Jessica Nicholls's Blog

Okay, if you don’t want to read an account of a social media faux pas then stop reading now.  For now…I’m gonna keep this blog going for personal venting.  I have begun using a pen name and have another blog for writing stuff. 

On Saturday night…I was kinda drunk.  With my other half, and the kids were occupied/out for the night.  So disgusted am I, even while sober over the behavior of our current commander in chief that I often struggle to comprehend how people can vehemently support him, or just defend him along the lines of “oh, well I don’t like everything he does but…he gets stuff done I do like.”  Okay…okay…but I don’t get the serious Trump heads.  Can’t comprehend it.  

For the record, I don’t think Obama or Hillary or Bernie are perfect or corruption free.  I too believe few can want to get into politics without being willing to get their hands dirty or compromise principles.  I  have serious doubts about the motivations behind ALL politicians.   But I don’t think they are vile, despicable human beings.

I think Trump is. 

And this isn’t based on CNN, or some Facebook based news outlet, or the ranting and raving of some over opinionated relative or friend.  It’s based on what I have literally heard come out of his actual mouth and what is actually, for real known and documented about his life.  So, after the attacks in New Zealand by a white supremacist, who named Trump as part of his inspiration, when Trump denied the threat of white nationalism & he refuses to outright condemn it but you bet your butt he comes down hard on terrorism who cite an extreme form of Islam as their inspiration….I can’t help but suspect something ;that, he is a racist asshole.  That he doesn’t want to lose supporters who are racist assholes.  That racist assholery benefits him greatly.  So…drunk me called President Trump a white nationalist cunt on FB. 

Now, the people behind Trump and the man himself know a thing or two about public image.  ALL politicians do.  He isn’t stupid enough to never use a woman or person of a non-Euro ethnic background in his staff…he makes sure he has that black guy at his rallys, there is footage of him being nice to black people etc.  OF COURSE THERE FUCKING IS. 

I…like many Americans find myself in this awful position where most of my family voted for him.  If not for Biblical purposes (anti-abortion, anti-gay marriage, against government control), then for the fact that they bloody hated Obama.  Hated him.  Mostly for tax and government interference in big business reasons.  One or two because they straight up have zero sympathy for Muslim refugees or African Americans who turn to crime and they just…don’t like them.  They don’t like the way they talk, they don’t like the way they live, etc. etc.

So…a bit of pussy grabbing, philandering, lying, encouraging supporters to be violent, generally being a total misogynist and at least a bit of a racist….those are the lesser of those other evils.  They are willing to excuse those things for what they see as a greater cause.  Not to mention that Trump’s Vice President is a known homophobe who believes if men and women are in a room alone together they will behave like horny animals.  Plus, Pence drinks non-alcoholic beer with his pizza…on a Friday.  What a dick.

Anyway, I got few likes on my FB post calling the pres a white supremacist cunt.  I got told my comment was rude and I’m pretty sure I’ve been at least unfollowed by a few disgusted family members.

Still…talking trash on FB is pretty brave when one is trashed.  It doesn’t help anything. It just perpetuates discord…I know…I know. 

The system is broken, yes.  It has been for a while.  Trump is not the be-all, end-all of why the world is so fucked at the moment.  Bush, Clinton, Bush Jr., Obama, all the senators and representatives and greedy assed big businesses, shady despotic foreign leaders….all of them have had a part to play.

But I’m done having folks make excuses for the sack of shit currently in office. 

Regarding white nationalism…let me be frank.  I’m white…of Christian/Catholic background.  I am not a person of color,

I don’t seriously, devotedly practice any marginalized faith (I dig paganism…but I’m not devoted), I’m not a Muslim or a Jew.  I don’t live in or even near those communities.  I know white people, I grew up around them, I’ve been to church more than a few times, I’m aware of shit the Bible says. 

I’m rather removed from marginalized ethnic groups and I have no experience of how it is to be one of them.  Hence, when some misguided, angry young Muslim kills a bunch of innocent people it is very very easy for me to get angry at Muslims generally.  I don’t understand them.  I wouldn’t choose to be that religion. 

Of course I’m half decent so I believe in a reasonable frame of mind that people deserve to practice their faith in peace.  I’m reasonably educated so I know that there is violent stuff said in both the Bible and the Koran, there’s dated, sexist stuff in many holy texts.  But that doesn’t mean ALL folks who practice that faith live by the less than savory parts of their sacred documents. In an unreasonable mind it would be very easy for me to focus on the not so enlightened aspects of that religion.  Plus…as I said…I did not grow up around Muslims or even many African American or Asian or even Hispanic people. 

I grew up in close quarters with mostly American folks of European descent.  It’s really EASY to despise what we don’t understand. 

But when my fellow white people start spouting hateful shit about the brown people taking over and needing to take back our country (if you’re American/Australian/South African/Canadian/New Zealander…WE STOLE THAT LAND YOU FUCKHEADS!!!)….I just…I just can’t. 

If we expect Muslims to tackle extremism within their own communities (and this is not an unreasonable expectation) then we need to tackle it in ours. We need to work against our own innate prejudices as white folks to discourage extremist views. 

President Donald Trump is the leader of the free world.  He is president of the United States of America. I believe it is fair to say he was elected by a whole bunch of white people (yes…he did get votes from SOME minorities who likely believed he was going to bring jobs/sort infrastructure…and were willing to look past certain issues to sort out pot holes, bridges and bring more industry home.)  As an icon for many many white people (and he is that), he had a duty to denounce without reservation any and all white supremacist views.  He should have acknowledged it as a hate crime. 

His lukewarm sympathies & condolences boiled my blood. 

Hi all,

It’s been a while since I’ve done a post that doesn’t involve me going a tad psycho or me having to apologize for going a tad psycho.  I’m going to talk about where my writing is at, what my ambitions are, where my heart is drifting regarding writing…etc. etc. 

Around a month ago I finished writing a first draft of a co-authoring project with Mia Darien (or K.B. Thorne as is her more recent pseudonym) called Help Wanted.  She’d done an outline and passed on her notes…I went through her research, watched Ghost Hunters a few times and penned the story.  She’s gonna fix/edit/add to it and hey presto we have a paranormal romance set in Connecticut revolving around a psychic lady and the lovely man she hires to help her out on ghost hunting jobs.  There’s demons, there’s rituals, there’s history, there’s love.  My kinda party.  When I know of the release date I’ll let you all know.

