Weird dude on book covers...

I was reminded by author Anny Cook about this weird dude that can be seen on multiple ebook covers. Which weird dude you ask out of the headless men picture above? And why headless men? I'm assuming to buy the pic with a head would cost the cover artist/publisher more money.  I don't know about you but I would like a hero with a head. I'd pay the extra for the head. I don't feel, as a reader, that's asking too much. I can see all three men have abs and a crotch but bring me his head - cranium that is, not dick. 

Anyway the weird dude we were discussing is the one at the back with his torn 1980's style jeans and his button undone, seemingly ready to either pee or drop is pants to dazzle some breathless heroine with his love muscle. And Anny was right. I've seen him on a lot of covers so this begs the age old question - do women buy ebooks because of the covers? Do they want a man in ripped jeans and his hands on his hips as he balances on the balls of his feet to make him look, I dunno, taller? More well endowed? Is this really what women? If so, then what is the story behind the cover going to be about? Deep, spiritual messages? Man's inhumanity to man? Metaphysical forces in our daily lives and how they shape our destiny? Or just a random sex with a weird dude and his two buddies, legs astride and seemingly ready for action?

 

I dunno...I believe women deserve a head.

Where has all the drama gone?

When I first starting writing, 7 or so years ago, it was a foreign world to me. Ebooks were not highly thought of and the ebook publishers of the time were little demi-gods that you weren’t allowed to question because they wouldn’t give you a contract if you did. I know some authors who were terrified of a certain diva at the main erotic epublisher of the time. I suspect she enjoyed scaring people with her power. Everyone has to have a hobby I guess.

Today, for some reason Mrs Giggles came to mind. Do you remember her? She’s still going. I remember how terrified authors were of getting a book reviewed by Mrs G. She hated two of mine. It didn’t bother me. Reviews are always just opinion and not fact – but oh, how some people were scared of her.  I kinda liked her. She was a force to be reckoned with then. And there was Karen Knows Best. She’s still going too but – dare I say it and I will – she’s mellowed a lot. I can remember HUGE controversies about authors like Carol Lynne who had ebooks ripped to shreds on KKB and the drama behind all that. It never harmed CL and frankly it made her career and good luck to her.

There were other ‘terrifying’ people as well, but most have fallen by the wayside.  I tend to think it’s because ebooks are more acceptable now than then. A plethora – love that word – of people can write ebooks, there are scads and scads of publishers out there and writers don’t have to rely on the tyrannical whimsy of the only established ones - and let’s not forget self publishing. Look at people like Selena Kitt, an author, who kicked arse and made a huge success of it despite what people thought or said.

Does anyone fear reviews any more? I don’t think so. Not from what I read. Are writers scared of trying other publishers? Not that I’ve heard. Do Diva publishers rule? Probably in their own minds. So, where has all the drama gone? I’m sure writer Anny Cook is nodding her head at this. Is it just age mellowing them or more, as I believe, the world has moved on without being scared of them? Or, do we just not scare as easily?    

         

Whiskey over the rocks...

I chatted, on the phone, to mate and US based author Anny Cook today.  Whenever I speak to the husky, smooth whiskey-over-the-rocks sounding Ms Cook, I see in my mind’s eye a sultry Ava Gardner who knows what’s what. We spoke about everything from conspiracies to politics, chooks to the weather, books to badgers…okay, maybe not badgers but I expect she would have an opinion on them. I like that. I like people who think outside the square and the conversation is not all about their books. Writers who talk only about writing does my head in. But, not so with the articulate Anny. Good convo mate. We’ll do it again.

Never heard of Anny Cook? Seriously? Well you should. Go immediately to www.annycook.com and buy a Cook book. 

Secondhand books...

I bought a job lot of 20 second-hand books, dirt cheap on eBay. The author? Nora Roberts. They worked out to be 50 cents each in the end. I blame author Anny Cook. She started telling me about a couple of good Nora books to read, no, I’ve never read Nora and I suspect Nora has never read Amarinda. Anyway, I took wise Anny’s advice and scanned eBay and whiz-bang-presto – there were Nora’s books cheap.

