Laila Blake's Blog, page 10

That’s quite a mouthful, right? But anyone who’s read Driftwood Deeds already should know that sometimes that isn’t the worst thing in the world. Hehe, yes, I know, saucy. Bad Laila, I should be… punished?

Gratuitous naked, giggling John Krasinki gif, obviously.

Anyway, it’s the New Year, which is exciting in itself, but I am also (at this very moment) literally one follower away from 1000 on twitter and 7 likes away from 400 on my facebook page and that is making me very happy as well. So obviously I want to do something nice for all of you! Because you are reading my rambles and sometimes even my books, you’re posting great reviews or retweeting my articles and I never have the space to adequately thank you all for what you are doing for me.

So here it is, a new Give-away, all for you. Spread the word if you like, and I’m looking forward to meeting you, whoever wins this thing!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Can’t get enough of giveaways? I’m also hosting a smaller one – giving away 20§ on Amazon for anyone who reviews Driftwood Deeds: check it out here.

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It was a strange year, 2013. It was the year I had to give up my teaching job and fought against depression and anxiety attacks. It was also the year I got published and the year I wrote, edited and worked more than I ever could have imagined. One week I was at my absolute lowest, the next all my dreams were starting to come true . Oh yeah, and of course: Just as the year was nearing its end, I spent two weeks in hospital and had major abdominal surgery – also a scary first. It was a strange year.

Most of the time, I wrote because it was the only thing I had left. Because being jobless, scared to leave the house and broke couldn’t be my only story; that couldn’t be all there was to me or I wasn’t sure I wanted to stick around. And so I wrote, and I wrote a lot. (It also helped that i have an amazing friend in Lorrie, who pulls me along when I feel down and hopeless). And sitting here, at the verge of 2014 – I’m moved and proud of how I got through it all, of what I achieved.

Two of my books were picked up for publication – By the Light of the Moon by Crimson Romance in January (released in April) and Driftwood Deeds by A Hotter State in September (released in December). On top of that, 18 shortstories of mine were accepted into anthologies, most of which will come out some time next year. I also won Alison Tyler’s Smut Marathon, which ran all year and was a lot of fun.

All the while I kept writing and if I tally all the numbers, I end up at the insane figure of 472,097 words in 2013. That’s almost 1300 words every single day this year. And I didn’t even count editing, planning, brainstorming and abandoned projects.

Here’s the tally:

A Taste of Winter (Lakeside #2)  -  75.495

Driftwood Deeds – 27.023

Where the Wind Settles – 62.991

Worse Things – 55.345

33 Shortstories + Flash Fiction Pieces – 87.610

Driftwood Deeds (Erotic Romance) is obviously already published, A Taste of Winter (Romantic Fantasy) is waiting for a last polish and Where the Wind Settles (YA, lgbt, coming of age) and Worse Things (Rock & Roll Romance) are first drafts.

I also wrote 4 novels with L.C. Spoering, and from those I counted half the words as mine.

This Moment, Yearning – 58.075

After Life Lessons – 91.783

Forest Fires (Mona Ceol #1) – 90.356

Lost Rites (Mona Ceol #2) – 87.053

This Moment Yearning (Erotic Romance) is currently set on the backburner and might never see the light of day (writing together takes some figuring out). We will release After Life Lessons (Zombie Apocalypse Love Story) in the Spring of 2014 and both Mona Ceol books (Paranormal Romace/Urban Fantasy) are in the editing stage waiting to be submitted.

I also read 45 books – not my personal best, but definitely the best since I was a BA student and I managed to stick with my resolution to read more books by women, who are way ahead in numbers on my reading list this year. Go me, go women writers everywhere!

And now, before I get riddiculously big-headed, let me finish this retrospective with a few 2013 favourites:

Favourite Book:  Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut

Favorite Album: Tape Deck Heart by Frank Turner

Favourite Album for writing: Every Kingdom by Ben Howard

Favourite Single: She Keeps Me Warm by Mary Lambert

Favourite Movie watched: Nobody Walks (I don’t watch a lot of movies)

Favourite TV shows: Game of Thrones, The Big Bang Theory, Downton Abbey

Favourite Social Media Site: Goodreads, Pinterest

Favourite Game played: Dragon Age Origins, also Minecraft

Favourite People: L.C.Spoering and my brother Robert

Favourite Actor: John Krasinski

Favourite Animal: My cat Nookie

Favourite Possession: My Kindle

Best News: Matt Smith will leave Doctor Who.

