tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82677596227487048162024-03-13T10:28:54.066-07:00Writings by Ana BoschBobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00965797778057465908noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-89220047013964178982012-12-18T22:45:00.002-08:002012-12-18T22:45:47.697-08:00The Next Big Thing Blog Hop<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 12.75pt;">The
wonderful </span><a href="http://www.charliecochet.blogspot.com/2012/12/next-big-thing-blog-hop.html" style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 12.75pt;">Charlie
Cochet</a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 12.75pt;"> tagged me in the Next Big Thing Blog Hop, so today I’m posting about
my current work in progress!</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 12.75pt;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 12.75pt;">Read on to
find out more about it.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What is the working title of your book?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lifelines<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b>Where did the idea come from for the
book?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
is the third book in my undead series, which started with <i>Art of Death</i> and then followed with <i>Bonds of Death</i>. I decided to
write this book because the story and the characters just weren’t done after <i>Bonds of Death</i>. At this point, I plan on <i>Lifelines</i> being the final book in the series, but I acknowledge
that there’s still an endless amount of potential stories for these characters
and their future dealings with the undead.
So you never know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As
for the plot itself, I actually cannibalized an old comic I was working on
during my early college years, in which students would perform rituals in order
to control other students as if they were puppets, using strings—or
“lines”—drawn from their life essence. In
<i>Art of Death</i> we had paintings, and in
<i>Bonds of Death</i> we had dolls. In <i>Lifelines</i>,
the theme is marionettes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
<b>What genre does your book fall under?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">M/M
paranormal mystery/thriller (with a side of romance)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b>Which actors would you choose to play
your characters in a movie?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
question is going to be the death of me.
It’s bad enough that I live under a rock when it comes to actors and
such, but even with my limited knowledge, I really can’t imagine anyone who would be a good match. But I’ll give it a shot, knowing that these are all sort of rough estimations of the characters:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gCmyqctUNE8/UNFeVg5bx5I/AAAAAAAAAMY/qHWzd5PGkyg/s1600/riley_portrait01_crop_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gCmyqctUNE8/UNFeVg5bx5I/AAAAAAAAAMY/qHWzd5PGkyg/s200/riley_portrait01_crop_small.jpg" width="123" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Riley:</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> He
bears some physical resemblance to <a href="http://youtu.be/Amta5qpAl0M">Gaspard
Ulliel</a> in this interview, but he’s not meant to be quite as “exotic,” if that makes any sense. And of course, Riley's key features are his bright emerald eyes and long eyelashes. The image to the left is a portrait I did of Riley awhile back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Westwood:</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
I’m completely at a loss. I can’t think
of anyone with that “obnoxiously masculine to the point of looking animalistic”
quality that Westwood needs. This photo of <a href="http://awakeinthegarden.tumblr.com/post/35283851288" target="_blank">Rafael Verga</a> is close in terms of physical features (and hair!), and he's at least from the right region, but Westwood has a deeper complexion and is more intense and intimidating, with cold black eyes that are set a little deeper. He's also just a touch older than the model. Hopefully before the end of the year, I'll be able to do a portrait of him. I've been dying to do one for a long time...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-twnLKBzB0ZQ/UNFeg-WOBwI/AAAAAAAAAMg/iAHHxKzU48M/s1600/porter_eggplantpajamas_sketch01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-twnLKBzB0ZQ/UNFeg-WOBwI/AAAAAAAAAMg/iAHHxKzU48M/s320/porter_eggplantpajamas_sketch01.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></b>
<b style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Porter:</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 12.75pt;"> I
think a 20-year-old <a href="http://youtu.be/uokBDwzfD9Q">Matthew Gray Gubler</a> could
probably capture Porter’s personality and his sense of fun, and they share a body type, but Porter’s face is long and narrow rather than square. Not a perfect match, but as close as I can
think of right now. Of course, he'd need big poofy hair that resembles a tumbleweed... I did this sketch of Porter when I was in the beginning stages of writing Bonds of Death, and I still haven't had a chance to paint it, but I really want to..</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Arman:</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
Unfortunately, Iranian-American actors don’t have much visibility here in the U.S., so I
don’t know of any that would be a good fit.
But in terms of physical appearance, <a href="http://www.man-men.net/alternative-hairstyles-for-men/">the first guy on
this page</a> is a close match. I've tried and failed at drawing Arman a few times now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Quinn:</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> If
pressed, I’d say that perhaps a hardier version of <a href="http://youtu.be/qe1nidNh53M">Tilda Swinton</a> (with long hair) would make an interesting
Quinn. I imagine Quinn to look quite a bit less ethereal, but they do share a certain sense of severity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><br /></b></span>
<b style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 12.75pt;">What is a one-sentence synopsis of your
book?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
Riley and Westwood are called to a prep school in the Chicago suburbs to
investigate a case of mysterious undead activity, they’re caught in the middle
of a vindictive scheme by someone who’s determined not only to tear them apart but
to destroy them body and soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<br /></div>
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<b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Will your book be self-published or
represented by an agency?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
first two in the series were published by Dreamspinner Press, and I hope the
third will be the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
<b>How long did it take you to write the
first draft of your manuscript?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m
still writing it. I’ve been working on
it since August and hope to finish and submit it by March. Progress has been slow compared to the first
two. I wrote <i>Art of Death</i> in a month and edited it in two or so additional
months. I wrote and edited all 96,000+ words of <i>Bonds of Death</i> within two months, but
that was horribly tight, and I never plan to do that again. This time, I’m pacing myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
<b>What other books would you compare this
story to within your genre.</b><br />
I don’t know of anything similar other than the two previous books in the
series, especially not within the m/m genre.
The undead are somewhere in between vampires, zombies, superheroes, and
demons, without falling into any of those categories, and the books are
definitely on the harder edge of the m/m spectrum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b>Who or What inspired you to write this
book?<br />
</b>I mostly see this story as a natural progression from the previous two
books. Really, Riley himself was the
inspiration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
main reason for writing this story is Riley’s unresolved issues as a character:
his recklessness, his dishonesty, his fear of intimacy, and his
depression. All of these issues (along
with one other huge problem) prevented Riley from finding happiness in his last
relationship, and I knew that nothing would stop him from doing the exact same
thing with Westwood unless something changed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b>What else about your book might interest
the reader?</b></span><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When staying at his childhood home, Riley sees a hauntingly familiar
figure standing underneath the apple tree in the backyard, where his older
brother had committed suicide eleven years ago.
Soon after, he discovers clues about an arcane ritual that allows for a
human to be reborn as undead—hidden among his brother’s old belongings.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I’m also sharing this
excerpt from Lifelines, which says a lot about Riley’s state of mind. </b>Throughout this book, it gradually becomes
evident that perhaps Riley really isn’t as stupid as he’s appeared all this
time. Reckless, yes—but not stupid. His problem, unfortunately, is much bigger
than that.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
---<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b>Excerpt: <i>Lifelines</i></b><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A yearbook sat at the top of the box. It was from the end of Andrew’s sophomore
year. Although he’d died in January, his
classmates had arranged to pass the yearbook around at the end of the year and
get signatures and messages from all of Andrew’s former friends and
classmates. Riley remembered being
blindsided when a kindly sophomore he’d never met before handed him the book on
the last day of school. Up until now,
he’d completely forgotten about the yearbook.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He fought back tears as he pulled the book out of the box
and flipped to the sophomore portraits.
There was Andrew Burke: stick-straight blond hair, freckles, a somewhat
delicate nose, and ears that stuck out just a bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Out of curiosity, he flipped to the freshman portraits and
found his own. He compared it back to
Andrew. Although Riley had always gotten
far more attention for his looks than Andrew, they did share a clear
resemblance, especially in their eyes and their bone structure. Riley noticed the resemblance much more
clearly now than he had back then.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before Andrew died, Riley had been a blissfully stupid
fifteen-year-old, always eager to accept whatever dare or challenge his big
brother tossed his way. He’d gotten into
more scrapes than he could remember, but he knew that Andrew always had his
back. Andrew would tell him to swim down
to the bottom of the lake in search of tadpoles or try to steal a pack of
condoms from a senior football player’s locker, and Riley would do it without
hesitation, knowing that his brother wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the years after Andrew’s death, Riley slowly came to
accept the fact that no one else would ever have his back the way his brother
did. Yet he still put himself down into
the depths of dangerous waters over and over, knowing all the while that his
lifeline was long gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of these days, he’d finally get pulled under for
good. For eleven years, he’d wondered when
that day would come. He almost wanted it
to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alanna’s words surfaced in his mind. “Sometimes you act like you don’t really care
about your life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he’d first met Westwood, the man had accused him of
having a death wish. Just a few months
ago, he’d said, “I’m wondering why I’m wasting my time on a human who’s intent
on getting himself killed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley gritted his teeth, trying to fight off a surge of
anger. <i>What did they know?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
---<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have the pleasure of tagging/linking the following lovely people,
who will share their works in progress next!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>December 26<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://glenandtyler.blogspot.com/">J.B. Sanders</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://jana-denardo.livejournal.com/">Jana Denardo</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.zahraowens.com/">Zahra Owens</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>January 2<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://annebarwell.wordpress.com/">Anne Barwell</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.grace-duncan.com/">Grace Duncan</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-17871938806639851862012-12-15T12:18:00.002-08:002012-12-15T12:19:38.828-08:00The Unlikely Inspiration Behind Lucky<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text"><i>The rulers of the Philistines
went to her and said, “See if you can lure him into showing you the secret of
his great strength and how we can overpower him so we may tie him up and subdue
him.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">--Judges 16:5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">I’ll
be the first to admit that I get inspiration from some very odd places. Getting inspiration from the Old Testament
isn’t odd or unusual in itself, but I think it’s a little more unusual for it
to serve as inspiration for a sweet, feel-good gay Christmas romance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">I
hadn’t intended on writing anything for Dreamspinner Press’s Evergreen
anthology, but inspiration happened to strike.
While I was trying to brainstorm some extras to offer the readers of my
webcomic, one reader suggested doing a spoof of Samson and Delilah. I decided that it would be a good time to
brush up on the actual story of Samson, so I read the bible verses and checked
out Wikipedia and a few other sites as well.
Rereading the story reminded me of how I always used to feel about
Samson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">Samson
has to be either the stupidest or the most ungrateful man in the bible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">God
gives Samson this amazing gift of strength.
Then he meets Delilah, and Delilah says to him, “Tell me the secret of
your great strength and how you can be tied up and subdued.” Samson says that if she ties him with seven
bowstrings, he’ll lose his strength. And
Delilah tries it. It fails, so she asks
him again, and he lies again. And again,
<i>she tries it</i>. And then—because he’s “sick of her
nagging”—Samson tells her the truth: if she cuts the seven braids of his hair,
he’ll lose his strength.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">Keep
in mind, every time Samson told this lady how to get rid of his strength, she
tried it—and he knew that she tried it.
So why would he ever tell her the truth?
This is why I think he has to be either incredibly stupid or incredibly
ungrateful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">All
throughout the story, you can see that Samson is kind of an entitled jerk,
although I’m sure that wasn’t anything unusual at the time. Heck, it’s still nothing unusual. But when I read the story, I really felt that
Samson was so spoiled by his gift from God that he took it for granted. After his strength was depleted, the
Philistines blinded Samson and put him to work, but I believe he’d been
metaphorically blind his entire life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">This
was the unlikely inspiration behind Lucky, my Christmas novella, and if you
look closely, you’ll notice a hell of a lot of references to Samson’s story
while you read. At the time I wrote the
story, I’d also been reading a lot about racism and classism and privilege, and
it made me realize just how blind we often are to the gifts and blessings that
we’ve had all our lives but didn’t necessarily have to earn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text">And
that’s where Martel Heller comes in.
Martel is the main character in Lucky, and for seven years, he’s had the
privilege of being able to pick and choose the hottest dates because he happens
to have these dreadlocks that make him really attractive. As a result, he’s pretty shallow, and he’s
used to getting exactly the type of guy he wants. But when he has to cut his dreads, his luck
seems to magically disappear. Like
Samson, he feels disabled by the loss.
But this loss might be just what he needs in order to open his eyes and
see clearly for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text"><a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3423" target="_blank">Buy Lucky from Dreamspinner Press</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="text"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lucky-ebook/dp/B00AGAWGOW/" target="_blank">Buy Lucky from Amazon</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-46222380693933570542012-12-08T00:00:00.000-08:002012-12-08T00:00:00.582-08:00Guest Post by Kim Fielding: Brute Blog TourHi all! I'm really excited to welcome the first ever guest to my blog! Allow me to introduce Kim Fielding, an amazing writer and a fascinating person. I had the honor of meeting her at GayRomLit in October, and I have a huge amount of respect for her and her work. I'm honored to host her as part of her blog tour for Brute, her newest release. Please read on and welcome her to the blog!<br />
<div>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6hKryKr0JkU/ULzL8R3ZsLI/AAAAAAAAAME/u5wC4ozEynM/s1600/Coverartdraft2_Brute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0BpDVRk_iUo/ULzLxmeTPzI/AAAAAAAAAL8/k5HEyA_BCqo/s1600/brute+banner+final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="147" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0BpDVRk_iUo/ULzLxmeTPzI/AAAAAAAAAL8/k5HEyA_BCqo/s640/brute+banner+final.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Hi!
I’m Kim Fielding and I’m about to embarrass myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I
often tell people that writing is my therapy. When I have a rough day at my day
job, instead of taking it out on my students, colleagues, and family, I go home
and do terrible things to my characters. Don’t worry—I almost always save them
by the end. But for a while I’m mean, and then I feel better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Today
I’m going to be mean only to myself. Today you are going to be my therapists as
I share with you one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My
older daughter was three and I was picking her up at preschool. They’d had
their pictures taken that day, so photography was on her mind. I was standing
and chatting with one of her teachers, and she was dancing happily around,
chatting a mile a minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
know what?” she chirped to her teacher. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“My
Mommy and Daddy have pictures of themselves. Naked!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Now,
I want to be clear with you about this: my husband and I did not (and do not)
have nude photos of ourselves. I don’t know why she said this. Maybe for the
same reason she once spent naptime skipping around the room singing, “Fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck.” (She’s 13 now, by the way, and a really wonderful kid.) But
there was no way I could deny the truth of her statement without sounding like
I was lying through my teeth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My
face went beet red. The teacher’s smile grew strained. I beat a hasty retreat.
The subject was never raised in my presence again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My
daughter has had 10 years to add to my store of embarrassing moments, and her
younger sister—she of the famed Shoe Tantrum—has had 9. Which means I am
hardened and nowadays it takes a lot to make me blush. Like the other day when
I sort of accidentally <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8267759622748704816" name="_GoBack"></a>admitted to a classroom full of
college students that their professor was in the midst of writing a novel about
a gay hipster architect werewolf (the sequel to my <i>Good Bones</i>). The students were a little surprised, but I just went
right on teaching. I guess I have my daughter to thank for that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
not at all embarrassed by my three new releases this month, incidentally. In
fact, I’m pretty proud of them, and I hope you’ll read them and enjoy.
