SHIFTER HITS BOOKSTORES!

Dear gang --

For those of you who are anxious for an Angela Knight fix, my new anthology, SHIFTER, featuring "Mad Dog Love" will hit shelves Tuesday. SHIFTER also features work by Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day, and Virginia Kantra, all wonderful authors who have penned steamy, delicious stories for the anthology.

I've written 20 novellas since my first was published in Secrets 2 back in 1996. I've got to admit, "Mad Dog Love" is my favorite of the lot. I just loved the idea-- a futuristic werewolf finds himself a slave, and is not happy about it.

Rance Conlan is from a world three hundred years from now --a planet so dangerous, people had to genetically engineer a race of werewolf protectors just to survive there. But Rance isn't just fuzzy. He's also an interstellar trader who is helping a group of revolutionaries fight a neighboring interstellar empire. Rance hates the empire because slavery is legal there, and its slavers frequently capture and collar citizens of the Freeworlds.

When our story opens, Rance has been betrayed and captured himself. To his fury, he finds himself sold to a beautiful mystery woman who is on the run from assassins. Here=s an excerpt:

Market Station,

The Lorezo Interstellar Empire,

The year 2450

Rance Conlan prowled his cell like the caged wolf he was, anger boiling through him with every long pace. There was nothing to divert his rage, since the cell held only a cot built into the floor and a toilet unit that thrust from the wall. Both were stark, white, and rounded, without so much as a sharp corner he could put to bloody use.

Not that it mattered. All he had to do was Shift, and he'd have fangs, claws and two meters of werewolf muscle at his disposal. Trouble was, the slave collar wouldn't let him Shift.

One of the new slaves sobbed in her cell on the other side of the bulkhead, her voice thick with despair and aching grief. Her tears scraped at Rance's Freeworld-bred instinct to protect and comfort. Adding to his frustration, the doorway of his cell lacked either bars or barrier field, creating the illusion that escape was possible.

Unfortunately, Rance knew better. If he so much as stepped over the threshold, agony would cripple him.

Bloody collar.

He glared at the empty doorway in brooding fury. All his life, his Nanobot system had provided him with absolute control over his body. The molecule-sized robots traveling through his bloodstream gave him the ability to heal any illness, tap superhuman reserves of strength, communicate over vast distances, access any fact he needed to know. Even Change into something not quite human.

On the savage world he called home, a man had to be more than a man to survive.

Rance's Nanos had given him that kind of power -- until slavers had captured him three months ago. The collar they'd locked around his neck had reprogrammed his Nanosystem and turned it into the instrument of his enslavement. If he attempted rebellion now, the 'bots would plunge him into a screaming red hell.

But that wasn't going to stop him. Nanos or no Nanos, he'd find a way to escape. The traitor who'd handed him over to the slavers was damn well going to pay.

"Mad Dog!" The voice rang down the corridor, arrogantly nasal. The sobbing from the cell next door cut off as if a switch had flipped.

Smart girl.

"Mad Dog, I've found a potential buyer." The slaver strutted through the cell doorway with two hulking cyborg bodyguards at his heels. "An Aristo courier looking for a werewolf bodyguard. And you'd better not space the deal, or you'll curse your mother for birthing you into hell."

Ortio Casus had a taste for melodramatic threats. Trouble was, he also liked carrying them out.

Rance ignored the little bastard, all his feral attention focused on the two 'borgs. They were as powerfully muscled as their boss was thin, dressed in steel gray Nanotium body armor and black-visored helmets that concealed their faces. And they were entirely too alert, apparently well-aware of just what Rance was capable of.

Bloody hell. All he needed was a moment's inattention. Even a little boredom would do. Too bad they were so well-trained. Probably ex-Imperial Marines. Especially the leader of the two, Captain Aaren, who'd first hacked into Rance's Nanosystem...

“Did you hear me? I said I’ve found a potential buyer." Casus glowered, jerking his weak, bearded chin upward in irritation. As usual, he was dressed like the Aristo fop he longed to be: gaudy velvet and too much lace. But what interested Rance was the glittering array of rings he wore on every finger. One for each slave in the cells.

Rance suspected the big ruby on Casus's right hand controlled his particular collar. It’d be interesting to bite the ring off that spidery finger and find out. A quick Shift to wolf form, a snap of razor fangs, and....

The pain slammed into his groin so fast and brutally, his knees buckled. Rance crashed to the floor, his body jerking into a helpless fetal ball. He gagged, struggling to breathe despite the sensation of a big fist slowly twisting his dick with sadistic strength.

Fucking Nanobots.

He must have met Casus's gaze again. The little prick hated it when he did that. Probably because he could see the patient death waiting in Rance’s eyes.

The pain abruptly ended, leaving him to collapse in sweating nausea.

“If you ruin this deal for me, I’ll see you dead!” Casus snarled, red-faced and quivering. “You’ll scream for days, Mad Dog. Days, do you understand me?” He raised the riding crop. “Do you?”

“Yes ... master,” Rance gritted, because to do anything else would bring more punishment and accomplish nothing. Slavery had taught him he couldn't afford empty gestures, no matter how satisfying it might be to spit in the bastard's face.

He had to pretend to submit, regardless of the humiliation. With any luck, a new master would be less wary than Casus. Rance would only need an instant’s inattention to do his killing and make his escape.

Mollified by Rance's pretended submission, Casus drew himself to his full height -- such as it was -- and straightened his lace cuffs with a fussy jerk. “Good. My guards will prepare you now. But if you dare meet her gaze with those yellow mad dog eyes, you’re a dead man. One way or another, I want you out of my stable. Either she buys you, or...”

Rance concealed a frown. She?

***

Zarifa Lorezo pushed the heavy gold drapes aside and stared out the porthole beyond. An Imperial Courier maneuvered to dock at one of Market Station's other arms, its thrust nodes glowing blue as it edged into its assigned slip.

Was her vicious fiancé aboard? Gerik often used courier ships on his secret missions for the Regent.

Zarifa sent up a silent prayer that he wasn't on that ship. She'd tried so hard to lose him. The course she'd flown had been almost ridiculously intricate -- making orbit at one world only to immediately blast into Superspace headed for another. Her trip here to Market Station had taken more than a week longer than it would have by direct flight.

Still, she was only delaying the inevitable. Gerik Natalo would catch up to her sooner or later. They didn't call him the Regent's Fist for nothing. He served his father's whims with fanatical devotion, and Umar Natalo wanted her back.

Zarifa’s right hand tightened on the hilt of the sword that hung at her hip. As she shifted her booted feet restlessly, a thin knife of agony stabbed her ribs. She stifled a hiss. The wound was almost healed, but the pain remained, a silent reminder of Gerik's last attempt to bring her in.

Her new system had been worth every Imperial she'd paid for it. Less than a week had passed since the bastard had driven his sword into her side. She’d have bled to death if not for the Nanos that had accelerated her body's healing. Yet she had no illusions: if her fiancé hadn't been intent on taking her alive, she'd be a dead woman now. The Regent's Fist was simply too powerful, too skilled. Too deadly.

She had to make sure she had a protector before he caught up to her again.

“Lady Selan?”

Zarifa whirled, damn near drawing on Casus before she managed to stay her hand. She slid the sword the inch back into its sheath and wiped the feral determination off her face. “Yes?”

The slaver gave her an oily smile, gaudy in his yellow silk waistcoat and green velvet jacket. A tradesman with pretensions, her father's ghost whispered. His eyes flicked nervously to the white-knuckled grip she had on her sword hilt. She wondered how quickly he’d sell her out if he knew who she really was. He’d call the Palace before I was halfway out the door.

Luckily, the image her Nanos projected would keep him from recognizing her. Between that and her cover identity of slightly shady Aristo courier, she should be relatively safe.

Unless Gerik showed up with a warrant for her arrest....

Casus sketched an elaborate bow. “The slave is ready for your consideration, milady.”

“Good. Show him in, please.” Zarifa squared her shoulders and braced her booted feet apart as the slaver turned to gesture at one of his men.

The thought of buying a slave set her teeth on edge. If she'd had her way, she'd have outlawed slavery years ago. If it was illegal to enslave Imperial citizens, it should be just as unconstitutional to kidnap and collar Freeworlders. Unfortunately, the Regent had ignored all her arguments. She suspected he was probably involved in the slave trade himself.

Umar did love his money.

And wouldn't it be ironic if one of those slaves turned out to be her salvation? Too bad she couldn't afford more of them. She'd be happier with a whole phalanx of werewolves to escort her on her mission. Unfortunately, buying the ship had left her funds so drained, one Shifter was all she could afford.

Frowning, Zarifa used her thumb to twist the diamond ring that rode her right hand, a nervous habit formed in the last stressful month. The intricately engraved band felt cold on her finger, heavy with old debts and lost honor.

The door whispered open. Zarifa looked around just as one of the guards led the slave in on the end of a silver chain.

And she forgot everything else.

The Shifter prowled between the overstuffed pseudo-Victorian furnishings, naked except for a gleaming black collar around his neck. One sweeping glance branded him on her senses -- the hard, angular features, the broad, powerful curve of his chest, the ripple of brawny arms and legs. The swing of his heavy sex between his thighs....

She looked away, feeling her cheeks burn. Right into Casus’s amused, faintly contemptuous gaze.

Alarm jolted through her. I'm blowing my own cover. The jaded Aristo she was pretending to be was not the kind of woman who'd blush at the sight of a big cock.

But my lover was nothing like that, a tiny voice protested.

Zarifa ignored it. She had a role to play.

She started toward the Shifter with as much swagger as she could manage. He didn’t meet her stare even when she stopped bare centimeters away.

Her eyes were on the level with his small, dark nipples. She looked down, along the rippled plane of his hard belly, deliberately forcing her gaze to his sex. Sweet Lady, how big would it be fully erect?

She ordered her Nanosystem to cool her cheeks before they could heat again.

Zarifa looked up into the Shifter's face. His eyes still refused to meet hers, but she saw now they were the color of ancient coins, a bright gold that was not entirely human. His hair was a rich, deep sable that gleamed like fur, cut ruthlessly short, yet still showing a hint of curl. She could almost feel the smooth silk of it against her fingers.

