Okay, we all know by now I have an unabashed passion for rockers. There's nothing quite as sexy as a hot guy who can sing, especially one who straddles that line between brash bad boy and the sentimental romantic. He's a rebel from top to toe, but can capture your heart with one softly crooned lyric.
Oh, my heart.
It started in the 1970s, courtesy of reruns of the Monkees. Yes, I'm old enough to proclaim, like many a female in my generation, that Davy Jones was my first #ManCrush. I mean, come on. How adorable is he?
When I was nine, he was my ideal. Dark, floppy hair, soulful brown eyes and that accent? Please. I was a puddle of fourth-grade girly goo. Daydream believer, indeed.
My love for him was so much of a part of my childhood that when he passed, my best friend immediately contacted me when he got the news just to see if I was okay. And it was a heartbreaking loss. You never forget your first.
Eventually my tastes evolved when I discovered FM radio, where rockers sang about more mature topics. In 1979, I heard this song, which began my Groupie era in earnest.
I can't tell you what it was exactly about Steve Perry that hooked me. Sure he had all that gorgeous hair, which became a long-standing fascination from the time I was 11. And Lord only knows what those eyes did to me (always, ALWAYS the eyes.)
Maybe it was the fact he was so exotic and different, and I really like different. That voice, tho. Sweet as sugar. Smooth as silk. To. This. Day, if I want to feel better about anything, I can turn on a Steve Perry tune and my mood elevates, my stress dissipates and life is just generally better. My guys have Journey at the ready for those Just-In-Case-of-PMS emergencies.
(3:58 into the above video and I'm buttah. BUTTAH, I tell you. Stay awhile? I'll stay forever. Just ask anyone who has ever wanted to be rid of me.)
Loved him then. Love him now. There ain't no shame in my Groupie game.
In the early 80s, I discovered Prince courtesy of the 1999 album. You want to talk about sex? This guy was walking, talking, *oozing* sex. He sang about naughty things, dirty things... things that piqued the interest of a girl fast-tracked to bypass sweet, innocent puppy love altogether and leap headlong into the fine art of seduction. As anyone who loves them will attest, no one will get you there like a rocker.
There are so many songs I could put here... Little Red Corvette, Head, Jack U Off, International Lover, Kiss, Gett Off (my favorite.) But it's Prince, and YouTube doesn't tell Prince what to do, he tells YouTube what to do.
Prince puts the SWAG in swagger.
Thirty years later and he's still hawt enough to reduce grown women to teenagers, even if he left a lot of his dirty rocker ways in the 80s where they thrived.
Growing up in the 1980s, it was a good time to be a groupie. Before the rise of the Boy Bands, the Rocker Daze of the 80s gave us full-grown men who knew what they were doing when they'd smirk in the camera. Our guys were both pretty and dirty, with a healthy dose of the aforementioned swagger. (And oh, the hair...)
Needless to say, as a wild 80s child, rockers became my kryptonite. It was so bad that even if someone wasn't necessarily known for singing per se, if they could randomly break into song with smirk n' swagger, I was a goner.
Still holds true, actually...
Truth is, I didn't get on board with American Idol until they finally unearthed a long-haired, smirking rocker boy who could, and did, sing actual rock songs.
Yes, I have a problem. The first step is admitting it.
In fact, the older I get, the dirtier I like 'em. In the 90s and 2000s I graduated to heavily tattooed, alternative rockers...
So the question isn't why I wrote a rock star romance, where the average girl gets the dirty, sexy rocker for lots of hot sex and years of angsty back and forth, it's why did it take me so long? (32 years, y'all. 32 years.)
This is my Vanni, who was heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeavily influenced by almost every guy presented in today's #ManCrushMondy #ManCandyMonday blog.
You can meet him, if you haven't already, in GROUPIE, available free at AMAZON, B&N, and iTunes.
If you love Vanni but haven't yet read the FIERCE saga or the SOUTHERN ROCKERS saga, whatcha waiting for? Not only do you get more glimpses of his Italian hotness, you get to meet Jace...
... and Jonah...
FIERCE and SOUTHERN ROCKER BOY are also free everywhere.
Earlier a fellow author posted on Facebook how bothersome it was that the entire romance genre has been relegated to dismissive, derogatory terms like "smut." This takes all the wonderful stories we read and lands them all in the same trashy heap as erotic fiction, which has the sole purpose of being sexually titillating - even if, especially if, it's ridiculous. You can see how this might bother authors who don't write those types of books, but ultimately, thanks to nothing more than simple laziness, get tossed in together as if we're even remotely the same.
Usually I never let what other people say about my genre bother me much. I've been reading romance novels for 35 years, which is almost as long as I've been watching soap operas. I love chick flicks, I cry at sad movies, I read (and write) chick lit. I enjoy it, and I don't need (and never have needed) the permission or acceptance of others to do so. I'm firmly in the "Live and let live" camp. As long as you're not hurting another living creature, the world is big enough for all preferences.
Case in point, I still listen to Barry Manilow and disco music. I still watch American Idol for fuck's sake. Like I care what people have to say about what I like. I like it. Nuff said.
But this is a question I feel is worth examining, not because of what is being said, but why it's being said. What is being said is inaccurate and doesn't tell the whole story. At worst it's annoying, but we can work around it. There are some people we're never going to win over, and that's perfectly fine. Some of our stories demand a little more open-mindedness, and I, for one, would much rather an easily offended reader who might find my content objectionable skip gaily past. It's saves time for everybody.
Why it's said...., well. That's indicative of a much larger problem, not only in the publishing world but in society in general, one that starts the minute someone tries to shame us for reading "smut," and we feel the immediate need to apologize, explain or deny that we enjoy reading about sex.
Oh yeah. I'm going there. Buckle in, kids. And keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.
The idea of "romance" fiction being smut isn't necessarily a new idea. I present this clip from the classic TV sitcom, Friends, where noted manwhore Joey finds one of Rachel's racy novels...
If I remember correctly, there's a similar episode of Three's Company, where the girls had some sort of dirty reading material and felt like they had to hide it as well, with another noted manwhore, Jack Tripper, finding it and teasing them because of it. It's a recurring theme in comedy. Good girls like something naughty, so naughty boys use it to tease them. Hilarious! It's funny because it's true... amiright??
Dismissing romance novels as smut has been the standing joke of it forever, but why?
