Some Days Are Good Days

DOMA was struck down today. It was ruled unconstitutional. When I called my mother to give her the news, she started to cry. My mother who has stood witness to the women’s liberation movement of the 70’s, who marched in Alabama. Who headed committees in high school to ban segregation. She cried because she got to bare witness to the Supreme Court “No, you can’t treat her gay son like that."

Last night I watched as Senator Wendy Davis and all those supporting her fought to protect their people from some objective form of morality. I watched live streaming through my computer as an entire court room audience made certain the world heard their voices. 

And today, today it feels good to be apart of a democracy. It feels like we’ve just taken a collective step forward. For women. For the LGBTQ Community. For everyone. And yes there are still battles to be fought, the war is far from over. But we won these battles. And we still have a lot to fix (the voting rights act SNAFU for one); but today, today I am celebrating the wins. Not because the loses are any less important, but because the victories, however small, are proof we can eventually win. And that is worth celebrating, that is worth remembering.

Why Romance is Like a Cheeseburger

Hello, Fearless Readers! I know I have been a very quiet around these parts. I apologize. If you've been keeping up with my twitter (@Dean_Ocean  and @Dogitmayconcern) you would know I've been recovering from surgery. And there were some complications. I am going to be fine and dandy soon enough, but the recovery is slow going. And because I'm too stoned on pain medication to be much good as a writer (or blogger) I have coerced people to write posts for me. Really it was more like "Hey Gus, wanna guest blog?" And it was on. So with out further interruption and mindless rambling from yours truely, Gus explains to us why Romance is like a Cheeseburger. While he does that, I am going to get something to eat because a cheeseburger sounds delicious...

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WHY ROMANCE IS LIKE A CHEESEBURGER 

Hello readers! I’m Augusta Li, or Gus, hoping to entertain you with a guest post. Thanks to Dean for letting me take over for a bit. Today I’m going to talk about expectations and tropes particular to different genres of literature, and how much authors should adhere to them. And food. Please feel free to comment and offer your opinion. I would love to know how readers feel.

Readers come to every genre with a set of expectations, usually developed from reading other books in the genre. For example, most readers who pick up a romance novel are looking for a love story, obviously. But they expect more than that. Usually, they are anticipating some tension between the protagonists, some obstacles along the way, internal and maybe a bit of external conflict, all culminating in a happily ever after in which two people forge a bond of love and trust and plan to journey through life supporting one another. This formula has worked well for a long time, and some (though not all) readers can be disappointed if an author strays too far from it. Romance is one of the few genres where the author must divulge their conclusion if it’s something other than what’s expected. After all, mysteries and crime novels aren’t required to come with a warning if the ending is less than a fairy tale.

I’m not saying this is a bad thing. When you purchase something, you expect to receive the item you were told you’d get, within reason. Say you go into a diner and order a cheeseburger. You expect a meat patty, bun, and cheese at the minimum. Are you outraged if you get cheddar cheese instead of American? Probably not. A slightly different style of roll? It’s still a cheeseburger, still basically what you thought you’d get when you ordered. Now, if you order a cheeseburger and get spaghetti and meatballs, well… you have every right to be a bit cross.

There’s a lot you can do with the humble cheeseburger, though. Creative chefs have imagined infinite variations on the classic formula, and if you stay away from the fast-food chains, you’ll likely have a different burger at every establishment you visit. You’ll get your meat, cheese, and roll, but it’s what the chef chooses to add that can make that sandwich phenomenal, or… completely disgusting. Sometimes the smallest addition can take it from ordinary to extraordinary. As with most things, taking bigger risks will either succeed phenomenally or fail spectacularly. 

 

So, my metaphor is food-based. Go figure. I swear I didn’t plan it that way. But I truly see the romance genre like a cheeseburger. You start with those three basic components—meat, bread, and cheese—or, two protagonists attracted to each other, some conflict, and a happy ending—and build from there. Sure, you can stay pretty true to the original formula and end up with something pretty damned delicious. With some attention to detail—the right seasonings, fresh bread, a fat, juicy slice of tomato—it gets even better. What about some roasted red peppers, caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, and an artisan mustard? The possibilities are endless and limited only by the creativity of the cook—or author.

How would you feel about a slice of avocado on that burger? Wasabi mayonnaise? Hummus? Kim-chee? What if the burger isn’t beef, but turkey or salmon? How about buffalo? Kangaroo? When does it stop being a cheeseburger and transform into something else? Just how far can one deviate from the meat/cheese/bread formula and still be justified in offering their creation as a cheeseburger? I think there are a few factors.

