Pressure

Writer’s block can be triggered by any number of things. Real life gets too busy, you get sick, you wrote yourself into a corner, you can’t get that freaking song out of your head and it’s ruining your scene.

Sometimes it’s pressure. With writers, there are three main sources:

1. From your publisher
• Although I’ve been lucky in this respect, some publishers take that wonderful book you wrote over the course of a year or two or five and want you to write three more just like it. By the end of the year.
2. From readers, real or perceived
• This can be tricky. Most readers aren’t trying to pressure you when they’re asking when the next installment of this or that series will be out. You did your job as a writer, and now they’re a fan of the world you’ve created. This is a good thing. It’s a compliment.
• Occasionally, though, I get a letter telling me to finish a particular storyline, and that generally has the opposite effect intended because I’m childish that way.
3. From yourself
• This is the worst, by far. Writers by nature have overactive imaginations, and we can blow things all kinds of out of proportion. So everything listed above gets spun into your own psyche, along with:
• If I don’t write three books a year the readers will forget me.
• If I don’t write this freaking sequel the publisher will drop me.
• What if this sequel isn’t as good as the first story in the series?
• You’re only as good as your last book.
• Nothing I write now will ever be as good as that one beautifully crafted book I wrote five years ago.
• What if I never finish anything again?
• I suck.

Dealing with the first two sources is easy.

1. If your publisher honestly expects you to write five books a year and that is not within your skill-set, tell them that. If they still expect the wordcount, then find a new publisher.
2. Acknowledge that people love your world/characters enough to write you about them. Then take your time, and write a book that you love as much as the first one. Be good to your readers by being good to your story.

See? Easy peasy. #3, though… There’s no simple way to lose all that baggage. But here are some of the things that I do:

• Get a hobby that is not writing.
• It clears my mind, relieves stress, and reminds me that there are other things in life.
• I draw, fold origami, take pictures of toys and sometimes make animated .gifs of those toys, play soccer with my nieces and nephews (because apparently one little league season during kindergarten makes me the expert in my family).
• I know other writers who sing, who cook. I’ve seen a lot of them knit during wait times at conventions.
• Make friends with creators who are in the same fix.
• Writers, artists, comic book creators. Talk about stuff. Vent that frustration we all get when we try to create a work of art only to have to market it as a product. Share that fear that we’re being pretentious when we refer to what we create as “art.”
• This helps me realize I’m not alone. That these problems that seem so devastating are actually very common. Once the problems become common, they put a lot less pressure on me.
• Note: Make friends. Don’t join a gang. The point is to get all those positive vibes flowing, which clears the air around you, which makes it easier to write.
• Write under a secret identity for a while.
• Hold on, hold on. I know this sounds mad sketchy. But it helps, especially given that I’m an established (am I being pretentious when I call myself “established”?) writer and the people around me tend to assure me that I could never write anything short of wonderful. Which is bullshit. Everyone will write a flop eventually. Most people will write several. But sometimes I get caught in one of two traps:
• I get tied into knots because I’m terrified that the next book will suck and all these people who had faith in me will be disappointed.
• I start to suspect my friends are lying to me.
• I create a new username. I pick a forum or other such free story site that either aligns perfectly with my interests or falls way out of my comfort zone. I write. I get feedback from strangers who don’t know I’m Rowan McBride.
• Rules:
• Tell no one (not even my best friend who lives in another state and doesn’t like the internet) of my username. The primary point of this exercise is to see how I do when I have to “start from scratch” in a sea of people who do not know me.
• If I’m writing in my comfort zone (frex: muscle growth) then go all out and write it, without all those invisible rules that come with being a published author tying me down.
• If I’m writing out of my comfort zone, write it. Do my best to rock this strange new world.
• Experiment.
• If I fail, be glad. It won’t affect my writing career and I’m learning something.
• If I rock it, be glad. I have proof that I am awesome.
• Create long, rambling lists with bulleted points on how to relieve pressure. ;)
• Read. Inside your genre. Outside your genre. Discover how absolutely fabulous you really are and realize with joy how much better you have the potential to be.
• Listen to music.
• Dance.
• Breathe.
• Write.

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Note: Thanks to Sherry on Goodreads for the suggestion of "breathe." :)

Writerly Things

If you followed the link in my last post, you know I've lost my freaking mind on tumblr. There's no organization to the stuff I post and that's freeing for me, although I'm not sure how much fun it is for the people following me. It also somehow allows me to get a little more personal while simultaneously giving me more distance, which turns out is something I need.

