My guest today is unquestionably one of my favorite authors ever, and I’m proud to call him a good friend as well. He knows how to work the mic, and I’m going to let him get on with what he does best.
Ladies and gentlemen:
Hi, K.B. Thanks for taking time to talk with us today. Can you tell us a little about yourself, for those who aren’t familiar with you or your work?
Hidey Ho, Yo! Thanks J.S. for hosting me. I hope my presence today does not drain too many I.Q. points from your readers. I am not of this world. I live in my own reality. At least that’s what the voices in my head tell me. Actually, I’m a geek of all trades. I’m a voracious reader who like to dabble in the written word.
Like most writers of my acquaintance, you have a day job. Do you think your work makes a difference in your writing, and if so, how?
No day job, please! -makes the sign of the cross- I work nights. I detest getting up to an alarm clock, which are the mechanical spawns of Satan, in case you didn’t know! Surprisingly, my profession has little impact on what I write.
Heh. You and I share the same opinion of alarm clocks! Evil devices, every last one of ‘em!
I’ve noticed, wandering around the Internet lately, that there seems to be some polarization regarding the concept of whether or not men can or should write romance of any kind. What are your thoughts on this?
There should be no debate on this topic. It’s absurd to think that ANY form of fiction is solely regulated to a specific gender. I think you and I have proved the case. And a certain Sparks fella who wrote a few little books . . .
If you could write any genre other than erotic romance and were guaranteed a contract sight unseen, what genre would you write and what might the plot look like?
Horror, hands (or claws) down. I’m intrigued by the dark underbelly of the human condition. What would a K.B. Cutter horror plot entail? My influences are Stephen King, Richard Laymon and Ed Lee. So, given that, my book would certainly explore the limits of my imagination . . . and beyond, with frightening excess!
When you sit down to write, what items would we expect to see on or around your desk? Beverages, food, lucky pen?
My work space is rather mundane. I’ve always wanted a writing office. Stuffed leather chairs, fireplace, library, expansive oak desk. Sort of like an old English country manor parlor. Instead, any surface in the house will do to place my lap top and coffee mug. I know. Y-a-w-n . . .
Between your work as a police officer and your writing career, you seem to pretty much work around the clock. When you take time off, how do you unwind?
I am fortunate to have a work schedule which allows me a few days off at a clip (no snickering, J.S.!) I am blessed to have a second home nestled in the rural beauty of the Catskill Mountains. It’s there I unplug (literally) from modern suburbia and decompress. Nature, campfires and S’mores! (hey, maybe I was a girl scout in a former life!)
Now I’ve got this image of you in a green skirt and starched white blouse with a beret. While I go poke my mind’s eye out: What, to your mind, makes the “perfect” love scene?
For me, one that is visceral, where you could almost inhale the pungent aroma of sexually charged pheromones on the air, the tang of desire swirling on the tip your tongue, the need to taste, devour its counter part in your lover. . . Uh. . . er . . . ahem . . . Sorry, what was the question?
Does music inspire your plots or scenes, or does your inspiration come from another source?
My inspiration comes from an amalgam of sources. A ménage, if you will indulge my bad pun. Therefore, yes, music, film or a snippet of conversation or the subtle change in weather will spark the creative flame.
Most writers nowadays have a “secret” story that can be found somewhere on the Internet, but no one knows about it. Do you have one of those, and if so, what is it?
Jeez, I have way too many secret story skeletons in my Cyber closet! I have one at a website (I will not divulge the location!) that pushes the boundaries, explores dark social and militaristic themes. BDSM, neo-fascism, with a dash of Hammer inspired gothic chills and Bizzaro splatter punk attitude. Yeah, its not ready for prime time . .. .
Speaking of stories, you’ve got a shiny new release out! I read Darker Side of Heaven and thoroughly enjoyed your take on angels and demons. Can you tell us more about Darker Side of Heaven, and do you have any anecdotes concerning the writing of it?
Thank you J.S. Most kind of you, sir! Darker is a decidedly adult, derivative take on the paranormal romance genre. Tue, I have archetypal characters in the book, but I’ve given them a slight tweak! Sprinkled in a few non-traditional elements and included some Catholic iconography, conventional mythology, whilst adding a dash of my own eccentric flavor. The result is an eclectic mélange that I hope pleases reader’s palettes.
Darker took me five months to compete. I wrote practically every day. I wanted to bring something unique to the table and I had doubts as to its viability in the crowed paranormal genre. I almost gave up. Frankly, it made me angry, which fueled my desire to complete the manuscript. I have to acknowledge my Editor Bryl Tyne, who made some insightful recommendations and buoyed my spirits with his passionate zeal for the narrative arc of The Darker side of Heaven. Hell, he even told me to start writing the sequels BEFORE I received a contract! I hope that confident vibe reaches out to readers!!!!
Thanks for coming by and hanging out today! Before you go, do you have any words of wisdom or advice for your readers or fellow authors?
Laugh, live and love. Not necessarily in that order. J
Thank you J.S., I am grateful to babble at your blog. I’d like to include a blurb for Darker side of Heaven and offer an excerpt to your readers. Given it is the Season of the Witch; I’d like to include a snippet from the villain’s point of view.
Shadows lengthen over the world. Turmoil rages.
Something evil this way comes . . . .
Emotionally conflicted avenger Chalice Noire, product of an unholy union between demon and angel, is a slayer to the forces of darkness. Employed by shadowy benefactors in Rome, her sect is commanded by fallen angel Nikolai Voss, whose allegiance is not to the church but to the flame of vengeance that burns within.