Regarding In Love With the Past, which was more or less edited and ready to go over a year ago now,  I’m fixing some timing issues…amongst other things.   This is a paranormal romance, partly set in North Dakota, partly in Eastern Europe.  The time frame is from early 1900s to roughly modern day.  History is a factor…namely Danube Swabian (or Banat Germans or German Hungarians as my mother’s family called themselves) homesteading in North Dakota.  It’s taken a lot of research and contacting people from this community with more ties to the Old World (my folks left Europe in the 1890s –early 1900s so no one alive remembers the Old Country or properly speaks the Schwob dialect).  I’m really quite proud of it…but it’s gonna need (yet another) pass and re-format by my editor friend as I’ve fiddled about with what was supposed to be the final draft.  I’ve been working on this for…geez four years?  I’ve decided to not query anymore and just release it when I can.  To be frank, it’s a bit obscure…maybe if it was Amish romance or something it might find a romance publisher interested but also…and I don’t know how to say this…there is an aging Catholic community who I believe would like it and they are the audience I was originally writing for.  I also wrote it for myself as the tragic and…conflicted history of ethnic German communities living in Eastern Europe is something I’ve been interested in for a while.  The story’s focus isn’t on how Nazi ideology & war crimes infiltrated & damaged those communities or much on what happened to them after WWII (disenfranchised, made enemies of the state, etc.)…it’s more about the romance and the haunting.  Hence it remains a paranormal…not a historical romance.  But history does play a role. There’s love, there’s immigrants, there’s art, there’s a real bastard, there’s ghosts and heartbreak.  There’s chicken paprikasch and wine.  Again…my kinda party.

Sidenote/thought:  I suppose one way of doing homage to the darker side of that history would be to tell a tale of a Danube Swabian woman falling in love with a non-German neighbor (A Serb or Romanian man for example…possible but from my research these folks did really “stick to their own”), then WWII hits, the Germans roll in telling the ethnic Germans how awesome they are and that they are better than their Serb, Romanian, Hungarian, Jewish countrymen (remember, the Austro-Hungarian empire…though having collapsed many years before WWII was very multi-ethnic and German speaking folks had lived in relative peace with the many other groups for centuries).  There wouldn’t be knowledge of Hitler’s “final solution” amongst the general population at this point (early 1940s)…just the stirring up of prejudice and intimidating locals to go along with it.  Anyway – my plot – the Serb or Romanian lover gets killed by an uppity young Danube Swabian male horrified that a DS woman would want to marry someone outside their group and that she doesn’t subscribe to the Nazi propaganda.  The war proceeds…her heartbroken….horrors ensuing…he goes off to fight on the Eastern Front.  Then after the war, the Germans retreat, leaving the villages under the control of Russia and local communist partisans.  The young woman has her house/belongings etc. removed and she (being of working age and considered a Fascist German pig) is sent to a work camp in Siberia…probably dies.  The DS youth, having survived the war and comes home to his village having fought for Hitler (let’s not have him having worked in one of the concentration camps where millions of Jews died…that’s real horror…not sure I’d cope with trying to fit romance amongst the full sorrow of mass murder and hatred).  He believes he is just returning to his village and normal life will continue…after all he is technically of Yugoslavian nationality.  He thinks he can just go back to working on the farm for his parents.  Wrong.  His parents are dead, being considered fascist pigs by now occupying Russian forces.  All the family belongings have been taken.  What should happen to him?  In a twist of fate, the family of the Serb he shot help him (being broken but compassionate people) escape to Hungary and then Austria where he dies in a wintry refugee camp, disillusioned, broken and guilty of things he can do nothing about now.  Fellow refugees will hate him for losing the war, others for corrupting their village and not fighting AGAINST the Germans, others will hate him for being an ethnic German.  He was ultimately a tiny, pathetic little cog in the wheel of evil.  It will keep on turning once he breaks off and dies as rusty dust in the wind.  Hitler, the shouty weasel coward twat, got his place in history but his distant little man syndrome minions & how they fell for the bullshit could offer us some insight into why extremist ideologies are fucked and only lead to other extremist ideologies and we should allow love to happen, however it does, without being cunts.  The end.  But I didn’t write that story….maybe someone should.  Maybe I should.  Has someone already done that? 

Okay, side note/random plot thought over. Sorry about that it came from nowhere. 

Regarding The New Aristocracy – my dystopian romance which I wrote, rewrote, lost, rewrote etc., etc., I’ve had this beta read a few years ago and was told by a more successful writer friend that this has serious potential and would be really worth querying for.  I was about 45,000 into another re-write when I wanted to gauge my eyes out I was so sick of looking at it.  So, I did what any self-respecting writer would do…I begged on Twitter for someone to look at it.  One friend obliged, though he is kinda busy as he writes full time so let’s just say I’m not holding my breath.  I just desperately wanted another opinion as to whether this story is still relevant and would work or if perhaps I should kill it and/or re-think the whole darn thing. 

So…the future…well…part of it is poetry.  I freaking love writing poems based on the Twitter prompts.  Poetry forces one to use language as necessary while at the same time you can get a little flowery (long as you’re being original and not too annoying about it).  I love writing poetry with swear words, or old fashioned under used words…it’s something I like.  So I’ve started collecting some of my poems. 

Also, I’ve got a whole mess of vampire short stories just hanging out on my laptop.  I’ve started a new one and…I think it’s gonna be novel length.  I like this one.  I’m debating how sexy it’s gonna be.  My writing thus far remains…PG 13.  But that could change.  I do follow a few erotic writers on Twitter and to be honest…they tend to be super cool.  But one thing they (and a lot of writers of other genres) have in common is that they totally write under a pseudonym.).  I don’t.  I actually am Jessica Nicholls. I’m not saying I want to get a pen name so I can immediately get smutty (although…I do like steamy stuff. I feel it adds that other level to a relationship and while hinting at it in romance is fine…the audience gets the point and all…it is realistic that, unless your characters are asexual, they are going to fuck at some point and it’s a writing challenge I’m itching to take on).  I am talking about privacy, the fact that I’m a Mom with a teen who tells friends I’m a writer and I don’t want to embarrass anybody.  Not that writing sex scenes is something to be ashamed of (quite the contrary), but it is something that could get a little awkward amongst certain circles and frankly, kids can be assholes. 