This is my writing blog full of mostly writing things, and I've been mulling over its direction. Been considering topics like:

• The mechanics of writing, which would cover how I, personally, approach the craft.
• Stuff that keeps writers up at night. Not all writers, obviously. Many writers sleep very well. But I'd talk about things I've noticed with me and my particular group of friends.
• Inspiration for certain stories/characters, what I think of them, etc. Sometimes I get the urge to share, but then I remember reading "DeathNote v13: How to Read DeathNote," and there was some stuff in there that I wish to this day I could unread.

What do you guys think? Is there anything you'd like to see me blog about?

Got a tumblr.

Because clearly what I need most in life is more distractions. ;)

http://RowanMcBride.tumblr.com/ 

(Totally not safe for work)

Meme'd!

Elizabeth Brooks tagged me on the Lucky Seven meme!

Rules: Go to page 7 or 77 of your latest work. Read down to the seventh line and then online the next seven lines or sentences. Then head off and tag seven more writers.

So, without further ado, I'm posting seven sentences from my latest publication-- "One Good Year."

I want what you want. I want you to be happy. But most of all I want... Curving my palm behind his nape, I drew him to my body. I lowered my head and buried my face in his hair, inhaling deeply. Even with where he'd been tonight, I could still catch the green-apple scent of his shampoo.  "I love you."

Now, who to tag? I choose Katrina Strauss, Z.A. Maxfield, Kari Gregg, Eric Arvin, Belinda McBride, Zach Sweets, and Alex Woolfson (because I'm curious to see how he'll swing this with a comic book).

Size Differences

Oh, man, I have a thing for size difference stories. Love it when one character towers over the other. M/M, M/F, it doesn't matter. Such happiness!

But it's sort of hard to find them in M/M. Was wondering if you had any suggestions for stories with a size difference between the protagonists. If the bigger guy has a bit of muscle, that would be doubly appreciated. XD

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Edit: I thought I'd also list a few of the ones I've already read here as well, in no particular order. If you have a suggestion, list it in the comments and if I read it and like it, I'll put it on this list. I've also created a GoodReads list, so you can add book there and vote! Click here to see it.

• Pyromancer by Amanda Young
• The main character is an angsty firefighter who constantly works out to work off that angst (and sexual frustration). The scene where Tanner first sees said firefighter is priceless.
• Collared by Kari Gregg
• A mutation has spread across the world that makes almost everyone "bigger and badder." A very small percentage, though, go the opposite direction, and Kari Gregg does a great job of portraying both the terror and the hawtness of that situation.

There's more, but I have to look on the book shelf to see. So, in the meantime...

Share yours! I want to reeeeeeeeeead!

Winner of ERSH Mini-Drawing

Congratulations to Shadow, who has won an 8x10 print of Spade from "One Good Year."

Thank you to everyone who entered. It was a lot of fun.  :)

Erotic Romance Scavenger Hunt

The Erotic Romance Scavenger Hunt is a blog hop featuring nineteen authors, a ton of exclusive material and fantastic giveaways, and an amazing grand prize for one lucky scavenger hunter.

Just joined the hunt? Click here to start from the beginning.

RULES: Hidden within each post on the hunt will be a single letter that is red. Jot those letters down because they're part of the following mystery phrase you'll need to unscramble:

_ _ _ _ I _ _     _ _ _ _ _ _ _     _ _ R     _ _ _ _

At the bottom of each post will be a link to your next stop on the hunt. Once you've completed the hunt, read all the fantastic exclusive material and entered all the individual giveaways, unscramble the letters you collected to reveal the mystery phrase. When you've uncovered the phrase, fill out the entry form in order to qualify for the grand prize. Grand prize is open internationally. You must be 18 or older to enter.

The hunt will only be open for 72 hours so play fast! Entries sent without the correct phrase or without contact information will not be considered. All entries must be received by May 28 at noon Central Time.

On with the hunt!

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Hey, all! My name is Rowan McBride, and welcome to my blog. Today I have the pleasure of hosting Angel Martinez, who has a gift for writing fairy tales and sci-fi. She also rocks at seamlessly fusing the two genres to create something new, which blows my mind. So far my favorites from her book list are “Boots” and “Vassily the Beautiful.” Here's a bit more about her:

Angel Martinez is the erotic fiction pen name of a writer of several genres. Her experiences as a soldier, a nurse, a banker, and an underpaid corporate drone give her a broad view of the world and a deep appreciation for the astounding variety of people on this small planet.

She currently lives part time in the hectic sprawl of northern Delaware and full time inside her head. She has one husband of over twenty years, one son, two cats, a love of all things beautiful and a terrible addiction to the consumption of both knowledge and chocolate.

To learn more about Angel, please visit www.freewebs.com/angelwrites/.

NOW FOR ANGEL'S EXCLUSIVE MATERIAL!

