Pesky Participles - #AmEditing #WritingCraft #Grammar

Image by Wokingham Libraries from Pixabay

When I’m reading, editing or critiquing others’ work, improperly deployed participles are a pet peeve. I’m utterly incapable of ignoring them. Other readers notice comma confusions, tangled tenses, or missing modifiers. They might be especially sensitive to excessive alliteration. I can sail past a lot of nits without noticing, but an incorrectly constructed participle modifier will jump out at me like raincoat-clad pervert from behind a tree.

I know grammatical terms make a lot of people wince, so let me give you some examples from recent reads:

a) No longer aware of her physical surroundings, uncaring of the others watching them, he had become her world.

b) Nearly blinded, instinctively, Callie's hand went for the gun in her purse.

c) Measuring the length of his dick still waiting to ravage her burning cunt, Nina's eyes flew open.

Here are a few simpler, synthetic examples:

d) Panting with excitement, her heart pounded like a bass drum in her chest.

e) Entering the room unannounced, Joel’s attention flew to the naked woman sprawled on the couch.

f) Silenced by embarrassment, my cheeks flushed bright red.

I know some of you are probably thinking: What’s the problem? These are perfectly fine sentences. The meaning is crystal clear.

I beg to differ. The author’s intent is clear in most cases. However, if you apply the conventional rules of English to interpreting these sentences, you end up drawing some strange, even nonsensical conclusions. Silent cheeks? A blinded hand?

The complexities of English grammatical structures are the bane of many. There are dozens of different ways to express the same idea. A single sentence may consist of many clauses as well as modifying phrases.

In the face of this complexity, we fall back on the principle of proximity. When you have a modifier, that is, a phrase that describes some entity in the main clause of the sentence, we assume that the modifier is describing the subject of the main clause, which normally follows right after the modifier.

If the modifier is a participle (that is, a verb turned into an adjective by adding “ing” or “ed”), it is assumed that the implied subject of this verb is the subject of the following clause.

Here’s the crux of the issue in the ungrammatical sentences above. If we follow this convention in our interpretation, the results are silly or confusing.

In a), both the adjective (“no longer aware”) and participle (“uncaring”) modifiers clearly have a female subject. Yet the subject of the main clause is “he” - not the person who’s “uncaring”.

In b) the conventional rules would indicate that Callie’s hand was blinded.

Example c) is a bit more nuanced, since Nina’s eyes might well be what she used to estimate the length of her partner’s cock. More likely though, the true subject of “measuring” is Nina herself – not her eyes as suggested by the interpretation rules.

The three synthetic examples make the problem more obvious. In each case, the real subject is a person, while the implied subject is a part or aspect of the person.

Now at this point, you might be thinking: who cares?

Well, that’s your right. However, when I encounter this sort of ungrammatical construction, even in an otherwise well-written story, I cringe. Furthermore, my opinion of the author’s skill declines a bit. Perhaps that’s not fair, but I expect serious authors to be conscious of the rules of the language – implicitly if not explicitly.

Elitist? Maybe. However, I can’t help my reactions. I suspect I’m not the only reader who feels this way.

So – assuming you’re editing your tale, and notice one of these errors – what can you do about it?

There are three basic solutions:

1) Change the subject in the independent clause to match the modifier;

2) Expand the modifier into a clause that explicitly specifies a subject (which can then be different from the independent clause);

3) Make the modifying clause into a separate sentence.

Let’s look at example (b) and apply each of these solutions.

Solution 1: Nearly blinded, Callie instinctively reached for the gun in her purse.

Solution 2: As the flash nearly blinded her, Callie's hand instinctively went for the gun in her purse.

Solution 3: The flash nearly blinded her. Instinctively, Callie’s hand went for the gun in her purse.

The best revision depends on stylistic concerns, as well as on the specific sentence. For example (a), I think the sentence should be split, since the subject of the modifiers and of the main clause are totally different.

She was no longer aware of her physical surroundings, uncaring of the others watching them. He had become her world.

In addition to fixing the grammar problem, this revision (I feel) increases the impact of the sentences.

If you’re willing to admit that this sort of construction is a problem, how can you improve your ability to notice your own errors?

Alas, we’re all somewhat blind to our own faults. You can begin, though, by becoming more conscious of your choices when framing a sentence. Should you use a modifying phrase at the start of a sentence? A dependent clause? Would your ideas be better expressed by splitting the thought into two sentences?

Normally people use modifying phrases like this to convey a relationship. When you use a participle, you are implying a temporal relationship. A present participle (“ing”) indicates two concurrent actions. For instance, Joel noticed the naked woman on the couch at the same time as he entered the room. A past participle (“ed”, or “en” for some verbs) suggests sequential actions. A flash blinded Callie, then she instinctively reached for her gun.

Be sure that this implied temporal relationship makes sense, and is what you really want to convey.

You probably should not try to think about this sort of issue when you’re writing your first draft, or you’ll get bogged down. However sentence structure alternatives should be one of your considerations when you’re self-editing.

Of course, the best approach may be to have someone else read and critique your stories, helping to shine light on your blind spots. You can offer the same service to someone else, since their weaknesses are likely to differ from yours.

Legacy

I'm not a great writer, and never will be. Please, don't object – this isn't false modesty, just realism.

I'm a competent writer, with excellent nuts and bolts skills. Give me a theme and I can spin a plausible yarn that will amuse or arouse my readers. My plots are for the most part believable and consistent, without the truck-sized holes one sometimes sees. My sentences generally read well. My characters might not jump off the page, but they're not cardboard either.