So there you go. That was 2013. Join me back here tomorrow, for an outlook into 2014 and maybe, possibly, a few resolutions and plans.

Love you all and wish you the very happiest New Year, and that all your dreams come true.

xoxo, Laila

This post was previously published on Gale Stanley’s Blog.



An Homage to Beta Hero Dominants

I’m not here to talk smack about the alpha hero. That guy has earned his place in romance history; that guy deserves respect. That guy also looks like he can glare with the best of them, and would not react too kindly to me poking holes into his blown-up ego. Let’s leave this guy alone for now.

No, let’s talk about someone else. Meet Beta Hero Dominant. Beta H. Dominant is a complex man, he does not pack a lot of muscle. Maybe he wears glasses, or has an early receding hairline. He reads books or loves watching documentaries, and he doesn’t make impressive amounts of money, nor does he work in a terribly butch profession: Beta’s a teacher or a nurse. If he’s Dr. Beta H. Dominant, he’s a paediatrician, not a surgeon. Maybe he’s writer or starving artist, maybe he just goes to work in an office every day, taking crap from his overbearing boss.

Beta is a sweet guy, he smiles a lot and he listens when people talk. He likes to make other people smile, too, and not just women he wants to sleep with. He helps where he can, he tips well even though — or maybe just because — he knows what it’s like not to have a lot of money. He has a pretty good idea of who he is, but he messes up, and most importantly, he doesn’t always have to win or be impressive.

He doesn’t crave power in all aspects of his life — he doesn’t boss around his co-workers or friends, he doesn’t intimidate anyone. Social justice is important to him, and if pressed he would easily call himself a feminist. He likes to cook and he does the dishes, communication and equality in a relationship are important to him… but when the clothes come off, Beta H. Dominant can turn on the heat, too.  And just because he doesn’t seek power in any other aspect of his life, the turn-around makes you feel extra special and it’s all the more stunning to watch. He knows what he wants and he takes it because he knows you want it, too. And afterwards he’ll hold you and you’ll talk for hours because he genuinely wants to know how to make his submissive happy and he’ll work for it, too.

He may not throw a fist or lead a multinational company the way Alpha does, but Beta has his very own, special charm to add into any steamy narrative.

Driftwood Deeds is available on Amazon.com, ARe Romance and Smashwords.

photo credit: cybrarian77 via photopin cc

Driftwood Deeds has been out for two weeks now, and has received some great reviews. I was especially extatic to read how a lot of you felt similar about the book as I do. I don’t think there’s anything better for a writer. Thank you for that!

After the official part of the blog tour is over (and I missed most of it because I was in a pain meds stupor haha), I still want to talk about the book and the sources of inspiration. Some of these posts will be the ones I wrote for guest posts during the tour, others will be brand new. 

Distinct physical places root a narrative into our world, into the tangible, smellable, tasteable reality around us. Especially in erotica, I have always felt that if I am to smell the sweat and the odours of sex through the prose, I want to smell the rest as well: the sheets, the food they eat, the air they breathe, the flowery shampoo in her hair and the acidity of the wine on her lips. I like texture and detail because the tighter a story is bound to these hooks and bolts of reality, the less it is a fantasy between two plastic manequins in a sterile room, and the dirtier, the grittier it is.

Choosing the right place does this. The right place puts a narrative into perspective, into a framework of emotional connection. One story fits only into certain spaces – or sometimes a certain place can only house one single story; they belong together, can be interwoven throughout the narrative. And so I scour my memory, the internet, movies and tv-shows for just such places, places that inspire me, places big enough, real enough, interesting enough to house a story.

My taste may be a little off-center – I don’t feel drawn to mansions, sparkling hotel suits, to rooftop pools or luxury yachts. I click past them, without a single thought, a single hook that might spark an idea. Give me a ruinous industrial building, a graffitied train station or a cavernous old castle that stands tall like rotting teeth; give me a rubbish-strewn pebble beach over the silky white sand of the Caribbean. I like places with grit, not postcards or advertising shots that hang in the windows of travel agencies.

