Showing posts with label author. Show all posts
Showing posts with label author. Show all posts

February 15, 2010

The Color of Romance w/ Author Gwyneth Bolton


Head over to ChickLitGurrl: high on LATTES & WRITING where I talk with a jacqueline of all trades, author and educator Gwyneth Bolton! We talk about her latest novel, Sizzling Seduction, her alter-ego, and the still-needed recognition of black romance.












About Sizzling Seduction



Some like it hot...



Firefighter Patrick Hightower will take any risk in the line of duty. Risking his heart again? That’s something he’s vowed never to do. He prefers scorching affairs—the briefer, the better—though he might make a temporary exception for smart, sexy teacher Aisha Miller. But Aisha isn’t interested in exploring their instant, searing connection—no matter how much she feels the heat.



Aisha has had enough of dominant men trying to control her life, and the gorgeous firefighter who visits her kindergarten class is alpha male through and through. Yet the gentler side Patrick shows, especially around her young son, gradually melts her reserve. As shadows from Aisha’s past resurface, she’ll discover just how far Patrick will go to prove she’s found her real-life hero.




When asked, "What type of writer are you? Are you a plotter or a pantser," Gwyneth answered, "I’m a little of both actually. I used to write a novel about halfway through without plotting and then I would have to plot out the rest of it to finish it. That’s how I wrote my first three novels, I’m Gonna Make You Love Me, If Only You Knew and Divine Destiny. Now that I’ve sold a few novels by proposal and the novel is technically plotted out already in the proposal, I have to give myself serious critical distance from the proposal after I write it and write as if I am still pantsing it. Then usually about halfway through the writing, I have to revisit my proposal to finish writing the novel. Strange… I know…"




Definitely stop by ChickLitGurrl: high on LATTES & WRITING to learn about Gwyneth's stories, her take on black romance, and to get a hot taste of her latest project, Sizzling Seduction!





ChickLitGurrl: high on LATTES & WRITING

Chocolate-caramel lattes + Women writers = ONE GREAT TIME!

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November 30, 2009

The Inspiration to Write: Author Djuanna Brockington

The Writer




Djuanna Brockington has been writing fiction and creative non-fiction for four years. These days she's either writing, thinking about writing, reading books and blogs about writing, or beating herself up for not writing.

Her short fiction can be found on her website Diva Fiction Bytes. She has also written an e-book entitled "Home Alone: When Your Office Doubles as Your Guest Room," and she is working on a series of novellas for e-publishing in the very near future.

You can learn more about Djuanna by checking her out on Twitter and Facebook.



Inspiration


What inspires you to write?
Initially, it was hard for me to pin down what inspires me to write. I turned the concept over in my mind for days and came up with nothing. That was because I was looking for the pat answer-the thing that would sound all lofty and scholarly. And since that is so not me, I hit a mental wall. When I got real with myself, I realized that I’m inspired by the desire to create funny stories with smart characters that lead interesting lives, and yet are highly relatable. Like my unnamed main character in The Date-my very first short story. She’s self-employed, a catch in her own right, exhausted from finishing up a three week project, and yet she goes on a blind date at the insistence of her best friend. Bad date ensues. Just like millions of women around the world.


Where do you find inspiration to create your stories?
I most frequently get inspired by the antics of my family and friends. Things that happen to other people always seem way more interesting than the stuff happening in my life. I’m always asking myself the question: “What if things had gone this way or that, instead of the way they’ve actually played out?” I’m sort of never satisfied with what is. I’ve got to make it into something else. Which is good, because by the time I’m done with a story, the original subject can’t recognize him/herself. You keep your friends that way.

When I’m not pilfering from the life happenings of folks I know, I’m wondering about the “back story” of famous folks. You know, the road they traveled to their particular version of success, some of their trials and tribulations, and of course, triumphs. Not in a paparazzi/stalkerish kind of way, but more like an objective observer. Who is probably going to use an obscure incident and create an entire story around it.

Probably the biggest inspiration for me is emotion. When I’m happy, I start thinking about happy storylines that I can write. When I’m in pain, I wondering how I can use that as well. Besides telling a good story, I’ve always believed that part of a writer’s job is to evoke emotion (whether it’s for a character’s circumstance or because of a character’s behavior). The challenge is to write in a way that genuine and not a trivialization of emotion. Sometimes it can be hard to do, but damn awesome when I pull it off. My flash fiction A Little Help From My Friends was all about the emotion.

Most of all, though, I am inspired to write because leaving my stories untold just feels wrong.



A Taste of Fiction


Brockington's A Little Help from My Friends...


Friends often swear that they will always be there for one another, that the bonds of friendship will last through thick and through thin. In Jenna’s case, it was actually sick and sin. She was about to put her friendships to the ultimate test. She was sick, and she needed them to help her commit a sin.

“I want you both to help me commit suicide.” She slowly looked up from her penne pasta and Italian sausage. What she saw was shock on the faces of the two women who meant the most to her in the world.

Alice put her fork down and absorbed the silence while Rita audibly gasped.

“My cancer is back. And it’s spreading like a motherfucka. I can’t do the chemo and the radiation again. It was horrible. Besides, the cancer’s so bad, it would probably be of little use. I’ve decided it’s time for me to call it quits. I want you guys to help me. Correction. I NEED you guys to help me. I’m afraid I’ll back out at the last minute. And this is truly what I want.”

Seconds stretched into minutes. Rita finally found her voice, and though she spoke in a quiet tone, the anger was unmistakable. “You bring us to this posh restaurant to tell us that you want us to help you kill yourself. Did you think we would behave ourselves? No scenes, right? Because Jenna The Control Freak can’t stand scenes. I can’t believe this. You did not just ask me to help you die!”

“Rita, please. I didn’t know how else to tell you. I found out last week at my annual check up. Remission was nice while it lasted, but it’s over for me. The results are pretty clear.”

Alice remained silent, yet tears streamed down her face. She twisted the napkin in her hands, which caused her knuckles to whiten.

Rita’s eyes were dry, but her face was contorted. The pain was evident. “What does your husband have to say about this? Why didn’t you ask him to kill you?” Her voice catches in her throat as reality sunk in on a physical level.

