the journal of r. cooper

(This is not a story. It's basically just me screaming ideas at people)


But what do people want out of this? Wicklow deliberately taking his place in Rhoades’ bed? Using those precise, foul little Wicklow words to describe what it does to him when his husband touches him? How he thinks about his kisses? How much he can’t think when Rhoades fucks him? How, when he was alone, after the first time, he tried to use his fingers and it wasn’t the same, and he was furious for wanting it so much? Rhoades isn’t a warrior, but he takes Wicklow. Even when he is gentle, he *whispers, in near shame* conquers him.

And Rhoades just. More turned on then he has ever been in his life. IN HIS LIFE.

( Read more... )

 

Gods, just, he would do anything for this little barbarian. His small, blue-eyed heathen killer. He would vow into his skin, and against his mouth, and Wicklow would bruise him he’d be holding him so tight, although Rhoades isn’t going anywhere. Conquer you?  Rhoades is nearly snarling, or is it purring? Wicklow can’t tell anymore, with his blood on fire. You think I’ve conquered you? And he’d promise it again, and again, anything, anything for his husband.

And yeah, Rhoades would be exactly as emotionally compromised by his new husband as his enemies think–only stronger too, because (being Roman-ish) they didn’t anticipate that Rhoades’ devotion to Wicklow would earn the devotion of Wicklow’s people too. –And they probably also assumed Wicklow was a mindless soldier and nothing more.

This is a mistake.

 

Rhoades knew the traitors will make their move soon, so he made plans. He has to lure them out to destroy them, and that’s risky, but he and Wicklow cannot fight their common enemy (idk, some other country) until they deal with the betrayal among Rhoades’ men. So he spends a (final) night with his husband, and then invents a problem that needs to be dealt with and sends Wicklow away.

His enemies will think him alone, weaker. He stays in his room, letting them think he is pining for his absent husband. Wicklow is his weakness and his enemies know it. He will use that too, and trust that Wicklow is truly gone when they come for him.

Of course, they might just kill him. Rhoades hadn’t mentioned that very likely possibility to anyone.It would make more sense to keep Wicklow close, and find some other way to draw his enemies to him. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

He doesn’t anticipate his crafty little warrior leaving two of his friends behind to ensure Rhoades’ survival. Or that the attempted coup doesn’t net *all* his enemies. Injured, exhausted, but triumphant, Rhoades makes examples of the ones discovered, and then realizes (as each other talks, because let’s not pretend there is no torture here. Like let’s say it’s fairly obvious Wicklow was intended to die along with him, so yeah, there is torture here. I mean, *Rhoades*) that the plan went higher than he wanted to think, and wherever he sent Wicklow, he did it with the last conspirator at Wicklow;s back.

So Rhoades (and Pilar and Anthony, obviously…although Anthony should really be a “Roman” as well)  would ride out to save Wicklow.

(This is so cheesy and I don’t care.) and they wind up in the hands of the other enemy. The original one. The one Wicklow and Rhoades got married to symbolically unite their nations against etc.

Wicklow (and Amelia and Louis, probably) just a) does not need special protection from one traitorous “Roman” dog. And b) is furious when he realizes what Rhoades did, (and also sort of proud, because wow. It did take care of the problem and also his husband is a powerful man).

And just. I need all the wounded but desperate Wicklow going eerily calm when something practical needs to be done. But making himself be sneaky, to think like Rhoades to accomplish this with only the three of them. (Maybe four, like, Mariama, right?) And that thing is to find the enemy’s camp, retake his husband, and then raze the camp to the ground. And then you get berserker mode Wicklow rescuing his soft, clever husband, and the two of them getting like, legendary status. Like love poems and everything.

Rhoades knew the traitors will make their move soon, so he made plans. He has to lure them out to destroy them, and that’s risky, but he and Wicklow cannot fight their common enemy (idk, some other country) until they deal with the betrayal among Rhoades’ men. So he spends a (final) night with his husband, and then invents a problem that needs to be dealt with and sends Wicklow away.