First, the chef (or author). If you bite into it and it’s so amazingly delicious it completely blows your mind, you’ll probably like it, right? Even if it’s a little, or maybe a lot, different than what you’re used to. Likewise, if you put down a book that’s so well-crafted you miss it instantly and the characters stay in your thoughts long after, you may not mind a small swerve off the established path. This is all in the hands of the creator. I’m sure somewhere in the world there’s a master chef who can make a cheeseburger with peanut butter on it and make it scrumptious (Thai-style, maybe?) Can most of us pull it off? Probably not. But does that mean we shouldn’t try? No guts, no glory, but on the other hand, we don’t need anyone throwing up. It’s a fine line.

Secondly, of course, the reader and his or her preference. Some people just want McDonald’s, want to know exactly what they’re getting and that it will be relatively uniform each time. Nothing wrong with that. They read/eat for a familiar, comforting experience—one they can trust to give them exactly what they’re looking for. Then there are the foodies who go in search of the warthog burger. They want something completely different, and they’re willing to risk it being unrecognizable (and maybe awful). And there’s everything in between, the whole spectrum. I’m a reader who enjoys both. Sometimes I’m in the mood for something bizarre, and I take a chance. Ebooks are pretty inexpensive, so if I have to spit it out, I don’t feel like I’ve lost much. But then there are those days when I just want a Happy Meal: simple, maybe a little predictable, but it hits just the right spot sometimes. Most often, I land in the middle: a lean, juicy burger, hand-seasoned, a fresh roll, mushrooms, swiss, onions, pesto-mayonnaise. Made with love. That’s what I really look for.

What about you? What’s your favorite burger? How far are you willing to step outside the box? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever tried (food or book) and was it a rewarding experience? Are you a Burger King person or an alligator-burger person, and why? Or does it all depend on the talent of the person who made it?

Thanks for reading and sharing. I’ll leave you with the blurb and an excerpt from my most recent novel, Ice and Embers, the sequel to Ash and Echoes. If I have to guess, on the burger scale, it falls somewhere in the middle with a slight leaning toward foodie-weird. No peanut butter though.

Blurb:

go buy this! Support the poor and
starving artists of the world!

Despite their disparate natures, Yarrow, Duncan, and Sasha united against overwhelming odds to save Prince Garith’s life. Now Garith is king and the three friends may be facing their undoing.

Distraught over Yarrow’s departure to find the cure to his magical affliction, Duncan struggles with his new role as Bairn of Windwake, a realm left bankrupt by his predecessor. Many of Duncan’s vassals conspire against him, and Sasha’s unorthodox solutions to Duncan’s problem have earned them the contempt of Garith’s nobles.
When word reaches Duncan and Sasha that Yarrow is in danger, they want nothing more than to rush to his aid. But Duncan’s absence could tip Windwake into the hands of his enemies. In addition, a near-mythic order of assassins wants Sasha dead. Without Yarrow, Duncan and Sasha can’t take the fight to the assassins. They are stuck, entangled in a political world they don’t understand. But finding Yarrow may cause more problems, and with his court divided, King Garith must strike a balance between supporting his friends and assuaging the nobles who want Duncan punished—and Sasha executed.

 

Excerpt:

THE bairn of Windwake cast off his golden ceremonial cloak emblazoned with the crag eagle livery and let it fall heavily to the stone floor of his chambers. Duncan collapsed into an upholstered chair by the inglenook and rubbed his forehead. The fire had long ago diminished to embers, leaving the expansive suite dark and chill on this early spring night. Ruling Windwake had turned out nothing like he’d imagined, and the stresses of yet another day of listening to the demands of squabbling nobles wore on him. When Duncan had been granted his lands and title, he’d anticipated protecting and providing for his people, much as he’d done when he’d been a knight. The reality clashed hard against his expectations. He’d rather face an entire field of soldiers than those nattering, duplicitous aristocrats any day. At least men with swords were honest about wanting to destroy him, and he knew how to counter them.

Duncan had no sooner let his eyes fall shut and his head rest against the padded velvet of the chair when he heard a sound, even softer than the flutter of a night bird’s wings, on the balcony opposite his hearth. He tensed, his exhaustion replaced by alertness. Many of his vassals couldn’t be trusted; he found them avaricious, their only loyalty to their own treasuries. Some of them still owed fealty to Taran Edercrest, the traitor whose mantle Duncan had assumed after the man’s death in a failed attempt to overthrow Selindria’s true king. Duncan knew at least a few of the backstabbing nobles might stoop to murder if they could profit from it. He crept as quietly as he could to the weapons stand and picked up his greatsword. He held it in both hands as he approached the balcony, ready to defend himself.

With the sole of his boot, Duncan nudged the wooden double doors, and they swung open with a rasp and a groan. The red-tinged crescent moon provided little light as he glanced from one end of the parapet to the other. Nothing moved except a few leaves tumbling across the stone in the light breeze. Duncan blinked hard as sweat dripped into his eyes. He knew he’d heard something, but now he wondered if the combination of his weariness and the ever-present threat of treachery toyed with his mind. He’d never been a paranoid man, but as he stood looking out from the western side of Windust Castle, over the deep, round Barrier Bay, sheltered on three sides by high cliffs, he heard nothing but the gentle lap of the waves against the strong, gray ironstone that made up so much of Windwake. On a clear day, Duncan could see almost to the southern shore of Lockhaven from this balcony, but the gloom of the night and the chill mist rising from the water restricted his vision to the dozens of ships huddled close to the shore, bobbing gently on the calm tide.

