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Excerpt: Fearless, Chapter 4 (draft)

by | Feb 19, 2012 | Excerpts, Fearless

This was the first real romantic scene I got to write for Ross and Amber.

I’ve always written right from my brain (especially for NaNoWriMo!), and I tend to get long-winded about romance passages in particular. But, you know what? Even though I’ll likely have to cut a lot of this when an editor gets their hands on it, I still really enjoy it. I like the ebb and flow of run-on sentences that evoke that tumbling feeling that we get when we’re falling in love, whether for the first time or the fifteenth.

The large grassy precipice of Crow’s Point was empty, an unbroken expanse of green grass that stretched toward the sea on one side, toward the village on another, and on the third back toward the path and road they’d just walked. There was no artificial illumination up here, and the lights from the village shopfronts and homes weren’t enough to create more than a quaint tableau that looked like a model train set far below. But the stars overhead were bright, blinking and twinkling and shining without competition, and they cast enough light for them to see where their steps flattened the thick grass, and more than enough light for Ross to watch how Amber’s face beamed as she took in the view.

She looked out toward the horizon first, then turned her head slowly in the direction of the village, for a long minute just blinking. Then she smiled, and clasped at his hand, which she hadn’t yet let go. Finally, she whispered, “It’s all so beautiful,” in a voice so hushed that he almost might not have known she’d spoken at all, except that he found it very difficult to tear his eyes away from her lips and the way that they glistened in the starlight as she smiled and spoke.

“It certainly is,” he said, still watching her.

She turned to him now, and abruptly giggled. “You’re not even looking!” she mock-scolded.

“I am so!” he told her with a chuckle. But then he quickly quieted, shifting on his feet so that he was facing her, and reached out with his free hand to caress the round part of her jaw. “I’m looking at you,” he told her softly. Then he bent his head down to hers, lifting her face at the same time (or maybe she did that; he couldn’t quite tell). And in the warm space between where they stood, their lips met each other halfway, clutching in one soundless kiss, then another, and still yet another.

Ross let go of her hand at last, trading her fingers for the gentle curve of the small of her back; he felt both of her arms wind their way around his shoulders, and she pressed up into his embrace, humming faintly into his mouth. There was no swaying or shuffling, just the soft, sweet-smelling squeeze of her body against his as their lips and tongues danced a delightful give and take of blooming desire.

He pulled her closer then, and she gave another sighing breath against his lips as he sank slowly to his knees. The lush grass was as soft a bed as any, and so he lowered her to its springy top, never once breaking from their kiss.

He stretched out on top of her, moving very gently with his chest and hips. Then he finally unclasped his lips from hers, though only just enough that he could look at her.

She blinked up at him, her eyes reflecting starlight in a mesmerising and beautiful way that he’d never seen before. And it made him touch his mouth to hers again, very softly, as he planted tiny kisses at one corner of her lips, then moved over their fullest rise, and finally came to rest at the other corner, where he lingered the longest.

She answered all of these in kind, with each successive kiss her chest rising and falling against him, until she was nearly gasping like a sprinter, her breaths warm and wet and sweet.

Ross slid one hand between them, pressing his palm to the side of one of her breasts even as he buried his face into the side of her neck, groaning, “I want you.”

Amber’s fingers dove into his hair, clutching the back of his head to hold him close. She whispered his name, her lips brushing the ridge of his ear just right to make him groan again, and screw his hips against her.

“I need to tell you something,” she said then, just before he pressed his mouth to hers anew, in a word- and worry-smothering kiss.

They parted ever so briefly and ever so barely for breath, and around their darting tongues he told her, “It can wait ’til after.”

But she shook her head and pulled her chin back from him, muttering, “No. No, it can’t.” And she abruptly let him go from her embrace, pushing against the hollow of his shoulder with the heel of one hand.

She moved her fingers to his cheek, stroking gently. “What happened this afternoon-” she began, and then she drew a breath.

He chuckled, hazarding a guess: “Do you want me to do that again?”

She chuckled, too, but very softly, and quite haltingly. “No,” she said. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

He almost frowned. “I thought you liked it?”

She gave another quiet laugh, the same as before. “I did,” she said. “Of course, I did.” But then her gaze fell away, and she pressed her lips together between her teeth, still hesitant. And then, she uttered the one word that he didn’t want to hear from her at that moment:

“But….”

