Saturday, 31 December 2011
Thursday, 29 December 2011
It’s that time of the year again when Japan heads into Australian waters to slaughter whales in the name of ‘scientific research.’ Utter fucking bollocks Japan. This is a cruel, greedy and manipulative move to satisfy the selfish. It serves no purpose other than to supply Japan with whale meat. Now, as far as I’m concerned it’s a criminal activity and Japan should be ashamed of itself. But what of the international community? When will some world leader, who has balls, step up and stop this atrocity? Or are we too frigging PC and worried about upsetting Japan? Bloody upset Japan I say. Stop whaling now. Stop the slaughter now. In short, bugger off out of our waters Japan.
Wednesday, 28 December 2011
In terms of which romance sub-genres owned the biggest piece of the pie in 2011, the top 10 are = Erotica, Vampires/Werewolves/Shapeshifters, Gay Fiction, Paranormal, Contemporary, Sci-fi/Fantasy, Multiple Partners, Interracial, Historical, Time-travel, Drama, and BDSM.
…sent by All Romance ebooks, which from what I can work out is overtaking any other non publisher site.
All Romance eBooks, LLC 2011 Trend Analysis
# Total publishers in 2010 = Approx 4700
# Total publishers in 2011 = Approx 7600
I find this not at all surprising because publishing is no longer an area that a tradition bricks and mortar, we-tell-you-what-to-do-or-else owns. New, more progressive publishers who are staffed by authors or ex-authors or the Indie publishers, like myself, who do it on their own terms are growing in number.
Heat Rating = over 97% of sales are on books rated 3 or higher, of significance is that the 5 and 4 flame sales have see a combined drop of 4% over last year with most of the difference shifting to the 3 flame rating.
Interesting considering daddy-incest-force-the-virgin-ménage sex is considered a big seller. Also indicates to me that most writers are heading back to the traditional romance of the romance novel - sure, they may still have sex in them but instead of every second page it’s gone to every 5th page. Maybe plots will come back?
Romance remains, by far, our biggest seller. Although still popular, the overall market shares for gay fiction, multiple partners, BDSM, and interracial were all down 33 - 67% from 2010.
No surprise on any of that. Gay erotica has been dying slowing in the arse...pardon the pun...for a while.
The overall market share for erotica increased another 22% in 2011 and sales increased significantly for all of speculative fiction sub-genres. In rank order we saw growth in sales of Paranormal, Sci-Fi/Fantasy, Vampire/Werewolves/Shapeshifter books. In addition…the Contemporary seems to be making a comeback with a 17% increase following last year’s 55% decline.
All in all, an interesting report and a good indicator of trends. Food for thought. Thanks All Romance ebooks.
**Yellow is from the ARE email.
In terms of which romance sub-genres owned the biggest piece of the pie in 2011, the top 10 are = Erotica, Vampires/Werewolves/Shapeshifters, Gay Fiction, Paranormal, Contemporary, Sci-fi/Fantasy, Multiple Partners, Interracial, Historical, Time-travel, Drama, and BDSM.Are the over abundance of multiple partnered books wearing people down? How many ways can three, four, five people have sex without it all seeming the same?
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
So, I was talking on the telephone this morning when I looked out to the patio and noticed Wayne, my budgie, was outside his cage and Cheryl, the other budgie, and clearly the smarter one, was still inside. No, I have no idea how he got out. Frankly, he’s not that smart. Cute - but not the sharpest tool in the shed. Anyway, I got off the call and went outside and tried to catch him to put him back in. Yes, of course, he flew off. He knew an inept budgie catcher when he saw one. He circled the backyard for a while, then he sat on the roof, then he flew off and then came back again and generally hovered around trying to make his mind up. He didn’t respond to ‘get down here right now mister.’ Then, alas and alack, eventually, I no longer saw Wayne. Little bugger. I looked at Cheryl. I knew budgies needed company. I went into budgie emergency action plan A…actually I don’t have a budgie plan B.
Long story short, I have a much bigger cage and two new budgies that are apparently ‘babies’ who have bunked in with Cheryl. I was told 'you can’t tell a baby budgie's sex when they’re babies'. Frankly, I’m not into watching budgies have sex so their sex to me is irrelevant. I think enough said on budgie sex though I expect it will become the next erotic genre. Anyway, all is quiet in budgie land and Trevor and Louise are hanging out with Cheryl, who after making me chase her around her old cage with a towel to gracefully – not – bitch - put her into the new cage – is okay with the newbies.
