Wednesday, April 23, 2014

50 Shades inspired Art

I happened to be strolling Calle Ocho. It's a street in the heart of Miami's Little Havana. And what did I stumble on. . .ART!!

*swooning




And art inspired by 50 Shades of Grey. 


Maggie Genova Cordovi


I must say that there is a certain darkness to the work that makes me love it so much! Additionally, and I'm no art academic, I just love what I love, but there's this sense of body detachment and sort of this struggle to find the light and sexuality within the darkness.

So whether you're a fan of 50 Shades of Grey or not, I just had to show this to you all. Check out Maggie's website for more artwork by pressing on her link in the caption under her name.






Tuesday, April 22, 2014

POLL: Which Cover Should I Pick for "Love in Haiku"?

I started a novel in early fall of 2013 called Cherry Blossoms at Midnight. 




In December, I changed the name to Love in Haiku and discussed that someone had read the manuscript and called my hero rapey.



I returned to the writer's desk and worked on the story some more. I'm in the revision process now.

However, this book is still giving me trouble. I'm now undecided about the book cover for the story.



You may wonder why I've done so many changes and back & forth with this novel. It's just that this story is close to my heart. 

I've always wanted to set an interracial romance in Tokyo, Japan. Now I've done it. 

So here I am, asking for your help. Cover artist Fantasia Frog Designs hooked me up with two covers for this story.

Which design should I pick to tell a reader that this is a dark interracial erotic romance set in Tokyo with a African American heroine and Japanese hero? 


The Poll is under the covers.

Cover A







Cover B



Which cover do you pick?
A
B
Neither
Poll Maker


And if you have time to comment, please answer these questions:

Why or why not do you like the cover(s)?


Monday, April 21, 2014

Is Evie a Lesbian now?

Let me apologize to all Coventon Campus fans!

Here we go.















Here was my writing process for 
Committed to You:

I let the characters dictate the story.

Seriously.

I had an outline. Everything was supposed to be nice and simple. Boom. Boom. Magic. The end.

Then. . .


Evie, Jay, and Cynthia fucked it all up.








Is Evie a lesbian?

I would say NO
Evie has a strong handle on book smarts, 
but when it comes to love she's always winging it. 

She's in college folks. 
Unlike you all, 
when it came to love
I and many of my friends 
had no idea what we were doing in our early 20s.

So I must say sorry, again.

If you want an all-knowing and perfect in everything she does Heroine, the Coventon Campus is not for you.

If you want a category romance with a plotline that you already know before turning the first page,

Sorry, I AM NOT FOR YOU. . . 


This is ME.















One thing you can say. Evie worked on getting her shit together in the second book.


Why was Committed to You all about Cynthia?

I don't think it was about her.
I stand by my decision. 





Plus, did you not want to know why the girl was so messed up? 

Didn't you want Jay to pay for the B.S. he gave Evie?

And I'm sorry, but doesn't Evie deserve some fawning from all of them?

I think she more than earned it.



Now let's return to the real root of the problem. The sequel was just as unexpected as book one. 


Did you really expect this particular story to be predictable? 


Come on


Nothing is easy to foresee when three hearts are involved. And then you add Pipe for an extra addition of drama.






So where will we go in the final book of the Coventon Campus?

To the motherfucking MOON, baby!








Friday, April 18, 2014

Release Day Giveaway: A Test of Love & Sexy as Sin







































Both novels are out! 
Let the church say, AMEN!


So in order to 
spread the word 
as well as 
have some fun!

Several Prizes below with the possibility of 
5 winners!!!


Top Prize:
1 Winner
Broadway Basketeers Gourmet Chocolate Gift Box






 Second Prizes:
4 Winners




Update!

Neither book has gone live! 
I haven't slept, 
but trying to be patient 
(and not freak out). 
When they're up, I'll announce it!

Thursday, April 17, 2014

WINNERS of Interracial Romance ebook list

This went so well, 
I decided to pick
TWO Winners
instead of One.

First big shout out to Marcia for hooking us up. She'll be back next month to present a NEW list and I'll be holding a GIVEWAY for that too!


by Marcia Walkerdine


The Two Winners of 3 ebooks (winners' choice) are:

Tezra Martin
Felicia Welch-Reevers


















Rape Joke by Patricia Lockwood

I just read this amazing poem by 
celebrated poet Patricia Lockwood

It had me laughing, crying, and just in a mental limbo. I decided to share it with all of you now. She has two poetry books out. I'm about to grab them.

Check it out below:


RAPE JOKE

by Patricia Lockwood


The rape joke is that you were 19 years old.

The rape joke is that he was your boyfriend.

The rape joke it wore a goatee. A goatee.

Imagine the rape joke looking in the mirror, perfectly reflecting back itself, and grooming itself to look more like a rape joke. “Ahhhh,” it thinks. “Yes. A goatee.”

No offense.