Dreampsinner released my Hanukkah short, <i>A
Great Miracle Happened There</i>, on December 1. Silver will release my
Christmas short, </span><a href="https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/coming-soon-c-2/products_id/1322/?zenid=54ade37dbef452136faea18728f4f241">Joys
R Us</a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">, on December 13. And on December 3 my latest novel, <i>Brute</i>, came out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Thank
you for the therapy session! I feel much better now.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<a href="http://kfieldingwrites.blogspot.com/">Kim Fielding’s blog</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites">Kim Fielding on
Facebook</a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<b>Brute</b><br />
by Kim Fielding
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6hKryKr0JkU/ULzL8R3ZsLI/AAAAAAAAAME/u5wC4ozEynM/s1600/Coverartdraft2_Brute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6hKryKr0JkU/ULzL8R3ZsLI/AAAAAAAAAME/u5wC4ozEynM/s400/Coverartdraft2_Brute.jpg" width="266" /></a><br />
<br />
<i>Brute leads a lonely life in a world where magic is commonplace. He is seven and a half feet of ugly, and of disreputable descent. No one, including Brute, expects him to be more than a laborer. But heroes come in all shapes and sizes, and when he is maimed while rescuing a prince, Brute’s life changes abruptly. He is summoned to serve at the palace in Tellomer as a guard for a single prisoner. It sounds easy but turns out to be the challenge of his life. <br /> <br /> Rumors say the prisoner, Gray Leynham, is a witch and a traitor. What is certain is that he has spent years in misery: blind, chained, and rendered nearly mute by an extreme stutter. And he dreams of people’s deaths—dreams that come true. <br /> <br /> As Brute becomes accustomed to palace life and gets to know Gray, he discovers his own worth, first as a friend and a man and then as a lover. But Brute also learns heroes sometimes face difficult choices and that doing what is right can bring danger of its own.</i>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Buy links at Dreamspinner Press: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3443&cPath=55_603">E-book</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3444&cPath=55_603">Paperback</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Brute-Kim-Fielding/dp/1623802261/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1354496083&sr=1-1&keywords=kim+fielding+brute">At
Amazon</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As
part of the Brute Blog Tour, Kim Fielding is running a contest. All you have to
do to enter is to leave a comment on this entry, stating one of your
embarrassing moments. Please leave your email address in your comment. You can
comment at multiple blog tour entries for multiple chances to win! </span></b><a href="http://kfieldingwrites.blogspot.com/2012/11/december-tour-giveaways-and-releases.html">Click
here for the full list of tour stops</a><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">. Winners will be chosen on December 25. One person
will receive a paperback copy of <i>Brute</i>
and another person will receive an e-book copy of <i>Brute</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Excerpt from <i>Brute</i>:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Time passed achingly slowly. Sometimes someone
would pop out from one of the little doors and take one or more of the waiting
people back in with them, but nobody ever came for Brute. New people came
through the large entry doors, did a double take when they saw him, and sat far
away. They were eventually escorted through doorways too. His ass grew sore
from sitting on the hard bench, his stomach gurgled and growled, and worst of
all, his bladder began to complain quite insistently. He knew it was impossible
for the giant with the ugly face to have been forgotten, and yet none of the
people who worked there even glanced his way. Maybe they thought he was a new
and especially unbecoming statue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Just as he was about to give in to desperation
and ask where he might find a place to relieve himself, a round woman with a
feathered hat and the widest skirts he’d ever seen appeared from the far left
door and sailed in his direction. “This way,” she commanded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">His hips and legs had cramped a little as he
sat, and he limped very badly as he followed her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The far left door led to an office smelling of
tea and crammed with books and papers. The woman went away and shut the door
behind her, leaving Brute alone with a man who was a few years older than him.
The man was dressed in rather plain clothes and was tiny—barely five feet tall
and probably one-third Brute’s weight—but he managed to project an aura of such
powerful authority that he was almost terrifying. He stood several feet away
and looked Brute up and down slowly. “You have a letter?” he finally said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Um, yes sir.” Brute produced the paper from the
folds of his cloak and held it out, but the man didn’t take it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You will address me as Lord Maudit. You may
call me milord or Your Excellency as well, for variety’s sake.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes, Lord Maudit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lord Maudit rolled his eyes and snatched the
paper out of Brute’s hand. He tore open the seal without ceremony and scanned
the contents. When he was finished, he considered Brute again, this time
appraisingly. It reminded Brute of the way Darius would look over a mule he was
considering buying. “So you’re a hero?” he said at last.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I—no. I mean, the prince, he—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Needed to be rescued from his own foolishness.
Again. And rather dramatically, I understand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brute didn’t know how to answer that. He licked
his lips nervously and fought the urge to shift his feet. His bladder was full
to bursting, and the glimpses of the sea he could catch through Lord Maudit’s
window weren’t helping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Not very chatty, are you?” the lord said.
“Good.” He folded the paper and slapped it against his thigh before tossing it
onto his desk. “Wait here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Please!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lord Maudit was nearly to the door when Brute
blurted out his plea. The little man turned, eyebrow raised. “Yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I need to—is there an outhouse? Milord,” Brute
added hastily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Garderobe’s through there,” the lord said,
waving at a narrow door in the corner. Brute made what he hoped was a dignified
dash for it while the other man left through the main door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">To reach the garderobe he had to climb a set of
very narrow, winding stairs. The stairs dead-ended in a rounded little chamber
with tiny slits for windows. The room contained a wooden seat with a hole in it
and a small table bearing an earthen pitcher of water. Fumbling his laces open
one-handed seemed to take forever, but eventually he managed to get his
trousers undone. He emptied himself with a long groan of relief. At least he
hadn’t lost his good hand, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. The
gods only knew how he would have managed to get himself undressed then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lacing back up again was even more troublesome,
but at least his need was no longer quite so urgent. He just wished he could
have managed to find a way to pour the water in the pitcher over his hand to
cleanse it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lord Maudit’s office was empty when Brute
descended the stairs. Brute resisted the temptation to poke around—he had an
eerie feeling that the man would somehow <i>know</i>—and
instead admired the view from the windows and then a large painting of a
hunting party chasing a stag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Hideous painting, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brute jumped at the voice and whirled around.
Lord Maudit had returned, but it was his companion who had spoken: Prince
Aldfrid, attired in riding clothes and smiling broadly. The prince showed no
sign of limping as he crossed the room. “I’m glad you’ve recovered enough to
make the journey,” he said to Brute. “How are you managing?” He seemed
genuinely concerned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brute pulled his stump out of his cloak pocket,
which made Lord Maudit’s eyes widen. Apparently the prince’s letter hadn’t
mentioned that Brute was maimed. “Your Highness, are you certain—” the lord
began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes,” the prince interrupted sharply.
“Completely. He’s the man for the job.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The job, Your Highness?” Brute asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I could just
give you a sack of gold and send you on your way—you’ve earned it—but I’m
guessing you’re not that kind of man. You want to be… useful.” His laugh
sounded a little sad. “More useful than a king’s fourth son.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brute took a moment to consider the prince’s
words. A sack of gold. He’d never have to worry about his livelihood again. He
could buy a little cottage somewhere, have some clothing made that actually
fit. He could eat decent food every day. And then… what? Sit by himself and
wait to grow old and die? “I would like to be useful,” he confirmed. “But I
don’t know what I can do for you, sir, not like this. I’m sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Have you any skills at all?” Lord Maudit asked.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you know how to write.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brute hung his head, ashamed. “I wanted to. Had
no money to pay the schoolmaster.” After his parents were dead, when his
great-uncle would send him scurrying around the village to fetch this and carry
that, Brute used to pass the little schoolhouse now and then, and he’d pause
long enough to gaze at it enviously. Once he’d even dared to ask his
great-uncle to send him—Brute had promised to work twice as much to pay for
it—but his great-uncle had cuffed him hard enough to send him sprawling, then
growled that Brute was too stupid to learn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Doesn’t matter,” said Prince Aldfrid, pulling
Brute out of the bad memory. “I have something perfect for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Aldfrid, you’re taking an enormous risk.” Lord
Maudit sounded irritated with the prince, but in a resigned sort of way, as if
he were used to conversations like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He’s the one, Maud.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“But the king—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“My father, if he notices at all, will see that
a very large and not especially bright man—sorry, Brute; I know you’re no
idiot—has been put in place. That’s all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Brute stood there mutely, slightly surprised at
the obvious familiarity between the men and not having the vaguest clue what
they were talking about. But then the prince clapped him on the arm and
grinned. “It’ll all work out. You won’t be seeing much of me, Brute, but if you
need anything, just get word to Maud here and he’ll take care of it.” He
smirked at Lord Maudit and sped out of the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Maudit briefly closed his eyes, as if he were in
pain. “Scrambled your brains a bit more on those rocks, didn’t you, Friddy?” he
muttered. Then he glared at Brute. “Follow me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It seemed that everyone was saying that to him
today. But Brute shrugged and did as he was told.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He was led through another dizzying arrangement
of corridors and stairways. Once he caught a glimpse of an enormous room—by far
the largest he had ever seen—with a polished marble floor, gilded pillars, and
a ceiling fresco considerably more elaborate than the one he’d been admiring
while he waited. But he didn’t get a chance to enjoy it, because Maudit dragged
him along at a pace surprising for a man with such short legs. Guards saluted
when Lord Maudit passed, and various well-dressed functionaries and servants
all tried to look more industrious. Maudit ignored them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">They eventually left the building—through a
different door than the one by which Brute and the guard had entered—crossed an
oblong grassy area where several women in colorful gowns sat and embroidered,
and entered a narrow passageway between two buildings. The passageway
dead-ended at a grim little building of dirty stone. The windows in the
building were simply narrow vertical slits, and even those were covered by iron
bars. The door was iron as well—arched and sporting a heavy bolt—with a
bored-looking guard stationed outside. The guard snapped to attention when he
saw them coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Has everything been readied?” Lord Maudit
snapped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The guard nodded sharply. “Yes, milord. The
maids just left.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Good. This is… well, Brute. Obviously. You’ve
been told of his duties?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes, milord.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“If he needs anything, make sure he gets it.
I’ll be checking on him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The guard looked slightly horrified at the
prospect but nodded again. Then he unlocked the door and waited for Maudit and
Brute to enter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This time, Brute found himself in a small
hallway with a ceiling so low he almost had to stoop his head. The walls were
rough plaster, dirty and cracked, interrupted now and then by doors made of
thick dark timbers. The building smelled of damp and age, with a faint sickly
sweet undertone, as if something had rotted long ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What—” Brute began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“In here.” Lord Maudit pressed the latch on one
of the doors; the hinges squealed in protest. Brute stepped inside and saw, to
his astonishment, a somewhat dim but comfortable-looking apartment. The ceiling
was higher than that of the hallway, although he could still have brushed it
with his fingertips. The room contained an oversized bed piled with quilts, a
chest of drawers with an actual mirror on top, a solid table with two equally
solid chairs, and a matching wardrobe and bookshelf. The window was tiny, of
course, but the walls were hung with colorful tapestries that depicted scenes
of beasts in the forest and creatures under the sea. A small stove with dark
green tiles was tucked in one corner, but not lit today because the weather was
far too warm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And in one wall, over near another corner, was a
door constructed of heavy iron bars, with only darkness visible behind it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Welcome to your new home,” said Lord Maudit
from the doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“But… what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“His Highness has decided that you will be a
very specialized sort of guard, with only a single prisoner to watch over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Prisoner?” Brute’s eyes strayed back to the
barred door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Maudit twitched one shoulder. “See for
yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">With some degree of trepidation, Brute crossed
the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The bars separated the apartment from a small
cell. He had to squint to see inside—there was no window slit in the prisoner’s
space—but there wasn’t much to see. Bare walls, bare floor, and in the corner,
a dirty pile of rags. But as Brute stared, the rags shifted slightly and chains
clanked, and a matted mass of hair appeared from under the edge of the fabric.
A man, Brute realized. He was looking at a man huddled under a blanket. Chains
sounded again, and Brute noted the metal collar around the man’s neck, manacles
on his wrists, and shackled ankles fastened by chains to bolts in the floor. It
was impossible to make out any details of the man past his rat’s nest of hair
and tangled beard until the prisoner lifted his head slightly. Brute gasped at
the man’s obvious blindness: eyelids closed over sunken, empty sockets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Lord Maudit sighed. He still hadn’t actually
entered the room. “Brute, meet Gray Leynham.”</span></div>
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Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-50695536795096610382012-12-02T02:00:00.000-08:002012-12-03T08:11:33.990-08:00The Dragon Tamer - Rainbow Award Winner for Cover Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CPeACiFuO58/ULslV_oF96I/AAAAAAAAALQ/SkpmDmYkf2w/s1600/rawinnerl.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CPeACiFuO58/ULslV_oF96I/AAAAAAAAALQ/SkpmDmYkf2w/s1600/rawinnerl.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<br />
The cover art for The Dragon Tamer placed 3rd out of around 2400 and won a Rainbow Award! Woohoo! I owe it all to Shobana Appavu, the cover artist. ;) As part of the post-Rainbow-Awards celebration, <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2749" target="_blank">The Dragon Tamer will be 25% off at Dreamspinner Press until December 8</a>!<br />
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<br />Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-53758286735436541742012-11-30T23:34:00.000-08:002012-12-03T08:18:17.533-08:00Lucky, my Christmas novella, has been released!<br />
Woohoo! Check out my newly released ebook! It’s a holiday-themed contemporary m/m romance.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CMUYFplxTuw/UJLrxd0EXyI/AAAAAAAAAKo/vsFZGQ6aQF4/s1600/lucky_800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CMUYFplxTuw/UJLrxd0EXyI/AAAAAAAAAKo/vsFZGQ6aQF4/s400/lucky_800.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>
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<b>Lucky $3.99</b><span class="s1"><br /></span>By Ana Bosch<span class="s1"><br /></span>Ever since Martel Heller rolled his first dreadlock, his love life has been blessed. For seven years he’s had the luxury of cherry-picking the hottest men available. But when the dress code at his new job forces him to hack off his lucky locks, his good fortune comes to an end.</div>
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To make matters worse, if Martel shows up at the company Christmas party alone, his creepy coworker Phil will know he’s single. As a last resort, Martel enlists his best friend, Felix, a fashion photographer, to hook him up with a model. Then plans fall through, and Martel ends up stuck at the Christmas party with the last person he expects—but as the hours pass, he wonders if he's finally learned what it means to be lucky.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3423" target="_blank">Buy the ebook now from Dreamspinner Press!</a><br />
(Also available from Amazon, B&N, etc.)<br />
<br />
Read on for an excerpt.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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After Martel's hairdresser slips up with the razor, Martel calls his best friend Felix to bring him a hat...<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
MARTEL endured twenty minutes of freezing air against the back of
his head before Felix’s ridiculous lime green Smart Car finally zoomed
around the corner and slid into a tight parking spot on the side of the
street. Felix climbed out of the car, his tangle of crazy dark-brown
curls coming into view from atop the vehicle’s roof. Felix’s straggly
hair reminded Martel of an illustration of a haunted forest from a book
of fairytales he’d had as a child. The strands of curls stuck out in all
directions just like the twisting, reaching branches of the forest’s
bare trees. If Felix had been the one at the end of Gaspard’s nefarious
razor instead of Martel, he likely would have just shrugged and carried
on. But Felix’s hair wasn’t magic. Martel had known him since they were
in neighboring college dorms, and in the seven years since then, Felix
hadn’t had a single date.<br />
<br />
Felix jogged around the front of the car toward him. As usual, he
wore a scruffy coat over an even scruffier long-sleeved shirt and
jeans. For a fashion photographer, he put surprisingly little effort
into his personal clothing choices.<br />
<br />
“You did it!” he cried when he reached Martel’s side. “You cut it all off! I can’t believe it.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, well….”<br />
<br />
“When you said to meet you at the salon and bring a hat, I was expecting the worst. But man, Martel, you look frickin’ <em>hot</em>.”<br />
<br />
Without a word, Martel pointed a finger to the back of his head.