His enemies will think him alone, weaker. He stays in his room, letting them think he is pining for his absent husband. Wicklow is his weakness and his enemies know it. He will use that too, and trust that Wicklow is truly gone when they come for him.

Of course, they might just kill him. Rhoades hadn’t mentioned that very likely possibility to anyone.It would make more sense to keep Wicklow close, and find some other way to draw his enemies to him. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

He doesn’t anticipate his crafty little warrior leaving two of his friends behind to ensure Rhoades’ survival. Or that the attempted coup doesn’t net *all* his enemies. Injured, exhausted, but triumphant, Rhoades makes examples of the ones discovered, and then realizes (as each other talks, because let’s not pretend there is no torture here. Like let’s say it’s fairly obvious Wicklow was intended to die along with him, so yeah, there is torture here. I mean, *Rhoades*) that the plan went higher than he wanted to think, and wherever he sent Wicklow, he did it with the last conspirator at Wicklow;s back.

So Rhoades (and Pilar and Anthony, obviously…although Anthony should really be a “Roman” as well)  would ride out to save Wicklow.

(This is so cheesy and I don’t care.) and they wind up in the hands of the other enemy. The original one. The one Wicklow and Rhoades got married to symbolically unite their nations against etc.

Wicklow (and Amelia and Louis, probably) just a) does not need special protection from one traitorous “Roman” dog. And b) is furious when he realizes what Rhoades did, (and also sort of proud, because wow. It did take care of the problem and also his husband is a powerful man).

And just. I need all the wounded but desperate Wicklow going eerily calm when something practical needs to be done. But making himself be sneaky, to think like Rhoades to accomplish this with only the three of them. (Maybe four, like, Mariama, right?) And that thing is to find the enemy’s camp, retake his husband, and then raze the camp to the ground. And then you get berserker mode Wicklow rescuing his soft, clever husband, and the two of them getting like, legendary status. Like love poems and everything.

*takes deep breath*

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Of course their team is still around. Of course it is! Around and being sneaky and badass.

Maybe Anthony was a soldier who was part of the retinue to bring Wicklow and his friends back to Rhoades to be married? Or maybe we don’t care that much about logic because hey, arranged marriage AU.

God Rhoades face when Wicklow comes charging in, that alone must have launched a thousand songs. So much intensity in one moment, and they’re both trying for decorum because there are bodies everywhere and friends and allies and enemies alike watching…. I doubt they totally manage, because how could they. And it just fuels the legend.

If one was going to do this properly one would have to start with the epic saga of warriors in love. And then go back and explain how it came about. And end with another version at the end.

I’m weak for this shit, for real.

(via vashti-lives)

If you think being around Rhoades hasn’t taught Wicklow the importance of making a good public impression… But, like, fusing them with the ways of his people.

AHHH WAIT Like, it’s too much but like, also perfect for the ‘time’ and ‘place’. Wicklow saving Rhoades, taking the camp, the regular loyal “roman” soldiers appearing too late, Wicklow standing before Rhoades in the center of the camps, fires lighting the dark sky. Bloodied, injured, but on his feet, and then pulling the knife he gave to Rhoades (and found, with blood on it, in the body of one of those who took Rhoades) and returning it to him before Louis or Amelia draws forward the last traitor.

(And how fucked up is it that they would hold eye contact during a summary execution? Aaaah too much Roman history for me, I can tell!) And then later, weirdly, Wicklow should be angry, but he is almost apologetic, cleaned and bandaged and with his husband, accepting each kiss.

Any universe in which Rhoades confuses Wicklow and then gives him all that *pleeeeasurrre*. Aahhh.

Getting little warrior Wicklow in his bed at last and then just bringing him to the edge for a while, and then stopping to kiss him, and then starting all over again, and at this point, it’s less about conquering Wicklow as it is proving to him that Rhoades is his equal in all ways that matter, that Rhoades is his husband, and he wants Wicklow to understand what that means.

…also I just like, dazed, flushed, desperate Wicklow, staring at Rhoades with those bright, pleading eyes, straining up a little for another kiss and frowning until he gets one.

"wolfatworldsend said: Pilar, if you please! They’re all great, but I’ve missed her."