Sometimes it helps me to establish the setting astethics very clearly as they lend themselves so well to determining the general feeling of the novel. Pinterest can be a great help here – check out the inspiration board for Driftwood Deeds.

For Driftwood Deeds, that rubble-strewn beach is taken from a visit to the coast of England, down in Kent, in a place called Dungeoness. I omitted the nuclear power station, the trailer-like empty café; I exaggered the place, contained it into a smaller area. But in essence Driftwood Deed takes places just off a beach like the ones in Dungeoness – where fishing nets and rope seem to grow out of the sand like vines from the ground.

I chose it because a boyfriend took me there once upon a time; because it felt aching and sad and savagely beautiful like the sea; and because I thought it set the right mood for my characters, gave them a chance to find common ground and to foreshadow the mind of the male protagonist. But I also chose it because it’s beautiful in its faded splendour, and because it houses a hundred stories in its treasure-lined shores.

Driftwood Deeds is available on Amazon.com, ARe Romance and Smashwords.

photo credit: John See Line Illustration via photopin cc

Thanks to your generous votes, I came in first in the grand finale of Alison Tyler’s Smut Marathon. As promised, here is the winning story for you to read without the stress of making decisions . I should mention that this is NSFW if you have very nosy colleagues who spy over your shoulder, and contains spanking and anal play.

Mr. Gillespie’s Master Class

by Laila Blake

The black keys blur gray into the white ones before my eyes. They swim in and out of focus, like waves. My breath leaves a dewy layer of condensate matting their glossy sheen; and the few strands of hair that have come loose from the regulation bun in the nape of my neck are dancing on the keys, like careful, silent pianists in the making. 

I am bent so low over the piano that I can smell the wood polish. My body is folded over in the middle, perfectly illustrating two sides of a Pythagorean triangle with my bare bottom at its apex. My fingers are sweaty on the top of the piano, slipping this way and that as I brace myself against Mr. Gillespie’s precise blows.

I tell my friends that I take classes; they assume yoga or spin; maybe flower arrangements. A thirty-five year old woman taking piano lessons twice a week, I can’t help but think that reeks of mid-life crisis, of bucket lists and regrets. The truth, of course, even more complicated. 120 bucks per per lesson, 240 per week. Mr. Gillespie’s piano classes have been stretching my budget for months, but I work extra hours and forgo almost every other luxury to squeeze them in. 

“The truth this time, pet,” he says in his measured voice. I jump in expectation of the next blow but it doesn’t come and I hang my head, trying to catch my breath. “Did you practice the sonata?” 

“I… no, Sir, not as much as I should have.” It’s easier to say now, bent over, sweating and facing away from him, with my bare ass red and stinging. I practiced twice, in fact, once a few days ago before bedtime, once just before I got into the car to come here. 

“Was that so hard? You know you can’t pretend here, it’s all in the finger-work, pet.”

Nodding, I watch my hands wrestle for purchase on the shiny, slippery surface of his piano. Their muscles are straining, just like he wants them too. It’s to build up strength; my knuckles pucker white as I direct my exhale towards them. It cools down marginally before it brushes over my skin. 

“How do you ever expect to improve if you don’t put the work in? That’s all it is, you know, dedication… true commitment to the music.” 

I soak up his lecture, relish it with the strength that I used to hate similar tirades when I was young. It’s his voice, I think. It was his voice all those months ago, when I saw his ad on a fetish site and emailed him. He proposed a phone call to go over the details. Before that phone call, it was all a bit of a whim, a horny divorcee enjoying her anonymity online to poke at a few well-nursed, well-hidden fantasies. After it, I was waiting, waiting all week with wet panties for the first meeting. It was that simple; I hardly recognized myself. 

He can strike just the right tone between mockingly condescending and serious, between the whimsical game we play twice a week and the sultry timbre that promises he’ll punish me more with my next answer. His voice is an extension of his musicality: precise artistry. 