He pulled back from her. “But what?”

“But,” she started again, and now she finally returned her gaze to him, her lashes fluttering anxiously. “I can’t go on pretending.”

Rising slowly on one elbow, Ross heard himself swallow thickly as he scanned her face; that sudden and all-too-familiar look of apology in her eyes was like a knife twisting in his gut.

Stupid. How could he have been so stupid to think that she would be any different from anyone else? From Sam? From Susanna?

He was about to simply come out and say that there was nothing wrong with just taking the moments they’d been given. That there didn’t need to be any deeper meaning to it, that he could be whatever she wanted for tonight, maybe for a lot of nights. That she excited him in a way that he hadn’t felt in too long, and what was so bad about enjoying that excitement while it lasted? He’d already shown her that he could make her feel wonderful and wanted; this didn’t have to be anything more than just taking that to the next level. Just let them hold on to each other for a little while, before she went back to whatever nice, proper, rich bloke she had waiting for her away from this little village on the sea.

God, Ross. Take your own advice, buddy, and relax. This girl ain’t going anywhere.

“Nobody wants to hear your boring f***ing origin story!”

by | Feb 16, 2012 | Process

I love heroes. Superheroes especially.

I grew up reading and watching and listening to stories about aliens who used their otherworldly powers to protect, charismatic billionaires who donned masks to fight crime, ancient warrior women who pledged to uphold virtue and truth. Their stories are fantastic and full of imagination, and a great outlet for a young, idealistic mind searching for meaning in a world that can be very confusing and intimidating.

Sometime during the 1980s (at least in my reading), superhero stories started to become more realistic. They became grimier, darker, exposing more clearly the layers of society that necessitated their own existence: drugs, gangs, perversion. These things all existed during the Golden Age of the superhero, of course, it just hadn’t been painted for us so starkly, for the most part. (Again, this was only in my regular reading library of titles. I had yet to graduate from the more idyllic stories of Superman to the starker ones of The Shadow.)

But that’s not my point.

As these superhero stories became more realistic, so did the heroes themselves. They were, more often than not, flawed in such ways that we could recognise in them the weaknesses of ourselves. Some were vainglorious bastards who relished a bit too much in pounding petty crooks to a pulp; others were simply snide smartasses who spent more time mocking their teammates than actually doing any good. One example of these was “Mystery Men,” created by Bob Burden and later adapted into the 1999 film of the same name. It’s got a very neat B-list cast of character actors doing a pretty good job of telling the story of the formation of a misfit superhero team. Another film came out around the same time (2000), called “The Specials.”

“The Specials” doesn’t have quite the star power of “Mystery Men” (Rob Lowe is the main actor attraction, though he’s supported well by Thomas Haden Church, Judy Greer, and Jamie Kennedy)…but it does have one line that has always stuck with me. At one point, the leader of The Specials (The Strobe, played so genuinely John Wayne by Church that the character is almost depressing) decides to bring the group together by telling his origin story. Every superhero’s got one, of course: how he or she developed their super powers and what made him or her decide to become a hero. During the middle of this, potty-mouthed upstart Amok (Kennedy) interrupts:
“Nobody wants to hear your boring fucking origin story!”

Now, all of that explanation above was just for me to say, that is what I often think others feel about my own writing: Nobody wants to hear my boring fucking story.

I think a lot of writers probably have these moments, when we’re floundering in the deep end of the pool, wondering just why the heck we bother. There are a million (more!) other stories out there, commanding attention, garnering praise, offering insight. So why do we bother? Why do we insist on struggling through the pages of plot and dialogue and description, when there are already far better and wider-reaching works than our own?

I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell you why I do it, anyway.

Because I’ve always been inspired by heroes. I’ve always read stories about Superman and Wonder Woman and Spider-Man, and I’ve always thought how fantastic it might be, to look up in the sky and see one of them swinging or flying overhead. What a beautiful world, to find adventure and romance and miracles in everyday existence. Not because you’d have super powers or see other people running around with super powers. But because those heroes made me appreciate life, appreciate love, appreciate all good things. And when I really thought about it, I realised: it’s not about the superhero. It’s not even about the hero, really. It’s about the story. The story that moves and teaches and opens us up to something greater than ourselves.