“Alex doesn’t know. And he would never agree to it anyway. He’s not strong enough to let me go on his own. I’m all he has left. We don’t have children. His parents are gone. He has no sisters or brothers to see him through this. There is no way in hell he will agree to help me. You guys are it. And I need you now, more than ever. Besides, we talked about this the first time I got sick, and you both agreed that you would do whatever it takes to see me through this. Well, it’s going to take you helping me commit suicide.”

Jenna’s facade of strength started to slip away. She looked like she was about to collapse in on herself. It was then that her friends can see her frailty. She was sick, and had been for some time.

“I’ll help you.” Alice’s voice was small but determined. She repeated herself. “I’ll help you, Jenna. And so will Rita.” She reached across the table and grabbed a hand from each friend. Time slowed enough for them to absorb one another’s strength and determination, and to start to say “goodbye” in silence.

November 23, 2009

The Inspiration to Write: Author L. J. Sellers

The Writer




L.J. Sellers is an award-winning journalist, editor, novelist, and occasional standup comic based in Eugene, Oregon. She writes the Detective Wade Jackson mystery series. Two are in print, The Sex Club and Secrets to Die For, and two more are in the works. Thrilled to Death will be released next August, and a standalone thriller, The Baby Thief, will be released in 2010. When not plotting murders, L.J. enjoys cycling, gardening, social networking, attending conferences, hanging out with her family, and editing fiction manuscripts.

Come learn more about Sellers at the following cyber-outlets:



The Book



A social worker visits the home of a young boy she has been assigned to and is brutally murdered shortly after. To Detective Jackson, it looks like an open-and-shut case against the ex-con father of the young boy. Complications develop when new evidence points to a serial rapist whose violence is escalating. Meanwhile, the murder victim’s lover knows something about the rape victims but has secrets of her own that she’s afraid to reveal. Soon she is kidnapped and held captive, and Jackson must uncover the truth in time to save her.


Click on cover to purchase your copy of Secrets to Die For today!




Check out the trailer to Seller's debut novel in the Detective Wade Jackson series: The Sex Club!





Inspiration


What inspires you to write?
Even as a young student, I was one of those nerds who liked to write reports. Pouring through encyclopedias and library books was a pleasure. Then pulling the information together in my own words was an enjoyable task. So it made sense when I started college to enroll in the journalism school. Why not get paid to do something I enjoyed? I loved reading fiction even more than encyclopedias. The occasional short story assignment in high school and college was fun too, but it was harder for me than nonfiction. I struggled to come up with short creative narratives. I never thought I could write a novel until I was almost thirty. One day I was reading a book that was so bad, I threw it down in disgust and thought, I could write a better story than that. Then I decided to see if I really could craft a whole novel. I’d certainly read my share and thought I understood story structure well enough to give it a try.

Jeffrey Dahmer was in the news then and I was raising three little boys, so I wrote about what I feared most: pedophile killers. Crafting the story was therapeutic…and addictive. I loved plotting and creating characters and writing from the POV of the antagonist. As soon as I finished the first story, I started brainstorming the next. And it’s been like that since. What inspires me to write is the joy I experience in telling stories, crime stories in particular. But I’ve also written five screenplays, three of which are comedies based on amusing things in my life (quitting smoking, obsessing about shoes, and traveling with adolescent boys).

I’m a storyteller now, and I’m not truly happy unless I have a work in progress. I also believe writing novels is about control and having the ability to make things turn out the way I want them to, at least on paper for awhile. Writing is also a great way to work through my fears and to process the unpleasant things that happen in life.


Where do you find inspiration to create your stories?
The inspiration for my crime novels comes mostly from news stories that surprise or confuse me or stick in my brain for some other reason. I’m fascinated with people who on the surface seem normal to their friends and neighbors, but then they commit some heinous crime, often for some minor reason. I start thinking about how they got to that point, and from that, a story will develop.

I’m also inspired by passion. People who are fired up and committed to their causes—even the misguided ones—fascinate me. They make great characters. For example, my first novel, The Sex Club, was inspired by the Bush administration’s decisions about access to birth control and abstinence-only sex education. (And yes, I consider the Bush era to be an unpleasant thing that happened in my life.) I worried about the consequences for young people. A news story about a group of promiscuous middle school kids was also on my mind. Throw in a passionate, but misguided anti-abortionist, and it all came together in a complex, action-packed story.
The novel I’m working on now is inspired by the economic downturn and how devastating it is for many families. I’m usually writing, on some level, about whatever social issue weighs most heavily on my mind.



Excerpt


From novel, Secrets to Die For...



Chapter 1

Wednesday, February 13

Raina shut off the motor and glanced up at the puke-green doublewide with a chunk of plywood over the front window. The near dusk couldn’t hide the broken dreams of the trailer’s occupants, Bruce and Cindy Gorman. Raina wasn’t here to see them. She was here for Josh, their eight-year-old son.

As a children’s support advocate, Raina had been assigned to monitor Josh six months ago, when the state of Oregon had taken temporary custody and placed the boy in foster care. Her primary responsibility was to stay in touch with Josh and to ensure the system did not fail him. During that time, the Gormans had danced all the right steps–anger management for him, parenting classes for her, and a rehab program for both. So now Josh was back in their care, and this was Raina’s last official contact…for now.

Her heart was flip-flopping, just like it did on her last day of high school. She was happy for Josh, but she despised Bruce and would be glad to never see him again, even though she knew it was petty to feel that way. Raina wished she were more mature, more objective, like the other CSA volunteers. At twenty, she and Jamie were the youngest in the group. Raina had become quite fond of Josh and would miss him terribly. She loved their long walk-and-talks along the river path, with Josh pointing out every bug he saw. It had been like having a little brother. Her counselor had been right when she’d advised Raina to do some volunteer work. Giving was the best way of receiving.

Raina stepped out of the Volvo and pulled in a quick breath of frigid February air. The smell of dog shit assaulted her senses. So much for her lofty ideals. She hurried to the door, hoping the dog, a Boxer named Brat, was either locked in the bathroom or deep in the woods behind the trailer. Raina shivered in the cold foul silence. The house was at least a half mile from the nearest neighbor.