Most who would be so derisive are no fans of the genre, so it's not like they have dozens of "smutty" romance novels steaming up their Kindle at any given time. Likely they've read passages only, which have been ripped from the pages and yanked out of context to mock the way it is written. Admittedly, these passages would probably never win some authors any awards. But why would we take this criticism seriously anyway? For every book that talks about his swollen manhood and her heaving bosoms, there are dozens more that eloquently examine the nature of love, of life, of motherhood, of childhood, of innocence and debauchery with the finesse of a female scribe. These are timeless stories that have been studied throughout the ages, beloved for generations, conquering every form of media, and woven lovingly into our collective consciousness.
As much sex as there might be in a romance novel, the readers generally take away from it all of the other stuff we put in there to craft a story or plot. My latest novel, BACK FOR SECONDS, was hands-down the raciest story I've written yet, with scenes that surprised even me. But the readers were far more interested in my heroine's journey out of a loveless marriage and into an empowering relationship with a man who not only wanted and respected her, but exalted her.
Not bad for "smut," if I do say so myself.
Conversely, I don't recall seeing any passages ripped from the sometimes equally silly sci-fi, fantasy or horror novels for collective mockery in the same way romance is, even if they're poorly written. In fact, for the purpose of this article, I Googled both "worst passages in romance novels" and "worst passages in sci-fi," and here's how that shook out:
So the issue isn't whether or not romance is smut. We can all agree "smut" is a very subjective term, and those who think that lowly of smutty material in romance (or movies, or TV) aren't likely consumers of it anyway.
The problem is when you classify female writers/readers under the heading of "smut," it's inherently offensive.
But why?
There's a few of things going on here, actually. The first of which is the legitimacy of sex, culturally speaking. Let's peek into another industry to provide contrast.
Think of all the movies you've seen that involve sex scenes, even graphic ones. Generally they are still regarded as "film" rather than the more shameful "porn." This is regardless of the overall quality, and regardless if the story itself is driven by sex and had scads of gratuitous nudity.
Some performances even bring home a shiny gold statue chock-full of Hollywood validation.
What's the difference, really, between award-winning, critically acclaimed film and the much derided romance genre?
Well, I have an inkling. Allow me to zero in on the main culprit:
(What? It's a cloud, a chandelier, some eggs and a dog. What do YOU see? You smut expert, you.)
Okay, so I'm not exactly subtle. But let's face it, the presence or absence of one specific body part determines quite a bit in the discussion of how sex is portrayed in the media. Let's refer back to the popular movies that feature sex shamelessly, versus books that dare to do the same. The movie industry is one where men outnumber women 5 to 1, and most operate under some antiquated notion that men buy more tickets than women. That's why everyone is *shocked* when female driven vehicles are successful, as if it changes the dialogue in some way. (The dialogue IS changing, all you have to do is open your ears and listen.) Smart filmmakers are ahead of the curve here, but there's still a lot left to be done.
In contrast, consider that in the romance novel industry, female novelists outnumber men, just like female readers outnumber the men. So why are our rules any different? Why is the product immediately assumed to be inferior for something that is produced by and marketed to women, despite the staggering success of it? Lifetime TV is lampooned endlessly for the "schlock" they produce. Meanwhile we're on Sharknado #3, where the laughable dialogue and cheesy graphics are considered a form of legitimate entertainment.
It still hasn't made a dent in the fortune created by Fifty Shades of Grey, which took women's fiction and sex to a whole other level...
...and is probably the biggest example of what many might consider "smut," given it's kinky bent. I'm *pretty* sure Ms. James doesn't really care one way or the other if people look down on what she writes. Girlfriend got paid and then some, and is currently living the life of her dreams.
You know... kinda like what might happen to a heroine inside of a romance novel.
So you'll forgive me if I don't feel the need to explain myself or apologize if something I write shocks or offends or is considered obscene, especially since I'd be expected and permitted to seek out, think about, chase after, lust after, mourn over sex in all its stages if I only had a penis. (There's a country song in there somewhere. Someone call Amy Schumer. Let's make "If I Only Had a Penis" happen.)
So I write smut. Who cares? It's not like, oh, I dunno... I'm going to face any real-life consequences for writing something lascivious, right? It's not like I'm going to have to write it under a pen name for fear of losing my job if I'm "outed." It's not like anyone might ask me to take a psychiatric test or anything. I mean really! How silly would that be?
(You'll note, by the way, that those examples include *female* writers who have been "outed" for their debauchery. You see how we keep circling back to the same thing? Women are nurturers, for goodness sake. I mean, a teacher writing erotic fiction? Don't let her near the children!!! They might grow up to think women actually like sex or something! Oh the humanity!)
In our culture, if you hear anything sexual from a man, there's an implied legitimacy, even if it's something ridiculous like Porky's. Smut, schmut. No one cares how raunchy something is that is made for men by men. Two words for you: Seth MacFarlane. That guy produces some of the most offensive content you can dream up, and he's about to take home the GENIUS award without one hint of irony. No apology needed, guys being guys, society's status quo.
“Whether he’s in the writer’s room, behind the camera or in the recording studio, Seth MacFarlane has become one of Hollywood’s most beloved talents,” said BTJA President Joey Berlin. “MacFarlane’s work has been a fixture on our screens – both large and small – for almost two decades. His humor and talent is undeniable, and we’re honored to present him with (this award).”
*Ahem*
You think Seth cares if you find his material offensive? He has the right to produce the kind of content he wants, because - as a man - he has a legitimate voice in the media. People laugh at Family Guy, which regularly pairs the dog Brian sexually with "human" females. If you lambast him for "beastiality," he'd likely laugh and say, "Calm your tits. It's just a cartoon."
Exactly. So why should I internalize any shame whatsoever writing about sexual relationships between two consenting adults who happen to be FICTIONAL?
Oh right. It's smut. I keep forgetting. It's not a word I use very often. I prefer the term "ladyporn." For women, who typically need an emotional connection for sexual fulfillment, the words contained inside a typical romance novel are more about heart than heat. Whether they're having sex from page one or they don't have sex until the end of the book, our "money shot" is the fact that these two people can actually get together and be happy - not just get together and get off. Romance novels and erotica are two very different things and operate under very different rules, with erotica usually winning the smut competition handily.
{See what I did there?)
