towards the public gardens, almost at the eastern limit of the city. She was not very large, but not one of the smaller craft either. She looked like a true ship, at a time when yachts were often built to resemble something else: primitive rafts, sea animals, coral islands. This boat had a long, slender hull, black, with a long white stripe running its whole length, and golden scrollwork at the two ends. She had a luxurious yet rakish, fast look about her, like an old-fashioned clipper ship.

Lukan gave a crisp vocal command. “Alhambra, plank!” A gangplank shot out of the side towards the pier. He gestured me to follow him, and I stepped in awe on board the beautiful boat.

“This is mine. I don’t use it in winter obviously, but it should be comfortable enough for you, if you don’t mind the walk. You can always take a gondola to get home, if it’s too far. At least it’s quiet here. Sometimes I feel like moving in myself at this time of the year.”

He showed me around until I was speechless with wonder that I could spend six weeks in such spectacular accommodations. It was better than any luxury hotel, and indeed more private than the most private guest room.

“You must make yourself at home, Ivory, empty the galley, use the bar, the sauna, anything you need.” He waved his hand around absent-mindedly. “This is the Carnival. Feel free to bring guests.” He winked at me.

“Oh, and one last thing!” he said, on the way out. “I have a young friend, a girl about your age, whom you should meet. She will be delighted to show you around. She’s better company than I am. I will see that you two get together tomorrow or the day after, as soon as you are settled in. Have a good night’s sleep now. You’ll need to be rested before tasting the Carnival.”

He gave me a mischievous grin, kissed my hand, and with a last bow and flourish of his silver-headed walking cane, he walked out into the night.

Oh, she blushes!

2012-01-22T08:58:00.000-08:00

The city of Venice has been rebuilt on the far planet of Cydonia. Despite the uneasy presence of the mysterious, only part-human Sand Riders who roam the Cydonian deserts, The Black Carnival has become a celebration of beauty and lust known all over the Galaxy.

Ivory Blake, a young artist from the conservative Central Planets, is thrown in the middle of the festivities to illustrate a new book about the Black Carnival. As a guest of the glamorous art collector Lukan Løvensgård, her professional assignment quickly turns into a highly emotional exploration of sensuality in all its most varied aspects, from BDSM to romantic love, passing through obsession, fear, jealousy and passionate, tender complicity.