Sub Zero
A new M/M Science Fiction Novella by Angel Martinez
Coming September 2012 from Amber Allure

Major Aren Dalsgaard's newest assignment is to investigate a series of murders on the frigid planet, Drass, where relations between the Treaty settlers and the natives have taken a nasty turn. A linguist and trained xenologist, Major Dalsgaard should be comfortable with the case. So why is this assignment the hardest he's ever faced?

Drass is where he died, over a hundred and twenty years ago.

Excerpt (from Chapter Two: The Goblin Problem):

As they passed through the security doors, Aren pulled Sergeant Wickstrom back a step to murmur. "Earpiece in, Emma, on my personal translation channel. It's possible I might not want our local friends to understand every word I say, but I don't want you to miss a syllable."

"Yes, sir."

The lights grew brighter as they rounded the corner into a corridor lined with the cell viewing windows. Captain Underwood stopped at the third on the left, with a nod to its occupant. "There he is, Major."

Oh, yes, he looks like a dangerous character to me. The dangpo male lay on his side, hands cuffed behind him, cheek pressed to the plasticrete floor. Slender, with delicate features, he appeared hardly more than a boy. His chest rose and fell in uneven pants. His long, white hair lay plastered against his skin in damp strands.

"Captain, what's the temp in this cell?" Aren fought to keep his voice soft and even.

"A little warmer than it is out here, sir."

"I assume you know that's not healthy for him."

The captain gave him another of those odd, bland looks. "Helps soften them up for questioning, Major. We don't believe in coddling criminals here."

"Lower it, please. I'd prefer to have a conscious suspect to question." He stripped off his coat and gloves, which the sergeant retrieved with quick efficiency. "Ice. Water. This boy looks a bit past 'softened' to me."

To their credit, his escort didn't grumble over his orders. The lieutenant returned quickly with the requested items and a report that the cell temperature was dropping.

"Have the door opened for me, Captain," he ordered and then held up a hand when the whole delegation would have followed him. "I need to do this alone, please. He won't say much of anything with a whole squad looming over him."

"But he's dangerous, Major!" Mr. Cisneros protested. "He's killed four people!"

"Allegedly killed four people, sir. He's cuffed. He's half my size. I think I can manage."

"Sir?" Sergeant Wickstrom broke in. "If you—"

"I'll signal if I need you, Sergeant. I assume these are standard viewing panes? One way?"

"Yes, Major."

"Then you all can keep an eye on proceedings and rescue me if our desperado gets out of hand."

The young man barely twitched when Aren stepped into the cell. Not good. He pressed the ice pack to the prisoner's forehead and waited for his eyes to open.

"Good afternoon. My name is Major Aren Dalsgaard, and I'm here to ask you a few questions."

"Registered," came the faint reply. "Jack Waters. Registry band. Please..." Frightened black eyes stared up at him. "Registered."

"Yes, I know." Aren slid an arm under the young man's shoulders and helped him sit up. "Here, drink. It's just water. Nice and cold."

"Jack" drank in desperate gulps, and then sat back, staring at him from behind his curtain of disheveled hair.

"Do you know why you're here?"

The young man shook his head, though whether that meant he didn't know or that he didn't understand the question was unclear.

Aren sat cross-legged on the floor facing him and switched to dangpo. "You're name is not 'Jack Waters,' is it?"

The dark eyes narrowed and he persisted in answering in standard. "Registered. Have band."

Talk to me, please. God, I've missed hearing the language. "Child, you are too young to be chilok khyimtshang."

"I am not a child!" the young man shot back in his native language. "I have seen twenty and four summers!" He scooted back, derision coloring his soft voice. "Did you learn to speak dangpo from old tapes? You sound like my great-grandmother."

"It's possible that I knew your great-grandmother."

A toss of his head cleared half the hair from his face. "You are not so old."

"I am somewhat older than I look." Aren placed his hands on his knees, palms up, hoping it still meant he wished peaceful negotiation. He jerked his head to the cell door. "The chigyel, they think you killed that woman last night."

The young man's mouth dropped open on a strangled squeak. "What? No! I was trying to help!"

Aren tilted his head one way and then the other, a gesture of understanding. "Tell me what happened. From the beginning. Perhaps you could start with your name."

"Why should I trust you?" the young man cried out. "You, a chigyel who smells of offworld things, who tries to imitate our speech, our manners! You try to make me think you are a friend, but you are no different from the rest!"

"You're too young to remember, of course. But I had a family, once. I made my home with the Changki pod, adopted as one of their own." He raised his right hand, index finger curled under his thumb to indicate a sworn truth. "I am Serpodom."

The prisoner let out a hysterical laugh. "Now you think me stupid. Serpodom died a hundred twenty and three summers past."

"Yes. I did. In pain and anguish, I died." Aren unbuttoned his uniform jacket and slid out of it as he spoke. "I am Serpodom, the voice of the dangpo. My beloved's name was Akarnyima, the hunter."