“You should be more careful.”

Duncan started and turned toward the low, velvety voice. He scanned the shadows but couldn’t locate the speaker. Then, at the opposite end of the terrace, a sliver of shade separated from the wall, and a lithe silhouette tiptoed along the thin, stone railing before leaping down in front of Duncan without even disturbing the leaves. His boots met the stone silently, and the leather armor he wore didn’t even creak or rustle.

Duncan blew out an extended breath and lowered his weapon. “Goddesses, Sasha. Why must you sneak around like that? I could have cut you in two before I recognized you.”

Sasha answered with a sensuous laugh devoid of any genuine amusement. “I don’t think you could have.”

“Perhaps not,” Duncan conceded, his happiness at his lover’s return trumping his slight annoyance. Besides, he knew Sasha spoke not out of arrogance but simply stated the truth. Sasha had been trained by a cult of assassins so legendary and feared most doubted they even existed. The Order of the Crimson Scythe held mythical status throughout Selindria and Gaeltheon, and Duncan had witnessed Sasha’s lethal skill on more than one occasion. If he’d been inclined, Sasha could have cut Duncan’s throat while Duncan stood watching the boats like a dull-witted child.

Sasha’s training was also responsible for what Duncan saw when he stepped closer to his partner: a face that, while exotically beautiful, betrayed no hint of emotion. Shrewd, black eyes offered no clue of the intentions behind them. Though they hadn’t seen each other in weeks, Duncan looked into the cold face of a killer, not the warm smile of a lover. He tried, unsuccessfully, to staunch the hurt by reminding himself Sasha had been taught almost since birth not to feel love or attachment, let alone show evidence of what he’d been told was weakness.

Duncan reached up and stroked the soft, black hair that fell to Sasha’s slender shoulders. Sasha batted his long, thick lashes and smiled mischievously. He had the most amazing, full, dark lips Duncan had ever seen, and the sight of them curling up and parting slightly sent a tremor of desire down Duncan’s spine. He hoped Sasha showed sincere pleasure at his touch, as much pleasure as he experienced feeling the smooth skin of Sasha’s cheek again after what seemed like forever. Sasha had no reason to perform with Duncan, but Duncan knew old habits held on tenaciously sometimes, like a cough that lingered after the fever had passed.

“I missed you,” he said, pressing a kiss to Sasha’s forehead. “But you could try using the front gate like a normal man. Or are you trying to impress me?”

Sasha curled his body against Duncan and brushed their bellies together. He rubbed his face against Duncan’s whiskers and whispered close to his ear. “Did it work?”

Duncan glanced over the railing at the sheer, four-story drop to the sharp rocks surrounding the fortress. A wide gravel road wound out around those cliffs from the docks to the gate at the southern wall, on the opposite side of the fortress. Aside from that entrance, Windust was virtually impenetrable. “I suppose it did. Did your—” Duncan still felt uncomfortable discussing Sasha’s work. “Were you successful?”

Sasha snorted as if insulted and crossed his arms over his slim chest. His devastating smile widened. “Pym Goodsal and his associates will cause no more trouble for your friend Garith.”

“His Majesty will be pleased,” Duncan said, taking Sasha’s gloved hand, careful of the thin blades hidden at his wrists and the razor-like spikes over his knuckles, and leading him inside.

Sasha shrugged. “So long as he produces the agreed-upon gold.”

Duncan almost asked what Sasha would do if Garith, High King of Selindria and Gaeltheon, the largest and most powerful kingdom in the known world, withheld the payment. He thought better of it, though, and went instead to add logs to the fire and stir up the coals. By now, Duncan knew Sasha regarded a prince and a beggar alike only as men who bled and died for his Cast-Down god.

Sasha removed his gloves, loosening the buckles and then tugging them off one finger at a time, while Duncan poked at the ashes in the hearth. Sasha unbuckled the belts over his hips that held daggers and pouches likely full of poisons, and then he unfastened the strap crossing his chest, along with the weapons it held, and let it drop onto a wooden bench. Sasha effortlessly disarmed himself in absolute silence. Duncan admired Sasha’s grace and fluidity of movement from the corner of his eye as he tended the fire. The room soon glowed warm and bright as the flames flickered and grew. Orange light reflected off the snug, deep-red leather wrapping Sasha’s slender limbs and made shadows dance across his face. The fire couldn’t melt the icy mask the assassin wore, but Duncan knew what might. He replaced the iron poker and crossed the room to Sasha, who stood only a few feet from the balcony door, as if waiting to be invited inside, seemingly unsure of his welcome.