PILAARRRR. Watching the boys be silly and ridiculous and thinking she is above that, because at least she *knows* what she wants. (Wicklow is her little brother, and she has killed and would die for him, but he has no idea of anything that isn’t his electronic toys or killing people.)  So she knits sometimes, or cleans her guns, and watches them. She watches from a distance, up on rooftops, after Amelia is brought in to their team officially. Learns how she fights, and the way she moves. Notices again her confusion about herself, and those who notice her.

Pilar isn’t like Rhoades, but maybe is just a *little* bit like Rhoades, and maybe she makes a ladyfriend or two along the way, and she’s not as obvious as Rhoades about it. But she leaves hints, enough for Amelia to see and guess and know. And blush. And wonder. And glare.

Aaaahhhh imagine a universe where Amelia is all spiky with jealousy and doesn’t even get it, and you could do like, any, version of her getting snarly with everyone, only to avoid Pilar, which will not do. So Pilar might have to hunt her down a little, just to keep her in sight.

And Pilar confuses the ever loving shit out of her with gifts. Leaving scarves on her pillow (oh god like, when she was asleep even? because Amelia is good but Pilar is the best at sneaking up on people.)

Amelia kissing her for the first time maybe? Hesitant and then embarrassed when Pilar smiles. Like it’s a joke. Like *she’s* a joke. And then they have a mission or something, and Pilar is happy but also frustrated, because Amelia won’t come near her.

And then someone should be in danger! Aaaah Pilar could get trapped by herself saving the others, or maybe injured enough that she can’t join them right away, and Amelia (and Wicklow, I’m sure, but maybe he doesn’t find her first) comes to get her, and she is so spiky! and pissed! and dangerous! Pilar is so! smitten! and proud of her!

C&P from my tumblr. Brief AU of Wicklow's Odyssey. Wicklow/Rhoades as werewolves.


( Read more... )


Rhoades has called him ‘mate’ from the moment they met. “Mate” with shocked awe when his eyes found Wicklow in the dark of his prison cage, in the dark like humans weren’t supposed to do. Wicklow’s mother had lived just long enough to hint to him that there were others like them, and to remind him to hide it, but he’d never met another until then.

“Mate.” In a smooth, rich man’s voice and then again, but lower, in something like a cat’s purr, although Wicklow did not think a wolf made such a sound.

He didn’t trust rich men and he didn’t know wolves, wild or wealthy or purring, so he put his back to wall and lowered his head and snarled.

The other wolf only came closer, glowing eyes steady, not a hint of fangs to be seen. “Mate,” he’d said, a third time, and added another word, one to set Wicklow to growling and make him forget his mother’s every word about caution.

“Mine.”


He doesn’t say that word again, but the other remains, as foreign as any of the Greek words he insists upon using, and the two dollar words from his books as well. Wicklow doesn’t pay it much mind. There are other wolves that run behind Alexander Rhoades, wolves as confused as Wicklow. Wicklow has to dodge them, sniff them out, keep them away. He has devices to learn, and other ways of killing besides going for the throat.

He is curious, although he keeps his questions to himself. The woman carries a rifle but shifts into a nimble brown creature. She shows her fangs when Rhoades approaches, when he looks at Wicklow and uses that word, but she frowns and follows him all the same.

The younger wolf is rangy and big and loud until he isn’t. He moves quieter than anything Wicklow’s ever seen. He smells of secrets and gunpowder and walks apart from the others when they train, but he stills when Rhoades speaks.

The grey wolf, the one-armed, three-legged Colonel feeds them, nips to keep them in line. His eyes glow so much Wicklow thinks it’s only the fact that he, too, is a rich man that has kept the world from guessing what he is.

Rhoades is a wolf who never changes, never in front of them. He does not snarl. He has soft hands and wears silk. But he speaks and even Pilar cocks her head to listen.

He stares at Wicklow, and pauses, as if waiting, and calls him Private Doyle when he is a man, and mate when the small black wolf shows up at his door.



Rhoades wears fine leather shoes. Wicklow thinks they would be equally fine to sleep on.