And that’s why I do it.

So. Why do you?

For the sake of love

by | Feb 14, 2012 | Fearless, Process, Uncategorized

And even though the words tickling at the edge of his tongue were silly and foolish and the sort of clichéd romantic tripe that he’d always eschewed, Ross said them, anyway. – from my work-in-progress, Fearless

It’s Valentine’s Day around here. Typically, the day is reserved for professing (or re-professing) your love to your significant other, whether that be your boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse, anime pillow, or whatever.

As someone who has long been a sucker for romance (both in general and writing it), I’m torn between disparate feelings for this day. I’ve never been so happy with my husband as I’ve been with anyone or anything else…but I’ve also always harbored disdain for the hearts and cards and chocolates proclaiming that this is the only day that matters for lovers, when, in fact, every day should be special with the person – or people – whom you love. Of course, my husband is not an overly-romantic man: his idea of a token of affection is a sour ale poured into a pretty glass. (But, to be fair, I do appreciate my Duchesse.) This is good and bad, for me as a writer.

Writing women in romantic escapades and conundrums is easy: I can just project myself into that woman, and imagine what I’d love for a man to do for, to, or with me. But writing a man becomes more difficult. Some writers, no matter their gender, can write perfect romantic prose. Me, I’ve got to “hear” and “see” men whom I know – like my husband – saying their words or performing their actions. This is likely considered a crutch by many, but – again, just for me, specifically – it helps me to create a portrait of a man that I can understand as well as appreciate. (And while my husband might not be a Lancelot or Romeo, I’ve got other friends who come closer. So it’s not all about plopping one specific person into a character.)

Saying all of that, though, I think I like even my romantic leads to be resistant to the swooniness of a day like Valentine’s Day, and its associated stereotypical lovey-dovey moments. The girls are free to be hopeless romantics dreaming of a swashbuckler, but the boys need to be a bit standoffish to it all.

You know, at least on the surface. Because what’s the point of romance if you can’t be just a little bit dizzy about it all?

Clothes can make a man

by | Feb 11, 2012 | Fearless, Process, Uncategorized

One of the things I enjoy most about writing (aside from the writing itself, of course, and seeing the finished product on the page) is the research. And – partly because it’s something that I think I do well – visualising how characters look is always a hugely fun part of my research. Clothes are a huge part of that.

I don’t think that the reader needs to be informed of every little dangle of hair or change of clothes in every scene, but there are some moments when I think it can really help bring the reader into the world if I can let them “see” what someone looks like, and what feelings or impressions that look may evoke. A clumsy boy in a school uniform gives a very different impression from a young man in a well-tailored business suit, even if they’re essentially the same character beneath the surface. And while a young woman might not find that ordinary boy attractive…she might suddenly notice him when he’s in that suit.

Naturally, my characters’ tastes are a reflection of my own, since I’m writing them, but it’s still a lot of fun to imagine different outfits for different occasions. Because even though we may find another person attractive (or not) because of who they are, we’re still influenced by how they look (again, for better or worse).

I personally like to use clothing as a way to help set mood or perspective. When Ross helps fit Amber for a wetsuit, it’s as much about him inviting her into his world as it is about him getting the opportunity to see her in something skintight. When Chie dresses in a formal wedding kimono at the duel between her lover and her father, she’s not doing so simply to be pretty or feminine; she’s telling her father that she’s making a choice regarding the man in her life. And when Leon lounges around his apartment on New Year’s Eve in an old AC/DC tee shirt and shorts, that’s him shutting himself off from the world around him.

The choices we make when we create characters aren’t random. Or at least, they shouldn’t be. That’s what I think. Everything a character does or says – or wears – is an extra little glimpse into who he or she is.

…Or maybe I just like looking at clothes. You can decide.

Excerpt: Fearless, Chapter 3 (draft)

by | Feb 10, 2012 | Excerpts, Fearless, From Hell (A Love Story)

An excerpt from Chapter 3, still in draft form. This is about a third of the way through the first “arc” or minor conflict of the story. (Also, likely the only arc to be posted online.)

I’ve always had some trouble controlling how much smuff I put into stories like these, but I also have always believed that humans are very sexual creatures. If the situation warrants sex – for reasons of emotion, strife, trust, fear, whatever – then I think the sex is “worthwhile.”

