The Revenge of Billith

Also known as: The Writers have Fucking Given Up.

Oh True Blood. I loved your witty, yet violent first season. I forgave you for making Tara angry and black. I applauded you for defying the book and keeping Lafayette alive. Okay, so you went a little off in left field during the maenad fiasco, but there was still something solid about the writing to keep us through.

After that, y’all became monkeys flinging shit at a wall and seeing what sticks. NEW FLASH. It’s monkey shit. All of it sticks.

The season six premiere was utterly predictable. Billith lives to terrorize all the good little vampires we’ve come to love more than the central characters. Yeah, that’s just what we needed, a vampire god to add to the list of what-the-fuck characters scampering around Bon Temps. Faery children. Werewolves. Shapeshifters. Skin walkers. And a partridge in a God damned pear tree. Not only that, there seems to be no limits to Billith’s powers. So the TV show took mild-mannered, librarian-like Bill and gave him the personality of a human on PCP–nothing can harm him, he is in charge of everyone, fuck who all gets in his way. I want book Bill back. He was lame, but at least he was believable. This whole “vampires with a goddess” thing reeks of the same political bullshit they shoveled during Steve Newlin’s first appearances on the show. We got the religious thing out of the way seasons ago. Quit beating a dead horse.

Pam continues to fight against the world, make her own way, because she’s afraid to open up to anyone. which, of course, leaves her progeny Tara floundering at  the edges of the story line, trying to insert herself into something meaningful. Never mind that book Tara winds up married with twins and has a nice, boring life after her encounter with a vampire boy toy gone wrong. Really wrong. I don’t mind diverging from the source . . . if it is to better the character and the story line. Now they have yet another vampire for Sookie to loathe, simply because they have power over her and an insane desire to taste more of her yummy faery blood.

Eric’s sister annoys me. She was sexy when she came on the show, now I just want her to go away and leave more screen time for others.

And Eric . . . I was ready to give up on him. With the direction the show has been going, it was impossible to say I’d continue to watch the show just for Eric. Until tonight. There was a moment, a brief glimpse in his eyes after he escorts Sookie home that sucked me back into the Eric Trap. We’ve all fallen victim to this trap at some point and I’m right back in there, cheering for Team Eric to tap that faery ass one more time. All because of one look. Congratulations, Mr. Skarsgård you are now the main reason I will watch any more of season six. The moment you lose your magic? I’m gone.

We’re no closer to wrapping up any of the dangling story lines left from last season. Sam is left in limbo, with a child in tow. Lafayette was in one fucking scene with no clue where he’s going this season–why toss one of your best actors into the background after giving him an intensely emotional season? We like him! Use him! Warlow has a face. Maybe. I’m not one-hundred percent convinced that really was him. There’s a book character who could be coming in that’d also have all of that information and the same metaphysical abilities. Jason is still bat-shit crazy and toting around the stupid fucking parent-vision crap I bitched about last season.

We won’t even go into Sookie. She’s a mess. As usual. And never, ever drives her own story lines. The writers use Sookie as a prop. It is ridiculous. The girl has a brain in her head. A very special one, at that. For fuck’s sake, in the books she SOLVES NUMEROUS CRIMES. Sookie saves lives! On the show, she’s a blood bag with nice tits that the vampires toss around in power games. Ridiculous.

So . . . that’s that. The season six premiere of True Blood left little to be desired, except for more heart-breaking looks from Eric. We can only wait and see if the show is worth the effort to crawl on the couch with a rum and coke.

Another Free Book Promo!

This time around, I’m bringing you something from another Just Ink Press author, Raven McAllen. Her  paranormal romance novella, Impulse (Isola Dei Sogni) will be free June 12th and 13th!

Here’s a little about Impulse.

Blurb:
Isola Dei Sogni, where fantasies and dreams come true. Mia only went as a favor for her sister. Her fantasy was a good book and a bottle of wine. Until she met Dylan. Then her sense disappeared and fantasy took over.

Dylan has arrived at Isola Dei Sogni to help out—with reluctance and just as a favor. Then he meets Mia. If she’s the person he’s supposed to assist, then maybe the visit won’t be the waste of time he thought, after all. His attitude has changed, and when he hears Mia wants to give him his fantasy, well, Dylan is never one to disappoint a lady…he hopes.

Fantasies and dreams are all well and good, but even here, reality creeps in. Can Mia and Dylan overcome that to reach their happily ever after?

EXCERPT:

“Inside.” His voice was hoarse. “Touch inside. In the way you’d like me to touch you. Show me, Mia. Show me.”

Her body was on fire as she moved her hand. She’d show him, and rejoiced that she’d found a person who desired her so much.