So, what I want to know is this – do authors like Nora get pissed that their paperbacks, once read by the initial purchaser, are then sold second-hand? While everyone knows ebook pirates suck big, hairy donkey’s balls, isn’t what they do kinda similar to what the sellers of second-hand paperbacks do? They pass on ebooks to others. I’m guilty of buying cheap paperbacks and I know I’m not the only one. Is it just because ebook writers probably don’t sell as many as the Noras of the writing world that they get more emotional seeing their books shoved back out there on the internet by people who are not the initial seller and therefore the ebook writer doesn’t get the income? The second-hand paperback market I’m sure doesn’t send Nora her cut of the 50 cents per book that I just bought.

Just a thought… 

Buy the book...

http://www.bookstrand.com/anny-cook

Blurb:
Love between a white woman and a Cherokee warrior is forbidden in Virginia in the 1820s. After killing her brother in self-defense, Lyrissa Murphy escapes to the shelter of Crazy Woman Cave. When Gray Horse Redhand tracks her there, he realizes their survival depends on joining forces and traveling to the west. Before they have the chance to leave, their encounter with a dangerous enemy leads to the discovery of an ancient burial and a beautiful spear.


Fleeing deadly pursuit from her unbalanced father, Lyrissa and Gray enter a new, unknown world. There they face threatening encounters with vicious warriors and strange animals, discover a magical future, and fall deeply in love. Their shared desire sustains and encourages them as the mysterious, enchanted spear points the way to the Dragon Fort of the Tuatha where they finally accept their new, unexpected home in the heart of Cabhán Geal.


Excerpt:

Tracking down a white woman who murdered her brother was a fool’s errand. A warrior of the people had no business meddling in the whites’ affairs. Yet, here he was, crouched beneath a narrow, rocky shelf jutting from an ancient, granite cliff, patiently waiting out the storm’s fury. Gray Horse Redhand shook his head as he stared out at the deluge.

Wind whistled through the fall woods, snagging dying leaves and hurling them to the forest floor as rain poured from the dark, roiling clouds. Thunder rolled across the hills, punctuated by lightning zigzagging from the black sky to dance on the mountaintops. Crazy Woman Cave, a well-hidden shelter on the trails that crisscrossed the backside of the Smoky Mountains, wasn’t very far away. He calculated he could walk to the cave well before sunset if the rain stopped.

His own people, the ones the whites called Cherokee, usually shied away from using the cave. There were slyly whispered tales of encounters with the Nunnehi, the spirit people, and the Yunwi Tsundi, little people, who lived near the cave. Gray wasn’t worried about meeting the Nunnehi or the little people. If he should meet them there, he would ask for their help in finding Lyrissa.

Those who used the cave made sure they replenished the supply of dry firewood before they moved on. He decided he would stay overnight at the cave and continue his search for the missing preacher’s daughter from the settlement at Twin Brooks in the morning, though he was afraid he wouldn’t find her in time.

The men who stopped at his village looking for her had blurted out a wild tale of murder and insanity. Gray rejected the story, positive in his heart it was a pack of lies, but he kept his mouth shut. Once they were gone, he’d exchanged a long, silent look with his uncle before slipping off to the cramped willow hut he shared with his father. There he put together a small hunting pack, gathered his weapons, and set off to find the missing woman.

As he squatted on his heels with his back against the shallow shelter and watched the storm lash the trees, he wondered what circumstances would drive a woman out into the wild. Already frost was heavy on the ground in the morning. It was a foolish time of year to flee hearth and home. Only something extremely threatening would send her on the run.

Slow burning anger twisted in his belly when he recalled the last time he’d seen her. He was a young man then, filled with arrogance and pride and she—well, she was a fragile, beautiful, young girl poised on the brink of womanhood. Among his people she would already be considered ready for marriage, but the white men had a different measure of time.

Lyrissa Murphy. He remembered the day long ago—a steamy afternoon filled with summer sunshine and the first hot claws of desire. Their encounter was innocent enough. He smiled, recalling how he lurked in the cattails watching her, wondering what it would be like to lay with the girl gathering mint from the banks of a shallow stream that bordered the cleared land near her home. As she bent to break off another stem, the sharp scent filled the air. Her pert, young breasts pressed and shifted beneath the soft, faded fabric of her dress.

Then, without lifting her head or otherwise signaling her awareness, she asked, “What is your name, boy?”

Boy. His fists had curled at the insult.