“I know you’re not lazy. So…” he pauses for effect; I quaver under his gaze, then jump when he parts my exposed labia. It’s not his fingers; the implement is colder, slimmer and harder than that. With a shudder, I recognize the wooden ruler he likes to crack over my knuckles when I miss a key. “So maybe the problem lies elsewhere. Maybe you’re just distracted, is that it?” Dragging the hard edges of the ruler up and down my folds, he makes me pant each time he passes my clit. “Look how wet you are; I suppose you finger yourself rather than the piano, don’t you? Thinking about the next lesson, dreaming about how I’m going to fuck you?” 

I am about to answer, fumbling for words that would both admit and atone, when he smacks the ruler hard across my already sore bottom. I bite down on a scream. 

“No slouching, keep your back straight. One straight, horizontal line.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

The air seems to crackle between us; I hold my breath. 

“Yes Sir, what? Do you spend more time with your fingers between your legs than on the piano keys or not?” 

I don’t dare hang my head this time, but I do nod. “Y… yes, Sir. I… I’m sorry, Sir.” 

He sets standards that are almost impossible to meet, especially when there is no weekend between sessions, but he’s not wrong either. I’m not supposed to have enough time to get it perfect; what fun would there be in that, but I am supposed to try. 

“You will be,” he whispers, his breath suddenly dangerously close to my ear. I whimper when he drags the ruler down my spine and into the crack of my ass. Then I jump again.

“Aww, there’s my shrinking violet,” he growls, gently prodding my ass with a corner of the ruler. The hard edge makes the breath whistle between my teeth. “I really don’t know why you keep pretending you don’t love anal, pet; you always cum screaming when I stuff something up there…”

There is an ominous quality in voice now. I want to swallow, but my mouth is dry. 

“Open up.” Standing next to me again, he holds the ruler in front of my lips, waiting for me to bit down on it. “Don’t drop it. Don’t move.” 

I mumble something around the obstruction that is vaguely recognizable as “Yes, Sir,” and brace myself to wait. I try not to look at my aching fingers; they shoulder almost the entire burden of this unnatural position and are still slipping on the highly polished wood. He doesn’t make me wait long; I can hear his steps behind me, the slight swish of wind created my his movement. 

“Okay pet, slowly now,” he says reaching around me to slip the ruler from my lips, “Spit in your hand and lube up your ass for me like a good girl who knows how to take her punishment.” 

There’s a knot in my stomach, the queasy, helpless feeling of surrendering to Mr. Gillespie. 

“Ye… Yes, Sir,” I stutter. He steadies me when I lift one hand off the piano and try to dredge up some saliva. It’s not much, but I reach back and rub it against my sphincter. Between the heat in my cunt and my face, I don’t think I have blood enough to fill my legs; I can’t feel them in any case. 

“There you go,” he says, patting my back. “Now carefully sit back, I’ll guide you. Slowly now.” 

My knees are shaking like leaves; for a heartbeat, my muscles refuse to move. I have no idea what I am sitting back down on, or how large a something, and it shuts me down until he exerts that slow but undeniable pull and I surrender. 

He guides me onto a cool, cone-shaped something and at this angle I can hardly determine the speed at which I am sitting down anymore. Gravity does what it does best, all but sucking me lower and lower onto the flaring plug. I scream again at the widest spot, then sit there, shaking and sweating with the unwieldy thing poking my insides. Mr. Gillespie stands behind me, letting me rest against his stomach, petting my hair. 

“What did we learn today, pet?” he asks when I can breathe again. 

I pause, make sure that the first sound out of me is not another whimper or moan of pain. 

“To… to practice, Sir. Not to get distracted.” 

“There you go. Now try again.” 

I stare at the keys, try to make my hands perform the intricate acrobatics necessary. I am slow and the rhythm is all wrong, but he is gentler now. He raps his ruler across my knuckles once, then again, only at the worst infractions. 

When I’m done he has me stand and sit back down facing him. When I descend, the plug spears into me all over again. This time, it drives water to my eyes. 

“You know I can’t fuck you today, don’t you? You have to learn your lesson. Aw, don’t cry, come here, I still have a little treat for you.” 

He pets my face, has me take his cock out and then drags it under my eyes to soak up the tear or two I shed for him. Then he lets me suckle, and my heart starts to slow down, everything starts to slow down and become soft and perfect. 