Bruce pulled the door open a few inches before she could knock. “Josh is in bed, so come back tomorrow.” His voice was raspy from a lifetime of cigarettes, and his hairline had gone north on both sides. Bruce should have been a big man, but years of slouching took inches off his height and an old meth habit left him scrawny in a way that rehab couldn’t fix.

“I just need a few minutes with him, so I can make some final notes.”

“I told you, he’s not feeling well,” Bruce said through clenched teeth.

“Then all the more reason I should see him.”

“Not now.” Bruce started to close the door.

Raina stood her ground. “The custody order isn’t final yet. They’re waiting for my report. And it’s not convenient for me to come back tomorrow. I have classes.” She sounded braver than she felt.

“Don’t threaten me, you snot-nosed little–”

Cindy’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Let her in, Bruce. Might as well get it over with.”

Raina wasn’t sure she still wanted to enter the trailer. She needed to know that Josh was okay, that the boy hadn’t changed his mind about going home to his parents. He had been quite excited on Sunday when she and Josh’s caseworker had picked him up to bring him here. The image of him standing on the ramshackle porch with his faded duffle bag, looking uncertain, haunted her. Raina had not slept well since.

“Josh, come out here for a minute!” Cindy yelled down the hallway. Raina cringed. Her mother had been a screamer too.

Bruce kept the door blocked. He turned his head and hollered, “Stay in bed!” Then to Cindy, he yelled, “Goddammit, woman. Don’t contradict me. That little bitch is not coming in, and Josh is not coming out.” Bruce turned back to Raina and growled through the partially open door. “You better forget you came out here tonight. And this conversation better not end up in the file.”

Then it hit Raina. The paranoia, the anger, the need to dominate. She knew all the signs. She had witnessed them plenty as a child. Bruce was using again. He was high on meth right now. Oh dear God.

Raina took a step back. Every muscle in her body wanted to run for the car. It had always been her instinct as a child too. It was a mistake. Meth dopers often had predatory responses. If you ran, they attacked. Raina still had the scars. Her mother had been quite quick on her feet.

Raina coached herself to stay calm. Just nod and move away slowly. Don’t make eye contact. Get to the car and lock the doors.

She took a step back. What about Josh? Was he okay? Panic pushed out of her stomach and into her throat. Had they already abused him? Is that why Bruce didn’t want her to see the boy?

Without thinking, she called out, “Josh, are you okay?”

Oh shit. Why had she done that?

“Fuck you.” Bruce leaned out the door, no longer caring that she could see his hugely dilated pupils. “You don’t know a fucking thing. Get the fuck out of here and keep your fucking mouth shut.” Spit flew from his mouth with every f. “If we lose Josh again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Raina inched back, a half step at a time, feeling for the edge of the porch with her toes.

“Move, you little bitch.” Bruce lunged through the door.

Raina turned and ran.

It was only thirty feet to her car, but every step on the dirt path felt sticky and treacherous in the near dark. Heart pounding, she reached the Volvo, yanked open the door, and jumped in. Her knee slammed into the steering wheel, but she didn’t have time to process the pain. Eyes watering, Raina hit the automatic door lock and started the engine. Only then did she look up. Bruce was barreling toward her, about ten feet from the car. Raina shoved the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas. As she cranked the wheel left, aiming for the gravel turnaround tucked into the trees, Bruce slipped and went down hard. Raina let out her breath, jammed the transmission into drive, and sped down the gravel road, bouncing through every pothole instead of taking the time to go around. For a fleeting second, she wished she had run over Bruce while he was down.

Raina cursed herself for coming out here. She had been advised to see Josh only in neutral settings. She cursed herself for handling the situation so badly. Drug addicts! Disease or not, sometimes she hated all of them. Dead mother included.

Raina checked her rear view mirror for headlights but didn’t see anyone coming behind her. Maybe Bruce had hurt himself when he fell. Or perhaps he’d decided to take out his anger on Cindy because she was closer and easier. Raina desperately hoped he would leave Josh alone.

She decided to go straight to the police. She couldn’t prove that Josh was in immediate danger, but Bruce had threatened to kill her. That had to be against the law. The bastard. He’d better not hurt Josh. As soon as she was on the main road, she would call Mariah Martin, Josh’s caseworker at Child Welfare Services. Mariah would get a court order and get Josh out of that hellhole by tomorrow.

Distracted by her scattered thoughts, Raina almost missed the single curve in the quarter-mile driveway. She braked and pulled hard on the steering wheel, barely keeping the car from smacking into a giant Douglas fir. It was dark now, and she was anxious to get back into the bright lights and safety of Eugene city streets. She didn’t want to die in one of those mysterious single-car accidents, so she kept her speed reasonable. Raina checked the rearview mirror again. No car lights behind directly her. With Pine Grove Road only a hundred yards ahead, she started to relax.

Out of nowhere came a loud popping sound. Not quite like a gunshot, but loud enough to jumpstart her heart into frantic mode. Instinctively, Raina pressed the gas pedal, but the car didn’t respond well. It pulled to the left and made a grinding sound. Oh no. She’d blown a tire and was riding on the rim. She had probably run over something sharp. Shit, shit, shit! Of all times.

Raina tried to keep driving, thinking it would be better to reach the road, but the grinding was unbearable, so she coasted to a stop. Now what? She knew how to change a flat tire; her grandmother had made sure of that. Yet the sliver of moonlight wasn’t enough, and crazy Bruce was still back there somewhere. Be smart, she told herself. Call for help.

Raina reached into her purse for her cell phone, thinking she would call Jamie first. Jamie would bring her dad. Mr. Conner would have a spotlight in the back of his truck and make short work of changing the tire.

The call wouldn’t go through. Damn! Seven miles out of town, and she couldn’t pick up a tower. She tried again. Dead air. Raina decided to step out of the Volvo just long enough to try the call again. After a quick glance back down the road, she unlocked the door and pressed speed-dial #2. As she reached for the handle, the door flew open and a powerful force yanked her from the car.

