New Year, New Challenges

First of all, Akemashite Omedetou! I hope the year of the sheep is a wonderful one for us all! Today is the day of firsts - first sunrise, first practice, first chance at starting the year off in the direction I want it to go. To that end I have decided that I need a rigid schedule. . .too much freedom lets my inner procrastinator take over. I have not traditionally been big on schedules, the little rebellious voice inside me whispers that I could just achieve so much more in my own time. Sadly, that little voice is a liar. Too much freedom just lets me delay all the things that need doing but aren't fun (rewrites anyone?). So, for the rest of 2015, I am giving the opposite approach a try and scheduling everything - social media, writing, research, exercise, even learning to play the cello and chauffeuring the teens about town. I don't know if it will make me more efficient, or thrust me into the depths of despair. It will be an adventure in a house full of free spirits, though!

How about you? What writing resolutions are you making making this year? Are big changes on your horizon or are you happy with the track you are already on?

Squashing My Inner Humbug

Right about now almost everyone I know has a touch of the holiday blues or the end of year blahs, myself included. So I have decided to try and brighten everyone's mood just a bit. Everyone who either comments on this post with their e-mail and choice, or e-mails me their preference (sessha@sesshabattousai.com) by Wednesday the 24th of December will get one of the following three e-books. Just tell me which one you are interested in, and whether you prefer .mobi or .epub and, voila, you will have a free read for the holidays! No strings, no fancy hoops to jump through, just my hope that your New Year will be your most wonderful yet. Want to know more about one of the choices, just click on it. Thank you all for a fantastic year!!

Holly Jolly Phooey

It's that time of year again, when the doldrums hit and everything feels more than a little bit pointless. Most of my writer friends are swept up in the furor that is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) but this year I can't even get inspired by that. I am about 18,000 words into a new novel, and it is by far the best thing I've ever written. I, however, am not inspired to keep going. You see, my work doesn't fit into the neat little boxes everyone loves to tick - it isn't romance, I don't believe in happily ever after. It isn't really erotica, although it titillates, that isn't the bulk of the work by any means. Literary writers shun me, because there is an intense sexual component. I wish I could turn back time to the days before publication, when the writing was all there was. Once you push that button, though, expectations change - both yours and those of the people around you.

My expectations are still simple, I want people to read what I write and, hopefully, have it move them. Although I would adore it if everyone loved my work, having them hate it is almost as satisfying, because at least I moved them in some way. But in order to do that people have to read, and gaining enough visibility to even register on anyone's radar is nearly impossible in the flood of books coming to market every single day.

Even reading, which has been my life long escape from the harsh light of reality, isn't giving me any joy. Either I love what I'm reading (and therefore despair that I will ever write anything worthwhile) or I find it to be merely meh (and in some cases awful) and then beat myself up because that dreck can sell and I can't move a single unit.

This has been a year fraught with challenges. My dear friend and alpha reader passed away at far too young an age. My beloved furry companion Kate also crossed over the rainbow bridge at the ripe old age of 23, and even though three new little bundles of fur and purrs have joined our household, I still miss her quiet presence. My son is all grown up and in college, and his lovely girlfriend has taken my place in his life - as is right and expected, but still tough to cut those ties. I've had to split my time between my home and family and my elderly father on the other side of the country - and felt all along that no one was getting what they needed from me. I've been scattered and splattered and altogether useless in any way that really matters.

And now come the holidays. Christmas isn't my celebration, I'm a Buddhist, after all. But the non-stop forced cheer and in your face and down your throat consumerism leave even the most detached aching to run away and bury our heads in the sand. Buy buy buy give give give. For those of us on the edge, both financially and emotionally, it is the death knell to any possible joy you can muster in these cold dark months.

So, my friends, I ask you a favor. It's an easy one, don't worry. Be kind this holiday season - to yourself and to those you come in contact with. If you don't like what someone has to say, just ignore it. Smile at strangers. Cut yourself and others some slack. If we all work together, perhaps we can light the darkness of these winter months just a little tiny bit.

Dinner with the Devil

Just in time for Halloween - a cautionary tale from my anthology Sex Ray Specs.

“Why are we doing this again?”

The wry, slightly aggrieved tone of the teacher's voice left Shou struggling not to laugh. “Because you lost our bet, sensei,” he purred. “My prize is your company on this little adventure.”