“You will keep the plug in until bedtime, little one. And you’ll wear it for our next lesson. No cumming in the mean-time, understood?” 

I nod around his cock. Everything is good. 

If you enjoyed this, remember that I have a new bdsm themed novella out. Driftwood Deeds can be purchased at Amazon, Smashwords and AllRomance – and will soon be available at B&N and iTunes as well.

Just in time for the Holidays, the wonderful Harper Bliss has wrangled the five of us – Cheyenne Blue, Lucy Felthouse, Erzabet Bishop, Harper Bliss and yours truly – into another wonderful anthology. This time, we take you into our own world of Christmas and the erotic situations around the festive season.

From the obligatory office party to a cabin in the woods, Christmas celebrations come in all shapes and sizes. The ladies in this Christmas anthology like to keep it original though, and get their festive groove on in bed shops and the Australian outback, not to mention the ‘Mermaids and Mistletoe Masquerade Ball’… A Christmas to Remember contains five lesbian erotica stories that will make your Christmas merry AND hot.

Amazon.com // Amazon.co.uk // Amazon.de

Smashwords // All Romance // Goodreads

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Table of Contents:

Mermaids and Mistletoe by Erzabet Bishop

Outback Christmas by Cheyenne Blue

Bedding Down by Lucy Felthouse

Midnight Clear by Laila Blake

Dress Code by Harper Bliss

Midnight Clear

(excerpt)

Laila Blake

We are too old for rash acts of rebellion. They belong into the time of false IDs and curfews, not ours of the pregnancy plans, promotions and healthy living. Still, against all reason, we are running through the snow outside a remote mountain cabin on Christmas Eve without a stitch of clothing on our bodies.

The sharp cones of light from our torches are zigzagging across the snow, bouncing of its glittering surface, off thighs and asses, breasts and arms. We can’t keep them steady, as we are racing up the freezing hill. With each step we have to pull our feet out of two or three feet of snow, with each step we are getting further away from the cabin.

The first one to give in is Maisie; no surprise there. She squeals “Oh, fudge, gosh darnit,” the way she does, “you people are crazy!”

She throws her hands up and dashes back, breasts bouncing so prettily. I don’t turn around to see her reach her clothes and the warmth of the cabin – I’ll be the next to fall but I haven’t completely resigned myself to this yet. Laura and Gina are so drunk, I doubt they can feel their feet at all, and I am not. It’s not an automatic forfeit, but let’s just say in this race, they are Lance Armstrong and I am any of the other dudes, and they didn’t stop peddling up those mountains either, did they?

I go easy on the drink with straight women, even my oldest friends. Alcohol makes me horny and that’s probably why I’m lagging a few feet behind them, because I’m the only one in this foursome who appreciates the sight. I’m trying to turn their asses, their straining muscles and flying arms into something like booze, a distraction to keep me from thinking about the cold but it isn’t working and I throw in the towel.

When I all but stumble back into the cabin, Maisie is sitting hunched into a neat little package by the fire, wrapped head to toe into a blanket. Just her nose is sticking out of the hood she created and she is wriggling her toes somewhere under the fabric.

“I knew it would be you next,” she tells me as she turns and grins at me while I reach for my own blanket, teeth chattering and pushing myself against the fire. She’s cute down there, pretending the cold doesn’t bother her anymore, even though her voice still sounds brittle and shivery and her nose is bright pink.

“What gave me away?”

“You have never really cared that much about winning.”

That makes me come up short. She is looking at the fire again but the hood fell off her head, pooling around her shoulders. The sweep of her back disappears in darkness, and my fingers itch to touch the feathery fluff of hair on the side of her neck. I turn away and walk over to the widow, trying to focus my mind on something else – like whether or not Laura and Gina are setting off an avalanche or lying down in the snow somewhere because it felt like a good idea. I can’t see them, and I’m about to tell Maisie when the door opens and slams against the wall. The sound reverberates in my head as the girls tumble inside, all naked goose-flesh and bumping against each other.

“I won! I woooon!” Laura roars, the giggles and spins around. “I won, this the best Christmas ever! Where’s the tequila, it’s fucking cold out there!”