Still, I know I'll never win awards, never be called a genius, never write something that will change my readers' lives. I just don't have anything that important to say – possibly because I've lived nearly six decades without experiencing any great trauma or tragedy. My tales aren't mindless smut, but they don't have the emotional or moral depth of great literature. They're basically throw-away entertainment. When I die, I will not leave an enduring body of work behind me. Oh, I've got a pretty long back list, don't get me wrong, and I hope it will continue to grow, but I doubt that anyone will have heard of Lisabet Sarai ten or twenty years in the future.

That's one reason why I work so hard on behalf of other authors, especially those new to the publishing game. Maybe, just maybe, one of the authors for whom I do crits or whom I edit will turn out to be a truly Great Author. And then I'll feel as though I've done a bit to help make that happen. 

 

I'm better at mentoring and critiquing than I am at writing, and believe me, I realize these are valuable skills. I try to apply them for the benefit of my colleagues. I know a few authors whom I really admire, who truly have the GA Potential, but still have difficulties with grammar, or pacing, or coherency. I'm pleased when I can assist them in smoothing the rough edges of their jewels. 

 

Sometimes I fantasize about winning the Pulitzer Prize. Hey, I'd be thrilled with an EPPIE! My identity isn't tied up in those dreams, though. I've always written, but I never envisioned myself as a Writer with a capital 'W'. So honestly, it doesn't bother me – too much – to acknowledge my limitations.

If one of the authors I've worked with, though, won a prize, I'd be over the moon. I imagine their work, becoming classics, receiving the accolades they so justly deserve. If that ever happened, well, that would be my true legacy – not the slick and superficial novels and stories I list on my website.

And honestly, I'm okay with that. I don't need fame to be happy – luckily, since I'll never be famous. The knowledge that I've contributed to the creation of something with lasting value is enough.

One, two, three, a writer’s life for me (#bdsm #writing #guestblog)

By Taisha Demay (Guest Blogger)

Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Taisha Demay and I’m a writer. Although I can honestly say that almost didn’t happen, but I’ll get on to that in a minute. The writing bug bit me at the age of sixteen when I lucked out and published my first short story and earned a whopping fifty dollars. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but for the year 1978, it was a lot.

I didn’t start out wanting to be a writer, I actually wanted to become a fashion designer, a fact my collection of Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily and other high fashion publications could attest. I even majored in art and fashion design in high school and college. I loved the idea of someone walking down the runway in something I created, it had been a lifelong dream of mine. I was even responsible for designing my aunt's cruise wear in which I am proud to say, she loved. And much later the bug kinda got squashed. Oh it didn’t die a painful death, it just got crushed by an Army boot and stayed embedded in it for six years never ever to be rescued, although I still draw on occasion as well as paint. I am crafty and love to knit, crochet and work with my hands.

The way I ended up becoming published was pretty unconventional, I entered a contest in which I had to come up with a caption for a picture that had been posted. The prize was a publishing contract for a year. Ecstatic that I’d won, I hit the ground writing so to speak, and submitted what I thought was my best work. Unfortunately I was mistaken. You see the manuscript hadn’t been properly written or edited. That’s why it’s important to proof read and hire a good editor. Something I thought I’d done, and paid someone whom I thought would help to take the story from being a rusty penny to a bright and shiny copper one. Nope, I was wrong. What actually happened was, she promptly took my money, did a half-assed job then to add insult to injury the publisher slapped an ugly cover on it and released it. I am happy to say I promptly got out of that contract and found a publisher who actually cares about the quality of the work it’s authors put out.

To say that my first publishing experience has jaded me, is an understatement. There have even been times when I really wanted to throw in the towel. But fortunately I have the best author friends that are willing to talk me off the ledge when I need it and I remember why I got into this business in the first place, because of the power of the printed word and my love of books, period. Recently I became a full-time writer because before that, I was an angry bitch, as my husband used to say and I am beyond happy that I get to spend hours creating characters that make me smile.

The things I can say about writing as a whole is a well-written story can make the most mundane location seem exotic as well as make the reader a part of the story. It can also make them feel a whole gambit of emotions, they laugh, cry and even scream at the characters like they’re real people. And make the most misunderstood villains become friends and they root for them to get their happily ever after or some much needed therapy. And when they don’t, well we wait with bated breath for the follow-up to be released. Fortunately, I try my best to end most my stories on a happy note.

My latest release Love, Truth and Consequences: Playing Dirty, is book two of the interracial series: Love, Truth and Consequences. All BDSM themed stories about women who are considered ‘good girls’ that fall for men as it turns out, they knew nothing about. Most of my stories are set in New York City, why, because it’s where I was born and even though I now reside in the south, my heart is and always will be in the Empire State.

Blurb

Anxious for a career change, Katrina Locklear applies for a new position of Decimal Accounting Services Financial Officer Miller Greenfield. Miller is both intrigued and aroused by the beauty who has thrown his emotions off-kilter. Can Katrina and Miller keep things professional or will they risk it all by mixing business with pleasure?

Excerpt

Miller tied both wrists to the headboard, skimming the silk up her cheek, he covered her eyes with the material, securing the cloth behind her head in a lazy knot.

She lay there vulnerable, longing for his touch. Finally, he touched her, lowering his fingers to the valley of her breasts, tracing a line over each nipple after that tracing a path across her stomach. His soft lips caressed her forehead than brushed her mouth. He kissed her neck, and she shuddered with pleasure. His fingers tickled her sensitive inner thighs and she realized he was tracing his name on her hot skin. Branding his property. He repeated the movements on her stomach, her breasts and moving down to her pussy. She was now completely his and he planned to savor every square inch of her.

