Breaking the Romance rules

Rules of Romance from someone who reads and observes.

How do I break them? Let me count the ways.

1) Characters so broke they manage to save $12 in two months of actively scrimping. (Shell-Shocked)

2) hmmm, kinda went for that: settle down marry the nice girl who loves you or run away with the circus and the incredibly dashing, completely insane Pain-King? My hero took the latter. (Alive on the Inside) Or, do your jail time, then keep your quiet job, your gray apartment and live as a drone or be swept away by the handsomest man in the world as a protege... (Nikolai)

3) Black vampire. Cherokee trucker. Barbados and Morocaan pirates. Werewolves of actual Rom descent. Greeks and Israeli and African characters as well. My books have gotten whiter in recent years. Get burned often enough and you quit taking chances.

4) My minorities are the protagonists sometimes. They do fall for white characters though... Oops. At least they angst about it.

5) Ooops. Did that twice. Little John and Bess (Marion's servant) were a sweet side romance in HEart of a Forest, but they absolutely got it on on-page. Paul and Aunt Prudence in "Cherry Tart" adhered to this, because of wordcount issues. The whole "Paul and Ulysses (our hero) have been screwing for 10 years" storyline got cut for the same reason.

6) Beautiful women do come in all shapes, sizes and AGES in my world. A late-thirties drag-king, a set of conjoined twins, a big butch trucker, an XY girl, a one-eye airship pirate, a mama-bear anthro, Medusa herself, they're all beautiful. Especially to the men and women who love them.

7) My men come in all shapes and sizes too. I like tall men, because I am tall. Flowing hair is a pain, but some of my men do wear it long. But I have men who are under 5'6" and get their loving too.

8) Female assage almost never happens in my books. My women tend to be supremely self-confident or utterly careless of their appearances.

9) Guilty.

10) Don't even start. I don't do "200 pages of smouldering tension as foreplay." I have stories that start with the line "Swallow it, boy." But yes, I have read the "smolder, sizzle, sizzle" and gone "Steak already dammit!"

11) Everyone's a pervert in my world. 8)

Creepy Song of the Day

Because it just isn't Halloween without it.

Halloween Goodies For You

Pumpkin Carols. Years ago, King Feature Syndicate put out halloween cards with these songs in them, from the Peanuts gang. I sang these in grade school.

Brain Spread:
1 can (10 3/4-ounce size) cream of mushroom soup
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
1 envelope (.25-ounce size) unflavored gelatin, softened in
1/4 cup water
1 bunch green onions, chopped
3 pounds cooked shrimp, coarsely chopped
OR
1 pound crab meat
1 cup mayonnaise
1 tablespoon lemon juice
Tabasco or Creole seasoning to taste

Directions:

Heat soup, undiluted, and mix in the cream cheese. Stir in softened gelatin and blend well.
Fold in remaining ingredients and pour into a lightly-oiled mold. Chill until firm and serve with your favorite crackers.

Peddling along

You have biked 390 miles.
You have passed Three Stone Trolls.
It is 8 miles to the next landmark.
You have 68 miles to reach Rivendell.

'There are trolls!' Pippin panted. 'Down in a clearing in the woods not far below. We got a sight of them through the tree-trunks. They are very large!'

http://www.barrowdowns.com/walktorivendell.php

Snippet of the Day

This is from Fruits of thine a work in progress.

Vince sat on a large rock, kicking his heels against it like a petulant schoolboy. He hated the woods, he hated outdoors and he loathed beyond all telling of it the “team building” and “corporate culture” exercises.

“What?” he demanded of a nearby song-sparrow. “Firing is too good for me, they have to put me through humiliation first?”

The bird sang, and hopped along the branch in his direction.

“Fine, fine, I'm going you territorial little squab. I hope you end up en brochette.”

He stomped off, not really caring where he was going. The woods were fenced in and the trails were all clearly marked and well lit. If he got lost it was less than three hours walk in any direction to the nearest perimeter.
The light filtered down, little bright coins and streaks on the forest floor. Vince found another rock to sit on, deeper in the shade. He sniffed. Something smelled very familiar.

Memories of summers sent to work on his uncle's dude ranch in Wyoming filled his head. He could almost see the big red barn with its white trim, the neat yellow farm house where his aunt and uncle lived. Behind the barn was a haystack where he'd given his first blow-job. He smiled at that memory. Another quiet boy, sent out to learn to be a man, Jenner? Justin? He couldn't remember anymore. All he remembered was big green eyes swimming behind thick glasses.

Vince listened, trying hear it. The purr of a distant tractor, a mouthy rooster. But the air sounded full of taunts. “Four eyed sissy” was the kindest. Some of the others, he clenched his fists against the onslaught of hateful words coming at him in cracking adolescent voices. He heard his own tongue, always fast and sharp, growing more and more acid with each summer until he shredded the self-image of his tormentors with a few well-chosen words.

He covered his ears and took a breath. New-mown hay, came to him, with turned earth from the garden, his own shed blood from the latest pounding, and animals.

That was what he smelled, horses, specifically fresh horse-shit. After six summers spent mucking out stalls, there was no mistaking the odor. He wondered if there was a bridle path and riding stable along with the other amenities. He could use some saddle time.

The little motel had proved to be nothing more than sleeping quarters. The beds were comfortable, all king-sized with pillow tops that were quite incongruous with the middle-century headboards and dressers. The bathrooms had all the modern amenities, including a shower massager that was positively sinful.

The conference had been the usual trust-building bullshit, the sort of thing he'd always excelled at without half trying. Hell, he'd run more than a few retreats of the sort. Now, he was here. He wasn't sure why. The official reason given was “to improve office morale.”