Funnily enough, my dearly departed mother who was quite old fashioned regarding her views of how a young woman should behave…read my writing once and said “Jeez, Jess…I mean some of your descriptions…you could write porn.”  Thanks, Mom.  When she would occasionally step outside constricts of her era & upbringing she always gave hints of being rather forward thinking and intellectual. 

There’s a part of me that wants to go back and make Into the Arms of Morpheus more intimate by adding…well…ya know…intimacy.  There were moments when writing it all those years ago when I felt getting a bit saucy would have been appropriate but I held back as I was like…”oh what will people think?”  Sure enough a certain in law actually said “well, it’s very difficult to separate that it’s you who’s written this.”  Let’s just say I care a lot less about shit like that now. 

So many tropes, so many avenues to explore.  I need to get more writing out there.  Like…need to. 

I’ve heard two rather well known writers mention how they need to sweat and get some energy spent before sitting down to write.  I kinda get this. Actually, I really get this.  After working out, the mind is so clear.  So, I’m back at the gym.  You wouldn’t pissin’ know it from looking at me right now but there it is. Last week was hard as it was “half term” school break and my other half was around so that meant….more or less seven straight days of constant family time and getting errandy crap done around the house.  Lovely…good but jeez I need to be alone.  

Also, when there’s no pressure of doing the school run/work/gym in the morning I tend to have wine in the evening.  I’m better than I was at one point…but it’s still a vice I have.  Gym time helps balance my crazy and I’m able to have a drink without feeling as though I need to kill every and all brain cells as I haven’t sweated out my madness before I could try and write it out. 

So…the gym it is…I’ve always liked it. And it’s always made me a better person and a better writer.  Also, some days there are just other commitments/things to sort out/ we also have a dog now (the little walks we go on are nice but…not adequate sweat wise).  So I need to be able to write whenever the opportunity presents itself.  There’s no more oh the moon must be in Leo and the incense must be burning I have to have had one coffee and one green tea and Gregorian chant must be playing.  Don’t get me wrong I love that shit but expecting everything to be perfect when a free couple of hours comes along isn’t going to help my progress. 

So, there you have it.  An update from me.  Apologies for the ramble but then…I am a bit wordy. 

Take care all. 

Hello, All.   I’m a mother to a teen girl and while I do not assume other parents don’t get angry about such things when I saw an account boasting a bio of “proud hebephile” I saw red. (note: a hebephile is someone who is sexually attracted to pubescent children.  Namely 11-14 year olds.  I obviously blocked and reported this guy.  I then, with some hesitance, unfollowed a few writer’s accounts I saw in his follower list.  In no way did I assume they approve of “hebephiles”. 

I was feeling exceptionally negative about the practice of immediately following folks back.  In this rash frame of mind, I posted about this, thus temporarily forgetting that bios do change and those writers I knew who followed the “proud hebephile” likely did this when his bio did not boast this information.  In other words, it wasn’t that they don’t check bios, it was just that this guy is a sneaky, shitty fuck. 

My decision to unfollow was unwise. 

I got called out (not by name) but by my post using the #writerscommunity hashtag by a much better known and more successful writer than myself.  So here I am, feeling like a bit of a dick.  Again. 

Obviously no one has a problem with a mom  (or indeed person…of which I am one) getting enraged about the potential normalization of a sexual taste for underaged girls. 

But Twitter writers get enraged when they feel you’ve abandoned them and made assumptions about follow practices and gone on a preachy thread about it. 

Now, I don’t feel like writing poetry or participating in the seduce me Sunday hashtag.  Being let on to the existence of a proud hebephile wasn’t exactly an inspiration for today’s themes and prompts.  Then pissing off a rather big member of the writing community due to an ill judged post, I’m in both “eww” and “Shit, Jessica…really?” mode.

I mentioned no one by name, apart from the reported account.

But it was bad judgement in reporting this by not privately notifying those who I noticed were following this degenerate and just doing a post. In all honesty I felt that I rarely if never have interacted with one particular account (and this is a great writer/poet, a funny person who I have literally no personal beef with), I was just wanting to get across the message of vetting who you follow.

Now, yes I do “house cleaning” generally with followers.  This I’m not sorry for.  If folks only follow me to get me to follow them then bugger off, or if their feed is purely promo or politics and nothing else (a bit is fine…but endless promos and political rants get tiresome).  Or if the account seems inactive then yeah…I probably will unfollow.  That sort of stuff is indeed my prerogative and I can encourage in my timeline what I want.  I’m not obliged to follow any and all writers just to be polite.

I need to work on being more assertive, less oversensitive and less hard on myself.  I’ve been told that by people who physically, personally know me and by Twitter friends.

BUT I will always say sorry for upsetting people when I genuinely feel I’ve been unfair.  There’s so much in the world of people feeling they don’t have to be accountable for their behavior that I am determined to reject that mindset.  I can’t control other people being entitled, petty, arrogant or narcissistic.  BUT I can admit it when I’ve been inappropriately preachy, short sighted and insensitive in my actions.  Being a “soft” or “nice” person isn’t a get out clause for upsetting people. 

I’ve been rash in unfollowing some people and in no way shape or form do I associate them with something as vile as the content within the blocked/reported account in question.  In hindsight a DM or general post before considering unfollowing would have been more level headed.  Bios do change, people can follow back whoever they want to follow back. 

I still recommend vetting people/checking bios when people can, I’m getting choosier and choosier about who I follow. 

I’m sorry for pissing off fellow writers and causing twitter drama.  It really wasn’t on my to do list when I woke up this morning.  All the same it happened and I regret it. 

I’m not leaving Twitter again though.  People can take unfollow me if they want, obviously they’ll refer to me directly or indirectly in a negative way whether I like it or not.  

Happy New Year. 

I am an oversensitive idiot sometimes.  I miss the point in what’s going on and don’t realize until later that what I thought was happening…wasn’t happening.  As an introvert, I can take harmless jokes as intentional mockery.  In that process, to whoever might be paying attention, I make myself look a fool.  In all honesty I am one…at times.  In other moments I’m like, really cool.    

So…I’m back on Twitter.  There is some shifty shit that happens on there, but it’s also a useful writer’s platform and frankly I missed a lot of people. 