Rhoades does not touch him, although after a few months he touches the others. On their shoulders, once, at the back of Anthony’s neck, when he’d returned wounded and whimpering. He buys Pilar clothes. Serves hunks of meat to Anthony. Leaves cigars out for the Colonel.

For Wicklow there are plates of food Wicklow will not touch, coats he shies away from, and books.

The books Wicklow borrows, although only within the library. He will not take them from Rhoades’ home.

Rhoades makes no comment on this, although he is more man than wolf, Wicklow thinks, and is overly fond of words. He says nothing, but when he looks at Wicklow, Wicklow wants to tilt his head back and howl.


He does that, howls, for the first time on the date he chooses to be his nineteenth birthday, all alone in the acres of woods outside Rhoades’ family home in Philadelphia. He howls and jumps in surprise at the chorus of responses, and the sudden slurry of motion as Anthony and Pilar rush past him into the trees. They yip for him to follow, so he does, and they return in the morning, muddied, cold, wet, to a hot breakfast and a gaze from Rhoades so fondly amused that Wicklow can hardly meet it.

He doesn’t ask why Rhoades didn’t join them.


“Mate,” Rhoades tells him, before he leaves for another mission. They are all leaving, for weeks this time, but it is Wicklow alone in Rhoades’ library. “Be careful.”

Wicklow is always careful, but Rhoades stares him down and smells of cologne and leather and worry over the skin-scent, warm-scent, home-scent of him, so Wicklow nods. Rhoades smells good, very good, clean and whole. Rhoades smells like the others, but also himself. If he dares to come closer, Wicklow can find the salt of his sweat, the metallic hint of his blood, and the powerful center of him beneath even that. He thinks it’s like honey, or velvet, or gold, although gold itself does not smell like Rhoades at all.

If the others are pack-scent, “Pack,” Pilar tells him, “You are my pack brother. Little Brother Wolf. Little Fierce Eyes.’ then Rhoades’ scent is something else. Leader-scent. “Boss,” Anthony says. “Don Alessandro” “Alexander,” the Colonel grumbles, but with his head angled down. “Fool,” Pilar will add, but then shake her head and admit the rest in a softer voice, “The wolf among the wolves.”

Rhoades’ scent is strong. It creeps through the streets of Washington and finds Wicklow in his lab, and when he is alone in his room. It lingers in Wicklow’s clothes and makes him bite at his pillows when he cannot sleep. Wicklow flushes when he enters the library–the place where the scent is everywhere, and gets on his lips so that when he licks them he seem to taste Rhoades.

He doesn’t understand why the others don’t react to it. Even Anthony will preen for a bit of praise from Rhoades, even the Colonel will flash his eyes when Rhoades speaks, but Wicklow’s heart pounds before he even sees Rhoades, and he knows Rhoades can hear it.

But he does nothing, only continues to offer meals and clothing and a world of knowledge. He comes downstairs to see Wicklow while reeking of men and seed, and the humans he has just fucked slink out the door with bruises on their skin. He says those things, “Mate. Be careful” before sending Wicklow out to spy and lie and kill.


Wicklow wants to bite him.


Rhoades is rich and soft, but Wicklow thinks if he tried to sink his teeth in Rhoades’ throat, he would be the one to end up hurt.



In Chattanooga, they find a Reb wolf, or she finds them. Wicklow finally guts her, but it takes him too long to heal. Her fangs sank in deep, and when he returns, more worn than he’s ever been, Rhoades snarls before Wicklow can manage one word of his report, and in the next moment has Wicklow against the wall and his face to his shoulder.

The wound isn’t serious. Wicklow tells him that, shuddering when he ought to push Rhoades way. He ignores how slow he was to heal, how Pilar had been desperate enough to use their radios to try to reach Rhoades, as if the sound of Rhoades’ voice alone would have been enough to make Wicklow to heal faster.

There is a scar in the shape of her teeth. Wicklow has many scars. This one turns Rhoades’ eyes to gold, and Wicklow is too momentarily taken aback to see a glimpse of this wolf again to notice the hot breath on his neck, the teeth so near his throat.

