Bad Novels! (Or, What The Hell Did I Just Read?!)

I’ll be announcing the winner of H.C. Brown’s contest (simply see the post below this one) tomorrow. In the meantime, however, I wanted to take a minute or two and parse this gem I learned about from Publisher’s Weekly. Kindly refrain from reading this if you are eating, drinking, or there is any possibility you may need to use the bathroom. I will NOT be responsible for any property damage incurred.

With that disclaimer out of the way, on to the show.

You see, it seems every quarter or so, they find a book that is so hideously, demoralizingly bad that for a reader to merely let their eyes roam over the cover assures they will sacrifice fifty IQ points to the mighty god “Durrrrr….”

I can say this with some authority, having just read some choice snippets from one such book. I flatly refuse to name it here, for one simple reason: I can spell. Not only is the cover beyond cheesy (unfortunate, but not a crime) but simply reading the first paragraph of the first chapter left me with a brain cramp that simply would not go away.

I’m all for someone putting themselves out there, warts and all, and seeing what they can make of their stories. Hell, I did it myself with Shadowphoenix: Requiem. Is it a masterpiece of modern literature? Probably not. The Great American Novel? Pardon me while I snicker into my sleeve. (Again.) Is it as tightly written or edited as it might have been? Certainly not. In the last eighteen months, I’ve learned almost as much about writing as I had in the previous fifteen years.

However, for all that, I at least made an effort. I “showed” far more than I “told,” ensured my spelling was absolutely letter perfect (unless I had a compelling reason NOT to, as in certain sequences of dialogue), and USED QUOTATION MARKS!

In the particular opus that sparked this rant, none of the above conditions are met. Okay. This wouldn’t be the first author I’ve ever encountered who didn’t have the patience or temperament to deal with the fussy and obscure “rules” of English literature and decided to hurl their work to the wolves. That takes a considerable amount of chutzpah and a lot of very large spheroids, and I can applaud that. But what really astounded and puzzled me is that this author not only had the gall to put out TWO sequels, but managed to delude a number of other people into considering his work “real literater.” (I wish to God I was making THAT up . . . )

In a very real and non-exaggerated way, the reviews on Amazon for this particular book are much more entertaining than the book itself. These people are falling all over themselves to be the first to hail this author as a literary genius, a kind of Everyman of American letters. One particularly vehement apologist for this author stated that she enjoyed his work because “he writes like people talk.”

I choked on my tea and cast a longing glance at the bottle of Captain Morgan Rum atop my refrigerator when I read that. I don’t give a damn if it was 9:30 a.m. when I read that, some things just shouldn’t have to be endured, least of all in the morning, without a little medicine to help smooth out the rough edges. However, I feel very noble and virtuous in reporting that I read the entire article, start to finish. And then noticed something that seemed so ludicrous it demanded further investigation. Three articles later, my cramping brain demanded I give it a reprieve or risk my skull exploding.

That such a novel could make its way onto the virtual bookshelves is, tragically, not far-fetched at all. What really horrifies me is the TWO SEQUELS! If you’re wondering why self-published works get no respect, it’s because novels like this one exist.

I’d like to say more . . . but I just poured myself a glass of rum. Now I’m going to huddle under my blankets and try to convince myself this has all been a horrible nightmare. Hopefully I’ll emerge to a world that’s sane and safe for literature.

But I’m not holding my breath.

If you’d like to see what exactly I’m on about, you can find the link HERE. Like I said . . . I refuse to speak the name of this abomination on my site, for fear of drawing that very cacodemon to my own demesne.

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

 

Guest Post: H.C. Brown and Lord And Master

My guest today is an old hand at the bar, and she’s got a HOT new release out from Noble Romance! Ladies and gentlemen:

H.C. Brown!

Hello!

Today I’m running a contest.  I will pick a comment at random to win a copy of one e- book of their choice (excluding Lord  & Master) from my Noble Romance backlist, so you will have many books to chose from. Due to the world time difference, J.S will announce the winner by on Wednesday 1 February.

My new release, Lord  & Master  came about after numerous emails from my fans. They wanted me to write a longer story about M/M BDSM. I wanted to write something a little different this time, well, something I love to read is historical romance. So decided to mix historical with M/M BDSM and oh boy did I enjoy writing this story—hell yeah!