The break did me good. I was able to put things into perspective.  I am going to manage my time a bit better. I spent some time with my manuscripts minus the obsession with hashtags and Twitter likes.

But one thing that I’ve really learned this year is this…admitting you’ve done something wrong is good for the soul.  The alternative is a dark place where you are vulnerable to the lesser side of humanity. 

All around us are the consequences of people digging their heels in, letting ego get the better of them and refusing to look at things differently.  It’s hard.  And the darker side of our nature creeps in, wanting to have a crack at others who we feel look down on us.  There’s also just downright anger. 

Anger is the midnight feed that turns gizmos into gremlins.  Sometimes we have a right to be angry.  Sometimes we are just being assholes. Understanding the difference can be a challenge.

Make no mistake…something is in the air trying to polarize us.  Trying to play on our insecurities.  Trying to isolate us from one another.  Sometimes that something is within us.  Our “inner twat” if you will.  

My lesson this year is that you should never tolerate bullshit.  Don’t be a sap.  But never give in to the side of human nature that wants to dig its heels in, despite knowing a mistake or misunderstanding has occurred, refuses to say I’m sorry and demands giving the world or whoever you wronged a big “fuck you…I’m entitled to my sanctimonious indignation…I ain’t going back on shit.”   

Very, very few people are entitled to sanctimonious indignation. 

Anyway, Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule, hope you all had a Happy Hanukkah earlier this month and Happy Holidays.    

Love

Jess

Limping, simpering along

A washed up swan song

Your beard above the lace

Pretty bard’s poker face

Stuck in a hell of a rut

Useless feeling in the gut

Knees are cold from the floor

There wasn’t room for one more

Retching the miserable wretch

A cur that won’t fetch

It’s the simplest thing

The silver throat refuses to sing.

I’ve just de-activated my Twitter account. This has been coming on a while.  I was getting a lot of likes by private accounts which I found creepy to be honest.  Who the fuck was watching me?  Psychos?  Elite politicians?  Family members I’d rather not speak to?  The horrible thing is…I was also…on there too much.  Those hashtag prompts were addicting to the point where I caught myself staring like a total fucking moron into the screen, grinning as I composed…tweets.  Sure they were poems.  Sure they were tiny flash fictions or bits of prose…but they were just fucking tweets.  Yes I did share the odd passage from my WIPs but really, my WIPs have been suffering as a result of Twitter.  I could have published a collection of poems and at least one of my WIPs by now if I hadn’t been fucking about on Twitter.

I de-activated Facebook due to issues with crazy-assed family and in laws.  I de-activated Twitter because I’m pretty fucking crazy.  And that’s just it…social media is not an outlet for stress.  It’s a sponging platform on which your algorithm allotted show times need to shine over everyone else’s whilst you struggle to stand upon said sponge (platform).  People like your tweets, they re-post/re-tweet/share etc.  You say thank you.  Then you either fail to gain notice, get totally disillusioned and bitter or you rise up above those fucking failures and say thank you when you need a little boost outside of your exhaustingly successful life.  That’s the kind and….kind of funny side of it. 

There’s another one too. I’m fairly sure it’s inhabited by mutants and demon spawn and the odd horny yet disillusioned angel with a hose.

Yes, there are nice people on social media, I’ve met and interacted with many seemingly lovely people.  And I’ve genuinely admired so many great snippets of writing.  I’m not gonna call anybody out. I don’t think “certain people” who I “followed” weren’t nice or whatever. How the fuck would I know anyway?  IT’S. FUCKING. TWITTER. A fun distraction.  A decent marketing platform.  Everyone has a persona or a pen name on there.  Frankly, to go on without one is like going into cyber battle with no armour. What the fuck ever.  

I wasn’t trolled or traumatized.  I AM over-sensitive and at one point last night, after offering my support and even clumsily complimenting someone…I found myself re-living a high-school scenario with the popular girls at school.  And I actually never was treated poorly by the popular girls at school.  These people were just “teasing” me.  They thought I was funny in sort of a gang up on the nice girl sort of way.  I was like….fuck this.  I’ve got writing to do.  I’m fucking around talking to people I’ve never met to get trapped in an episode of Mean Girls?  Um.  No. 

So, perhaps there will be a poem or a writing update or yes…god…maybe a rant or two.  But I’m going to pull my head out of my ass and write like I fucking mean it.  It’s nearly New Moon.  Time to cut out that which no longer serves me and sometimes….that shit hurts.  To all the lovely people on Twitter who seem nothing but nice and genuine and just trying to get some writerly support who are maybe confused by my absence…I’m sorry.  It’s very possible I’ll come back as someone else.  But something had to give last night and Twitter was it.  

Ever have those days where you feel like stuffing yourself with cheese & jalapeno flavored crisps?  Then ordering some spicy rich takeaway food and eating till your already straining pants remind you that your stomach does have limits?  You tell yourself, this is it.  This is the last time I do this.  This is disgusting.  I’m disgusting.  Tomorrow I’ll run and feel good again.  I used to be so good at control. 

Where did it all go wrong?  International moves, loss of a loved one, total fall out with family.  A re-occurring theme in life of complete and utter lack of accountability for actions and behavior. 

Tomorrow comes and you wake up wishing sleep would swallow you whole so no one can see you on the outside. 

But tomorrow always comes.  And sleep is a tease currently making a point of evading you in the wee hours then kicking in full throttle about thirty minutes before you need to get up.  And you do need to get up.  People rely on you getting up.  When you don’t get up it’s weird.  Nobody knows where anything is, nobody else slept well enough to cope with the morning routine.

The dog doesn’t listen to anyone else.  He just looks for you, he’s a naughty puppy. 

Don’t talk about politics it’s annoying.  You’ll get pulled down a rabbit hole of trolls and unpopular opinions and annoying…politicians and people you do NOT agree with.  Polarize. Divide and Conquer.  Nothing is right.  Nothing works.  There’s an impending apocalypse, use less plastic we’re all going to die try yoga.  Where’s the fucking wine? 

I drink.  I stress/compulsive eat (duh…did you not read that first bit?) and I make half assed attempts to exercise on a reasonably frequent basis.  I’m on my feet a lot and when I’m not moving around like an idiot I’m very busy over thinking at least three manuscripts I’ve had on the go for far too long. 