“Mate,” Rhoades says quietly, distressed or angry, Wicklow can’t tell. The scent of him is everywhere. Wicklow licks his lips and inhales and wonders where the others went, and if they know why he cannot move until Rhoades’ stops shaking.


He stays in the library, that night, and most nights after when he isn’t working.

He eats the food, and accepts one coat.

He takes the books to his single room, and burns when the scent of Rhoades fills the small space.



“Private Doyle,” Rhoades says, over the radio, before fading into crackling silence. It’s the last Wicklow hears from him for three weeks. It’s been a month altogether he’s been away from pack leader, from Rhoades, from good-scent, home-scent, library and hot blood and Rhoades. Wicklow hasn’t been sleeping. It took all his energy to get to Rhoades’ door without shifting.

Rhoades stands in front of him with glowing eyes and smells of another man, and Wicklow is dripping with rainwater and shakes his head like a dog in the street.

Wicklow is on two legs, but he feels animal, uncertain. He doesn’t know why Rhoades would call him by his human name when Wicklow can only swallow his whimpers of confusion.

Rhoades smells of another man, human, weak, not-Wicklow, and he knows Wicklow knows this. Wicklow thinks he wants him to know, and for a moment he bares his teeth.

The surprise and hope that weave their way into Rhoades’ scent throw him enough that he backs down, lowers his head, but his glare remains, even as his heart is racing.

Rhoades should rip his throat out, hurt him, as the Colonel has suggested some older packs used to do to upstarts who challenged the pack leaders. But he thinks of Rhoades’ mouth at his throat and trembles. It is not with fear.

Rhoades will know that too. As the others must know. If it bothers him, there is no sign. His voice gentles as he asks for Wicklow’s report, and he puts one hand, one careful hand, to Wicklow’s shoulder as he urges him to sit down and rest, rest at last, mate, put these lonely weeks behind you and rest here, where you belong, and I will keep you safe.

The words are strange, moreso because Wicklow is not sure they are said out loud. He reads them in the tilt of Rhoades’ head, the warm curl of his scent, the shine in his eyes.

If Wicklow turned, even a fraction, that hand would curve over the back of his neck. Strange then, that he finds he can rest despite that.

He thinks it might even be because of it.

Sometimes I wonder how much I ought to talk about, what sort of writer-blogger should I be? Share everything personal? Share nothing personal? Something in the middle? Only positive things? Then I think, meh, girl, focus on the stories. But that does leave weirdness that still has to be addressed.

Like right now I'm in a weird in between place with my stories. Normally I am down for in between and undefined, but other times a definition is useful. Am I a writer? (Or at least, a paid one?) Am I better off as someone with a real life, outside of my head, job who only writes when she can, as a hobby? I know some people like my stories, but most people hate or are indifferent to them, from what I can tell. I am, and always have been, a weirdo outsider. So really not being hugely successful or popular isn't a new thing for me. (Always the weird bridesmaid, never the weird bride). But I've reached a point where I have to do the math (ugh) and figure out what's best for me, financially and mentally. So I'm kind of in a strange headspace right now. It doesn't mean I'm not writing or doing anything, just that my mood has once again swung down and I'm not in condition for a lot of things at the moment. Real life can wear a person down, sometimes.

For something less melancholy to talk about, we could discuss buttsex in m/m romance fiction. The expectations for it and the ways it's used and written. But uuuggghhhh that sounds like a deep discussion (no pun intended) and I don't think I can handle it yet. I only mention it at all because of Wicklow and his touch/trust issues.

Speaking of Wicklow. Did I ever tell you guys how Lucy and I like to discuss an event that happened before the book, when all of D.C. was convinced Rhoades was already sleeping with Wicklow (even if they didn't know their exact relationship or what Wicklow does for a living)? And some political rival of Rhoades' attempts to go after Wicklow to get at Rhoades, and Rhoades finds out and slowly, thoroughly, ruthlessly, destroys that person to make it clear to everyone the consequences of trying to go after his people/his Wicklow? And he never mentions a thing to Wicklow? He simply continues to invite him over in the evenings, and feed him and care for him and watch him when he thinks Wicklow won't see?