Always have a budgie plan A. It could save your life.
I'm making curtains today. Yes, how domestic goddess of me. When it comes to curtains, I often think of that famous moment in Gone with the Wind, a fave movie of mine, when Scarlett O'Hara rips down the green velvet curtains at Tara to make that green velvet dress. Why did she do that? She didn't want Rhett Butler thinking she was desperate and she needed him - even though she did. Smart woman our Scarlett.
Monday, 26 December 2011
She didn’t jump when she heard her name called out. It was a voice she knew only too well. She turned and looked at him. Woodrow Hogue. Tall. Solid. Real. Her gaze went to the stray lock of sandy blond hair that sat unruly against his forehead. It made him look boyish and vulnerable. Like the first day I met him. It was a crazy thought to have. Two days ago she would have thought she was losing her mind mooning over a man she barely knew. But it was more than that. I know him. Somehow.
“I remember that as much as you and I have craved no less from you either.”
That startled Megan. That a stranger had feelings for her was exciting and unnerving. Rarely did a man elicit that response from her. She wanted to ask a million questions. She needed explanations and validation for how she felt. What did Woodrow feel? Was he as mixed up as she was? “Reading another’s mind isn’t polite.” Her eyes were hungry to take in every aspect of him from the tip of his sandy blond had down the fine cut of his old fashioned suit to the strong thighs she longed to touch. Megan once more played with her piercing as her mind flashed back to a time of naked limbs and hot bodies straining to get closer.
He smiled. “But when you know someone so well it’s instinctual.”
Yes. It was. And that smile. It made her catch her breath in wonder. She wanted to smile in kind but there were so many unanswered questions. “Where have you been?”
“So many places. Fate has a habit of toying with me.”
“Why?” What were they caught up in? Two days ago she was worried about paying the rent. Now she needed to know why she was drawn to him and what he wanted from her.
His gaze was direct. “You know why.”
“You talk in riddles. I met you two days ago. I have no idea how your mind works.”
To admit she did would indicate that there was more to what she was feeling than she wanted to acknowledge. She wasn’t scared of feeling. She just liked to know what was going on and not flounder as she was now. That wasn’t like her. She was strong, capable and independent. Her outlook on life matched her Gothic lifestyle. She believed deeply in the dark, sensual side of life. She chose to live boldly without fear or favor. Yet now, an edge of alarm had pushed into her neat, ordered world and Megan wasn’t sure how to deal with it. “Woodrow—”
He came over to where she sat and held out his hand to her. “You said yes to me before I left.”
She had. Though what she had been saying yes to Megan hadn’t been sure. All she knew was to have denied him would have been denying herself. Megan looked at the long, slim fingers before her. She longed to feel them once more against her skin. “I was—” Megan stopped and looked at him. What am I? Who am I?
“What? Dazzled? Confused? Unsure?” Woodrow supplied the words she couldn’t. “That’s not the woman I know.”
The eyes she looked into where soft with understanding. She felt at home with him. “Do you know me?” How was that possible when she suddenly felt like a stranger to herself? Maybe I always have. Megan realized that now more than ever. It wasn’t just the clothes she wore. She had always felt herself different to others. Until now. This man gave her a sense of belonging she never wanted to admit to needing.
“I know you as well as I know myself.” Woodrow sat down beside her on the bed. He rested one hand on her fishnet thigh.
The sensation from his touch made Megan gasp in recognition that he had done so before and much more intimately. And I had welcomed it. “Don’t.”
Megan didn’t know how to explain it. She was at home but not at home with him. “I can’t. Not yet. I have too many questions.”
Saturday, 24 December 2011
Friday, 23 December 2011
“For what? Death is just a door to another world just as interesting as the one we left.”
That was true. Megan wasn’t religious in any way but she believed there was more than just the world she knew. “Death interests you?”
“As I believe it does you,” Woodrow responded. “You’re a Goth. You understand the dark and the needs of one soul to commune with another, be it here or in the afterlife.”
Megan’s mouth dropped open. Yes, she did believe that but no one had summed it up quite like that. “You’re a very unusual man, Woodrow.” She liked the sound of his name on her lips. And the flash of vulnerability she saw in his eyes when she called him by name? It made her long to hold him close to her and ease whatever pain he was feeling.
“And you’re an unusual woman, Megan. I believe we are well matched.”
Soul mates. Megan jumped at that thought. Snap out of it, woman! The old world atmosphere and the soft soulfulness of the man had caught her. It was nothing more than atmosphere she was reacting to. “So, er—your life story.” It was time to get back on track.