Raina started to cry out, but her head smacked against the hard metal at the top of the door opening. Searing pain paralyzed her voice, and all that came out was a pathetic mewing sound. A calloused hand with an odd metal smell clamped over her mouth. Raina struggled, but a big arm squeezed her like a python holding its next meal. Fingers plunged into her hair, then slammed her head against the side of the car.

More searing pain. Oh God, he was going to kill her.

Bam! Her head smashed into the car again. As she passed out, Raina’s last thought was, I love you, Jamie.


Chapter Two
Thursday, February 14

Kera was talking, but Jackson wasn’t listening. He couldn’t stop thinking about sex. After two years of near celibacy at the end of an angry marriage, he had met this incredible woman and now he was obsessed. He was sharing Valentine’s Day and a plate of tasty beef tournedos with a gorgeous intelligent woman–and all he could think about was getting to her house and getting naked.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t interesting to you.” Kera looked concerned for a moment, then laughed. “But you really should try to hide it better.” Her green eyes twinkled with amusement. In the short time he’d known her, Jackson had been surprised again and again by how resilient this woman was.

November 16, 2009

The Inspiration to Write: Author Anjuelle Floyd, Part One

The Writer




Anjuelle Floyd is the author of Keeper of Secrets…Translations of an Incident, a collection of interconnected short stories, and a novel, The House, due for publication in Fall 2009.

A wife of twenty-seven years, mother of three, she is a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist specializing in mother-daughter relations and dream work. Anjuelle graduated Duke University, and earned a MA in Counseling Psychology from The California Institute of Integral Studies, San Francisco, and a MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College, Port Townsend, Washington.

She has also attended the Dominican Institute of Philosophy and Theology, Berkeley, California. Anjuelle has received certificates of participation from The Hurston-Wright Writers’ Week and The Voices of Our Nations Writing Workshops.

Anjuelle is a writing instructor at Perelandra College.

A student of Process Painting for the last decade, Anjuelle has participated in The Art of Living Black Exhibitions 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, and 2009 held at the Richmond Art Center, Richmond, California.

Anjuelle facilitates writing groups and provides individual consultation of fiction projects.

She also hosts the weekly blog talk radio show, Book Talk, Creativity and Family Matters.

Read Anjuelle’s blog @ AnjuelleFloyd.com!




The Books



One truth begets
another as a tale of passionate
confrontation in a restaurant travels from
eyewitnesses to others present.



Memories of the Hindu icon of dancing Siva compel wife and mother, Raven Clarke, to intervene in the attack of one restaurant patron on another.

Watching from a distant table, Lahni Irete finds herself driven back to the violence of her childhood and adolescence. She shares her account of the happening with psychiatrist, Reynard Williams, who embraces the tale in efforts to confront the pain that has left him sexually and spiritually impotent.

Williams seeks consultation from Sahel Denning, an injured psychologist no longer practicing psychotherapy.

The restaurant incident offers engineer, Michael Banks, a map to recalling the events of the morning before he fell from scaffolding on the Richmond Bridge.

Rumor and innuendo cloud Ariane Gadsen's acquaintance with the story that propels her towards reconciling her childhood loss.

The restaurant scene stirred regret and despair within Trey Williamson, a widower on his first date since the death of his wife.

Newly discharged Captain Darryl Sharpton receives safety and redemption from his most dark and intimate truth in the restaurant where the incident took place.





What would you do if you learned the person you were divorcing is dying?


On receiving the very thing she wants, a divorce and the power to sell their house, Anna Manning learns that Edward, her soon-to-be ex-husband, is dying. A faithful wife for over three decades, Anna endured Edward's constant absences while traveling on business for his international real estate firm, and his extra-marital affairs.

Anna takes Edward to live out his last six, possibly three, months in the house she fought so vigorously to sell. But letting go of someone who has caused so much pain does not come easily.

Edward has changed.

As their children return home, and say their farewells Anna confronts the challenges that Edward's impending death delivers each of them. Then there is Inman who loves Anna, and provides the one thing Edward denied their marriage—passion and intimacy.

Anna must also face the hopes and dreams she abandoned as an art history major turned wife, and mother out of college. In requesting the divorce she had planned to use her proceeds from the sale of the house to move to France. She would study the great art works of Europe, perhaps work as a docent in a Paris museum.

News of Edward’s terminal illness provokes Anna to understand the present rooted in the wellspring of the past, and pouring into a future without him. The House shows what happens when we adopt the belief that, All hold regret, and are seeking forgiveness. Our salvation rests in the hands of others—most particularly the ones whom we love most, and who have treated us wrongly.


Click on the covers above to learn more about each work!



Inspiration


What inspires you to write?

Conflict that results from life's dilemmas and problems, both mine, and the ones with which I witness others struggle.

On a deeper level I seek to answer the perennial question, "Why?"

"Why did she do this? Why did he do that?"

These questions usually center on why an individual acted in a manner that left another person or persons feeling hurt. Why would person A say that to Person B when Person B is crying, doubling over with pain, their eyes full of tears, their hands shaking. And these are not instances where Person B has acted in a way to deserve the response they are getting.

In short, my stories seek to answer the question Why does Person A hurt Person B, whom other characters in story and you the reader can see is, while not a person, has done nothing for Person A to treat them this way.

Since my stories involve families and center on family conflicts, they see to answer the question, why did she treat her family member that way?

I'm particularly taken with why parents treat their children as they do.

Yet the focus of my stories usually begins with a conflict affecting and/or separating spouses.

Interestingly, and quite different from what pop psychology teaches, I have found in the experience of my work as a psychotherapist that our same-sex parent and the relationship with that parent heavily influences our intimate relationships with spouses and significant others.

How a father treats his son sets the stage for the nature in which that son will or will not relate to women and/or his adult partners. The same goes for women and their significant others and spouses.

The relationship we have with our same-sex parent is what we call twinning. By the nature that we share the same gender, the activities and things we do with our mothers, if we are daughters, and with our fathers if we are sons, directly shapes how we view ourselves. How we view ourselves shapes the way we perceive and interact with the world.

While parents are our first teachers, our spouses and significant others serve as our last teachers. Those to whom we bid farewell when leaving this life. And in various cases, hope to encounter during the next.