Through all of that I’m not all that horrible looking.  Nor am I particularly stupid.  My husband is still attracted to me, my mother once told me I’m pretty but not beautiful and my Dad congratulated me on keeping my weight down whilst pregnant.  I’m kind of vain.  I worry I value my looks over my intelligence. I think my kids are smarter than me. Also…apparently I would have made an excellent flight attendant or kindergarden teacher.  I shouldn’t judge myself based on what others think.  But I do.  When’s lunch?  Do I really have to make it?  Spoiled, western twat.  I know…I know.  It’s not all about me.  We’re so insulated these days.  So withdrawn. It’s all about us.  Me me me me.

I want to help the world with a book.  I want to entertain people.  I want people to notice me.  I fancy having a crack at erotica.  I’m avoiding a paranormal romance I’m co-authoring with a buddy (who I’ve never met…such is life these days) by blogging stream of consciousness nonsense.  I’m reading The Little Demons Inside.  Micah Chaim Thomas is much smarter than me.  I feel sorry for Henry and am really hoping he and Cassie get together but there’s all this conspiracy greed ruled secret evil magic stuff happening.   I finished Demon Tamer, it was only short and  F.T. McKinstry is a bit of a bad ass when it comes to channeling the Otherworld.  Being put to sleep and protected by a dark elf…deals with sea witches in freaky coastal caves.  These are books I should really get hard copies of.  So pretty.  BTW F.T. if you’re reading this I will add my review on Goodreads and Amazon.  

I get instant gratification from tweeting.  Jeez if fades fast though.  Gimme those likes kids and I’ll return the favor.  Not like it’s a favor when I like or retweet I genuinely do it ‘cause I actually liked it or wanted to share.  It’s not contrived or with an agenda.  I’m not that clever.  I despise pretentiousness.  I don’t get people who live for their social media portrayal of their lives.  I don’t post my life.  I just post desperate attempts to impress people *sheepish look*.  

I realize while I type this there are horrible horrible things happening in the world and here I am, listening to haunt themed music compilations on Youtube, avoiding my manuscripts…thinking about my weight.  But look at my fingers go…tap tap tap.

It’s mental health awareness day.  I’m actually okay. Apart from stuffing my face and then hating myself and working hard not to drink way too much wine during the week.  I get that that’s not good.  I’m getting too old for that shit. 

And cookies and advertisements on Instagram I know are directed at me.  Shape control wear (which I don’t use by the way) Weight loss apps (which I also don’t use) Witch stuff (I like the pretty stones and skulls and alternative pagan spirituality…even if I rarely meditate or do spells.  I do light incense and chant stuff).  Inner peace and books.  Like I said…incense and I read and write. 

You’re watching me.  Hi.  I hope you’re okay?  I don’t go for all that life’s a bitch and then you die sort of thing.  Life is hard.  It’s harder for others.  People can be cruel, selfish entirely motivated by their specific agendas.  Screw the poor, it’s their fault sort of stuff.  Screw the rich, they are all inherently evil.  Control everyone in between. Fucking plebs. Pull yourself up by the bootstraps and get a grip.  Pretend to be ill to get out of work cause it’s boring then hate on immigrants.  There are good and bad people from all walks of life.  Tolerate being desperately underprivileged cause your history is inconvenient. Tell her she’s pretty…not everyone looks like a Victoria’s Secret Angel.  Make him feel better, not everyone has abs…jeez.  Not everyone feels like a he or a her.  However you feel, just don’t be a patronizing twat. That’s a sin.  Bigotry is okay in some situations but not in others.  Wait, what?  The Bible says this tho.  You’re an asshole.  Opinions are like assholes….

Everyone’s got one.  Everyone can be one.  But not everyone IS one.

Like I said…where’s the fucking wine?  Just kidding.  I’m really trying to lay off during the week.  I’m kidding.  There are people much more qualified to give advice for mental health awareness day. 

But know this.  It actually is okay not to be okay.  It’s never okay to be an asshole.  And watch out for cookies and trolls and stuff.  Eat a real cookie.  Go buy one of those troll dolls from the eighties.  That won’t solve anything but it’s amusing and symbolic. 

It’s going to be Halloween soon.  That makes me happy.  I need to go now.  I really, really do hope you are all okay. 

And if you’re not…know this:   Pizza express has a vegan menu.  I’m not vegan…I just thought you’d want to know…I’d struggle to be vegan I fucking love cheese. Pizza express is a chain restaurant prevalent in the UK town centers btw.  Great dough balls.  Not crazy expensive…not cheap either.  Very family friendly but there is wine (tho not in the overseas UAE branches).  I still miss the pizza and Italian food in my native Midwest (though I’m not native…I did one of those DNA test thingys just like a proper privileged person and I found out…wait for it….I am descended from a lot of white assholes).  Not dishonoring all of my ancestors some of them were alright actually….though some really weren’t.  I’ll do a different post on that at another time. Spoiler alert:  I’m like 21% Irish.  I’m not Italian but JEEZ I love their food.  I got one great grandpa….he actually admitted to being a bookie on a US Census.  That’s what he admitted. 

You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.  But apple cider vinegar helps with fungus apparently as does tea tree oil.  Though you must dilute with water and oil respectively.  

You know what?  Even if no one reads this…I feel a little less like stuffing my face with jalapeno flavored pretzels.  A little.   I’ll wait for lunch. I can’t go pig out anyway there’s people at the house today and I’ll get caught.  Dammit.

See you guys later….

Welcome everyone, to my review of Abigail Owen’s two new releases, The Mate (a prequel) and The Boss.

Prepare yourselves because I over think everything.  Even reviews of shape shifter romance.

I have worked with Abigail Owen before.  She’s a delightful lady who can churn out a love story like it’s nobody’s business.  I volunteered to read her latest releases in exchange for an honest opinion.

So…let’s get down to some story, dragons, sex appeal and character types.  Let’s get a little uptight….perhaps a little weird or over-analytical.  Then…we’ll relax. 

Having read some of Abigail’s YA stuff, I was curious where she’d take steamier grown up romance.

Let’s start with The Mate.  It’s a shorter story involving Fallon, the younger brother of Finn (the male lead in The Boss).  Fallon is summoned to a choosing ceremony in France.  Owen’s world involves dragon shifters of different colors (some are fast, some brutal fighters, some better at espionage depending on whether they’re blue, gold, black, etc.).  The Dragon clans come from all over the world and settle in colonies elsewhere.  They involve themselves in the human world investigating arson, helping with forest fires, etc.  Owens’ dragons can absorb fire back into their bodies.  Oh…and the men are mostly on the tall side, with striking eyes and rather virile. 

