Mom, I wrote a smut scene in that chapter...

by Linda Robertson

FIRST: Interview with me and contest to win books at: Books and Barks.

Yes, there is smut in all my books except the first one.

Yes, my mom reads my books.


VICIOUS CIRCLE had a couple of kisses in it, but was very much sans smut. When HALLOWED CIRCLE came out … I asked my mom, do you want me to tear out the smutty pages, black marker them or leave them? She said to leave them.

Color me surprised.
  
When I gave her a copy of FATAL CIRCLE I warned her it too had smut. With ARCANE CIRCLE I didn't bother to give her the heads up. I figured she'd caught on. Though I have made the verbal effort to prepare her, I never promised her that she would find standard “missionary” style scenes.

In fact, there’s a standy-uppy sex scene in HALLOWED CIRCLE; oral followed by impromptu use of a kitchen countertop in FATAL CIRCLE; the insinuation of fellatio and a doggy style scene in ARCANE CIRCLE.

As for WICKED CIRCLE… (since it’ll be released in 13 days SQUEE!!!) here’s a brief excerpt from one of the smut scenes (slightly modified for this post):

He was climbing the steps inside the wærewolf den fast. She was keeping up, but was panting with the effort. It resonated erotically in his ears. “That was an impressive transformation,” she said. 


“Yeah.” 


“Yeah? That’s it?” 

He didn’t want to tell her how he was struggling with all that was new. He squeezed her hand then released her, hoping it wasn’t too abrupt. He was aware that he had to give her some kind of answer, but like a bad joke, her mom had actually given up her right arm in the process of unlocking his tattoos; he wouldn’t dare complain, but neither would he say anything that might make him sound ungrateful or imply that Eris’s sacrifice hadn’t garnered all they hoped for. “It felt easier. Much more fluid.” 


 Emerging onto the ninth floor, he guided her toward the small guest chamber at the rear of the hallway. 


"It was your first change since breaking the binding,” Persephone added. “Did it feel more powerful to you?”  


“Yeah.” He opened the door of the small studio apartment and hit the switch for the lights, twisting the knob to dim them. “I guess.” He opened the door wider so she could enter. 


“You guess? I was out in the hallway and I felt it.” 


“Really?” Instead of letting her acquaint herself with the space, as soon as he shut the door, he seized her and held her against him. “I’ve got something else I want you to feel.” He pressed his lips to hers roughly. “God, I missed you.” 


Seph kissed him back and buried her fingers in his hair. 


It felt like he hadn’t seen her in months, not mere days. His body thrummed with energy and ached for a release. His tongue pressed between her lips, wishing it was another part of his body. Her lip gloss tasted like sweet berries. He reached under the sweatshirt, pushing up tank tops to touch her skin. 


That enticing resonance played across his fingers again, dripping into his palm and rippling through his body.  


“Mmmm. I missed you too,” she said, arms winding around his neck. Effortlessly, she hoisted herself up and wrapped her legs around him. 


He carried her toward the bed in the corner and she wriggled just before he heard the thud of her shoes dropping to the floor. He laid her on the mattress and, beyond the want or need of foreplay, unfastened her jeans. 

This scene was atypical because it’s using an actual bed. Off the top of my head, there’s only one other instance in previous books where Seph is actually having sex in a bed.

That might explain what my mom said to me.

You see, in prepping for this post, I called my mom and, to put a twist on things, asked her what it was like to be the parent reading the child’s smutty work. She, who has read many a
Harlequin romance, said, “Aw, I’ve read stuff like that before.”

*Note her use of “stuff” and the omission of words like “smut,” “sex,” “porn,” or “premarital fornication.” *

However, she admitted that, “…it is different when it’s your books.” She laughed nervously before adding, ”I figure it’s fiction, so I tell myself that you don’t actually do stuff like that…you just make all that stuff up.”

She’s so awesome! She cracks me up while making it not weird for me.




 

Some Things Daddies Don't Want to Know

by KAK 

A lot of kids, when they go off to college, get a lecture from mom and dad on responsibility, attaining goals, or how a telephone works for more than just texting. My father, a man more Victorian than Victoria, gave me the most valuable piece of advice.

Some things daddies don't want to know.

Sound, sage, advice. Advice I definitely apply to certain genres I've written. Those erotica novels burning up my hard drive? Handing one of those to my dad? Nay, nay. No, no. Nein, nein. The high fantasy with a protagonist who has a penchant for blood play? Yeah, sure. Why the difference? Because erotica is 93% sex. Dad can't "gloss over" that. The high fantasy? The tawdry bits are maybe 15%. We can sit around the holiday dinner table and discuss the other 85% of the book without embarrassing either one of us.

Mom's a whole different sort of story.

My mother is very frank about sex...often in a cover-your-ears and scream "TMI" sort of way. Mom wouldn't be remotely offended by a vanilla sex scene. She'd read it and move along. Thing is, I don't really write vanilla sex. So, while she'd read all about hunchbacking happening, there'd inevitably be the point and time at which she would close the book, set it on her bedside table, pick up the phone, and call me. Not to discuss the mechanics of whatever acrobatics went on, but to have a heart-to-heart about the psychological ramifications of what the characters are demonstrating and how that's being reflected in my real life.