God, she craved the touch of another human. Entombed in her fortress of fear, she hadn't dared let anyone close. Especially a man.

Especially a man like this.

True, he wasn't the most handsome male she’d ever seen. The aristocracy habitually sent its most beautiful sons to her court in hopes of attracting her eye. Despite the breathtaking power of his body, the Shifter's features were too rough for that kind of perfection. His nose was a bit too flared across the nostrils, his deep-set eyes too feral, his cheekbones not quite knife-edged enough, his chin a little too stubborn.

But it was his mouth that fascinated. His lower lip was full with the promise of lush eroticism, yet his upper lip was thin, with a faint twist that suggested pain and bitterness.

Gold coin eyes darted up to meet hers. For an instant, they blazed hot with male interest as those beautiful lips curved into a knowing smile. Then he looked away, leaving her heart pounding in desperate lunges as she remembered everything they said about Shifters.

She could have him. Have him as she’d not dared to have a man since the Regent had ordered her lover’s murder. Six years, she’d lived like a Lady’s Nun, not daring to allow so much as a stolen kiss from the beautiful men who surrounded her. Fearing what the Regent would do to protect his power and keep the way clear for his son's claim. Only Gerik had touched her, and his hands had not exactly been welcome.

But she could have this wolf. Buy him. Own him. Take him to her bed.

You’re letting him distract you, her father’s ghost whispered. You’re not buying him for sex. He's a means to regain our lost honor. That's all.

Zarifa forced herself to step back. Forced her eyes not to drop to his lengthening cock. “I need a protector. Can you fight?”

White teeth flashed in a hard, reckless smile with just a hint of viciousness. “Yes.”

She flicked a glance at the guards in their gray Nanotium armor. “Show me.”

“Now, Lady Selan...” Casus began nervously.

But the Shifter was already moving, spinning, one bare heel lashing out to slam into the nearest guard’s armored belly. It must have hurt, but he didn’t even break step, pivoting to ram a fist into the man’s faceplate, following up with a series of furious hammer blows to the 'borg's head and body. Blood flew in a crimson arc, but it was from the Shifter’s own splitting knuckles.

Yet he didn’t seem to feel the pain, his face twisted in an animal snarl as the guard stumbled back from the fury of his attack.

The second cyborg dove at him with a roar. The Shifter ducked the charge and danced back, throwing another brutal punch. And then another, and another. More blood flew from his hands.

Zarifa caught her breath. The rage in him, the fury boiling to the surface to spill from his pounding hands and savage kicks --- it was as if the Lady herself had given Zarifa's own frenzied, angry frustration human form.

But human as he was, he couldn’t hurt his guards, could only break himself against their armored bodies.

“Shift!” she snapped, feeling wild and reckless. “Shift now!”

Gold eyes flicked to hers. He bared his teeth.

“No!” the slaver gasped.

But sable fur was already spreading over the Shifter’s bare skin, his body bulking even larger, his face lengthening into an elegant muzzle. His ears rose into lupine points as his big hands and feet grew deadly curved claws. He turned his feral golden eyes on the guards....

“Down!” Casus roared.

The Shifter roared in agony and dropped to the ground as if he’d been shot. The fur melted away as his body returned to human form, writhing and kicking in anguish.

Zarifa knew exactly how that felt. The pain. The helpless, searing rage. The black shame of being a puppet to callous men.

Her gaze shot to the slaver, who wore a smile of grim satisfaction now. “I told you what would happen, Mad Dog,” Casus spat. “I warned you.”

The next thing Zarifa knew, her sword was in her hand and pressed hard to the slaver’s throat. A tide of red washed over her vision. It seemed she could almost see the slaver's blood streaming under her blade. Casus's thin lips pulled into an O of terror.

She bared her teeth. "Let. Him. Go."

Come take a look at my new Podcast with Gail Martin

I met Gail Martin a few months about at a reader's even in Charlotte, NC. I was very impressed with her and her wonderful book, so when she asked me if I'd like to be interviewed for her podcast, I gladly said yes. Here's what Gail had to say in her blog:

I had a great time talking with Angela on my Ghost in the Machine podcast
http://gzmartin.audioacrobat.com/rss/gailzmartinpodcast.xml . Even though
Angela writes paranormal romance and I write fantasy adventure, it was fun
to share our love for vampires and the supernatural. I’m much more
interested in a story if it has ghosts, vampires and haunted houses—with
some romance as well!

It’s fun to see how much “our” type of fiction has gone mainstream.
Finding a romance book with a hint of anything ghostly or supernatural used
to mean digging through a handful of “gothic romance” titles. Now,
vampires, werewolves and supernatural romance rule. It’s blurred some of
the old lines between romance and fantasy, which is a good thing. I do a
lot of book signings, and I see how people wander through bookstores. Most
people head right for their favorite section and never look around at all
the great books they might like that are shelved elsewhere. After talking
with Angela, I wandered through the romance isle and was delighted at the
types of stories I found that had a great mix of paranormal and passion. I
dare you to explore the fantasy aisle where my Chronicles of the
Necromancer books are shelved (The Summoner, The Blood King), and you might
just discover that there’s more than a dash of romance spicing up tales of
magic and mayhem! Gail Z. Martin—www.ChroniclesOfTheNecr

omancer.com

Please drop by and take a look at her site!

And here's what I have to say about Gail in particular and SF in general...

I was really honored when Gail asked me to be interviewed in a her podcast on her website. I had a ball talking to her about creatures that go bump in the night, and why writers and readers can't seem to get enough of them.

I'm also a huge fan of science fiction and fantasy, and have been for years. True, I write romance, but I also love having my imagination and sense of wonder challenged. That's something Gail does with flair!

Urban fantasy is another genre that really speaks to me. I'm hooked on Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series, along with Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake and Merry Gentry books. I adore the Sookie Stackhouse series by Charlaine Harris, as well as Pat Brigg's Mercy Thompson series. Other keepers include anything by Wen Spencer and Lois McMaster Bujold, who is simply wonderful.

As a writer, I've recently begun work on a new science fiction romance series called TIME HUNTERS. The heroes are genetically engineered cyborgs who leap through time in pursuit of time traveling criminals. I just finished the first book of the series, Time Hunters: WARRIOR. Look for it in July.

For more about my work, check out my website at www.angelasknights.com. I'm in the process of having the site revamped, and I hope to have it up soon. Thanks!

Angela Knight

Writers and Depression, Part II

I've talked about my struggles with depression in previous posts. A couple of months ago after my grandmother died, I had another severe bout of it. And I found a technique to get out of it I'd like to share.

In my case, depression seems to come paired with extreme anxiety. I'd find myself sitting there bouncing my knees in a frantic attempt to burn off nervous energy. I couldn't sleep. Worse, I had the horrible feeling that my battle was pointless -- that sooner or later, I was doomed to kill myself. There was no point in even trying to fight it any more.

I was so frightened, so out of control, that I went over to my sister's. She's been my dearest friend all my life, and she knows all about the way anxiety has tormented me. So I sat down on her couch, bouncing my knees and trying to put my fear into words. And she looked at me and said "You don't have to do this. You have been through this often enough to know what you can do to regain control. You can choose to do something about it, or you can choose to let it destroy you."

It was like having someone splash cold water in my face.

She reminded me I had already found out that exercising helps the anxiety and depression. She also suggested finding a tanning bed and spending about five or ten minutes in it, being careful not to get a sunburn. And she said I could also get a massage.

These are really simple things that are very effective.

I had also just started back on Lexapro, an anti-depressant and anti-anxiety drug that, unlike some, reduces appetite and weight gain instead of causing people to put on more weight. Thing is, I have found that right after I start back on Lexapro, the anxiety and depression actually gets worse for a couple of weeks. Around a month out, it finally kicks in and stabilizes the mood, but you need to be aware of the effect, or you'll think you're getting worse.

I seized on my sister's suggestions with the enthusiasm of raw desperation. The gym is open until 10 p.m., and it was 8, so I drove over there at once and spent the next half-hour on the treadmill and the elliptical machine, working up a sweat and burning off all the agonizing stress I'd built up. That night, I was able to sleep for the first time in days.

The next day, I had an appointment with my personal trainer. I really pumped hard on the weight machines, forcing myself to push despite the pain of my burning muscles. By the end of the hour, my muscles were aching, but the anxiety had burned off again. A sense of well-being filled me.

Unfortunately, I quickly found it didn't last. Whenever the anxiety started clawing at me, I'd head for the gym and the treadmill and the weight machines. Soon the anxiety and depression began to lift, especially after the Lexapro finally kicked in. But I am truly convinced that my workouts stabilized me and got me through the worst of it.

My sister was right. I wasn't helpless. I could fight depression and anxiety. I don't have to let it kill me.

My trainer says exercise is an effective treatment because scientists have found it returns the body to hormonal balance. Someone else wrote in response to an earlier blog that one recent study compared anti-depressants, talk therapy and exercise in depressed patients. Scientists found the ones that exercised did the best. However, I think combining the three would be even more effective.

By the way, I think Lexapro also helps my creativity. I know there is a big difference in my writing when I'm taking Lexapro and when I'm not. Lexapro works by liberating the brain chemical serotonin, which is also affects mood, appetite -- and creativity. (The only bad thing about Lexapro is it tends to decrease desire because it turns testosterone into serotonin. And testosterone is the hormone that is responsible for sexual appetite. I have found I can reduce that affect with a testosterone cream prescribed by my doctor, who had used a blood test to determine that my testosterone levels were too low.)

I know, I know. People are always telling you to diet and exercise -- it's supposed to be a cure for everything from cancer to Alzheimer's. Unfortunately, exercise is also tiring, and it hurts, which is why I was never much interested in doing it. It's much easier to stay at home and eat a box of Godiva's.