I’ve been talking about it for a while and it’s finally here, my new novella Driftwood Deeds. Officially out tomorrow, it’s already available on Amazon and ARe, it even already had a sale or two. I will spend the next few weeks bugging you with links to reviews and blog posts in which I talk more about the novella, it’s inspiration and what it means to me, but for now, suffice to say that Driftwood Deeds, a short (27k) read for D/s and bdsm beginners or those who simply enjoy the kinder, sweeter moments of that lifestyle. It’s very much about experimentation, consent and equality in a D/s relationship – and about letting go, trusting each other and being cuddly, it’s also about that.

When journalist Iris Ellis visits a sleepy seaside town to interview recluse screenwriter Paul Archer, he offers her insights into never acted upon fantasies of dominance and submission. Too curious to deny herself a taste of them, Iris gives herself up to Paul’s gentle guidance, but when she realizes that a taste can never be enough, she must find the courage to ask for what she needs or risk losing it all. 

Amazon.com \\ Amazon.co.uk \\ Amazon.de

ARe Romance \\ Smashwords \\ Goodreads

Or set the mood on the

Driftwood Deeds Pinterest Board

Because of my sudden hospital stay (I’ll finally get out tomorrow, knock on driftwood), the tour isn’t quite as tidy and finalized as I wanted it to be at this point. But I’ll add relevant stops as I get a date. Check it out here, if you want to follow it.

9th December:

http://www.harperbliss.com/

http://badbarbsreviews.blogspot.com

10th December:

http://galestanley.blogspot.com/

11th December:

http://www.thebookwranglers.com

http://www.asthepagesturn.com/

12th December:

http://inthepagesofagoodbook.com

13th December:

http://www.liv-honeywell.com/

http://eroticaforall.co.uk

14th December:

http://annabethleong.blogspot.de

16th December:

http://liltpodcast.wordpress.com/

17th December:

http://lcspoering.wordpress.com/

18th December:

http://offbeatvagabond.blogspot.de/

http://www.readingromance.com/

20th December:

http://icanonlybehele3.blogspot.de/

[Holiday Break]

2nd January:

http://www.readingromance.com/

3rd January:

http://fridaynightromance.com/

17th January:

http://www.abookishescape.com/

11th February:

http://tattooedbookreview.com/

And here is the tiniest teaser — more to come, I promise!

“Do you know what a safeword is?”

I nodded, unable to speak with the careful exploration of my mouth. Of course I knew what a safeword was. He ran his finger along my gums and over my teeth, pushed under my tongue and curled it up as though he wanted to make sure he did his due diligence in finding every single spot, in marking my mouth with his salt and seawater taste.

“Good. But we don’t need one, today. You say stop, I’ll stop what I’m doing. You say no, I won’t do whatever I’m planning. You shake your head and I stop. Okay?”

Again I nodded, my eyes were wide as saucers and he smiled, gently touching my chin with his free hand. He tilted up my face, opened my mouth wider and then brushed over the tiny ridges along the roof of my mouth until he reached the soft palate and I snorted out tiny gagging sounds. He pulled back and let me rest for a second before going for the same spot again, while I tried to mash my heel against my clit, but with too many socks and fabric in the way, I could hardly feel anything.

“You can always ask me to stop and we’ll reassess, okay?” This time, he pulled his finger from my mouth. It was slick and shiny with my saliva.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Okay.”

Our eyes met for a long time as he smeared saliva onto my lips and a sweet smile blossomed on his face, crinkling the lines around his eyes. It occurred to me that he hadn’t even kissed me yet.

I don’t often write posts about my personal life. This is not because I am particularly coy or private – I just never feel as though this is my strong suit. I am opinionated, I like to write about issues or thoughts, but I am not a blogger. I can never fathom why anyone would be interested in my life, and to make it so takes a special skill which I do not possess. And, of course, I am very much that writer’s cliché at the moment – my real life, the adventures, the triumphs and thrills are my fiction. My life, as it were, is a little on the boring side.

But when you drop off the face of the earth for more than a week and the last post in your blog is two weeks old, and couldn’t be further from your current frame of mind, it begins to feel a little odd.