-:-

He laughed and lifted a hand to caress my chin. He brushed a strand of hair back, tucking it behind my ear, and then he put down his glass, brought both his hands behind my head and undid the lacing of my mask. I didn't say a thing. As the mask was taken from my face, I felt more naked than I had ever felt since coming to NeuVenedig, and yet I felt no uneasiness at all. If anything, I began to unwind and took a deep liberating breath. I smiled at Laz'law and shyly, lightly caressed the tiny scales on his cheekbones, the rougher, thicker scales on his eyebrows, the beautiful strange mask that could never be taken off.
"Lovely," said he and I at the same time, and we laughed.
"So beautiful," we said again absurdly, improbably, in unison.
It was uncanny. It was fantastic.
He grinned widely. I am sure that he had quite some practice at being adored. I was not used to be called beautiful; men in the Central Planets were too correct and formal, or, perhaps, just plain shy, for such wildly romantic statements. I had been called pretty, cute, sweet and even hot, but never beautiful. Obviously, I blushed.
Lune put two fingers around my chin to turn my face to him. He looked at me tenderly and softly kissed my temples, my eyebrows, my cheekbones, all those places that he had never seen before. I closed my eyes, smiling a small beatific smile as I went more or less limp in his arms. I heard them both laughing, but I didn't open my eyes.
Laz'law took the almost empty glass from my hand; I heard him getting up and walk off towards the bar, but by then Lune was kissing my mouth in intense, hot, tongue-and-teeth kisses, and I was quite distracted. I felt Laz'law sitting back on the sofa and lifting my skirt up. He took off my tall, soft suede boots and began caressing my knees, just under the edge of the skirt, then further up, running a flat warm palm along my legs. When his hand reached the naked skin of my thighs I shuddered with pleasure and finally broke the kiss, opening my eyes to look at him.
He smiled at me, and kept caressing me in flat even caresses as if savoring the smoothness of the silk stockings and of my skin. Lune looked at him with a curiously affectionate smile, and then he said to me, "Come here."
He pulled me to sit in his lap, and began kissing me again, running his searching lips on my mouth, my throat, my neck. I sighed, my head thrown back, quite abandoned in his arms, when I felt Laz'law standing up behind me. His warm hands began to massage my naked shoulders, as if to ease my nerves. I didn’t think I needed any easing, but his warm fingers seemed to unravel my back as if it had been knotted. I bent my head forward to invite his hands higher. He obliged; his palms rubbed warmly along my neck, crawled in circles on my skull, loosening my hair, then descended again. He caressed my tightly corseted breasts and sides. Then he lifted my hair out of the way and started kissing the nape of my neck and my spine, between my shoulder blades.
I was melting like chocolate.
I pressed my face in the curve of Lune’s throat, opening my lips to taste his skin. Laz’law kneeled on the carpet behind me, lifted the skirt up around my waist, and went on kissing his way down my back as his hands caressed my legs and then my buttocks. His breath puffed warm through the crisscrossing lacing of my corset, making me shiver in anticipation.
I think I could have gone on like that forever, but after a while Lune sat up and moved further back on the deep sofa.
“Turn,” he whispered, pushing and pulling me around until I turned in his lap and sat facing Laz’law, who smiled, running his hands lightly along the inside of my legs.
I relaxed against Lune’s body, my back on his chest. I parted my legs a bit, feeling wonderfully exposed, slutty and happy. Lune lowered the zipper of my corset and, as my breasts spilled out of their almost painful confinement, I sighed and put my arms up around his neck, turning his face down to mine, silently begging him to kiss me again.
He was more than willing to comply, and kissed me deeply, hotly, his lips covering mine entirely, his tongue lashing down my throat, circling in my mouth, searching and teasing, pinning my head irresistibly against his shoulder. He kissed in fierce, carnivorous kisses, in surprising, delightful contrast with the quiet courtesy of his manner and the sweetness of his smile.
One of his hands had taken hold of my left breast, and he was squeezing my nipple, softly at first and then harder, rolling the tender skin between his strong fingers until it almost hurt. He smoothly pushed his knees between mine, and spread my legs wide with his, opening me to Laz’law’s kisses. My breath was quick and shallow in his mouth.
I could feel Laz'law's rough, scaly, metal studded brows brushing on the skin of my thighs, his warm mouth open on the almost transparent lace of my panties. His tongue was even warmer, and he ran it flatly on the damp lace a few times before untying the two twin bows that tied the panties around my hips. When my sex was naked and open before him, I pushed it upward towards his face, with a tiny pleading moan. When he stooped forward, I began rocking against his rough chin; he laughed softly and started lapping me in brief quick laps, retreating out of my reach after each lap, until I strained and arched my back for more.
"What a hot little thing she is, indeed," he said, and Lune broke the kiss again to nod and laugh.
“Told you,” he said.
They both stared at me, and I suddenly felt somewhat self-conscious at the thought that they had been talking about me, although it was quite natural, I guess. I sat up a bit straighter, closing my legs somewhat. Laz'law smiled up at me, caressing my thighs, murmuring something unintelligible but soothing while kissing my knees apart again, but in that moment I felt Lune's hands gently pushing me off his lap. I stood up and he carefully unbuttoned my skirt, which slid down my hips with a silky rustle. I kicked it off, and Laz'law, still fully dressed, still on his knees on the carpet, pulled me toward him and pressed his mouth hard on my sex.
That is when the last of my shyness went overboard.

-:-

While dining out with a bunch of old friends in Italy some days ago, I was thoroughly interrogated about my book.

Smutty? Really smutty? But how smutty? Hints, innuendoes, allusive metaphors? Literal, descriptive, periphrastic, how much left to imagination?

They seemed to conclude that it was really, really smutty when I told them that Evernight had requested some more romance in the plot. Yep, that smutty.