“I am not a boy,”he sneered from his hiding place. “I am a man.”

“Oh. How old are you?” she inquired as she moved farther away from his hiding place.

“I have eighteen winters,” he declared proudly. “How old are you?”

“I’m fourteen.”She sighed softly. “If I’m seen talking to you, my father will lock me in my room again. He doesn’t allow me to talk to men.” She tucked her skirt beneath her backside and squatted on the bank. “Actually, he doesn’t allow me to talk to anyone.”

He slithered closer to the stream. He was ready to ask her why her father treated her so when a shout from the house startled her. She scrambled up, grasping the mint stems in trembling fingers as a young man raced across the small clearing. When he was close enough, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “What do you think you are doing out here, Lyrissa? You know you’re not allowed out of the house unless I’m with you.”

Gray silently urged her to protest when the other man touched her, but he wasn’t surprised when she ducked her head submissively and remained silent. He’d observed more than one white woman suffering far worse treatment.

“Who were you talking to?” the young man demanded.

“There is no one here, Neal.”

“I heard your voice.” Angry accusation was thick in Neal’s voice.

“I was talking to myself,” she replied quietly. “I do that when I am alone.”

Though Gray burned to burst from his hiding place and knock Neal away, he lay still, barely breathing, listening to Neal berate her as he dragged her back to the house. Why would anyone treat her like a dog? When the door slammed shut, he slithered from his hiding place into the dark woods, returning to his village, angry and shamed as he recalled the rough treatment of the gentle Lyrissa. And yet, he knew his interference would have made things worse. Reality was harsh. She was white. He was Cherokee.

http://www.annycook.com

The writer, the ex-spy, the innocent grandma and the sexpot...

So, I got author Anny Cook to read over a story of mine. One of her comments made me raise an eyebrow and shake my head. Only she would know stuff like rock salt bullets 'are available for shot guns'. I have always believed she was ex-CIA. She knows too much and only says just enough to make you wonder. Go check her out - www.annycook.com

Shadows on Stone....Anny Cook....

Shadows on Stone....out now...

When Russet McGinnis and Maxen Pryce take on the responsibility for a late-season archeological dig, their quest for more artifacts is cut short when an early nor'easter forces them to close down the project until the next spring. The flight home takes a sudden ominous turn as they encounter a strange swirling cloud bank that surrounds them despite Max's attempts to avoid it. Lost in the wilderness after their plane crashes, Max and Russet must depend on each other's love and courage to survive.

Their struggle for survival compels them to bare their hidden secrets and acknowledge their feelings for each other. Homesickness and potent irresistible desire draw them closer as they work together to survive abduction, inexplicable attacks on their plane, encounters with shape-shifters, and a wild ride in a goddess-driven tornado until at last they confront their true destiny.

http://www.bookstrand.com/shadows-on-stone

http://www.annycook.com

Re-invention....

We keep reinventing ourselves--or die. And I'm not ready for that ~Anny Cook.

www.annycook.com

Attitude…

So, I was terribly busy at work chatting on the phone to the local printer who I have become good mates with. She thinks like me, says what she likes as I do and even has the same name.  Doppelganger…almost. Anyway we were talking about chooks. She has some. I want some. So we wasted work time and discussed the care and maintenance of said chooks. Other than the odd snake to deal with, the worst thing about chooks? They have attitude. Excellent. “They can be absolute bloody terrors,” she said. “Contrary little buggers who do what they want.” Perfect. I refuse to have wimpy pets.

Coupledom...

I was at a friends place the other day.  They’re a couple. I find coupledom somewhat of a cult and frankly weird. Have you noticed couples always seem to be together and they go out with other couples or they actively search for couple friends and they often tell you that which makes you, as a single, person query the weirdness of couples telling you this and you start thinking cult and whether you should contemplate an intervention. And if you’re at a function where there are only couples? It’s weird. My father has a saying ‘it’s like being a spare dick at a wedding.’ I didn’t say it was a poetic saying or one of deep spiritual meaning but it basically indicates you’re on your own because couples speak in a couple language that omits every third and fourth word to confuse the single. No really. You listen to a gaggle of couples and they say things like “We went ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­______   ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­______ with Binky ________   ________ and Bonky said _________  ­­­­­­­­ ___________ and we _______ __________ blue umbre­llas." It’s like that sound only dogs can hear. It’s weird man.   ­

But the freakiest thing is when faced by a gaggle of couples at a party and they listen to what you’re doing, as a single person, and their eyes glaze over because you’re not in a couple, you don’t have a precocious, snotty kid and you don’t even have a family dog called Jemima to redeem you as you tell cute remember when flea ridden Jemima ate the postman and how we laughed stories. Essentially Dr Seuss was correct. If you find someone weird you fall in love and become a couple. Ipso facto – couples are weird and single people are normal.   