Only Wicklow always sees more than he lets on, and he hears the rumors. He doesn't think Rhoades did it for him, exactly. He thinks Rhoades was protecting the team, but this is Wicklow and he doesn't like debt. And secretly he is pleased Rhoades did this merciless thing for them. He's proud of him, fond in a way Wicklow doesn't have words for. So he decides to reward Rhoades, in his way, and holds still when Rhoades watches him and lets him look. Until he's shivering and unduly warm and confused because he thought he was doing Rhoades a favor but he is the one who feels better with this unspoken thing shimmering between them. Rhoades is looking and for the first time, although Wicklow doesn't say it or even think it directly, Wicklow is considering what Rhoades wants from him. And he is warm, and he is not scared. Perhaps he ought to be. He knows what Rhoades is capable of. But he is safe there in Rhoades' library. Rhoades will never hurt him.



And by the way, thank you, anyone who reads my stuff, and especially those who send me comments. It's honestly one of the greatest feelings to hear about how someone stayed up late to finish your story, or how it made them cry. Sure, I respond awkwardly and probably always will. But it's genuinely moving to know somebody liked something I did that much. You guys are great. :)

For anyone with a Goodreads account (I think. I'm not sure. Maybe anyone can go?) I am doing a Meet The Author chat thing this Saturday.

Here's the link Meet R. Cooper which is kind of a weird thing since anyone here has technically "met" me already. But you know. That's what it's called.

It will be at the GR Dreamspinner group, for three hours. 1:30-4:30 July 12. Pacific Time. (For those in other countries, this means go by San Francisco time on the world clock on your phone. Not that I am in San Francisco, but I can see the Pacific Ocean from here... okay. I can see the bay from here, not that actual ocean ocean. Not gonna lie. I wish I could see it though.)

You can ask me questions about Wicklow and Rhoades (or, say, Amelia, Louis, or Pilar) or any other character you want. I will be posting excerpts from current things and hopefully soon to be published things, maybe talking about my love of random alternate universe versions of my own stories, and oh hey, there will be a coupon offer. I might do a giveaway, although I have no idea how to do that, so.

(Such a clueless dork, you have no idea. My third grade teacher actually told my mother I would never get far in life without a secretary to handle basic things for me. This has proven to be true. But how does one get a secretary before one is a success, I ask you?)

If no one feels like asking me questions, I might just ramble on about steampunk or fairies for three hours. Or werewolves. Or imps. Or dragons. Or lonely ex-cops who are afraid to reach out for the love being offered them.

To recap, got questions about upcoming or current stories of mine? Then come over to Goodreads on Saturday and take pity on me. There's a coupon! Excerpts! Nervous babbling! It'll be fun. (Hopefully).

By LC Chase. Sinful, sinful Rhoades. Ready to take Wicklow on an odyssey (in his pants, aaaw yeah).

So, as far as I know, all the editing and everything is done. Due out for sale... some time in July. I have no idea when exactly yet. Will let you know.

But speaking of July, I will be doing a "Meet the Author" for Dreamspinner in July, at Goodreads. I am... slightly terrified. I've never done anything like that. But I figure I can try it out, and if no one shows up or if (when) I do something awkward, I can drown my sorrows after, right? I kind of predict a few people showing up, mostly just to yell at me for all the unfinished and unpublished Beings stories on my hard drive.

Er, speaking of which. So I finally finished a complete draft of Little Wolf, then decided it was so long (so, so long!) because I had to explain the town it's set in. So I wrote a short story to explain the town. ...Which somehow became a novella. So now there's a random novella I hadn't planned on and I still need to edit down Little Wolf. Also I can't decide if the novella needs an epilogue. But at that length it would really be more of a small novel, and how the hell did I accidentally write a small novel about characters who didn't exist a month ago??? How is this my life? How is this my brain?

So. That happened. Werewolf. Wizard. Slight misunderstanding. Some brownies. I don't even know anymore. It has no plot, you guys. It's just soft pining for 57k. And meanwhile, there Little Wolf sits. Impatient. Glaring at me. Tapping his itty bitty foot. (He's not actually itty bitty.)