Aoshi cracked his eyes open just enough to study the man next to him. “I already told you, I don't believe in ghosts. If you're just trying to get a rise out of me you'll be sorely disappointed.”

“Oh my, sensei. If that was what I wanted I would have been much more direct.” Shou's deep rumbling chuckle sent goosebumps skittering over the teacher's skin. “It's supposed to be the most haunted place in all of Japan. I just want to see why it has such a dark reputation.”

“Weak fools who wanted to be scared,” Aoshi declared. “People see what they want to see.”

“So the thought of dinner with the devil doesn't even give you pause?”

“Devil, schmevil, can't be any worse than some of the human octopuses I've dated.”

“Let's hope you're right.” Shou pulled off the road onto a twisting drive. Conversation ebbed as he turned his concentration to the narrow rutted track. Mushrooms of all shapes and sizes had taken root in the pitted surface, churning to a slippery ooze under the tires. The vehicle slipped and slid, scraping against the encroaching underbrush until it finally burst into a small clearing.

The house itself was ordinary enough, wood faded to a soft grey, the surprisingly intact shoji tightly shut. If he didn't know better, Shou would have assumed it to be carefully maintained by a loving owner.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Aoshi's question jolted him out of his daze. “It doesn't look haunted.”

Shou didn't reply, instead he busied himself gathering their supplies. He grasped the teacher's arm at the elbow and steered him up onto the engawa. “Last chance to back out.”

“As if I'd give you the satisfaction. Aoshi slid open the door and stepped inside, yanking his friend in behind him. “Looks harmless enough.”

Light filtered in through the yellowed paper on the shoji, giving the space a warm amber glow that was almost welcoming. The aged tatami creaked and rustled under their feet, each step kicking up a cloud of dust. The teacher shook out the blanket he was carrying, spreading it in the middle of the floor and pulling his companion down to sit. “This is as good a place as any. I'm starving.”

As unimpressive as the room looked, the tiny hairs on the back of Shou's neck prickled with danger. He rummaged in the picnic basket, pulling out three lacquered bento boxes, chopsticks, sake, and three tiny saucers.

“Three?” Aoshi asked. “Is someone joining us?”

“Can't have dinner with the devil and not feed him.” Shou poured sake into three saucers and lifted his in a toast. “To a most enlightening evening.”

“Kanpai.” The teacher took a sip, sighing as the warmth slid down his throat and started a glow in his belly. “That is nice. I just hope you didn't make these yourself. I've seen the glop you call food.”

“And risk insulting the prince of darkness? It's from that sushi place near your apartment, the one you always rave about.”

“Then let's eat.” Aoshi clapped his hands together. “Itadakimasu,” he murmured as he grabbed a pair of chopsticks.

“It's rather impolite to start without your host, don't you think?”

The surprisingly mellow voice grew closer. “It's been a long time since I've had guests, especially on this night.”

“What night?”Aoshi croaked. He kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the tatami as bare feet and the hem of a man's kimono passed next to him.

“Why, All Hallow's Eve, of course. The night when restless spirits walk the earth. I tend to forget you don't celebrate it here.” The newcomer settled himself cross-legged, hands reaching for the waiting saucer of sake.

Shou idly noted the man now seated opposite him kicked up no dust as he moved. He clamped down hard on the nausea bubbling in his throat, lifting his eyes to the middle of the figure's chest. From the neck down he looked ordinary enough, a slight man in a simple dark kimono. A tiny part of his mind gleefully urged him to look up and disprove the myth once and for all, but his natural paranoia overrode it.

“Your companion is quite lovely. I can certainly see the attraction.” The deceptively simple statement triggered protective instincts Shou never imagined he possessed.

“He's mine.”

“Really? He doesn't smell like you.” The stranger inhaled deeply. “But he does smell sweet. Why don't you and I make a little trade. I'll let you go, and you leave him to keep me amused.”

“Never.” Shou leapt to his feet, pulling the teacher behind him. “Don't look. Just back out through the door.”

“You're being very rude.” Aoshi clamped his hand over his traitorous lips in an attempt to stop the words that flowed from his mouth, in his voice, but were certainly not his. “We intruded on his solitude,” he continued to mumble around the obstruction. “The least we can do is finish our meal.”

“That's an excellent idea.” The stranger reached to take the teacher's hand, but Shou pivoted, fingers digging into Aoshi's biceps before flinging him through the open door.