Trina wanted him to take her so badly she began to feel real physical pain. Suddenly his hands were gone. Wanting to cry out. She forced her lips to remain closed. She was not a woman who easily begged. After a moment, she felt his naked body against hers and yearned to touch him, but her bonds denied her that privilege. In an instant his lips were on hers, his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth. She breathed in his scent, an aroma that had become familiar to her.

She could feel his fingers between her legs. She gasped as he slowly began to stroke her pussy. Feeling her climax growing, her body stiffened, but he didn’t make it easy for her. Just when she thought she would finally he stopped and she groaned pushing her hips upward to meet his fingers that were no longer there.

About Taisha Demay

Born and raised in Jamaica Queens New York, Taisha resides in North Carolina with her husband and family. The author of erotic and romantic suspense novels, she is currently signed with Rhysworld Publishing based in Atlanta Georgia. When she’s not creating complex characters or plotting her next book, she’s spending time with her many animals or in her favorite places in the world, the local bookstore or the public library. She can be reached at taishademay [at] gmail [dot] com.

Buy links

Love, Truth and Consequences book: 1 https://www.amazon.com/gp/B00YO9TASQ

Love, Truth and Consequences: Playing Dirty book: 2 https://amzn.com/1535430060

Through The Fire book: 1 https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B015QXYY02

Funny, Brutal, Tender

I first met C. Garcia-Sanchez, like so many of the authors whom I admire, through the Writers list of the Erotica Readers and Writers Association. I honestly can’t remember exactly how we struck up the first of our many email conversations. I do, however, recall him asking me if I would read and critique his work in progress, “The Color of the Moon”. And I remember being stunned and amazed by the beauty, wisdom and depth of that piece—even as I was playing the role of a responsible crit partner, suggesting cuts and changes. His compelling tale of ancient Japan, with its itinerant Buddhist monk and passionate ghost, was like nothing I’d ever read. Certainly, despite its intense eroticism, it was a far cry from the salacious tales I typically critique and review.

“The Color of the Moon” is more than just an erotic story. It’s about the conflict between religion and spirit, the addictive power of desire, and the nature of reality. It’s a love story, a ghost story, a historical tour de force. He had a tough time finding a publisher (although Whiskey Creek Press finally took the chance) because the work just didn’t fit into anyone’s boxes.

Since that first experience, I’ve had the privilege of reading many of Garce’s tales. His work continues to defy categorization. I don’t know anyone else who could write an erotic story about a suicide bomber (“How Paradise Comes to the Blind”, in Coming Together: Into the Light) that could still arouse—but Garce managed. He can be hilariously funny, shockingly brutal, achingly tender—but he is always original. The stories in this volume are no exception. You will be laughing so hard your stomach hurts one moment, gasping in terror the next. As you plunge into this volume, expect the unexpected.

Garce writes from his heart and his soul. His stories are often difficult. They challenge both intellectually and emotionally. I don’t want to scare readers away, but I also must warn you. You will not read this book and remain unchanged.

The proceeds from Coming Together Presents C. Garcia-Sanchez will benefit the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (http://www.rainn.org/). RAINN is the nation's largest anti-sexual assault organization. It operates a national hotline, educates the public about sexual assault; and leads national efforts to prevent sexual assault, improve services to victims and ensure that rapists are brought to justice. Garce picked this charity after writing one of the stories in this volume (“Miss Julia’s Cake Club”). When you read the story, you will understand why.

Garce is always self-deprecating about his own abilities. He claims that he’s just an apprentice and calls me his “mentor”. I tell him that you can learn craft but that means little without inspiration. Personally, I’m honored to be able to present this collection of stories by one of the most talented authors I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. I hope that you’ll appreciate his visions as much as I do.

[In case you haven’t figured this out, I edited this collection. Leave a comment and you could win a copy of my sci fi erotica story, The Antidote. But I hope you’ll consider picking up a copy of Garce's book, for yourself or someone you love.]

Here’s a bit from the stunning coming of age story, “El Pimientero”.

That first time going in, how does that feel for a boy? It was not like I expected. It felt keenly strange. To feel the wet flesh yield and envelope the tip of my cock, to feel it go in like a blade.

I looked up at her eyes to see if I was hurting her. She was looking away from me, at nothing, almost indifferent, it seemed, to what I was doing to her. I pushed forward firmly but gently and watched from above as my stiff cock disappeared an inch at a time. Deep and down into her slickness, her open woman’s wound. The feeling. It was as complex as wine. The animal strangeness of being inside another person for the first time. To look down between her legs and see our mounded hairs bunched up against each other tightly, and just below that the hard shaft disappearing into her. The delicious warmth wrapped all around the shaft of my cock. The tip of my cock was throbbing and tickling me madly. A couple of strokes and I would surely pop. It was important to wait. To prove to her I could do it. But I could feel the excitement building, even as I kept still, leaning into her, but not thrusting. Only holding it there and feeling the maddening sensations getting away from me.

“It’s about letting go,” she had said, one evening at the cine. The projector was threaded with an Arnold Schwarzenegger flick. We sat there in the hot little loft, side by side, drinking Squirt soda from scratched green bottles and eating cookies. “It’s hard to let go, especially for the man,” she continued. “It’s hard for the woman during sex also, but it’s hard to let go in other ways, ways that are different. The man has to calm his penis in the beginning so that he doesn’t lose control and shame himself. Or you can do it the other way too. I had a lover named Horatio. He had a runaway pinga, like a pistol – bang! He didn’t fight it. He simply shoved it in and said ‘This one is for me, Maria, the next is for you!’ and bang and bam and thank you. Not even a minute. But he got it up again quick and he was good for the rest of the night. It was like taking a rock out of his shoe. For a woman, letting go is about letting go of your heart, of letting yourself be open. It can be very difficult.”