Duncan curled his big hands around Sasha’s waist, almost encircling it. He drew Sasha’s chest against his, rubbed his palm up Sasha’s back to his neck, and guided Sasha’s head to his shoulder. Burying his face in the top of Sasha’s hair, he inhaled the spicy fragrance that almost masked the scents of leather, steel, and blood. “Sasha, this is your home as much as mine. I wouldn’t have any of it if it hadn’t been for you. You don’t have to enter it in secret.”

Sasha laughed icily, but his lips and nose felt warm as he nuzzled against Duncan’s neck. The tickle of his breath against Duncan’s dampening skin when he spoke made Duncan shudder. “So, you’d parade me before your nobles and officials? Claim me as part of your household, as your friend?”

You can Reach August Li at the following Interslice locations:

Gus's blog of lemony Goodness!
Gus on Facebook
Books by Eon and Gus, Website

Have an excerpt!

This is from a much larger work (that's boardering on Epic in it's length). The title is A Darker Grey. But that may have to change because of all the 50 Shades nonsense. Even though ADG predates 50 Shades by several years (hell it even predates Twilight.) It even predates Werewolves of Portland. Though only in execution, the concept for WoP was developed over ten years ago. Anyway have some words:


(please note this is completely raw, unedited, unrefined...)

“Dear Luna, what have you done to my truck?” He asked emerging from the shadows. His close cropped blonde hair was still light enough to catch the yellowing over head light in the garage.

The air was flooded with the rawness of him, James felt it creeping down his spine and over taking his senses. The way he smelled, like the Earth after rain and the scent of fir trees rustled by a spring breeze. He was refreshing and grounding. He looked different now. When James looked at him, glancing at him to avoid the temptation to stare, he was so aware of the differences. There was more of him now, heavier muscle covering a formerly lean and lanky frame. He had filled out, filled into himself in some ways, lost something else in others. He had always been light, brightness in a dim world and his smile had been paralyzingly brilliant. When he smiled James always felt the earth move, even when they were children, when there was a scheme, a plan, something that he would suggest and then he would smile and James would agree to whatever cockamamie plan it was. He didn’t have that any more, in fact since he had first returned over a week ago James hadn’t seen him smile once. Not that James had much to smile about either.

“Dear Luna?” James snorted, turning his attention to the box of busy work he was sorting, screws and nails by size, shape and head. “You sound like one of them.” The traditional werewolves who had come seeking an alliance, a joint effort in a battle against an imposing Evil.

“I am one of them.” He said casually. He called himself Orion now, a name that in the circles of wolves had become synonymous with death and carnage to the foe they all shared.

To James he would always be Sundance, to look at him was to be reminded of that. So James didn’t look at him, didn’t seek out the familiar set of eyes he had always found to be comforting. Home was in Sundance’s eyes, so blue you could see the bottom of the ocean through them, so perfectly clear and so alive. They smiled, to James they had always smiled. James hadn’t seen Orion smile once.

“I told you to take care of my truck…” Sundance said, he was facing the old chevy, studying the patterns of mud splattered all along the frame.

“Yeah well, I haven’t had much chance to worry about your precious car.” James shoved a box of bolts aside roughly, rougher than necessary. “I did that looking for you, clearly a waste of my time.”

“Are you still angry about that?” Sundance did a fair job faking surprise at the reaction. He folded his arms across his larger chest, the broader muscles constricting under a tee shirt. A tee shirt, nothing like what he would have worn in days past, it was faded and cut poorly with the fabric thin enough you could almost see through in places. Sundance would have never stood for such treatment of his wardrobe. Orion apparently didn’t care.

“Are you kidding me?!” James slammed down a metal case, the recently sorted screws and nails bouncing out of place and scattering along the work bench. He turned and faced Sundance, not sure if he was more out raged or hurt by the implications. “Am I still angry about that?! Of course I’m still angry! You took off into the woods on some glory hunt! I spend weeks searching for you! Calling for you and you’re too fucking busy getting in cozy with your new friends to even bother to what? Bother to see if I even survived after your cockamamie plan?”

That night, that was the Sundance he remembered. The wild hair, the brilliant eyes, the quick and intelligent mind that never quite got used to it’s full potential. The man who would throw out a plan and just run with it, hoping and praying it worked. The man who always managed to come out of everything with barely a scratch on him.

There was a scratch now. The tee shirt stretched thin and ill fitting over Sundance’s shoulders and from the collar poked a scar, it rose up out of the shirt and crawled with jagged tears towards Sundance’s ear. It fanned out, spreading like the branches of a tree, the furthest limb crawling along the strongest point of Sundance’s jaw, ending as a small point on his chin. A man who hadn’t so much as a bicycle accident scar from his childhood, now had a horrific spiraling scar across a portion of what had previous been a handsome face.

The scar told a violent story. The extra muscle, the shortened hair, the lack of a smile told a worse one.