And granted, for those who aren't particularly turned on by graphic sex descriptions (or any sex descriptions) in their books, modern romance may indeed fall under the heading of smut for them. Let's face it, smut is in the eye of the beholder. With the liberal umbrella of "romance," there are all kinds of stories with all kinds of heat levels, from sweet G-rated virginal romance to steamy X-rated orgy madness with vampires, werewolves and other creatures of the night.
(I was going to insert the video of Susan Sarandon in the Rocky Horror Picture Show singing "Toucha-Toucha-Touch Me," but couldn't find a decent copy. I did, however, find the official Glee version - you know, that show they made for teens? So... make of that what you will...)
Suffice it to say, I don't give a crap if someone calls my books smut, for the very same reason I call myself a bitch or a slut. No one gets to define me but me, and just because someone else thinks it's bad or inappropriate, that doesn't mean I have to agree. It's only shameful if I accept that shame, and I, wholeheartedly, do not. I know what I write. I don't need to justify or defend it. Call it smut if you want. As long as you're talking about it, it's a win/win.
Admittedly there is a certain standard of obscenity to which we all sort of adhere, and that's where a lot of this shame stems from. This is the second part of the problem: permissiveness. Our "smut" standards, when broken down and examined, still leave women with the short end of the stick... metaphorically speaking. The rules are just different all the way down the line, aren't they? It's a sad truth that generally women have much more to prove before their voice can be heard over the voices of men, because our patriarchal society must grant us permission to be included. The reason that we're still fighting for legitimacy is because it is simply not being granted, often by virtue of sexual stereotypes.
I've broached this topic before in Legitimate Fiction vs. "Genre" Fiction, because unfortunately - as a female writer - I'm keenly aware that it's a reality of my business. Frankly speaking, sexism in the publishing world is a maggot-infested pile of misogynistic dog shit, and who fights misogyny?
THIS girl.
Yes, I am a feminist who writes romantic fiction, which means I'm going to approach my writing with all the audacity of a man, no permission required. I write what I write for a lot of reasons. The most obvious reason is that I love the chase part of falling in love, which is usually fraught with sexual tension. It's exciting and thrilling and intense and passionate, and thanks to romance novels I get to feel that every single time I write.
It's awesome.
I get to fall in and out of love/lust all the time. You think I'm the least bit bothered if someone considers it obscene? Homelessness, poverty, children dying in third-world countries because they don't have access to food or water, injustices where people are beat down for the color of their skin or who they happen to love... that is my definition of obscene. Creating and reading a little bit of ladyporn? That's just good, harmless fun.
It's kind of funny to me how much people still look down on the romance genre, given it makes more money than sci-fi, fantasy, horror and thrillers (i.e. "male" dominated genres) combined. By most standards, this makes it a huge success story. It makes more money and sells more books, and yet the entire genre is still treated like the dirty little secret of literature, which is generally bogus anyway. The simple term 'romance' is a very large umbrella for a great many, very different, books, whether they conform to specific genre convention or not. It's sort of become the catch-all phrase for any stories that deal with relationships or women in general, so it should go without saying that all romance is not created equal, from the great classics to modern bestsellers. You can have EL James on the same bookshelf as Danielle Steel, even if the "heat" or "smut" level is vastly different. Romance, really, captures the whole of the human experience, which is why I love to read it and I love to write it.
BUT... and here's the rub... because it's *for* women and usually written *by* women, it's usually ridiculed by default. I know that may seem like a huge reach for some of you, but allow me to present the case of Jonathan Franzen vs. Jennifer Weiner. Both are successful writers who have written about sex, but guess which one will get shamed for it? Go on. Guess. We'll wait.
Mr. Franzen has admitted that he would never read Weiner's work, but that doesn't really stop him from disparaging it. Sure, some romance/chick lit may be laughable and silly, something one might want to mock and ridicule, but that's not the whole story. Not by a long shot. Like I said, romance covers almost every single story of a woman who must navigate affairs of the heart, whether she's pursuing one specific relationship (which is the genre rule for romance,) or whether it captures the story of a woman's entire life, where she's loved and lost more than one man (or woman, whatever floats her boat,) where her entire objective isn't to partner with anyone, but to live a grand adventure told best in sweeping saga style.
Is Scarlett O'Hara's story one of a star-crossed love affair with Rhett Butler? Or is it the story of one woman's survival of the Civil War? It's all a matter of our third, most important issue to address: empowerment.
In a romance novel, the female is the hero, the one who fights for and usually gets what she wants, and that's a scary scenario for those who ultimately fear female empowerment. The best way to fight back against that is to shame it back into the shadows where it belongs.
Despite how impossible it is to determine the worth of all romance by the lowest hanging fruit on the tree (a very low standard by which to judge, if you ask me,) we writers and lovers of the genre are subtly shamed to apologize, or at least be embarrassed, for what we read.
If a book written by a man, one that includes a story about a couple, that happens to have sex, it's not "smut" - it's literature. If a woman writes a book that includes the story about a couple, which happens to have sex, it's called a "bodice-ripper" and derided as lesser fiction because of it. They're naughty to have written it, we're naughty to read it. Hilarity ensues.
Legitimacy, permissiveness and empowerment are all trampled underfoot of a much bigger problem in our society. Women are not allowed to experience sex as part of their natural lives like men, including the embrace or experimentation of it, to figure out what we like or don't, what kinds of partners (yeah, I said PARTNERS) we might enjoy, or if we find pleasure or not. The statistical average for a woman to orgasm in sex is about 40%. For men? A *wee* bit higher. **COUGH**98% of the time.**COUGH** And that's because we buy into this idea that for men sex is a necessity. For women, it's more of an abstract.
A man orgasms, we know beyond a doubt he's crossed the finish line. (Hence why it's called "the money shot.") For a woman, everyone is chasing after the Female O like it's Nessy or Big Foot, without any real idea A.) how to get there or B.) what it would look like once they got there.
You could, you know, just read a book or something. We're not that hard to figure out, and we're certainly not that hard to get over the finish line. A lot of the time, guys, the weak link is you. I guarantee that "smut" she's reading gets her there *every* time, not just 40% of the time.
Could be why it's a billion-dollar business. Just sayin.