So here it is. Two weeks before the release of my new novella Driftwood Deeds, I found myself at home with an inconvenient stomach ache. At the time, it mostly annoyed me because it hindered productivity and I had a mountain of guest blogs to write, a blog tour to organize, interview questions to answer and some erotic stories to writes for the Dec. 1st deadline. In case you wondered, it is very hard to write those when you’re in pain, especially the wrong kind, hehe.

I have a bit of doctor phobia; like many people in larger bodies, it is difficult for me to talk to them, to get adequate treatment, or really just to admit to actually being unhealthy (like everybody always tells us we are). As a fat person, you always try to be healthy and happy – because that’s not quite acceptable, but a little bit more than the alternative.

So it took me a few days of squaring my fear and reluctance with the mounting pain, and when on Tuesday night last week, I couldn’t get a wink of sleep because of my stomach, I finally gave up and headed for the doctor’s office first thing – and before I knew what was happening, he sent me on to the hospital for admission with an extended gall bladder. After some difficulties (I’m being kind here, I went to the doctor’s office at 8am and I saw the first hospital doctor at 3pm), I was given painkillers in an IV and a bed up on the third floor.

At that point, I still believed I’d be out in no time – like my GP had promised, but he’d thought my gall bladder only had to be drained, hadn’t seen that it was badly infected. One night grew into two, between panic attacks and tears, and painful trips back home to feed my cat. I fetched a good book, my laptop, my kindle, the next day a second pillow, DVDs and the number of my internet service provider to get satellite internet.  Plans were made to ship my cat to my mum’s house. At the time, our biggest worry was that it would all be for nothing and she’d only be there for a day.

Tomorrow morning I’ll have been in hospital for a week and I only know this because days have names and numbers. All sense of time somehow drifted away from me by day 2. It’s easier now, I can send emails, I can take care of my day to day business. I can organize my blog tour even if writing itself is still rather challenging. And tomorrow I’ll have my operation. Gall bladder removal. According to most doctors no big deal – that was before they talked about the risks and what else could happen. One actually said, he’s looking forward to a not-so-boring gall bladder removal. He’s welcome, I suppose.

I try to distract myself. I listen to an audiobook of A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini, I watch old Veronica Mars episodes and marvel at my face in the mirror in which after a week of hardly any food consumption, my cheek-bones – puffed over after several month of depression – are starting to reappear. And isn’t that just like a girl; losing weight can be the upshot to almost anything.

Now, it’s just week until the release of Driftwood Deeds, and I finally have an end in sight. If there are no complications, touch (drift)wood, I should be out to enjoy the blog tour and all it’s revelries from home.

Thank you to everybody who’s taken the time to send me best wishes, to Alison Tyler, who extended the smut marathon deadline for me, and everybody else who is keeping me in their thoughts!

I was considering posting this next week, at Lilt’s 21st – you know, when it’s officially an adult, but then my latent OCD got in the way of an uneven number. So here we are, celebrating our podcast’s five months existence (more or less) with Epidode #20 posted this week. You may have noticed that I stopped posting episodes here on my website and moved all podcast publication to the Lilt Podcast website. I thought this might help reduce clutter and doubled information.

Please check us out on iTunes or Stitcher, and if you regularly use a different podcast service, and it would make it easier for you if we uploaded it there, let us know in the comments.

For a look back on specific episodes – check out the full list!

Episode 1: Mid-Year Reading Wrap-up (also: slice of life vs concept)

                  The Marriage Plot // 1Q84 // Life of Pi // Exactly where they’d Fall

Episode 2: Editing your Manuscript

Episode 3: Working with Editors

Episode 4: Beta Readers

Episode 5: Reading Wrap-up July

                  The Catcher in the Rye // 1984 // To Kill A Mockingbird // Slaughterhouse Five

Episode 6: Writing set-ups

Episode 7: Planning vs. Pantsing

Episode 8: Collaborative Writing

Episode 9: Calls for Submissions

Episode 10: Reading Wrap-up August

                    Jane Eyre // The Great Gatsby // The Hunger Games Trilogy

Episode 11: The Issue with Strong Heroines

Episode 12: Writing Sensitive Heroes

Episode 13: Writer’s Block – Myth vs. Reality

Episode 14: Reading Wrap-up September

                    Norwegian Wood // Paint it Black

Episode 15: Book Beginnings

Episode 16: Rewriting

Episode 17: Reading Wrap-up October

                    Divergent // Insurgent // Allegiant (Part 1)

Episode 18: Nanowrimo – The Good and the Bad

Episode 19: Nanowrimo 2013 – Getting Unstuck

Episode 20: The Show Don’t Tell Paradigm

It’s that time of year again, and I have a new anthology to share with you. This one is published by the wonderful Storm Moon Press and edited by Salome Wilde and it’s full to the brim with stories about and around Shakespeare that highlights queer relationships, in whichever form.