“I knew you were alive. I saw you.” Sundance admitted it with no apology in his tone. It was a simple statement of fact. He had always been an excellent poker player, but James had always known the tell. He couldn’t see if there was one now, he feared there wasn’t. No bluffing, Orion had only truth to offer whether James liked it or not.

“You bastard….” James tasted the disbelief like vinegar on his tongue. His stomach turned, he wanted to be sick all over the floor of the garage. He had come here for solitude, it was where he hid when he couldn’t take it any more. The one place in the world where he could sit in the cab of Sundance’s old truck – the same one he had when they were teens – and quietly mourn his loss. Even after Sundance had shown up, calling himself another name and turning a cold shoulder to James’s disbelief, James mourned the loss of his friend. His lover. His brother. His mate. “You were there? All those times I thought I was losing my mind and you watched from a distance?!”

And he had thought he was losing his mind, the smell of Sundance lingering. His mind playing tricks on him as he searched, as he called, as he begged the gods and the earth to just give him back. He had been so sure that his mind was fooling him, that his heart was reaching out to give him what he needed. So much so he hadn’t spent a night sober since Sundance had vanished, until the night Orion walked into the Moonshine and said ‘hello’.

“I had no choice.” Sundance, his voice still flat but his brows had stitched together, creasing in annoyance.

“You had every choice!” James paced across the garage. He crossed Sundance’s path but did so well out of reach. Well out of range.

“I owed someone my life and it was a debt I had no intention of going back on.” Sundance tracked him with his body, watching him from under those annoyed brows, with eyes that were brilliant, and still so crystal clear blue.

James rounded back to face Sundance, disbelief and anger clouding all the grief and confusion. “Oh now you’re honorable? Run from responsibility you entire fucking life but the first chance you get to leave and you take it in the name of HONOR?!” At the end James kicked a bench, sending it skidding along one set of legs to the wall. It clipped a leg on the work bench, spun out and flipped over leaving only a deafening silence in the wake of it’s angry screeches.

“I have run from duties I could not fulfill. Do not confuse my inability to lead with a lack of responsibility. I have protected you since we were children, James Morvidus.” Sundance was warning him, cautioning him in a way James felt was achingly familiar. But he did not know this Orion who wore the same face. “Always starting fights he couldn’t finish.”

A cheap shot from the blonde.

“You’re doing just fine leading your troops!” A cheaper one from James.

“A general is not an Alpha, you of all people should know that.”

James felt the retort like a sucker punch to his gut. It twisted him inside. He had spent years longing for a position he could not have in their home town. He had come up with the plan to run, to flee and never look back. He hadn’t asked Sundance to go with him, but wasn’t surprised he had. Sundance always followed James, right into range of the monster that nearly killed them that night so many months ago…

James shook the thoughts of that night from his head. Forcing the last vision of Sundance, wounded, powerless against a greater foe, from his mind’s eye.

“That’s what this is about? You never came back because you didn’t want to be alpha?” James had been pushing for it. They were alphas now, this was their place. They could be, with the Firebrands, as they saw fit, no rules. They could rule as a mated pair. Sundance dismissed it, ignored it, or simply said ‘no’. James had always believed he would eventually win, because Sundance always followed him.

“I came back.”

“Six months later.”

“I had no choice, I wasn’t going to let the man who saved my life die because I had to tuck you in at night!” Sundance uncurled his arms, a hand back through roman styled hair that had no give as his longer hair would have in the past. It was an old habit, an old gesture James knew too well; Orion was starting to lose his composure.

“We were building a life here!” James reminded him. A life they could lead any which way they chose. A life where they didn’t have to spend their days hiding from others. Tucking away their affair, covering up their relationship…staying in the closet for eternity. Here they could have been free, been who they wanted to be. Who James had always wanted them to be.

“YOU were building a life here.” Sundance’s hand moved out. Smacking into a solid plank of corrigated wood attached to the wall. The tools balanced on hooks in the wall rattled, bounced with the force of the strike. To James’s eye the strike had not seemed that powerful, that overt, but the ding of the hammer against the wooden wall behind it said otherwise.

The statement tore at James. His insides felt as if they had been shredded, giving way to the acid in the pit of his stomach to eat it’s way through his soul. How could he have not known how little Sundance wanted this life? Hadn’t Sundance always been the one to insist on the closet, on the hiding of what they really were?

“You left…” It was the only thing James could think to say. The last dig he had, the last barb that was stuck in his heart. The notion that at the end of the day, Sundance had survived – more or less – the attack from the demon, but he hadn’t come home. He hadn’t come back to James to tell him as such, he had remained. Only to show up months later as the right hand to the alpha of the Greylock Pack, and not the least bit apologetic for his leaving.