Society has bought into this bullshit that sex is a duty to make a woman's oversexed man happy, but it's not something she's ever going to seek out for herself. Inevitably, whether before marriage or after, the man is automatically cast in the role of pursuer. He wants it more than you, so women must be coerced/seduced to unleash the "wild" side, which is something we must then hide from the world lest it affect our "virtue." This is a recurring theme in romance, actually, which is why the appeal of the Alpha Male is so great. That older billionaire who takes the virginal ingenue in hand and guides her to be his lover is a successful plot device for a reason. It is a metaphor, really, to "liberate" that part of ourselves in the most socially acceptable way possible. Acting on sex just because you want it? Unthinkable! Seduced into a sexy love affair? Now we're talking.
Like I said, I've been reading romance novels since 1980. I'm used to the rogue taking the lady in hand, opening her up to sensual delights under the permissive heading of fated love. In the 70s, this resulted in the rape storyline on General Hospital. It was the only way to allow a young, married woman to "give in" to her desires for another man and be forgiven for it. Forty years later, we still prefer to believe that good girls, virtuous wives and saintly mothers simply do not talk about it, ponder on it, wish for it, drool over it or - gasp - seek "smut" out on purpose. We're not supposed to prioritize it, ladies, because sex is just something we put up with to go to bed early.
Is it any wonder that a female-dominated genre built upon romantic fantasy would be filled to the brim with sex, and ridiculously successful as a result? Come on. Really? Within the pages of a romance novel is the only safe place that women can unleash that inner tigress, living out naughty fantasies without any fear of society regarding her poorly because of it. She reads smut, how cute. She LIVES smut? What a whore.
Tell the nice people how we feel about that other four-letter s-word, Pink.
See that's where that sad little word comes from. Smut is meant to shame you for having the audacity to like sex outside of its accepted social paradigm. Believe it or not, even now, people are still surprised that women like sex. That makes the whole idea of sexual exploration, even if it comes within the safe pages of a book, "dirty," "trashy" or "pornographic" by default. Calling a book you've never read "smut" is nothing more than a shaming device.
I mean, it's a fairly benign word overall. From a Google search: ""Smut" is a slang word - most common in Britain - for any form of media that is considered profane or offensive, particularly with regards to sexual content."
To which I say... so what?
For men, having sex is almost a rite of passage. They get to have scores of it, seek it out, talk about it, write about it, and we somehow all buy, "Oh, it's because he's a man." Anything he writes, then, is forgiven for including sex in their books. It's all part of the experience. For women, sex - for better or worse, usually worse - defines our identity. We're either a good girl or a slut, with no wiggle room in between. It's how our character is rated, not just among men - but other women as well. Our value depends on how we regard sex. It's a honking pile of manure given that the second part of that is that we're limited as individuals anyway, made to feel incomplete unless we land a man, preferably ONE, to give up our precious virtue with complete social acceptance. (And it has to be done in the context of love, or it's just wrong. Period.) Everything is sold to us under that heading, from the time we're little kids (Disney princesses) to adulthood. (i.e. ANY magazine sold in the grocery store.)
In the end, calling a romance novel "smut" is another form of slut-shaming based on the limited standards of someone else. There's sex in a book? OMG! You LIKE to read those scenes? OMG! How unladylike! How trampy. It's trashy and, by default, so are you. (smut=slut)
To which I say again... so what?
If I do nothing else in my books, I hope to further the idea that it's only how we perceive ourselves that matters. We don't need to fight for legitimacy - we exist and we have a right to say what we're going to say. We don't have to wait around for permission to enjoy the things we like, and we certainly don't have to hand over our empowerment to anyone else just because they think we should.
Basically it matters as much or as little as you decide to let it. You get to choose.
I'm out to write a story. The books I read, much like the books I write, may have sex in them, because life has sex in it, and every single writer writes about life. But my books won't *only* have sex in them, and anyone who has read anything I've written knows the difference. Yeah it's unfair, even sexist, that these stories I have crafted with care, to be significant, not just scintillating, are going to be lumped into a category by those who are too ignorant to know the difference or too lazy to figure it out.
Therein lies the key.
If someone uninformed and small-minded mislabels something you love, always consider the source. Then tip your chin, write/read what you want and be a kick ass, empowered, unapologetic chick anyway. Permission: Granted.
"Writer's Block." Those two words can strike fear into almost any wordsmith. There's nothing more terrifying than a well that has run dry, when you stare at a blank screen and your muse is nowhere in sight. Every writer will face it in their lifetime, but you needn't consider it the scary boogie man hiding in your closet.
In fact, you needn't fear it at all.
Here's the good thing about a writer's block. It isn't a stop sign. It isn't a wall. It's a "block," one that often can impede your progress when you're on the wrong path. That means it's small and manageable, and often productive, in the grand scheme of things. Inconvenient, maybe, but in the end it's simply an obstruction in your path that you have to figure out a way around, usually to make your story *stronger* as you develop your writing skill.
Picture yourself on a road, toodling along, listening to the radio, making excellent time on the way to wherever you are going. Let's pretend that you're on the first day of a long vacation, and you have plenty of time to spare. If you're on this highway and you hit an obstruction in your path, like - say - a big beam prohibiting passage, you might have the luxury of sitting in your car and chatting with your passengers, waiting for someone else to come along and remove the blockage so that you can resume your journey, usually at the convenience (mercy) of someone else.
If you're a truck driver who has a deadline to meet, whose money depends on how quickly you can get from Point A to Point B, you don't have the luxury to wait around. It's up to you to find/create a workaround. You'll take the nearest exit. You'll find a detour around your original, planned path, to get to where you need to go by the time you're scheduled to be there. And as someone who is trained to look several car lengths ahead to plan around these kinds of inevitable delays, you're prepared at all times to economize your time so you can make these changes accordingly, with as little inconvenience as you can manage.
Working writers are like truck drivers. They have deadlines to meet. They don't have time to wait for an elusive muse to show up on the scene and remove the blockage. They have to finagle their way around these obstacles. It's you against Writer's Block, and you have to win if you want to finish your project. The when and how is ultimately up to you.
Uncomfortable Truth Ahead: The quickest way to fight your way around Writer's Block is to WRITE your way out of it.
Consider this your runway. Every writer in the world wants to soar through the air, flying gracefully and forcefully through space, trailing behind them each perfect word that appears flawlessly and effortlessly after the other. Truth is that amounts for maybe 25-30% of your writing experience. Most of the time you're on the ground, waiting for clearance, preparing your vessel for the journey ahead and planning for any contingency. That means how effective your creative flight is and how long it lasts usually depends on two things. One, how generous your muse happens to be and two, how prepared you are for the journey.