But I swear to you, my workouts have made a huge difference in my mood and my stress levels. I really believe that if you're struggling with depression and anxiety, working out will help you. It won't be easy at first, but I think you'll notice positive effects on your mental state very quickly. Then, if you're still having a problem, you can try an antidepressant like Lexapro on top of that. But you need to stay on the antidepressant and keep working out two or three times a week to make sure you don't backslide into depression.

You can survive this disease, but it's like heart disease or diabetes -- you have to treat it. Ignoring it will only allow it to kill you. Exercise is one hell of a good treatment.

There are other benefits too. As of today, I have lost 137 pounds since I had gastric bypass surgery Aug. 29, 2006. I feel 20 years younger, and I'm no longer in constant pain from my knees and joints.

When I started working out, I could only bench press about 15 pounds. Now I'm up to 37, and I've increased all the other weights I use too. Because I work out, I don't have as much loose skin as many other gastric bypass patients who have lost a lot of weight. And at 46, I'm stronger now than I have ever been in my life.

On the other hand, my mother is 67, and is morbidly obese. Being overweight for so many years has destroyed her joints, and she's in constant pain. She's going to have to undergo painful joint replacement surgery. I wish it was possible for her to have gastric bypass surgery, but at her age, it's just not a good option.

I urge you to exercise and try to do something if you have a weight problem. I think you will find it's more than worth the effort, especially if you're dealing with depression, stress and anxiety.

Angela Knight is teaching a new workshop...

Last call for my month-long October workshop, Putting Teeth in Your Paranormal Romance: Vampires, Werewolves, and the Women Who Love Them. The class is $20. It says the deadline is Sept. 25, but registration is still open if you get it in in the next day or two.

I'm going to spend the first week discussing worldbuilding: how to construct a paranormal universe with plenty of sexy umph. The next week will be devoted to constructing heroes, heroines, villains and minor characters. Mixing the paranormal with ordinary folks can be a little tricky, and I'll talk about the best way to pull that off. In the third week, I'll talk plotting: how to keep your readers eagerly turning pages. Then in the last week, we'll talk romance and love scene construction.

For more information, drop by the Heart of the Carolinas here:

http://www.heartofcarolina.org/online_classes.html

Thanks, gang!

AK

I've been tagged!!!

Robin Owens tagged me, which means I have to now list eight things you may not know about me.

1.) You probably know I do CGI art. You may not know that I started out doing pastel portraiture back in junior high, and continued doing pastel work for years. Walter Koenig, (AKA Chekhov from Star Trek) once gave me first place in an art contest at Heroes Convention for a portrait of Captain Kirk.

2.) My first crush on an actor/character was Captain Kirk. (I was 12 at the time.) Ahhh, that manly chest... LOL!

3.) When I was five or six, I had an imaginary friend -- Little Joe from Bonanza. (Actually, he's probably my first crush.,) Mom had to set a place at the table for him, and God help you if you sat on him.

4.) I worked in television production for four years, including two directing a religious program. I had just started writing erotic romance for Red Sage; if my boss had known what I was doing, she would have fired me. Then again, her receptionist was a drag queen, and she didn't know that either...

5.) When I was a kid, I had a huge thing for horses. I took riding lessons, and my first attempts at fiction revolved around horses.

6.) I'm a huge comic book geek. I still read comics, and of course, my first published fiction was a comic book mini-series.

7.) I wrote a Doc Savage spin-off for Caliber Press -- a comic about Doc's sister, Pat Savage.

8.) When I was in high school and college, my friends and I made a series of super-eight movies, which I wrote, shot and directed: "Landing Party," a Star Trek thing, "The Intergalactic Bar and Grill," another Star Trek thing; "Raiders of the Lost Props," a spoof of Raiders of the Lost Ark (Indy was menaced by a sock puppet instead of a cobra); Enemies and Friends, a Battlestar Galactica thing; and "Smith and Wesson," a detective flick which almost got us arrested for taking a gun to an airport. Good thing it was 1980 instead of today, or I'd still be in jail.

HERE ARE THE RULES FOR MY TAGGEES:

1. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.

2. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.

3. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

My victims are: Rebecca York,

Divas Dish, revisited

I wrote this for RT's Diva's Dish panel on Erotica, but I didn't get to go. Mike had to go to the ER. So because I'm loathe to waste a handout, here it is:

1.) The reader should feel the sexual tension start to build between the hero and heroine from their first glance. As many times as I’ve written love scenes, there are times I find it almost impossible to get a couple into bed. That’s usually because I’ve neglected to build sexual attraction because I’m focused on the romantic conflict.

2.) The elements of seduction:
A.) As Linda Howard says in her “12 Steps to Intimacy,” there is a definite pattern to seduction. The guy has to gain the woman’s trust and acceptance before he can make love to her. This is done in a natural set of steps.
I.) First is a quick look – is this person attractive? If so, the couple makes eye contact and smile. Then the guy can come over and start a conversation. You need to show an emotional connection start growing between them as they talk and look at one another. Boy, he’s hot! Wow, she’s sexy!
II.) Then and only then can he move forward with the seduction by touching her hand, then her shoulders, then her waist. These touches may appear to be casual or accidental, but they’re not, and both characters know it.
III.) Next comes the first kiss, which needs to be given a lot of attention. The kiss is a precursor to lovemaking, an indication of what we and the heroine can expect. How skillful is he? How tender? Build the anticipation.
IV.) Now we can start the actual foreplay, but that can’t begin until you lay the groundwork with the early stages of seduction. Think about it: if some guy just came up and grabbed your breasts, you’d slug him, scream, and call a cop. You have to build the attraction first.

3.) Do not treat your love scenes as porn breaks in the middle of the story. This is a problem I see even among mainstream published romance writers. They know their editors expect a love scene somewhere around chapter seven, so they just stick one in. The characters have a mechanical kind of sex that doesn’t really reflect the development of their romance or who they are as people.
A.) Think about what you can show with this scene. What kind of people are they? Is he dominant and aggressive? Is she sensual or unsure of herself? Is there humor – and there really should be, because humor humanizes characters and makes them seem more three-dimensional. What’s the romantic conflict?

4.) Don’t make your characters too stupid to live.
A.) In general, if it’s something you wouldn’t do, don’t have your heroine do it. If you wouldn’t pick a complete stranger up in a bar and have unprotected sex, your heroine shouldn’t do it. If you wouldn’t let a stranger tie you up for sex games, she definitely shouldn’t do that.

5.) For erotic romance to work, the love scenes need to be fun. You can have angst coming out of your ears everywhere else in the book, but when those characters get into bed, they have a very good time. They may be angry with one another to start out with, but the sex needs to rapidly morph into something lighter. If the sex is too emotionally heavy, it’s not going to be fun, just disturbing.
A.) Avoid characters with serious psychosexual issues, such as frigidity due to rape. The minute the sex becomes a form of therapy, you’ve lost about ninety percent of your heat.

6.) Things to think about when planning a love scene:
A.) Location. Go for someplace that is naturally sensual – a garden, a pool. Probably not a gynecologist’s office...
B.) Who makes the first move? Let them take turns.
C.) Where are these characters in their journey to love? What’s their mood going into the scene? Are they angry? Frightened? Just plain horny? Use that. Express the emotion in the way they touch. Maybe he knows she’s scared, so he’s particularly tender with her. Focus on the feeling, because it’s that emotion that will make your happily ever after believable.

For more, check out Passionate Ink: A Guide to Writing Erotic Romance by Angela Knight, ISBN-10: 1596323906 or ISBN-13: 978-1596323902. Angela’s website is www.angelasknights.com.

Writers and Depression

One of the posters made a passing reference to depression, which happens to be a hot-button subject with me. That's because you came very close to never getting to read this blog -- or anything else I've written in the past 11 years, because I almost ate my husband's gun.

Eleven years ago, I was working for a religious broadcaster who was, quite frankly, a hypocritical bitch. She was so destructive as a boss, so endlessly critical, that I ended up quitting after two years of busting my backside working for her. I didn't know it at the time, but I also had a nodule on my thyroid that was causing thyroid storms. I plunged into a black depression, complete with delusional thoughts. My marriage began to disintegrate under the pressure. I once whipped my son so badly, I gave him black and blue stripes on his legs -- and I had no idea I'd hit him so hard. (I never spanked him again, btw.) I wasn't able to eat. Even the smell of food made me violently ill.

I struggled with these feelings for the next six months, trying to hold it together and failing. I felt as if I was losing myself. One day I went in the closet and got out Mike's gun. It wasn't because I wanted to die -- it was because I felt I was already dying. Imagine being swallowed by a giant python, feeling yourself being slowly digested. Now imagine you've got a gun. That's what a suicidal depression is like. It's not that you want to die -- you just want to save what's left.

Luckily I had just enough wit to realize Anthony was in the next room. He was 11 at the time, and I knew he'd be the one to find the body. I also knew the children of suicides are more likely to commit suicide. So I put the gun back in the box.

The next thing I knew, it was in my hand and pointed at my chin. I did not remember getting it out again.

It scared the crap out of me. I put the gun away and fled the closet.

When Mike got home, I told him what I'd done. He held me and cried. My big cop cried like a baby. He was a evidence officer at the time, with custody of the evidence from suicides. He said, "Do you want me to show you the photographs? The clothes?"

I had an appointment with the gynecologist the next day, and I told him what had happened. He promptly committed me to a psych hospital. I was terrified, but I knew I needed help. The doctor there told me I was manic depressive. (I wasn't; it was that damn thyroid nodule.)

I can't tell you how crushed I was from that diagnosis. I had always prided myself on my intelligence and wit. Now I could barely string a sentence together, and the same mind I had always prided myself on had turned on me. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to hold a job or live a good life.

But I loved Mike and Anthony and my family, and I held on. It took time -- it was two more years before the thyroid nodule was removed, which greatly helped the depression. But because I did hold on, I was able to rebuild my life. I found I could still create. I got published by Berkley. I've gone on to write more than 20 novels and novellas since my bout of clinical depression, and I'm a best-selling author. I'm living my dreams.

I also got a job with the Spartanburg Herald Journal, during which I carried around a police scanner. Every single day we'd get at least one suicide call, where somebody either attempted suicide or succeeded. It always made my heart ache when I'd hear those calls, because I knew that if the person had gotten help, it could have been avoided.