Whether we are agnostic, atheist or a believer, the psychological essence of our marriage contracts in the West that are based on Christian teachings that emphasize the act of leaving our parents who have raised us and cleaving to our spouse and partner. Yet, what we achieve psychologically, spiritually and materially rests upon what has or has not taken place during the first 15-18 years of life with or without our parents.

Orphans and children of foster care have difficulty trusting. Children of the wealthy often struggle with separating material ownership and achievement from love. Those whose parents have given them what some consider a charmed life, and in that no life contains perfection, often find it a challenge to develop patience with those persons who see their life as charmed.

"All I have to offer is my difference."---an existentialist quote.

And yet we live in a culture bound ironing out differences and creating homogeneity.

But is those who are so vastly different from us that provide the backdrop, if not the very fuel that boosts us into awareness of the far reaching aspects of our own personalities, the galaxies that lie within us. Astrology teaches that we can certain dimensions of our character are accessible to us only through interaction with another.
The psychology of Christianity teaches that our spouse is ideally that person who brings us into contact with these other aspects of our personality, that wife is to husband and husband is to wife, that special Other who brings us into relationship with The Other that lives within us.

The union of that which we know of ourselves, and our Other is termed the inner marriage. Thus the external marriage in which we live as husband wife, mirrors the internal married of heart and mind, soul and body.

Theses various dimensions of interaction with self and spouse create the stepping-stones and foundation for encountering God.

Hinduism states, "Blessed is the householder."

Our interactions with various members of our family mother, father, wife, husband, brother, sister, grandmother and grandfather bring us into consciousness of who we are and what we are becoming as deemed by our the desires of our hearts working in tandem with universal divinings.

I am. You are. And thus, We become.

My stories depict who we are, you and I, and show when working together, who we can truly become.


Part Two of Anjuelle's feature is LIVE at ChickLitGurrl: high on LATTES & WRITING!



Excerpt


"Dancing Siva" - from Keeper of Secrets...Translations of an Incident


Raven stifled a yawn as she stared at the wooden icon of Siva. Another night had passed with her being awakened by the wails of her four-month-old daughter, Kaarin. Raven had gone to Kaarin’s bed, taken her from the crib, and cradling the infant, lay down in the bed of the guest room. It had been this way nearly every night since Kaarin’s birth. Kaarin never cried during the day.

Raven contemplated the mahogany carving of Siva dancing within the ring of fire. Its eyes, mere slits, appeared to widen. The icon’s four arms seemed to reach out, beckoning her. Raven’s soul was thirsty, parched from Kaarin’s nightly screams.

Absylom’s father had carved the statue now standing on the bookcase by Raven’s bed.

Absylom had given it to her. Two months after marrying Drew, Raven aborted Absylom’s child. The fetus had been four months. Now after sixteen years as Drew’s wife, and mother to their three daughters, Raven stood searching Siva’s face, wondering, as on every night when Kaarin cried, about the life she aborted. Drew exited the bathroom while buttoning his shirt, and approached Raven. “It’s last minute, but I’m meeting a client for dinner tonight. His wife is coming.” Drew began arranging his tie. “I’d like you there.”

“Why?” Raven turned from the bookcase. “It’ll make him feel safer.”

“That’s your job.” Catching one last glimpse of the wooden deity, Raven began making her side of the bed. “Besides, my braids need to be redone. I don’t know if I can get Nilini to sit.” Raven resented the way Drew sought to make comfortable and defended the guilty. He inserted the second cuff link into the holes of his French cuffs, and walked to her, lifted her chin. “You look fine.”

“My presence won’t wipe out your client’s sins.” “But it can help his wife.” “And, why should I help her?” “Because I’m your husband.” Drew let go of Raven’s chin, then in the low, attorney-like tone used when addressing clients in public places, “We can’t keep going like this. Kaarin’s crying, this lack of sleep—it’s making you cranky.”

“I’m fine.” Raven turned back to the bed and bolstered her pillow.

“You’re not. How could you be? You haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since she was born.”

Raven went around Drew and began straightening the covers on his side of the bed. “She’ll be fine.”

Drew followed her. “Let Kaarin sleep with us.” “She needs to learn to sleep in her bed.” “Like that’s happening now? That’s not what you said about Anisha or Emily. They slept with us for at least a year.”

“Kaarin’s different.” Raven patted Drew’s pillow.

“How is that? She looks just like you.” Drew captured Raven’s hand. She snatched it back, threw down his pillow.

As if knowing what lay hallowed and untouched between them for sixteen years, Drew slapped Raven with a stare of his own. His neck, the color of Georgia clay against his white collar, called to her. Raven searched Drew’s brown eyes, inhaled the scent of his cologne, a mixture of eucalyptus and herbs. She imagined burying her lips in his neck above the mauve tie, and resting her head on his chest. She sighed heavily. “I don’t want to go with you tonight.”

Raven wondered if her eyes were flickering green, as Drew said they did when she was angry. Absylom had said the same. She lowered her head.

“I miss you,” Drew sighed. “I want you beside me at night.” He leaned forward, kissed her forehead and caressed her shoulders. “The reservation’s at eight.”
Raven exhaled. Drew then whispered, “I’ll be home at six-thirty to shower and change.” He pulled away as he added, “--if you care to come.”

June 15, 2009

Temperature's Rising with Author Dapharoah69

The Writer







What do you get when you have a young ambitious Nassau, Bahamian man from Goulds, Florida (Miami) who became his own publisher, hype man, advertising guru, model, photographer, editor, copy editor, CEO and was one of CLIK Magazine's Top 25 Sexiest, Most Eligible bachelors in October of 2007? You get Dapharoah69, The King of Erotica." He co-authored and co-edited an anthology called Voices From Within, released on World AIDS Day in 2000. The book was selected for Body Positive Magazine's Book of the Month Club in 2001. He was selected as an extra in the Bruce Willis and Billy Bob Thornton Hollywood blockbuster Bandits. In January of 2007, he unveiled his first book, The King of Erotica: The Throne, a collection of unapologetic sexual short stories with a message. In Feb of 2008, he released The King of Erotica Book 2.