I can't help you with your muse, she's going to be as temperamental as she's going to be. I can, however, give you some tips in planning, which is generally under your control. I've written both by the seat of my pants, with no clear direction of where I wanted to go between the first page and the last scene, as well as with an outline. Without question, I've always, always, had better luck fending off Writer's Block with an outline. It's a road map of where you need to go, and you usually figure out a lot of the pitfalls when you plan out your story ahead of time.
Some writers feel this inhibits creativity, but that's not the case. Your characters will jump off the page and throw your outline into the wood chipper regularly and without a hint of apology. The point is having an objective every single time you sit down to write. I use chapter-by-chapter outlines. I write it before I write anything else. (Some writers like to do a lot of prep work ahead of time, including character analyses, but we'll get to that in a minute.) In one sitting I go through the story in my head, like I'm watching a movie. I need to know, step by step, where I'm going. I know what beats I have to hit and where, so I plan them accordingly, building the story with pretty basic notes of what I want to accomplish in each scene. Here's an example from my latest book, BACK FOR SECONDS.
***
Chapter One:
Begin with scene leaving the family home, meet Russell, make it tense, zero respect, lots of bitterness. Kids are devastated, particularly Kari. Joely and her children return home from to her mother’s house. Get to meet Lillian and Faye right in the restaurant, along with Xander Davy. He prompts a smile from Kari. That night he leaves with one of the customers from the restaurant, Joely’s mom explains that he likes the ladies and the ladies like him. It immediately puts her off. Sweet scene with youngest daughter – strained goodnights with older kids.
Chapter Two:
Joely is ready to go back to work. Problem: she’s been a stay-at-home mom for twelve years, and keeps running into obstacles. She is no longer an attractive candidate for her chosen field in management, and needs a certain income to support her family. That Xander is a bit of a showoff with his money only puts her off even more. It’s clear she doesn’t like him. It’s clear that’s not what he’s used to. Kari, however, lights up at the restaurant where they eat nightly. Introduce Mason.
Chapter Three:
Several rejections later and Joely ends up baking her feelings. Her mother is overjoyed with her product, saying that she should do that for the restaurant. She tells her mother no, she’d rather make it on her own. It’s bad enough they have to stay in their house. The sooner she gets a job, the sooner she gets her freedom. Her grandmother ends up cooking with her at home. She’s a feisty gal full of advice and good humor, especially when it comes to her strained relationship with her daughter.
Chapter Four:
Joely drops the kids off with their father, who makes it a point to wave his new relationship (his former affair) under her nose. Joely decides to head to a bar with her BFF Novanna, who has nothing good to say about Russell, even though their husbands share a practice. Cheating is a deal breaker. Period. She convinces Joely to scope out a new man, a hot meaningless affair to remind her what it is to be her own woman. She ends up running into Xander. After a disastrous dance where their personalities clash, she retreats back to the house, where she bakes goodies, getting creative with the decorating.
***
If you've read BACK FOR SECONDS, then you can see where the story ventured off on its own, following its own unique flow in the narrative. The outline that plants my butt in the chair is not carved in stone, there's plenty of wiggle room to venture outside the lines where I need to. You find your own groove as you delve further into the story. An outline is more of a guideline where you're going, so that you can *keep* going. So I throw random, vague scene ideas in the mix I think will further the story I want to tell, but leave enough room there to let the muse do her thing.
She's more compliant than you'd think.
Once that initial plan is in place, it gives me a writing schedule (usually at least one chapter, maybe two, per day,) which means I can finish a first draft in a month or less. If I get stuck, say, like when my characters jump ship from the outline and get caught up doing their own thing, then I delve deeper into their motivation, to keep the flow of action as organic as possible. It has to build upon itself, one thing upon the other. Here's where you can refer to your character analyses, if you've written them, or write them in addition to the outline, whenever you need an extra push to get past that dreaded blinking cursor. You can also do more research. If your characters live in Los Angeles, research Los Angeles and use that in your story. Find a place, give them an activity, throw them into a scene and just see what they do. If they're a doctor, research a case that might pertain to their occupation and fit it into the story. If they're famous or rich, take the afternoon and get balls deep in a Biography hole on TV, to figure out what kinds of situations they've found themselves in and knock your characters around accordingly. Find a way to "show" what you need to say, incorporating your central theme or message in deeper layers.
(Some writers even prefer a writing project aside from the one they're working on, such as a blog post, etc., just to get the juices flowing. Ahem.)
The trick is to find *something* to write about, even if you end up scrapping it later.
See, that's the biggest lie that Writer's Block whispers in your ear. Most of us hit a standstill when we feel that what we're writing doesn't match what we want to say. The words are all wrong, or simply don't come at all. But even a less stellar word is one more towards your destination. There are a lot of things you can fix in the rewrite process. (We'll go over that in a future blog.)
One of the best pieces of advice I've ever gotten was, "Don't get it right. Get it written."
Writers' Block, Shmiter's Block, that's your job. Get it written. So plan ahead. Research, research, research. Write your way out of it.
It's nearly May 1, y'all... you know what that means!
Okay, okay. My love for Tony Stark aside... ahem...
It is also the day you all finally get to meet Xander!
I'm SUPER excited, you guys. This is one Book Boyfriend who even took *me* by surprise. I knew what I wanted him to be when I sat down to write the book. Well, honestly the story nipped at my heels long before I actually sat down to write it. It haunted me, the way all my favorite story ideas do. Xander would come to me in a flash, whispering things in my ear, that had me as discombobulated as he left our heroine, Joely. I guess you could say he seduced me first.
But nothing... nothing could have prepared me for the ride he took me on once I started writing. This book is racier than anything I have ever done. Two of my most diehard fans are my mother-in-law and my grandmother-in-law, who read everything I write even if they have to skip certain passages. Let me put it to you this way... I'm highly tempted to print a special censored version of this story just for them, because Xander is a naughty, naughty boy.
Exhibit A:
***
When she returned to the house, she met a delivery driver at the door, who carried a large white box. “Miss Morgan?” he asked.
She fought the urge to correct him and say, “Mrs. Morgan,” considering, like Xander and Novanna had said, that wasn’t who she was anymore. “Yes,” she said as she approached.