There are some things daughters don't want to discuss.

My folks are incredibly supportive of my writing aspirations. They eagerly await the day they can buy the first 1000 copies of whatever I manage to get published. They are standing by ready to be my mobile marketing machine. Mom & Dad the Street Team. The day I can put a book in their hands, they will be off and running. That book will just happen to be a High Fantasy.

Erotica? There are some things I only want you, dear readers, to know.

So tell me, would you ever gift your parents with an erotica novel? Why or why not?

Oh! Eek! When your folks read your naughty bits.

FROM: James R. Tuck

Hello, hello, hello. It's me, the new kid on the block. Proud to be the first Man-Word Whore 'round these parts. I promise to try and do the wonderfully talented ladies here justice in their choice of including me.

So my first topic to post about is when your parents read the sex scenes you write.

Well, it hasn't happened yet since the book isn't out until Feb 7. 2012 (BLOOD AND BULLETS from Kensington. End shameless plug.) but it should generate a conversation at least. That is, if my mom makes it to the vampire brothel/strip joint much less to the actual naughty scene.

See, I am a Southern boy. I was born and bred in Georgia. I grew up going to church. (In fact, for a very short window of my life I was a Church of God youth pastor.) My mom still goes to the church that I went to most of my young life, from 13 until my early 20's. She is morally conservative. She was only ever married to my father and to my knowledge has never really even dated anyone but him, not even in the decade plus he was taken by the cancer. She is your typical, Southern, religious, totally awesome mom. And she is proud that her son wrote a book, but I am trying to think of a way to let her know that my book, well, it ain't for her.

I wrote it because I wanted a DARK, violent, thrill ride of a kick ass book. I had hit a streak of reading books in urban fantasy that were supposed to be dark and violent but wound up being really tame IMHO. I set out to push the edge of Urban Fantasy. To not treat it like a nice safe thing. And I think I succeeded, I mean I put some really crazy shit in my book.

So, I guess I'm not so much worried about the racy bits with my mom because I don't think she'll get past the bloody violence and the four-letter words that I used like it was my job. I mean, is a vampire handjob all that shocking after you blow a hole clean through someone's chest?

I still feel I should give my dear mother a heads up though, before she runs out to buy the book. Hmmmmm, maybe I should call her. (I know, when in doubt you should always call your mom and say hello.)

If you have any advice on how to break the news leave it in the comments!

Keep the faith until next time,

James R. Tuck

When Parents Read Your Sex Scenes

by Jeffe Kennedy

No, I'm not reading a sex scene to my folks, here. It's a poem I wrote for their wedding ceremony - my mom's third wedding, after being twice widowed. And yes, they totally asked me to write and read the poem for them.

I'm very blessed this way, in the support from my family. Not only has my mom always encouraged me, but so does Stepdad Dave.

So, do they read my very naughty books? (Sapphire and Petals & Thorns are both BDSM erotica and Feeding the Vampire is a very hot short. Speaking of which, Feeding the Vampire is up for Book of the Week here, if you feel like voting.)

Yes. Yes, they do.

I even dedicated Sapphire to them, because they were both so great about Petals and Thorns - talking it up to their friends, and never once acting like what I'd written was offensive in any way.

This makes my family unusual, I think.

My mom has always been very open about discussing sex or "making love," as she called it when I was growing up. She let me watch it in movies, because she always thought it was ridiculous to let kids see violence and not love. She told me that love-making is intense, powerful and full of joy, if you do it with the right person.

Oh, yes, yes, yes.

Enter Stepdad Dave, who is retired Air Force and far more conservative that us, in our frivolous party ways. But he's fit right in. My mom occasionally mentions that they bribe each other with offers of "unnatural sex." No, I have no idea what this entails.

There are some things even I don't want to know.

I think that's the key: openness without excessive detail. At least it works for us.

On a final note, this is an exciting week on Word Whores, as we are also opening up, expanding and adding our first MALE Word Whore!

Meet James R. Tuck.

He'll be our new Monday whore, so you'll be seeing a post from him tomorrow. We'll see if a man can be just as much of a Word Whore as we can.

Feel free to heckle.

It Only Takes a Spark

by Kerry Schafer

There was this song we used to sing around the campfire. Well, technically, we sang a lot of songs around the campfire. Including Kumbayah. Hush - it was lovely and magical and there were boys -

Anyway, this particular song, sung around the campfire and in other places as well, began with this line:

"It only takes a spark to get a fire going."

Now, I'll admit that these words do seem to hold true for forest fires and grease fires and a huge array of disasters natural and unnatural. Apparently one random spark can indeed set a whole forest on fire. But it's a different song in the case where you do actually want to start a fire. I don't know if you've ever wondered about this, but it's a conundrum that frequently occupies my mind.