Felix peered around him, lips pursed curiously. After a moment’s glance,
he suddenly let out an uncontrolled cackle, accompanied by a hearty
snort.<br />
<br />
“It’s not funny, Felix.”<br />
<br />
Felix fell back against the side of his car, holding his stomach
and shaking with silent gasps of laughter. Martel wanted to throw a shoe
at him.<br />
<br />
Felix, apparently, was oblivious to his anger. “My God, it’s like the Oregon Trail back there!” he heaved.<br />
<br />
“Shut up.”<br />
<br />
“I can almost see a covered wagon full of people with dysentery on the back of your head.”<br />
<br />
“I’m gonna strangle you, Felix.”<br />
<br />
When Felix still didn’t stop laughing, Martel wrestled him
against the side of his car and jokingly shook him by the neck until he
promised to shut up. But even after Martel withdrew and gave him a
half-playful swat to the side of the head, Felix still needed another
moment to quell his chuckles.<br />
<br />
Felix handed over the knitted cap he’d brought from his studio,
which Martel quickly pulled over his wrecked hair. While he adjusted it,
Felix gazed up at him. “So is that your solution? You’re going to wear a
hat for the next six months?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”<br />
<br />
“Why don’t you shave it all off?”<br />
<br />
“I’d look horrible bald. I have a bumpy head.”<br />
<br />
“I bet you’d look fine.”<br />
<br />
“You just have low standards.” He adjusted his hat again and
peered at his reflection in the window of the Smart Car. “This is bad,
Felix. I’m now officially screwed.”<br />
<br />
“Is it really that big a deal? It’ll grow back in no time. Why are you screwed?”<br />
<br />
“Because I need a date to the Christmas party at work next
weekend, and no one is going to say yes to me when I have a bald stripe
going up the back of my head.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I
picked the world’s shittiest time to cut off my lucky dreads.”<br />
<br />
“That’s what you called them? Your lucky dreads? I always called
it your whore hair.” Martel gave him another shove, but Felix brushed
him off. “Why are you so desperate for a date to an office party anyway?
Can’t you go alone?”<br />
<br />
“Remember that guy I told you about? Phil Stein?”<br />
<br />
“Is he that sleazy fifty-year-old guy who keeps hitting on you at work? The one who calls you ‘Sweet Caramel’?”<br />
<br />
Martel cringed. “He’s a little younger than that, but yeah,
that’s him. He’s disgusting. He cornered me at the copying machine
yesterday and asked if I’d go out with him this weekend. I said I was
busy, but then he kept coming up with alternate dates, so finally I told
him I’d just started seeing someone else. I don’t think he believed me.
He said I should bring my guy to the Christmas party. I was planning to
go alone, but now if I show up without a guest, he’s going to know I
was lying. He’s really good friends with my boss. They’ve known each
other since high school. And he’s a senior marketer, so technically he
has some authority over me. I really need to stay on this guy’s good
side.”<br />
<br />
“I think you need to report him to HR.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, sure,” Martel laughed. “I bet that would go over really
well.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I
can handle it myself. No, the best way to solve this problem is to just
find someone to take to the party. Maybe then he’ll back off. ”<br />
<br />
“You don’t think it’d be a little weird to take someone to an office party for your first date?”<br />
<br />
“Come on, Felix. Any guy I ask is going to know that the real party starts after the office party is over.”<br />
<br />
Felix rolled his eyes, but he said nothing. Instead, he shoved
his hands deep into his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet
while staring longingly at the coffee house on the opposite side of the
street. “Let’s go get something to drink. I’m freezing my ass off, and
besides, I need a caffeine boost to get through the rest of my work.”<br />
<br />
They headed across the street together and stepped into the
pleasantly heated coffee house. Martel barely made it two steps into the
building before his gaze locked onto one of the baristas behind the
distant counter.<br />
<br />
Felix tugged impatiently on his arm. “What are you waiting for? Get out of the doorway.”<br />
<br />
Martel pulled him back. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Have you seen that guy here before?”<br />
<br />
“Who?”<br />
<br />
Martel pointed. The man was similar in stature to Martel himself:
a bit over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, well-muscled arms, and
sturdy legs. He had slick black hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow.
Felix followed the direction of Martel’s finger and then let out a
knowing laugh. “Why am I not surprised? He’s just your type, isn’t he?”<br />
<br />
“Do you think he’s new? He has to be. If I’d ever seen him before, I’d have already gotten his number.”<br />
<br />
“Looks new to me.” Felix got in line behind a young red-haired woman. “Have you figured out your pickup line yet?”<br />
<br />
Martel frowned. He felt unusually hesitant, and he wondered if it
was because of his lack of lucky dreads. He examined the barista, whose
eyes looked a little glazed and watery. “I want to ask him out, but…
does he look a little under the weather to you?”<br />
<br />
Felix looked at the barista and then nodded. “Yeah. They probably
should have sent him home. He doesn’t look like he should be preparing
people’s food.” He shrugged. “But hey, if he’s all hopped up on cold
medication, he probably won’t even notice your big gaping bald spot.”<br />
<br />
Again, Martel self-consciously adjusted his hat. “He’d be recovered by the time of the party. He’d notice it then.”<br />
<br />
“See, this is why you should date short guys like me. If you wear
a high enough collar, they won’t even be able to see above it.”<br />
<br />
“They could still see it. And besides, I don’t like short guys.”<br />
<br />
Felix rolled his eyes again and turned away. He reached the front
of the line and ordered a hazelnut latte. Behind him, Martel asked for a
cappuccino. As they headed across the room to the pickup counter,
Martel pointed. “Hot guy is making my drink. Score.”<br />
<br />
“Let me know if it’s still a ‘score’ after you test positive for TB.”<br />
<br />
A female barista called, “Hazelnut latte,” and Felix reached over
the counter to retrieve his drink. He took a sip and sighed. “I haven’t
had good coffee in weeks, and this is the best hazelnut latte ever.” He
held his cup up to Martel’s lips. “Try it.”<br />
<br />
Martel set his hand over Felix’s and was about to take a sip when
a male voice called, “No foam cappuccino,” from across the counter.
Quickly, Martel pushed Felix’s cup aside and squared his shoulders. “I’m
going to do it. When he hands me my drink, I’ll unleash my magic on
him.”<br />
<br />
“‘Unleash your magic’? Really?”<br />
<br />
“You’ll see.” Martel straightened out his coat collar and again adjusted his hat. “Watch me.”<br />
<br />
The barista held Martel’s drink in one hand and reached for a
plastic lid with the other. But before covering the cup, he fell still
and sucked in a breath. His face contorted—nostrils flared, lips drawn
back—and then he let loose a wave of rattling, phlegm-laced coughs in a
downward direction toward the top of the exposed cup.<br />
<br />
He paused, then followed up with a second round of wet coughs.
Then he briefly looked back and forth between the cup and the lid,
covered the cup with the lid, and handed it to Martel as if nothing out
of the ordinary had happened.<br />
<br />
Martel looked down at the cup, an unconscious grimace on his
face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Felix begin to quiver.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” he muttered under his breath.<br />
<br />
He tossed the cup in the trash on the way out.</div>
Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-72713705600308975362012-11-10T15:00:00.001-08:002012-12-19T11:36:54.333-08:00Lifelines - Undead Series #3 Sneak Peek<br />
Thank you so much to everyone who attended my Meet the Author chat on Goodreads! I really hope you guys enjoyed it.<br />
<br />
As I promised during the chat, I'm posting a special excerpt from Lifelines, the third and final book I have planned in the Undead Series. In the third book, Riley accompanies Lychgate to his hometown near Chicago, upon rumors of dead humans being kept in a state of puppet-like animation by way of an undead-worshipping ritual.<br />
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Meanwhile, someone from Riley's past has devised an elaborate scheme that puts Riley and Westwood's relationship—and their lives—in jeopardy.</div>
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Going back home for Riley is not an easy thing, as the excerpt I'm about to share shows. Before the start of Lychgate's assignment, Riley spends the night at his sister's house, but he's blindsided when his parents show up out of nowhere for a visit. This scene takes place that night after they leave. And we see that after four years with Nick and now a year with Westwood, Riley is still having trouble opening up.</div>
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When
Riley entered his bedroom, the first thing he saw was his reflection in the
mirror on the far wall. He looked
haggard, old, worn out. He looked
a lot like he did after coming out of a fight in Barclay’s class, except
without the visible bruises.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He
looked depressed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Closing
the door behind him, he headed across the room. He took the mirror down and turned it around to face the
wall. Then he retrieved his
toiletries from his suitcase and headed around the corner to the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After
getting ready for the night, he climbed into bed and turned off the
lights. But even after closing his
eyes, his mind raced with repetitions of all the painful little phrases he’d
heard throughout the day. Being
away from his parents for so many years, he had finally managed to build
himself a new identity, something different from the weak, irrational,
unstable, incapable kid they had previously convinced him he was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tonight,
he felt like that kid again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Half
an hour passed, and the racing, repetitive thoughts didn’t cease. He stumbled out of bed and grabbed his
cell phone and then climbed back under the covers, drawing them tight around
him to keep in the warmth. He ran
his fingers over the phone’s smooth, hard surface. Then he turned it on and scrolled through his contacts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Westwood’s
number appeared on the screen. He
stared at it. Just a touch of the
screen, and he could hear his lover’s voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He
tapped the button.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Four
rings. Five rings. Leave a message after the beep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He
froze. What was he doing? Why was he calling Westwood? What would he say to the man? That he was <i>sad</i>? That
he needed someone to <i>reassure</i>
him, like a goddamn toddler during a thunderstorm? Westwood had never seen this side of him before. And if he saw it now, he’d probably
start to have doubts about whether Riley was still competent enough to
participate in Lychgate’s mission.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He
lost track of how long it’d been since he’d heard the beep on the other line,
of how long he’d been breathing into the phone without saying anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Abruptly,
he hung up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sleep
came and went, flitting in and out and making Riley toss restlessly in his
bed. He sank into darkness, only
to be jolted half-awake by the erratic beating of his own heart. He heard the eerie creak of taut rope
being stretched. He saw a dangling
shadow swaying in the wind beneath the branches of a tree. He felt himself screaming—<i>Andrew</i>—against the wind. Screaming over and over, until his throat burned. But not a sound emerged from his mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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His
eyes sprang open. He stared up at
the ceiling, seeing nothing but black.
It took a moment for his supernatural night vision to kick in and the
room to come into focus. He could
feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, so hard he could almost hear
it. His own heartbeat unnerved him
to the point that he finally scrambled out of bed and rushed for the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
moment he pulled back the curtains, he felt that startling pang in his chest
again. His skin went cold with
dread—or perhaps fear—when his gaze settled on the apple tree in the backyard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Someone
was standing under the tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He
recognized the figure’s familiar build—broad shoulders, skinny torso and arms,
and long, skinny legs. A teenage
body that hadn’t yet filled into its new adult framework. Torn jeans. Sandy blond hair.
Emerald eyes that mirrored his own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
No, it
couldn’t be. His brain was filling
in details that his eyes couldn’t possibly see from such a distance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
He
heard a knocking sound behind him and whirled around, his breath catching. In the window of the adjacent wall,
another figure loomed. Riley
jumped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
The
figure knocked again on the window, and suddenly Riley recognized Westwood
across the pane of glass. He
raised a hand to his pounding heart, willing it to slow while he took in a few
controlled breaths.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Out of
the corner of his eye, he glanced out the window at his side again. He saw no figure under the apple tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Westwood
knocked one more time. Riley
yanked the curtains closed over the window beside him and headed across the
room to allow his lover entrance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“What
are you doing here?” Riley whispered.
He was embarrassed to hear a tremor in his voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I got
your message.” Westwood climbed
the rest of the way into the bedroom and closed the window behind him. Then he took Riley by the arms and
pulled him close.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Riley
didn’t resist. Rather, he wrapped
his arms around his lover and squeezed him as hard as he could. “God, I’m so glad you’re here,” he
gasped, even as he willed himself to play it cool. “I didn’t say anything on the phone. How did you know to come?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Westwood
stroked Riley’s hair. “I could
tell by the sound of your breaths.”
He continued stroking for another moment before pulling back and looking
into Riley’s eyes. “What’s
wrong? You’re upset.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“It’s
nothing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Westwood
continued to stare at him, his gaze unwavering. “Liar.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Riley
shook his head. “I don’t want to
talk. I just… I just….” He tightened his grip on Westwood’s sleeves. “I just want to be with you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“You’re
cold,” Westwood said. “You’re
shaking. And you look like hell.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Riley
felt his throat tightening, and he felt a dangerously telling sting along his
lower eyelids. He blinked and
shook his head again. “Just be
with me. Please.” He grabbed Westwood’s hand and pressed
it against his bare chest, but Westwood pulled his hand free.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Westwood
glanced across the room and then back, and Riley knew he’d been looking at the
mirror that was facing the wall. “Riley,
cut it out. Talk to me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Riley
lunged and kissed Westwood on the lips.
Again, Westwood withdrew, but Riley leaned in again. When Westwood tried to turn his face
away for a second time, Riley pushed forward and bit his lip hard enough to
nick the skin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Westwood
sucked in a pained gasp and shoved Riley back. “What the fuck?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Come
on, Westwood.” Riley grabbed
Westwood’s arms again, digging in with his fingertips. He dragged his nails all the way down
Westwood’s left arm, closing his fist around the man’s hand and yanking it
close. He pressed it against the
bulge in his tight boxers. “Just
do it. Fuck me.” He squeezed Westwood’s wrist as hard as
he could. “Make it hurt.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Westwood
wrenched his hand free. “What the
hell is the matter with you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“What’s
the matter with me?” Riley asked.
“What’s the matter with <i>you</i>? What happened to the guy who used to be
able to fuck me till I could barely walk?