Megan looked around. “Where’s your computer?” She saw him smile. Megan was not surprised. She knew what the grin meant. “You don’t have one do you?” Modern technology would seem out of place in this room.
“The written word should be just that. Pen to paper and a person’s thoughts.” Woodrow motioned her to a desk. The surface was neatly ordered with paper, a quill pen and ink.
“You are really living your world. The clothes, the décor and the ink.” Megan picked up the fine cut glass ink well. It was beautiful and meant to be as was everything else in his home.
“You dress as a Goth. You like that lifestyle.”
Megan smiled at what Woodrow was implying. “Yes but I check my email and answer my cell phone.”
“But in your heart Megan, you still crave a simple life.”
She opened her mouth to say no, but realized yes, she did. “You’re very spooky.”
Woodrow laughed out loud at that. “And you’re perfectly charming.” He pulled out a chair at the desk.
Megan sat down. When Woodrow sat beside her it felt right. She picked up one of the pages. The writing was like the note, old fashioned and spidery. One paragraph caught her eye.
After my beloved died I felt I could not go on. I wanted to lie down in the grave beside her, press my body to hers and gasp my last against her sweet, still body.
The words made her want to cry and Megan was not the emotional sort. “You were married?”
“I still am. Marriage is more than just a joining of lives. It’s a melding of soul mates.”
Her heart beat furiously. It was everything Megan believed and wanted. “I’m sorry for your loss.” To hear a man to admitting to loving his wife so deeply and continuously was beautiful.
“You must miss her.”
Woodrow’s mouth curved into a soft smile. “I know I will be with her one day.”
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
So I was driving from the gym to work and I was listening to Zinc FM Cairns. A young woman had rung in as she was trying to track down the bloke she had a ‘sleep-over’ – one night stand with. Apparently she met him in one of the local bars here and things happened and they hooked up and I’m assuming, due to her on air level of enthusiasm, he must have been good to sleep over with…ah, sleep…can’t get enough of it. The problem was this woman did not remember the bloke’s name and she wanted to hook up with him again. In fact, other than being introduced for a nano-second and then imbibing copious amounts of the old fermented grape, she couldn’t remember his name. Not even when they were on their sleep over. She kept expecting he would repeat it. I can’t see how. It’s not like he was going to say “My name is Wayne. Do I need a condom? Get your clothes off. Did I mention my name was Wayne? Great tits. My name is Wayne."
Anyway I liked her. She made no apologies for the sleep over or wanting to meet up with him again. My point is, and I do have one, there are people who are critical of erotic romance saying that it’s not realistic and those things don’t happen and if they do women who have sleep-overs are sluts. Here’s the thing – yes, erotic romance is about sex and reality and it’s in your face and if you don’t like it in your face then put your face somewhere else. And yes, sex happens. As for women being sluts? What do we call the ‘Waynes’ of the world? Isn’t there some proverb about sin and casting stones?
Hook ups happen. No apologies.
Up until now, I’ve tried very hard not to stereotype people. I’ve been stereotyped. I still get stereotyped. Don’t be a single woman and not have a steady man in your life because that instantly stereotypes you by those who cannot think further than their front gate.
However – buts – like howevers – are always with us - there is this man at work who I have decided I cannot remain in the land of unsteretyoping about him any longer. He is early 30’s, an IT person who lives at home with his parents, spends huge volumes of money on a loud muscle car, electric toys which he plays with at the office, calls women ‘she’, her’ and ‘it’ and then wonders why he has no girlfriend. He eats everything in sight – other people’s lunches, uses their stuff and then breaks it and when a special morning tea is delivered he bemoans the fact that they should have ‘ordered more’ as he eats everything there without deferring to others. He is, in essence, a 6 year old spoilt boy whose parents should have kicked out of the house years ago. Management are ‘aware’ of the problem he presents in the office. Their theory? ‘We must all work together to make him a better person.’ My theory? ‘Oh piss off. I’m not paid enough for that.’
Stereotype him? Oh fuck yes.
Monday, 19 December 2011
So, I was really pleased with the customer service I got at a certain bank. So much so that I bunged a note of thanks, to the consultant, who helped me on the bank’s send a complaint/compliment page. I’m a great believer in people being recognized for doing good and that businesses need to acknowledge that and the fact that their staff are actual people and not just employee numbers. This is the written response I got back.