Thought for today...

So, I was at the Docs waiting to get a flu shot and test results and I was skimming through a magazine as you do.  I came across this article about how easy it now was to have fat sucked out of your arse and put into your face to plump it up and get rid of wrinkles. I don’t know that I would put butt fat in my face because I cover my arse for a reason. I don’t want to look at my arse and frankly, it’s not often I have to contemplate it so having it literally in my face would be extremely confronting. And have parts of your arse on your face? Does that make you a butt head?  I believe that’s a no to being arsed-face.

Start message…

Yes, yes, yes, every writer writes a unique story that isn’t like any else’s and of course no writer would dream of cashing in on a trend – and yes absolutely anyone who gives an opinion against your genre has to be wrong or misguided or unable to understand the angst ridden moments you've had writing about whatever you’re writing about because you are very deep and meaningful. Just like me…sorta…kinda…blah, blah, blah.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Anyone can write. Look at self publishing – and no, don’t roll your eyes. Some people are kicking arse when it comes to doing it by themselves and I say kudos to them. I wonder about the mindset of writers who cling to established epub sites, disrespecting others for what they do, yet at the same time being too scared that if they’re cut off from XYZ publishing they’re doomed. You’re only doomed if you allow yourself to be.

So in essence, as I recently wrote on another blog, opinions are like arses. They’re prevalent, they’re everywhere and those who own them will still function regardless what anyone else thinks.

Opinions = arses.

End message.

The bod...

So I was standing naked in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, at oh-god-it’s-frigging-5am-in-the morning. I looked at myself in the mirror and laughed. A lot. And that was a good thing. Why? Because I’m over body issues and the perception of what may or may not be attractive when it comes to me. My body is just that. A body. I can do the best to exercise it and keep it healthy but the outer layers? They’re just there. I could have stuff lifted, tucked and sucked out but the ‘stuff ‘ I have is functional and it’s got me to the point I am in my life so far so what the hell, it’s better to have a laugh at yourself than worry about what you’re not. A couple of years ago I learnt a very valuable lesson from a wise friend about bodies and nudity and using the ‘stuff’ you have to the best of your ability be it pleasure or the pain of boot camp. So go on. Strip down. Stand in front of the mirror – toothbrush or not - and have a good laugh. Body shape is not worth getting upset over.

Chookery...

When I went down south to visit my father at Easter, I met up with one of his carers who had a vast knowledge of chooks. That’s chickens to non-Aussies. I’ve always been interested in having some chooks as pets. So, we had a long discussion on chickens with the carer. My father listened in and added in interesting comments like ‘your mother always liked ants because they look busy’. I think that’s why I like chooks. They’re birds who look like they have things to do and places to go. Anyway, I now know exactly what I need when it comes to chookery – possibly a made up word. I do understand they only lay for a couple of years and then ‘it’s best to get rid of them.’ My father chimed in at this saying ‘Oh Amarinda can’t kill anything she names.’ I agreed that was indeed correct because I do give names to all sorts of things and once named I feel honour bound to animals, birds, insects, lizards and horny, misguided bandicoots called Neil, to make sure even if they are retired and wonky in the legs with age, they still will be able to hang out or wobble around my backyard without threat of the chop.

So, with all my new found knowledge in mind, I have started looking for a hen house. There are lots of abodes for chooks to live in. At present, I am undecided what housing requirements I want the chooks to have. I like a lot of room to do stuff in. I expect no less of any chooks who wander the grounds of XH, my home. I did check out some abodes in my lunch hour but none appealed to me. However I did buy several toys for the budgies, who are spoilt rotten for toys, while looking at chook housing. I wonder what chooks like to play with….hmmm…

Four pages...