Where’s that guy now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“Riley—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
“I bet
you <i>can’t</i>. You don’t even have it in you anymore—not even if you
tried. You’re acting all
sensitive, but the truth is you’ve gone weak. You probably can’t even get it up. Maybe I should be the one fucking you this time around.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
He saw
the flicker in Westwood’s eyes and the twitch in his cheek, and he braced
himself. Westwood was no
idiot. The man knew he was being
manipulated; Riley was sure of it.
But still he charged, tackling Riley and knocking him flat on his back
across the nearby mattress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
Riley
gasped, winded. He felt Westwood
stripping off his underwear and then trying to flip him over. But even though his blood rushed with
desire, he twisted out of Westwood’s grip and pushed him back. It wasn’t enough. Westwood had to try a lot harder than
that. He wanted all of Westwood’s
strength, all of his roughness. He
wanted to be pinned so hard it hurt, to be squeezed and crushed under
Westwood’s weight. He wanted
Westwood to pound him until he couldn’t take any more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
No, he
didn’t want it. He needed
it—desperately.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
He
needed it, so he wouldn’t have to think.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-86455987244467653862012-11-08T14:54:00.001-08:002012-11-08T14:55:38.810-08:00Meet the Author Chat on Goodreads - This Saturday 11/10!This weekend I'm doing a "Meet the Author" chat on Goodreads, courtesy
of Dreamspinner Press. I'd love it if you guys can come
and join me!<br />
<br />
You can find all the details and RSVP here:<br />
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/event/show/830955?si=true&utm_content=A&utm_medium=email&utm_source=event_invite">http://www.goodreads.com/event/show/830955?si=true&utm_content=A&utm_medium=email&utm_source=event_invite</a><br />
<br />
Of course, you're also welcome to just drop in without notice. On the day of the event, there will be a thread here:<br />
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/45452-dreamspinner-press">http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/45452-dreamspinner-press</a><br />
<br />
The
more, the merrier! It's this Saturday from 3pm to 6pm ET. Even if you
can only pop in for a little while, that's fine. I'll be talking about
all my published m/m novels, especially my newest release, Bonds of
Death. There will be excerpts from my current and upcoming releases,
and there will be book giveaways! I'll also be there to answer
questions and chat about whatever you want to know.<br />
<br />
I hope to see you guys there!Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-41152416311995145882012-11-01T14:42:00.000-07:002012-11-30T23:38:00.730-08:00Lucky - Christmas NovellaI have a whole lot to catch up on, including my adventures at GRL and random stuff about the Undead Series, but for now, have a cover and a blurb about my upcoming Christmas novella!<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CMUYFplxTuw/UJLrxd0EXyI/AAAAAAAAAKo/vsFZGQ6aQF4/s1600/lucky_800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CMUYFplxTuw/UJLrxd0EXyI/AAAAAAAAAKo/vsFZGQ6aQF4/s1600/lucky_800.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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</div>
<div class="p1">
<b>Lucky $3.99</b><span class="s1"><br />
</span>By Ana Bosch<span class="s1"><br />
</span>Ever since Martel Heller rolled his first dreadlock, his love life has been blessed. For seven years he’s had the luxury of cherry-picking the hottest men available. But when the dress code at his new job forces him to hack off his lucky locks, his good fortune comes to an end.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
To make matters worse, if Martel shows up at the company Christmas party alone, his creepy coworker Phil will know he’s single. As a last resort, Martel enlists his best friend, Felix, a fashion photographer, to hook him up with a model. Then plans fall through, and Martel ends up stuck at the Christmas party with the last person he expects—but as the hours pass, he wonders if he's finally learned what it means to be lucky.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>This story is part of the "Evergreen" Advent Calendar Anthology, and it will also be available for individual purchase starting December 1.</i></div>
<br />Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-51021443327088537382012-10-18T22:47:00.001-07:002012-10-18T22:47:26.774-07:00Bonds of Death has been released!You can now purchase Bonds of Death through Dreamspinner Press's site! It's available in ebook and paperback.<br />
<br />
Since I'm an author attending GayRomLit this weekend, the <b>ebook is 25% off until 10/21</b>. (The ebook for Art of Death is also 25% off!)<br />
<br />
The first 20 copies of the paperback sold through Dreamspinner's site have <a href="http://ana-bosch.blogspot.com/2012/10/signedsketched-copies-of-bonds-of-death.html" target="_blank">signed sketches</a> inside!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3312" target="_blank">Buy it in ebook</a><br />
<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3316" target="_blank">Buy it in paperback</a><br />
<br />
3rd party listings (Amazon, etc.) will probably be up later tomorrow. When I get a chance, I'll make an announcement.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FPRmb4bbrzY/UIDom-5o9DI/AAAAAAAAAKU/L2LNWR8DL7U/s1600/bondsofdeathcover_800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FPRmb4bbrzY/UIDom-5o9DI/AAAAAAAAAKU/L2LNWR8DL7U/s400/bondsofdeathcover_800.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<i><b>Fresh out of a messy breakup, starving artist Riley Burke has found
happiness with Westwood, his new undead lover—enough happiness that when
his friend Porter warns him that the undead only see humans as flashy
playthings, Riley looks the other way. After all, he only wants a bit of
fun. It's not like he's asking Westwood to put a ring on his finger. <br /><br />
Once a brutal and violent criminal, Westwood now atones for his past by
punishing the undead for crimes against humans. But his job doesn't
make him popular with his undead brethren—and someone has a thirst for
revenge. <br /><br /> That someone has uncovered Westwood’s weakness and is
on the hunt. To withstand an attack, Westwood must bolster his strength
by taking on a human worshipper. He turns to Riley, but Riley is
terrified of the bond Westwood's ritual will create. He would rather
risk his life pursuing Westwood's attacker than risk opening his soul to
a man who doesn't respect him. But time is running out, and if Riley
and Westwood can't come together, one of them might pay the ultimate
price.</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
I'll try to put up a more thorough and informative post later in the weekend. Right now, I'm at GayRomLit in New Mexico, and having a great time! I've been getting reacquainted with several authors I met at the Dreamspinner weekend in March, as well as authors I've known online but never met before. At my current level of tiredness (and lack of sobriety), I don't yet want to attempt to list all the awesome people I've talked to, but I will definitely be mentioning many of them in the near future. I caught my first glimpse of the paperback of Bonds of Death in the swag room yesterday, and I was really happy with the way the cover printed. It looks great!<br />
<br />
And hey, if you're also attending GayRomLit, come say hi to me! I'm the one with the name tag that says Ana Bosch. ;) And you can pick up my books in the swag room at Dreamspinner's table for only $15.Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-74841362200256798242012-10-15T14:18:00.000-07:002012-10-15T14:18:17.218-07:00Another Bonds of Death ExcerptBonds of Death releases on Friday! FRIDAY! Until then, enjoy this excerpt.<br />
<br />
(FYI, a wights-only party is a party where the undead are hooked up with human worshippers.)<br />
<br />
----------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
On
Wednesday night, Porter shyly asked Riley if he’d be willing to pose for a
painting, “for old time’s sake,” as he put it. The setup in his bedroom wasn’t
ideal, but at the moment he couldn’t afford to rent a studio space.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
As
requested, Riley sat sideways in a wooden chair, facing away so Porter could
paint his back. Riley usually preferred Porter’s paintings when they included
the model’s face because he had a knack for capturing likenesses and subtle
hints of emotion, but a painting from behind meant he didn’t have to keep a
rigid expression, and they could even converse while Porter worked. As Porter
laid down the underpainting on his canvas, Riley filled him in on what had
happened during the days he’d been gone, including all the details of Riley’s
foray into designing baby dolls and Matt’s promise to send him more work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
A
couple hours into the pose, Riley asked, “How does my back look? Is it getting
too bony?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Porter
laughed out loud. “Relax, Riley. It’s just a painting.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I’m
curious, that’s all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“You’re
as gorgeous as always, okay? Jeez, I never understand you people with your
perfect bodies who fret about every pound you gain or lose.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
After a
pause, Riley reluctantly explained, “Westwood thinks I’m getting too skinny.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Is <i>that</i> why he hasn’t been coming around lately? What a
douchebag.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“How do
you know he hasn’t been coming around? He usually lets himself in through my
window.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Well,
it’s been a long time since I’ve heard your bedsprings screaming for mercy.” He
chuckled. “Or you, for that matter.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley’s
face went red. “I didn’t think you could hear.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Uh,
yeah. I can hear. Mrs. Mason and I always analyze your performances when we run
into each other in the stairwell.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Mrs.
Mason? The old lady from the third floor?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Yep. I
love her. She’s hilarious.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Man,
you suck.” He waited, listening to Porter’s rhythmic scratchy brushstrokes for
a minute before speaking again. “But no, that’s not why Westwood hasn’t been
around. I think he’s… mad at me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Why
should he be mad at you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
frowned. “Well really, it’s all Quinn’s fault. She put me on the spot. She said
Westwood needed to get stronger in order to survive an attack with your blood,
and she asked me to worship him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
The
brushstrokes stopped. “And?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I said
no. Well, I didn’t exactly say no, but I didn’t say yes, and Westwood obviously
knew I was about to say no. He walked out of the meeting. And he was my ride,
so Quinn had to drop me back at his house to pick up my car. And by the way, it
doesn’t get any more awkward than being stuck alone in a car with Quinn.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Porter
began painting again. After a minute, he said, “In a sense, I see where Quinn
is coming from. I personally don’t care if Westwood bites it, but apparently he
does good work for Lychgate, so I guess it would be best for him to pick up a
follower and get stronger.” He paused. “But you and Westwood are sleeping
together. You’re the last person Quinn should be asking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“You
think so?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Definitely,”
Porter said. “You know how I feel about Westwood. He’s in it for himself. He
always has been. You’ve been seeing each other for six months, and he probably
doesn’t even know your middle name.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“We
didn’t see each other much for the first three months. Things only started
picking up in June. And besides, I’m fine with things the way they are. He
doesn’t need to know my life story.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“But
he’s already taking advantage of you, and if you start worshipping him, it’s
just going to go to his head.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“He
doesn’t take advantage of me,” Riley protested. “I know how to take care of
myself, Porter. And when he and I are together, I want it as much as he does.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I’m
sure you have wonderful sex together,” Porter said. “But that’s not what I
mean. It’s like when you were telling me about your big car chase. All Westwood
cared about was running that other car off the road so he could save his own
skin. You said it yourself; he didn’t even consider what it could have meant
for you until Quinn told him off.” Again, the brushstrokes slowed. “Even though
I’ve been undead for twenty years, I live as a human, and most of the undead I
run into think I’m human. It’s become clear to me that most undead don’t have a
lot of respect for humans. They think humans are inferior, and they don’t have
much consideration for a human’s life. Since they can die and come back over
and over, they forget what it’s like for the people who only have one shot at
it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Westwood
is ignorant,” Riley admitted. “He doesn’t know any better. But that doesn’t
mean he can’t change.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Do you
think worshipping him is the way to get him to change?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
didn’t reply. He remembered the last time he and Westwood had slept together.
He remembered Westwood holding him down, positioning Riley’s body to his
liking, and going at it without another thought. That night, Riley might as
well have been a hole in the mattress, for all Westwood seemed to care about
his half of the experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
After a
moment, Porter asked, “Can you relax your shoulders? Your muscles are
bunching.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Oh,
sorry.” Riley corrected his posture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Perfect.
Thanks.” The brushstrokes resumed. “I’m sure there’s another human out there
who’s willing to worship Westwood. It may be hard for him to find and seduce
that person. He doesn’t know how to turn on the charm like, say, Thackary for
example. But he’ll find someone. Heck, maybe you can help him look.” Another
pause. “I just don’t know if you want to go opening yourself up to him like
that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I kind
of feel the same way.” Riley gave a wry laugh. “You know, I’m going to a
wights-only party this weekend. Maybe I’ll meet someone for him there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
At
this, Porter sputtered. “Wait a minute—<i>you’re</i> going to a wights-only party?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Yeah.
Why is that so surprising?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Those
parties are hardcore, dude. You don’t go to a wights-only party unless you
really want to become a part of the world of the undead. I guess I figured that
even though you were dating an undead guy, you still wanted to live a normal
human life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I do
want to live a normal human life.” Riley hesitated. “To be honest, the main
draw for me is the prospect of free food.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Porter’s
resulting cackle was so loud it made Riley wince. “Why is that funny?” he
demanded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Dude,
you’re delusional! I don’t even know what to say to you! If I invited you to an
S&M orgy, would you come just for the hors d’oeuvres?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Not
for, like, a cheese cube tray. But if you did something cool with smoked salmon
or maybe some of those Thai lettuce wraps—”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“My
God, Riley!” Riley heard the sound of paintbrushes clattering on the ground.
“That’s it. I’m buying you groceries with my next paycheck.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, why did you stop painting?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Porter
tossed Riley his maroon silk robe. “I’m done.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Really?”
Riley pulled on the robe, heading around to the other side of the easel to take
a look. As usual, he was awestruck by Porter’s talent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Porter’s
hand lowered onto his shoulder, bringing him out of his trance. “Hey, buddy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
turned and met Porter’s gaze. His roommate looked unusually serious. “What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“If
you’re really going to go to that wights-only party, just… just watch your
back, okay? As much as I hate Westwood, at least he’s an honest guy. He doesn’t
play games. Not everyone else who goes to those parties is like that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
considered his words. He knew it was silly, but the more people warned him
about the dangers of wights-only parties, the more he wanted to go. He still
didn’t see the harm in it. After all, no one could force him to perform a
ritual if he didn’t want to. He’d go, scope the place out, and politely excuse
himself. No big deal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> “Thanks,” he said to Porter at last. “I’ll
watch my back.”</span><!--EndFragment-->
Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-75113782791889904812012-10-12T14:30:00.000-07:002012-10-12T14:31:35.916-07:00Bonds of Death - Opening ExcerptBonds of Death releases in exactly one week! I can't believe how quickly the time has come. I'll be at GayRomLit from 10/17 until 10/21, so I'll be out of town on the day of the release, but I'll be sure to find some time to post news and excerpts and other fun stuff regardless.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For today, I'm sharing an excerpt. This is opening of Bonds of Death, and we get to find out what Riley, Westwood, and Porter have been up to for the past six months since the end of Art of Death.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
----------------------</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<!--[if supportFields]><span
lang=EN-CA style='mso-ansi-language:EN-CA'><span style='mso-element:field-begin'></span><span
style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1</span><![endif]--><!--[if supportFields]><span
lang=EN-CA style='mso-ansi-language:EN-CA'><span style='mso-element:field-end'></span></span><![endif]--><span lang="EN-CA">A wash of yellow light spread across
Westwood’s arm, hitting with a pinprick highlight at the height of his bicep
and diffusing over his taut bronze skin. Riley feathered the surface of his
canvas with his dry fan brush, blending the previously rough brushstrokes for a
softer finish. For a moment, he sat back to admire his subject at the far end
of the bedroom. Westwood’s face was partially buried in the crook of his hefty
arm, exposing the small star-shaped tattoo on the back of his shoulder. His
legs were bent as he lay on his stomach. The white bedsheet</span><span class="MsoCommentReference"> </span><span lang="EN-CA">laced between his muscular thighs barely
covered his nudity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">A better artist would have been able
to portray the chasteness of the scene, but to Riley, there was no chaste way
to look at Westwood’s body, even if his most intimate areas were covered. Riley </span><span lang="EN-CA">knew too well the touch of those hands, the
power in those limbs. With all his bulk, Westwood would have been plenty strong
as a mere human. But Westwood was no mere human, and the jutting, vein-laced
curves of muscle Riley replicated on canvas did little to portray the true
strength within his lover’s seemingly mortal frame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">He attempted a few more
brushstrokes, but he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, from remembering
the way those arms felt last night when they squeezed him tight and pushed him
into the mattress.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">Five years ago, when he was in
college, he could have painted an attractive nude male model without batting an
eye. Then again, none of those models were anything like Westwood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA">As his eyes lingered on the
bare-skinned man amidst the scattered sheets, he began idly chewing the back of
his paintbrush.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-CA"><i>Blech. Oil paint doesn’t taste
good.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
He
scrubbed at his tongue and spat. <i>Disgusting.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Sheets
rustled, and Westwood groaned like a disgruntled wolf. He raised his eyes,
fixing his coal-black gaze on Riley. “The fuck are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Nothing!”