“Like this?” With an insouciance she wouldn’t have believed she had, Mia wet her fingers in her mouth and moved them to her pussy. Slowly, she pushed inside herself. The look on his face gave her courage to move them further inside. As she scraped the walls of her channel, her clit tingled and sharp arrows of pleasure honed in on her nipples. Her juices coated her fingers, and without conscious thought, she moved her hand to coat her nipples with her essence. She trembled as she returned it to her heated sheath. Her head fell back and she gave herself to the sensations that bombarded her.

“My turn.” Dylan stood up and pushed his chair back. It fell over and hit the floor with a bang. Mia jumped at the unexpected noise and her hand moved out of her channel and dropped onto her lap. He lifted it to his lips.

“Ah, so good, it tastes of you.” Goose bumps covered her skin as he put her fingers into his mouth and licked them one by one. “Now I can’t wait, my lovely Mia. Are you ready?”

*****

Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats–their children having flown the nest–surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.

She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland–the midge.

A lover of reading, she appreciates the history inside a book, and the chance to peek into the lives of those from years ago. Raven admits that she enjoys the research for her books almost as much as the writing; so much so, that sometimes she realizes she’s strayed way past the information she needs to know, and not a paragraph has been added to her WIP.

Her lovely long-suffering husband is learning to love the dust bunnies, work the Aga, and be on stand-by with a glass of wine.

You can find out more about Raven at the following links:

Website | Blog | Facebook Fanpage | Facebook Profile | Twitter

Romance Novels Lie

You know what you never, ever see in romance novels? No, not ugly heroes. You never see how truly awkward sex can be.

Don’t think to start mouthing off with, “Obviously you aren’t doing sex right then, R.C.” I study sex. Apologies to any of my lovers reading this, but at some point you will read one of my books and see a little of yourself in the sexy times. Writers use personal experience to make each scene as real as possible. Except, no one wants to read the awkward truths of sex.

1. The nude man…with socks.
It happens. It is painfully hard to ignore. At some point, all men get caught with an erection and socks. It isn’t flattering. At all. Fans of the original “Coupling” will know this as “The Sock Gap.” The only time nudity and socks work is if you’re playing naughty schoolgirl. I’ll be honest, a naked woman in socks is hot. This is a sad double standard men just have to accept. Ditch the socks with your shoes, boys, and save yourself some hidden snickering while trying to impress your date.

2. Well, we’re naked, now what?
Sometimes, once the kissing and tearing off clothes stops, you’re two naked people staring at each other, wondering what moves to make next. Groping? More kissing? But, oh damn, your lips feel like they’ve been sandblasted after French kissing your way through the last hour of The Avengers. What? It can be a tantalizing movie. Hello, Loki? Rawr! Anyway…. At some point, both parties need to regroup and plan their attack. Don’t do it once the pants come off! Think as you do a little strip tease. You’ll bypass the nude-and-contemplating weirdness. Trust me, it is for the best. Not even the best actor can change the holy-shit-what-do-I-do-now look into something passing for appreciation of your date. It comes across…constipated.

3. Leg cramps.
They happen and they are very, very painful. There’s no bullshitting your way out of a leg cramp. At some point your date will realize you aren’t moaning, but whimpering. Worse yet, ladies, is the hip cramp. This usually stems from men’s belief that all women LOVE yoga and are built like Gumby. We aren’t. Matter of fact, a lot of women have serious issues with the nerves in their hips, especially around their cycle. It isn’t natural for us to be folded like a pretzel or asked to hold our legs spread, ankles up, for however long it takes a guy to stop thinking baseball stats and come already… which brings me to my next point.

4. This isn’t a marathon.
Prolonged sexy time is okay…sometimes. But making every session between the sheets into a four hour ordeal isn’t fun. There’s the leg cramps, sweat drippage, soggy sheets, hair so knotted it starts to hurt. And not to mention, there isn’t an unlimited lube dispenser up there, boys. Once we’ve had our fun and the thrill of sex starts to fade into, “Fuck will he come already?” We girls tend to close up the vagina shop, even if you haven’t finished your purchase. Staring at the ceiling, or having our faces crammed into the sheets for another fifteen minutes, all the while thinking how much our privates hurt, ain’t fun. Pay attention. Girls, do the same. When he’s ready, give your orgasm a pep talk to hurry up. Its poor manners to grab a toy after to finish.

5. Cleanup.
You rarely, if ever, see condoms in romance novels. It is becoming more frequent, but not enough for writers to tackle the truth of the aftermath…or any strange mishaps discovered during. Like, tricky condoms that don’t go with the guy when he’s pulling out. Or the awful burning sensation of realizing you are allergic to the lube on the condom. No amount of careful washing helps. Then you have the whole, where do we dispose of the rubber, issue. Leaving it in the bedside trash only advertises to house mates that you got some. Finally. The bathroom trash is out, as well. You could always wrap it in a tissue, but if its the only trash in the bin, it becomes a Tell-Tale Heart scenario. Plus, who really wants jizz sitting around?