I felt myself letting go and my breath becoming faster. I grunted and tensed against it, grinding my teeth, trying to perform the special stopping act I had practiced. But my body was beginning to win.

“Get off of me!” she yelled.

“Wuh?”

“Get off of me!” She twisted away, put her foot up against my belly and shoved me out of her. My cock throbbed as I doubled over, holding it in. A single pearl drop burst forth and dribbled, dangling a second like a tiny rope and then dripped away to the floor. I looked up at her. Her face was red.

“What are you doing, Chacho? Do you want to fuck your grandmother? What would your mother say if she saw what we’re doing? Who do you think are?”

“Doña?”

“Leave me alone!”

“I’m in love with you!” I shouted it out. “I’m in love with you, Doña Maria Soledad. Why shouldn’t we have each other?”

She curdled into a ball, pulling up her knees. She bunched up the blankets and buried her face. I heard a wail and she curled up tighter, covering her face with her hair.

I had seen Doña Soledad in almost every mood there is but I never before seen Doña Soledad cry. I had no idea what to do. Just when she had made me feel like a man, she made me feel like a stupid boy again. 

Thanks-Giving Back Hop Links

Sunday 22 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/sunday-snog-for-good-mm-201.html

http://leighwantsfood.blogspot.com/2015/11/coming-together-giving-back-hop.html

Monday 23 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/giving-it-away.html

http://delilahnight.com/2015/11/23/giving-back-blog-hop/

http://paidbytheweird.blogspot.com/2015/11/coming-together-thanksgiving-giving-back.html

http://wp.me/p1EqZm-Vt 

Tuesday 24 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/funny-brutal-tender.html

Wednesday 25 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/erotic-visions-for-brave.html

Thursday 26 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/bloody-good-erotica.html

http://annabetherotica.com/

Friday 27 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/release-day-for-another-coming-together.html

Saturday 28 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/where-no-man-has-gone-before.html

 

Instant Gratification

Okay, I admit it. I’ve been known to complain about the flood of self-published drek in the last few years. The mountain of poorly edited crap available in online stores has made it well-nigh impossible to be noticed as an author. It’s easy (and trendy) to blame one’s literary obscurity on the self-publishing revolution. If all those #%*$ authors actually had to find publishing companies to release their stuff (the argument goes), there’d be fewer books swamping the market, and the ones that did get published would be higher quality.

Well, I have to ‘fess up. I’ve gone over to the dark side. I’ve now self-published three titles, and I have to say, I can understand the appeal. Bringing a book to market by yourself is so fast, so easy, so close to painless, that I wonder why there aren’t a hundred times as many self-pubbed titles out there (though I’m certainly glad there aren’t).

I still see the appeal of working with a publisher. The more eyes that look at a manuscript before it goes live, the more chance there is to catch those nasty typos and grammaticos. The covers I’ve created for my self-pubbed volumes can’t begin to compete with the work of a professional graphics artist. Publishing companies already have a audience of readers looking for new authors in the genres they put out. Some publishers actually do quite a bit to publicize their authors’ releases, supplementing the inevitable self-marketing effort.

Furthermore, it’s not a level playing field. The big retailers give better deals and more visibility to publishers than to self-pubbed authors, and the bigger the publisher, the better the deal. There’s still some stigma associated with publishing your own books, largely due to the fact that a lot of self-published fiction is in fact pretty awful. (Then again, I’ve read some pretty terrible books from established publishers as well.)

Balanced against these advantages, there are definite downsides to the more traditional route. It can take considerable time—often months—to get your book out the door with a regular publisher, because you’re only one of many authors with whom they’re working. The bigger the publisher (and thus the larger its clout), the longer the typical delay between submission and release.

In addition, writing for a publisher can be constrain your creativity. You have to produce the kind of books they want to sell, the books they believe their readers will buy. You must follow their rules. Personally I’ve found this rather difficult with erotic romance publishers. My writing is frequently romantic, but violates a lot of the conventions of the genre. It has been a struggle at times for me to warp my stories into the shape required.

In contrast, self-publishing is instant gratification! You can submit your book in the morning and have it available for purchase by the afternoon. If you follow the formatting instructions (which are definitely not rocket science), it’s a snap. 

 

Meanwhile, as long as you don’t break any laws, you can publish exactly the book you want to write. What freedom! There’s no guarantee anyone will buy your books, of course. You have to market them like crazy, or they’ll simply vanish in the vast sea of self-pubbed titles, thousands released daily. But if you write for your own satisfaction—if you want to create stories outside the rigid boxes of genre—self-publishing is a breath of fresh air.

I haven’t yet produced any self-published novels. I’m a bit worried about the formatting issues in a full-length manuscript. And given how long it takes me to write a novel, I’m still nervous about throwing it into the self-publishing swamp if I can find a suitable publisher.

But then, I have a couple of novel ideas that I suspect no publisher would touch. If I ever write those books, self-publishing will be the only option.

For the first time, I am not dependent on somebody else to get my work out into the world. That’s comforting. Freeing. And slightly addictive.

Sneak Peek: The Gonzo Collection by Daddy X

Today I’m shining the spotlight on a pretty extraordinary book by a friend of mine, which just came out yesterday. As it happens, I edited this collection of erotica, because I think Daddy X has a unique voice that deserved to be heard.