The rape joke is that he was seven years older. The rape joke is that you had known him for years, since you were too young to be interesting to him. You liked that use of the word interesting, as if you were a piece of knowledge that someone could be desperate to acquire, to assimilate, and to spit back out in different form through his goateed mouth.

Then suddenly you were older, but not very old at all.

The rape joke is that you had been drinking wine coolers. Wine coolers! Who drinks wine coolers? People who get raped, according to the rape joke.

The rape joke is he was a bouncer, and kept people out for a living.

Not you!

The rape joke is that he carried a knife, and would show it to you, and would turn it over and over in his hands as if it were a book.

He wasn’t threatening you, you understood. He just really liked his knife.

The rape joke is he once almost murdered a dude by throwing him through a plate-glass window. The next day he told you and he was trembling, which you took as evidence of his sensitivity.

How can a piece of knowledge be stupid? But of course you were so stupid.

The rape joke is that sometimes he would tell you you were going on a date and then take you over to his best friend Peewee’s house and make you watch wrestling while they all got high.

The rape joke is that his best friend was named Peewee.

OK, the rape joke is that he worshiped The Rock.

Like the dude was completely in love with The Rock. He thought it was so great what he could do with his eyebrow.

The rape joke is he called wrestling “a soap opera for men.” Men love drama too, he assured you.

The rape joke is that his bookshelf was just a row of paperbacks about serial killers. You mistook this for an interest in history, and laboring under this misapprehension you once gave him a copy of G√ľnter Grass’s My Century, which he never even tried to read.

It gets funnier.

The rape joke is that he kept a diary. I wonder if he wrote about the rape in it.

The rape joke is that you read it once, and he talked about another girl. He called her Miss Geography, and said “he didn’t have those urges when he looked at her anymore,” not since he met you. Close call, Miss Geography!

The rape joke is that he was your father’s high-school student—your father taught World Religion. You helped him clean out his classroom at the end of the year, and he let you take home the most beat-up textbooks.

The rape joke is that he knew you when you were 12 years old. He once helped your family move two states over, and you drove from Cincinnati to St. Louis with him, all by yourselves, and he was kind to you, and you talked the whole way. He had chaw in his mouth the entire time, and you told him he was disgusting and he laughed, and spat the juice through his goatee into a Mountain Dew bottle.

The rape joke is that come on, you should have seen it coming. This rape joke is practically writing itself.

The rape joke is that you were facedown. The rape joke is you were wearing a pretty green necklace that your sister had made for you. Later you cut that necklace up. The mattress felt a specific way, and your mouth felt a specific way open against it, as if you were speaking, but you know you were not. As if your mouth were open ten years into the future, reciting a poem called Rape Joke.

The rape joke is that time is different, becomes more horrible and more habitable, and accommodates your need to go deeper into it.

Just like the body, which more than a concrete form is a capacity.

You know the body of time is elastic, can take almost anything you give it, and heals quickly.

The rape joke is that of course there was blood, which in human beings is so close to the surface.

The rape joke is you went home like nothing happened, and laughed about it the next day and the day after that, and when you told people you laughed, and that was the rape joke.

It was a year before you told your parents, because he was like a son to them. The rape joke is that when you told your father, he made the sign of the cross over you and said, “I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” which even in its total wrongheadedness, was so completely sweet.

The rape joke is that you were crazy for the next five years, and had to move cities, and had to move states, and whole days went down into the sinkhole of thinking about why it happened. Like you went to look at your backyard and suddenly it wasn’t there, and you were looking down into the center of the earth, which played the same red event perpetually.

The rape joke is that after a while you weren’t crazy anymore, but close call, Miss Geography.

The rape joke is that for the next five years all you did was write, and never about yourself, about anything else, about apples on the tree, about islands, dead poets and the worms that aerated them, and there was no warm body in what you wrote, it was elsewhere.

The rape joke is that this is finally artless. The rape joke is that you do not write artlessly.

The rape joke is if you write a poem called Rape Joke, you’re asking for it to become the only thing people remember about you.

The rape joke is that you asked why he did it. The rape joke is he said he didn’t know, like what else would a rape joke say? The rape joke said YOU were the one who was drunk, and the rape joke said you remembered it wrong, which made you laugh out loud for one long split-open second. The wine coolers weren’t Bartles & Jaymes, but it would be funnier for the rape joke if they were. It was some pussy flavor, like Passionate Mango or Destroyed Strawberry, which you drank down without question and trustingly in the heart of Cincinnati Ohio.

Can rape jokes be funny at all, is the question.

Can any part of the rape joke be funny. The part where it ends—haha, just kidding! Though you did dream of killing the rape joke for years, spilling all of its blood out, and telling it that way.

The rape joke cries out for the right to be told.

The rape joke is that this is just how it happened.

The rape joke is that the next day he gave you Pet Sounds. No really. Pet Sounds. He said he was sorry and then he gave you Pet Sounds. Come on, that’s a little bit funny.


Admit it.