My own story, Smoke Signals, follows a young actress into her gender-bending fantasies, brought on by playing Viola and Cesario in Twelfth Night. They are fuelled by the appearance of her colleague Harry, who rather enjoys this different version of her.

It’s quite honestly one of my favourite stories I’ve ever written and I’m really excited to share an excerpt with you!

Smoke Signals

(excerpt)

Laila Blake

“Viola,” I say to the face in the mirror. But Cesario smiles back at me.

I run my fingers over my chest—my breasts bound tightly, squashed against my ribs. Every night I come home with deep pressure marks that cut into my skin. It’s worth it, though. The shirt fits, running straight down my chest; I feel neither hills nor valleys, neither curves nor soft places. I square my jaw and tense the muscles behind my cheek-bones, which takes away the last softness in my face.



Cesario is the personal assistant of a media mogul desperately in love with a fashion model: Olivia. How I loathe modern productions, so desperate to draw attention, to prove that Shakespeare is more than wigs and tights under funny trousers. The dialogue remains intact, for the most part, beautiful and flowing, but I am embarrassed by the heavy-handed hints toward glass ceilings that would make a woman dress up as a man to become a successful businessman’s protégé. Secretly, very secretly, I may be grateful I am not wearing a silly page’s outfit with a long feather on a fluffy hat, but I miss the fairy tale, the unencumbered lightness of the play. Why make something serious that was always meant to amuse and entertain?

No, mine is this beard, the jeans, the waist-coat, and the straight, hard chest I can run my fingers over. Mine is the serious look of a young urban professional, slick and well-versed in the language of hair products and a dab of concealer under the eye to hide a night of debauchery. He wears narrow ties with the occasional clip; he shops in outlet centers to get hold of the fashion he couldn’t afford in mainstream boutiques. He doesn’t look like a Cesario—he looks like a Dylan or maybe a Riley. He is a man who enjoys playing up a certain hint of metrosexual androgyny.

I touch my chest, slip my finger under the blazer and down over my waistcoat.

The cloth bands wrapped around my chest numb the sensations and it is almost—almost—as though I am touching a stranger. It still feels good; maybe that’s why it feels good. I pop open the buttons of his waistcoat; my fingers slip over my stomach, now covered only in expensive, high-thread-count cotton. I don’t open it, conscious of being in semi-public, but I watch my hand linger. I spread my fingers in a way I’ve seen men do. Immediately, the touch seems to lose any feminine quality. Of course, my triumphant smile ruins the moment. I take care to keep my cheeks tight when I smile again. Better.

There is a tingling between my legs when I watch the transformation reach all but perfection. I have tried to convince myself that this is vanity.

Finally, my index finger brushes the waistline of my jeans. They fit snugly, and I know better than to open them. Still, eyes fixed upon my reflection, I let my hand slip inside. I grab my crotch and re-adjust the bulge, and then square my shoulders and exhale shallowly.

It doesn’t feel right; how could it? It is just a sock stuffed with wool, but it rests in my briefs, snaking along my groin. Cesario is well-built, and just for a moment it doesn’t matter that it is wool and fabric; I feel the power in the gesture. I squeeze again, imagine it might give me pleasure, imagine holding it, touching it, pumping it hard to all the wrong images in my head, until a white spray of come lands on my expensive shirt. For a heartbeat even, no longer, I imagine sliding my fingers into a lover’s hair, kneeling at my feet, taking my cock deep into her or his mouth. Then I snap to. I’m blushing a little, and immediately I am not believable anymore: a woman

dressed up as a dude. There’s Viola.

You can purchase this anthology at Amazon | AllRomance | Storm Moon Press