A warning though—his work will not be to everyone’s tastes. It’s extremely raunchy and somewhat messy. But then, sex is, isn’t it? I find that his comic sense and open-mindedness balance all the graphic descriptions. For the most part, the stories in this book wouldn’t be considered romance, but almost all his characters have happy endings.

If you’re looking for something sexy and very different, consider picking up a copy of this book.

Blurb

“… the only people who really know (the Edge) are the ones who have gone over.”

–Hunter S. Thompson, Gonzo journalist.

Take a ride with Daddy over the edge. You won’t forget the distinctively drawn (and extremely horny) characters you’ll meet between these pages.

An eighteen year old carnival hand nurses a crush for his gorgeous blond employer. A voyeur and his exhibitionist girlfriend find a window to peek through. A woman awaits her man while crouched naked on the floor, rear end pointed toward the door. An attempted rape is thwarted. A spy bites the dust. A man dates and mates with a fifty-foot woman.

Mood and a sense of atmosphere bring it all to life in these twenty one gems of erotic excess.

Excerpt (from “Sex Crimes”)

Fred shouldn’t have followed that young girl. Not up the stairs of the bus. It wasn’t even the line he should have taken home. He tried to look up her skirt. A short denim skirt. Wasn’t his blonde in the window enough of a gamble? Was she not going to be enough for Fred after all?

He couldn’t screw it up, not now, his latest offence just settled a month earlier in court. Because of his new temp job at the bank, the cops had let him go again, on probation, but if there would be another incident, he’d wind up in jail. A sex offender is not treated well in the joint. No, he shouldn’t have followed this one at all. But she looked so cute.

Shouldn’t one fantasy at a time be enough for Fred? He already had the horny lady in the window, even if she didn’t know he was hiding in the bushes. He had a lot to learn about women. Why did this young thing intrigue Fred so?

He shouldn’t have sat across from her either, but there they were, the last two empty seats on the bus, facing one another on opposite benches, the wide aisle between. He could almost sneak a peek under the stiff blue fabric when the standing passengers shuffled around. Her legs were bare, except for the short white socks and sneakers. Such smooth skin on the inside of the young girl’s thighs. A short halter top. Some few light freckles sprinkled between her breasts.

Fred stared out the window, trying to imagine his blonde, to distract himself. He sweated with nerves. Did the young girl wear underwear? Panties? There was certainly nothing at all under the skimpy halter. Thin blue veins visible, just beneath the translucent surface. Such tender skin along her ribs. So much younger than the woman he watched from the yard.

The girl swiveled her torso to look out the long window behind her. Fred could see inside her twisted top. Was that a nipple, or pink aureole? Lots of white skin. The perfect little ‘Q’ of her bellybutton. The young thing swept back her short black bangs with a flair. A flair meant for him, Fred hoped.

No, no. This couldn’t happen. He couldn’t possibly approach her, not so soon after the last complaint.

With the help of a public defender, Fred had claimed that he was just urinating. An emergency, a need impossible to ignore. How was Fred to know someone had been watching?

A young, female someone did see. The prosecutor had maintained that Fred had been exposing himself.

But this one seemed to be flirting with him, opening and closing her pale legs, bringing back intense images of the recent night’s escapades. A nervous smile pursed the girl’s lips. But you never know, do you? Not when your imagination is going wild. Fred has misconstrued things like that before. But this girl seemed so outgoing...

Even though he’d been a juvenile at the time, his first offence still remained on his permanent record. Sex crimes don’t go away. Fred had thought the same thing that time too, that time on his paper route. He’d thought the young girl wanted him. He knew he was mistaken when the mother called the cops. He’d thought the daughter had wanted to give him a tip, so he unzipped his fly and hauled it out.

Yes, Fred was always thinking things like that. It was just because he was lonely, he told himself. Women don’t really want a guy who shows her his dick before they even exchange names.

Be a real man, Fred. Such a sneak.

But this one seemed different. She made eye contact whenever he looked her way. Or so it seemed to Fred.

She smiled, a shifty, come-on smile, so obviously uncomfortable. Surely she wasn’t used to that kind of thing.

The girl’s limpid stare made Fred’s cock stand hard. Sore, confined like it was in the tight jeans. Maybe he could just get some little relief if he took it out. The bus was crowded. Nobody would notice, though. Not if he kept the newspaper on his lap.

Oh God, he shouldn’t be doing such a thing. Shouldn’t think that way. But she moved so, shifting her ass in place. Her skirt had ridden up in back. Fred imagined her rubbing her little bottom on the hard surface of the bench.

She grinned at him, a self-conscious, enticing affectation.

At least it seemed like she was teasing him. He wondered if her pussy was wet. Maybe itchy. Maybe an itch Fred could scratch? He dared not ask, even though this one looked of legal age. Was there a smear on the seat beneath her? He decided he’d investigate if she exited before he did. Perhaps he’d touch the yellow plastic where she sat. If he found it slippery, he’d probably sniff it too. He thought that this could be better than the blonde after all.

Fred watched his last transfer stop go by. He didn’t want the ride to end. His cock got longer, harder too. He stroked it under the pile of papers, hoping nobody could tell what he was doing. Except the girl, of course. It wouldn’t be so bad if she saw, now, would it? Maybe he was just what she was looking for. Maybe, just maybe, this was the one for Fred.

The crowd began thinning out. More people exited the bus than got aboard at each stop. What would Fred do if left by himself with this sweet thing? Would he do something untoward? Maybe he’d be her Prince Charming. Maybe he’d show it off. If they were left all alone.