“Package for you,” he said as he handed it off.
She fished a few dollars from her purse to tip the young man before carrying the large parcel into the house and up the stairs. She didn’t stop until she reached the bedroom, where she deposited the box onto her bed. Before she could rip it open, her phone rang.
It was Xander.
“Good morning,” he crooned into her ear.
“I assume you had something to do with this,” she said as she sat on the bed next to her gift.
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted happily. “Open it.”
She put him on speakerphone before she lifted the top of the box away and moved the tissue aside to reveal a silky black and lace dress. “Oh, Xander,” she murmured as she withdrew it, revealing a flowing skirt, snug bodice with a sweetheart neckline that dipped low in front. The wide straps were made of lace and the style was much like the other 50s-inspired clothing he’d selected for her. He clearly preferred retro glamour. “It’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you like it. I can’t wait until tonight so I can see you in it.” She shivered in spite of herself. “There’s just one thing,” he murmured.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not allowed to wear any underwear underneath it,” he said in a voice so low it nearly made Joely groan out loud.
“Allowed?” she echoed.
“That’s right. No panties. No bra. Just you. When I hold you close to me tonight at The Ranch, I want to know that I’m just a fine bit of silk away from fucking you right there on that dance floor. And I want everyone else to know it, too.”
“Xander,” she started, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“Ah, ah,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’m the one in charge, remember? And you will be a good girl and do as you’re told.”
She could barely breathe. “Okay.”
“That’s not all,” he said. “I want you to drop off the kids wearing this dress.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “Why?”
“I want him to see what he threw away.”
She made a face he couldn’t see. “He won’t care,” she said.
“Yes, he will,” Xander promised. “Because somewhere deep down he’ll know that this weekend you belong to someone new.”
***
I said it before and I'll say it again...
You can pre-order BACK FOR SECONDS right now, and it'll be available for you to read the second you leave the theater for that midnight showing of AVENGERS 2: The Age of Mancandy.
Ahem... I mean Ultron.
Speaking of Mancandy... how many of you have met Snake from CHASING THUNDER?
You can read all about my badass biker with a heart of gold (and quick wit) RIGHT NOW! My editor fell in love with him, so I think you definitely will too. Not only can you pick up your copy of CHASING THUNDER at Amazon, B&N, iTunes, and Kobo - where it is currently ranked 400 in International Mysteries/Suspense, btw - but we are hours away from the close of the Goodreads Giveaway for one of two signed copies of the paperback!
Mark your calendars, ladies and gents. A new book boyfriend is preparing himself for his international debut on May 1. His name is Xander Davy. He's from England, but no moss grows under this rolling stone. He's only 26, but thanks to his touch of wanderlust he's lived in some of the most fascinating cities in the world: London, New York, San Francisco...
So how did this cultured, sophisticated gent land in Abilene, Texas, of all places?
Let's just say that not all cowboys were born in the Wild West. Xander Davy brings that spirit with him, in super-sized helpings that leave you hungering for more.
Sure, the ladies love him. He's handsome. He's charming. He's got that accent. And he's way intense. He takes what he wants but like a truly self-possessed alpha, he doesn't have to rob anyone else of anything to do it. There's a lot to like, as our emotionally vulnerable heroine, Joely Morgan, quickly learns.
Needless to say he even left me breathless a time or two, the lil' dickens.
So mark your calendars and get your copy pre-ordered ASAP, because I can't *wait* to see what y'all have to say about Xander.
Here's a taste...
***
Joely turned to Xander. “What’s all that about?” she wanted to know.
“What’s what about?” he asked as he popped another huge bite into his mouth. His dark eyes watched her closely.
“Playing buddy-buddy with my kids,” she replied as she took his plate and headed back toward the sink. The chair scraped against the tile as he stood and walked over to join her.
His mouth was still full when he said, “It’s called being nice.”
Her look was skeptical. “Look. They’re going through a difficult time right now."
He swallowed his last mouthful. His eyes kept hers captive as he ran his tongue around the corner of his mouth to capture any leftover frosting. “I know,” he finally said. “Your mother told me.”
Inwardly Joely groaned. That explained everything. “Great.”
He leaned against the counter. “It’s no big deal. Lillian thought maybe I could connect with Nash. He’s alone in a house full of women now. She thinks he could use a man to talk to.”
From where they stood nearly a foot apart, she could see his broad shoulders straining against the navy blue shirt he wore. His legs were long, crossed casually at the ankle, as he linked his hands and rested his elbow on the counter. Her nose filled with the scent of his cologne, a mixture of wood and spice. There was no doubt about it. He most definitely was a man. And the look in his eyes wouldn’t let her forget it. “I just,” she started but then found herself flustered and stammering. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here and I don’t want them to get attached to anything temporary. I appreciate the thought, but it’s not necessary.”
He towered over her 5’5-inch frame, studying her long brown hair and her deep brown eyes. The longer he stood without saying anything, the more nervous she got. When the tip of his thumb brushed the side of her mouth, she nearly jumped right out of her skin. Her doe eyes opened even wider as she watched him lick his thumb. “Missed a spot,” he murmured.
She was still sputtering behind him as he walked from the kitchen.
***
Pre-order your copy of BACK FOR SECONDS, now on AMAZON, B&N, iTunes, and KOBO!
I was seventeen years old when I met my first husband, Daniel. Because I was so young, I did all the things young girls do when they're completely smitten with someone older and more complicated: I tried to mold myself into his perfect girl. I did what he liked to do, even if I didn't particularly want to do it. I watched what he liked to watch, even if I didn't particularly like it. I grew up in a house devoid of testosterone from the age of 11. Guy flicks, namely action movies, war movies and westerns, all fell off my list from a very early age. Dan, a rough and tough guy chock full of testosterone, brought 'em all back. And really, they weren't all bad. I developed a healthy respect for martial arts movies in particular. But, as a feminist from an early age, nothing pissed me off more than those female characters who did nothing more than "prop" the action for their male co-stars. The most egregious of these offenders were typically bare-assed naked and screaming while all the fists flailed around them, the very definition of eye candy.
It became crystal clear to me after sampling several popular movies in these genres that most "tough" women, the bad-ass women, the ones that didn't need men to save them, were colored with a different color pen. Virtuous girls, the girls that these hot macho men couldn't resist, always defaulted to the victim who needed saving because they were too "good" to save themselves. (Queen of these useless babes was Kelly Lynch's character in Road House. ICK... and no.)