I mention this conversation because in the middle of it the incredible, and, alas, inevitable, happened.

I blushed (much to the everlasting delight of my friends).

It is a sadly embarrassing trait of my personality that I share with the heroine of Black Carnival, Ivory.
Yep, here I am, writing the hottest romance you can wish for - and blushing. Why, why me? Why us?
Sometimes, while writing Black Carnival, I wondered if Ivory blushed too often. Whenever the question arose I tried to imagine myself in the same situation and quickly added a bit of heat around her ears.

It doesn’t matter what sort of stuff I write when the hormones are right, I am still ridiculously shy.
What a mess.

Ah well. Leave a comment below for a chance to win a free copy of the smutty book, and blush along with Ivory and me.

Winner will be annouced on January 26th!

Guest post and give-away with Lorraine Nelson!

2012-01-14T09:53:00.000-08:00

Lucas Manning, Sr. is married to Winnie, Roy Grayson's mother. Trouble ensues from the moment authorities arrest her son for stalking and terrorizing Lucas' daughter-in-law. Winnie feels guilty and withdraws from the Manning family. Suddenly a threatening phone call disturbs their lives even more as Winnie becomes a target. Can Lucas convince her of her worthiness and save their marriage? Or will danger and loyalty to her son drive a further wedge between them?

-:-

Excerpt.Trouble Brewing in Thunder Creek.doc

The warm water sluiced over their hot bodies in a rushing stream as they stood entwined in the tiny stall. Her kisses tasted like chocolate mint from the candy bars they’d snacked on earlier.

She poured a liberal amount of his shower gel into her palm. “Turn around.”

He did as requested, and she dutifully soaped his back. As her hands moved to soap his chest, she rubbed her breasts against him, and he shivered in response to the sensations rioting through his body. When her hands reached to soap his cock, he gasped, taking in a mouthful of water, which he promptly spewed out.

“Lady, you sure are full of surprises,” he said as he turned to face her, rinsing off under the spray before turning the taps off. He grabbed a towel and dried her body, his ministrations causing exquisite little moans to escape her lips. Quickly drying himself, he tossed the towel aside and wrapped an arm around her waist.

Side-by-side, they walked through to the bedroom where he could make love to her in comfort. He loved this woman. He’d shown her every day in every way he could, but the words themselves didn’t come easy, not since his first wife died and took a piece of his heart with her.

As they lay down, he cuddled close and worshipped her body with his hands and mouth, old memories pushed to the farthest recesses of his mind.

Her breasts spilled from his hands as he massaged their silky softness. “So damned soft. I could play with them all night long.”

She clutched his head urging him forward to taste her rosy buds. “Be my guest.”

He laved a tongue over a nipple, teasing before pulling it into his mouth, his hand pinching the other one. Her soft murmur of delight spurred him on. He let go of her breast, with a light bite, trailing kisses down over her abdomen to reach the honeyed prize nested in reddish curls. Her legs spread for him, the most feminine part of her open and waiting for his attention.

-:-

Hi all, so here I am today with Lorraine Nelson. After reading Zakia and the Cowboy, her first novel, I had a few questions to ask her! For one, I would like to know how the whole cowboy theme became so popular in Romance, because it is not something I would authomatically connect with the genre! (Admittedly the two heros in my own book are sort of cowboyish, they have horses and they roam in the desert (no cows!) so I can see part of the attraction. :-)

L.N. :Have you ever watched a John Wayne movie, Bonanza, or the Clint Eastwood westerns?

There’s just something so rugged and wild about a cowboy. They work hard, therefore muscular, giving the impression they could protect you from all harm. They’re seen as being honest, polite, gentlemanly…and boy, can they ride! Lol What’s not to like about a cowboy?

K.W. : I would love to know a bit about the general Cowboy romance strain, and more in specific how you came to write in it and if it relates to something in your life (my horsy theme is due to the fact that I live with a horse 24/7 for example).

L.N. :I’m not certain when cowboys came in to play with the romance theme, but I can certainly understand it. Cowboys are HOT! All that bare-chested muscle screaming to be touched and caressed. Cowboy boots, stetsons and leather chaps. Yummy!