Plus, it’s just fun to write.

The next day, when Amber arrived at the shop in her sparkling smile and button-up pinafore dress, and her blonde hair wound in loose, curling plaits that folded over her shoulder, ready for the beach, Ross did his best to set aside his more prurient interests in the separate parts of her and focus instead on the girl as a whole.

It was rather a difficult thing to do, though, especially when she bounced up to the counter and hopped up onto her toes to offer him a quick kiss, even before she greeted him with her usual bubbly salutation. For at the soft and welcome press of her lips, his anatomy gave a quick, jerking jump in his pants, and it took him a second of focused concentration to settle it again, before he cleared his throat and offered her a low, “Good morning.”

Dropping to her heels once again, she fixed him with a beaming and elfin grin and declared, “I want a suit of my own.”

Ross piqued one brow at her, and then leaned forward onto the counter, placing his cheek on his fist. He chuckled at her. “You’re certain you’re ready for that?”

Amber nodded, all bright confidence. “I want to be a real surfer,” she reminded him. “And I can’t do that if I don’t jump in all the way, and get myself a real suit and board.”

“You want a board, too?” he asked, mockingly incredulous.

She nodded again, and an excited gleam appeared in her eyes. “I want a gun,” she murmured in a low, desirous growl that made his pants strain a little again.

But despite how easily that started him up, he shook his head. “Not a chance,” he told her, standing straight with both hands on the counter. “You’re definitely not ready for that.”

“But I’m riding real waves, now!” she said, placing her hands flat on the counter, too, as though to rise up a bit and take away his height advantage (as if that could happen; he was easily a head taller than she was). “You said it yourself only yesterday: I’ve made a lot of progress these last few days. I’ve even joined the rest of you!”

He shook his head again. “Just because you’re out of the whitewater and in the pack doesn’t mean you can steer a gun,” he told her. “Those are made for really big surf. You’re not ready for that.”

The irritated pout she gave him was adorable, but he wasn’t going to let it sway him any, and he told her so:

“Listen, the water doesn’t care how good you think you are. If she wants to wipe you out, she will. And on a ten-footer – or more! – that can get hairy. Even I’ve been axed on my gun, and I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you.” He fixed her with a stern look. “So, no. It is far too dangerous for you; I’m sorry.”

Her sulking expression deepened in the ensuing silence, until Ross gave a halfway-yielding sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll compromise. I’ll let you borrow my Mollusc for a few days, and we’ll see how you do with that. It’s longer than a practice board but still wide enough to give you good balance,” he explained, and then he pushed a coercive smile to his lips. “All right?”

Amber’s grimace softened. “Is that a real surfboard?” she murmured.

He rolled his eyes a little. “Yes, it’s a ‘real’ surfboard,” he told her wearily.

The pleasant, pleasing smile returned in an instant. “Thank you, Ross,” she said in a saccharine voice, sounding supremely chuffed with herself, and now there was no doubt in his mind that she could manipulate him, if just a bit.

But he still enjoyed how easily he could make her smile and brighten, and that made him smile, as well.

“So!” he said abruptly, to change the course of their discourse. “What was that about a new steamer?”

She patted one hand upon the counter. “Yes!” she agreed with another grin. “The best you’ve got.”

Ross eyed her with an exaggerated leer. “The best, eh? That is bound to be quite expensive.”

But she shook her head, her curled plait bouncing from shoulder to back. “Money is no object,” she replied gleefully. “I want the top of the line.”

He moved out from behind the counter now, to lead her toward the tiered racks of spring- and fullsuits. “All right,” he drawled. “You’re the customer.”

He lifted down a few options for her perusal, and – to her credit – she knew exactly what she wanted: a tape-seamed women’s Super Stretch 4/3 fullsuit, with the zip built in front, one of the best makes they carried, built for what she would glowingly refer to as a “real surfer.” It was also, as he’d noted, one of the most expensive of the lot, but (again, to credit her word) she barely blinked at the price tag. All she said was:

“It’s perfect.”

And indeed it was. It fit her like a tailored glove, and when she stepped out from the fitting room to show it off, Ross had to admit that she did look quite authentic. Not to mention, sexy as hell.

