Kathleen Tudor's Blog

First of all, a happy New Year to all my readers. 2014 was a slow year for me due to some health issues and some behind-the-scenes insanity, but I'm looking forward to picking things up a bit in 2015. 

My own new year hasn't even started yet, though, and it's already off to a rocky start--one I think a lot of women can empathize with. It all started with a craving for root beer...

It was only 8 pm, but the guys in the next row had gotten an early start on their celebrating; you could tell by the way one of them (the driver, incidentally) was still chugging his Mike's Hard Lemonade as he got out of the car. He tossed the half-empty bottle into the bushes and shouted something incoherent, and I weighed my options. Running makes you look like prey--bad idea. Going back to my own car and locking the door might be viable, but again, it shows fear or indecision, and anyway, why should I let a drunk asshole and his buddy ruin my evening? 
I marched straight ahead and hoped they'd ignore me, but of course, Asshole started shouting. "Check out the purple!" he yelled, referring to my dyed hair. "Yo, that chick's feelin' it! Hey, yo, I want to feel it, too!" He barks a laugh like he's said something clever, and I keep up my confident stride--pace purposeful rather than hurried, shoulders back, head up. I don't look back to gauge how close he is. "Hey! Purple! Puuuuuurple!" I've reached the sidewalk and another customer is just coming out. He could say something helpful, but instead he just laughs. 

"Yeah, purple," the other guy says, and the drunk dude laughs and hollers some more. 

"How come you don't want to talk to me? Huh? You mad? Hey bro, the bitch is mad. Yo, she's pissed off, man. Check it! She's an angry bitch." I've reached the door and I walk inside, relived to find that my worst fears--that the Target has closed early for the holiday--are unfounded. The drunk guy and his quieter friend are behind me still, closer, but I'm inside with the light and the cameras and the witnesses. 

Not that anyone is stepping up. Actually, the few people around the entry area glance over to see what all the noise is, and then avert their eyes. Charming. I don't slow down to grab a cart because that will mean letting them approach me, and I haven't lost Asshole's attention yet. "Hey man, she needs to learn how to chill out. Somebody ought to teach that angry bitch to chill the fuck ouuuuuut." I take a hard right to walk past the registers and stop to chat with a cashier who conveniently (and politely) compliments my hair, and the Asshole and his buddy go straight, scattering other customers out of their path like a bow wave. 

I spend the rest of my short visit on high alert, listening for Asshole in case he makes his way back toward me by happenstance. I can hear him every now and then, his voice loud and brash throughout the store. It's the same level of sound you hear in a shooter game when you're creeping up on the enemy as they laugh together and trash talk. It's the sound of men (or a man, in this case) who are amped up and ready for Violence. 

I hope they're not at the front of the store as I walk to the registers with my armload of soda, but at the same time, I almost hope they are. I imagine turning to them, a stern look on my face, and asking Asshole if he has any idea how scary it is for a lone woman to have a drunk man shouting as he follows her through a dark parking lot. If he means to be so casually cruel, and if his momma would be proud if she could see him tonight. 

It's probably for the best that they're nowhere near the front of the store when I leave. It's funny, I was just today musing that I haven't had a man make me feel unsafe in weeks--maybe even a couple of months. Were things just getting better, I wondered, or have I just been lucky lately. Thanks, Asshole, for reminding me that #YesAllWomen have to face bullshit like yours. I hope you have a happy New Year... but first I hope your momma gives you that smacking you so richly deserve. 

Don't wear scents. Not even a little! Not even half your normal amount. Not even if your girlfriend is coming to pick you up at the airport! I smelled my seatmate from my first flight today three rows before I saw him and, like all women would, immediately started drafting an angry letter to Axe in my head. He was a nice enough kid, but being sensitive to perfumes made this a somewhat rough start to the trip.