K.W. : Why did you chose to write about cow-boys and ranch life? Is it something to do with your own life and experience?

L.N. : I have never lived on a ranch or owned a horse. My one attempt at riding had me falling off and I never tried again. They are beautiful animals and I love to watch them, but I make sure not to get too close. They are so much bigger than I am. LOL

My father was into westerns, Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey novels, John Wayne movies. I loved it all and I suppose my fascination with cowboys started way back then.

K.W. : And how were Zakia and the other characters in your books born?

At work one night, I came across the name Zakia and knew I’d use it in a book, but how? To me, it sounded western, although I don’t know why. I work at a call center and between calls, I started jotting down notes and, before I knew what was happening, Zakia and the Cowboy was born. I wrote it and finished two other novels during Nano 2009, clocking in 100,00+ words. This was the first book where I really got into ‘the zone’ and had the characters talk to me. Sounds strange, but true.

I’ve gotten to know and love my characters through writing The Thunder Creek Ranch series, am I’m thrilled that my writing serves to entertain so many people. Zakia and the Cowboy won TBR’s Book of the Month for December and, at the time of writing, is in the running for Book of the Year. I couldn’t be more pleased.

K.W. : Is there some place on the internet where we can see what you are up to?

L.N. :

Website – http://lorrainenelson.weebly.com

Blog – http://lorrainenelson.wordpress.com

Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/LorraineNelson.Author

Twitter - http://twitter.com/#!/lornelca

Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Lorraine-Nelson/e/B005XMAYFQ/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1/188-7193462-3918419

Goodreads - http://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

The Talent Cave - http://www.thetalentcave.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=82&itemid=4

Email – lorrainenelson_author@hotmail.com

Purchase links:

Evernight Publishing - http://www.evernightpublishing.com/

All Romance eBooks - http://www.allromanceebooks.com/storeSearch.html

Bookstrand - http://www.bookstrand.com/lorraine-nelson

Amazon - - http://www.amazon.com/Lorraine-Nelson/e/B005XMAYFQ/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1/188-7193462-3918419

Thank you for having me here today, Katherine! I’ve enjoyed it immensely.

K.W. : The pleasure was mine! Don’t forget to leave a comment with your email address for your chance to win a free download. Winner’s choice, Book 1, 2, or 3.

Worth his Freedom, a review

2012-01-02T02:29:00.000-08:00

"Miria, a young noblewoman on the cusp of an arranged marriage, meets the Ausir Tsalrin, her father's mysterious assassin, and sparks fly immediately. Tsalrin is trapped by an ancient curse, and Miria cannot escape her father or the husband to whom he would sell her, a man who sees her merely as a political tool. Miria and Tsalrin's position is impossible, but neither one will give up their hidden love. Theirs is a story of struggle against abuse, bigotry, and paterfamilias. Their love is both their greatest danger and their only comfort as they search for their mutual freedom."

I had been looking forward to read Worth His Freedom, by Adonis Devereux, since it made its first appearance in Litopia’s Bragging Writes. There were three things about it, all ceaselessly tickling my curiosity. First, the cover, hot yet really elegant; second, the fact that it was written in tandem by husband and wife, which looked like a truly remarkable feat to a loner (creatively speaking) like me; and third, that the husband half of the duo, a fellow Litopian, once threatened to whack my ass with a ruler, which seemed a delightfully auspicious way to start a friendship between, ahem, romance writers.

Ok, seriously, now.

The fact is that I was extremely curious to read into this completely original fantasy world, because I am a sucker for fantasy. I read more fantasy than romance, to be honest, and I was delighted that somebody had gone, invented a whole new universe and then set a romance novel in it. Maybe it’s just me, but I think this is a fantasy novel with strong (very strong) erotic-romance theme, not a romance novel with a fantasy setting. It completely transcends the romance genre (in all its multifarious sub-genres) because of the complexity and originality of its world, Gilalion. The only other romance novel with such a rich original universe that comes to my mind is Lauren’s P. Burka’s “Wishbone”.