I feel I have to say something here.  I’m all about welcoming different standards of beauty for both men and women.  I don’t think it’s fair to expect every dude to look twenty eight, have a six-pack and a jaw line to rival any personal trainer/male model.  

At the moment I’m keen to see love stories involving characters who struggle to get up a flight of stairs, who are a bit softer around the middle and a bit rougher around the edges.  The thing with these hot dragon shifter ultra male dragons is…yes they are super attractive (handsome shaming is unfair, even if not as nasty and damaging as fat or ugly shaming)…but looks ARE secondary to the love.  The Mate and The Boss are about the specific connection between the specific characters more than “oh that guy has abs and is thus worthy of love and sexual fulfillment”…sort of deal.   

I’m critical of double standards.  We’ll get to that in a bit.  This is supposed to be fun. 

Anyhoo, another aspect of this dragon shifter world is that male dragons can’t fall in love with and have little dragon shifter babies with just anyone.  They need to find a female hidden in the human world who is secretly a “dragon shifter mate”.  Signs of being one of these lucky ladies include a hidden brand on the back of the neck or maybe starting fires without intending to.  Once recognized, these ladies are then presented to a council of sorts who choose possible male dragon shifter mates and they go through a process of spending time together until ultimately the lady chooses her mate out of the male dragon shifters. 

Almost everyone is hot here. I guess flying around and working in the business of catching arsonists and containing fires keeps you fit.  Plus, other worldly creatures in paranormal romance stories tend to be on the attractive side.  Just relax and enjoy it, Jessica…jeez. You aren’t perpetuating unfair standards of beauty by enjoying a damn good shape shifter romance. 

Okay.  This is the clincher.  This is important.  The mating ceremony itself involves the couple (now Council approved) getting some alone time, getting intimate and then the male gives his lady mate one hell of a kiss involving pushing his fire inside of her with his mouth (he is still in human form btw but they can summon their fire all the same).  This, all being well, means that his woman is transformed into a proper dragon shifter and they then live (for a very long time) happily ever after.  All not being well, (meaning the match was not meant to be), the dragon fire burns the woman from the inside and she dies a horrible painful death in her would be lover’s arms while he watches in helpless terror and despair.

In The Mate, Fallon is taken aback when he sees a possible mate for him, chosen by the Council to be a previous (as far as he was concerned, human) colleague named Maddie.  These two really, REALLY liked each other while working on an arson case a few months previous.  However, seeing as Fallon did not recognize any “dragon mate” qualities in Maddie…he had to ignore his feelings and he buggered off.  She was annoyed (as you would be) by his abrupt departure from her life.  She was pretty into him (as you would be).  Maddie is a funny t-shirt wearing, independent sort who is a little freaked out by suddenly finding out about the existence of dragon shifters (as you would be).

I won’t give too much more away…The Mate is a prequel to The Boss. 

The Boss is the main event.  The main male player here is Finn, Fallon’s older brother. Now Finn…has previously experienced the very very bad version of the mating ceremony.  It gave him PTSD and he isn’t all that keen on finding love again.  He’s too traumatized (as you would be).  That’s the last time I say that, I promise. 

Enter Delaney, a (by all immediate observations) human who has an issue with a stalker, black outs and fires.  She’s also suffered a horrendous loss in her life due to fire.  She’s very sweet and a tad self-sacrificing.  Finn is literally, The Boss of a hot shot crew of dragon shifters (including Fallon although he’s away pursuing Maddie in France while Finn’s story is going on) who sort out rogue shifters up to no good and contain forest fires…stuff like that.

There’s political upheaval in the Dragon world while all this is happening which makes things awkward for the potential couples.  Not everyone is into this stringent, old world Mating Council choosing ceremony deal.  There’s going to be more of this, I can tell.  I can smell the elements of loyalty at all costs, the get with the winning team types, betrayal and espionage potential is all there.  It’s about to kick off in dragon shifter world. 

Make no mistake, this is a fully built, international, functioning world with its own politics, history, shady characters, hardships, rises and falls.  Owen could probably tell you how each individual shifter’s house is decorated and on what date they pay their electric bill every month.  She’s likely also catalogued every t-shirt Maddie owns and what fitness equipment Levi uses most.

This is not some hastily thrown together paranormal nonsense just so that heterosexual cis females can read about sexy magic jaw line abs guy doing the lucky girl next door (who also happens to be gorgeous). 

Let’s be honest after Twilight and 50 Shades everyone and their mother was like “I want to make money by writing about sexy yet crazy unrealistic one dimensional dudes who get really REALLY into the girl next door *cough* who is like me!” 

As I’m sure Abigail Owen and many, many other romance or erotica or hell…ANY writers in general making a living from your craft is not a given.  Like at all.  Let’s bat that myth right out of here….

Abigail Owen (whose other pen name is Kadie Scott), is a professional.  Her writing is polished, she’s an experienced story teller. She’s well aware of the tropes and dynamics at play in romance books.  She knows what works because she’s a fan of the genre itself.  She can world build in her sleep.  She brings two people who as a reader, you can invest in.  You can see why they would be drawn together.  The chemistry is palpable. My heart broke for Delaney and Finn as what they’d been through before meeting is integral to the story.  

These are realistic characters apart from the whole dragon shifter, fire breathing magic mating symbols deal. 

Suspension of disbelief, you BEAUTY!  

Another aspect of The Boss is that it’s…like really sexy.  Like it’s entering into proper erotica territory at certain points.  There’s dirty talk.  There’s a pair of dragon shifters named Keighan and Rivin who….okay you know what?  No spoilers.  I was rather taken aback by the level of steam.  There’s this one shifter named Levi and…okay.  It’s worth reading.  Owen is not done.  There’s more to come.  All the lovely fellows who work for Finn are going to have their day in the sun. 

I’m going to over-analyze a bit again. As stated before, I’m a cis female, heterosexual, fifty shades of really into paranormal stuff sort.  You could say I fit somewhere in Abigail Owen’s target audience.  You could say that.