Dear Miss Jones
RE: Customer Relations Case CR-72891-1A
I am writing regarding your compliment registered with us.
I would like to thank you for providing your feedback regarding the service you received from Louise of the Cairns Branch. This email is to confirm that we have recorded your feedback and Louise’s manager has been notified.
If you have any questions about this email, or wish to provide additional information about your complaint, please contact me on 1800 XXX XXX, Monday to Friday 9:00am – 6:00pm (DLST) or at customerrelationswe’vehearditallbefore.com
Hmmm…’additional information about your complaint?’ I was a tad concerned about Louise until she rang and thanked me for the compliment I put in and that no one ever says, let alone, puts a compliment in writing. Sad huh? We have generic emails back that automatically have the word ‘complaint’ in them and we’re quick to whinge and blame and we’re expected to. But thank someone? Highly suspicious.
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Saturday, 17 December 2011
I fully understand that the book is the author’s baby, something they have sweated tears and blood over for weeks, months, in some cases even years, but there comes a time when the author needs to pull up her big girl panties, tie a knot, and move on.
So the publisher ignored your carefully prepared fact sheet and the cover art looks nothing like you envisioned the heroine to be. If the hair color and body shape is reasonably accurate, and she’s not pictured in the snow when your story takes place in midsummer, and the title and your name is spelled correctly, then it’s time to suck it up, Princess. Publishers produce cover art on a budget. There are also house style rules that must be obeyed. Other quirks include things like some fonts don’t translate into various download formats so can’t be used.
Acting like a drama queen because the heroine’s hair is too long or too short is usually a waste of time. If you ask nicely, the artist may be able to change it. If the publisher says no, accept that, tie a knot and move on.
Sometimes I watch on chat loops as arguments about the placement of commas, or whether or not a word is hyphenated, go on for days or even weeks. Most publishers have a house style manual. You may always have written using the Oxford comma. Many publishers have now deleted it. They are not going to reinstate it no matter how much you argue.
Similarly with hyphenation. Go to www.onelook.com. That will give you an idea about how a word is usually spelled. But even so, if house style is to spell it a different way, then that’s the way it’ll be.
For something not house style, if you want it spelled the way 2 out of 27 records show it, I don’t think the publisher will agree. Again, you can ask politely, but prepare yourself for rejection. The author’s job is to write the book. Once you sign a contract you agree to follow house style and editing processes. If you spend the entire editing cycle in tears, maybe this is not the publisher for you. Submit elsewhere next time. Live and learn. Or go Indie. That way at least you have control over your cover art. But remember, if the way you spell and punctuate in your Indie book is too different from the norm, you’ll pull your reader out of the story and they won’t buy your next book. Meanwhile, suck it up, Princess.
**Amarinda here...Want a good, experienced editor who will not piss around with your book and who has actually been in the business more that 2 seconds? I totally recommend Helen Woodall.
Friday, 16 December 2011
…from…er…let’s call her Lucy Lou. She wanted to know how I could write stories where the heroine doesn’t make the hero wear a condom. Very easily. I sit on my arse and write them. But seriously…I need to stop sitting so much…but really, the thing is Lucy Lou I’m not and never will be or allow myself to be the moral conscience of any other bugger on the planet. If you read my stories – fantastic – thank you. If you choose to act like the characters in those stories than it’s exactly that – your choice. Stories are fiction. Oh sure, writers use their own life experience but nowhere in a story will I or any other author I know write ‘and you should all go out and have sex with multiple men and use no condom.’ The thing is it’s fantasy. Do I personally think you should use a condom if you are fucking like a bunny with every man you meet? Yeah. But that’s not my call.
Romance writing is fiction. It’s a what if he did that to her thrill and what if she said yes to him?
Suck, blow, on, off, in, out…do what your conscience dictates.
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Cameron used to write. We’re a family of scribblers. He was a really excellent writer. A proper writer. He wrote plays. As I often do, I Google his name and the names of his plays. Why? Because those with Bi-polar often don’t think clearly about their rights and legalities. I never find anything – until today. I was gobsmacked to find one of his plays in the Australian National Library. It’s the same play I have a framed wall poster of in my house. I immediately registered to join the library to get that play.
Funny how life throws you a bone when you need it most.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
When are we going to stop placing unrealistic expectations on women? Why do we give these idiot fashion designers so much power? Why the hell don’t they regulate the industry? I don’t want to look like a scrawny boy. Take your glad rags and your pretend woman and frock off…
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
So George – haul arse up here and we’ll find you a nice Cairns woman. You know I’m right.