If you board before the window seat, be prepared to stand up. I get it. I'm a woman, I'm reasonably attractive, and I physically CAN climb over your lap if I have to. That doesn't mean I really want to step over your body, waving my ass inches from your face, and risk tripping over your crap just to sit down. It's not my fault that the freakin' airlines haven't realized that they could just board window rows first, so please, don't just sit there staring at me, and don't gesture me over your lap, and don't get so settled in three seconds after sitting down that it's actually difficult to get up. What did you think was going to happen?
Share the overhead bins. We all get it: baggage fees are ridiculous, and there's no way you're paying all that when you just need enough stuff with you for a few days. But the limit is two personal items, and we're ALL carrying the max load of stuff. There is not enough room for you to shove both of your bags, your shopping bag from the airport mall, and your giant puffy coat into the overhead bins. Congratulations, you've now single-handedly taken up the space that was meant for three people. If you don't have room in your luggage to shove your coat after you arrive at the airport, then be prepared to hang onto it. And your purse or backpack goes under the seat in front of you. Yeah, it infringes on your foot space. Everyone's does. Get over it, pack lighter, or check your shit!

Stop playing with the seats. I confess, I have a bad back, and that makes me somewhat extra-sensitive to jostling. But since I look like a healthy young woman, I guess that just goes to show that you never know from looking at someone whether fiddling constantly with your tray table or seat pocket will cause them pain! Every time you put the tray table up and down, bang and bump said table, and shove an entire coke can into that seat pocket, I can feel it, and by the time we land, my back will have seized up into an iron-hard mass of pain from all the little jostling. I'm not saying don't use your table—we've all only got so much room, and you should be able to be as comfortable as possible in your limited space—but please, for the love of Lumbar, don't use the back of my seat as your idle fidget. 

Be ready to deplane. You felt the plane dropping. You heard the announcement. You saw the seatbelt light come on. And yet you seem to be surprised that the airplane has stopped moving and we're all being asked to get out! I know, I know, you just got comfortable, right? The time to find a stopping place in your book, check the seat pocket for personal items, and get your coat ready (because it's in your lap, not overhead, right?) was five minutes ago. And since you only have one thing in the overhead bins (right? RIGHT???) you should just be able to stand up (already holding all your stuff), open the overhead bin, grab your bag, and go! I realize not everyone has it that easy (maybe your bag is surprisingly heavy or you're very short or something), but when only five people in a plane full of nearly 300 seems able to coordinate themselves, I start to question humanity. Which leads me to...

Yield to the prepared. If you're on an aisle, then hopefully you stood up and started taking serious steps to escape as soon as we landed. Kudos! If you're in a more inner seat, though, you'll spend at least a few extra minutes in your seat while the people in the outermost seats clear the row. Now you jump up and claim your space, right? Well... wait a minute. That guy standing patiently in the aisle just a seat farther back than you? The one wearing a backpack, holding a carryon, and looking like his patience is strained? He's been done claiming his property and waiting to walk off the plane for at least ten minutes by now. It won't slow you down for more than a few seconds to just wait until the people who are ready to walk off the plane. When the flow of foot traffic stops (it won't take long), there is room for you to stand up, and you've done your part in clearing the congestion on the plane. Well done!

Or wait... politely. Or, maybe, you give up on everyone else using their heads, or you know your baggage is unwieldy, and you just want to take your time. You don't mind being the last person off the plane, and you've got a good book, so no need to rush! That's actually a perfectly valid position to take, if you're not blocking others into your row against their will. If I'm rushing to catch another plane, I'll be sure to let you know, but maybe I'm just hungry, exhausted, have to pee, and/or really want to stand up before my legs get stuck like this. I probably won't be impatient enough to demand that you get the hell out of my way... but you're being a nuisance. If there's anyone farther from the aisle than you, ask them if they mind waiting until the rush has died down. If they're in a hurry, stand up when it's convenient, step toward the back of the plane to give them room to get up, and then sit back down and resume your reading. 

I'm a little sick of random internet trolls assuming that they've got me pegged based on one sentence I've typed or one snippet of information about my life. "This is your stereotype", "here's your sign", and "let me tell you everything I know about you based on the fact that you disagree with ONE thing I said". People are complex, and you can't know everything about anyone based on one random Facebook conversation, Twitter battle, or even story they've published. 

I'm...
Homeschooling my kidNot a helicopter parent--let him learn from his own mistakes!NOT a believer in "free range" child raisingBut totally for free range chicken and eggs!Against factory farmingNot vegetarian (yay grass fed beef!)For marriage equalityFriends with some fabulous ChristiansGay (and asexual)Married to an amazing man (happily)PolyamorousNot really interested in dating. Or sleeping around.FemmeA former martial arts championBlondeAble to speak Spanish (and I'm married to a brown guy)Obsessed with proper grammarBest friends with someone who loves text speakPro responsible gun ownershipPro home birthPro choiceProvocative.