His books were the focal points for more than 45 Book Clubs across the country. On Valentine's Day 2009 he released the VIP version of The King of Erotica 3. Two days later it debut in the Barnes and Noble Bestselling Top 600 books. Six hours later all three of The King of Erotica Novels soared into the Barnes and Noble.com Bestselling Top 100 books at the same time, with Book 3 peaking at #71. He shared the list with Steve Harvey, Obama and John Grisham. On February 20, 2009, he was the ONLY self-published author with three titles in the Barnes and Noble Top 100.

His writing gives a deeper understanding of why some people have the type of sex the way they do. The book also touches on taboo topics seldom discussed in the black community. He writes from the gay, straight, female, and male points of view with devastating accuracy.

Dapharoah69 is a man who doesn't hold anything back. His new book, Some Men Wear Panties, was released in Mid-March accompanied by a multi-city Pink Panties Tour. His take-no-prisoners attitude has reflected in the response from his die-hard fans.

You can learn more about Dapharoah69 by checking him out at MySpace, Facebook, and the Pink Panties Tour.



The Books

Well I have four books coming out this year. The first was The King of Erotica 3's VIP version, a book for the fans. Brand new short stories. The second will be Some Men Wear Panties. It will be released on Bestselling Author J.L. King's Imprint. King's the famous author of the book On the Down Low that was selected on the Oprah Winfrey Show. The third book is The OFFICIAL King of Erotica 3: The SWORD and will be the LAST the King of Erotica book I will ever write. And the fourth is my first FULL NOVEL called Call Her Queen Hatshepsut and will be the most controversial book to date. It deals with a deranged black woman who brainwashes her son and raises him as a girl to get back at the father, who married and fathered a child with her identical twin sister.







Men have a phobia for women's panties when it comes to wearing them. They feel their manhood will be compromised. In public and in public conversation they denounce ever wearing them. But when the sun goes down the freak comes out. Inhibitions are unleashed and conservatism takes a back seat to wild sex, booze and denial. They live in the shadows and the darkness, with secret fetishes for panties. They act out their deepest fantasies using them. But when the sun rise they hide them in drawers, in brief cases or wear them under their suits...with secret smiles on their faces that they got away with it.

But did they.




Click the cover above to order your copy of Some Men Wear Panties today!



A Lil about Call Her Queen Hatshepsut:

Chess is a competitive game between two players. Each piece has its own style of moving. But what happens when a deranged woman tricks two lovers into playing the game of their lives? Hatshepsut is a confused woman. She treats people the way she wants to be treated using an eight-by-eight grid of hope and empathy. The only things missing from her life is love and the sixteen pieces it's comprised of. It's missing because she was born a man. Avarice James, Hatshepsut's mother, is an embattled plastic surgeon content on getting what she wants. Deeply rooted by the 64 squares of wickedness, two people she loved the most has castled her before she moved a pawn...the king, Kayak Burke, her son's father and her biggest rival, the rook, Rosa James, her identical twin sister. Rosa has always turned Avarice's existence into a horrid checkmate. She dressed like her, spoke her dialogue, and tarnished Avarice's reputation to achieve the unconscionable. Desperate, Rosa moves a pawn, trapping Kayak in a lustful game of sex that leads her and Avarice into unwanted pregnancies. When Avarice diagonally moves the queen across white squares, taking a bishop and Rosa castles across black squares, taking a knight, Avarice does something so explosive that it inevitably turns Rosa, Kayak, and the death of his son into the pawns they truly are. Avarice masters the game with skill and patience...She brainwashes her son, disguises him as a girl and names him Hatshepsut. Any memory of Rosa and Kayak has been eradicated...until the time is right! This account extends all racial barriers. If you have ever loved, been betrayed and lost a child this harrowing story will open your heart and cause you to search your soul and question your faith. Call her Queen Hatshepsut: check mate!



On Culture & Writing

How important is it for you to integrate your cultural experiences into your writing?
It's extremely important. The world is a melting pot of cultures comprised of people being multi-racial or bi-racial. This means that a person becomes more diverse in their taste for music, food and entertainment. This also allows them to be more tolerant and eclectic when dealing with friends and other family members who may have another blood line. With that being said I research a lot of people, places and things before I write.


In viewing media - TV, movies, books, radio, etc., how do you see your culture being conveyed?
TV: Reality Shows have destroyed us as black people. Shows like I Love New York makes us look crass and degrading. A black woman with fake tits and horse hair runs around cursing up a storm, slapping other women, wearing whorish get-ups and sits back and takes pride in herself and wants compassion.

Bottom line, a white women spitting in New York's face on Flavor of Love made her an instant star.

Movies: Jada Pinkett. Will Smith. Denzel. Angela Basset. Morgan Freeman. Halle Berry. Laurence Fishbourne. Whoopi. Samuel L. Jackson. Loretta Devine. Queen Latifah. The aforementioned blacks made me proud to be an African-American with their stellar acting.

Books: Zane. Sistah Souljah. Omar Tyree. E. Lynn Harris. I love reading their works because it's diverse and some of their characters are bi-racial and of other cultures. This adds spice to us as a people.

Music: Well, I'm stuck on Janet Jackson. I love the OLD Janet better, when her albums had themes. This year Rhythm Nation been out 20 years. And I still bump that album when I write my books.


What do you look to convey about your culture through your writing?
I convey flaws. I convey realism, sexism and at times racism...even racism against ourselves. I convey backstabbers, taboo subjects us as blacks are too afraid to touch or talk about...I convey Holier-than-thou men and women and people struggling to make ends meet. Not all my characters are based in the ghetto. They are diverse, suffered abuse of inflict themselves in self-hate. I convey the ups and downs and the insolence. The highs and lows of love. Class.

Crassness at times. Pure ghetto. I convey EVERY aspect. I know a lot of people and I see a lot of people and I put that in my writing to show that we love, we fail, we are freaks, we run to the clubs, we then fall on our knees in church on Sunday and we do it all again. I convey realness, frankness and bluntness. I show our everyday issues. Women with men cheating on them with other women and other men. People with HIV purposely infecting each other because they are bitter. I use my books to stimulate then educate.