I have read many court cases held in England during the 18C so had some idea about the people’s attitude toward sodomy in those times. The research to write this novel took me well over three months, checking and re-checking details. There were many contradictions— during war, the English soldiers often had a “bum boy” to keep them warm at night. How disgusting was that? Yet they would hang men caught indulging in man-love between consenting adults.

My story is about these times of forbidden love. So if you want to take a historical walk on the wild side, Lord and Master is for you.

Blurb:

Lord Reynold Wilton, fearing exposure after a public argument with his sex slave, Lord David Litchfield, leaves England for the Americas. On his return, he finds his delicious man in the hands of a brutal sadist. In a time when homosexuality is a hanging offense, Reynold must use every trick in the book to regain the possession and trust of his young lover.

 Excerpt:

Prologue

London 1769

A rush of pain radiated from Lord Reynold’s clenched teeth and into his temples. The burn from over exertion raged across his shoulders. His sweaty grip slipped on the leather handle of the cane, a narrow strip of birch he had commissioned especially for discipline. With lust, he gazed down at his slave, savoring the crisscrossed, red welts marking the porcelain flesh, the raised prints of his hand on each tender buttock. He bent over the slim figure tied so deliciously on the bench, and licked each crimson cut, using his mouth to soothe and caress. Reynold lapped, enjoying the taste of sweet skin, the rise of gooseflesh under his tongue. The man’s scent of soap mingled with the warm aroma of male sex filled his nostrils.

With the man tied this way, stretched out with both arms and legs secured, Reynold had complete control. The power of dominance surged through him. In truth, he could easily draw blood with his cane if he chose to, yet he loved this man and gave his slave what he craved. This session had been different from those long nights of bliss they’d enjoyed so often before. He needed to conquer his slave, to take back his role as master in a relationship teetering on the brink of disaster. With slow, deliberate moves, he stalked around the bench, running the cane over the sub’s quivering body. He stopped at the head of the young man. “Why do you question my loyalty? I will not tolerate such behavior.” He grasped a lock of the man’s long, blond curls. “Speak.”

“I am jealous, Master.”

Reynold brought the birch down in two swift cuts across the slave’s pristine back. The prone man’s cry sent blood rushing to his cock. Christ, he loved to hear his submissive moan. He threw down the cane. “Of whom are you jealous this time?”

“Lord John, Master.” The slave drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t want you to continue your friendship him.”

“When you are tied to my bed, I am the master.” Reynold met the man’s cornflower blue gaze. “I will not tolerate such demands from my slave. If you continue in this manner, I will have no option but to take my leave.” He ground his teeth. “I warn you, do not think to use my devotion as a weapon to manipulate me to your will. If needs be, I will take a commission abroad to be rid of you.”

“Reynold . . . I beg you—think of my feelings.”

“You would have me weak?” Reynold dropped his breeches. “I think not.”

“No, Master, not weak—never weak.” David’s gaze fell on Reynold’s shaft. “I do not care to share you with Lord John.” He licked his lips. “When you are in his company, I fear I will lose you.”

Reynold growled. “I regret now confiding my relationship with Lord John Henley to you before we became involved. The man is a dear friend but you are my lover. If you don’t believe this to be true, the trust you claim to have in me does not exist.” He sighed. “Perhaps it is you who wants to end our relationship.”

“Christ, I would have no other touch me in this way, and you know this to be true.” David poked out his tongue, and swiped it across the head of Reynold’s cock. He moaned. “I beg your forgiveness.”

“You have my forgiveness, but I cannot allow you to dictate which friends I have. You know I have no desire to fuck any of them. Arguing with me in public has already put us both under scrutiny. Christ, David we can’t be seen together. The risk is too high. What reason would I have to be in your company?” Reynold stroked David’s cheek. “If you cannot trust me, this time we have together—our relationship as master and slave, as lovers, will not survive.” Reynold groaned. “I care for you deeply but I won’t allow you to risk the hangman’s noose because of youthful foolishness. I will not offer you another chance, do you understand?” Reynold tugged David’s hair. “Do you?”

“Yes.” David smiled. “Master, will you allow me to pleasure you? I crave the taste of your seed.”