Monday, 12 December 2011
So, lunch was over and I was driving back to work when I saw this insane sight. I preface this by saying it’s been hellishly hot in Cairns. For one mad moment I was happy to be at work because of the air con. I did, of course, slap myself around the head severely for equating ‘happy’ and ‘work’ in the same sentence unless the sentence is ‘Amarinda was so happy to leave work she ran giggling out of the building with glee.’ Actually, I don’t run unless I have no option. I’m more of a wanderer…I could wander and giggle…anyway, it’s been frying-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk hot, which when I was about 13 I watched a bunch of other kids, in the Army camp we were living in, crack open a carton of eggs on the sidewalk. They didn’t fry. They sort of congealed and stayed in a blobby mess for a week or so and we would walk past on the way to get the bus to school and say ‘Nope, eggs don’t fry on cement.’ Another illusion shattered. Anyway…what was I talking about…oh yes, so Patrick, my car, and I were driving back to work along Scott Street when I saw this woman dressed as a trashy arsed Santa Claus in a tight, red satin mini-dress number that just covered her arse and exposed a lot of boob. Oh, and there was fur. In Cairns. She was wearing fur. In summer. Fur. Hot. Interestingly enough she was neither drunk nor a working girl – they have way more sense when picking a corner to work. This sweaty, red satin lady was selling something to do with beauty and spa treatments. She looked half dead with the heat and not as jolly as I suspect she was supposed to look. And as for selling beauty? I just wanted an ice-cream after I saw her. Do people ever think when it comes to advertising when they put a nubile, half naked woman out on the street selling beauty at Christmas? The answer is you put a half naked man out there and I would have stopped just to watch him sweat. Ho, ho, ho…
Sunday, 11 December 2011
So I mentioned my train-wreck-like fascination in watching The Bachelor. It’s a repeat from 2009 and it features a bloke called Jason and a dozen women who all declare they are falling in love with him. Hmmm, I don’t think so and the word ‘desperation’ comes to mind. While I believe women are genetically programmed to be in love, I do think some fall in love because they want to be in love and in a couple so badly they make themselves believe it. Despite being the cynic I am, I look at these women and think how maybe we all want to believe that true love can be found on TV. Can it? I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I watch. Maybe I like train wrecks. Maybe I want to be less a jaded soul. Maybe that’s why we read romance books. Maybe we want to believe the hero will be so besotted with the plain/frumpy/overweight/skinny/too intelligent heroine that he will overcome any obstacle or objection to be with her. Maybe the things we want for ourselves are mirrored in what we watch and read. Maybe it’s safer to be a spectator. Maybe I need to go cold turkey on The Bachelor. Maybe…
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Thinking of going indie? It’s hard work but then nothing worthwhile is easy. Indie publishers aren’t about following the mainstream. It’s not about yes-men and screwing authors over. It’s not about dodgy royalty cheques and suspect editor/authors who know nothing but have their lips on the butt of the publisher. It’s about relying on yourself and your instinct. If you have the skin of a rhino, the persistence to carry on even when you wonder what the hell you are doing, a defiant streak of anti-establishment within you and the ability to laugh when all goes wrong then go indie.
Friday, 9 December 2011
There is one problem. How do I tell Patrick, my car, I’m looking at replacing him? He probably suspects already. He’s smart - filthy but smart…just how I like my men.
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
So I went and bought a belt at lunchtime. So what you say? It’s a big what. Stick with me in my rambulation. Anyway as I am losing weight…my apologies if you find it…send it back and I’ll bury it in the garden… my strides (pants/slacks/trousers/long bits of fabric that cover your legs – pick what’s applicable to your hemisphere) - are loose and Huston we have a problem if they fall down as showing that much cellulite on display is, to my understanding, against the law. So I went to a store and wandered over to a belt rack and I picked out the size that I though would fit me – medium. No, it didn’t. Too small. I picked up large – no, too small again. Huh…so I rifled through the belts and came across another medium – this time too big and yes, the large was too big. The small was right. No, this isn’t going into a Goldilocks and the three bears story but if it was I’d have had that blonde bimbo kicked out of the bear’s house for intrusion. Tramp. Hussy. Home invader.…where was I? Weight…medium…large…small…oh yeah…so I’ve never been small in anything – though in saying that I always get told I have really small ear holes and this annoys doctors when they want to look inside. My answers to that is don’t.…but I digress…back to belts. So I was thinking ‘what the hell is wrong with these sizes?’