Gilalion draws you in and make you want more. I want to know about Lorins’ magic, Nohrs and Wyrms. I want to know more about the Ausir wars and history. I want to see the Ausir cities. I want to know about the complicated customs and religion of Nirrion. I want to know about the geography and the languages and, and…

I loved that Nirrion is not a medieval empire, but even older, classical in fact. There’s reclining dinners and lyres. There’s temples and cleansing rituals. There’s also slavery and rather serious violence because Adonis Devereux does not pull punches (which is good).

Of course there is a love story. Now, as a writer of super-dissolute, multiple-partner erotica, I find some aspects of this love story a bit hard to bear. Not to put too fine a point to it, Tsalrin and Miria are a bit too obsessively jealous for my taste. Other than that, they are an engaging couple, and well deserving of the happy ending they get. Tsalrin is moody, dark and mysterious, as befits his role of cursed assassin. He is also however, a skilled artisan, which really raised my interest. It always bugs me when vampires, elves and immortals of various kinds waste away their long lives bemoaning their lonely lot and being generally miserable. If I were immortal (or going to live a few centuries at least) I would pick a hobby and get damn good at it. That’s what Tsalrin does, and it makes him a rare breed of sensible and sensitive creature. However, Miria is my favourite of the two, perhaps because one sees her growing up during the story and change from a tearful, soft girl into a seriously steely young woman.

There is of course sex, naughty wicked sex, because sex is a pretty pervasive aspect of the Nirrion society and all the characters are pretty uninhibited. There is more of it in the first half of the book, less in the second, where the plot takes precedence (it speaks for the quality of the plot and setting that I – smutty I - actually liked the second half of the book better than the first).

The style of the book was also a nice surprise in that it is written in a high, learned prose, which puts the antiquity and complexity of this world in even sharper relief. Sometimes I wished the dialogues were less formal, more actual, but it may have jarred with the style of the narrative, so perhaps it’s better this way. There are many many names of places, creatures and gods which create the strong impression of a native language (several languages, actually) different from ours. Some of these names are wonderfully musical and keep singing in my head. Elendrie, Nistaran. Silbrios (=Forest-of-Stars), Mirmanduil. Tsalrin, of course.

All in all I am pretty enchanted by this read, and wish Adonis and Devereux could be closeted in a tower somewhere, and chained to their desks, and forced (with a ruler, if necessary) to produce three mighty, red, leather-bound volumes of Gilalion tales.

If the Long Lost Volumes of Gilalion Lore cannot be produced, I will for the moment content myself with their new release, “Bride for the God-King”, which was published just a few days ago and is set in the same universe.

Worth his Freedom @ Evernight
Bride for the God-King @ Evernight

KW

Black Carnival is among us!

2011-12-30T05:27:00.000-08:00

Joy to the world, the day has come! Black Carnival is out and about!

Step into my world at Evernight (with hot excerpt):

Black Carnival at Evernight

Or on Amazon (with hot sample):

Black Carnival in Kindle Store

Please visit and comment on Adonis Devereux blog for an interview with yours truly (bows) and a chance to win a free copy of Black Carnival!
Boundless as the Sea

Release date - and a photo

2011-12-18T06:06:00.000-08:00

The Phoenix - K. W. 2011

I thought my Phoenix would add a sufficiently glorious touch to the announcement of Black Carnival's release date, 30th of December.

Stay tuned!

Portrait of Laz'law... almost

2011-12-04T00:06:00.000-08:00

"The dark, dark look" - K.W. 2011

There is a curious theory among some watercolourists that true black does not exist in nature and that therefore it is a mistake to use black in painting. While I was never very convinced by this theory (apart from anything else the existence of black pigments seems to me sufficient proof of the existence of the colour!) I was curious to see how dark you could go in watercolour without using true black.

This is my study in darkness, and it turned out a deal darker than I expected (or wished), in every way.