Palming his shaft, he guided it toward his slave’s rosy lips. He sighed as the man’s hot, wet mouth surrounded him with absolute bliss. He loved the way David’s flushed cheeks pulled tight with every withdrawn thrust. Later, he would take the man’s tight arse, and hear his intoxicating screams of delight. He could never have enough of his luscious young submissive. Reynold rolled his hips, his hands cradling David’s, sweat soaked cheeks. Lord, this man knew how to take him to heaven. Tipping back his head, he plunged deeper, fucking the man’s delightful throat.

This session with David had been brutal. Reynold wanted to stamp his authority over the young man. Of late, the possessive nature of his delicious sex-slave had become out of hand. David had grown too demanding. Reynold had no option but to take a stand. The submissive’s teeth raked a path up his aching cock, the man’s agile tongue flicking over the sensitive tip. Reynold bit back a groan and fell into the darkness of forbidden bliss. His slave’s mouth became a whirlpool of ecstasy spinning him into an uncontrollable, shattering conclusion. Christ, David, for once, do as I say. Your jealousy is leading us down a path of damnation.

Chapter One

Three years later—London 1772

 

 

Chapter One

Lord Reynold Wilton opened his pocketbook and paid the tailor’s account, grateful to be finally out of uniform. He met the gaze of Mr. Joseph Brown. The man had produced every inch of clothing he had worn since a boy. “Have everything else sent over to Spencer Street. There’s a good man.”

Donning the new hat he’d purchased from Locks in Bond Street, Lord Reynold pulled on his gloves and turned to look in the mirror. The new, delightfully comfortable, clothes fit well. Soft and fresh against his skin, the linen provided a welcome change from his stagnant, uniform shirt and stiff smalls. At last, after three despicable years, he resembled a gentleman again. The new clothes, ordered by letter some three months prior, had surprised him with their elegance. Mr. Brown had tailored each garment in the height of fashion, right down to the fine, lawn ruffles and silver buttons. White silk stockings and a cloak of the finest, black wool lined in silk completed his dress. He rubbed his chin and smiled ruefully at his reflection. The breeches stretched tight about his thighs and bottom, and Mr. Brown had pinched the jacket in at the waist to enhance the width of Reynold’s shoulders. The cravat lay in exquisite folds. Dressed as such, in blue velvet, with his hair tied in a neat queue, he knew how men of his predilection would react to his appearance. Christ, I look like a peacock. In truth, his body had changed from soft to hard and muscular, but a commission in the Americas did that to a man. His face had altered too, but not in a bad way. He had not suffered any serious injury during his time abroad, but the man with haunting eyes in his reflection had replaced the innocent expression of youth.

Although, relieved by the sale of his commission and consequent arrival in England, his thoughts were not on returning immediately to his country estate in Surrey. Rather, he had spent the last two days in his townhouse close to Hyde Park, not wanting to endure the immediate duties of lord of the manor.

Lord Reynold stepped from the shop and glanced down Oxford Street. Nothing of note had changed in London during his time abroad with exception of women’s fashion and the volume of carriages barreling along the dusty roads. He drew a deep breath to enjoy the scents of normality after enduring an eternity of stinking jacks and sweat. The smell of gunpowder and the unforgettable stench of a military camp had combined with horrors a man could never forget.

For three long years, Reynold had remained abroad. Christ, he had little choice. His role as master had become impossible after another very-public argument with David had threatened to expose them both. To avoid the scandalmongers and the chance of prosecution for the act of sodomy, he made the heart-wrenching decision to leave his lover.

Reynold stood for a few seconds to enjoy his surroundings. There had been a meager amount of birds brave enough to negotiate the noisy camps, and his heart lifted to see an abundance of sparrows feasting on a discarded crust of bread on the footpath. Above a blue sky peeked briefly through a profusion of white fluffy clouds. A stream of sunlight bathed a rose bush sitting in a large, yellow glazed pot beside the milliners next door. The rich perfume from the red blooms mixed with the pungent odor of horse dung squashed on the road. The hay infused clumps thrown in all directions by the constant stream of carriage wheels. Everything is so normal, as if no one knows a war of great proportions is looming.

Moving toward the curb, Reynold called out to his driver to take him to Charters, a gentlemen’s club in Vauxhall, and climbed into the carriage. He sighed, rested his head on the back of the seat, and closed his eyes. A familiar memory flooded his consciousness. The vision of a young man, exceptionally featured, with a soft gaze the color of a summer sky, hooded with long, tawny lashes. He groaned, recalling his sweet slave’s sated expression from hours of glorious sex. The young body so deliciously secured his skin damp and flushed from his master’s cane. David.