Riley squeaked, attempting to turn his easel as if he were painting the bare
wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Westwood
scrambled up to his seat, pulling the bedsheets close in an unwitting
caricature of a demure maiden. “Were you <i>painting me while I slept</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I….”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Goddamn,
Riley. Since when did you become a creeper?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
scowled, tossing his paint rag onto the drop cloth he’d stretched across the
carpet. “I think I like you better when you’re not awake.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Spoken
like a true creeper.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
scooped up his paintbrushes and shoved them into a bucket before reaching for
the canvas. “Whoa!” Westwood called, rising from the mattress. “You’re not
going to let me see?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Of
course not.” Riley tried to shield the canvas with his body as Westwood
approached. “You know oils aren’t my strength. I’m a digital painter. I’m
really rusty when it comes to traditional media.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Excuses,
excuses. Let me see.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“But
I….”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Westwood
shoved him aside indelicately, eyeing the canvas with all the artistic
discretion of a teen flipping through a Playgirl magazine. “Hmm. You got my
nose wrong.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Your
nose was smushed into the pillows. I got it exactly the way it looked.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Westwood
gave a careless shrug. “You know, this is the first time I’m actually seeing
your artwork.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“And?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I
guess you’re okay at it. At least you’re better than me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I
should hope so. I have a degree in this, you know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Porter
doesn’t have a degree, but he’s still better than you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Porter
only doesn’t have a degree because he keeps dying before he can get through
college. He may look like he’s only twenty, but he’s got decades of practical
experience more than me.” Riley whipped the canvas out of Westwood’s hands.
“And did I ever tell you you’re kind of a dick?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Westwood
tapped the surface of the painting. “You got that part wrong too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“You
were on your stomach.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Westwood
raised his eyebrows as Riley shoved the canvas into a narrow gap behind his
computer desk. “I don’t see why you have to paint me in the first place. Why
don’t you grab a bunch of fruit and stick it on your table and paint that?
Isn’t that what you artist types do? Still life paintings?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I
don’t think a couple packets of ramen and a bag of frozen vegetables would make
for a very compelling still life.” He frowned. “In case you forgot, I’m no
longer the kept boyfriend of a rich lawyer. I’m the <i>single</i> unemployed artist who moonlights as a nude model at
Prestwick College of Art. Fresh fruit is a luxury I can’t always afford.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
idly examined a spot on the bedroom wall where the painters had spackled over a
flattened roach. Gems like this were plentiful in the new two-bedroom apartment
he shared with Porter Gomez. It had only been a few weeks since they’d moved
in, but he was already beginning to wonder if it was even worth the minuscule
amount he’d have to scrape together for rent every month.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I’m
not so sure about this apartment,” Westwood said as if reading his mind. “I
thought I heard something in the middle of the night, but I was too tired to
check it out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Oh,
that was the police. They arrested the crack dealer downstairs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Lovely.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“This
was all I could afford,” Riley said defensively. “I couldn’t stay at Nick’s
place, and staying with Mr. Tobias, my old painting teacher from Prestwick, was
just awkward. I mean, unless you want me to move in with you….”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Don’t
even joke about that.” Westwood gave Riley a shove that was only half-playful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
Riley
finished gathering his paints in uncomfortable silence. In truth, he didn’t
want to move in with Westwood any more than Westwood did. The way Riley saw it,
things were fine as they were. He went about his daily business, worked,
chatted with his roommate, tried to navigate through the daunting world of
networking with other artists, and occasionally woke up to Westwood climbing
through his window and tackling him—an impressive feat considering the
apartment’s location on the second floor. Riley was happy enough with their
current arrangement. Even after six months, it felt like he was in a brand new
relationship. Sex <i>and</i> independence,
along with the occasional conversation. It was exciting, and he didn’t spend
enough time with Westwood to get annoyed by his personality.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You
have to work today?” Westwood asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah.”
Riley finished stowing the last of his painting supplies and collapsed his
easel. As he folded the drop cloth into a crinkly square, he added, “I thought
it’d be nice to get a little bit of painting in before I have to be on the
other side of the easel at nine.” He glanced at the alarm clock on his
thirty-dollar IKEA nightstand. “Speaking of which, I have to hop in the shower,
so unless you want to join me, you should probably get going.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Your
shower’s too small. I’ll go. But I want to get a glass of water first.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Wait!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Westwood
stopped midstride, his hand on the doorknob. “What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I
don’t want you to scare Porter again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two
days earlier, Westwood had wandered naked out of the bedroom exactly as he was
about to do now. Porter had been at the fridge, and upon seeing Westwood, he’d
yelped like a startled Chihuahua and dropped an entire milk carton on the
floor. It had been a rare half-gallon carton of organic milk from Whole Foods
that Riley had been looking forward to using in his coffee. But as sad as he’d
been to say good-bye<span class="MsoCommentReference"> </span>to the five-dollar
milk, he’d felt even guiltier for having put Porter in that uncomfortable
situation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Porter’s
had twenty years to get used to seeing me,” Westwood said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Not in
his house without warning, though. I don’t blame him for being freaked. You
were the one who took his mortality, after all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You
kill a guy once, and he never gets over it,” Westwood muttered under his
breath.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Twice,”
Riley corrected.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Whatever.
Anyway, I don’t hear him out there. I’m going.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Riley
pulled on a robe as he followed Westwood to the door. When he stepped out into
the hallway, he saw no signs of his lanky, shaggy-haired roommate. Porter
usually slept late, but across the cramped living room, Riley could see that
his door was wide open and the bedroom unoccupied. Unlike Riley’s room, which
was still lined with unpacked boxes, Porter’s room was bare, instantly
displaying his characteristic lack of personal effects.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“You
think he slept over at the bar?” Riley asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“I
don’t know. I don’t care.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Riley
cringed as Westwood helped himself to Sarasota’s questionable tap water. He
then watched the water disappear from the glass in four impossibly large gulps.
As Riley turned toward the bathroom, Westwood caught his arm. “One more thing before
I go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 27.0pt;">
“Yeah?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Westwood
tore open the belt of Riley’s robe, lifting him off the ground and slamming him
on his back across the kitchen table. He whipped off Riley’s underwear and
grabbed him below the knees, pulling him close. With a mischievous laugh, Riley
dug his fingers into Westwood’s shoulders and readied himself for the ride.</div>
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Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-82424015741871149102012-10-04T12:30:00.000-07:002012-10-04T12:30:01.995-07:00Signed/Sketched Copies of Bonds of Death!The release of Bonds of Death is just about two weeks away, and I just finished signing my vellums to be inserted in t<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3316" target="_blank">he first 20 paperback copies sold through Dreamspinner Press's site</a>! And just like I did with <a href="http://ana-bosch.blogspot.com/2012/06/signedsketched-copies-of-art-of-death.html" target="_blank">the first 20 copies of Art of Death</a>, I did 20 new sketches along with my signature for Bonds of Death.<br />
<br />
The vellums got to me earlier this time, so I was able to put a little more time into the sketches as well. I worked on them all through the presidential debate, but don't worry, there are no Obama or Romney portraits on the vellums. ;) This time I did all characters and items from Bonds of Death. So here they are!<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7kvMeaAQ-X8/UG02BDxhQWI/AAAAAAAAAKA/0KNPZUaj7H4/s1600/bodvellums_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7kvMeaAQ-X8/UG02BDxhQWI/AAAAAAAAAKA/0KNPZUaj7H4/s640/bodvellums_small.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
<br />
1. Riley Burke<br />
2. Westwood<br />
3. Porter Gomez<br />
4. Arman<br />
5. Quinn Harcourt<br />
6. Charlotte<br />
7. Rico<br />
8. Chester<br />
9. Lucy<br />
10. Jasmine<br />
11. Riley Burke 2<br />
12. Porter Gomez 2<br />
13. Westwood 2<br />
14. Arman 2<br />
15. Quinn Harcourt 2<br />
16. Thackary Jones<br />
17. Red Wine<br />
18. Westwood 3<br />
19. Riley Burke 3<br />
20. Porter Gomez 3<br />
<br />
Riley, Westwood, Porter, and Quinn of course were all in Art of Death, and Thackary was mentioned, but the rest are making their first appearances. Charlotte happens to be the central character in my very favorite scene of Bonds of Death—which is actually probably my favorite scene out of any I've ever written. And I love Rico. Arman didn't come out exactly as I imagined him.... Sometime I'll have to do a full painted portrait of him.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm really excited about being able to have these sketches in the first 20 paperbacks. They'll be available through the <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3316" target="_blank">Dreamspinner Press site</a> starting on October 19!Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-42216571747640931262012-09-24T10:44:00.000-07:002012-09-24T11:40:44.890-07:00Bonds of Death - Cover Reveal and BlurbAs promised, I'm revealing the cover for Bonds of Death today! And oh man, this one is a little..... I don't have words.<br />
<br />
After the preliminary sketch, I mentioned on Twitter that the idea for the cover seemed much less suggestive in my head than it did once I put it on paper, and that's still the case now that the image is complete. It's definitely the most suggestive cover I've done so far.<br />
<br />
Like the Art of Death cover, I found inspiration in <a href="http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/jacques-louis-david/male-nude-known-as-hector-1778" target="_blank">Male Nude Known as Hector</a>, by Jacques-Louis David. Unlike Art of Death, where Riley's eyes were in shadow, I wanted them to be highlighted on this cover.<br />
<br />
So anyway... here's the cover and the blurb!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZqLWO2fXJjA/UGCbtmewu7I/AAAAAAAAAJg/FFCGMT4tBiE/s1600/bondsofdeathcover_800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZqLWO2fXJjA/UGCbtmewu7I/AAAAAAAAAJg/FFCGMT4tBiE/s1600/bondsofdeathcover_800.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Fresh out of a messy breakup, starving artist Riley Burke has found
happiness with Westwood, his new undead lover—enough happiness that
when his friend Porter warns him that the undead only see humans as
flashy playthings, Riley looks the other way. After all, he only wants a
bit of fun. It's not like he's asking
Westwood to put a ring on his finger.<br />
<br />
<div>
Once a brutal and violent criminal, Westwood now atones for
his past by punishing the undead for crimes against humans. But his job
doesn't make him
popular with his undead brethren—and someone has a thirst for revenge.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
That someone has
uncovered Westwood’s weakness and is on the hunt. To withstand an
attack, Westwood must bolster his strength by taking on a
human worshipper. He turns to Riley, but Riley is terrified of the bond
Westwood's ritual will create. He would rather risk
his life pursuing Westwood's attacker than risk opening his soul to a
man who doesn't respect him. But time is running out, and if Riley and
Westwood can't come
together, one of them might pay the ultimate price.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3312" target="_blank">RELEASES 10/19 FROM DREAMSPINNER PRESS</a></div>
Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-53438829540351613572012-09-20T11:10:00.000-07:002012-09-20T11:10:06.083-07:00New Christmas Novella Accepted!I made a brief mention of this on Twitter, but I didn't make any sort of official announcement, so I figured now would be a good time before I forgot.<br />
<br />
First thing Monday morning, I got the news that my new novella, "Lucky," had been accepted into Dreamspinner Press's advent calendar anthology for this December. That means that it'll be sold as part of the package of 30 stories, and it'll also go on sale individually with its own cover (and I know exactly what I plan for the cover already). It'll be in ebook format.<br />
<br />
I'm excited about this story because it's my first contemporary m/m romance. It's also quite a bit less risky/controversial than the Undead Series or The Dragon Tamer. Granted, I love writing risky stories, but if a low-risk story happens to inspire me, then I take it and run with it.<br />
<br />
There are a few layers to "Lucky," but on its surface it's a sweet, fun holiday story about a guy who desperately needs a date to his company's Christmas party, but ever since he got his lucky dreadlocks cut off, he finds himself striking out left and right.<br />
<br />
As we get closer to the release date, I'll share an excerpt or two. In the meantime, I think I'll just sit here and do my happy dance. :)Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-34199950456446013912012-08-23T21:28:00.000-07:002012-08-27T04:56:53.894-07:00Follow the Rainbow Book Reviews Blog Hop: What Writing GLBTQ Literature Means to Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XqT-LIe1f0k/UDb6-o1JZmI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/loewB6b3bQg/s1600/rainbow-book-reviews-hop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XqT-LIe1f0k/UDb6-o1JZmI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/loewB6b3bQg/s1600/rainbow-book-reviews-hop.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
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Welcome to my post for the <a href="http://rainbowbookreviews.wordpress.com/2012/08/22/the-rainbow-book-reviews-blog-hop-is-here/" target="_blank">Follow the Rainbow Book Reviews Blog Hop</a>! </div>
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I'm excited to be a part of the celebration! I'll be chatting a bit about some of my inspiration and why I write what I write. Also, I'm giving away one free ebook! You have your choice between my two current titles: Art of Death, and The Dragon Tamer. <b>To enter the drawing, simply leave a comment on this blog post along with your email address any time before midnight central time on Sunday 8/26.</b></div>
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On Monday, I'll randomly draw the name of the winner from the comments and contact you by email. If you have a Dreamspinner account, we'll put the book of your choice on your virtual bookshelf. Otherwise, the book will be delivered as a PDF by email.</div>
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Also, make sure to check out the <a href="http://www.rainbookreviewsblog/followtherainbowbloghop.com" target="_blank">Rainbow Book Reviews Blog</a>!</div>
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<b>What Writing GLBTQ Literature Means to Me</b></div>
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I like to write fun, weird, unusual stories. Stories with action and drama and humor. Stories that don't take themselves too seriously. Heck, my most recent release was about undead painters and the people who worship them—and there's a sequel coming out in October. When I write stuff like that, how can I take myself seriously? I like to keep things light, and I like to joke around. But at times like today, when I take the time to sit down and really think about why I write what I write, I realize just how serious I am.</div>
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I've had GLBTQ friends for as long as I can remember. I'm of an ethnic minority, thus I've always empathized with others who felt like they weren't—or couldn't be—one of the "normal" kids. I'm even a minority within a minority—a rare Indian with a Christian upbringing when all the other Indians I knew were Hindu. Not Indian enough for most Indians, not Christian enough for most Christians, not girly enough for most girls, and so on. My GLBTQ friends were the ones who accepted me for all my weirdness—my utter lack of so-called femininity, my refusal to adhere to, promote, or support restrictive traditional gender roles, and more. They accepted these things without judgment or questions, the same way I accepted and respected them—and I can't even express how much gratitude I have for that acceptance.</div>
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I've wanted to be a storyteller for my entire life, but I've always felt frustration as a consumer because I strongly believe that minorities of all types—ethnic, GLBTQ, gender-based, etc.—should have fair, varied, realistic, and significant representation in fiction. I'm passionate about this for two reasons:</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<ul>
<li>People who are part of these minority groups deserve to see characters like themselves in primary roles in fiction.</li>
<li>People who are not part of these minority groups need to be exposed to these characters as a way of cultivating understanding and empathy, especially when they aren't lucky enough to live in a diverse environment.</li>
</ul>
<br />