“I didn’t leave, I told you to go. I told you to go so you could survive.” There was obvious anger in Sundance now. His voice was deep, graveled as if from years of smoking, but James suspected it had more to do with the scars that were close to encircling his throat. He moved forward, stalking towards James with a sense of purpose and determination James was unfamiliar with coming from the blond. James didn’t step back, though everything in his instinct told him to quit, to stop while he was still ahead. While he still had a head. But he held his ground as Sundance crowded him. James stepped back to avoid being run over, ceasing as his back collided with the solid metal frame of the truck. “And I went through a pain you can not imagine…like silver in my veins, my body rotting from the inside out it was unimaginable but I would do it again. I would stay in those woods away from you forever if it ensured you never got that close to dying again.” Sundance loomed over the top of James, so much taller than James remembered, though the extra weight did not help him feel any thing less.

“You choose strangers and a life in the wild over me. OVER ME!” He emphasized the words. Not out of desperation of a man with no place to go, trapped as he was against the truck with the even less forgiving figure of Orion looming over him. But as a man who needed Sundance to see, the betrayal was deeper than that of lovers who were separated by a war they didn’t quite understand yet. It wasn’t the act of a man who needed to cause pain to the one he cared for more to feel a sense of fairplay restored. It was far deeper, the betrayal more real and more important than anything else he could think of. James was not the jilted lover, but the forgotten friend. Their friendship, their brotherhood, predated everything else. His first memories were tied to Sundance, to the blue eyes staring back at him. They had been side by side since infancy, their birthdays a mere months apart.

Sundance slammed a violent fist into the side of the truck. A car he had pain painstakingly saved for, repaired, repainted, tended to since he was 16 years old. And he left a sizable dent in the door. “I have never chosen anything over you! My entire life I have always chosen you! I have followed you to the ends of the Earth, I have followed you here, to this place, to this fight and I will not be made to feel guilty for choosing your life over mine. Not now, not ever.”

They were so close now, their faces hovering near one another. James wanted to touch him, to reach out and hold onto Sundance and feel the power course under his finger tips as he had for so many years. To feel the security of knowing everything would some how find a way to work out so long as they remained side by side. But he didn’t have the chance to consider why it would or would not be a good idea. Sundance stepped away from him, shoving James’s shoulers back into the metal as he did so.

The blond grabbed the hem of his poorly cut shirt, and shoved it down over rippling muscles on a core that was solid as a 1,000 year old oak tree. James’s upper lip curled back and he leapt forward shoving Sundance’s broad shoulders forcefully in retaliation.

“Don’t touch me.” He barked.

“Don’t touch me.” Sundance snarled back and shoved James again. Sundance had always been strong, but the shove came with Power behind it and James stumbled back half a pace, caught off guard by the strength of it.

“Why not?” James recovered and shoved Sundance again, hands square on the center of his chest throwing him backwards several steps. “I out rank you, General. I am an Alpha, I can throw you around all I fucking want.”

Sundance recovered, faster than James had, his surprise not as great. He closed the gap between him with an upper lip curled back, white teeth showing edges scissors into one another as they spoke. His voice darkened, turning rougher and harsher as a low warning growl crawled up from the back of his throat. “You so sure about that , Jimmy?”

James had hated the nickname ‘Jimmy’ for as long as any one could recall. It was not his name, it sounded like it belonged to a frat boy with an alcohol or gambling problem. It did not belong to a man who wanted to be alpha of his own pack some day, who had ambition beyond his grasp in his home town where he would always be the first born son of the beta, and not the heir to the thrown. It was a point of contention and a name only used by Sundance in gentle mocking. But it wasn’t mocking or gentle here, it was thrown out into the midsummer night air with a sense of vengeance attached. It was said to cause harm.

James punched Sundance in the nose.

Guest Post: Grace R. Duncan

 Readers! Meet Grace R. Duncan, fellow author and sci-fi nerd. She decided to do a guest blog for me today, and in it she talks about some of her writing process, and how she goes about letting the readers know about the world's she creates. As a not-so-reformed Role Playing Dork I appreciate a good 'Verse. Sometimes I think I am more interested in building the world of my characters than actually writing a story, which was probably why role playing appealed (and still does, shhhh) to me so much. Be sure to check out her new book "CHOICES" in theaters--err...released by Dreamspinner Press. Also go cyberstalk her on the web, it's what all the cool kids are doing, and by that I mean; it's what I'm doing.

Please note I absolutely love having guest authors on this blog! (And not just because it means I don't have to do any work...) So if you want to write something for "Real Life Dean" send me an email ( real.life.dean@gmail.com ) and we'll make it happen. You can write about anything folks, I am not a fussy man. But onwards to Grace's brilliant work...

When I sat down to put together my post for today, I envisioned myself being nearly tormented when it came to deciding on the excerpt I would want to use for my post. Worldbuilding has definitely become one of my favorite parts of writing – creating the world, deciding the rules and laws, figuring out the history and politics and then coming up with a way to describe it is so fun to me.

But when I started to dig through my book to find the excerpt for this post, I ran into a bit of trouble.