Do you think writers are (or can be) spokespersons for their culture?
Yes. Experience is the best teacher. Your own ups and downs, personal hell and perseverance serves as testimonies that may help others who are on the fence or need guidance. That's what experience really is all about. Giving God the glory for making it through and you getting your blessings in the end when people are inspired by your courage and strength. I recently contracted HIV. At first I held my head down and hid it from family and friends. But then I woke up. I'm a bestselling author and it's my duty to try to save as many lives as I can. So I publicly (on Myspace and Facebook) told everyone. And since then people from as far as South Africa to the U.S. are inspired to have safer sex or to go to get tested themselves.


If you are a writer who writes outside your culture, talk to us about that experience. What have your learned about yourself during the process?
I deal with whites, blacks, Spanish folks and Haitians, Dominicans, etc. I love them all for their individuality and for embracing who they are and representing where they come from. I'm a Nassau, Bahamian man who was born in Salinas, California, and raised in Goulds, Florida (MIAMI). I have come in contact with different foods, music and beliefs. And it reflects in my writing. Researching these cultures opened up my tolerance level and allowed me to mentally travel outside of my comfort zone. And since then my taste in food and music has diversified. I listen to rock, heavy metal, R&B and Salsa because of it. And it reflects in some of my writing.

I will include an excerpt from my bestselling book The King of Erotica 2: THE CROWN. The story is called "OOPS."



If you're not grown, read no further.


I worked all the time. I had a wife and a home to support. Nothing else in this world meant more to me then breaking my back for a woman who was my Queen.

My wallet, bank account and house were hers. I put my all into my marriage.

Now I had nothing.

Marriage was challenging, considering I was a white man married to a black woman. I went through all the “Oh, no you didn’t marry a black woman!” stares at work and in public. But that didn’t deter me from loving her and showing her public affection. Black men sneered at me in disgust and every time I turned my back they pounced on her as if she was a water buffalo and they needed nourishment. She remained loyal. She was a startling beauty: big ample breasts, perky nipples, Apple Bottom derriere, and chiseled Janet Jackson abs. She was a work out buff. She had short, croppy hair, loved poetry, loved eating the best foods and danced to the best music.

When I met her at the Muvico Movie Theater in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, just off of Sheridan West (traveling North on I-75), a couple months ago, she looked very vulnerable attending the Mission Impossible 3 premiere by herself. I could tell she loved Tom Cruise. The stallion of black men trying to get her attention was amazing. The way certain black men grabbed her hand and she seemed to cringe. She told one of them, a tall basketball player type, “Look, don’t touch me. I don’t know you and I’m not your goddamn Mama!” He retreated without hesitation. I was laughing to myself, finding it all amusing. She lusted after a white man on a poster, so out of touch with reality because he was in Hollywood—still being ridiculed for the stunt he pulled on the Oprah Winfrey show—and she was in Florida. She knew he existed, but hadn’t one iota that she existed.

Home girl looked good in tight snake-print pants, long leather boots with spiked heels with the cowboy golden spinners behind the backs. Her chandelier earrings sparkled with abandon. The long-sleeved gold blouse with a huge oval button holding her breasts in place for dear life was something I had never seen on a woman. Pretty classy, if you asked me. She definitely had junk in her trunk. I told myself: Maybe tonight is my lucky night. I was thirty-five, single, very handsome. My drinking buddies said I looked like a young Brad Pitt. I took that as a compliment. I actually won a Brad Pitt look alike contest three months ago up in Aspen when I went skiing with some old college buddies.

Clad in nice blue Dockers pants, a pink IZOD shirt, and pink Banana Republic shoes, I made my way over to her.

I made small talk. Why not? The only thing she could possibly do was a) dismiss me—like most black women seemed to do, despite hearing, “Damn, you’re cute, but I don’t do snowballs…”—or b) give me a little tongue tag.

Here goes. “Movie seems like it’ll be better than the first two installments.”

She smiled at me, eyes sparkling. Hotdamn. She was a beauty. Definitely caused a ruckus in my briefs. My veins seemed to tighten when she smiled. She extended her hand.

“I’m Bianca. And your name is?”

I was salivating something terrible. “I’m Ted Oxford.”

She grinned. “Like Ted Bundy from Married with Children,” she joked, patting my shoulder. “Just kidding.”

“Nah, I am not married and I don’t have children.”

She didn’t believe me. “Good looking man such as yourself? Not Married? What about kids you don’t know about?”

“Sister, I’m 35 years old. I can count on one hand how many women I slept with in my life time.”

She was definitely interested. “Wow. White men own the world and the blondes with it and you can count on one hand how many you slept with?”

Now I was grinning. “Yes. Don’t forget HIV runs rampant like the winter Olympics.”

“Amen, Dustin Hoffman. No. No. You look like Brad Pitt.”

“Phew. Dustin Hoffman over Brad Pitt? You had me about to search for Oceans Fourteen to get the hell away from you,” I joked, smiling.

She touched my hand. “I’m a direct woman.”

I gripped it. “Like wise.”

She rubbed her thumb over my hand. “I take it your favorite color is pink.”

I felt the chemistry building. “Yea. Unusual for a man, I know, but I don’t live by the rules.”

Her eyes drank me like Scotch. “I like that. Your zodiac sign is?”

My heart raced. “Pisces.”

“So your birthday passed,” she said, forgetting we were in a theatre.

“Yes. March 15th.”

“I’m a Scorpio,” she informed me.

I was enjoying her already. “Nice. Powerful and manipulative. I better stand guard.”

We laughed easily. “Down, Buster. Favorite food?”

“Shrimp scampi.”

She nodded her head. “Same here. No hotdogs and pork and beans for this bitch.”

I was impressed. “Articulate, are we?”

She hugged me. “Very. Favorite singer?”

I felt good in her arms. “Well, Garth Brooks and a little bit of Janet Jackson, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill.”

She pushed away from me playfully. “Garth is straight. Faith is cool. Janet is ok. You’re a man so you like Janet because of…”

“Her tits. I can’t lie. I’m straight forward.”

“At least you’re honest. My favorite artists are Nelly and The Dixie Chicks.”

“Favorite song by the Chicks?”