Buy Link: https://www.nobleromance.com/Authors/40/H-C-Brown

My web: www.hcbrown-author.com

Blog: www.hcbrownauthoroferoticromance.bligspot.com

Guest Blog: Justine Elyot and All the Fun of the Fetish!

Before I introduce my guest today, I first owe her and her readers a HUGE apology. I’ve been ill for the last few days, and so I forgot all about this. By way of apology to all of you, I’ll be leaving the post up throughout the weekend so you have plenty of time to stop by!

With that out of the way, my guest today is a lady in all the best senses of the word. I met her during the Noble Blog Tour in April of last year, and I’m very pleased to have gotten the chance to know her. She’s a terrific writer with a great sense of humor, so I hope you all enjoy what she has to say. Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen:

Justine Elyot!

All the Fun of the Fetish

 

Oh, I do love to be at J S Wayne’s blog! He is such a gent. Thanks to him for agreeing to host me on my Meeting Her Match tour.

 

I’m a great fan of the canon of classic BDSM erotica, but it struck me pretty early on that there weren’t a lot of laughs in it. Of course, this is intentional – it’s pretty hard to set a dark, sumptuous, decadent tone when your characters are cracking jokes and slipping on banana skins all the time. But I do like a lighter tone on occasion, and that’s something I’ve tried to thread through my story, hopefully with a measure of success.

 

I wanted to emphasise enjoyment and the submissive Cherry’s control of her situation and her desires. I also wanted her to come across as human, vulnerable, warm and able to see the funny side of her experimentations.

 

And I might have thrown some plain daftness in there too here and there…

 

Take this version of the classic ‘remove your underwear in a public place’ scenario:

 

“Go to the Ladies’ and remove your knickers. When you return, give them to me. Not furtively, though – no passing them under the table. You do it blatantly and in full view of the whole restaurant.”

 

“In full view?”

 

“Yes. People hardly ever register it. They won’t realise it’s your knickers, for the most part. The people that do notice will think it quaint and a bit sexy. It’ll spice up their Saturday night. Perhaps they’ll do it themselves.”

 

I goggled for a moment, then he raised his eyebrows and made a nod of the head that meant business towards the toilets.

 

An act of disobedience wouldn’t get us off to a good start. Besides, once the order is given, even implicitly, I find my inner good-doggy and it all becomes easy.

 

I stood up and took my leave.

 

The toilets were distractingly fancy and I almost forgot why I was in there, so busy was I admiring the perfume dispensers and dazzling glass and gilt. I frowned, thinking, But I don’t need to go, then I remembered.

 

I backed into a stall and shut the door, reaching up under my skirt to lower the knickers. Problem. I was wearing stockings and suspenders, and the knickers could only go as far as the stocking tops. Annoyingly, I had to unsnap each suspender, move the knickers down, then refasten them, which was a slow process with my fumbly fingers.

 

The mere act of pushing the knickers down to my knees made me wet and I squirmed as the little suspender buttons clicked back into their slots, hoping I wouldn’t be in a state of raging arousal for the duration of the meal.

 

I finished removing the knickers and bunched them up in my fist. Outside the stall I looked at myself in the mirror. How obvious was it that I was carrying a pair of knickers? To me, it seemed glaringly so, but then I was bound to be hyper-conscious of my situation. Would anyone notice? Would they double-take and whisper about me, knowing that I was naked under the dress and informing their dining companions of the fact? Would the whole restaurant know that my bare pussy was just a whispery skirt away from potential fingering? I bit my lip, trying to chase the blush from my cheeks. It wouldn’t go.

 

I sprayed my wrists with perfume then, looking around to make absolutely sure I was alone in there, I put the atomiser under my skirt and gave my nethers a squirt. Bad idea. It stung.

 

I winced, put the perfume down, squeezed the knickers into as tiny a ball as I possibly could and sailed back into the restaurant, trying to exude inner confidence.

 

I was so busy exuding this inner confidence stuff that I forgot to look where I was going, tripped over a waiter’s foot and stumbled forward. In the process, I lost my grip on the knickers which flew wildly over to the right, landing with perfect precision in the dead centre of a diner’s bowl of soup.

 

I couldn’t help it. I screamed.