Granted, these were bubblegum movies that didn't necessarily need to have a point. They were written by men for men, defaulting time and again to the patriarchal socialization we all share, whether we like it or not.
It was, and still is, a sticking point for me.
This imbalance influenced me so strongly that it bled into my first full-length novel, which I began in 1989. Many of you already know how the idea came to me. I was 19 years old and living out of my car in Los Angeles. "Welcome to the Jungle" came on the radio and I began to see it in terms of a story. Of course there would be an innocent teenager, and of course she would wind up on the mean streets of Hollywood. And of course, a noble biker, a tough anti-hero, would ride to her rescue. (Another major Dan influence.)
And then it hit me...
Who said that biker had to be a man?
Thus, M.J. Bennett was born. In truth, she's the daughter Dan and I never had. She's fearless and tough as nails, like him. And she's devoted and loyal and refuses to back down from a fight... like me. M.J. knows who she is and what she can do, and she does it all without apology.
It's taken me 26 years to fully bring this complicated character to life. Things have changed a lot in the meantime. We now have some badass female characters everywhere we look, on TV and in the movies. Writers like Joss Whedon bravely embarked on this exciting new frontier as early as the 1990s, which paved the way for heroines like Katniss Everdeen. Tomorrow, at long last, M.J. joins the ranks of some badass lady characters who have changed the way we see women. I couldn't be prouder or love her any more.
Here's a sneak peek of what's to come, with the first confrontation between M.J. and Dominic Isbecky, the man she suspects is behind the brutal murders of underage sex workers.
Get your 1-Click fingers primed and ready. #mjisalmosthere!
***
They reached the door to his office and he shoved her inside. He locked the door, lowered the lights, and kicked on the sound system with the touch of a button. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Bennett.”
He assumed his position behind his desk, so she walked to one of the chairs on the other side. She flopped down and kicked her boots up on his expensive ebony desk. He immediately scowled, which made her smile. “You wanted me here and I’m here. So what’s up, buttercup?”
“You’ve been interfering with my business, Miss Bennett. And I don’t take kindly to that.”
“I don’t take kindly to your business,” she told him bluntly.
He leaned across his desk. “Too bad there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it,” he said. “Slick operates as a legitimate business. According to the law, and a litany of lawmakers, I am above reproach.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Even the second floor?”
“The second floor is not part of Slick. It includes private residential quarters for a few close friends. And I am a man who takes care of his friends.”
“Unless they’re female and underage, right?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t make a practice of hanging out with underage girls. But I’m sure you can tell me all about it. How is your young friend from the alley?”
It was her turn to shrug. “Dunno. Got her on a bus and got her the hell out of here the very night I met her. Just like I’ve done for at least two other girls who’ve spent time within these hallowed walls.”
He chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s amusing that you think I don’t know.”
She stopped in front of his marble chessboard. Dominic watched as she studied the pieces thoughtfully. Finally she reached down and moved a piece before turning toward the window.
It took a minute or two, but finally Dominic slid from his chair and walked over to the chess board. He spotted her move almost immediately, as this particular game had been at a stalemate with his latest opponent. He grinned as he took the piece with ease. “It’s amazing what one day can do,” he commented. “Just one day in this jungle and that pristine young girl will be a tatted-out junkie giving blowjobs at chain restaurants near freeway on-ramps. Call me a romantic, but I thought I could help.”
“Help,” she repeated. “That’s a nice word for it. Do you have an upstairs room set aside for her, too?” His eyes glittered, and he let the comment slide. She glanced down at the chessboard. Within a minute or two, she made another move. Again, he took it with ease.
“But you were right about one thing,” she said. “A lot can happen in a day, an hour . . . or even a minute.” She quickly moved the knight into position. “It can even dethrone a king.” Her eyes met his. “Checkmate.”
There was a flash of irritation in his eyes and the barest hint of a scowl as he realized what she had done. She had set a trap that he had overlooked, simply because her original move had been so easily conquered. He scanned the pieces on the board to figure out how she had unlocked a previously unwinnable game so quickly. He crossed his arms and stared at her, trying to figure her out. Was this another game? Another trap?
If so, he had to sniff out her vulnerabilities. Where were her weaknesses? What mattered to M.J. Bennett?
She made her way to the door, and he crossed the two feet between them. “Impressive,” he said softly. “But no matter how clever you think you are, if you are hiding this girl here in Los Angeles, I will find her.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “We have unfinished business, and I am a stickler for loose ends. That means no matter where you send her, I can find her.”
Her eyes gave nothing away as she stared back at him. Finally he bent forward. “The same way I’ll always be able to find you.” He sniffed the air around her. “I’ve got your scent now, Miss Bennett. Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want me on this hunt. I won’t stop until I take it all.” His hand slid down the side of her face to grab her throat. The tighter his grip became, the bigger his smile grew. “Think about that the next time you put your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
She broke the hold easily, almost too easily. He laughed. “You entertain me, Miss Bennett. Such fire,” he murmured, touching the wild red curls that fell over her shoulders. “Now that I’ve met you, I might even consider a trade.”
“Bad move for your business,” she replied.
He stepped closer. “And why’s that?”
Her voice was smooth as silk. “Your clients can’t afford me.”
He trailed a finger along her arm and over her chest, just above the lace trim of her shirt. “And how much are you worth, M.J.?”
“I’m priceless, motherfucker,” she answered, her hand landing on the button on the side panel that controlled the door. It unlocked with an audible click.
He made no move to stop her as she left his office. But he followed her, and stood, arms crossed, at the end of the hallway and watched her depart, ensuring that the mysteries of his private rooms remained undetected by the meddlesome troublemaker. He didn’t go back into to his office until she had disappeared from sight.
In eight days, a 26-year dream of mine is coming true when CHASING THUNDER releases from True North Publishing. I've been in love with these characters for more than half my life, which is about how long it took for me to tell their story as well as it deserved to be told. It is a true joy to bring them to you at last. Meet my feisty kids, M.J., Snake and Baby in this excerpt from Chapter 2: Thunderstruck.
***
Hollywood faded into the distance behind them as they raced along Sunset Boulevard. The mosaic of Los Angeles passed alongside, from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills. The bike didn’t stop until they reached Santa Monica, where the rider finally turned off the main boulevard to a smaller side street, easing up to a nondescript white building with a green neon sign that read The Snake Pit.