Get your copy of The Gonzo Collection today!

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/Gonzo-Collection-Daddy-X-ebook/dp/B00WLGVP0K/

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Gonzo-Collection-Daddy-X-ebook/dp/B00WLGVP0K/

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-gonzo-collection-daddy-x/1121800500?ean=2940151267243

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/the-gonzo-collection

About the Author

Daddy X always wanted to be a dirty old man.

He survived the 40’s, 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and George W. Bush. He maintained an (almost) steady trajectory through Catholic school, a paper route, muskrat trapping, a steel mill, Bucks County, the Haight Ashbury, North Beach, the SF bar business, drug addiction, alcoholism, a stroke, hep C, cancer, a liver transplant, a year of chemo, a stickup at his art gallery while tied to a desk (not as cool as it sounds), a triple bypass, heart attack…and George W. Bush.

Now he’s old, and it’s time to get dirty.

He’s been with Momma X (greatest editor on earth) for fifty years, but she thinks his stuff is too skievy to deal with. They live in northern California with a ninety pound lop-eared hound (17” wingspan) and two cats. Daddy is also published in anthologies by Naughty Nights Press, House of Erotica and most recently in Cleis Press’ Best Bondage 2015.

Pussies are Juicy, and Smell Like the Sea

I just finished the final round of edits on my most recent novel. The editor has a sharp eye, especially for confusing conversation and impossible sex positions. However, she and I locked horns again and again on issues of vocabulary.

She was quite insistent that readers would find my descriptions of vaginal lubrication "unerotic". Whenever I referred to the heroine's being really wet from excitement, I was asked to  modify the reference. When I described the heroine's juices coating the cheeks of the man who'd just been giving her oral sex, the editor asked me to excise that detail. Meanwhile, when I talked about the scent of female arousal as "tidal" or "oceany", I met with serious objections.

I guess she believed this sort of language was inappropriate for the imprint, which admittedly is supposed to be light and humorous rather than raw. And I know that my erotic romance tends to stray into territory more commonly associated with erotica. Still, I find this level of coyness a bit irritating.

My readers are mostly women. They're obviously aware of the physical effects of sexual excitement, from personal experience. A pussy that's sufficiently well-soaked to leave olfactory traces is a sign that its owner is really turned on. Isn't that supposed to be the point in erotic romance?

Furthermore, I know that the scent of a woman's sex can be highly arousing for many men. So why pretend that we're in some deodorant commercial, dry as a bone and smelling like flowers?

Mostly I gave in, because I dislike conflict and I didn't consider the issue to be a matter of principle. Still, it left me feeling uncomfortable. Are readers really so squeamish? Or is this a case where the publisher is going overboard not to offend?

What do you think? Are juicy pussies a turn-off? Or the opposite?

“Independent Body Parts”: A Defense

A few days ago I reviewed the second round of edits – what my publisher calls final line edits – for my upcoming release Challenge to Him. In general, I had no problem accepting the suggested changes to wording and punctuation. I didn't necessarily agree that the one POV problem the editor highlighted really was a problem, but if she thought it would be clearer if modified, I was ready to go along. For the most part I don't view my words as sacred, so I rarely object to reasonable changes.

I've noticed, though, that each editor has pet issues she tends to focus on. I had one editor who insisted on striking every instance of the word “that” introducing a dependent clause after a verb of sensation or thought. For example, if I wrote:

Henrietta thought that she'd never recover from Harold's treachery.

This editor would revise the sentence as:

Henrietta thought she'd never recover from Harold's treachery.

I agree the two sentence are equivalent in meaning, and the second is more concise than the first. However, sometimes the rhythm of a sentence requires the additional beat of that extra word. Furthermore, I like some variety in my sentence structures. So I accepted most of her edits, but retained a few “thats” where they seemed to fit.

Anyway, my most recent line editor really had a bee in her bonnet concerning “independent body parts”, often abbreviated as IBP.

In case you've never met the dreaded IBP, this term refers to sentences where some part of a character's body becomes the subject of an action verb. For example:

Her eyes followed him as he strode across the room.

His fingers crept up her thigh and under her skirt.

His tongue poked rudely into her mouth.

Some novice authors overuse this kind of sentence, often to the point of silliness. Because of this tendency, editors have become hypersensitive to these constructions, brandishing their red pen whenever one appears.

However, there is nothing a priori wrong with using a body part as a sentence subject in this way. This is an accepted category of  figurative language. It even has a name: synecdoche.  Synecdoche is the practice of referring to a part when you mean the whole, or vice versa.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synecdoche

Sentences that are labeled as IBP are not intended to be construed literally. Of course her eyes stayed in her head as he walked across the room – no reasonable reader would think otherwise. Yes, most likely he was in control of those fingers – they weren't acting on their own -  but the synecdoche focuses the readers' attention on the stealthy progress of those digits, perhaps even as their owner continues to converse in a normal way.

An occasional “IBP” sentence is not a flaw, in my opinion. When I construct my paragraphs, I do so deliberately, with an eye to diversity and flow. The alternative to using IBP is often to have every sentence beginning with a name or pronoun. This gets boring after a while.

The so-called rule about avoiding IBPs may be helpful to novice authors. The trouble is, it's really not a rule, anymore than the guidelines about avoiding passive voice are rules. English is a gloriously rich language with an enormous repertoire of sentence structures and rhetorical devices. An accomplished author should not shy away from using the ones that she believes her story needs.