 

Whatever next! Here’s some more detail about the book:

 

In the internet age, it should be easy for like-minded fetishists to find and connect with each other. Or so Cherry thought. Her decision to enter the wild and wonderful world of BDSM leads her to some interesting and unexpected places. She soon finds herself on ‘the scene’ and her insatiable curiosity takes her to orgies, slave auctions and mansion houses full of trainee submissives, but where will she find her perfect dom? Will Cherry ever meet her match?

 

Available in paperback: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Meeting-Her-Match-Justine-Elyot/dp/1908086157/ref=pd_ecc_rvi_4

 

And for Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Meeting-Her-Match-ebook/dp/B006C4C3SK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1326140957&sr=1-1

 

Justine Elyot is the UK bestselling author of On Demand, The Business of Pleasure and Erotic Amusements. When she isn’t buried under a pile of new projects, you can find her waving at the world from her website http://justineelyot.com/ or gassing about trivialities on Twitter https://twitter.com/#!/JustineElyot.

 

Invisible Efforts…

You’d never know it to look at the traffic on my blog, but I’ve been one busy cat lately! So I figured, since I’ve finally reached a point where things are a little more mellow, I should check in and let everyone know what I’ve been up to!

First, if you missed it, Barbara Mazzuca, Limecello, and Zee Monodee were both kind enough to have me on their blogs in the past week or so. Brave ladies! So stop by and take a look to see what the latest stirrings are on “Dead Means Dead” and the Lesbians Vs. Zombies line, which was kicked off yesterday with KevaD’s screwball comedy “The Zombie With Flowers In Her Hair.”

Second: Most of this past week has been exclusively dedicated to Writing Out Child Abuse, with the exception of taking care of the day job. Contracts, edits, emails back forth with what occasionally feels like half the free world, and trying to get my own contributions up to scratch and ready to go have pretty thoroughly dominated my time. But, I’m pleased to report that we’re about halfway done, which should put the final draft in Laurie Sanders’ hands right on schedule. One of the things I did tonight was take this picture, intended for the cover of A Light In The Darkness:

Hey, I’m no Ansel Adams, but I think I’m on to something here!

In the next several days, I’m hoping to have cover art and edits for “Dead Means Dead” and to have my stories for A Light In The Darkness completed and good to go. Meanwhile, the day job and the other things I’ve set in motion still demand their pounds of flesh. . . and they’re going to get them! Not like I couldn’t stand to lose a pound or two anyway . . .

Sorry for being absent lately. I’m going to try to be better about posting here, but that doesn’t always happen. But for now, I hope everyone understands it’s not neglect; I’m just really, insanely busy right now!

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Guest Blog: THE PITCH THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING By Elizabeth Kyne

My first guest of 2012 is a wonderful young lady with a great sense of humor and a funny new book to tell you about. I could try, but there are just some things an author has to do for themselves. Ladies and gentlemen:

Elizabeth Kyne!

THE PITCH THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

Author Elizabeth Kyne Reveals How Her Latest Novel Surprised Even Herself

It was only a page long, it had only taken me a couple of hours to write, but when it was read out to a room of other writers, it got a round of applause and generated a very excited vibe. This was the pitch for my novel, If Wishes Were Husbands, and it changed everything.

I’d written a lot of science fiction before this point. I’d grown up loving anything with spaceships, a bit of adventure and out-of-this-world ideas, so it was natural that I’d write science fiction. The problem was, every time I showed my stories to other people, they showed, shall we say, a lack of enthusiasm. They’d respond with things like: I was good at doing people, but the science didn’t work; or it was well plotted, but nobody was interested in time travel anymore. This was, as you can imagine, very frustrating.

Then I noticed something about the reading I was doing. At the time, I was buying a lot of science fiction and following reviews of the latest releases, but when it came down to reading what I’d bought, I seemed to stop half way through. Book after book failed to interest me. Whatever was happening in the science fiction genre, it wasn’t happening for me.

Maybe it’s because I had changed. It was a long time since the concept of travelling to alien worlds had gripped my imagination, since I sat glued to an episode of Star Trek or scanned bookshelves for another novel by John Wyndham. I’d grown up, got a job, bought a house, had men in my life and seen men disappear from my life. Maybe it was time to change tack.