I went through the whole bloody rack and discovered that when I take into account all the different manufactures not one of them had consistency in sizes. What is my point you ask? My point is that in a world where people of all sizes from petite to the voluptuous ladies of size 26 and up you would think these nongheads manufacturers could all agree on sizes. It’s stupid and shitty enough that they make larger women feel like crap when they show off skeletal fashion designed for size 2 - which is for a baby - and call that the ideal size. The ideal size is what a woman in herself is happy with so stop buggerizing around with the sizes and just make them standard. Just let a woman walk to a rack and pick up a shirt and skirt and a belt knowing that the size she holds in her hand will be correct and she doesn’t have to go through all this bullshit of trying it on an wasting time. Do they piss around with men’s clothes like this? I think not.
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
…of late I have been backing away from it…er, the writing of it. Why? Well, strangely enough I’ve been more interested in writing a story rather then sex with a bit of a story that explains why the couple/trio/wolf pack/space cowboys/tin man/Toto/Bob’s Big Boy-come-to-life are having rampant, bone shaking, she-ain’t-never-gonna-walk-straight-again-sex. Will the stories I write have sex in them? Yes. Sex is as natural as eating chocolate but I want to actually develop the story and explain the hero and heroine’s history and why they at the point of the story where they are and what they’re going to do to be together before they shag each other senseless. I want to see and read and believe in the romance first. Is it madness to write like this in a market where more sex, weird sex and multiple sexual partners makes money? Probably. Colour me weird…
Monday, 5 December 2011
Sunday, 4 December 2011
Why do I watch it? I think I like the schlock value of it most. I like the dramatic angst ridden ‘I love him the most’ moments, the crying, the catty looks and the carefully hidden behind a thin layer of snide remarks they make to each other. The one I’m watching at the moment is from 2009 and it features a bloke called Jason. I already Googled to see who he ended up with and the cliff hanger-gasp-shock-horror-he did-what-to-her-moment-we-all-hate-him-oh-wait-maybe-he-does-love-the-runner-up-isn’t-that-sweet-do-you-think-her-boobs-are-fake drama of it all. Love as defined by television – ain’t it gloriously plastic?
Saturday, 3 December 2011
I had this moment yesterday at work when a lot of pukeable things all hit at once and it took every ounce of strength I had not to tell them to go forth and multiply aka fuck off. Anyway, I sucked it up as best I could and I started, once more, to plot an escape plan out of that job. Why? Because I’m worth way more than dealing with idiots. Unfortunately there are beaucoup idiots in business.
Anyway I was down, but not out, and contemplating my next move when a friend called. Just when you think that there’s not a soul on the planet that understands how you think, a simple phone call can make a huge difference in the direction you take and it can put the wind back into your sails. Thank you friend.
Friday, 2 December 2011
Yes, it's the time of the year when we turn to tinsel, jingle bells, white fur suits and over-eating. Sounds like a kinky romance. Add 2 cowboys, two werewolves and a cross-dressing bad guy, possibly misunderstood, and who lusts after the heroine and you have a bad, yet saleable menage. Sorry - I've put copyright on that.
But no, it's the run up to Christmas or the politically correct 'holiday season'. Blue Christmas and the Christmas Freebie Screw Christmas are out now. Enjoy.
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Even though I have lost quite a bit of weight, I find the slogan 'nothing is as good as skinny feels' unrealistic and rude to us non-skinny people. I don't want to be skinny and lots of things feel better than skinny feels.
Monday, 28 November 2011
What exactly is she a slut? The word ‘slut’ was a terrible taunt when I was 8 years old. It was one of those delightfully, naughty words you said because you could and at 8 it’s fun to shock people.
A person, especially a woman, considered sexually promiscuous.
A slut is a derogatory term used for a person - usually a woman - who engages in casual sexual behavior.
Slut or slattern is a pejorative term applied to an individual who is considered to have loose sexual morals or who is sexually promiscuous. The term is generally applied to women and is an insult or offensive term of disparagement...
So, Becky-Sue thanks for the review. It gave me a chuckle and I appreciate the time and effort it took you to write the review. As for women calling other women – real or fictitious - who choose to live by their own sexual rules a slut? It’s 2011. The term slut is misguided and old fashioned.
Dicking Around is available at Evernight Publishing.
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Saturday, 26 November 2011
- I don’t understand how people can celebrate the giving of thanks one day and be pepper spraying each other the next in order to grab the best bargain at a sale.