But Chalice possesses a holy relic, a Weapon of the Mass, Nikolai desperately craves, and he will stop at nothing to retrieve it, destroying anything or anyone, including his own soul.
Renegade vampire Adam Blake is a recluse, attempting to bury his troubled past and the tortured memory of his former lover, Chalice Noire, in America’s last frontier: the Alaskan wilderness.
Armageddon looms, the agents of light and darkness gather forces. The battle to be fought not on the sands of prophecy, but in the rugged beauty of Alaska, where Chalice and Adam once again cross paths. Can they reconcile their past to save humanity’s future?
The Rinker 400EC sliced through the water, the waves parting like an eager lover’s thighs. Carmella Cervantes eased back on the chrome throttle; the power of the engines reverberated in her hand. The tang of the Great South Bay filled her nostrils. Twinkling lights from Fire Island reminded her of fireflies dancing above the shoreline. The cool air washed over her raised skin, both sensuous and chilling at the same time. Her erect nipples ached as the wind kissed the jutting pink bits. Incredibly alive, incredibly hot, basking in the primordial essence of the water around her, she caressed her flat stomach, her fingers trailing between her legs. She teased the engorged nub of her sex. Her thighs quivered as she slipped a finger inside her wet folds.
“You are quite the insatiable one.”
She whirled around, startled by his voice. She withdrew a perfectly manicured
fingernail, resting it upon her full lower lip. Her tongue glided over her teeth as she grinned. Her gaze fell to the man’s thick shaft. It swung low and heavy, glistening wetly in the wan light of the moon. He was chiseled perfection bathed in soft alabaster.
“You know me so very well, both inside and out, my love. Even you, a god who walks among the low cannot fully satisfy all of my wanton desires.”
The man laughed. His voice possessed a depthless baritone resonance. Its timbre, a dichotic mix of malice and sensuality, caused her to suck in her breath.
“I am not a god. I wish to neither be one nor referred to as such. I despise the countenance of the word.”
As the boat gently rocked on the bay waters, he strode purposefully toward her, unaffected, as if on dry land. He possessed a terribly savage beauty that wreaked sexual havoc with her flight, fight, or fuck mechanisms. For her, it was all about primitive, biological instincts.
“I’ve offended you with my poorly chosen words. I offer my body as a supplication. Do with it what you will.”
The man looked down upon her; his eyes were black as the void of space.
“You cannot offer that which I already possess. I will fuck you until your will is broken, dashed against the rigidity of my flesh, and your soul weeps with orgasm.”
She shivered, her body trembling with anticipatory fear and desire.
He palmed her sex, and every bone in her body seemed to vaporize into sensual oblivion. She collapsed into the captain chair, her mind disengaged from her body. She had no substance, floating like an untethered balloon into the face of the moon or was it the Eye of Aphrodite?
She saw him bring his hand to his face, obviously inhaling her spent desire.
“Does my wanton, raw sexuality provide you with a most intoxicating aphrodisiac?” She said, her voice laced with simmering need.
His demeanor darkened as a cloud passed over the moon. For a brief moment, the inky blackness shrouded the boat. Light consumed by the darkness, then pierced the gloom. Summed up the nature of this earthly existence.
Everything can change in an instant.
She got up from the captain chair, her mind still shrouded in the sensual fog from his touch.
“You’re thinking about that bitch, aren’t you?” Each syllable dripped venom.
“Yes, however, my thoughts are more philosophic than carnal.”
She delicately traced the contours of his scars, her body pressing close to his. Her breasts crushing against the musculature of his back, pelvis slowly gyrating, her sex upon his firm ass as one hand snaked below his waist, gently cupping his balls.
“I am pleased, my love. I could not bear it if you thought otherwise.”
She began to kiss his bare skin.
He continued to stare out into the water, his body inhumanly still.
“Chalice vexes me. She is both an asset and a liability. Our Rome benefactors have voiced concerns about her collateral damage. It appears they do not have the stomach for this conflict. Good.”
She ceased her butterfly kisses.
“Good? I’m confused. Who will fund us then?”
“There are other . . . entities willing to offer financial assistance. The church will retreat unto itself. Then it shall crumble under the weight of a resurgence of zealous secularism. As the swaggering cowboy from Texas unwittingly prophesied, there will be a new world order.”
She wrapped her arms around his chest, her warmth firmly pressed to his.
“I confess; I am not a political animal, my love; that arena I leave to others. Based on what you’ve told me, though, I assume Chalice is now expendable?”
She moaned as if on the precipice of orgasm.
“I beg you, bring me to shore so that I may shift. I’ll hunt the bitch down, rip the flesh from her bones, and bring you what you desire.”
“Ah, Carmella, you are such a creature of the now. I do not expect you to comprehend the complex vagaries of our Chalice Noire, nor of my adherence to certain
sacred dogma. She does possess one of the Weapons of The Mass. Given to her in ceremony most Holy, I cannot take it from her by force or it loses its potency. And if that occurs, so does it worth.”
Carmella’s eyes brightened.
“A mercenary heart indeed beats within, Nikolai.”
He did not answer her. She knew he was deep in thought. Her place was to satiate his carnal appetites. She was the only one who could accomplish such an arduous task.
Her lover, Nikolai Voss, was a Fallen. Exiled. She surmised he was doing the same, exorcising his angelic lineage, renouncing his holy name, traveling a path that led away from reconciliation with the Lord of Hosts.