I do feel sometimes that I have only the barest control on my charachters, in writing and painting alike; I am not sure whether that is good or bad. (Laz'law is one of the main charachters in Black Carnival, and my personal favourite)

I am indebted to Flondo for the original photo this was copied from, and even for the edit of the photograph of the painting... what would I do without him?

http://www.zazzle.com/flondo+gifts

Edits

2011-12-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

Just finished the first edits on Black Carnival, and after a few clarifications among all parts involved on how to proceed, it seems to me that all went nice and smooth, not to mention tolerably painless. But then having broken both bones in my right arm without shedding a single tear, I may just have higher pain tolerance than generally supposed.

I realized while editing BC that the big edits, those that affect the structure of the novel, are a lot easier to accept than small things like the removal of a "fancy" speech tag. Maybe it's because the plot is done with the brain but the voice of the charachters in certain scenes is something that very much belongs into the guts and instinct of my writing self. Anyway. Evernight allowed me to save some of my fancy tag, for which I will be forever grateful. When Stacey's ok-mail came I went running through my horse's pasture waving my arms and singing "whispered, whispered, whispered!". The neighbours (and my horse) probably thought that I was insane. My husband, who knows me well, and bears all my rants with stoical fortitude, watched me for a while and then just asked: "Tags?"

Most of chapter 3 went out of the window, unregretted. It will surely reincarnate as a short story. The ending is more clearly happy, although some tears still flow. The heroine whines much less (even when gagged). The hero behaves and makes the necessary promise. Good boy. What days we live in, if it takes an editor to make heros behave!

Curiously enough, while trying to explain his aloof behaviour, a more obvious bond emerged between this book and its sequel, althought the story still stands alone.

In the meantime stories bubble up in my brain, some darker, some less. There are the Prequels to Black Carnival, a collection of short stories about the main charachters in the book. And of course White Sands, the sequel, which grows a bit, stops, grows a bit more, and stops again (mostly for lack of a convincing villain). There is the growing shadow of a Naughty Fairy Tale. Poems come and go, scattering stardust over all.
I am a slow writer and a hopeless pantser, which means that all these stories are stewing my brain to mush. But at least I entertain myself cheaply.

I am also doing a very minimal amount of reading. The bad thing about writing is that it makes it nearly impossible to read (at least for me). I am slowly enjoying Adonis Devereaux's Worth his Freedom, and the quite different Bound to be Free, mentioned in my last post. And occasionally I just need to "go home", and then sort out something by O'Brian, or Tolkien.

Serious research

2011-11-16T06:37:00.000-08:00

"... introductions began with an attractive young woman who said, "My name is Tracy and I'm into heavy pain, heavy humiliation, and I belong to John." The next woman, a pretty blonde, said, "My name is Gilda; I'm into heavy pain, heavy humiliation, and I belong to John." The next speaker was a short, middle-aged, bald black man who said, with a big smile: "I'm John." "

Charles Moser, Bound to be Free.

And while scribbling on in the New Book I came to wonder, what do guys wear when they ride, I mean I can wear anything, but then, I don't have balls... so after a bit of research I came across this funny thread where a fourteen years old boy had nearly gelded himself on the saddle when his horse unexpectedly went off at a canter. Various experienced riders suggested a jock strap or somewhat tight briefs to hold the package close to home, but concluded saying that in the end he'd have to stuff an hand down his pants occasionally to pull the good up. To which the young nearly-eunuch replied somewhat shocked, "I can't stuff a hand in my pants, my mom and girlfriend always come to see me riding!".

I don't know, but I never giggled so much while writing children books.

Baby Blues

2011-11-09T01:40:00.000-08:00

"Sunrise" (unfinished) - K.W. 2006

"All of a sudden, with the perfect clarity provided by half a bottle of Chianti, I can appreciate the whole anatomy of my loneliness. I finished my painting and I feel lost, empty. An orphan.

While I was painting it, every brush stroke had a story, every highlight, every shadow had a complicated but familiar identity... now, even now, and I finished the painting only this morning, everything is lost, confused in the harmonious whole of the finished picture, and everything looks farther away, colder, and I am immensely alone, separate, away from his skin and his life, on the wrong side of the frame... until this morning, I was there with him, in the painting, and without me, he would not have lived, all the shadows, all the highlights, all his destiny was in my hands, without me, he would have never lived, the painting breathed my breath, if I had died yesterday it would have died with me, if I died now, the painting would remain... our lives are not bound anymore.