Maybe I’m overly neurotic about these things. Truth be told, a lot of my time is spent analyzing how sex is presented to the masses so I can pilfer things here ‘n there to use for book fodder. Coming up with an endless stream of titillating scenes is draining mentally. Romance books glorify sex, polishing it up without the weirdness. Which is even stranger since we all know the truth. Doesn’t the lack of actual fact take you out of the book just a little? The main female strips out of her bra and tosses it aside. Those of us ladies with ample chests would stop and think, “Thank fucking god that’s off,” and rub the red marks on our underboob. Or if it is summertime, hoist the girls up, stand under the A/C vent, and air the girls out. The sex is forgotten for comfort. Sorry, guys, you do not beat a good bra removal.

See what I mean, though? Fantasy and reality rarely mesh up when it comes to sex. We’re writing these book, which are inevitably read by virgins, and giving them false information.

Writers, homework assignment! Write a quick sex scene that is brutally honest to the reality of your sex life. Current, past, or a mixture of your entire sexual experience. Compare that to your favorite fictional sex scene. Ridiculous, huh?

The Artist’s Lament

As a writer, occasionally I have to step back from my work and figure out what, exactly, I’m trying to say to the world. Am I just spewing the right sounding words onto the page, or am I weaving together something that could possibly change the way someone percieves the world? 

I look at the work of the people I hold in high esteem, that handful of fellow writers who I feel have it down right. They know what message they are spreading and they do it in such a way which typically leaves me in tears. How can I ever hope to reach the depth of soul I read between their words on the page? I feel like a pond with the bottom painted black–so shallow you’d break an ankle if you jumped in, but from a distance seeming to be bottomless.

It is hard not to despair, to not yank at my hair in frustration. After all these years of fighting my way uphill to get to a place where I can write without worry–without someone dragging me away from my work because they see it as a challenge to them instead of the outlet I need to keep myself going–I still feel like a fraud. A chimp flinging shit at a wall and seeing what sticks, and those who happen by think it is art. But the few who find the beauty in my work make me question myself. At the end of the time my books steal from their lives, what have these people learned?

I read a novel from Laurel K. Hamilton and learn that it is okay to be strong, yet rely on the loves in your life–taking help doesn’t diminish your self worth, it helps build the person you were meant to be. Larissa Ione teaches me that even the strongest, most hardass people ever to draw breath need to feel love, not just from their family, but from someone who can see beyond the fierce mask to the lonely soul underneath. Sherrilyn Kenyon has taught me the most of all–to stand up for yourself because you alone have the power to allow someone’s hate to affect you, to stop being so afraid of past hurts that it prevents you from living the life you were meant to live, to learning to love yourself because you are worth more than all the gold in the world and if you just hold on a little longer someone will come along and love you with the same intensity.

And all I feel I’ve taught anyone is that vampires can have wicked hot threesomes.

This self doubt is not a comfortable feeling. It is a demon which has gnawed at my subconscious for weeks, holding me back from working on a book I’d hoped to have halfway finished by now. I should have seen the problem earlier, but it took me delving into the works of others to finally see the problem. I don’t feel smart enough to teach anyone anything. My life experiences aren’t that vast. Or so I tell myself. My close friends would argue otherwise. They could be right, but I’m so buried under this self-hate that I can’t see my life objectively. I’m not being fair to myself. I’m twenty-eight with lots of life to live. But the future experiences I could have won’t help me find my message to the world right now. 

Is it egotistical of me to want to make an impact with my art? Probably. But the most brilliant artists do just that, often without realizing it. Gods help me, I want to sit back and let my muse run rampant in the hopes that I create something with more meaning than a novel people complain is lacking something. I don’t want to be found lacking in anything. I want to better the world.

And that’s the artist’s lament. We want to improve the world from the comfort of our homes and a few strokes of brilliance. Words carve a new world, not the weapons soldiers carry. 

Vagina is Not a Four-Letter Word

Okay, it is rant hour. Hold on to your asses.

Read THIS article. Done? Good…

What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with people? Yes, I understand why the passages concerning Anne Frank’s discoveries and musings about the capabilities of her private areas were initially removed from her diary before publication. A girl’s self-discovery is intensely personal and not something typically shared with the world, as her diary was. However, it is vital that girls in this day and age understand that looking at themselves, understanding their bodies intimately is normal. It is not dirty or a sin to know what is between your legs. Men know full well what their penises can do. Why should women live in the dark ages about their anatomy and sexuality? Small minds cannot contemplate what it is to truly be comfortable with their bodies. Why should girls, in any era, be told over and over again that one portion of their bodies will forever bring them shame? This mentality is far sicker than the notion of a teen-aged girl taking a peek under her skirt out of curiosity.