None of this really crystallised until I met a bunch of other writers at an intense two-week course in America. During the course, we were all asked to write a pitch for a bunch of different stories to see which ones would interest the tutors (a group of established writers who read them as if they were editors looking to commission a book). This was immensely freeing because it meant I could try out a whole selection of ideas without making the commitment to turn them into 100,000 word novels. In fact, I wrote up a host of ideas in genres which I had never seriously considered writing in before, including a fantasy, a thriller and a kids’ book.

One of the ideas that emerged had been kicking around my head for a while. It was the story of a woman who invents a husband for herself and goes around telling everyone she is married, in order to avoid telling the truth about her dull single life. The only problem is, she repeats the story to so many people, it takes on a life of its own – and so does the man! One night, she comes home to find her mythical husband sitting on her sofa – and that’s where the fun begins.

I’d tried writing up the story before (at one stage I thought it might make a good radio play), but never got further than a few pages. But, when I sat down to write the idea at the course, the story seemed to come together. It was only one page long and it was only the sketch of a story, but I had a good feeling about it. So, it seemed, did other people. My pitch was pulled out of the pile that evening and read to my assembled colleagues by the lovely writer Christina F York. I can still hear the way she pronounced all the British slang I used with her American accent (I’d never heard the word ‘pub’ spoken with such a long vowel!). I also vividly remember the buzz in that room after the reading. It gave me the confidence to write in a genre I’d never even considered before.

I didn’t sit down and write it immediately after I got home. The course had taught me a lot and my head was swimming with new ideas and possibilities; plus there was a half-finished science fiction novel I wanted to complete; not to mention a fortnight’s worth of washing. But the reaction to that pitch never went away. My fellow course members would email me every so often to ask when I was going to get round to writing that If Wishes Were Husbands novel.

When I finally sat down to write it, I found it to be a refreshing experience. I hadn’t written something set in the contemporary world for a long time and I surprised how many details and incidents there were in my brain to draw upon.

I’m extremely grateful for that moment in that workshop. It told me that I had found my niche, that I had discovered something exciting that could excite others. It also gave me the confidence to write in a genre I hadn’t tried before, and would never have tried if it hadn’t have been for the opportunity I was given over those two weeks. That’s not to say that I have left the concept of alien worlds and spaceships behind me, because it’s a genre I used to love and one I would like to return to one day. But, for the moment, I’m blissfully happy in the world of romantic comedy. I love taking the real world, giving it a twist, and seeing what happens to my characters. I’m rather hoping my readers like it too.

*****

Rachel re-invents herself when she moves back to her home town of Aylesbury; with a new job, a new house and a new haircut. But people’s eyes glaze over when she tells them about her life as a forty-something singleton who works in accounts. So why not spice things up a bit? Why not tell her new hairdresser and her new friends about her fantastic husband? Everyone wants to hear about Darren, the man who cooks her amazing meals, cleans the house and takes her to bed for orgasmic sex three times a night! What a shame he doesn’t exist…

…Until she comes home one night and finds Darren sitting in her lounge. And everything she said becomes true: from his sensuous food to his skill in bed. So real, that she believes it.

Not as if living with a perfect is man is… well, perfect…

She can’t find anything because every time she puts something down, he tidies it away. Then there’s the shock of the credit card bill from buying all that gourmet food. Not to mention the sex! Three times a night is great at first, but sometimes all she wants at the end of the day is a sandwich and some sleep.

Then Rachel decides that Darren has to go – and that’s when her troubles really begin.

Elizabeth Kyne takes the absurdities of the modern woman’s quest for love and turns them into an enjoyable romp. She finds the comic in everyday situations, from buying a dress to experimenting with hair dye at home. While, underneath, she comments on the pressure to find the perfect husband and how that quest is doomed for us all.

PAPERBACK

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wishes-Were-Husbands-Elizabeth-Kyne/dp/1908340010/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319364974&sr=1-3

http://www.amazon.com/Wishes-Were-Husbands-Elizabeth-Kyne/dp/1908340010/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1319365757&sr=1-3

EBOOK

http://www.amazon.co.uk/If-Wishes-Were-Husbands-ebook/dp/B005S66A8M/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319364974&sr=1-2

http://www.amazon.com/If-Wishes-Were-Husbands-ebook/dp/B005S66A8M/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319365757&sr=1-3

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/92446

http://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/if-wishes-were-husbands/id475075856?mt=11

http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/if-wishes-were-husbands/id475075856?mt=11