SIGH. But hey, in the meantime, if you guys feel like discussing your favorite magical shifter type romances, http://rainbowgoldreviews.wordpress.com/ is having a chat/discussion about them this weekend. I was invited but I have real world job (ick) and cannot attend. Someone should go represent dragons though. :)


( Read more for presonal crap. )

Now.

Personal moment. Something to learn about me is that sometimes I disappear. It can be an introversion thing, or a focus on writing thing, but it can also be a negative thoughts/bad mental place thing. Sometimes it's a combination of all of those. The upside? I've been writing and editing a lot. The downside? Well, is the downside. Also I'm not really in the best place to judge what I've written when this happens. I only mention it because I'm never sure how much of an author's issues people want to hear about, or what is expected of an author's presence online, but I prefer to be honest about stuff like this. I can't be happy and upbeat all the time and I usually try to avoid posting when I'm like that. But I'm not hiding it, so much as I don't want to bring others down too. But, yeah, I vanish once in a while. jsyk.

I never know what to say in these blog posts. Sure, if you want fannish squeeing and random pictures of food and porn there's always my Tumblr, but an author-y blog posts people are supposed to be more author-y, have things to say about writing or the world in general that aren't just notices about upcoming release dates, all that. Only honestly I know next to nothing about the publishing world, and I feel like everything else comes out in my stories anyway. What does that leave? Just the updates. *sigh* But, you know, they are exciting to me and exciting things are fun to share.

First things first, everyone knows I posted a free short story, right? Well, I did. It features a slightly cracky (a lot cracky) fairy tale version of two characters who have been TORMENTING ME FOR OVER A YEAR NOW.

Ahem. I suppose that is something to talk about. Some stories are like that. You know exactly what is going on and you're compelled to write them as quickly as you can get the words out and you remain obsessed with them even once you are done. Wicklow and Rhoades were like that for me. But other stories are just a big mess. They keep growing and nothing ends up as you originally planned until you finally make yourself finish after many stops and starts and then suddenly it's exactly how you wanted it. But different. Will and Charlie were more like that. Er, Nathaniel and Tim are apparently like that as well. They insisted on writing themselves and that is always a struggle.

And can I tell you how much I regret giving werewolves quick healing powers and a fast refractory period? And how much I regret writing a sexual frustrated, *incredibly* confused young werewolf? Because I have spent hours upon hours upon hours writing porn and I'm not done yet! At least they have kind of reached an understanding, the two of them. Soon Tim might even understand what cuddles are.

(He needs lessons. Wicklow, now, you could give Wickow cuddle lessons and he'd still stare at you like you're crazy... So, I write characters with space and touching issues. So I write characters with issues. Ah well. That isn't news.)

Hmm. Updates. So. Wicklow and Rhoades were accepted (yaaaaaaay!) Preliminary title: Wicklow's Odyssey. That might change. Expect Civil War Steampunk sometime in July or early August.

Meanwhile, I was sent notices that audiobooks are going to happen for both, "A Boy and His Dragon" and "Play It Again, Charlie." I even got to listen to some samples. That was thrilling! And anxiety-inducing. And strange. And fantastic. And I don't generally listen to audiobooks so I hope those turn out okay. I will let you guys know what they are coming out.

I continue to write Tim and Nathaniel (working title(s): Little Wolf. Or The Alpha of Wolf's Paw. Or What Wolves Do. Or... something chess related. Because when you think werewolves, you think, chess.) Getting closer to the end. Woo hoo! I still don't know what to do about my short Beings stories. I want to write a few more and put them all together, but then again I don't know if Dreamspinner would want that. I'm such a weird writer.

And um, oh hey. Conventions and things. Fun? Something people in more than a hang around the comic book booths kind of way? What kind of conventions do people go to where they want to interact with authors? *Do* they want to interact with authors? (Or m/m authors for that matter?) What's that like? I have only ever gone to one convention and it was a very large one and very expensive and well... I did not enjoy it much despite my nerdiness. So I am trying to see the appeal. They aren't something you can explore on a whim when you are on a budget.

Depends on what you want to get out of them I suppose. y/y? y/n?