I do get upset by the abundance of imagery involving women with perfect peach butts, tiny waists and dewy complexions who incidentally could rarely pass for over twenty five.  Yet I also get that always having topless, not an ounce of fat on them muscle dudes with the flawless jaw lines who could rarely pass for over thirty five images of “hot” men isn’t fair either.

Again, I’m not trying to handsome shame poor Finn or Fallon.  They were designed by Abigail Owen not just to appeal to the likes of me, but also to tell a story.  And by the way, they don’t have it easy.  Owen really messes with them and their potential happiness. 

She’s not all “Yes my beautiful darlings, that nasty villain just tried to hurt your special lady….but don’t worry he’ll give you an attractive scar that will make you extra manly before you easily defeat him and ride off into the sunset for some naughty time…” 

She’s really more “You are really messed up and your world is cruel.  You could easily live for thousands of years in pure misery.  Prepare for suffering.  Suffer. Suffer. Little bit happy. Get exceptionally aroused.  Suffer. Naughty…naughty stuff.  Fight.  Suffer.  Funny….now really very naughty…” Okay I won’t do a spoiler like I did before.

Anyway I don’t want to gorgeous shame female Instagram models or lady adult performers who likely are there to appeal to cis male heterosexual Fifty Shades of hot co-ed sorts…I just want to be real here. 

There was a lot of guffawing over “Mom porn” a while back.   I remember well my Dad poking fun at my Mom for reading “bodice rippers” back in the eighties.  Personally…I still love a good bodice ripper.  Hello…Natasha Blackthorne. 

I despise that term by the way, ”Mom porn”…not bodice rippers.  That’s an awesome term.  I’m a firm believer in the integrity of a good bodice ripper.  Not everyone can write a good one though.  I would be interested in Abigail Owen having a go.  Maybe she will one day. 

Anyhoo…

So, I acknowledge that expecting men and women to maintain certain standards of beauty in order to be considered sexy and appealing is wrong. I believe that encouraging these character types to be considered models on which to base our own real actual lives and relationships is…daft. 

It’s not real.  Neither are male model/personal trainer looking fireman dragon shifters who are also chivalrous yet vulnerable loveable yet hard assed hero devil may care magical ethereal gazed crime solvers fantasy husband material. 

But it is a fun, well crafted paranormal romance read in a sea of others intended to base their appeal on “hot guys or hot ladies.”  Rather than basing it on world building, character and story.  The hot thing is just a really cool bonus. 

This actually accomplishes what great paranormal romance is supposed to do: suspension of disbelief, getting drawn into a world, seeing it unfold, rooting for the characters, being interested in what will happen next, accepting the fantasy, escaping for just a little while, putting a smile on our face and making our hearts race. 

In reading characters who are beautiful outside as well as in, going on a journey some might dismiss as frivolous guilty pleasure…I had a really good time.  Thanks Abigail. 

Below is a continuation of the previous story I wrote under the last post.  I’m really just playing at this point, seem to need an instant outlet.  Anyway.  We begin with Sylva…

Mighty Nyx

There is a time during the evening when I’m finally alone.  His voice leaves my head and he goes and does…what he does.  I always imagined Morpheus to be omnipresent, how a god should be.  Yet there were moments when he isn’t around.  Lately, they’ve become few and far between. Not this one though.  In the hour before I get ready for bed, before I get ready for him…I am alone.

In this hour after sunset, after a meal and dishes, that I decided to summon her.

Nyx.

She came to me once, via the Morpheus induced chanting of another.  A man, a boy declaring his devotion.   It’s a long, silly story but she saved me.

“Imagine your surprise, Morpheus…when you expected me to do my usual chant for you, take my bath, light my candle and you found me, unwilling to lay into your arms.  Your. Invisible. Fucking. Arms.”

He looks more real than ever.  Young…his low brows raising just enough to reveal his concern, dark eyes widening.  I reach out for him and as usual he is just out of my reach, despite being right before me.

“I smell sandalwood…”

I show him what I did.  He sees inside me and he knows what happened not thirty minutes ago.

“Dark night bathes me, all save the glittering stars, shrouded.  I dedicate this to you, mighty Nyx.”

Smoke fills my nose as I say,

“Come to me, Nyx.  You were my friend once. You made your presence known, dimming all save those you choose to save.”

He shakes his head, saying “she doesn’t always…” then stops.

A hand grasps my shoulder, so firm it almost hurts.

Then I’m thrown onto the bed.  My body submitted to the force, flying onto my mattress with a bounce.  The view of my ceiling is marred by a hooded figure draped in black.  I can’t see any face or fingers.  Just a shadow.

Morpheus whispers in my ear,

“In case you’re wondering, Sylvia…Nyx has many forms and facets.  For all we know, she may have completely forgotten about you.  Are you sure you didn’t summon Thanatos by mistake?”

With that, a hand comes out and pushes back the hood.  It’s Nina…or Nyx’s chosen human form for when she was dealing with me, anyway.  But she’s angry.  She opens her mouth and the voice that comes out is deeper than I remember.

“I’m overdue for killing someone.  So it’s really a shame you just HAD to summon me!”

Her eyes go demon black.  Then she narrows them and they become the deep brown I recall. She looks like a Greek woman again.   She’s aged but that isn’t a negative.  Her face has depth.  It’s known passion as well as pain.  She’s no longer playing a student.

“Oh, I see…is this god still bothering you?

Morpheus is close, saying nothing.

I hear the sea in my ears and look down at my body.  I’m not myself.  I’m huge, the image of a Greek god.

It’s the grey hairs on my built chest that are most unnerving.  That and a form of desire I literally never had any chance of feeling in my actual body.

Nyx sits on top of me and I grit my teeth.  This is so messed up.  She’s actually straddling me and my reaction to her is freakishly natural.  Lithe fingers stroke my hair, which isn’t my hair and I grunt.  She grins like a maniac.

“I know you’re in there, Sylvia.  Don’t think I won’t do this.  You know I’ve really got a thing for Poseidon. Care to watch, Morpheus?”

His breath is near my ear.  But I can’t feel it.  I do however, definitely feel her.

She grabs my throat, hot palm pressing against my Adam’s apple, which is again…odd.  My vision dims, like I’m being swallowed inside the night itself.  Which, I suppose I am.