I'm a fabulous cook and a terrible housekeeper. I'm a knitter and I've trained in circus arts. I'm a walking contradiction, and you know what? I bet you are, too. And, probably, so is the guy or gal on the other side of whatever online debate you're having. Try to remember that before you pigeon-hole somebody. It's annoying, and it's utterly uncreative of you. 

"I wasn't paying attention," he said, struggling to sound calm despite his thundering pulse. "I didn't mean—"

Sean's snarl cut him off, and he swallowed with a mouth suddenly gone dry. He wanted to turn and run, but that would be a death sentence for sure. If he had any chance, he had to stand his ground. He trembled from head to foot, but his feet stayed firmly rooted in place as Sean paced closer, snuffed at him, growled low in his throat, and then turned away. Justin wasn't dumb enough to think he was completely out of the woods, so to speak, but he couldn't help sagging a little as the big cat's attention turned elsewhere. Turned to Melanie.

Sean licked her face, then paced around to lick at her hindquarters in a prelude to making. She laid down, inviting him, but Sean turned away. He paced back to Justin and snarled. Justin took a step back, but the big cat's growl deepened until he felt the rumble in his own chest. Sean's head swung to Melanie, and then back to Justin. Then his head darted forward and his rough tongue swept over Justin's cock and balls. It was like being slapped with sandpaper. And, as realization dawned, the icy shock overpowered the discomfort.

Sean wanted him to submit.

"No," he breathed.

Sean's growl was low—a final warning. 

I promised it, and now, nearly a month after I dragged my exhausted carcass home, here it is! The List Of Things I Learned at RainbowCon.

1. There are two kinds of planners: big picture and little detail. My bosses are ALL the former. Fortunately, the entire support staff was the latter. It worked out shockingly well.

2. Displaying unexpected competence is not a good way to get LESS responsibility. Say hello to your volunteer coordinator for 2015. 

3. Florida is hot and sticky. 

4. I am apparently flushing money away with impugnity by not self-publishing any of the short stories I've sold, and to which I hold the rights. (See home page for rectification. (Heehee.))
5. Don't give me power. I like it way too much. Okay, maybe I already knew that, but heading panels was FUN, my friends. I want to do more. 

6. Con crud is inescapable. 


7. Paper swag is a waste of money and resources, especially when it's plastered with your book covers. Go with neutral and appealing or skip the paper altogether; better to save up for nice swag and have nothing to hand out for three cons in a row than have all your money tossed. 

8. But DO carry business cards, especially if you offer author services (I do editing and marketing). Authors like knowing who to call so that they don't have to do the grunt work themselves! 

9. Self-publishing doesn't really have much of a stigma anymore. 

10. Every single author, reader, or general -goer I met at this con was freakin' amazing. Community is fabulous, and I'm glad to have met all of you. See you in 2015!

I've seen a few posts with RainbowCon 2014 swag roundups, so I figured I'd share mine. Out of the fairly large swag bags and stuff that was handed out in the dealer room, this is what made it home with me. (For things that were duplicates, like multiples of the same pens, I just put one in the photo.) 

I figure this is good, not just for other authors, who may be interested to see who is taking their stuff, but also for myself to remember in years to come as I think about my own swag. Definitely out: promo cards and fridge magnets with my book cover on them. Maybe good for fan giveaways, but not a good way to introduce myself to new audiences. Noted.

"Paper swag" that made it home was very minimal, including bookmarks from Less Than 3, a card for a free book, that rockin' comic, and sticky notes. Also interesting, the fridge magnets from VJ Summers that were gorgeous and fun instead of featuring book covers. I loved the chapstick, the alcohol spray, and the tissues. Super practical! Only my favorite pens made it into the suitcase, however, and none of the keychains or candy did. Practical totally wins the day with con swag, and the less specific/naughty/book-cover-plastered things were, the better. Coming soon: Things I Learned at RainbowCon. Stay tuned. ;)

It's been a month to the day since the release of Sweethearts and Seduction from Storm Moon press, and I think I may have begun to recover from the last minute stress of writing, editing, and arranging everything at the last second to get it released in time for Valentine's Day. I hope you enjoyed the mushy stories! 