Vagina is not a foul word. It is not a dark, dirty secret to remain wrapped in mystery. How are girls to fully understand sex and the impact it can have on their lives without this natural act of exploration?

And yes, the mother in the article claims her daughter was “uncomfortable” reading the diary entires regarding Anne Frank’s self discovery. You know what? Good. Our personal boundaries, especially when it concerns something incredibly vital to how we see ourselves, need to be pushed occasionally. I sure as hell didn’t skip out of my mother’s womb one-hundred percent comfortable with my body. As a matter of fact, I was appalled with what my body did during puberty. And that was because No One thought to be completely honest with me and the girls in my classes at that age. Schools gloss over things concerning female sexuality. Instead they focus on what a penis does, and what it does with a vagina. The vagina itself has always been a two minute conversation with sterile anatomy pictures. For years I thought there was something wrong with me because down there didn’t look like anything anyone had shown me in sex ed classes. And I’ll be completely, brutally honest, it wasn’t until I stumbled across a porno magazine that I realized my vagina was perfectly normal. They come in various shapes, sizes, colors–like flowers. I shouldn’t have had to accidentally found reassurance about my normalcy downstairs. Acceptance of ones body is paramount, more so during the teenage years. No one should walk around thinking less of themselves when a simple, frank conversation can clarify so, so much.

It is utterly frustrating to be a woman. Even now we’re told to be ashamed of how we were born. I didn’t ask to come out this way, but I did and I’ll be damned if anyone will make me loathe any part of myself because they cannot be mature enough to look at vagina without thinking of it as something foul. What is worse is some of the most outspoken people, the ones fighting to keep young girls from loving their bodies, are women themselves. We are such a backwards society and it pisses me off to no end to continuously hear reports on how women are being hauled back to the dark ages concerning their bodies.

I have a vagina. Get over it.

Podcast-Thingie: Dating a Writer

Obviously, I survived a ten day vacation (which included 3 theme parks and WonderCon). Here’s the next Podcast-Thingie. It’s a long one. I made up for missing a post during my trip. Or just wanted to talk a lot… potato, po-tah-to.

A Cover Reveal!

My good friend Sandra Bischoff has a baby book in the oven. Today she’s giving everyone a peek at the cover to her debut novel. Isn’t it yummy?

 

Beyond the Sun
By ~ Sandra Bischoff
Genre ~ Paranormal Romance

Fifteen years ago, Jared Bonatelli had it all. The youngest son of one of the founding families in the Conservatorship of The Dark Order he lived a life you only thought existed in novels and nightmares. He had just graduated from Oxford University and became engaged to his childhood sweetheart when he lost it all in one violent act. The very next day he found himself shipped off to New Orleans with only the money in his pocket and whatever he could fit in one suitcase. Since that night, he has suffered reliving his fiancé’s murder repeatedly in his dreams. It isn’t until he finds himself summoned back to New York for an emergency meeting of the Conservatorship that the comfortable world he lives in begins to crumble around him.

Alexandra Toscano has been searching for the one assignment that could catapult her journalistic career. When her editor Gene O’Hanlon drops a manila folder in her lap, Alex is immediately skeptical. At first glance, the information he hands her seems like a publicity piece that is until she comes across an article he wrote some fifteen years ago about Vampires murdering a young woman in Central Park. She is ready to laugh it off as a work of fiction until he points out he was an eye witness to the whole thing. But that wasn’t all. The girl’s boyfriend was a member of a prominent Italian family who vanished the very next day.

Now as Alex begins to dig deeper into Jared’s life, she begins to question her own past. Could the answer she seeks be found in the glowing eyes of the one person she is sworn to expose? Or will they both find themselves torn apart by a world Beyond the Sun?

Author Bio:

Sandra Bischoff lives in the historic town of Cornwall, NY with her extremely patient husband and teenage son, she affectionately calls the Demon. She is a Pharmacist by profession but found her true calling in a simple twist of fate. A friend approached her to write in a forum on a popular networking website. Over the next five years her passion had found its niche. She went on to compose a few poems and short stories which she would post on her homepage at the same networking site. From one of those short stories, her novel Beyond the Sun was born. She is currently working on her next novel and is very excited to share it with her readers.

She can currently be found at: http://sandibischoff.webs.com
http://sbischoff.wordpress.com
http://www.BayouBrewPublishing.com
Sandra’s Facebook page
And on Twitter as @SandiBischoff