Once I went to what I thought was a shooting. Turned out it was a suicide. The wife saw me, realized I was a reporter, and begged me not to write a story. I told her newspapers don't cover suicides, and I fled. But the look on her face -- the utter devastation -- is one I will never forget as long as I live. As I drove away I thought, "I don't care what happens, I will never do that to Mike and Anthony."

I'm sharing this painful and humiliating story because I know that some of the people reading it are suffering from clinical depression. Or possibly, one of your family members or your child is suffering from clinical depression. I beg you -- get help. Hold on, even if the symptoms don't lift right away. I struggled for years. Sometimes I still deal with the after-effects. But if I had let the disease take me, I wouldn't have experienced the success and joy I've known since then.

Clinical depression is not the end of the world. It's also not a moral failure or a sign of weakness, anymore than diabetes or heart disease or cancer is. But it can kill you just as quickly as any physical disease. Don't let it. Do something. Go see a doctor. Don't end your future over a temporary problem.

And if you need someone to talk to, you can e-mail me at angelanight2002@bellsouth.net. I'm not a therapist, obviously, but I know what it's like.

Trolls, Snarks and Critics: A Writer's Bestiary

A good writer is a strip-tease artist. In the process of telling her story, she reveals a great deal about herself: what makes her laugh, what makes her cry, what turns her on. That's why the toughest skill for writers to learn is the ruthless objectivity of the craftsman: does this do what I want it to do? Does this have the effect I intend? After all, I'm revealing so much of myself. If it doesn't work, does that mean I myself am flawed?

Well, no. It just means you missed. Not even the best marksman hits the target every time. At the same time, though, if you can't force yourself to look at the target objectively, you won't know if you hit it or not.

Sometimes other people are a better judge of whether you hit your objective. They don't have as much invested in the effort, after all. It's probably taken you a good six months to write this particular book -- days of spilling your guts on the page, of laying it all out with every detail you can imagine as you struggle to create the emotional effect you want. No wonder being objective is so difficult.

That's why online criticism can be either invaluable or incredibly damaging to the artist. If it's truly objective, it can be a golden opportunity to see your work as another sees it and determine if it had the effect you intended.

The trouble is, online criticism is often far from objective, even when it pretends to be. The author of online criticism is frequently grinding an ax of one kind or another. Writers must decide if the criticism is legitimate and should be heeded, or is the product of some kind of agenda. A writer who listens to the wrong criticism can cripple herself with self-doubt and depression. At the same time, though, the writer who automatically rejects all criticism deprives herself of the chance to make her work better.

Trolls

In one sense, trolls are the easiest creature in the writer's bestiary to spot, but that doesn't make them any easier to take. Like the troll under the bridge in the fairy tale, this kind of online critic springs out at unsuspecting artists with vicious attacks. Often it's because the artist has unintentionally written something that hits the troll's hot buttons.

For example, erotic romance writers tend to attract a species of troll who simply don't like highly sexual content. The romances the troll could once count on for a certain safe content are becoming increasingly sexual, and she finds this threatening. "Smut!" the troll shrieks. "Page after page of smut! Why can't you write like (insert author name here.)”

Because this kind of troll tends to sound just like your maiden aunt, she can trigger all kinds of guilt and anger in the writer. She’s telling you sex is bad, and you’re a slut for writing it. Since erotic romance authors tend to struggle with these feelings anyway, it’s very hard not to explode at the troll.

That’s when it’s time to walk away from the computer. Do not feed the troll. You’re not going to convince her that your books don’t contain too much sex or that you’re not a slut, so don’t even try. In fact, responding to her at all simply validates her opinion by telling her that you care what she thinks. You’ll find yourself in a flame war quicker than you can say “Billy Goat Gruff.”

And you won’t win. Don’t answer her e-mails, don’t respond to her posts. The less time spent on her, the less damage she gets to do to your productivity as an artist. Don’t give her what she wants – which is you, feeling like the slut she’s branded you.

Snarks

Snarks are those online critics who pride themselves on using humor to puncture artists and writers. Mrs. Giggles is a good example.

Snarks are in many ways more troubling than trolls for a number of reasons. For one thing, they may actually have a legitimate artistic point, whereas a troll is simply irrational and shrill. What’s more, because they use humor to poke fun at the book, they tend to bring out a writer’s inner twelve-year-old, who remembers getting laughed at for wearing something goofy-looking to school.

Anytime a point is made in a biting, clever way, it gains power.

But that still doesn’t mean it’s right. Sometimes Snarks go for an obvious joke just because it’s funny, not because the book really doesn’t work. The Snark’s objective is to attract web-traffic to her site, and humor is an effective way to do that. What’s more, if an oversensitive writer shows up to rail at her, she’s got the opportunity of a lifetime. The writer’s fans will also make an appearance, along with various enemies looking to see the writer get her comeuppance. All of which means lots and lots of glorious hits.

Which is exactly why writers should never, ever show up at a Snark site to bitch about a review. One, you’re handing her hits, and two, you’re giving her another opportunity to humiliate you. Which she’s going to do. Even if you feel you’re more than up to out-Snarking her, you’re validating her by admitting her dig hurt. Don’t do that.

On the other hand, sometimes a Snark is also a legitimate critic, and that’s when you need to take her a little more seriously.

Critics

As I've said, no writer hits the mark every single time with every single scene. Writers must handle a vast number of difficult tasks in writing a book: beautiful description, gripping conflict, pacing that flows, characterization that makes readers believe absolutely in imaginary people. It’s tough. Sometimes, scenes or lines or perhaps even entire books miss the mark. Our objective as writers is to identify the point at which a book misses and figure out how to avoid that mistake on the next one.

You want people to say of you, “She gets better with every book she writes.”

So when a critique points out a flaw in a book in a rational, objective way – and I’m not talking about, “This book sux!” – you need to pay attention. Think about the comment, even if it stings. Does it resonate internally? I’ve had Amazon reviewers dismiss my books as boring, which is one criticism I’ve never taken seriously. On the other hand, I’ve had others who say my weird universe incorporates everything but the kitchen sink, which makes it hard to take seriously. I admit, I think about remarks like that, wondering if I should simplify just a bit in the next universe I create.

You should also take a criticism more seriously if you hear the same thing from a number of people. I’ve had Amazon reviewers complain about Jane’s Warlord because I didn’t make clear that Jane’s father murdered her mother. I didn’t really tie up that particular loose end, a problem I’m going to keep an eye on in the future.

On the other hand, just because a legitimate reviewer makes a comment about a book, that doesn’t mean she’s right. It could be that she simply doesn’t like that particular kind of book, or even that she’d had a really rotten day when she sat down to write the review.

But whether you’re dealing with legitimate critics, Snarks or Trolls, never let anyone’s words keep you from writing or make you feel inadequate. Writing is a learning process. Remember: you may write the book, but you are not the book. The book is a piece of craft, no different from a coffee table. If the legs are a little crooked this time, make them straighter the next. Learn from your mistakes, and incorporate what you’ve learned in the next one.

That’s what truly separates a professional writer from a wannabe.

Notes on writing Vampire romances from Romantic Times conference

I participated in several panels at Romantic Times, and wrote handouts for them. Since the conference is over, I thought I'd share them here. Here's my notes on “But Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" That was a panel dealing with the question of whether there's a vampire fiction glut. Hope you find it interesting!

By the way, my book PASSIONATE INK, A GUIDE TO WRITING EROTIC ROMANCE is available from Amazon. Check it out.

1.) There are an awful lot of vampires novels out on the shelves, and you’re right to be concerned about the question of whether there’s a glut. Remember it’s going to take at least six months to write your book, and then more months to get it into the hands of an editor who may buy it. Then another year after that for the book to hit the stores. The craze may have passed by then.
A.) However, editors are still acquiring vampire and paranormal romance, so there’s still a window of opportunity. The question is, how do you make your book stand out?

2.) First, make sure you really want to write a vampire romance. Never mind whether it’s hot or not, since it may not be hot by the time you get it published. Do you absolutely love vampires and vampire romances? If not, find something else to write about, something you DO love. A passion for the idea is the key to making a book memorable.

3.) Think about how you can make your vampire novel different.
A.) What is the one thing about vampires that is key to the concept? It’s not coffins or a fear of crosses, because you can get rid of those things and still have a perfectly good vampire novel.
i). A vampire must feed on something another person has in order to sustain his life. It doesn’t have to be blood. It could be psychic energy or sex or chi or dreams. But he feeds on something, and that’s the one thing about vampires you have to keep. The rest you can change – and should change, if you want to make the book fresh and different.
B.) Think through how this idea works. Why does the hero need to do this? How did he become a vampire? Maybe he’s not 400 years old – maybe he’s only been a vampire a week, and he’s got to figure out how to survive.
C.) What is his weakness? The more powerful the character is, the more he needs a weakness. Classical vampires have a lot of weaknesses – garlic, crosses, mirrors, running water, etc. You must come up with a paranormal weakness that puts your guy in danger. Otherwise the reader is not going to worry about his safety, and if she’s not worried, she’s going to get bored.

4.) Think about your mortal character, whether hero or heroine. What does he or she want? Why would he or she have anything to do with your vampire? What is it about your vampire that he or she can fall in love with?
A.) Your mortal must be more than a match for your vampire on some level – while looking as if he or she is vulnerable. If all the power is with your vampire, you don’t have a good conflict, and without a good conflict, you’ve got no story.

5.) In a vampire romance as in every other kind, you need an internal conflict, an external conflict, and a romantic conflict.
A) The internal conflict is the thing inside the character that he or she is struggling with. In the TV show, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel the vampire struggled with guilt over the crimes he committed as the demonic Angelus.
B.) The external conflict is what’s going on outside the character that is threatening him physically – usually caused by the villain who wants to kill him.
C.) The romantic conflict is the thing that is keeping the hero and heroine from their happy ending. It must be powerful enough that the reader has no idea how you’re going to resolve it.
D. All these conflicts intensify as the book goes on, growing worse and worse to make the reader more fearful for your hero and heroine. Keep complicating things!

6.) Remember than in a romance, love makes your characters’ lives more difficult, not less. It’s only in the climax that love enables the hero and heroine to overcome their internal and romantic conflicts. Whatever they learn in the process allows them to overcome the external conflict with the villain – and get to that all important Happily Ever After.

For more, check out Passionate Ink: A Guide to Writing Erotic Romance by Angela Knight, ISBN-10: 1596323906 or ISBN-13: 978-1596323902. Angela’s website is www.angelasknights.com.

Where Have All the Balls Gone?

Having bored you with endless nattering about my weight loss long enough, I'm going to now talk about erotic romance again.

My current fangirl crush is JR Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood. I love those damn books. I've read all four of them three times, and I scarf them like chocolate every time one of them shows up in the store. I think I've figured out what it is about them that just fascinates me -- and by implication, what's wrong with mainstream romance, and why paranormal has suddenly become so hot.

First, JR has giant brass balls. Really. Who else would create a misogynist hero who hates his own penis, like Zsadist, or a hero with a crush on another guy, like Vishous's stealthy love for Butch? Now, this is the kind of thing that could easily make a reader throw a book across the room, but Ward pulls it off. All her guys are so damned sexy, tortured and generally fascinating, you love them BECAUSE they're weird. And part of the appeal is "What the HELL will she do next?" I have no idea, but I desperately want to find out.

Speaking as somebody who's been reading romance since she was 17, it's damned difficult for me to find a writer who consistently surprises me. That's because so few of us romance writers have any balls. And I'm including myself in that category.

In these politically correct times, I think writers feel heroes have to be so damned NICE. They can be sexy, yeah, but they can't be really nasty anymore. Otherwise, God forbid, you might offend somebody.

It wasn't always that way. When I was reading romance during the bad old days of the 1980s, we had all those bodice ripper bastard heroes. I loved those books. I remember reading one, STORMFIRE, over and over again, and crying. Now, that guy was a real bastard. He broke the heroine's ribs, raped her, and left her in a dungeon until she was half-starved. In retrospect, I have no idea why I found him so hypnotic. Probably because he might have been a prick, but at least he was interesting. You didn't know what he was going to do next. There was nothing heroic about him whatsoever, but he was fascinating.

Now, before somebody rips me a new one, I absolutely do NOT think there is anything at all heroic about rape. Heroes should not rape heroines, any more than they should murder people or rob banks. But there's a BIG difference between committing felonies and being a six-foot-three poodle. And there are entirely too many poodle men in mainstream romance.

I tried reading a historical the other day by an author who is an auto-buy for me. Oh, God. I got through about twenty pages and realized I didn't give a rat's ass. The hero was just too frickin' GOOD. He was honest and upright and straightlaced. And borrrrrring.

The problem with poodles is they're predictable. You know they're not going to do anything really nasty, because they're Good Guys. Which, okay. But really, they shouldn't be so damned good they never say anything sexist or rude or just plain MALE. Some of these guys talk and act just like women in Hessians. No wonder I don't find them sexually attractive.

And they're not historically accurate, either. Part of the appeal of historicals is that those guys hadn't been Dr. Phill'd to death. If you so much as open your mouth and say ANYTHING stupid now, you must be publicly pilloried, then methodically spend a month flogging yourself on camera. No, I don't like racists or sexists or bigots in general, but I'm really fond of free speech. And I think people have a right to occasionally put a foot in their mouths without being proclaimed Asshole for the Ages.

Be honest, now. Haven't you ever said anything you KNEW was stupid, insensitive or just plain ignorant? I have. I'm a Southerner, after all. We've built an entire culture out of being assholes. I work really hard against my asshole tendencies, but I sometimes I miss. After all, I'm human, and being politically correct is hard work.

That's why I love JR. She's not afraid to let her heroes be assholes. And really, there's not a man alive who hasn't been an ass at one time or other. That's part of why we love them. They're annoying, they're infuriating, they make you want to smack them, but they're GUYS, and that's what guys do. And every woman knows it.

I think that's why readers have fallen in love with paranormals. Vampires and werewolves, after all, are not expected to be politically correct. They get to bite people, grow hair, and run wild in the woods. They don't have to wear bows, paint their toenails pink and sit in your lap gazing at you adoringly. You have to chase them -- or maybe run from them -- and that makes them a lot more interesting to be around.

So I think for my next novella, I'm going to try writing a bastard.

It should be fun.

For the curious...

Here's my BEFORE picture.

The Big 100!!!!

I'm definitely doing the dance of joy now, folks. Today I've officially lost 100 pounds since Aug. 29. When I got out of the hospital, I weighed 316 pounds. Today I weigh 216. I feel about twenty years younger, and I'm told I look it too.

I'm thinking back on what I've learned the last eight months since I started this journey.

I remember how scared out of my mind I was the weekend before the surgery. I basically melted down as I imagined every possible nightmare scenario. I was afraid I'd have complications -- perhaps even die. I was afraid my writing would suffer. (My editor says she thinks I'm actually better now than I was before the surgery.)

I was afraid the depression I've struggled with at various points of my life would be made worse by my new diet. I was afraid it wouldn't work -- that I'd pay out this huge sum of money only to end up regaining the weight.

I was afraid, period.

In retrospect, it was very similar to when my son was born. I was afraid of the pain, but I was more afraid of the way my life would change in ways I couldn't anticipate. But like the birth of my child, I now believe everything I went through was worth it.

I had reason to be afraid. Gastric bypass surgery is dangerous, especially if you don't do what your surgeon tells you to do, or if you don't choose the right doctor. I'm happy to say I did choose the right man -- Dr. Paul Ross, who had performed more than 300 gastric bypass procedures. If you're contemplating gastric bypass, I must stress how crucial it is to get a surgeon who's done at least 100 Gastric Bypass surgeries. Studies have shown that's the point when the complications go way down.

However, I will say that for all people talk about how dangerous it is to have gastric bypass surgery, it's far more dangerous to weigh 316 pounds. And a hell of a lot more miserable, too. I remember what it was like hauling my bulk out of a car, or getting on an airplane and having to ask for seatbelt extenders, or being afraid I was going to have a heart attack when I had to run catch a plane. I remember how my knees hurt when I'd have to get off the toilet. I remember the constant humiliation of being morbidly obese. One time I was riding with my girlfriend in her car, and her seatbelt wouldn't fit. I panicked. I hate riding without a seatbelt, but I was too freaking fat.

Another time I had been assigned to do a story about riding in a 60-year-old B-17 Bomber. They showed me to a seat in the plane's nose -- a rickety thing with a tiny seatbelt made for an 18 year old boy. I almost didn't get the belt to fit, and I was so humiliated. I was afraid I'd have to get off the plane.

And I knew good and damned well I was going to die young. I was headed for diabetes and the possibility of blindness -- and how would I work as I writer then? Sudden death from a heart attack was another real risk.

So I truly believe having the surgery, paying out all that money -- because my insurance didn't pick up a dime of it -- was worth it. It has probably added 10 or 15 years to my life. It's definitely made my life more worth living. And studies of those who've had the surgery confirm that.

But I won't kid you -- there have been times it wasn't fun. The first three months right after the surgery seemed endless. I was so damned weak there were times that just walking across the floor almost laid me out. My voice quavered as if I were eighty. I'd almost faint in the grocery store or the mall.

And adjusting to the tiny quantities of food was really hard at first. Here I was, used to eating anything and everything I wanted, whenever I wanted. That first couple of weeks, just watching TV was torture because of all the food commercials.

We coined a new phrase for the Food Network programs we used to love. I call them Food Porn, because you're watching all this decadent activity you can't do.

It's true what they said -- food is an addiction. And not being able to get your fix can be unbelievably frustrating. There were times I'd sit down and cry because I felt so weak and sick. Recently I went to a meeting of my gastric bypass group, and there was this poor girl there who kept crying. "When will I be able to eat?" She kept throwing up all the time. We assured her it would get better. And it has.

Right after the surgery, I couldn't eat salads or raw vegetables, beef, pork, or fruit, or anything with seeds. Rice was out. Sugar was off the menu, and still is. I had to give up caffeine. The only thing I could eat was scrambled eggs, soup, sugar-free Jello and sugar-free popsicles. If I even thought about transgressing, my body made me pay. I'd end up bent over a toilet, yarking.

I spent a lot of time that first four months yarking. When I ended up with a stricture -- scar tissue around the opening from my stomach to my intestines -- every time I ate for about a week, I'd throw up. But worse was the horrible pain as I waited and prayed to throw up. Once I did, the pain and sickness would abate. I finally had a minor procedure to open the scar tissue, and that problem went away. It was the only real complication I've had.

Since then, my stomach has healed, and my diet is a lot more varied. I can eat just about anything now -- salads, vegetables, beef, fruit, even the chicken that for a while there made me sick as a dog.

You may be thinking, Man, I'd love to lose the weight, but aren't you hungry? No, oddly enough, I'm not. I can remember diets pre-surgery that drove me nuts with hunger -- with little to show for it -- but hunger isn't a big problem anymore. Cravings sometimes are, especially at certain times of the month or when stress is especially great. I sometimes sneak a tiny piece of chocolate or a bite of brownie, which I can get away with without dumping syndrome. But if I try to eat anymore than that, I get pretty sick. That's good, because sweets have always been my downfall.

I've learned my willpower is a hell of a lot better than I always thought it was. If there are real, immediate consequences to doing something stupid, you don't do the stupid thing. Before the surgery, and a waiter asked, "Would you like the creme brulee?" I'd think -- "I really shouldn't -- I'm already the size of a horse...Oh, what the hell." Now I grimace and say, "No." 'Cause the momentary pleasure is not worth ninety minutes of being sick as a dog.

The weight loss has been phenomenal. I remember one week post-op, when I lost 20 pounds. Good God. Even after that, there were days when I'd lose a pound a day. I'm not kidding.

Now, recently, there was a month where I didn't lose a single pound. My grandmother was in the hospital, and I was having to stay with her to spell my poor mom every day for three weeks. My grandma has severe Alzheimer's, and half the time she doesn't know who I am. That's bad enough, but she'd shattered her arm -- for the third time since October -- and she kept trying to take off the bandages and get out of bed. The woman is 89, and if she fell, which was likely because of the drugs, she'd break a hip. So I spent hours at the hospital trying to keep her in the bed and in her cast. Not to mention trying to get her to eat, because she looked like the victim of a Nazi concentration camp.

All that was bad enough, but there was a while there she kept trying to attack the nursing staff and my mother and father. One time a nurse was trying to get a blood sample, and I saw my grandmother cranking up her foot trying to kick the woman in the back of the head. Good grief! I had to pounce on her to keep her from doing it, too.

This is the kind of high stress situation that drives morbidly obese people to eat like little pigs. I came about as close as it's possible for a gastric bypass patient to get. I even hit KFC one day, despite the fact that the thought of fried chicken makes me sick. And yes, I ended up nauseated and guilt-ridden. I won't be doing that again. It's just not worth it.

But Grandma is back in her nursing home recovering now. I've finished my latest novella, and made friends with Lean Cuisine. Those little 250 cal Lean Cuisines are now about the perfect size for me. Back in the day, I'd have to eat two of them.

I've lost four pounds in the last week. People compliment me all the time. My husband is beside himself with joy. He loves playing with my newly thin fingers and my collar bones and the shoulders he hasn't seen in years.

I've still got 66 pounds to lose, but I know I can do it. I also know the real challenge will come when the weight is finally off, and I have to adjust to maintaining. But I've learned important lessons, and I'm better equipped to deal with my eating addiction.

Gastric bypass is not magic. You still have to have to learn the self-control not to do stupid stuff, and sometimes it's not easy. But I've learned that every time I say no to something self-destructive, I get a little stronger. And that's not a bad lesson to learn.

Milestones

It's been TOO long since my last blog, so I decided I should update you folks on what's going on.

I'm delighted to say I've finally adjusted to my new lifestyle. That's not to say it hasn't had its challenges. I've nicknamed myself the Duchess of Yerk, because every once in a while, my stomach stages a palace revolt.

One of those was around Christmas. My husband is a cop, and he took me to his department's annual Christmas party a couple of months ago. We sat with a bunch of Mike's friends from the bomb squad, who, being cops, were proving their skill with sick humor. (This poor, dumb 17-year-old kid had built three pipe bombs just for the hell of it, and one of them went off before he could get clear. Luckily, he survived, but his thumb didn't. One of the bomb squad found it in a light fixture. Since the kid was missing a chunk of his hand, there was nothing to reattach it to. The way cops deal with horror is by making sick jokes, so these guys got into a pun contest. "Hey, he gave me the FINGER!" I was laughing so hard, I forgot to watch how I ate. I ate too much, too fast, and realized I'd obstructed. So Mike and I had to leave.

On the way home, we had to pull over so I could yerk. There's something about standing in a ditch beside a patrol car tossing your salad that really puts things in perspective. I guess it serves me right for laughing at those horrible jokes.

So anyway, I am now down 81 pounds at this point, six months after my surgery. This weekend, I was invited to Philadelphia to speak to the Valley Forge chapter of Romance Writers of America. Now, flying in the past has always been a huge source of humiliation and pain, because regular seat-belts didn't fit. Last year, I had to ask the flight attendant on each plane for seat belt extenders. But this time, no extenders were needed. I felt comfortable on a plane for the first time in years! Oh, it was wonderful! And I was able to scramble up and down the ladders and walk through the airport without feeling as if I was going to pass out or have a heart attack.

There are some problems, of course. I have a really bad cold at the moment, but gastric bypass patients can't swallow pills, and anything asprin related is out. So finding a cold medication is a challenge. But I found I could swall Dayquil Liquid Gel pills without obstructing, so I was able to get through the flight. (Though for a while, I was worried I would yerk up the pills. My stomach is REALLY picky about large, hard things.)

Anyway, I can honestly say I'm glad I had the surgery. Yes, there are times I think longingly of the chocolate I can't eat, or the desserts everyone else is enjoying, or the drinks I can't have. But wearing a size 20 instead of a size 28 is a very nice consolation, and so is feeling so much more healthy.

I still have 60 or 70 pounds to go, and I'm not sure how long it's going to take to reach my goal. My weight loss has been slowing down. Ironically, as my body has gotten smaller, it hasn't needed as many calories, so it's not burning fat as fast. But I'm losing at a good, healthy pace -- about two or three pounds a week (There were days early on when I'd lose a pound a day). Hunger isn't a problem (though cravings do hit, and you have to control them. Luckily, because sugar gives me dumping syndrome, it's much easier to stay out of the cookies and candy than it once was.)

If you're morbidly obese, and there is a GOOD, experienced surgeon in your area who does gastric bypass surgery, you should give the surgery some thought. (I'm not talking about some quack who does them every once in a while. You need a guy who has done at least 100 Gastric Bypass surgeries and has a low rate of complications and mortality. Any time you operate on someone who is more than 100 pounds overweight, there are very serious risks.) God knows it's not cheap, though, and you may have to jump through hoops to get your insurance to pay for it, but I think it's worth the effort.

Oh, by the way, the Valley Forge chapter was GREAT to me! I had a ball talking to them. They're a fine group of ladies, and they're very friendly and welcoming.

Angela Knight

Attack of the Chicken Taco

It's been two weeks since my last post, and I'm down a total of 31 pounds. You'll notice my weight loss has slowed a bit. That's because I went three days without losing anything. I had a minor infection of one of my incisions, and my body took its revenge by lowering my metabolism. I had kind of a reverse fever, with a body temp running around 95.3 at one point. Uck. Three days ago, that finally lifted, and I'm losing a pound a day.

My doctor tells me my energy level will continue to "drift" for another week or more as my body fights the weight loss. This means that I often feel like I've been run over by a tank.

The only way to avoid feeling like hell is protein, which has become my drug of choice. The post-op pain is basically gone, and I'm off all the interesting pain meds. Yay!

Trouble is, protein is a challenge, as I indicated last time. There's shakes, but I hate those suckers. Then Tuesday night, I decided to take a go at the baked chicken at the local grocery store. It was WONDERFUL. So I ate as much as I dared, knowing that I need the protein desperately.

The next day my strength level felt almost back to normal. I went to the doctor and got a couple of stitches out that were causing the incision problem, then decided to go to lunch with my husband. My nurse had suggested I might try Mexican food -- refried beans and a tiny amount of chicken. I know, sounds nuts, but hey, I was feeling cocky. I got a chicken taco and carefully picked little tiny bits of chicken out of it. No lettuce or sauce; I knew that would get me. And a couple of bites of refried beans.

Big mistake. Biiiiiiig mistake. I think that damned restaurant slipped me some sugar. I hadn't even finished eating before my chest started hurting. I expected the pain to decrease, but it only got worse.

I got home, and decided to go see my mother, taking her a copy of my new book. I ended up pacing the floor, fighting waves of chest pain. Before I knew what hit me, I was bent over her sink getting rid of the chicken. Disgusting as that was, it ended the pain.

Staggered home and passed out for four hours. During which, obviously, I didn't eat.

So as a result, I'm in a protein deficit. I've got to get my hands on some protein, but the thought of one of those shakes makes me feel faintly green. And obviously, not big on chicken right now.

This will get better. I know that. I have only another couple of weeks, maybe two months on the outside, to endure. Then my pouch will be healed and I'll start on the road to a better version of me, thinner and more healthy.

I just have to get through the next couple of months.

Building Knight 2.0

Aug. 29, 2006

I lay on the hospital gurney listening to the click click of the wheels as the young woman wheeled me down the corridor. A pair of double doors appeared ahead of me. A big white sign on them said OR. My heart started pounding as the doors swung wide and the gurney sailed through.

For a moment, I had the sensation of riding a roller coaster -- that instant when you reach the top of the first great hill and see the endless swoop ahead of you, and your every instinct screams "I WANT TO GET OFF!" But of course, you can't.

I had been working for this moment for months. I could have bought a mini-van for what I spent on this particular E-ticket. I'd swung from panic to exhilaration, and I'd had to reschedule the deadline for a book. I'd read countless books on the subject, and I was convinced I was doing the only thing I possibly could -- the right thing for me.

Gastric bypass surgery.

Unlike many MO -- morbidly obese -- people, I had not been hugely fat from childhood. In fact, I exercised and watched my weight until I got pregnant with my son. Unfortunately, I took my pregnancy as a licence to eat.

By the time Anthony was born 21 years ago, I was 40 pounds overweight. I then hit the yo-yo diet syndrome with a vengeance, dieting, exercising, trying everything I could to lose weight. Then sabotaging myself between diets by yielding to every tempting sweet that came my way. Not surprisingly, I only got heavier and heavier. The last five or six years, I'd given up on dieting completely and begun a free fall into weight gain.

Finally my mother told me she thought I should have the surgery, because otherwise I was going to die. I was stunned. Mom had always been violently opposed to bariatric surgery, viewing it as dangerous and ineffective. For her to suggest I had come to the point of needing something that radical suggested I was indeed headed for self-destruction if I didn't do something.

So I started doing research, deeply interested in anything that would help me out of the hole I'd dug for myself.

I had somehow come up with the idea that gastric bypass surgery was the "easy" way out, and that I would never have to diet again. I quickly found out there ain't no such thing as a free lunch. Yes, gastric bypass comes with a wonderful honeymoon period in which people lose huge amounts of weight in very short periods of time. And yes, it can be very effective, allowing people to lose hundreds of pounds, going from obese to slim and healthy in a couple of years.

This miracle takes a good deal of surgical engineering.

The surgeon creates a small pouch at the top of the stomach and then re-routes part of the small intestine to it, where the two are surgically fused. Though a normal stomach is about the size of a human head, the new pouch is only the size of an egg. And immediately post-op, it's actually smaller than that, holding only about an ounce of food.

Yet the patient experiences no real hunger for months. The tiny pouch is so quickly filled, hunger is short-circuited. The pouch will come to hold more as it heals, but not as much as it did before. Hunger eventually returns, but I'm told it's never as savage as it is pre-op. It can be managed by concentrating on proteins and keeping fat and sugar to a minimum.

(Actually, many patients can't eat anything with fat or sugar for years afterward without experiencing dumping syndrome, a condition peculiar to gastric patients. Rich food hits the small intestine and the liver dumps insulin into the blood, which causes increased heartbeat, chest pains, dizziness, nausea and vomiting for one really miserable hour. It's the ultimate in negative conditioning; many people lose all taste for the cakes and candies that they were once addicted to.)

Unfortunately, some people learn to "eat around the pouch," by grazing on small amounts of food all day long, or by breaking the rules and drinking alcohol or eating high-fat food. That's when they put back on the weight they lost.

But for 80 percent of gastric bypass patients, the surgery is successful, allowing them to keep off the majority of their weight permanently. Studies show the surgery can lengthen the life expectancy of a MO person by fifteen years or more. Many serious problems, like diabetes, sleep apnea, joint problems, and even heart disease are all but cured.

Unfortunately, because it's major surgery, there is a small risk of death. Any time a MO person goes under the knife, there's a higher risk of death from a variety of causes, including blood clots, pneumonia, and unforseen complications. My surgeon, Dr. Paul Ross, had done over 300 surgeries with two fatalities, which is pretty good. Ross is a compassionate, caring man, who is dedicated to helping morbidly obese people reclaim their lives. I really liked him, so I felt very comfortable putting my life in his hands.

Well, as comfortable as you can feel putting your life in anybody's hands. Which is why I was having an anxiety attack as they wheeled me into pre-op to get my IVs inserted.

That was a major challenge in itself. I was dehydrated from the bowel prep the day before -- I'll spare you the details of THAT little adventure-- and I was scared out of my furry little mind, so my veins had shrunk down in my arms. The nurses stuck me repeatedly but couldn't get the IV to thread. They eventually had to wrap my arms in hot towels and wait 30 minutes while I went slowly out of my mind. I wanted it over so bad.

Finally they succeeded, and off I went to surgery. I was surrounded by briskly moving figures in green, with huge white lights hovering over my head. Then the doctor put me to sleep, and that was that.

There's something in the drugs that keep you from remembering the immediate aftermath of the procedure. I don't remember the recovery room at all. The first thing I do remember is the agonizing process of getting to my feet with the help of my husband and a physical therapist soon after coming back from surgery.

Yes, I had just been gutted like a carp, but if they didn't get me up and moving, my chances of a blood clot or pneumonia were really high. So I took three steps one way and three steps the other before I was allowed to collapse back into bed.

The pain was not good, but I had a happy little morphine pump that helped a lot. My dreams are normally vivid, but that morphine gave them a real kick.

What maddened me the most was thirst. I wasn't allowed anything by mouth until the day after surgery, because they had to make sure my new digestive system wasn't leaking. Hours of thirst resulted, with me sucking on little sponges on sticks to try to keep my mouth wet. I wasn't actually dehydrated, because of my IV, but my mouth didn't know that. By the time I went down for the x-rays, my tongue felt the size and texture of an old athletic sock, and tasted about that good.

Luckily, everything was fine, and I went back to my room for a glorious sugar-free popsicle and water.

Over the days that followed, my husband removed any doubts I ever may have had about how much he loves me. He left the hospital only to change clothes and shower, staying with me all the rest of the time and gently badgering me to drink. Solid food wasn't on the menu, but I could have jell-O and protein drinks. I finally went home last Friday, four days after the surgery.

In the week since then, I have lost --according to my home scales -- 21 pounds. From 316, I'm down to 295. That's a staggering amount in such a short time.

They weren't kidding about not being hungry either. I can only eat about half a scrambled egg before I feel stuffed. Yet though my stomach isn't hungry, I found food commercials maddening at first. Now they don't bother me as much.

I am still struggling with weakness -- not surprising, considering I'm only getting about 300 to 600 calories a day -- and pain is nagging. But that was to be expected. In truth, I'm doing much, much better than I feared.

But my relationship with food is changing. Instead of being something I crave as a sensual indulgence, it's become a somewhat grim necessity. I need about 60 grams of protein a day, but when you can only eat a tablespoon of food at a time, you simply can't get that much in. You have to drink protein shakes, each of which has 20 grams of protein. Some of the shakes I've tried in the past week would make a vulture gag, but without them, I feel too rotten to move. Protein is the only thing that helps the energy level, as is drinking 64 oz of fluid a day.

I'm also deathly afraid of dumping syndrome. I experienced a minor episode with some creamed chicken soup that made my heart race and my chest hurt. I definitely do not want the full-fledged deal, not with my insides still healing. My sister and I went grocery shopping, and I studied ingredient lists, searching for hidden sugar and considering fat content. It seems if something's low sugar, it's high fat and vice versa.

I am only eleven days into my quest for the new Angela Knight. I have a great deal to learn, new habits to acquire and bad ones to break.

Wish me luck.

Oh, for more on gastric bypass surgery, check out this support group:

http://www.livingafterwls.com/


--Angela Knight

A few words about women's erotica

Summer is here, and with it the usual romance writers' conferences. Once again, editors of various romance houses are talking about acquiring erotica and erotic romance. But some of the things I'm hearing have started to worry me.

(This is not, by the way, a comment about my own wonderful editor, Cindy Hwang, who really does get it.)

Erotica and women's erotica are extremely new markets, and the houses aren't sure yet what's going to sell. So they're trying all kinds of stuff to see what works.

Since both erotica and women's erotica are topics I care about, I decided to share my thoughts -- (and hope I don't get myself blackballed in the process.)

Now, when I was 20, before I became a really diehard romance reader, I read erotica. And since nobody was publishing women's erotica, there was nothing to read but erotica for men. I was desperate enough to read it anyway, because frankly, I had more libido than boyfriends. (This was MANY, many pounds ago, and before I met the man of my dreams.)

I found men's erotica unsatisfying stuff, frankly. Yes, some it was arousing, more or less, but mostly it was just frustrating. The heroines were all life support systems for genitalia, which made it difficult to care about them, while the guys were cads who treated the women like toilet paper. Even when a female character had a bit more to her, she usually loudly declared her independence by the end of the book and flounced away, leaving the hero a broken man.

As for plot -- surely you're joking. Men don't read erotica for plot. It only takes them 10 minutes to beat off. If they want a plot, they'll go read WAR AND PEACE. Now, me -- it takes me a bit longer, which gave me far too much time to think, "This doesn't make any sense."

As a reader, I wanted characters I could care about, male and female. I wanted a happy ending. I wanted a ROMANCE. And I wanted hot sex. I was obviously not going to get that from men's erotica, so eventually I got disgusted and went off and started reading romance.

At the time, the hot sex was more implied than anything else, and most of the heroes in those bodice rippers were jerks, but there was a happy ending and a romance, and I decided that was as close as I was going to get to what I wanted.

In the meantime -- around 1990 or so -- I started writing what nobody else was giving me. Steamy sex, happy endings, and romance. Utterly unpublishable at the time, of course, because the stories were too short and the sex was WAY too hot for the romance market.

So, fast forward to 2006, when romance houses have suddenly discovered erotica. So what do some of these editors say they're looking for? Plot? Not particularly important, one said.

"We don't really want to see the hero's point of view," another said. (Sounds to me like he's going to become a life-support system for genitalia. Sound familiar?)

"We don't necessarily want a happy ending. We want a series of sexual encounters. These are not romances."

Well, SNOT. Here I waited 20 years for New York to start publishing what I want to read, and most of the houses (with the exception of the splendid and wonderful Berkley) are doing the exact same damn thing as the men's erotica that turned me off when I was 20. Except maybe more artsy. As one writer friend explained, "These books are supposed to be voyages of sexual self-discovery for the heroine."

Hell, THAT doesn't sound like any fun!

And that's the real problem. Erotica is supposed to be FUN. That's the whole point. If I am sitting here getting all warm and yummy reading about some marvelous hunk, I am NOT, thank you, in the mood for a voyage of sexual self-discovery.

Let me be crude: I WANT TO GET OFF.

Do not hand me an endless series of depressing and meaningless sexual encounters. I did that when I was in college, dammit, and I hated it the first time.

Here's a clue, ladies: orgasms and depression are not a good combo. In fact, where there is depression, there is no orgasm. Orgasms are fun. Sex with a handsome, horny guy is FUN. It's supposed to be fun.

Now, if I pick up your work of erotic fiction expecting to have a warm, happy time, followed by molesting my husband, and instead you leave me feeling like it's 1982 and I've just woken up next to yet another jerk...

Well, the next time I see one of your books sitting on the shelves at B&N, I will keep right on shopping.

On the other hand, if you show me a good time, at the end of which Our Heroine finds warmth and joy with a guy with a really big d**k...well, you've got a new fan.

Consider this a message to all you budding newbie Women's Erotica writers. Keep this post in mind, and I think you'll find many happy sales.

Angela Knight

Steam 101: A Guide to Writing Romance

I thought I had posted this here, but apparently not.

By the way, if you're a kid -- GO AWAY. This is not for you. You don't write romance novels anyway. Go download somebody's music.

Erotic romance is hot. Readers love it, and publishers are actively working to acquire it. Yet surprisingly, editors say it’s hard to find people who write erotic romance well, despite the fact that almost every romance has at least one love scene in it.

So if you can write erotic romance – or even just regular romance with good love scenes – you’ve got a real advantage when it comes to finding a publisher. I’m proof of that: a couple of years ago I was approached by an New York editor who’d read my novellas in the Secrets anthologies. She e-mailed me to ask if I was willing to write something steamy for Berkley.

As anybody knows who has spent any time trying to get published in romance, editors simply do not approach writers who’ve never been published by a New York house.

Apparently, I’d done something right; I ended up with a two book contract.
This article is an attempt to share a few techniques and principles with those interested in writing romance – including the non-erotic variety.

Repeat after me: Romance does not equal porn

A year or so ago, I saw an RWA-sponsored ad to the effect that romance novels don’t really have all that much sex in them. It then listed various books and the number of love scenes in them – generally just one or two.

That ad really ticked me off, because it implied that a book with only one sex scene is somehow more moral than one with four or five. I’ve encountered that attitude a lot in other romance writers who sniff that they write love scenes only because their publishers demand it.
Apparently, like Victorian wives suffering the attentions of randy husbands, they lie back and think of England.

My personal belief is that somebody who writes mechanical sex solely to placate a publisher and make money is a lot more guilty of being a pornographer than I am.

No matter how much some writers might like to pretend otherwise, at their core, romances are about a sexual relationship between a man and a woman, not a purely spiritual union of souls. After all, when was the last time you read a romance staring Ghandi?

I’ve heard writers argue that their readers don’t care about sex, that in fact, they skip the sex scenes. My response is: then you’re doing something wrong. Anytime a reader can skip any scene in a book, the writer has screwed up. Every scene should advance the plot, characterization, or conflict -- preferably all three. That includes love scenes. A scene your reader can skip needs to be rewritten.

Now I’m going to make a confession: sometimes I skip love scenes too. But it’s not because I’m somehow too moral to read them. It’s because they’re boring! Too many of them are just like every other love scene I’ve read in my twenty years as a romance junkie.

The worst sin, the very worst sin, a writer can commit is boring the reader. When you bore her, you cheat her out of the seven bucks she paid for your book.

Not only that, but you’ve cheated the characters you’ve worked so hard to make real in the rest of the novel. You’ve basically turned them into porn actors, moaning and going through the motions because your publisher wants so many sex scenes per book.

Worst of all, you’ve cheated yourself as an artist. You haven’t had the guts to realize your artistic vision for that book because you’re either afraid of being called a pornographer or you’re worried the neighbors will think you’re kinky.

Screw the neighbors. Screw the critics. Tell the story of those two passionate people you’ve created without flinching and without chastely averting your eyes. That’s what being an artist is all about.

Sex is action

One of the hardest things about writing a good love scene – particularly when you’ve written a lot of them – is how to keep them fresh and different.

After all, the physical actions of sex are basically the same – kiss this, stroke that, insert tab A into slot B. You can spice things up by using different positions, locations and props, but that only works so many times.

Besides, readers are not dumb. They notice when you’ve got three sex scenes, and you tick through the basic positions in them: “Okay, we’ll do missionary in this one, and female superior in this one, and in this one he’ll...”

Yuck. Getting into porn territory again.

I’ve found that to keep sex fresh and different, love scenes needs to grow out of the characters themselves, not my reference copy of the Kama Sutra.

Every time the hero and heroine go to bed together, it should reflect where they are in their relationship. In fact, ideally you should be able to read through the sex scenes alone and track the progress of the romance through the book.

In that first scene, maybe they’re uncertain or cautious or exploring – or maybe they just go nuts from pent-up sexual tension.

In the next scene, maybe they’ve had an argument right before going to bed together, and that anger bubbles under the surface so that the love scene becomes another expression for the conflict. And so on, until the last scene in the book, when we see how they make love now that they’re really in love and committed to one another.

Sweet, tender action will do more than flowery declarations of love to tell the reader that these folks really will live happily ever after.

Remember, too, that each love scene should not only mark the progress of the relationship, but advance it. The characters are sharing a deeply personal interaction, exposing themselves to each other emotionally as well as physically. It should change how they relate to each other.

Some Examples

To illustrate, I’m including the opening paragraphs from loves scenes from my Berkely novel, Jane’s Warlord.

Baran, my hero, is a warrior from the future who has time-traveled to the 21st century in order to protect reporter Jane Colby from Jack the Ripper – who, it turns out, is also a futuristic warrior.

Baran comes on very cold and hard in the first few scenes of the book, so in the first love scene, I wanted to show another side of him: the tender lover. The idea was to demonstrate that Baran is someone both Jane and the reader can trust.

For me, that’s one of the keys of developing a sexy hero: you’ve got to first establish that he’s not a bully and that he respects the heroine’s needs, even when he’s being sexually demanding.
It’s absolutely vital to set up his heroism and concern for the heroine as another human being before you let him start playing dominant bedroom games.

If you don’t, you can end up with a hero who comes off as a selfish brute interested only in his own pleasure. And the reader’s just not going to like him.

Jane looked up blindly in the darkness, saw the shimmer of his eyes an instant before his mouth came down over hers. She tried to pull away, startled, but long fingers tangled in her hair and held her still. The kiss was an easy, practiced slide of his mouth against hers, carefully undemanding.

Jane had expected skill, but Baran’s tenderness took her by surprise. His tongue caressed her lower lip, then entered her mouth in a long erotic stroke. He mouth tasted of a sweet, spicy something she couldn’t identify. Strong hands closed gently around her shoulders, turned and lowered her to the mattress. She cupped her palms around the curve of his shoulders. They more than filled her hands. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“Probably not,” he murmured. “But it seems we’re going to do it anyway.”

The second love scene in Jane’s Warlord follows some heavy revelations of the characters’ personal histories. They’re more comfortable with each other, and they express that in playfulness. Too, the tension had gotten pretty thick, and I needed to lighten things up a little.

Baran grabbed the door just before she managed to slam it in his face. Shouldering through, he purred, “Are you running from me?”

She retreated quickly to the glass stall that took up one side of the room. “Who, me?” There was a definite squeak in her voice. Whirling, she started fumbling with a set of chrome knobs that made water shoot from a nozzle in the wall of the stall. “Why would I do that?”

“Maybe because it’s a good idea?” He strolled over to snatch her against him, grab the hem of her T-shirt, and jerk it over her head. She hadn’t bothered with a bra that morning, and her bare breasts bobbed with the motion. Those pretty nipples were delicately erect, pink and tender. He swooped in to sample one, sucking it into his mouth as he grabbed the waistband of her baggy trousers and started pulling them down her thighs. “I thought I told you not to wear these ugly pants again,” he growled between nibbles.

“And I don’t ... AH!... take fashion advice from a guy with beads in his hair. Baran!” The last word was a yelp of protest as he snatched her off her feet, one hand around her backside, the other arm circling her torso.

Here’s another point: don’t pair a dominant alpha hero with a dishrag heroine. He’ll come off as a bully, because she can’t or won’t give him a decent fight. So I let Baran try to give Jane orders, but I make it equally clear that she obeys them only when she thinks she should. This strengthens the conflict, because Baran thinks that unless Jane obeys him without question, he won’t be able to keep her alive. Jane thinks this is just dumb, and tells him so.

Humor is a great weapon for heroines to use against alpha heroes. Part of what makes alphas so attractive is the idea a powerful, physically overwhelming male. But those same characteristics makes it difficult for the heroine to hold her own with him. You need to demonstrate that she’s his equal in wit and will so the reader will respect her. And letting her get off a good joke at his expense is a great way to do that.

In the next scene, I use a sexual encounter to express Baran’s growing fear that he can’t protect Jane from the killer. I also play with his more erotically superhuman qualities to give the scene a special kick for the reader.

Baran had taken her before in calculation and in heat, but this desperation was new.

Jane could taste it in the way he kissed her, open-mouthed and fierce, his long fingers curling around the back of her skull, angling her head just the way he wanted it.

He took her in a long, sweet stroke of tongue and lip, hot and wet and hungry. Somewhere in the endless tumble into delight, she heard the rumble of a passing car, accompanied by the short, mocking toot of its horn. A tiny measure of sanity returned. Prying her mouth away from his, she panted, “We can’t do this on the side of the road, Baran!”

“Yes, we can,” he growled, and captured her mouth again, the kiss drugging, hungry.

Jane wrestled free and threw a desperate glance around them, trying to determine if they were being watched. She realized she knew the area from her wild teenage years. “There’s a spot down by the woods. A stream. We could....”

He looked down at her. The lust in his eyes was so intense, it didn’t seem quite human – and not just because of the fiery glow.

His lips pulled back from his teeth in a slow, erotic smile. “Run. Before I take you on the hood of the truck.” His powerful hands reluctantly relaxed their hold.

It wasn’t an idle threat. Jane whirled and fled as if chased by something that would eat her. And with a little squirt of heat, she knew he intended to do just that.

In the last love scene in Jane’s Warlord, I wanted to demonstrate just how far they’d come in their relationship.

“No!” she panted. “I want... I want....”

That got his attention. He stopped and looked at her, leaning his face against her thigh.

“What? Anything you want me to do, I’ll do.” Turning his head, he gave her thigh a tempting little nibble.

“I want to be on top!” she gasped.

He lifted a brow. “Of course.”

“No, I mean...” She drew in a deep breath and managed to bring her desperate pants under control. “I want to be in charge this time. Dominant.”

He lifted his head in surprise, then shrugged. “Your wish is my command.”

Jane managed a cheeky grin. “That’s the idea.” She sat up. “Lie down on your back. I want to tie you up this time.”

Because she was looking directly at him, she saw his eyes flicker. “All right.”

That moment of unease reminded her of that horrific story he’d told her of being paralyzed while the Xer tortured him. They hadn’t discussed it, but she strongly suspected the abuse had been even worse than he’d let on.

And yet, he was willing to allow himself to be bound if she wanted it that way.

“Just... extend your hands over your head,” she said, hastily modifying the game. “Grab one wrist, and keep them there. Don’t let go.” She watched while he obeyed, slowly stretching his big body out, assuming the position she directed.

It was her turn now.

The role reversal demonstrates that Baran loves Jane enough to yield to whatever she wants, including tying him up, even though that’s something he’s got a phobia about. She, on the other hand, modifies her request when she realizes this hits one of his hot buttons.

The final sex scene should, I think, demonstrate the fact that the characters know and love one another. Whether it’s tender or kinky, their lovemaking should show that this is definitely love.

They’ve reached the happy-ever-after ending readers crave.

And that, after all, is what romance is all about.