See, I learned a long time ago that information dumps are bad. Like, the kind of bad that the reviewers and readers like to take an author out back and shoot you for. Of course, I’ve actually have a few people complain that I didn’t do an info dump in a couple of places, but those seem to be the exception.

But because of hearing this kind of thing over and over, I’d taken it to heart so much, that… there are very few passages that talk about my world. Not at length. So, instead, I thought I’d pick up a few of the individual bits from the book and show examples of how I set up the world in small bits and pieces.

Choices has three distinct countries in it, as I’ve mentioned in other blog posts. There is Saol (essentially medieval Europe), Neyem (the Middle East) and Tiantang (China). As my characters didn’t really venture into Saol in the text, I didn’t have to describe it. Instead, I focused on the two countries they did travel through: Neyem and Tiantang.

Neyem, an Arabic desert nation is the main location for the story. Most of it takes place inside the royal palace, so the vast majority of description is of it. The opening chapter, in fact, has very little description about the world. I wanted the reader to get a basic idea, but in truth, exactly where they were wasn’t important. I included a few bits like this:

THE cold night air bit at his nose and he yanked the thin black cotton of his face covering higher. Nighttime in the desert, even in summer, even in the city, had a sting to it that made these types of jobs miserable.

And:

The wind kicked up a bit and sand blew in small dervishes that danced across his tiny hiding space.

I thought that, though it might give a bit of flavor, it wouldn’t distract from what was really going on. It wasn’t until after they’re caught, taken to the palace and sentenced that I got into it. Here, I thought, would be where Teman might be able to pay more attention, would want to since he’d never been there and, thus, give me a better opportunity to build my world a bit. The following is probably the longest bout of description I have in the book, from chapter two:

Finally, several levels up, they emerged in a hallway much smaller and less open than those of the first floor. Doors lined either side, all closed. The hallway itself, lit by low-burning oil lamps, was dim and long, and Teman’s trepidation grew as they walked. He found himself wondering what they’d gotten themselves into this time, because he wasn’t sure he could see them getting out of it.

Teman saw that the hallway ended by opening into a large, round room. Before they got to that room, however, the captain opened a door to their left and waved a hand for them to precede him. Sheer fabric fell in long streams from the ceiling in reds and oranges. There were large, intricately woven rugs covering the cool marble floors, and two big windows opened out into the cold night air, silk fluttering in the light breeze. Along one wall, a fire burned to ward off the chill of the desert night.

There was a desk off to one side covered in papers, inkpots, and a host of other indications of business, a comfortable-looking chair at an odd angle behind it. Opposite the desk was a long lounger covered in plump pillows, and on small tables here and there burned incense, giving a spicy scent to the air.

There is one other description that is part of Neyem that I really like. Without giving too much away, they are out and on their way to Tiantang. As they are, I included this bit that is one of my favorites:

THE desert was an unfriendly, brutal place. Teman’s early life out in the miles and miles of empty terrain full of sand and heat had taught him well how to deal with it.

He’d learned early on how to ration water to make sure he would have enough. He’d learned to take care of his animal first because, while he could pass out on its back, if it gave out, he would be dead. He’d learned to travel early and late in the day, and leave the heat of the afternoon for hiding in tents and other shelter.

This is not to say that the above descriptions are all I did of Neyem, just two of them. However, I tried to weave it in with action or other goings-on so I didn’t have Tolkien-esque blocks of text.

I have decided that I thoroughly love worldbuiding. I hope in the not too distant future to make up even newer worlds with a longer history, perhaps its own religion, among other things. For now, Neyem, Tiantang and the rest will have to do.

What parts of another world do you like to read about? What are your favorite things to find see?

Do remember to leave a comment for a chance to win a swag bag full of goodies from Choices! Each commenter will be entered and one person will be chosen by random number to win.

Thanks to Dean for hosting me today and thanks for stopping by to read!

* * *

Choices blurb:

Born and raised a gypsy in the late eleventh century, Teman values freedom over everything. He and his best friend, Jasim, are thieves for hire—until one night they're caught and their precious freedom is revoked. Given the choice between the dungeons or palace pleasure slavery, they become slaves, but Teman vows to escape someday. 

Bathasar doesn’t want the throne. He supports his brother instead, which suits their sadistic father, Mukesh. When Teman, the handsome slave Bathasar has secretly been watching, saves his life, Bathasar requests a slave for the first time. Before long, Bathasar and Teman fall in love. But all is not well. One day Mukesh brutalizes Teman before the court, angering the empress of a neighboring nation. To appease her, he then offers her Jasim as a gift, and Teman decides to stay with Bathasar for now—despite the abuse he may suffer. 

The peace doesn’t last. Mukesh plans to invade Jasim's new country, and Bathasar must find a way to stop the destruction. But if he succeeds, he'll ascend to the throne and have the power to grant Teman his liberty. Then Teman will surely leave him. What other choice could a gypsy make?