“Wide Open Spaces. And I commend them for speaking out on cheating ass George Bush. They spoke for legions of black people in this country.”

“Believe me I regret voting for a lying, oil driven man myself.”

She snapped her fingers. I was confused. I figured it was some college thing. “Amen! I like you. You’re not half bad.”

“You’re a hot cookie yourself.”

“And your breath smells good. I can tell you don’t do tobacco.”

“Hell no. I do Tic Tacs and Jolly Ranchers. I can’t stand women who smoke.”

“I hear ya!”

Here it goes. I went in for the kill. I was about to get shot down. I breathed in deeply, closing my eyes. “Are you here with anybody, sexy woman such as

yourself?”

This is the part when I cringed. Go ahead. Give it to me. No. Because you’re white. Your ass is flat. Black men have dicks. I do dicks. Not cocks. You smell nice but I heard crackers smell like dogs when they get wet.

“I’m flying solo, like Amelia Earhart.”

“Care to join me for a movie. My treat.”

“Sure. I would love to. Thought you’d never ask.”

“Great.” I extended my arm and she put her hand through, not at all embarrassed to be out with a sexy white man with blue eyes.

“Lead the way,” she said, her nipples hardening. I couldn’t help but look. She didn’t strike me as a tough-talking, gum-snapping, head popping black chick that got rough and tough. She seemed really down to earth. I didn’t smell a hint of cigarette smoke in her clothing, didn’t see a hint of nicotine on her pearly white teeth. No caps and no fillings. Definitely two pluses.

We might just get along great.



Any closing comments you'd like to make regarding culture and writing?
Writing isn't about impressing people. You can't entertain everyone and you damn sure can't please everyone. So EXPRESS yourself and let that be the FIRST AND LAST IMPRESSION you have on the public. I don't care who likes my writing or not. As long as you GET SOMETHING FROM "IT" then my job is done. I can say AMEN. So be it. GOD gets the glory. And I get the blessing of writing my next book. Be you when you write.



Excerpt



"The Dressing Room"
from Some Men Wear Panties


If you're not grown, read no further.


I was late getting to work today. I knew I shouldn't have gone out to the Club last night. I was 36-years-old, and tried to cling to my youth like leeches to skin trying to get some blood.

But before I talk about work, if I did talk about work, I always changed my mind. I had thoughts of this morning. I looked at the niggah right now. Naked.

Uncensored. Exposed. In my bed. He is the first dude I ever brought home. Usually Hoes (females) made my home a Hotel-Motel-Holiday Inn giving them whatever they wanted 'cause I had it. The sun shined through the lacey curtains. The shapes all over his chest and the right side of his face – so angelic.

Around what? Three or four a.m? I was tossing and turning with someone. I felt his heat. His aura. His lust. Were vapors. Against my skin. I needed him.

Wanted him. Longed for his trust. His passion. His seeds flowering my garden.

Shaking thinking about it, I remembered yesterday, I went to T.Q. Bax, 'cause a brothah's Platinum Card was nearly maxed out, and I bought a very cool-looking cream-colored cashmere sweater, since it was a little chilly right now in Miami. I had a closet filled with attire. You know a brothah could never have too much money, cash, liquor, bud or ass. I was dressed in some jeans that fit snuggly, not too tight, just enough to show the shape of the Booty and the Dick. My slides showed off pedicured toes. My white T-shirt I could have done without and the robe I had on, which was eight sizes too small, looked more like a robe/coat.

I remember a few months ago I saw a dude staring at me when I was driving. Why I thought of him at that particular moment beats the hell outta me. I tried to wave him down, to see if I knew him, but traffic was a bitch and I kept maneuvering around Cubans who couldn't drive to save Fidel Castro's life. It was a very muggy, humid day, I had fallen out with my boss over a meeting I had forgotten to schedule and I was set to send a manuscript off to publishers hoping I could get some sort of recognition but to no avail.

I never caught up with ole boy but the thought has eaten at me for some time. Why was the dude staring at me? Did he like me or what? Because I didn't do the fag shit.

As a matter of fact thinking about my robe/coat, I was looking over the sweater by the entrance of the pulsating-with-life store. Briefly I looked up and noticed the female section across the way. I had an eerie feeling that something wasn’t right inside me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I went over to the female clothes and a big booty chick walked by, yapping on the phone. Yap yap yap, Girl and yap yap yap, No bitch yap yap yap.

I shook my head, looking at the booty for a minute, falling in love with the way it bounced in those Guess jeans.

I looked to my right and saw them – expensive satin panties. My mouth falling open, my dick was hard. There weren’t many people and I was suddenly horny. I walked down one of the aisles, the racks chest level. I noticed the cameras everywhere. I closed my eyes, taking a pair of panties and smelling them. Wow. I unzipped my pants and crawled inside the rack of women’s leather trench coats that hung to the floor…

Now this was crazy. I started stroking my dick with the panties, inhaling the leathery scent. A few women walked by chatting and I kept stroking, my nuts bouncing between my legs. One of the jackets was whisked from the rack.

“This will look good on me girl, with my rhinestone pumps.” She had blue weave and purple lips. Piercings were along her right ear and she wore tight black leather.

Another jacket left the rack and I was stuck, looking up at the women. They hadn’t noticed me, dick out and panties in my hand. Damn it, I could hardly breathe. I didn’t move a muscle, the beginnings of my orgasm subsiding back to the base of my nuts, telling the squirrels that their lunch break was over.

Another big girl saw me.

Her eyes wide, she was pointing excitedly.

“Oh my…”

I kicked her so hard in the shin she doubled into another rack, falling over. A few women rushed over to her and I got from behind the rack, grabbed a huge floral hat and pulled it low over my face. I fixed my pants. I was scared.

That’s what my dumb ass gets for stroking my stick in a store. I grabbed some sweat pants from the rack, rushed up the aisle and grabbed a man’s shirt and jacket. I saw a baseball cap.

I went into the dressing room and changed clothing. I saw a plastic bag and I put my clothes in there, tossing the floral hat.

I left the dressing room, hat pulled low over my eyes.

“I swear! A man was jacking his dick with panties in the rack!”

“Yea, sure,” said her friend, laughing at her.