- Some people are animals. Scratch that. Animals have better manners.
- I’m in the midst of contemplating the infinite possibilities of my life. I do this best in my pj’s.
- I’m wondering if the turtles in the Freshwater Creek have a preference for white or multi-grain bread or do they indeed go with the flow.
- How does one cock block? Is it about abstaining from sex?
- If you can fool some of the people all of the time I say forget the people you can only fool half the time.
- Do budgies get bored?
- I’m thinking of taking a trip to Broome or Uluru.
- I’m contemplating looking for my spiritual side. Just can’t remember if it’s left, right or my backside.
- Getting blonde streaks tomorrow. Why? Why not.
- I wrote a story without sex in it. I expect I’ll go to author’s hell. Oh wait, I’ve been to a book convention already.
- Doncha’ wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
- If you could have a ménage would you?
- If you were naked and had to cover one body part I bet it would be your arse.
- Do you wonder about why we have fingernails?
- Sex as a weapon? Bang, bang.
Friday, 25 November 2011
It's White Ribbon Day in Australia. What does that mean? It's Australia's campaign to stop violence against women. Men who don't hit women and swear against violence? Now they're heroes. If you are a woman and being abused, please seek help. You deserve to be treated better.
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
So, I was at the shops and I passed the food court and I saw a sight that made me stop and ponder. There was this very blonde, curvaceous woman in a short skirt and tight top. She was balancing two plates of food - one in one hand and one on her inner forearm and in the other hand she had 2 bottles of Pepsi and some serviettes. A man, her companion, followed close behind her carrying some cutlery. He was not the slightest bit burdened and he was just an average Joe. Now, this made me ponder several things…1. It is indeed a fact that only women can multi-task - and 2 - Lordy woman, you've got him following you, get him to carry stuff. Sexist? Yes. But I say if you've got boobs use 'em.
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
So, I got a new sofa and thought I’d sell the old recliner chairs. They’re in excellent nick but I just don’t need them. It’s part of my live uncomplicated approach to life. This would work splendidly if I was an uncomplicated person. But I’m a work in progress along with being just plain swell. Anyway, I decided to place a free ad in the local paper and sell them. At first, no one called. I was told to be patient that this was the tropics and no one rushed. At lunchtime the calls came in. What colour are the chairs? Dark red? I wanted puce. Are they leather? No. I wanted leather. They’re not leather. That’s a shame because I wanted leather. Build a bridge. Another said I have a 2 hour threshold that I can spend time seeing the chairs in. You need to be home now. My response? Ah, no. Then the ever popular you live all the way out there? Yes, I live the terrible 15-20 drive from the centre of Cairns. And the requests and question went on. Red chairs. After work. No, I don’t take magic beans. Yes, you’ll probably need a cut lunch and 17 litres of water and bus money tied into a knot in your hankie to get to my place. People. Odd.
Monday, 21 November 2011
I have the worst case of the screaming mee mees. And, although pukable Monday is over, the screaming mee mees started yesterday when I had to leave the house and do something. Go somewhere. Why? No, it wasn't hormonal either. It was the screaming mee mees. Never had them? Lucky. They make you so restless and in need of doing something dumb that it’s an effort not to give into the screaming mee mees. Yesterday, I passed by a sign that said ‘The Savannah Highway – Cairns to Broome – A gazillion miles’. I had a huge yen to turn Patrick, my car, onto the Savannah Highway and go to Broome. I would have but for the fact the fuel gauge was on epic fail and I suspected Patrick would bung on a turn and break down just to spite me. So no Savannah highway. Not yet anyway.
So the screaming mee mees. What is the cure you ask? You have to do something so stupid - but not necessarily regrettable - I've had some amazing and wonderful screaming mee mee breaking moments - that it jolts you back into the mundane. Hmmm…what to do…what to do?
1. I’m still alive
2. I checked and all my toes are still in place
3. I get to buy a cordless drill today
4. I don’t have to wake up to a chirpy person extolling the virtues of Monday and therefore I don't have to punch anyone out.
5. Um...I’m thinking…thinking…
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Friday, 18 November 2011
I had never heard him speak until yesterday. I was punching stuff and he walked in. He looked at me. I smiled in that please-don’t-kill-me-way-I-have-a-new-sofa-arriving-tomorrow-kind-of-way. And then he spoke. It was low and contained, as you’d expect from an assassin – and British – very, very British and quite wry. I did a double take. It was not what I expected. Oh yeah, he’s an assassin all right.