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/if-wishes-were-husbands-elizabeth-kyne/1106913246

http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-ifwisheswerehusbands-606059-150.html

*****

Elizabeth Kyne trained to be a radio journalist and spent her early working years reading news bulletins and writing for magazines. Later, after learning the meaning of “mortgage” and “gas bill”, she decided to do the sensible thing and drop the freelance lifestyle to get a proper job. The job, however, all went horribly wrong and she returned to her first love of writing, and worked on several novels before finding success with “If Wishes Were Husbands”.

http://www.elizabethkyne.co.uk

http://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.kyne1

Reviewing Matters

As a writer, I don’t necessarily like to hear that someone doesn’t enjoy my work. After all, it IS work and I give my work (probably a lot more than) its due attention. But I understand that not everyone is going to enjoy my work and I don’t take it personally.

What really hurts is when I don’t hear anything at all about my work. Not good, not bad, not middle-of-the-road. And I’ll tell you why:

Reviews help authors as a barometer of what they’re doing that’s working and not. One review that isn’t glowing probably doesn’t mean much; get four or five of the same comment, and it’s time to listen up.  Authors rely on reviews to help us sell our work, and so naturally , we hope for great reviews every time. Life in the real world doesn’t work that way, and most of us get that.

Back before Twilight became the megalithic monstrosity it is today, when you could walk down the street without seeing the likenesses of Robert Pattinson, Kristen Stewart, and Taylor Lautner brooding at you every three point seven inches, it started out as a book like any other. And like any other author, Stephenie Meyer relied on book reviews and word of mouth to get the word out about her work.

Now, I’m not weighing the relative merit (or lack thereof) of Twilight. Whether you’re a Twihard, a Twi-hater, or simply wish the last movie would drop so we can stop being bludgeoned with watered-down, overly angsty versions of vampires and werewolves, the fact remains that someone read the books. A LOT of someones. And those someones talked about it. They blogged it, Facebooked it, Tweeted it.

People tell people things. If I tell one person X, and they tell two people, and each of those two people tells two people . . . before long, you have a phenomenon. This is what authors count on when they publish their work: That word of mouth will attract new readers and hence more revenue, which in turn leads directly to the ability to write more work.

Reviewers and readers are the most powerful force in a writer’s universe.  Moreso than editors, beta readers, or even publishers. I say that because there’s only so much a writer can do. Or an editor. Or a publisher. Once the publisher rolls out “The Secret Lives Of Fruit Of The Looms” or whatever the next book is, it’s up to the author to push it and attract interest. But what keeps a good book rolling or dooms it to obscurity?

That’s right. Readers. And not just readers: readers who take the time to tell the author what they think about their work. People who tell others, either through word of mouth, on a blog post, or on a recognized review site, “Buy this book” or “don’t waste your time.”

You hear horror stories about authors who get into flame wars or outright pissing contests with reviewers when they don’t like what the reviewer has to say. In my experience, this is rare. Most writers, when confronted with a bad review, will either thank the reviewer politely for their honesty or say nothing at all.

At least, not publicly. Oh, sure, I may cry in my beer with a friend or two if it’s really THAT bad, but once I’m done, the only thing I’m likely to say in public is, “Thank you for taking the time to review XXX. I’m sorry it didn’t meet your standards, but I appreciate your honesty.” If I want to freak out, tear my hair, question the reviewer’s parentage, intelligence, humanity, or accuse them of having unnatural carnal relations with goats, I will. But I’ll do it privately, where NO ONE will hear about it.

So, with all that said: Readers, please. If you enjoy a story, take five minutes and let the author, and other readers, know. It takes only a few minutes out of your day to leave a comment on the author’s blog, a blurb on Amazon or the publisher’s website . . . hey, even a Tweet beats nothing! It’ll help make a writer’s day if nothing else, and you never know what might come of you sharing your thoughts about someone’s work.

And writers: Seriously. If you’re flaming reviewers because they had the audacity not to recognize that you really are the reincarnated greatness of Dickens, Hemingway, and Hammett all in one package . . . grow the hell up. Have a drink, have a pity party, do what you’re gonna do. But stop giving your fellow authors a bad name and making reviewers gun-shy about speaking their minds!

Just my own personal, folks. That and five bucks MIGHT get you coffee at Starbucks.

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne