Coming Soon: A Beastly Affair

Hey friends! I don't think I remembered to tell you that I signed a contract for a story in Jen Blackmore's Beastly Affair, a Beauty and the Beast-themed erotic anthology coming soon from Circlet Press.

I had a really great time writing my story, "Bête Noire." It's set in the Weird West, with a beast who's a former debutante, and a gun-toting, revenge-seeking Beauty.

When I finished the story and looked it over, I saw it had... drifted quite a bit from the fairy tale as told by Disney. That's what you want when writing, of course, because you need to make a story your own. I'm always fascinated by the process, though. To me, each step feels clear and logical, as if I'm just making minor adjustments. Then I hear myself describing the story to someone, and I realize it's radically different, and radical.

Like, why the Weird West? I'm not sure, but it made perfect sense to me at the time. I think I was looking for a time and place in which I thought a curse-giver could be passing through, and I didn't want to do the vague medieval England setting that one falls into so easily.

The key to my version of the story, though, came from research I did into the origins of the fairy tale. One old version of the story holds that the witch curses the Beast in a fit of rage after being sexually denied. It seemed to me like a person who would do that wouldn't only do it once, so I immediately envisioned a wandering sexual harasser, leaving behind a trail of Beast-cursed people. From there, it wasn't hard to imagine Beauty and a Beast teaming up to pursue the curse-giver.

I wanted the story to address the trauma the Beast has gone through. I put into it a lot of the feelings I've had myself in the wake of harassment—in particular, an urge to embrace the idea of ugliness because sometimes I see that as an antidote to vulnerability. I've also often observed that in the wake of trauma, my friends want revenge, and the things I want are much murkier and more complex.

Along with all that psychological and mythological stuff, though, Beauty and the Beast are into blood play, and the scenes I wrote for that are HOT—if I judge by my own reaction to them, anyway. ;)

I'm really looking forward to this book. I love Jen Blackmore's anthologies, both because her concepts are awesome and because she attracts great writers (I'm always honored to be in their company).

If you want to be in her next book, she has a call out right now for Golden Age Erotica (there's a link from here).

And if you want to see what I'm talking about, may I recommend Whispers in Darkness, her excellent anthology of Lovecraftian erotica?

Coming Soon: Journey to the Center of Desire

Hi, friends! I just signed a contract to be in J. Blackmore's new book from Circlet Press, Journey to the Center of Desire!

My story, Journey to the Disappearing Sea, imagines a much more active role for "little Gräuben," the love interest of the narrator of Verne's original Journey to the Center of the Earth. Gräuben deserves it, too. In the original, it's clear that she's brave and learned and every bit as deserving of adventure as Axl. You'll perhaps forgive me if I made her much more awesome than he was, and narrated in his voice, so he's the one who gets to tell you how cool she is?

I really love playing with classic works this way. My first story for J. Blackmore, "The Artist's Retreat," which was published in her collection, Whispers in Darkness: Lovecraftian Erotica, marks a turning point in my mental history of my own writing. It was studying Lovecraft, and imitating his style enough to sound authentic, that began to free me from the overly spare journalistic style I'd developed from years of writing articles. It gave me access to a tone I hadn't allowed myself for a long time, one that now feels essential to my voice.

I had an equally great time with Verne. And in case it's not clear by now, Ms. Blackmore has an enviable relationship with classic texts of all varieties. I'm not in these, but I can also recommend her takes on Austen and Carroll.

Looking at Old Stories

Writers often talk how looking at an old story makes them cringe. I certainly know the feeling. But why is that? It's because I've gotten better since I wrote whatever that was. Is it bothering me to read an old story because I'm painfully aware of a writing tic that I've since overcome? Great. That means I've overcome it in my current writing.

Here's an example I recently noticed. An editor commented earlier this year on my use (or perhaps overuse) of the word "felt." I painstakingly edited a manuscript to correct that tic, and the experience stuck. I'm using the word a lot less frequently now, across the board (there's something about going over a 30K-word manuscript with a fine-toothed comb that will really sink a lesson or two into a person).

But any story I wrote pre-2012 is littered with that word. So I cringe when I see them. In my big edit, I created a new part of my brain devoted to reconstructing sentences that use "felt" unnecessarily. It goes into overdrive when I look at an old manuscript.

Do I wish I could go in and fix those mistakes? Hell, yes. But I can't. The best I can do is appreciate the lesson learned since.

That's not to say I always hate old stories. I see tics like that, but I also get taken back to the emotion I felt while writing those pieces, the things I was concerned about, and the things I learned. For example, "The Artist's Retreat," my piece in Whispers in Darkness, probably uses "felt" too many times. But it was also the piece that made me discover my love of pastiche. Trying to write in H.P. Lovecraft's voice set me free like nothing else had. It was exhilarating, and I grew as a writer as a result.

Anyone who plans to write over a lifetime will have these types of experiences. Any piece is better than something that went before, and lacking the lessons learned in pieces yet to come. Assessing these things honestly is a key to mental health.

Murder University Needs You!

My friends at Scorpio Film Releasing are shooting a new movie--Murder University. They're collecting funding on Indie GoGo, and they need help. The movie's started shooting, but they're still far from their funding goal. To sweeten the deal, I'm going to throw in a free e-book for the first five people who send me proof that they donated to the project (see last paragraph for details).

Here's a quote from their pitch:

In a time of endless remakes, reboots, sequels and retreads, what horror really needs is to go back to school. Back to the basics. No CGI fakery, no tricks, no gimmicks. Just solid storytelling, a great cast, and a beautiful visual look.

What does an erotica author have to do with a slasher film? Well, for one thing I love movies, including horror. And both horror and erotica deal with the taboo. We explore the deepest parts of the human psyche--sometimes for fun, sometimes to disturb ourselves, sometimes for thrills of both kinds. We're often looked down upon as "not serious" or "unimportant." But as I've grown into doing more of the work I want to be doing, I've realized this is the stuff that's important to me! This is what grabs my attention, and it's what I care about.

The people behind Scorpio Film Releasing are friends, and they inspire me. They make movies for the joy and art of it, and they work hard to give props to the people who help them. They don't take themselves too seriously (see Atomic Brain Invasion and Disco Exorcist), but they're also not afraid to get into the deep stuff (see Exhumed).

OK, that's my spiel. Here are the details of the giveaway:

1. Donate at least $10 to the campaign, and send me proof (a donation receipt) at annabeth.leong@gmail.com

2. If you're one of the first five people to do this, I'll buy you a copy of Whispers in Darkness, an anthology of horror erotica inspired by the work of H.P. Lovecraft (my work is in there, along with a bunch of other excellent authors).

3. Enjoy the e-book, as well as the good feeling of having helped a great project!

The Artist's Retreat

I love H.P. Lovecraft, and have been gratified to see a recent trend in Lovecraftian erotica. I was even more gratified to have a story of my own included in Circlet Press's excellent Lovecraftian collection, Whispers in Darkness. I'm proud to have had my story in this book described as "mercilessly sexy" (in the book's introduction), as well as "thoroughly, unwholesomely sexy" (in a review).

Here's an excerpt from the Artist's Retreat:

Up close, the ground swelled with twisted, fertile promise. The muddy earth sucked and pulsed around my feet. I could not imagine what might burst from it, what ancient things might wind around my ankle and pull me down to them. Olivia’s cheeks had grown bright. She pressed her body against the boulder as if against a lover’s chest, her free hand stroking it languidly. “Touch it,” she said.

I resisted, feeling a surge of fear and revulsion even as I wanted nothing more on earth than to feel the sensations I saw reflected in her eyes. I watched as if in slow motion as she pressed our linked hands also to the stone.

The boulder might have shuddered beneath my touch. Olivia guided me to stroke its moist surface, as smooth as skin. I felt little grooves in the stone and leaned closer. Shrouded by the moss, I could just see intricate engravings, impossibly complex and certainly older than any civilization I had known to live in this part of the world.

The cryptic images did not depict any shapes or beings I knew--still, they stirred me. I got to my knees beside Olivia, and together we explored the contours of the boulder. I could not piece together an overall image of the design. Neither could I decode any individual piece. But the longer I ran my fingers over it, and the longer I knelt beside her and stared, the more I began to see flashes of meaning. Two coiled appendages, wound around each other and rubbing their undersides together obscenely; what could have been a thousand tiny fingers caressing a swollen, monolithic shaft; a long and muscular tongue, curved into a suggestive question.
Though the boulder stood only as high as my shoulder, the engravings seemed impossibly vast. Soon I gasped aloud as we explored new regions of it. Olivia edged closer to me; we leaned our shoulders together as we moved our hands across the stone with increasing eagerness. I heard her panting beside me.

Gently, Olivia released my hand and placed both palms against the stone. I copied her movements. I imagined the boulder pressed back against my touch, molding itself to the contours of my hands. The skin below my collar bone felt hot. A light breeze chilled me more deeply than it should have, cooling the layer of sweat that coated my forehead and the back of my neck.

Olivia let her head fall onto my shoulder. I froze. She smelled earthy, like what I would expect from the herbs in a witch’s kitchen. I swallowed hard and turned my face into her hair, breathing deeply. The boulder in my palms pulsed to the rhythm of my breath. Intoxicated, overwhelmed, enthralled, my nose ventured deeper into her thick, red locks. Olivia’s hair brushed my lips, soft and warm in the shaded chill beneath the trees.

I could not think. I moaned and pressed my lips against that hair, kissing the top of her head. Olivia let go of the boulder and wrapped her arms around me. Even through my clothes, her hands burned. I released the boulder as well and buried both hands in that ambrosial hair. I shivered as I wrapped it around my fingers, remembering Olivia’s self-portrait and the way the woman’s body had disappeared into the dull black mass. I wanted to disappear into her hair just that way, to be tangled and shaped and possessed by it, though I could not allow those thoughts to form a bridge from urges to conclusions. I felt heat coming from all directions--my body, her body, the boulder, the ground.

Olivia stirred. She lifted her head. Her hair slipped across my lips and nearly undid me. Then her serious green eyes asked a question, a mere inch from mine. I couldn’t face questions or answers just then. I closed my eyes and pulled her against me, searching with blind lips. I found the top of her ear, her temple, her cheek, and finally her mouth, which opened willingly beneath my first avid touch.
Her tongue felt hot and strange against mine. The mystery of her taste drew me to reach deeper, gripping the back of her head now to explore her better. I could not have explained what I was doing, but at that moment I did not care to. My mind filled with incoherent thoughts, guided by the images of the past few days, but also with urges I could not fully describe. I wanted to pull her so close that I brought her into me. I wanted to press inside her so far that I would know her completely.

I needed this kiss like I had never needed anything. I gripped Olivia’s arms and directed her against the boulder. I needed leverage. I needed something to press against. I could not control my hands. They wanted to uncover all of her. I slipped them under her shirt and touched the small of her back, the flushed skin there twitching slightly under the force of my grip. I tugged her shirt up, my fingers attempting to decode her spine. I kissed harder, pinning her naked back to the boulder and crushing my hands against its rough engravings.

The kiss exploded around me. Suddenly, the trees were part of it, and the ground, and the rock, and the sun. Olivia and I, tangled together, became another part of the engravings on the stone, their natural extension as they reached into the air. We became part of something old and ancient and wanting, something that coiled at the bottom of my belly just as it nestled under the flesh of the earth.

I wanted to do everything, have everything, to plunge my hands into the mud, to curl my belly around the boulder and lie baking in the sun, to kiss and kiss Olivia until neither of us could ever breathe again. We screamed into each other’s mouths. Her body began to jerk slowly and rhythmically against mine, her tongue lagging just behind. For a moment, I felt she was feeding me secret, forbidden knowledge. Against the dark and private backdrop of my closed eyelids, I could almost glimpse a place far beyond the stars, a wild, great, terrible, and exhilarating enigma. She was there, I felt, but I could not quite join her.

I shifted my hands. Her skin felt clammy now. Concern gave me the strength I needed to break the kiss. The sight of the milky skin of her stomach and the bottom wire of her black bra would have enthralled me again were it not for the sickly pale of her face and her eyes rolled back in her head and the horror of her mouth, which did not seem aware that I had pulled away and still worked as if in the throes of ecstasy.
A dizzying wave of shame struck me full-force in the chest. I’d never felt these sorts of urges before. I couldn’t understand what I’d been doing. And I feared what might have happened to Olivia. My lust set aside for the moment, I gripped her arms and pulled her away from the boulder.

She came away heavily. I imagined for a wild moment that the stone parted with her only reluctantly. I stared into her clouded green eyes. She gave a slow blink, then began to shiver violently, her teeth chattering with the force of hailstones on pavement. “Olivia,” I said, a few times until she responded.

If I expected her to be disturbed by what had happened, her expression disabused me of my mistake. “Do you understand a little more?” she whispered when she had recovered, the feverish brightness returning to her cheeks and eyes.

It was great to have room to really stretch out and write this story, building up from sparks to a raging fire.

I highly recommend buying the anthology--not just for this story, but for everything in it. I'm astounded at the company I'm keeping here. Every one of the stories in this anthology is awesome, and there's a lot of range.

Check out, for example, Elizabeth Reeve's "The Dreams in the Laundromat," which is the sweetest, most romantic tentacle sex story I've ever read.

If you need more convincing, read this very flattering review. Then go forthwith and check out everything Circlet has to offer--they're doing great work over there.