They could have fired him and improved it. Better, they could have fired that prick, Simon. Fred Simon had hated him from the first day on the job. Homophobic slurs in his hearing, nasty presents left on his desk. Vince had no intention of taking it lying down. He had unleashed full force of his tongue and the rumor mill on Simon. The man had been looking over his shoulder for the last two weeks and had begun scuttling as if afraid to be seen in the office.

Naturally, such behavior was not without its cost. But if that price was spending a week in the woods, Vince would pay it. He didn't go back in the closet for anyone.

Now, he heard the horse. It was coming at a easy canter, but didn't sound like it had a rider. Vince ducked behind the rock to get a better look.
He looked and looked. It wasn't everyday that he saw a centaur, after all.

The sorrel stallion cantered into view, his coppery coat shining. The man's long blond hair flowed down the back of his light tunic, matching the stallion's tail. He hesitated, sniffing the air.

“I smell you, human. Come out.”

Vince stepped out from behind the rock. He looked the centaur over and swallowed hard. He was even handsomer up close. The one-shoulder tunic left very little to the imagination.

“Why did you hide, human?”

“I heard your hooves, and they didn't sound heavy enough to have a rider. I didn't want to be trampled by a runaway or a feral horse.” He gave a small smile. “I got stepped on once as a kid. That was plenty.”

“So you know something of horses? That is a rarity in this time.”

“A little.” Vince shrugged. “So, uh, what are you doing here?” He couldn't believe his mouth had just asked that question. It felt as if his brain had been bypassed, because the brain was still shouting “centaur!” in tones normally reserved for the Second Coming, and his mouth was making small-talk without him.

“Corporate retreat,” the centaur said with a wry smile.

Vince stared. “Really? You too? I didn't know there were centaurs, much less that they got hired by corporations.”

“Let us begin again, human. I am Fraoulis Itiascolt. I serve as the Liaison of Investor Relations for CenMinElKor, based in Yna City.”

Vince thought for a minute, recalling his long disused Greek. He didn't smile as he realized his new acquaintance was named Strawberry. He put out his hand instead. “Vincent Holbrook, Human Resources for ConMalg in Memphis.”

“It is not racist to call it Human Resources instead of Personnel?” Fraoulis shook his hand.

“Not when all we ever have apply are humans.” Vince caught himself looking at the strong withers and glossy hide. He gave up and sighed. “I would love to curry you, handsome.”

Fraoulis just smiled. “You are direct.”

“Never know what you'll get unless you ask for it.” Vince laid a hand on Fraoulis' side and stroked him. “And you are about the most amazing thing I've ever seen.”

“Then it is well that I like men and women in equal parts, is it not?”

Vince just swallowed and stepped closer. Something on Fraoulis' body beeped. Fraoulis looked at the brooch that held the single shoulder of his tunic.

“Vincent, I am sorry. We must continue this tomorrow. I will be late for my afternoon workshop on Hostages, Murder and other Negotiation Tactics. Meet me here tomorrow, right after breakfast.”

To Vince's surprise, the centaur leaned down and kissed him, a bare brush of lips before galloping off. He stared down the path for a long time, feeling the tingle on his lips from Fraoulis' kiss and considering what Fraoulis' world must be like to have that sort of workshop.

His own phone beeped its warning alarm, telling him he was going to be late for Communication and Personnel. He headed down to the conference center, wondering which room the centaurs held their meetings in.

Extra snippet

This is the opening of Hot Delta Nights a D.J. Admire novel.

“Hey Deej!”

I took the bottle of Captain Morgan out of my desk drawer. My cousin, Jinx, plopped into the chair opposite my desk.

“I got a hot date tonight.”

He was practically bouncing. I poured two fingers of rum into the coffee cup. Just as I was taking a drink the little bastard piped up, “Deej, do sookies have fuzzies?

Captain Morgan in the sinuses hurts.

“Jinx,” I said carefully, setting the coffee cup back down on the desk and picking up the bottle again, “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that bit of trivia about your sex life. In fact, I'm going to pretend you never walked into my office today at all. When I lower the cup, you had better be gone. And not to Hellzapoppin.”

I poured three fingers more and drank it nice and slow. I lowered the cup. Jinx was still there.

“Deej-”

“Call me that again and I shoot you.”

“Sorry. D.J., where's a good place to take a girl for a nice date?”

“With your finances, Arby's is upscale.”

Your Samhain Sermon

It's Samhain again.

The Sun lies abed until nearly seven, where I am, and he retires earlier each evening. And he'll be lazier and lazier until the Solstice. I think it's because he's not himself, but rather a ghost, haunting us until his rebirth.

The trees are orange and yellow and red. Some are still deep green, others are nearly bare. Rough Brother North Wind shakes and rattles and does his best to strip them bare so he can dance among their nakedness.

The garden is still putting out cherry tomatoes and carrots. I expect we'll see a couple until Thanksgiving, but everything else has died. Time to mow it off and prepare for next year.

The wheel has turned decisively to Night. Mother Night spreads her long hair, all the stars caught in it like cold diamonds. Orion hunts his way across the sky, with his faithful hounds at his heels.

Cernunnos hunts the night sky tonight. Astride his jet black steed, his huntsmen likewise on horses or he-goats, accompanied by black dogs with eyes like saucers, he hunts the souls of the dead that have gone wandering in this last year. None see him pass in safety, and mortals may be taken along to the Land of the Dead.

For tonight, the walls between the worlds are thin. The living cross more easily, and our beloved dead return to remind us that they do not forget us so we should not forgeth them. As a pagan prayer for the dying says "We are here and the beloved dead await. Go from love into love."

Darkness and Love.
The Wheel Turns.