Discovering New Authors in Anthologies

By Kristina Wright (Guest Blogger)

I’m thrilled to be a guest at Beyond Romance. “Beyond romance” is what I’ve always written. Even when I envisioned myself to be a horror writer, I somehow managed to romanticize my stories. (Why, yes, she did kill and dismember him, but she still loved him!) I’m a romantic at heart—I really do believe in true love and soul mates—but what is romance without the passion? Even when I wrote my first romance novel for Harlequin, I managed to put too much sex in it and was asked (told) to edit out three love (sex) scenes. Oh, those were the days!

Romance comes in an abundance flavors now, many of them erotic. In the past three years, I have had the privilege and pleasure of editing a number of erotic romance anthologies for Cleis Press. In that time, I’ve been introduced to a wide variety of phenomenal authors who are going beyond romance into the erotic, whether it’s writing fairy tale erotica for books like Fairy Tale Lust and Lustfully Ever After, or paranormal erotica for Dream Lover or steampunk erotica for Steamlust. Blending genres, going “beyond romance” to deliver hot, sexy stories, is what erotic romance is all about.

Thanks to this amazing job I have of editing anthologies, I’ve discovered authors like Delilah Devlin, Saskia Walker, Shanna Germain, Charlotte Stein, Lucy Felthouse and Michelle Augello-Page. Authors whose writing styles are vastly different, yet each capture my imagination with their erotically charged fiction. People often ask me why they should read anthologies—why read several short stories when you can read a novel? And my answer is this: a novel is a main course, you need to have the appetite for it in order to be able to finish it. We all have our favorite novelists, the “automatic buys” that we make without reservation. And we save those books for when we have time to read them, enjoy them, savor them. I may write and edit short fiction, but I do adore novels!

On the other hand, an anthology of short fiction is like a buffet of small plates. Appetizers meant to tease and tantalize, each story a delicious morsel to enjoy. You may know the author and devour this bit of her work, or it may be someone new you’ve never tried before—and you will discover a favorite new treat. On the other hand, there is always the chance you might come across something not to your liking and in that case, you still have quite a variety of other tidbits to choose from. And should you find a new favorite author among the offerings of an anthology, there is always the joy of discovering a backlist (as so many short story authors are also quite prolific) of which you can make an entire three course meal!

There is room for both novels and short fiction, and times when each may be more suitable to your frame of mind (and attention span). And so I continue to take great pleasure in discovering new authors and reading wonderful stories. My latest release, Duty and Desire: Military Erotic Romance is a collection of short fiction centered around the theme of military personnel. It was a particularly challenging collection to curate, but the end result is a book of which I’m quite proud. The stories in this anthology include different branches of the U.S. military, as well as several international militaries, and a variety of foreign, and even historic, settings. It is a book with a range of authors—from those who have never written a military-themed story before to those who have actually served in the military. I am hoping readers will be as intrigued by the stories in this book as I was when I selected them.


Blurb

The only thing stronger than the call of duty is the call of desire! This anthology of military erotic romance serves up a team of hot-blooded men (and women) from every branch of the military who serve their country and follow their hearts wherever they might be stationed. When the mission is done, the unit is recalled or the ship pulls into port, they set their sights on a new target—the pursuit of passion and love. In and out of uniform, stateside and abroad, these military warriors meet passion and danger head on. All’s fair in love and war—in and out of uniform. Edited by Kristina Wright, wife of a Lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, Duty and Desire includes stories of soldiers, sailors, aviators, Marines, Special Forces, and many more. Uniforms have never been sexier!

With contributed stories by Delilah Devlin, Connie Wilkins, Shanna Germain, Craig J. Sorensen, Ericka Hiatt, Kelly Maher, Lucy Felthouse, Catherine Paulssen, Anya Richards, Sacchi Green, Elizabeth L. Brooks, J.K. Coi, Charlotte Stein, Christine D’Abo, Mercy Loomis, Lynn Townsend, Michelle Augello-Page, and Kristina Wright.

Editor Bio

Kristina Wright (kristinawright.com) had no idea what to expect from military life when she married an enlisted Navy sailor after a whirlwind long distance courtship just three months before the first Gulf War. She can say it may not be for everyone, but it’s been one hell of a ride. Kristina received the Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense for her first novel from Romance Writers of America and she has edited the Cleis Press anthologies Fairy Tale Lust: Erotic Fantasies for Women; Dream Lover: Paranormal Tales of Erotic Romance; Steamlust: Steampunk Erotic Romance,  Lustfully Ever After: Fairy Tale Erotic Romance and the Best Erotic Romance series. She holds degrees in English and Humanities and has taught Composition and World Mythology at the college level.  She currently lives with her husband and two little boys in Hampton Roads, Virginia, home to the legendary SEAL Team Six and the largest naval base in the world.

Links:

http://www.kristinawright.com

http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com

Sunday Snog: Nasty Business

I spent a very long day today, re-editing my 2003 novel Ruby's Rules. I've regained the rights and I'm planning to bring out a new and improved version (hey - even my writing has improved over the past decade!) under the more appropriate title Nasty Business.  I hope that in the hands of Books We Love, this sizzling novel of power games and nasty passion will finally get the attention it deserves!

Anyway, one thing I noticed is that the book includes lots of kisses. So I thought I'd share one with you today.

After you enjoy my snippet, head over to Snog Central, hosted by the marvelous Victoria Blisse, for lots more lip-to-lip action from your favorite authors.

I roll the chair back from the desk and cross one leg over the other, gracefully, deliberately. My skirt rides up, exposing a substantial length of thigh. He notices. I can see his shoulders tighten, and there’s a stirring in the crotch of his trousers. 