Her rescuer hadn’t bothered to say a word during the long retreat. She killed the motor and slid from the bike. As she turned to face her, Haley didn’t know whether to thank her or scream for help. Those green eyes pierced right through her. “Got a name?”
Haley thought about it a second. She instinctively knew that she had to bury her identity in order to protect it. “Baby,” she finally answered. It was what both Billy and Tammy had called her, and it seemed as good an alias as any.
“Of course,” the biker said, reaching for her jacket.
“What about you?” Baby asked.
“M.J.,” she replied. She looked the young girl aboard her bike up and down, then handed her the jacket. “Here. You may get cold in that tissue you’re wearing.”
Baby only hesitated a moment before she dismounted and shrugged into the oversized jacket, which wrapped around her like another, more modest dress. With a satisfied nod of her head, M.J. turned on her heel and headed into the dive bar without another word. Baby was quick to follow.
The heavy steel door slammed behind them. Classic rock blared from the sound system. The bar was filled with bikers of all shapes and sizes, and every single one of them turned to see who had entered. Baby found herself shrinking behind M.J.’s lean frame, intimidated by the crustier clientele. M.J., however, stalked purposefully toward the bar, where a tall bearded man was making drinks.
He was rugged and handsome, towering over six feet tall, with broad shoulders barely contained by the black T-shirt he wore. His thick brown hair curled by the nape of his neck, while a neatly trimmed beard trailed along his strong, square jawline. Though he was rough around the edges, his dark eyes were kind. They regarded the redhead with playful affection.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, smiling. He rounded the bar and took her up in a massive bear hug. “I oughta kick your ass for staying away so long,” he growled, holding her close.
“If you think you’re man enough,” she teased with a smile of her own.
He kept M.J. in the crook of his arm and turned his attention to Baby. “And who is your friend?”
“This is Baby,” she said. “Baby, this is Snake.”
Baby held out her hand and he shook it with power and authority. Despite his venomous moniker, for the first time in a long time, Baby actually felt safe. She offered him a small smile, which pleased him. He rounded the bar to pour her a soda. “Any friend of M.J.’s is a friend of mine,” he announced. “You hungry? I think we have just enough chili left for one more bowl.”
M.J. groaned. “I just got this girl out of Hollywood. I’m not sending her to the ER because of your chili.”
He held a hand to his chest. “I’m . . . I’m hurt.”
Baby couldn’t help but giggle. He was a charmer, there was no doubt about it. “I’ll risk it,” she said with a shy smile.
“See? She’s not afraid. Lori!” He hollered to the waitress across the room. “Set our friend up with a bowl of chili.” He leaned across the bar from Baby with a teasing gleam in his eye. “They’ll have to scrape most of it off the bottom of the pan with a chisel and a rock. Good stuff, though.”
Again Baby giggled. He gave her a wink and turned back to M.J. “So. What’s up?”
M.J. glanced down at Baby, who turned her attention back to her soda. With a wave of her finger, she led Snake away from the bar and into his office, closing the door behind them.
“Hollywood, huh?” he asked, perching on the edge of his cluttered desk. She shrugged in response, as if he should have known better than to ask. And of course he did. Molly Joanne Bennett had been patrolling Hollywood for nearly ten years, taking up the mantle left behind by her grandfather, Joe. She still wore his signet ring on the index finger of her left hand, and now she wore his bandana on her wrist and his dog tags around her neck as well. His mission had become her mission. It was her duty. It was her calling. All of that was status quo.
The only surprise was that she had brought one of her kids with her to the bar. That was new. “Surprised you didn’t leave her with Rose.”
“There was a slight complication,” M.J. replied, as if a dead gangbanger was as inconvenient as a misplaced set of keys.
Snake, however, could easily read between the lines. “M.J.,” he groaned.
Her green eyes met his. “Can we crash with you? Just for a couple of days, while I figure out what to do with her.”
He sighed. He knew she wouldn’t ask if she had any other choice. And she never asked for help unless it was important. The girl sitting at his bar was in danger, and M.J. was willing to set aside her pride to help her. Snake looped two fingers through the belt loops on either side of her hips and drew M.J. toward him, fitting her right in between his powerful thighs. “When have you ever had to ask?”
“I don’t know. I just thought, maybe after last time . . .” She trailed off. Their turbulent history lay between them, as always.
“I guess you’ll just have to work really hard to make it up to me,” he said softly.
She happily responded with a kiss. He closed his arms around her waist, practically lifting her off the floor as he took immediate possession of her mouth. She melted against him with a soft moan.
When they rejoined Baby in the bar, she had already scarfed down half her bowl of chili. Jack, their resident playboy, had immediately filled the seat next to her to work on his A-game with the newest female. He realized his error as M.J. approached. “Back off, Jack. She’s underage.”
He held up his hands. He knew better than to pick a fight with the feisty redhead, who wasn’t called a “force of nature” for nothing. “No need to get testy.” He turned to Baby with a teasing pout. “You didn’t tell me you were underage.”
“You never gave me the chance,” Baby pointed out.
Snake laughed. “Now that’s a girl that speaks her mind. I like you already,” he told her with another wink. “Just give me about twenty to finish up a few things and then we can get out of here.”
Baby’s eyes widened. “Where are we going?”
Snake glanced between Baby and M.J. “Home,” he finally declared.
Baby opened her mouth, but no refusal was forthcoming. She couldn’t go back to the streets. She had had two brushes with disaster within the last twenty-four hours. She knew better than to press her luck with a third. And something told her she was completely safe with Snake. She wasn’t as sure about the redhead at his side, especially after seeing what she did to those scary men in the alley. M.J. was easily the most unpredictable woman Baby had ever met, which made her almost a threat by default.
But what choice did she have, really?
She finished her chili and crackers. She’d sucked down three sodas to fend off its five-alarm hot pepper, as well as her dry mouth from her earlier high. True to his word, Snake was ready to go shortly after. He shrugged on a jacket similar to the one M.J. had loaned her, and she followed them both on shaking legs to the parking lot. Without being told, she climbed aboard M.J.’s bike and waited.
***
The Storm is coming in EIGHT DAYS!! Pre-order CHASING THUNDER through AMAZON, iTUNES and KOBO!