So I’m working on a story that has a plot and no sex until at least page 21. Yeah, I know. That’s crazy talk in ebook land. It’s a well known fact that there has to be sex every four pages to sell erotica. And it has to be strange, submissive sex. Hardcore sex. Anal sex. Multiple men sex. In a weird place sex. This story has none of that. It has two people, love, romance and sex that involves feelings of lust and love without having a second, third and fourth man waiting to climb onto the heroine and have his go.

Do you think women want crazy, painful, multiple partner sex? I don’t think so. I do think they want to read about illicit sex. However, in the end, I believe most women just want one partner who understands them like no other. Not having to explain yourself is huge. It’s sexy to have someone who looks at you and knows where you’re coming from and who you are. It’s total freedom to throw away inhibitions and just be with him without wondering if four pages have passed and you can have sex again. Counting is so boring.

Sex. Just because you can sell it doesn’t mean it’s good and repetition isn't sexy. Let's face it, few working girls are millionaires...

A girl thing?

So, boy band One Direction is in Australia and masses of girls are screaming, fainting and generally hysterically trying to do dumb things to meet boys that they probably wouldn’t do more than giggle over and screech at if they met them face to face. Ah, I remember those days. Me and a couple of friends inadvertently stumbled upon a well know Aussie pop star a million years ago and for a week we were famous because we touched him. Yeah, I’ve felt fame, baby.

Anyway, I was thinking to myself, do teenage boys feel threatened by the intense adoration of girls for these boy bands? Some of them would have girlfriends screaming over these pimply demi-gods…have you noticed that said demi-gods all have hair that seems to be brushed the wrong way? What’s that about? If I do that my scalp hurts. But back to my question, do teenage boys suffer the same pain of unrequited love for the totally-never-going-to-happen-unattainable popstar? Do they secretly want to scream over whomever the hottest, hair bushed backwards, singing teenage girl sensation but they man up and keep it inside or are they too busy brushing their hair backwards?

Hmmm…

Ripped...

So, I’m looking around for a new pair of jeans. I came across ripped ones. I thought ripped jeans went out with acid washing and carefully manicured five o’clock designer stubble and men with waaay too much hair gel. Yes, yes, I know there’s nothing new in fashion and everything is cyclic but I have never been able to work out, despite what age I am, why ripped jeans are deemed fashionable. Please explain…

Bunny boilers...

So, last week at work this guy told me he was nervous because his newest girlfriend was arriving to spend the Easter weekend with him. Why nervous? He said he wasn’t sure. He just was. She arrived at the office and when introduced to me I summed her up in two seconds. Needy and a bunny boiler. No really, women can do that. We have an inbuilt radar for seeing bunny boiler-ism in other women. When she, a foreign national, explained that she was only on a short visa but was hoping to stay in Australia for a very long time and looked over adoringly at him, I nearly yelled at him, ‘Run Dopey! Flee Dipstick!’ But I didn’t because people in love are dumb and stupidly blind and he wouldn't have listened because she was dazzlingly pretty and stroking his arm to deactivate his brain. Anyway, he turned up to work today and announced she was weird and that ‘she was really needy about getting married and how weird was that?’ Poor sap. Men just don’t have that radar do they? I did point out to him that the prettiest girls are normally the most insane. Well, they are…

It just is, baby...

I’ve been thinking of late about what I’m doing, where I want to be, how to get there and who I want in my life. You know, the deep meaningful where-am-I-going-and-will-the-shops-be-open-when-I-get-there-stuff. So does it really matter if I don’t have the arse of a supermodel, the brain of an Einstein and if I have the beginnings of crow’s feet at my eyes? Is the fact that I’m less than perfect but amazingly flawed, plain, average and fallible an issue in the scheme of life? I could be prettier, faster, slimmer and smarter but would it make the journey easier? Do I want easy? I’ve come to believe that I don’t. I like the weird, the difficult, the intense, the bold, the stupid and the painful. I like to feel life – the pain, the passion, the what-the-fuck-moments and know I’ve lived it and said to ‘hell with you’ to the people have said ‘you can’t do that.’ Life…it just is, baby…

Whatever you believe...

...be it religion, the resurrection, insurrection, erections, chocolate, eggs, alcohol, a long weekend or the belief that one day you WILL lick your elbow...have a peaceful, safe Easter.