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Mainstream media likes to essentially "neuter" GLBTQ characters and have them be no more than colorful sidekicks for heterosexual heroes (who happen to get far more on-screen action than said sidekicks). On the flip side, lower budget indie movies and small press GLBTQ books sometimes reduce their characters down to their sexuality and nothing else, with stories that are either focused entirely on sex and romance, or on the Gay Experience (coming out, gay bashing, AIDS, etc.)</div>
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The latter is true of most minorities: stories that feature minority leads are almost always about the "minority experience." While I think those "minority experience" stories absolutely do need to exist, they're not <i>enough</i>. Minority characters need to be heroes in all kinds of stories, not just minority-themed stories, and at the same time it needs to be done in a way that doesn't ignore their identity, neuter, or whitewash them.</div>
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I looked at these mainstream stories with neutered GLBTQ sidekicks, and then at the genre stories of romance, sex, and more sex, and then at the stories of AIDS, gay bashing, self-loathing, and victimhood. It left me wondering: where is the middle ground? Where are the stories of GLBTQ characters living not just the gay experience, not just the love-and-sex experience, but the full human experience?</div>
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It got to the point where I felt more frustration than joy after consuming a work of fiction. I was sick of the idea that only straight white men could have high-flying adventures, solve a murder, make a heroic sacrifice, climb the career ladder, conquer paranormal creatures, or tame a dragon. I was sick of the idea that minorities could only be sidekicks and supporting characters in such stories, but never leads. I was sick of GLBTQ genre stories that refused to rise past clichés and familiar territory and failed to deliver substance beyond the sex scenes.</div>
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Most importantly, I was sick of ranting about these things but not actually doing anything to fix the problem.</div>
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So that's where I stand. That's why I write what I write. I write in the middle ground, the land of adventure, love, joy, danger, fun, loss, sex, success, missteps, and everything else that's part of the human experience. I'm by no means the only person who's devoted to this middle ground of GLBTQ literature, and I rejoice every time I find someone else who shares this exciting space with me. I'm excited by the recent growth of this middle ground, and I hope to see it continue to flourish.</div>
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Thanks for reading! Make sure to leave a comment below to be entered in my giveaway! And make sure to check out all the <a href="http://rainbowbookreviews.wordpress.com/2012/08/22/the-rainbow-book-reviews-blog-hop-is-here" target="_blank">other participants of the blog hop</a>!<br />
<br />
<b>[EDIT] Congratulations, wulf, for winning the giveaway! I will be contacting you by email shortly so you can claim your prize!</b></div>
<br />Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-66181176634043784692012-08-15T14:00:00.000-07:002012-11-10T01:09:16.996-08:00Excerpt Time - Undead Series #3<span class="userContent">Sharing a tiny excerpt from my WIP, the third book in the Undead Series. :sigh: I wish Porter were my roommate...<br /> <br /> --<br /> <br />
“Dude, it’s pizza time!” Porter called from the kitchen as soon as
Riley walked through the door. He was wielding an oven mitt on each
hand, as usual. Back when they’d first moved into the apartment on
Medina, Riley had gone out and bought kitchen supplies without first
checking to see if Porter had already
picked any up. As a result, they’d ended up with two oven mitts, and
ever since, Porter always made a point of wearing both whenever he
cooked. As far as Riley could tell, the extra mitt didn’t seem to keep
Porter from finding creative new ways to burn himself. All it did was
make him twice as clumsy when handling pots and pans.</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
But he put on a hell of a good dinosaur-themed puppet show with them.<br />
<br />
Riley shrugged off his jacket and slung it over the back of the nearest
chair. Behind him, Porter’s focus had already made a rapid shift from
pizza preparation to practicing his dinosaur noises. But before Riley
could disappear into his bedroom, Porter suddenly stopped mid-<i>rawr</i> and
called, “Come back here and eat some pizza!”<br />
<br />
“Not hungry,” Riley mumbled. “Besides, I have to pack. Don’t you have to pack too?”<br />
<br />
“I finished.”<br />
<br />
“You’ve only been home for half an hour.”<br />
<br />
Porter shrugged. Riley knew that his roommate kept very few personal
items, so he let it go. Again, he turned for his room, but Porter
called, “Dude, you have to eat. I made that pizza from scratch, you
know. Half meat, half veggie, depending on whether you feel like Mr.
Tyrannosaurus—” he held up his left oven mitt, “—or Mr. Brachiosaurus.”
He held up his right mitt and waved.<br />
<br />
Riley squinted. “Did you sew eyes and teeth on those oven mitts?”<br />
<br />
“It was long overdue, and you know it.” He continued to hold up Mr.
Brachiosaurus, which looked so pathetic that Riley had to admit it was
somehow endearing.<br />
<br />
Finally, Riley rolled his eyes and took a seat at the dining table. “I’ll take a couple veggie pieces.”</div>
Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-90349635288593590712012-08-07T17:24:00.001-07:002012-08-07T17:25:06.392-07:00It Feels Like Christmas: The Gift of Good GrammarAfter staring idly at my bookshelf, I discovered an old copy of <i>Keys for Writers</i>, which I needed for a class back in college. While most of the book was geared toward writing research papers and such, there were also grammar and punctuation sections that made the geeky part of me jump for joy. I sat down with the intention of flipping through the book quickly, only to look up after finishing and find that two hours had passed.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure I love grammar more than is socially acceptable. (Really, most "cool" people would never admit to loving grammar, but I've never claimed to be "cool.") It had been a long time since I'd last reviewed a lot of the trickier rules, and I was thrilled to come across a few rules I'd either forgotten or never known. Believe it or not, this is the type of thing that I find exciting and inspiring and, well, absolutely delightful. It's like going to the Home Depot and picking up a new tip for my Dremel, or finding a new brush or paint color at the art supply store, only in this case, my new tools all came free.<br />
<br />
Be it English or Spanish or Latin or even XHTML, language has always fascinated me. Sure, I love storytelling; that goes without saying. Storytelling has always been and will always be my passion. But in the world of genre fiction, sometimes it seems like the language itself is treated as an afterthought or simply a means to get to an end. I haven't met too many other writers in my genre who love not only the storytelling but also the intricacies of the language.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm not a fan of flowery, showy, or pretentious prose. Nothing is worse than a writer who seems to revel in the sound of their own words. That, to me, is the writing equivalent of people who talk just to hear themselves talk. But I do love to read the works of authors who achieve an effective flow to their words without tripping readers up with grammatical errors. I also love challenging myself to avoid errors in my own writing, even if they are the type that most people don't care about.<br />
<br />
In the m/m genre, I often hear people recommend novels by saying that if you look past the technical issues, a great story lies beneath. For me, the two must go together. Bad use of grammar, punctuation, or spelling pulls me out of a story and prevents me from fully enjoying it. We live in a time when anyone can get anything published, and a lack of technical skills is a red flag, alerting me that I'm holding a piece that doesn't meet professional standards. If genre writers want to be taken as seriously as literary fiction writers, and if self-published authors want to be taken as seriously as traditionally published authors, mastery of the basics goes a long way.<br />
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The technical stuff, after all, is the easy part. There are books and style guides and online instruction manuals that spell out exactly how to do it all. It's right or wrong, black or white. The hard part is the subjective: crafting a story, deciding which risks to take, deciding which expectations to meet and which to ignore, and then owning those decisions. I prefer to let readers get mad at me over the controversial things I allow my characters to do, rather than something as silly as poor use of grammar.Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-60124835994214344202012-07-25T12:00:00.000-07:002012-09-28T13:47:45.036-07:00From the 7/21 Meet the Author EventFor those of you who weren't able to make it to my Meet the Author event on Dreamspinner Press's Facebook page last weekend, I'm posting the subjects here so you can take a look. I couldn't very well repost all the resulting conversation, but I will say it was a great event. I got to talk with a fellow ferret owner, several fellow chocolate lovers, chat a bit about all-male Shakespeare performances, discover some gorgeous guys, and more.<br />
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Also, you can catch me at the following events this week:<br />
7/25 - <a href="http://www.chicksanddicksrainbow.com/" target="_blank">Is Abuse Romantic?</a> - abuse awareness month post on Chicks & Dicks<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">7/27 - <a href="http://pantsoffreviews.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Nude Models</a> - guest post on Pants Off Reviews 1-Year Blogoversary - with ebook giveaway</span><br />
7/31 - <a href="http://www.longandshortreviews.com/WC/index.htm" target="_blank">Art School</a> - guest post on Long and Short Reviews<br />
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<b>Meet the Author - Ana Bosch - July 21, 2012</b><br />
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<b>1pm: Introduction</b><br />
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Hi all! Ana Bosch here, reporting in for my Meet the Author event! I'm really excited to chat with all of you today, and I hope you'll enjoy it as well. I'm celebrating the recent release of my debut novel, Art of Death. I'll be giving away a free ebook copy of Art of Death during the event today, so keep an eye out for the two giveaway threads. I'll be here until 6pm ET today to chat and share excerpts and even share some artwork!</div>
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So let's start with an introduction. I go by Ana Bosch, but I'm not particularly secretive about my real identity. Most people know me first as an illustrator, and if you're looking at this post, you've already seen some of my art! I'm an insane workaholic, I'm obsessed with animals—especially ferrets and parrots, and I love providing entertainment to people who like stories that are a bit outside the mainstream.</div>
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Your turn! Comment below and introduce yourself. Are you a reader? A writer? A unicorn? How did you happen upon Dreamspinner Press and m/m fiction?</div>
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<b>1:30pm: <span style="background-color: white;">A Little Art for Art of Death - Ana Bosch</span></b></div>
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If you've read Art of Death, or even just the blurb, you know that art is one of the story's main themes. Like me, Riley is a freelance illustrator, although at the time I wrote the novel, I was actually still a miserable corporate employee who only wished I could have Riley's job (minus the nude modeling part).</div>
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To celebrate the art theme of Art of Death, I'm going to do something a little different during this chat. I'll be sketching while we talk, and I'll post the sketches at the end of the chat. Have a sketch request? Drop me a note here! It can be anything, but preferably m/m related. Want me to interpret a character from Art of Death? Want me to take a shot at someone else? Let me know!</div>
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Random fact of the day: the cover of Art of Death was inspired in part by Caravaggio's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boy_with_a_Basket_of_Fruit" target="_blank">Boy with a Basket of Fruit</a></div>
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<i>(Note: the chat was so busy that I didn't actually get a moment to even pick up a pen. There weren't too many sketch requests, mostly just conversation, but I'm still planning to post at least a couple sketches once my most pressing professional deadlines are out of the way.)</i></div>
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<b>2pm: <span style="background-color: white;">Enemies Turned Lovers - An Art of Death Excerpt - Ana Bosch</span></b></div>
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I'm a huge sucker for rivals turned lovers, and for enemies turned lovers. Whenever I see a pair of guys in fiction who are constantly at each other's throats, I'm always hoping for that little glimpse that proves that the two men actually care about each other.</div>
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This was my inspiration for Westwood's character. I wanted to play with the idea of someone falling for their potential enemy, and all the uncertainty and danger that comes with it. Westwood is not a safe man for anyone to fall for, and Riley learns that fast enough. But I love the brief scene I'm about to share<span class="s1">—</span>which takes place shortly after Riley escapes a sticky situation with the artist Coliaro—because it gives a bit of that glimpse I mentioned above.</div>
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Excerpt: Art of Death</div>
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Upon reaching the town house, Riley turned off his headlights, easing into the driveway and parking outside the garage. He was hoping Nick had gone to bed, and he didn’t want to awaken him by opening the rusty garage door. He slid out of the car and gently pushed the driver’s side door shut before turning toward the house.</div>
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Westwood stood at the hood of the Corolla, his face hidden in shadow. Riley cried out and stumbled back against the side of the car. “Shit, Westwood!”</div>
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The man didn’t speak. Riley waited, his heartbeat returning to a normal pace, but Westwood continued to stand without offering any explanation.</div>
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“What are you doing here?” Riley asked at last. “My boyfriend is inside.”</div>
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Westwood hesitated. Then, softly, he whispered, “I had to make sure.”</div>
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“What are you talking about?”</div>
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“Coliaro told me he was going to… do things to you. Did he?”</div>
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“He didn’t do anything.” Riley crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you even care? And why are you asking now all of a sudden? After our phone conversation, I was under the impression you were pissed at me.”</div>
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“I am. You were an idiot, going after Coliaro like that. But that doesn’t mean I want you maimed or tortured. I’ve known Coliaro for a long time, and he doesn’t make empty threats.”</div>
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Riley looked past Westwood toward the house. The curtains were drawn over all the windows, and he couldn’t tell if Nick had waited up for him. “Listen, I just want to go to sleep.”</div>
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Westwood reached out without warning, tilting Riley’s chin back. His eyes appeared oddly reflective in the dark as he examined Riley’s neck. His gaze traveled down, pausing on Riley’s wrists. Riley pulled back, bracing himself against his car. “It’s only a couple rope burns on my wrists, and a few scratches from falling into the bushes. No big deal.”</div>
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Riley had a feeling he would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t cracked on the last few words. Westwood narrowed his eyes, and Riley felt himself begin to tremble. He hadn’t realized how shaken he still was by his encounter with Coliaro. Now, in front of Westwood, was not the time he’d wanted to make that discovery. Swiftly, he turned away, cursing under his breath as his tremors intensified.</div>
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He could feel Westwood’s gaze on him, scrutinizing him. “I’m tired,” Riley told him, his voice choked. “That’s all.”</div>
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A warm hand on his back snapped him into awareness. His muscles went rigid and he turned, meeting eyes with Westwood. The man ran his hand slowly up and down Riley’s spine, easing his tremors. Riley shuddered, alarmed at the potency of Westwood’s touch, and alarmed at himself for how badly he wanted more.</div>
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He reveled in the warmth of Westwood’s soft caress, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. This was exactly what he needed—a calm, reassuring hand. After a moment, he opened his mouth to speak, and Westwood immediately withdrew as if assuming Riley would protest. He took a couple steps back, giving Riley space, and Riley almost groaned in frustration. More than anything, he wanted that hand on him again. He wanted that surprisingly gentle touch.</div>
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Westwood lingered a moment. If Riley didn’t know better, he would have thought the man didn’t want to leave him alone. When Westwood finally spoke, it seemed to take him a considerable amount of effort. “I only came to make sure you made it home alive,” he said gruffly. “Go inside and go to sleep.”</div>
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Riley considered calling back to him, asking him to stay awhile. But by the time he managed to find his voice, Westwood had already disappeared into the shadows. </div>
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<b>2:30pm: </b><span style="background-color: white;"><b>GIVEAWAY THREAD: Guilty Pleasures - Ana Bosch</b></span></div>
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Okay, I'm starting the giveaway thread a little early. I want some of you lurkers in here! :)</div>
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For me, Art of Death is the type of guilty pleasure book I'd want to read—if anyone else out there were writing stuff like this. On the subject of guilty pleasures, I have quite a few of them.</div>
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I'm one of those people who has her collection of Ultimate Fighter DVDs sandwiched between her copies of Legally Blonde and Project Runway. (I wonder how many of us there are out there?) Mixed martial arts is my newest guilty pleasure, and it's actually thanks to researching and choreographing fight scenes for Bonds of Death, sequel to Art of Death, that I got sucked into it. I love anything welterweight and lighter. While I definitely appreciate the sport, I admit that a huge part of the appeal is watching really fit half-naked dudes "mounting" each other, among other colorful things.</div>