 

Despite my clouded mood, a spark of triumph shimmers through me, and then, in its wake, the inevitable frisson of arousal. My suddenly damp knickers cling to my flesh. Surreptitiously I tighten my quadriceps and relish the way the contraction compresses my hidden clit. Subtle pleasure ripples through me. 
 

As though he senses my body awakening, he straightens, raises his chin a bit, sniffs the air like a dog. Like the sniveling, mangy mongrel that he is. I’ll bloody well bring him to heel. I will, I swear it.

“Rick,” I bark, and he jumps visibly. “Come over here.” He complies, coming to stand next to the guest chair across the desk from me. He moves to seat himself, but I stop him. “I didn’t tell you to sit, did I?” He looks at me, amazed, annoyed, and obviously increasingly excited. He shakes his head. “Then don’t.”

“You’re a scoundrel, Rick. A scoundrel and a traitor. Why didn’t you tell me that you knew my father? That you had him convinced you were his friend?”

“I was his friend,” Rick begins. I cut him short with a baleful glare.

“Some friend! Friends don’t take advantage of each other. Friends don’t lie to each other. Friends keep each other’s confidences.”

“What are you talking about?” He sounds confused and defensive.

“The foundry, of course. It was my father who brought it to your attention, showed you its potential. He intended to acquire it for The Maxwell Companies. Then you turn around and stab him in the back by stealing the deal away from him.”

“How...?”

“Never mind. I should have realized a lot sooner that you had inside information, and put two and two together.”

“Liu and I planned to go into business together. The foundry was going to be a joint project.”

“Oh? Why should I believe you?”

“Because it’s true. I can show you the preliminary documents, if you want. Then came the accident, and everything got put on hold. The next thing that I know, you’re talking to Baktar and I’m completely out of the picture. I guess I was pissed off to find myself being ignored. I decided that I needed the fab for myself.”

“Why didn’t my father tell me that he had a partner in the deal? He never even mentioned you.”

Rick gives me a harried look. “I don’t know, Ruby. He talked a lot about you. He planned to send you to Malaysia to do a final inspection of the plant. He wanted me to join you there, to give you a technical briefing.” This, at least, was confirmed by the email I had read. “Maybe he wanted you to form your own conclusions about me. Maybe he thought you’d be jealous, if you knew that he was mentoring me.” A ghost of a grin flits across his irregular features. “He did say that you were hot-blooded, and had a fierce temper...”

“Did he indeed?” I say ironically, trying to keep the misery out of my voice. I’d thought that I knew my father so well, that I was privy to all his secrets. The revelation that he kept things from me, that he had other confidants, is painful. I lean forward, deliberately allowing Martell a glimpse of my cleavage, and look him in the eye. He licks his lips nervously. “So, was he right about me, Rick?”

“I don’t know, Ruby,” he replies softly. “I don’t know you well enough to say.” He pauses, raises his eyes to mine. “But I’d like to.”

I can’t comprehend how it happens. One moment he is standing there across from me, with the desk safely between us. The next, he’s beside me, pulling me to my feet. Kissing me. His wiry arms snake around me, pulling me to his chest. His lips are firm on mine, exploring rather than demanding. His scent swirls around me, dizzying me. The embers smoldering in my sex leap into flame.

“Rick...” I begin, but the taste and texture and presence of him overwhelm me. My objection melts into an inarticulate murmur of pleasure.

He kisses with his whole body. His hands are everywhere, stroking my arse, teasing my nipples. His knee finds its way into my crotch and sets up a rhythmic pressure that soon has me swollen and dripping. He is swollen, too. Brazenly, he rubs his rigid cock against my thigh, as he plunges his tongue more deeply into my mouth.

“Ruby,” he murmurs, alternating words with nibbles and licks. “I want you so badly. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

I don’t reply. This is hardly news to me, but confidence and lust surge together in me, to hear him admit it. I reach down and give his balls a moderately vicious squeeze. He moans and grinds himself harder against me.

I need to break this embrace in order to gain the upper hand. I need to take advantage of his moment of weakness. But his carnal attentions are intoxicating. It’s difficult for me to break away. I’m like an alcoholic, wanting just one more drink, one more kiss, one more of his lewd caresses.

It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I finally manage to gather my strength and push him away. He doesn’t resist, just stands there looking at me. His clothes are wrinkled. One shirt tail is hanging out of his pants. His longish hair is tangled around his ears. In objective terms, he looks a bit pathetic. Certainly not what one would call sexy.

Yet my heart is slamming away like a jackhammer in my chest. I’m panting as though I’ve just done fifty sit ups, and damp – all over. His cherry pipe tobacco flavor lingers in my mouth. The echoes of his questing hands linger on my skin. The lack of his touch is a physical ache. I need those hands, those lips, that brash cock, need the relief that it seems only he can provide.

Be strong. Be ice. “What would you do?” I hold his eyes. “What would you give, to have me? Would you give up the foundry if I gave my body to you?”

I could swear that something like shame clouds his features briefly, then his eyes flash. “You can have the damned foundry, Ruby. I won’t stand in your way. I won’t fight you anymore. Regardless.” Before I can stop him, he reaches out his hand and strokes my cheek. “In any case, Ruby, I want more than just your body.”

His voice is barely audible, but something leaps up inside me in answer. Excitement, fear, anger? I’m not sure what it is. I only know that it races through my body and turns me to liquid weakness. It’s a long moment before I can frame a scornful reply.

“What do you want, American devil? My soul?”