Maybe this is because we own a wood stove, and we use said wood stove to supplement the electric heat in my house. So, in the chill of the pre-caffeinated pre-dawn, while I am strategically placing dry kindling in a stove optimally designed for the encouragement of fire, and watching one spark after another totally fail to get anything going at all, I think about things.

I think about the way we only burn candles when somebody is watching to make sure they don't somehow tip over and light the counter on fire. I think about the way we keep blankets away from the heat registers and towels away from the space heater in the bathroom. I think about how careful we are with fires built outside, lest they accidentally set dry grass or trees on fire. I think about fire stations and fire engines and firemen, and the huge conflagrations that nobody wanted and somebody has to try to stop.

And then I look again at the fire that has failed to burn, despite kindling and coaxing and blowing and muttering and liberal additions of newspaper, and I wonder about the ironies of life.

Some things are fated. That's the only answer I can come up with, but not the end of the matter at all. Because here's the thing - if I keep on trying, sooner or later I will succeed in lighting a fire in the stove, as long as I've got dry wood and matches and maybe a little bit of paper. I guess my meandering point is that life is like starting fires.

Sometimes, while we are busy working our asses off to accomplish something, that very thing just happens for somebody else. Like magic, it seems. Precious little effort on their part. The right timing of people and events and "poof." Fire. Meanwhile, we've got a little heap of shavings and a string and a stick. Maybe a match or two, if we're lucky. It's hard not to be discouraged in these circumstances. Jealous, even. It's tempting to give up and curl into a ball under the blankets and just be cold and miserable.

Of course, if you do curl up into a ball and lie there, it's very probable that somebody else's magical wonderful fire will turn into a fire storm and blaze right over top of you and burn you to a crisp.

It seems to me that it's best to keep an eye out for random fires heading in your direction, but keep most of your focus on your own little heap of fire and wood and kindling. Maybe refine your fire building skills. Invest in some fire starter. Make some shavings. And maybe even sing a silly song or two while you're at it. I'm not sure why, but it seems to be helpful.

Fire Inside

Word-Whore Jeffe mentioned Prometheus early this week - the poor guy who dared defy the Greek Gods and who brought fire to humans. Do you suppose he was really strung up as a sacrifice to an eagle simply because he wanted to teach humans how to scramble an egg? (Refresher - he was bound to a rock for all eternity. An eagle comes each day and tears out his liver which subsequently grows back overnight so he can undergo this torture again the following day. That's more than an annoyed God.) No. The issue is that we're not talking about simple fire - the fires with which we cook, or with which we heat our homes. Fire, as it's spoken of in this myth is something much bigger, much greater than a few seared pieces of rabbit or deer meat.

Fire in the metaphysical traditions equates to Will, to the power within each of us to embody Fire. When used consciously and carefully, each of us is capable of channeling Will (or Fire, if you prefer) to shed light on some part of ourselves or our lives. We can use that Fire within to burn away and release those things that no longer serve us. In this aspect Fire equals transformation, the burning away of the old and out dated. It's a controlled burn, clearing space for something new, and laying down a nourishing ash base from which new growth can arise. (There's some discussion in metaphysical circles that this is the original concept of Hellfire - not punishment per se - but transformation.)  The problem is that if you get carried away, if the Fire takes you, the focused laser turns into a raging inferno - think of some of the horrifying forest fires that have scarred the US recently. In this aspect, Fire becomes the Destroyer, like Kali or Sekhmet angered by Her people. You burn up everything in your path, including you.

Because Fire is equated with Will, which is the drive within each of us to destroy and to create, it is the element most closely associated with the Divine spark in each of us. THIS, I suspect, is what Prometheus actually stole from the Gods on Olympus. That's the Fire he delivered to humans - that tiny destructive/creative spark that drives us to achieve whatever it is we're each driven to achieve. That's what drove the Greek Gods to sentence Prometheus to an eternity of liver laceration. Not that I'm against the odd explosion or three. Or nicely seared meat or a cooked egg. I just don't think cooking our food made humans competitors to the Gods. But that Divine spark thing? Oh yeah.

(Image Source: http://www.nightingail.com/fractals/g1sekhmet.html

Fire Within Me

by Allison Pang

I had actually intended to write more about hearth-fires and the like, but this is one of my favorite pictures out there, both because it reminds me of one of my characters...and the whole violin fetish I have.

But the picture itself is rather indicative of the whole creation process. I know most of us have been in that place, where an idea or *need* to create something just threatens to consume us until we get it out. And then we type away and the pages just pop out like nothing.

But it seems like such a fine line really - I mean, looking at the picture there - she's playing so hard, her instrument is literally aflame.

Which is both fabulous and awful. On one hand, it's a lovely representation of what it feels like to be driven to create...but on the other hand? What happens when that violin is gone? (Hello, writer burn out?) I think many of us have been there too - sometimes it's probably better to pace yourself. Burning the midnight oil, burning the candle at both ends - so many metaphors warn us of the end result - but there's a difference between rushing to finish something and truly being inspired to do it.

Deadlines not withstanding. *ahem*