The youngster's eyes darted back and forth, uncertain and off-balance. Aren undid his shirt cuffs and continued. "Akar taught me to live here, to speak, to love. He gave me my first hunting knife and a khyi pup named Dawanying. Do you know the story? Do I have it right so far?"

Black eyes wide, the young man nodded.

Aren started on his shirt buttons. "A day came when Akar and I were fishing. The sun was bright. The fish seemed to leap into the nets. We laughed and chattered, distracted by our happiness. We heard the ribul slithering through the snow too late. I killed it, but it had bitten my Akar. He wasn't one of those who survive a ribul bite. My beloved died screaming."

"But before he died, he went mad," the young man said in a breathless rush, obviously caught up in the story. "Raving and half-blind, he struck out with his venom spurs and stabbed his Serpodom in the shoulder."

His hands shaking in the chill room, Aren slid off his shirt. The young man gasped when he revealed the blue circle of the zi chiwa venom site on his shoulder. "And his Serpodom lay down beside him to die. Do they tell what my last words were before I died?"

The white-haired head nodded rapidly.

"I said to the Changki, my family, 'Don't weep. My place is with him.' Is that what they say?"

"Yes." The young man's complexion had faded to an unhealthy shade of gray. He curled over his knees with a little moan. "How can this be? How…I don't feel well."

"Should I help you to the bowl?" Aren asked in a gentler tone as he pulled on his shirt.

"No…I…no. Just…how are you here? Only the Changki know those final words."

Longing stabbed through Aren, sharper than any surgical blade. "You're Changki? What's your name, little one?"

Rocking, with his head against his knees, the young man murmured, "Nyachung."

Little fish. It suits him. "The chigyel have a way of freezing the body, of preserving it so it remains undamaged and unchanged. When they found a way of reversing what the venom did to me, they thawed my frozen body and woke me."

"They ripped you from death? From your rest? From your Akar's side?"

"Yes." Aren finished his buttons and stared at his hands. "Though I don't remember anything about death. So maybe I wandered lost and never was beside him."

Nyachung lifted his head, swallowing hard. "It is an evil thing they did. I sorrow for you, for your loss."

"Thank you. Though I am pleased to meet Changki again." Aren resumed his open palmed position. "Nyachung, I want to help you. To try to protect you. But you must tell me only truth. Why did you come to the city?"

"On family business. The khepa bumé sent me."

All right. Evasion, I think, but not a lie. "Tell me what happened last night."

"I have a room near the stone river. Walking back to it, I saw someone dragging a heavy bundle. He put the bundle down and began pulling things off. As I moved closer, I saw the bundle was a woman. He was pulling her clothes off. I thought…thought he was taking her by force. I didn't know she was dead."

"You had no reason to. Can you describe the man?"

"No. It was dark and he had a scarf wrapped around his head."

Of course. That would've been too easy. "What happened then?"

"I yelled. I wanted to frighten him off. He pulled a long knife from his coat. I was…I was afraid."

"A sensible person would be."

"Yes. And I know it was wrong. We are forbidden to extend the venom spurs in the city. But he lunged at me. I…I had no other weapon."

"Did you strike him?"

Nyachung ducked his head. "No. I tripped and struck a metal post. The man ran off." His white ears turned a pale blue, showing his acute embarrassment. "And then the city guards came and shouted at me and threw me to the ground."

Aren fought against a smile. The situation wasn't at all funny, but Nyachung's mortification was endearing. "You're not a hunter."

"No. I am the pod's third tale-singer."

"And I think you were sent here, to ask questions, to negotiate, to trade, whatever the reason, because you are a good speaker, persuasive and gentle. You speak the chigyel language better than you pretend, don't you?"

That got him another shame-faced nod. Oh, to be so young again. "They speak so fast here, and when I didn't understand, they spoke fast and loud, which only made things worse. I pretended to be stupid."

"It must have been frightening. Be patient. Be brave. I will go speak with the chigyel." Aren clambered back to his feet, gratified that he managed without calling for help.

"I will try."

He made a gesture toward the viewing pane, confident his observers monitored every move, and the cell door clicked open on cue. "Do what they ask. Answer their questions honestly. If you've done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear."

While he wished he had more to offer, fervently wished he could order the cuffs taken off, it was the best he could do for the moment. Steady. Stay focused. Empirical evidence. You're feeling protective because of his family associations, and you're not here to be a white knight.

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WAIT, THERE'S MORE!

If you'd like a fab 8x10 glossy pic of Spade from the One Good series (and you do-- I mean, look at all the sexy!) just make a comment below. A winner will be drawn at random and announced on this blog the evening of May 28th.

Ready to move on? The next stop on the Erotic Romance Scavenger Hunt is...

Avril Ashton

Good luck!