So I bought approx. 20 print books and 100 digital ones this summer. And I have to say...if I read about one more character looking in the mirror to describe themselves I will puke. All over the Internet. This has got to be not only the laziest writing ever, but also highly implausible. How often do you look in the mirror and notice your "tresses" (ugh, another word that should be banned from writers' vocabularies) or your bone structure or your eye colour? Like, maybe you'll think, "Christ, my hair looks like a rat's nest" or "Eek! Is that another grey hair??" but do you really think about the cut, texture, and style of it? SERIOUSLY?
Everything about this situation was so surreal. She considered the possibility she was dreaming within a coma again as she turned on the water for a quick shower. He had a good quality shampoo and conditioner--not surprising with his abundant, if ill-cut, hair--and a body wash that smelled vaguely familiar. He'd probably used it to wash off the blood from her wound last night. If this was a dream, it was the most richly detailed one she'd ever had. One she probably wouldn’t wake up from, assuming that it had started after she’d been shot.
She used his towels and stared at the dress he'd said she was supposed to wear. It looked on the hanger like a black scarf with bits of red tulle on it. Was he serious? Her mind drew a picture of his face, what she'd seen of it, complete with smirk. She sighed. When he had sat beside her, stroked her cheek, she'd felt... not attraction, things were too weird for that. Alarmed was a word that came to mind, but also reassured. She nodded into the mirror. He had a magnificent confidence that was reassuring, in spite of everything. He had, after all, practically kidnapped her... she caught her reflection, wrapped in thick towels and blowing her hair dry. Yeah, poor Carmen, so ill-used. "A gilded cage is still a cage," she muttered to her reflection.
She used his brush, seeing no other. It was clean, with only a few stray hairs caught in it. They looked and felt like any other human hair she'd seen. He had set out a new toothbrush for her, who else, and she used it, while rummaging through the drawers and cabinets of his bathroom. There was nothing there to suggest he had lots of female visitors, or indeed any. Yet she'd definitely got the impression he knew his way around women.
She pulled the dress on, like a body stocking. And that's how it fit -- if she'd had panties, she couldn't have worn them with this dress. A tuft of red tulle in the center of the neckline pretended to provide modesty, while calling attention to the cleavage it wasn't covering. She cracked the door. "Carabas? This isn't a dress -- it's a fetish outfit!"
She looked at herself in the mirror. It wasn't really that bad, though certainly nothing she'd ever worn before. A basic black strapless sheath dress in clingy jersey, it was the red ribbon and tulle accents that gave it a costume-y look. She wondered if he knew her shoe size, too.
See kids? That's what people do in front of mirrors.
First the good news. Starstruck was released on September 12, but I was suffering from a surfeit of company at the time and sadly failed to properly mark the occasion. So better a late blog announcement than none at all, yay!
Got it? Good!
The other news is, I'll be back to city life and a full size bathroom and 24/7 internet on October 15. I may be one of the few people who actually feels more productive with the internet available all the time. Although I did get two novellas written, and half of two more. (Finish things, dammit!)
And finally on a very sad note, for all the crybaby feels and yes, I am a poor widdle pookie--I sent Cabaret Rollo Rouge off to Carina in answer to a specific call for m/m paranormal etc... Carina is the digital imprint of the illustrious Harlequin, famous for paperback romances for, like, almost ever. They said a response, either yea or nay, would be forthcoming within twelve weeks. Welcome to fourteen weeks and no response. It is "in progress" which means... nothing. For all I know the submission never made it past the submittable website. FOURTEEN WEEKS!
There ought to be a law against torturing writers that way. Besides, I could totes sell that story to...someone. Heck, I could self pub it and make $$. It's an awesome story. (I hate it, I hate everything I write, even when I love it.) I even did a great cover for it, if someone wants to pay me for both the story and the cover art (yes, I know, I should hit the comedy circuit.)