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My sister tells me I used to be smarter before I started watching MMA (and even smarter before I got pet birds). Unfortunately, I'm no longer smart enough to argue with her about it or tell her she's wrong.</div>
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Your turn! What are your guilty pleasures? It can be anything, from food to entertainment to hobbies. Comment any time before 5:30, and you'll be entered to win an ebook copy of Art of Death! <b>(giveaway closed)</b></div>
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<b>3:30pm: </b><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Early Favorites - Ana Bosch</b></span></div>
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I'm not locked into my genre, but I admit that when I write, I have a soft spot for paranormal stories. Demons, monsters, and magic are like crack to me. I first became interested in paranormal stories when I was in middle school and discovered the books of John Bellairs. I read just about every book by him that I could get my hands on, but I was especially fond of the Johnny Dixon books. I think John Bellairs was my first official "favorite author." Looking back, I'm surprised at how much those books are still influencing my storytelling as an adult.</div>
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And wow, a glance at Wikipedia has just informed me that they're working with Eric Kripke to make a feature film based on his books! :bounces in her seat:</div>
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Do you guys remember your first favorite author? Or do you remember the first author who influenced your creative vision, whatever it may be? Tell me about them!</div>
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<b>4:30pm: </b><span style="background-color: white;"><b>GIVEAWAY THREAD #2: Places to Visit - Ana Bosch</b></span></div>
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When I was a kid, my dad would take us on vacation to Orlando every summer. By the time I was twelve, I was that insufferable spoiled brat who complained that she was bored of Disney World. But seriously, vacationing in Florida in the summer kind of sucks when you're like me and you can't stand hot weather. I didn't gain an appreciation for Florida until I went there for college.</div>
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Art of Death takes place in Florida, and I really enjoyed getting to go back and "visit," if only in my mind. It was like I was there all over again, feeling the humidity, surrounded by the familiar architecture and tropical plants. And it just so happens that this Friday, I'm going back to Florida with my dad for a week! This is a long overdue vacation, and now that I'm in my late twenties, I have a much greater appreciation for Florida.</div>
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What's your favorite vacation spot? Where's your favorite place to go when you need to get away? Any place counts, whether it's Hawaii or the café down the street or even Hogwarts by way of reading. Comment any time before 5:30, and you'll be entered to win an ebook copy of Art of Death! Already commented in the other giveaway thread? Comment here too, and you'll be entered twice!</div>
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(P.S. I'm skipping the "chat with the boys of Art of Death" thread, because I think most people here haven't read the book yet, and I don't want to get too spammy on Dreamspinner's page. But if you have a burning question you want to ask one of the boys, feel free to drop it here! Just try to avoid major spoilers.)<b>(giveaway closed)</b></div>
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<b style="background-color: white;">5pm: </b><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Riley's Nude Modeling Session - Art of Death Excerpt - Ana Bosch</b></span></div>
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Half an hour till the ebook drawing! I can't believe this chat is almost over! I'm sharing another excerpt from Art of Death! Riley poses for a private session for the (amazingly creepy) artist Coliaro.</div>
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“You’re so tense,” Coliaro said as he adjusted the lighting around Riley. “Are you nervous?”</div>
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Riley swallowed, his dry throat clamping shut. He was in Coliaro’s spacious studio, lying atop cushions that were draped with violet silk. Back arched, head tilted back, arms above his head. It was a terribly vulnerable position. Around him were rows of candles that provided the primary light source, with overhead clamp lights to further illuminate the scene.</div>
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As Coliaro shifted the light, it aimed briefly into Riley’s eyes. He blinked, large white spots clouding his vision. “I’ve never done a private session before,” he explained to Coliaro. “And never with a famous artist.”</div>
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“John Tobias was relatively famous in his day. And he’s quite a bit more critical than I am.” He glanced down at Riley. Riley could almost feel the weight of his eyes as they traveled over his jutting ribs and flat belly. “How’s your back? Good?”</div>
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“Mm-hmm.” He swallowed again; he was parched.</div>
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After finishing with the lighting, Coliaro began marking portions of the silk around Riley’s body with tape so he could get back into position after his breaks. Riley squirmed a bit; this part always made him feel like a body at a crime scene. Coliaro’s knuckles brushed against him more than a few times, and Riley began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose.</div>
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“Hold still a moment,” Coliaro said. He reached out, turning Riley’s head slightly to the side and gently arranging his hair across his forehead. The man’s rough fingertips grazed his face. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said. “Emerald. I’m looking forward to bringing out that color in the painting.” He gazed down for another moment. “And such long, dark lashes.”</div>
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Riley laughed uneasily. “I swear I’m not wearing mascara. Everyone always thinks I am.”</div>
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Coliaro gave him a light pat on the cheek. “Either way, you’re stunning.”</div>
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The man stared at him for another moment, and Riley wondered what he was looking for. His discomfort began to grow, but Coliaro finally took a step back and turned for his easel. After grabbing his palette, he gave Riley a wink. “All right, my dear. Let’s begin.”</div>
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***</div>
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The moment Coliaro set down his brushes and announced that he had finished, Riley realized he was naked. Granted, he knew that he had been naked for the full three hours, but the candles and the soft music Coliaro had in the background made him feel calm and relaxed. Now, he suddenly felt exposed.</div>
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He pulled on his maroon silk robe; then he stood up and began doing stretches to loosen his muscles. As Coliaro stepped back to examine his painting, he said, “You were excellent. Better than this morning. I wouldn’t have believed you’ve only been posing for a few months.”</div>
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“I think it helps that I’ve taken so many figure classes as a student,” Riley said. “It’s easier to know what the artist needs if you’ve been one.”</div>
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“I could paint you all day,” Coliaro mused, admiring his work. He looked back up at Riley. “Would you like to see?”</div>
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Riley made his way across the studio, climbing over electrical wires and wooden risers on the way. He braced himself as he stepped up to the canvas and raised his eyes. What he saw made his breath catch. He’d never seen himself in such a way before. He’d always considered himself fairly average and not particularly charismatic, despite Nick’s arguments to the contrary. However, in the image he looked incredibly… sexual. Seductive. He wondered if this was the way Nick saw him.</div>
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“You’re so amazing at what you do.”</div>
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“Me?” Coliaro asked, brushing him off. “This is all you. This is your essence.”</div>
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“You flatter me.”</div>
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As Coliaro sat back to admire his work some more, Riley began looking around, checking out the setup of the studio. During the pose, he’d fixed his eyes on the crack between the back wall and the ceiling, occasionally glancing up at the skylight above him. He only hoped one day he’d have the luxury of owning such a spacious and accommodating studio. Considering that Coliaro was known only for his oil paintings, Riley was surprised to see such a variety of tools and media in the room. An airbrush and air compressor, rows of chalk pastels, pads of newsprint, and more occupied the nearby shelves.</div>
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Around the corner was a door that was just a crack open. He peered inside tentatively, finding a vast storage area within. There were a couple of unfinished paintings sitting against the sides of the walls. He couldn’t tell in the darkness, but there also looked to be a painting of a fully clothed figure, completed, in an ornate gold frame.</div>
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“Who’s in that big framed portrait?” he asked, pointing.</div>
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Coliaro raised his head, suddenly realizing Riley was looking in his storage area. He leapt across the room, grabbing Riley’s arm and yanking him away from the door.</div>
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“Ow!”</div>
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“What were you doing in there?”</div>
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“I… I wanted to see your works in progress.”</div>
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Coliaro let him go, sheepishly running a hand through his thinning hair. “I do apologize for startling you. I show only a select few of my unfinished works to visitors. I’m very self-conscious about some of them, and I don’t like for them to be seen.”</div>
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“I was just curious about the framed one. It looked like it was finished. Who’s in it?”</div>
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“It’s no one,” Coliaro said curtly. He stepped around Riley, closing the door to the storage room.</div>
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Riley’s face flushed. “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed to have overstepped Coliaro’s boundaries.</div>
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Coliaro let out a deep breath, as if releasing a week’s worth of stress all at once. “It’s all right, my dear. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”</div>
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Glancing down, Riley was surprised to see the beginnings of a deep bruise forming on his forearm. He hadn’t realized Coliaro had gripped him so hard.</div>
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“Come here,” Coliaro said, pulling Riley forward gently. He circled around behind him and began rubbing his shoulders through his thin, silky robe.</div>
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“What are you doing?”</div>
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“The way you reacted to my painting of you, I can tell you don’t recognize your own worth. That’s why you’re always so anxious. I don’t want you to be anxious.” His hands slid down the sides of Riley’s arms, then back up, squeezing at the inner corners of his shoulders. Riley shuddered a bit at the feeling of the man’s hands at the sides of his neck, but he didn’t resist. It felt good, especially after three hours of lying still.</div>
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“I don’t need to keep this painting. It’s the act of painting itself that gives me my joy and pleasure. I think I’ll donate it to the school. This way you’ll be able to see it anytime, and you’ll be reminded of how magnificent you really are.” His fingers slid down Riley’s back, still massaging, and Riley let out a shaky sigh. The man really was good with his hands.</div>
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When he began to feel his blood heating up, he abruptly pulled away. “I should get going,” he gasped. “My boyfriend will be worried if I’m home late.”</div>
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Coliaro lifted an eyebrow in response to Riley’s pointed reference to his boyfriend, but he let it pass without comment. “All right, understood. Do you need directions back to your place?”</div>
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“No, I know the way.”</div>
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“Good, good.” As Riley disappeared into the neighboring dressing room, Coliaro called after him, “By the way, I come to town fairly frequently. I’m flying out in a couple days, but maybe when I return, we can see each other. And maybe even do another painting together.”</div>
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As he pulled on his shorts, Riley considered. Coliaro seemed decent enough, albeit a bit more forward than he would have preferred. The massage was unsettling, but as soon as Riley had broken away, the man had let him go without a fuss. And Riley had to admit the thought of another hefty paycheck was a compelling lure.</div>
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After slipping his feet into his sandals, he emerged from the room. “Yeah, sure. I’d like that.”</div>
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“Great. And how shall I contact you when I’m in town?”</div>
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Riley jotted down his home and cell numbers on a spare scrap of paper and handed it to Coliaro. The man folded it up in a clean, precise square and slid it into his pocket.</div>
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Riley reached out for a handshake before leaving, and Coliaro instead pulled him into an embrace. After they parted, he gave Riley a gentle smile. “I look forward to the next time we see each other.”</div>
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<b>5:30pm: </b><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Giveaway Drawing - Ana Bosch</b></span></div>
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Time for the giveaway drawing! Thank you so much to everyone who entered! I really enjoyed hearing your guilty pleasures and places to visit. The lucky winner of the Art of Death ebook is… Christine Camellia!</div>
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Christine, send me an email at ana (at) bob-artist.com, and let me know the email address you use for your Dreamspinner account so we can add Art of Death to your shelf. If you don't already have an account, it's quick and free to sign up. If you really don't want an account, we can email you the book.</div>
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To those of you who didn't win, there are still two more chances to get a free copy of Art of Death! My paperback giveaway on Goodreads ends on 7/25, and you can sign up here:</div>
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<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/28969-art-of-death">http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/28969-art-of-death</a></div>
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Also, I'll be guest blogging about nude models on Pants Off Reviews on 7/27 to celebrate their one-year anniversary, and I'll be giving away one more ebook copy of Art of Death. Keep an eye out for the post here:</div>
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<a href="http://pantsoffreviews.blogspot.com/">http://pantsoffreviews.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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And one last chat topic for the final 1/2 hour: What are you doing this weekend? Any fun plans? I think I'm still going to try to make it to that mustache party…</div>
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<b>6pm: <span style="background-color: white;">Farewell - Ana Bosch</span></b></div>
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All right, it looks like it's time to say goodbye. I do hope some of you will continue to look out for my future projects and upcoming guest appearances. You can keep up by checking me out on twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/anaboschwriting" target="_blank">@anaboschwriting</a>, or on my blog at <a href="http://www.anaboschwriting.com/">http://www.anaboschwriting.com</a>. Also, don't forget to pick up your copy of Art of Death or enter the upcoming giveaways I mentioned in my last post!</div>
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I had planned to share some info and an excerpt on Bonds of Death, but again, I don't want to be spammy or put up spoilers none of you can safely read. So I'll put it up on my blog after the chat as an "after-party." :)</div>
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I really enjoyed chatting with all of you. I'm so lucky to get to meet so many great people! I do hope to see you all more in the future! Thank you so much to Dreamspinner Press for letting me take over the page today, and thanks to all of you for the best chat ever!</div>
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Later, dudes!</div>
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~Ana</div>
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<br />Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-58526287770902415422012-07-24T14:01:00.004-07:002012-07-24T14:02:02.634-07:00Pardon me while I do my happy danceArt of Death is currently the #1 paperback on <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store" target="_blank">Dreamspinner Press's site</a>.<br />
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Crazy? Yeah.<br />
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Also, all books are 25% off on Dreamspinner Press's site until the end of July, so now would be a great time to catch up on your shopping!<br />
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On a side note, there's an ice cream truck driving around outside. It feels like 20 years ago. :)Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-26385165290947243982012-07-23T12:00:00.000-07:002012-07-23T13:11:30.495-07:00Happiness is PaperbacksFirst off, Art of Death is currently the #3 <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3056" target="_blank">paperback</a> on Dreamspinner Press's website. That kind of boggles my mind, especially since the ebook is nowhere near as high in the respective rankings. I have no complaints, but I have to wonder what's driving the paperback sales when paperbacks are so much more expensive than ebooks. A friend told me it might be because of the cover art. If that's the case, I should give that "Shobana Appavu" chick a pat on the back. ;) Better yet, I think I'll buy her dinner tomorrow. Actually, I'll go ahead and buy her the vast majority of her dinners for the rest of her life, <i>and</i> pay all her bills. I like that Shobana person. She's quality.<br />