I finished "Sharp Edge" and lost it.

I finished "Sharp Edge" and I will never LIVE it again.

I finished "Sharp Edge" and I am alone, alone, alone."

(From my journal, 2005)

I always have a terrific bout of depression whenever I finish any really heartfelt creative project, and I still have not quite recovered from finishing my last story ("Head-shy").

I feel as if my characters kicked me out of their world, ok, thank you, we don't need you anymore now, go play somewhere else. Assholes.

Dreamweaver

2011-11-06T01:55:00.000-07:00

"Dreamweaver", K.W. 2011

"He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie." ~Anais Nin

Book title giggles

2011-11-05T02:02:00.000-07:00

So, off I go to the Kindle store to see if I can download "Bound to be free: SM experience", and what I find is "Bound to be Free: Evangelical Catholic Engagements in Ecclesiology, Ethics and Ecumenism" (the second book is by far the most recent)... oh Lord, lmao!!

I wonder if the author of this thing ever bothered to google his chosen title before publishing or if he just found himself on the same Amazon page with the-really-naughty gang by surprise.

The Last Song

2011-10-31T04:59:00.000-07:00

"Running from you" K.W. 2011

"Listen now, please
Because this is the last song, my love
The last time I call your name to the shadows

I am going now, my love
I am walking now
While I still can
While I still can smile, my dear
It’s the last song, the last verse
The last time I whisper your skin to the falling dew

I sing this song quietly
Humming your heartbeat to the forest
Telling the trees of your eyes and your brows
I sing for the silent oaks the ballad of your hands
For the last time
I sing a caress through your shoulder blades
Down the length of your spine

There is no music but the wind through the leaves
But that is the harmony of your haunches
Of your hips
It’s the music of your cat-like feet
Of your forearms, of your collar-bones

I whistle to the stones and the winding path
A tune for your jaw-line
And one for your throat
A tune along the ripple of your ribcage
And a long tender one down and down
Where my desire and yours converge
Untouched

It is the last song, my love
The last lines
The last rhymes
Before nightfall claims my voice
Before love splits my heart
Before the wind stops the chant of your lips
To intone a dirge to my lost soul

As I walk softly into the gathering dusk
Threading the silent way of the forest
Past the split oak
Over the fallen pine that will never shiver again
Down the whispering fern glade
The quiet song I sing for your eyes
For your searing eyes, my dear
Is the last song, the very last

My love."

("The Last Song" by K.W. 2011)

About rejection blues and the need for perspective

2011-10-30T02:45:00.000-07:00

Some weeks ago, I finished my own edit of Black Carnival, at the same time as agents rejections for my other book, The Dragon Tree, slowly trickled in. My writing confidence flattened to an omelette by the rejections, despite the positive feedback from my beta readers, I took a solemn oath that I would never, ever submit my new novel to anybody. A-ny-bo-dy. Period. The world would have to live on as it could, scraping a sorry existence out of nothing, without the blessing of my scintillating prose. I was in a dead sulk.
Do you know these warty fishes that squat in the sand at the bottom of the sea, with a downturned mouth and a dead eye, looking like an inanimate weedy lump? Yep, something like that.

Luckily (?) I am blessed (?!) with a sort of multimedia creativity (one of my husband’s many nicknames for me is the Multitalentipuss) and I decided that since I was never, ever going to be a published author I could as well get my brushes out and do some painting. And in honour to both my unfortunate, tragically unwanted novels (did I mention that I was sulking?) I decided to paint The Dragon Lord. Dragon meets six pack, love sparks, HEA.

The Dragon Lord, K.W. 2011

And after spending three whole days away from the keyboard and the whole writing business and in the company of two such intriguing creatures, I suddenly emerged in the light of day a new animal, full of positive thoughts and energy. I blasted six paragraphs out of the Black Carnival query letter and synopsis, plonked the whole ms in an e-mail, sent it to Evernight, got accepted in four days, was on the author page in six, and voilà cover art is in, waiting for edits.
Dragon power! Attagirl! Sturm und Drang!