Website: http://www.grace-duncan.com/
Blog: http://gracerduncan.wordpress.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authorgraceduncan
Twitter: http://twitter.com/gracerduncan
E-mail: duncan.grace.r@gmail.com

Buy link: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3611

The Smallville Slasher

I often go down a local book store called Hastings  to write during the week. If you don't have a Hastings in your area, I am sorry. You're missing out. They are a wonderful little place that sells books, musics and movies. They also have little cafes in them, that serves your basic coffee stand sort of fair at a reasonable price. They provide free WiFi and you can sit at a chair for hours on end with headphones in and no one will bother you. My local Hastings happens to be familiar with Sullivan (the service dog) and I, and are always happy to see us and considerate of giving us plenty of space while I work.

But one of my favorite things about Hastings is the people watching. Like any other coffee store a variety of people filter through the cafe. And more. Because the rest of the store attracts all kinds you get the opportunity to watch some interesting people. And like most writers I find people watching entertaining, inspirational and highly distracting. And the best case of people watching is that of the Smallville Slasher.

During the summer I would escape the heat at Hastings to work on various writing projects. And continually I kept seeing the same kid. He was the sort of interesting looking that isn't unattractive but is just unusual. He had pale skin with obvious freckles and curly bushy hair that wasn't quite red, but wasn't committed to being brown either. He usually wore sweat pants, or baggy shorts. A pair of grungy sneakers and socks that were the same color but weren't quite exactly the same. And almost always a tee shirt relating to some comic book super hero, in particular he seemed fond of Superman. The first time I saw him he had a Netbook with him and would type furiously into it for short bursts then stop and appear to re-read what he had just written. He also had a stack of Smallville DVDs for rent sitting next to him.

My conclusion was obvious: clearly he was writing Smallville Fanfiction. And because it was me making the assumptions, I figured it was probably Slash fanfiction. I was hooked.

Now most writers of this generation have cut their teeth one way or another on fanfiction. And most of us, especially those of us who write gay romance, can admit that we've probably read (or written) a few slash pieces featuring our favorite male leads from books, movies or television. Hell, I've written some (and if you ask nicely I might share it with you.)

I quickly became sort of obsessed with this man sitting near me at the cafe. He was younger than me, and while I thought of him as a kid, he was clearly in his early 20's. He was so fixated on what he was doing that he never seemed to notice the interest I took in him. I began writing on my (personal) Facebook page about him, telling any one who would listen about what he was doing, and my theories about the stories he was writing.

My fixation on him only grew when I kept running into him. I had no idea if he ever noticed the way I would write about what he was doing, but he didn't seem to mind. He would furiously type away, always in short bursts. Than he would stop, sip from his drink or glance through a magazine about Smallville. I began thinking up covert ways to get his picture to share with other people, who were beginning to become intrigued by him as I was. 

The 1st photo I ever got of him. The cellphone
acrobatics I had to do to get this would make
a Russian Ballerina jealous.

So last summer and early fall it was a game for me to see if I could spot him. And as an added bonus it continued to encourage me to go to the cafe to work, though admittedly I got very little work done. I was too busy updating every one of my Facebook friends about what he was doing, and trying to figure out how to sneak a picture of him.

My game became even more exciting when I started spotting him on the street. I reverted to my childhood self, always looking out for slug bugs, only now I was hyper-vigilant trying to spot the Smallville Slasher. I would try my best to get a picture of him from my cellphone every time I saw him, while also trying not to run some unsuspecting Prius off the road.

No Priuses (Priusi? Priusee?) were harmed in
the taking of this photo.

I realized today that the cold weather has driven me indoors, and my trips to the cafe are not nearly so frequent or exciting since I have not spotted the Smallville Slasher anywhere. I like to think he is back in college, and that his commitment to walking around town stored for warmer weather. And hopefully come the warmth of spring and summer I will see him again, walking down the street with purpose and a grocery bag in one hand, or a backpack over his shoulder. Or I will see him at the cafe working on his next great work of Smallville Slash Fanfiction. One can only hope.

I think it's in the nature of writers to gravitate towards writing the stories of the intriguing people around them. I see strange people on the street and I wonder about their life story. I find myself deciding a course of events that lead them to be where they are at that moment. And like the Smallville Slasher, I tend to give them names. Usually something that relates to what I see them doing; for example: the tall skinny guy who is always holding a mattress store sign on the corner of a major intersection that I see routinely as I drive by has been dubbed Tall Scrawny Sign Dude. I feel fairly certain I am not the only person on the planet who does this. And while I have been challenged about my psuedo-stalking of the Smallville Slasher, I suggest all is fair. And nothing is stopping him from doing the same to me. I wonder what he calls me?

This is here just to demonstrate that weird
people are often on the side of the road
in Boise. Nemo here was promoting
the Idaho Aquarium.
"What, and give up show business?"