“By the way, if I hadn’t lain next to you the other night he might have smothered you in your sleep, which I see he keeps having a little crack at every now and again…just to let you know who’s boss, eh Morpheus?”

He laughs, softly.  The way a lover would laugh when teasing a partner.  “Sylvia knows where her heart lies.” He says.

With that she strokes my chest and her face goes somewhat…impersonal.  “Nothing is free, Sylvia.  You have to give something.  I need something from you, if you want my help.”

I can’t go back.  I’ve summoned Nyx, Goddess of Night.  If I plea to stay in the care of Morpheus he’ll find all manner of ways to torment me in my dreams.

There’s something on the bed side table   I grasp for it with hands that are not my own.  There’s a flash of lightning in the sky, illuminating the room.  An ancient bronze dagger shines in my right hand.  When darkness returns, thunder rumbles and Nyx laughs.

Anyone else would imagine Zeus was expressing his discontent.  I understood he was helping her show me where the athame was.  The flashes and rumbles were obedient, submissive atmosphere.  Not like the storms I remember as a child.

“I should have left you dormant on that dream beach with your sea god boy toy.”  Morpheus mutters.

An instinct I don’t understand turns my head and I grit my teeth at him.  It seems I am unable to move, despite my visual strength.

He grins.  “She’s made you…solid.  I can make you do anything, you know?  And make it seem sooo real.”

This is humiliating.  I can almost feel how Poseidon must have felt under her spell.  Deep, wanton urges to be her pet surpass all reason.  For a moment, I don’t even know who I am.  Who am I more afraid of?

Lightning flashes and I feel the handle of the knife in my right hand.  Tunnel vision, like a black funnel to Nyx as she stares down like I’m a piece of meat.

I stare back, take the knife and slash my left palm with a cry, presenting it to her.  It stings and it’s possible the cut is too deep.

“I summoned you, Nyx.  For freedom from the god, Morpheus…”  I pause, my actual voice escapes Poseidon’s lips and tears sting my eyes before I carry on.

“Morpheus who has infiltrated my dreams, subdued me and snared me.  I want to be free.  In exchange for this…I’ll give you myself, mighty Goddess.  I’ll devote myself to you.”

My dripping palm is before her and the ocean rises around us like we’re on a sinking ship.  That’s Morpheus…threatening to drown me.  Before I give over to the terror of drowning in my own bedroom as a helpless lummox copy of a Greek god, Nyx grabs my hand and sucks the blood from my palm.

As she does, the waters subside and Morpheus’ presence fades.  I hear a muttered curse as he leaves.  I am myself again.  It’s Nyx who whispers in my ear.  I smell blood.  Her full weight is on me.

“You are lovely, Sylvia…but I was really enjoying that other form.  Oh well…”  She dismounts from me, wiping her lips.

I shoot up, expecting to wake from some odd dream. Yet she’s still there, only now perched in front of my window, a satisfied smile on her face.

It’s the dead of night.  Hours have passed since the confrontation with Morpheus.

“You won’t be able to go anywhere during the day now, Sylvia.  At least, not at first.”

“What…am I a vampire?”

Nyx chuckles.  “No, dear.  You are just…mine.”

I realize now in summoning Nyx in such a formal way, what I’ve sacrificed.

Everything.

So, as it’s summer and actual proper writing time is scarce….I am limited to stealing five minutes here and there to interact with the writing community on Twitter.  Thanks to the hashtag games…some of my favorites are #BadWordSat and #Satsplat…and I try to get involved with #vss365.  Below is a little short based on those themes/tweets.  It’s like not being able to get to the gym (and ironically, I haven’t been to the gym in months)…not being able to steal myself away for three-four hours, five days a week and just focus on my WIPs.  I’m in demand from grown ups and children and one small canine at the moment.  But I’m not posting today to moan about the demands of grown up life.

Without further ado…here are Sylvia and Morpheus:

One arm and one leg dangle over the bridge. The concrete, cold and unloving beneath my back, is a weak barrier to him.  While the sky above echoes with all the noise of any capital city, the river below carries his voice.

“Just roll over, join me.”  he whispers from flowing waters.

I wince, “I’m in bed, I’m in bed, I’m in bed…”

“The river bed is soft, warm.  Why, it’s intimate even.  We could, what is it you mortals say…fu.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now, Sylvia, that’s not very nice.”

He thinly veils an angry tone.  I don’t usually talk back.  I’ve always been so in awe, so devoted.

Looking up at the slate grey sky, it’s like an eternal day, but I’m asleep and robbed of warm light.

I miss her….Nyx.  I miss her and it feels as though she’s never been part of my life.  That’s what he’s doing, removing any familiarity with anyone else.  I’m dreaming of some random capital city, It’s a labyrinth of unknown people and places.  Strange smells.  Angry, sweary shouts from motorists.

For a moment, the sky flickers a darker color.  He is in my head, he knows I’m thinking of her.  He’s pretended to be her before.  A strong female savior.  Raven hair flying in the wind as she rides in.

“Do you really think she has time for you?  She was momentarily interested, it was years ago.”

I start to shiver.  I know I’m in bed, If I could just wake up and pull the covers over myself, or even better, go have a hot shower and walk out into you know…the world.  I’ve got to get to work.

He keeps doing this every night, trapping me for as long as possible in a dream.  Only it gets deeper and deeper. It’s not about being sleepy anymore…he’s made his realm inside my head.

“Hold me, Sylvia…hold me in your arms…” his voice has a mocking tone to it. not cruel, more…teasing and flirting.

“Why don’t you show yourself, Morpheus? Why can I never see what you really look like?”

“I’m a god…can’t you try and imagine?”

“You’re the only god who cannot touch mortals physically.  You can take any form, get into any sleeping mind…but you can’t touch and you aren’t tangible.  So…why do you talk about us being together in some way like two humans could be together?”

His voice is so close to my ear, it’s like I could guess the shape of his teeth, the size of his mouth.  I still can’t turn or move, but my bed is becoming more real.  Because that IS where I actually am.

“Sometimes, Sylvia the way two can become closest, become one…is by entwining their minds.  No mortal could do that for you, no amount of fluid exchanging, fleshy friction and filthy whispers can do that.  Only I have access to your core.”

With that, my eyes open.  The bridge, the river, the city is all gone.  It’s morning.  I roll over, and I swear I see an imprint of someone having been in my bed.

…to be continued….