Mardi Reid, who is my 100% natural antidepressant, and who kindly let his gorgeous self be painted with my little green pet, is on Facebook, here:

Mardi Reid

Halloween special... or maybe not.

2011-10-29T07:44:00.000-07:00

I wanted to take some nice-naughty pictures today, I had a great plan in mind, really, black flowing robes and cloak, black hell hound and corset, but the truth is, I am too cold to saunter around the woods in skimpy blacks. So maybe not. We shall see. There's still an hour of light...

In other naughty-news, I just finished reading “Lorenzo il magnifico”, by Tristram La Roche.
It was amusing and slightly surreal to read a story of this sort set in Italy, my native country; one gets so used to fantasy, S/F or period settings that it is almost shocking to read a sort of erotica-in-your-backyard book. A very realistic Italy too, dirty and messy, complete with Vespas, Alfas, dangerous drivers and obnoxious dog poops. Some details were not quite believable, like the perfectly punctual train, but I am a forgiving creature and will let that pass.

I really enjoyed the style of this book, quite a lot grittier than most romance I ever read, and almost harsh in places, but in a very engaging way. There is a wicked sense of humour (more of it in the next book, please!), there is a bit of a creepy thriller, heroes are mortal men, beautifully flawed and realistically shy of their own tenderness, and whether or not you appreciate the pitilessly honest urban setting, and somehow unromantic characters, you cannot fail to be involved in Luke’s doubts, fears and eventual happiness. So, yes, very nice, although I would have cut the plot by a half and doubled the naughty (very tasty) bits. What can I say. I am just smutty like that.

Cover art!

2011-10-26T02:54:00.000-07:00

Black Carnival has a book cover!

The designer is Dara England, and the picure arrived fresh from the bakery, oh sorry, from Evernight, this very morning. I like that it is hot and tender, captures the atmosphere of the book, and some of the carachters' features, but without showing their faces. When it comes to smutty books, nothing puts me off more that seeing a face I don't like on the cover, yaikes. That's the end of all Romance for me (and some other readers as well, I guess).

Why not fairytales, said my mom...

2011-10-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

The thing is, I had been reading erotica for a years and came up with precious little that I *really* liked. Everything seemed to be either too graphic, or too plotty, or the charachters were too flat/unlikable/boring... there was some nice stuff, mind, but not enough.

The trouble is, I have a hard time with most heros. This is not a reflection on my writers colleagues, but on my own snotty tastes. It also had an influence on my marriage chances.

I am not particularly attracted by succesful CEOs in designer suits, to begin with. I tend to spill cocktails at party, that's the clown in me, I don't do it on purpose, I tumble nat'rally. That doesn't go down well with the well dressed sort. I like vampires, I still have posters of Lestat in my metaphorical lair, but there are just too many vampires around these days. They used to be rare mysterious people you had to hunt down for a hundred years, nowadays you can hardly set foot in a LIDL without finding the triple-vampire-offer-pack at 5.99 euro. You CAN get too much of a good thing, after all. Shape-shifters are all very good but I could like a hero that stays the same shape long enough to paint a portrait of him (I have this thing for painting, what can I say). Plus I have enough pets already shedding fur. And you never know what in the name of love they will shift to these days. Possum shifters have already been mentioned and will soon be released for real, I bet. Cowboys are a step in the right direction, but there is just so much cow smell I can tolerate on a man. Horse smell is all right, but I draw the line at cows. Honestly. And Anais Nin had too much plot. Heck if I want plot I'll read Dickens, better prose too. And Anne Rice had too much spanking. And, and, and...

So the voice in my head said: you are so freaking difficult, my lady, that you will go to the grave before you find any erotica to your taste.

I said, no it's not true. There is stuff I like out there, just not enough.

And the voice said: well, then, get your arse off the floor and write your own. Can't hear you whining about this any longer.

That's when you appreciate having a voice nattering at you in your head. Sometimes it comes up with a good notion. So I went, and wrote my own.

A place to be... me

2011-10-19T08:21:00.000-07:00

"Solitude"

by K. W. 2011