Cold seared through him, the outstretched hand now resting companionably on his shoulder. “It's amazing how often that works.”

“Wh-wh-what?” Shou stammered. The door shook as Aoshi pounded on it from outside, but the sound was curiously distant.

“I mean, think about it,” the stranger continued. “What would someone like me want with someone as nice as your friend. You on the other hand ...” Shou squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to all the deities he had never believed in, “ ...you have possibilities.”

* * *

The police dismissed it as a lover's quarrel. A perfunctory visit to the caved-in ruin of a house guaranteed they would not believe him. Shou slipped out of conversation, then memory.

Yet every year on October 31, Aoshi returned with dinner for three. “I've brought our dinner,” he'd announce. “Are you tired of him yet? He really can be an asshole, sometimes. But, if you're done with him, I'd love to have him back. We never finished our date.” With a respectful bow he'd lay out two bento and pour two saucers of sake, then retreat to the engawa to eat his portion under open sky.  

Plugging away

A snippet of today's work on Onna Bugeisha . . .

Afternoons in the pleasure district are lazy, leisurely affairs. In this closed world of women the highlight of the day is gossiping the long hours away in the baths. From the outside the willow world appears to slumber behind its walls, recovering from the revelries of the night before. In reality, this is the most cherished part of the day, when hopes and dreams are laid bare and all eventualities are possible. The arrival of a curtained palanquin during these hours was unexpected enough to set all tongues wagging. When that palanquin stopped outside a teahouse known for unconventional sexual practices, curiosity overcame all rivalries. Women who normally passed without so much as a nod of acknowledgment put their heads together and whispered ever more outlandish theories. The only thing the pillow girls could agree on was no one recognized the heavily veiled woman who slipped from its curtained privacy into the teahouse. Her wealth was obvious, hair impeccably coifed and clad in a kimono worth more than all of them combined. Why such a person would visit that particular house was debated in ever rising voices. The most obvious answer, a husband with habits no decent woman could stomach, was almost immediately discarded. Such a refined creature would no more discuss such things than she would run naked through the streets. Most wives negotiated their husband's liasons through scrolls and servants, even the most mundane. The lack of subterfuge had all the women on edge. Something darker was obviously at work.

Inside the shadowed confines of the teahouse Jun proceeded to plead his case. Using all the skill he had acquired in his time onstage, he struck just the right balance between misery and vengeance, hoping to sway the proprietor to his side.

“He swore we were eternal lovers. And then he abandoned me.” A delicate handkerchief disappeared behind the veils to dab at watery eyes. “Now I am spoiled for any other.”

“Why come to me? There are many houses that would love to have a lady of your refinement. My customers have perverse tastes. Your delicate sensibilities will enflame them to greater outrages just to see your reaction.”

“I have no choice,” Jun explained in a breathy whisper. “I cannot allow another inside my jade gate. I am willing to be used as men use each other, however. Would you have customers interested in such things?”

Out of the Shadows

If you follow this blog I'm sure you know how much I hate publicity of any type. I stay pretty low key, I keep my head down, and, most importantly, I don't do photos. For years I've been more than content with a cartoon representation of myself. Last month, though, I broke down and did a public signing at the Baltimore Book Festival and *gasp* there is an actual photo of me at the event. So, just for fun, I thought I'd share it with you and prove, once and for all, that I am a real person . . .

Muse

When the world is quiet and still he comes to me. Tendrils of power drift around him in a graceful, kinetic dance, arcing from his hands to my flesh, burning their way through my synapses, at odds with the frigid bite of his skin. The soft smokey murmur in my ear pins me as certainly as too dark eyes and all thoughts of protest dissipate. He smells of ginger and cloves, sharp, seductive, hypnotic. Glass, stone, metal and bone woven into shaggy locks sing their own melody and I'm drowning under the onslaught, sinking into a place only he can drive me. When the whispers turn dark he dances, twisting and twirling, horns scribing the text into my flesh as the heady tang of copper mingles with spice. Then he smiles, a slight quirk of his lip, the tip of a pink tongue flicking out to taste my fears, my dreams, my essence encoded in my DNA. I would run, I would hide, I would surrender my soul for words of pleasure and pain. The rustle of finished pages, the itch of newly healed flesh, the secret of my success, he follows his own path. As for myself, I live to sleep and dream of my other half, this cruel symbiote without whom I am lost.