One of the best and least stressful parts of the process was co-writing for the first time. I chose the incomparable K. Piet to work with, wrote out the opening to a story designed to tickle her every fancy, and sent it off with my fingers crossed and my puppy eyes prepped. 

Fortunately she had the good grace and the time to play with me, and the two of us had a lot of fun mixing it up with each others' styles. The Best Thing on Eight Wheels is the story of a rink owner and the guy who loves him... and puts up with the distractions of being married to a small business owner. But as the stress mounts and the pressures on their relationship become unbearable, it's up to Troy, the rink king, to make things right with his love. 

I'd love for you to check it out, but even if you don't, go say hello to the amazing and talented K. Piet. 

Some stories of submission show the bottom manipulating the situation, steering her dom toward whatever punishment or reward she desires, doing whatever it takes to get herself off on the illusion of being controlled. 

This is not that kind of book. 

Aspiring author Sam moves in with the dominant and mysterious Jack with no promises and no idea what to truly expect except for the very sure fact that he will be in total control. And though she sometimes plays the brat, Sam is most certainly not the one calling the shots. Jack challenges her will to obey, passing her around to his dom friends to play with and sending his personal assistant Alex to their home to deliver commands and mete out punishment. 

Is it more than I, even at my most submissive, would have put up with? Oh, yes. But for Sam, the utter control he exerts is the ultimate erotic payoff, and no matter how complicated or emotionally confusing things get for her, nothing gives her a high like pleasing her Sir. And the hotter she gets for the belts and cages and humiliation, the hotter under the collar Ms. Tyler's readers will get, too. 

Sam is flawed, believable, passionate, and sexy enough to sizzle, and this book is perfect for anyone who likes their kink real, hardcore, and in your face. 

Last night I was struck by a story. I've been trying to develop a particular idea for a while now, but it just didn't have substance and I had been letting it simmer. And then, twenty minutes after the sleeping pills should have kicked in, the idea finally clicked. I was totally foggy so I grabbed my phone, activated the notes app, and turned on voice recognition. I dictated the opening couple of paragraphs, and collapsed back into bed, very pleased with myself. Without hitting save. 

Great! So... let's see if we can re-create a little of that midnight magic. 

My hands trembled as I stared at the black label and the cool amber fire within. I should never have come in here, obviously, but I'd been sober for almost two weeks, and the thirst was pressing in on me. Nothing else could quench it. Nothing else existed except this wall of bottles before me and the need. I clenched my hands into fists, not quite ready to give in to the inevitable--playing with anticipation, maybe--and noticed in some dim corner of my mind that someone had stopped at the end of my aisle. 


A quick glance told me that he was hot and that he seemed to be staring, but I didn't take the time to examine him. My eyes were drawn back the Jack like iron filings to a magnet and I breathed as deeply as I could make myself. I could feel the siren song of the booze as it crept beneath my edges and between my cracks, eating away at the pathetic foundation of my sobriety. 


I had almost begun to reach for the bottle when the man, who I'd already forgotten was there, shifted. I shot him a dirty glance, wishing he'd take his penetrating stare elsewhere so I could get on with my communion, but he set down the bottle of wine he was carrying, instead, and stepped forward slowly like I was some fucking stray dog. "Are you okay?"

Have you ever read a story and wondered if the author was peeking into your head? 

Alison Tyler's Dark Secret Love is a meta-narrative, blurring the line between fact and fiction, history and imagination... Inspired by Tyler's own journals and history, it brings a whole other level of realism to the escapism of a good BDSM fantasy. Because, as someone who has felt those urges, it's clear that this was a book written by someone who's been there. 

It was both uncanny and a little like a good therapy session to read this book and watch the main character, Samantha, go through so many of the same pains, doubts, and shames that I have personally experienced. Is what I want dirty? Is it wrong? Is something in me broken that I feel like I need these things that so many other people would look at with revulsion and disgust? She wants to be spanked. She wants to be humiliated. She wants to be punished and the love/hate of the no-win situation was so familiar that my heart bled right alongside her... Yes, this is BDSM of the highest quality from someone who has undoubtedly lived that life and walked that path. Someone who has felt that shame and that fear, and who has learned to love herself, embrace her kink, and find the person who can fulfill her sexual needs. 

What do you think? Have you read it? Have you read something else lately that could have been ripped right from the darkest shadows in your mind?