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:ahem: My own five author copies arrived in the mail a couple days ago. I was a little bummed that the corners of all five copies were badly creased in shipping, so I bought a couple more on Amazon just so I'd have a flawless copy to keep. Oh well, this just means I can do more giveaways, and I can make up for the creased corners by adding some pretty drawings inside.<br />
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I think this is my version of when people photograph sports cars with bikini-clad models posed on the hoods. That's Ebo, currently a little crabby and wondering why I woke him up for no good reason. It was actually a very risky photo shoot because one of Ebo's biggest hobbies is eating books. Almost all of my favorite books have Ebo-sized bites taken out of the covers.<br />
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The cover printed a bit on the magenta side, but overall I'm pleased with the outcome, and it's kind of surreal seeing my fingerprints all over Riley's face. Also surreal is seeing the names of my characters printed on actual paper.<br />
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And finally in paperbacks, over 800 people are now requesting the<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/28969-art-of-death" target="_blank"> Goodreads paperback giveaway for Art of Death</a>. A lot of the askers don't seem to be m/m readers, so in a way I feel like I'm trading a future 1-star review for a bit of increased visibility, but that's fine by me. I think part of the journey of publishing your first book is wading through the sea of readers with their own specific tastes and trying to find the ones who match up with what you want to say. I like to push boundaries and write on the fringe of the genre, so I expect a little trial and error.Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-73626615796496290662012-07-21T15:12:00.000-07:002012-07-22T23:58:13.076-07:00Meet the Author on Facebook - The After-PartyI just wrapped up an amazing chat on Dreamspinner Press's Facebook page to celebrate the release of Art of Death! I'd promised to share a preview of the sequel, Bonds of Death, which is due out in October, but due to timing and the desire to not spoil the story for anyone, I decided to post it here.<br />
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<b>Sequel Preview: Bonds of Death</b></div>
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What's better than a book about nude modeling and the undead? TWO books about nude modeling and the undead! Bonds of Death, the sequel to Art of Death is scheduled for an October release. As we learned in Art of Death, the undead grow stronger when they take on human worshippers. Since each undead has a weakness that could potentially kill them for good, sometimes a human worshipper is the only thing that can help them resist an attack targeting their weakness. So what happens when the headstrong Riley is asked to worship his undead lover in order to save his life?<br />
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(beware: Art of Death spoilers ahead)<br />
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Featured in Bonds of Death: a copycat murderer, assassination attempts on Westwood, creepy baby dolls, martial arts training for a certain guy who likes to get himself into trouble, and :gasp: a love interest for Porter!</div>
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Excuse me while I leave this excerpt here… (Beware, this hasn't been through the editors yet.)</div>
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Also, a bit of irony - about a month after I wrote this scene, my drawing tablet died and I had to drop $500 to replace it. :sigh:</div>
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Excerpt: Bonds of Death<br />
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Riley had intended to go straight home from the bar, but the crates of watermelons outside the entrance to Whole Foods caught his eye. On a whim, he steered his bike into the parking lot, pulling up alongside the crates and contemplating whether or not to go inside the store.</div>
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As much as it pained him to admit it, he was spoiled. While he lived with Nick, they only bought organic groceries. His relationship with food was fickle to begin with; even when he ate organic, he was likely to get nauseous over unexpected abnormalities on his plate. Dry hulls in his oatmeal made him gag. Stray bones and tendons in his meat were worse. As picky as he was with his organic meals, he was terrified of what he might find within the depths of a conventional apple or cut of corn-fed beef.</div>
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But alas, he couldn’t justify the expense of going inside the shop. He knew how it always went: he’d start by eyeing the rows of pretty vegetables, trying to decide which one or two to buy as a special treat, only to end up at the cash register with an overflowing basket and a fifty-dollar receipt. Resigned, he turned away and pedaled the rest of the way home.</div>
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He returned to a dark apartment and pulled open the kitchen cabinets. It would be another night of generic spaghetti with generic tomato sauce. There was a single cucumber in the vegetable drawer. He pulled it out and checked it for mold before setting it on the cutting board.</div>
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“Did you just get in?”</div>
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Riley jumped, crashing back against the fridge and knocking his head. “<i>Shit</i>, Westwood!” he gasped, squinting at the shadowed figure that had stepped out of his bedroom.</div>
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“What?”</div>
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Riley rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t mind you breaking into the apartment, but don’t do it when I’m not home.” He turned away, pulling open a drawer and grabbing a knife to cut the cucumber. “I wouldn’t be totally opposed to you calling and letting me know you’re on your way over here, either.”</div>
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“It’s more fun this way.”</div>
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“It’s all fun and games until someone has a heart attack.” Riley quickly chopped the cucumber and set it aside, then retrieved a pot and filled it with water. “And what if I want to reach you? When are you going to give me your cell number?”</div>
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“You don’t need my cell number.”</div>
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“Of course I don’t. We’ve only been sleeping together for six months. Why would I need your number?” He cranked up the heat on the gas stove, listening to it click several times before finally igniting. “I went to the bar on Ballard. Quinn said Porter hasn’t shown up for work in two days. I tried to text him, and he sent back a really short message saying something came up.” He turned. “I know this is a long shot, but have you heard from him?”</div>
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Westwood shook his head. He continued to watch Riley in the kitchen as if he were putting on a show.</div>
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Riley reached for one of the top cabinets and looked inside. He couldn’t find the spaghetti. He frowned, feeling around like a raccoon in the dark. He came up with a nearly empty bag of rice that Porter had bought from an Indian grocer in Tampa, but no pasta. “<i>Damn it</i>!” he groaned, slinging the bag of rice onto the counter. He slid down to the ground, sitting on the floor and rubbing his temples.</div>
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“What are you doing?” Westwood asked curiously.</div>
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“Nothing.” Riley yanked on his hair and then scrubbed his face. He tried to reason with himself, tried to talk himself out of disappointment. <i>Maybe rice and tomato sauce won’t be disgusting. Maybe it’ll be surprisingly wonderful.</i></div>
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Westwood stepped around the corner and into the kitchen, where he could finally see Riley sitting hunched on the floor with his forehead resting on his knees. “What? You don’t have food in the house?”</div>
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“I thought I had an extra box of pasta, but now I remember putting the second one back at the grocery store because I was twenty cents short.” He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “I’d kill for some sautéed halibut right now.”</div>
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“Where would you get that?”</div>
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“Nick’s house.”</div>
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Westwood took a seat on the floor beside Riley, humoring him. He wrapped an arm around Riley’s waist and pulled him close. Despite himself, Riley turned toward him, pressing his face into the crook of Westwood’s neck and taking in his earthy scent. “My drawing tablet quit on me last month. It cost almost five hundred dollars to replace it. I figured, ‘no big deal; I’ll pick up some extra jobs, and I won’t buy meat for the rest of the year’. But it’s not so easy to find extra jobs, and damn, I miss meat.”</div>
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Westwood laughed softly and gave Riley a squeeze.</div>
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A thought popped into Riley’s mind, and he perked up. “Hey—do you know what kind of food they serve at a wights-only party?”</div>
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Westwood suddenly pulled back, a startled expression on his face as he stared down at Riley. “What?”</div>
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“I got invited to a wights-only party in a couple weeks. I wonder what type of food they’d have there? It’s not the type of thing to have a cover charge, is it?”</div>
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“Why are you suddenly asking about wights-only parties? Who invited you?”</div>
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“That guy—Thackary Jones.”</div>
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Westwood’s lips pressed into a tight frown. He pulled further away from Riley and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you want to go to that kind of a party?”</div>
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“Because I’m hungry.” When it became clear that Westwood expected a more thorough explanation, he continued. “It’s not that I ‘want’ to go so badly. But I got invited, and if there’s going to be free food, I don’t see why I shouldn’t go.”</div>
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“The only reason to go to a wights-only party is if you plan on accepting one of the undead as your liege. That means you perform their ritual and start worshipping them. Is that really what you want to do?”</div>
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“Can’t I just go and see who’s there and find out what their rituals are, and then say I’m not interested? And maybe eat some of their food while I’m there?”</div>
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“Good luck coming out of a wights-only party unattached.” Westwood raised his eyebrows. “At a typical wights-only party, the undead outnumber the humans three to one, sometimes more. And they’re all desperate for new worshippers. The undead want human worshippers because each ritual the human performs makes them stronger. They’re not going to let you out of there without performing a ritual.” He grumbled under his breath. “But I don’t see why Thackary still does those parties. He has enough humans already. And I don’t see why he invited you personally.”</div>
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“He seemed to know who I was. He asked if I was friends with you.”</div>
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Westwood set his jaw. Abruptly, he stood up. “Your water’s boiling,” he said before heading into the bedroom. Moments later, Riley heard the bedroom window slam shut.</div>Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-22582265362984982572012-07-20T11:47:00.001-07:002012-07-22T23:52:49.845-07:00“Meet the Author” on Facebook - Tomorrow’s ScheduleDon't forget to join me for a chat at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/dreamspinnerpress">Dreamspinner Press's Facebook page </a>tomorrow, July 21, from 1pm-6pm ET, in celebration of my new release, <a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3055">Art of Death</a>. There will be conversation, ebook giveaways, excerpts, m/m-themed sketch requests, and more!<br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/events/177043519095443/">RSVP here</a>, or just show up tomorrow!<br />
Don't have five hours to spare? It's all good. Drop in for a few minutes and say hi, or throw your name into the giveaway drawing!<br />
<strong>Tentative schedule:</strong><br />
1:00 - Introductions: About me, about <em>Art of</em> <em>Death</em>, and about you<br />
1:30 - Sketch requests/Ask Anything thread. Request an m/m themed sketch in honor of the "art" theme behind <em>Art of Death,</em> or ask any question you have on your mind.<br />
2:30 - GIVEAWAY: comment to enter. "Guilty Pleasures."<br />
3:30 - Books from your childhood/your first favorite books<br />
4:00 - Chat with the boys of <em>Art of Death</em>. Ask them whatever you want!<br />
4:30 - GIVEAWAY: comment to enter. "Places to Visit" - favorite real and fictional locations<br />
5:00 - Sequel Preview: Bonds of Death (with excerpt)<br />
5:30 - Sketch requests revealed, Giveaway winner revealed, upcoming eventsAna Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-19968885078183252532012-07-18T17:41:00.003-07:002012-07-22T23:53:59.683-07:00Meet me this Saturday! Also, giveaways!<div id="goodreadsGiveawayWidget28969">
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<br /> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5434228.Ana_Bosch" style="text-decoration: none;">Ana Bosch</a><br /> </h4>
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<br /> Giveaway ends July 25, 2012.<br /> <br />
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<br /> See the <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/28969" style="text-decoration: none;">giveaway details</a><br /> at Goodreads.<br /> <br />
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<a class="goodreadsGiveawayWidgetEnterLink" href="http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_choose_address/28969">Enter to win</a><br />
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That's right, I'm giving away a signed paperback copy of Art of Death! You know you want to enter! :)<br />
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Also, this Saturday from 1pm to 6pm ET, I'll be chatting on Dreamspinner Press's Facebook page. Drop in and stay as long as you'd like. There will be an ebook giveaway, some interesting conversation, excerpts of Art of Death AND the upcoming sequel, and in honor of the "art" theme of the book, I'll be taking sketch requests and posting them at the end of the event. Please come and say hi; I really look forward to meeting all of you!Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-72532916362019120852012-07-11T13:42:00.004-07:002012-07-22T23:54:45.004-07:00This Week's Promo EventsSorry I'm a little late announcing this on the blog! Here's what's going on for this week:<br />
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<a href="http://mantasticfiction.wordpress.com/2012/07/10/ana-bosch/">Ana Bosch creates her own sexy monster</a></div>
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Spotlight post on Mantastic Fiction, 7/10. Comment on the post before Thursday night for a chance to with the ebook of Art of Death.</div>
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<a href="http://whippedcream2archives.blogspot.com/2012/07/interview-ana-bosch.html">Interview: Ana Bosch</a></div>
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Author interview on Long and Short Reviews, 7/11.</div>
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<a href="http://cupoporn.net/2012/07/12/thursday-things-hotties-of-art-history-with-ana-bosch">Hotties of Art History</a></div>
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Guest post on Cup o Porn (to be added Thursday 7/12)</div>Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8267759622748704816.post-28201605964527354102012-07-01T21:06:00.008-07:002012-07-22T23:59:18.816-07:00Art of Death Has Been Released!<div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
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<i style="font-size: 100%;">Despite the support of his rich older boyfriend, starving artist Riley Burke is determined not to be a trophy—hence his second job as a nude model at the local art school. It’s important to him that he pay his own way, so when the artist Coliaro requests a private modeling session with him, he jumps at the chance to earn some real cash.</i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Then he hears the rumors—that Coliaro is undead. That his worshippers perform rituals to fill him with life energy. That every time he paints a male nude, the painting transforms to depict a gruesome murder. And that shortly after, a young man turns up dead.</span></span></i></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">The source of these rumors is a man named Westwood, who claims to be an instructor at the school and warns Riley not to get involved. Riley ignores the advice—but when the rumors pan out and another murder looms, he turns to Westwood for help. Westwood is clearly keeping secrets. He’s dangerous, and Riley doesn’t know if he can be trusted—which makes him all the more attractive. Riley is in way over his head… and his involvement with the undead may make him the ultimate target.</span></span></i></div>
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This story is intended for an 18+ audience!</div>
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<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3055">Buy Ebook</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=3056">Buy Paperback</a></div>
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(You can also find Art of Death through other retailers such as Barnes and Noble and Amazon)</div>
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The first 20 people to purchase a paperback copy of Art of Death through the Dreamspinner Press website will get a signed copy with an original sketch. <a href="http://ana-bosch.blogspot.com/2012/06/signedsketched-copies-of-art-of-death.html">Check out this post for details</a>.</div>
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I hope you enjoy the novel, and I'd love to hear your thoughts! I truly appreciate every reader I may have. Also, if you enjoy it, please consider helping to spread the word by leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Word of mouth is a great thing! :)</div>Ana Boschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06444619980878069806noreply@blogger.com4