Thursday, 17 November 2011
I finally put the barbeque together. It’s just a simple charcoal one that I bought after Cyclone Yasi in February. Yes, February…don’t rush me. Anyway I bought it because I realized I can withstand any crisis but I need coffee when the power goes out for days. Hence flame, heat, boiling water, coffee, calm woman, no one gets hurt.
So, it’s together but for all those extra bolts and screw things they give you as gifts – and those 4 black cup like things with a hole in the base. Not sure what they’re for. I’m thinking maybe it’s to do with providing a helmet to a small animal. I expect I can make hats for Wayne and Cheryl, my budgies, for the next big blow. Just not sure they’d look good in black.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
The US President is due in Australia for a 27 hour visit. This is going to cost shite loads of money for the Aussie tax payers. Not to mention how much this costs US tax payers to have him flying in here. All for 27 hours. In a time when everyone is tightening their belts and looking at their finances in light of the global economy – and you just know the whole Europe-in-debt thing is going to make everything worst – why can’t the President stay at home? Why not phone it in? Why do we have our Prime Minister wandering off to Hawaii in a time when we could use her travel money to correct problems at home? Budget cuts? Cut your own. We know how to cut ours. We’ve all been doing it for years. Now, I’m sure the bloke from the US is a nice guy but seriously – 27 hours to talk about defence plans when he could have sent an email? Or done a teleconference? If globally we have to be more economically responsible, why can’t politicians, who are despite the pop star glamour just people, not take that on board?
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
So I bought this really impractically coloured crimson sofa thing today. It doesn’t match a damn thing in the house but then nothing I own matches. I looked at the colour choices. Cream – nah, I’m always rushing, rushing, rushing and I spill things as I dash around. Brown – practical, matches things, it’s a grown up colour, and it makes sense. Nah. I don’t want any of that. Crimson. Impulsive, silly, crazy and I expect Wayne and Cheryl, my budgies, if they looked from their perch inside and saw it they would roll their eyes in horror yet at the same time be dead jealous. Crimson is the colour of madness, fools and silly buggers. It matches nothing. I’ll have it.
That then led to what to do with the two recliner chairs I have. They’re 15 years old – yes, I’m a keeper of things – and in good nick because my mother, bless her crimson toenails – always made sure as kids we understood we had to ‘look after things.’ So, I emailed a friend at work, I was at work too, but questions about recliner chairs are way more important than whatever it is they pay me for. He suggested selling them in a freebie classified that runs every Tuesday in the Cairns Post. Good idea but there is a problem. To get it free you have to say as little as possible in a certain amount of words yet it has to make sense. This is hard for someone who writes because we’re emotionally tortured, sensitive, angst ridden souls who delve deeply into the depths of the swirling morass of feelings that make up humankind and complex needs and raw emotion need space to breathe and grow so what we write becomes a part of us and is embedded in our psyche and our readers are enriched by the experience. I put ‘2 recliners. Very good nick. Phone ####.’ Yep, considered that embedded.
Monday, 14 November 2011
….if one email from a publisher tells you every single author they have on their books has their cheques sent out on the exact same day then why am I still waiting weeks afterwards? When I question the ‘exact day’ thing, I get an email saying they ‘stagger’ the payments in batches. Right. A sceptical person would murmur ‘money problems’ because if you have the funds in you pay the funds out to the people who made you those funds. Pretty damn simple but then I get emails from authors in a certain publisher's loop that tell me I missed out on a fairy story about the cancellation of a hotel for the annual convention because someone supposedly saw the manager of the hotel apparently slap his wife/partner/woman so the someone apparently turned on their heel in disgust and said something like ‘we will no longer use this hotel because he’s an evil doer and we will tell all our minions.’
Two thoughts come to mind – anyone who watches another being assaulted should report it or try to stop it unless it was an mythical slap that was made up to explain to less than smart authors the reason a hotel was no longer being used. Saying ‘we can't afford it’ is not as dramatic as picking up your skirts and dramatically leaving – though it saying that I would have added to the story a sword, maybe a buxom heroine, who loves ménage sex, bondage, Daddy/incest themed sex, dressed in skimpy clothing and a hero, who can do all that including the skimpy clothing, who rushes in to help her as she avenges the wife/woman/partner who allegedly got slapped. My other thought? Authors know more bad plot lines than anyone else so it seems crazy trying to spin one as an excuse because less than happy authors like to share stuff like that.