The Last Song

"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

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.

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!

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...

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

"Solitude"

by K. W. 2011