“Nice,” he complimented as he tilted his head left and right, to examine her more closely. “Very nice,” he added in a low murmur, as he took an extra-long moment to linger his gaze on her arse. Then, more clearly: “How’s it feel?”

“Cosy,” was her reply, and she rubbed one hand over her opposite arm in a stretch. Then she giggled. “It was quite different to get into, though…!”

He nodded. “Yeah, the openings on these are small,” he muttered, checking the state of the zip flap above her chest. “But it’s the best at keeping out extra water. Lots more flexible than the thirty-percent one, too. But you’ve got to be careful with this one,” he warned her. “It’s strong, but you can still rip it if you pull on it too hard.”

She blinked at him in quiet concern, until he gave her a leering smile and added:

“But don’t worry; I can show you how to get out of it.”

Amber smiled. “I hope so,” she said, and then she pressed him for his board, so together they could head down to the already-bustling beach.

Once on the water, she took to his Mollusc with surprising ease of skill; Ross made certain to keep a close eye on her form (in more ways than one), but she handled herself well enough on the heavier board, despite a somewhat wobbly and slow start. She seemed resolved to proving herself on the stronger swells, though whether it was for herself or for him – or some other reason entirely – he didn’t know.

But shortly after midday, the winds from the west started to roll in, forming taller cresting waves and rougher surf, and he paddled up beside her with some concern.

“Looks like a blow-out brewing,” he told her as he sat up on his board. “We’d better head in.”

“Just a little while longer,” Amber pleaded. Still prone on the board (she had yet to get the hang of sitting up in rolling surf), she tossed a look over her shoulder. She indicated with a nod of her head Neville and the others, who were still in the lineup and paddling to catch the coming waves.

“No one else is giving up,” she said, and then she pulled a face at him. “I don’t want to be the only one going back to the beach. Please, Ross…!”

But he shook his head. “No,” he said, though at her imploring look he softened a bit, and changed tactic. “Listen, my arms are noodles,” he told her (even if it wasn’t true, it was easier than trying to argue with her; he’d learned at least that much about her already). “Let’s just head in,” he said, the timbre of his voice cajoling. “We can get something to eat, yeah?”

She glowered at him, her arms dangling motionless in the water.

“Come on,” Ross said now, in a tone that he made sure she would not mistake for a simple request; he even grabbed one rail of her board and gave it a push in the direction of the shoreline. “I’m not leaving you out here with this lot. Let’s go.” And he went to his belly, too, dropping his hands into the water to start paddling. He glanced over his shoulder at her, and, after a begrudging moment, she followed, though she looked none too pleased to be doing so.

“It’s not fair!” Amber complained as she dragged herself out of the water after him, struggling to keep up with his stride while holding the heavier and unfamiliar longboard.

“What’s not fair?” he said as he ran one hand over his wet hair.

“You treat me differently just because I’m a girl!” she said, and he heard a muffled stomp and thunk, which made him turn around. She had planted both board and feet in the sand, and was now glaring huffily at him.

Swallowing a grumble, he stalked back to her, leaning over her to enunciate with a snarl, “You are not strong enough for those waves.”

“Yes, I am!” she argued, nearly in a shout.

He did shout back at her: “No, you’re not!” He pointed out toward the water, punctuating his words with a jab in the air. “Amber, those swells are dangerous for you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt!”

In the wake of this outburst, her expression of vexation turned to chagrin, and the tight purse of her lips became a soft frown, and that made him relent a bit.

He let the fins of his own board drift toward the ground as his grip went a bit slack, and he bowed his head to her. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he muttered after a moment.

She looked up at him through the strands of wet fringe blown across her forehead, the corners of her mouth still turned down. “You wouldn’t tell Neville or any of the others that they had to come in.”

“No,” he agreed with a shake of his head. “Likely not.” Then he gave her a small smile, one he couldn’t help but let go at her pitiful little pout. “But none of them are you.”

She made a frustrated noise, something between a sigh and a snort. “I just want you to trust me-”

“I do trust you,” he assured her. Then he turned serious again, stepping close enough to tuck one hand beneath her chin and lift her face, until she met his gaze. “But you have to understand that the water can be dangerous. And you can get hurt if you’re not careful out there.” And then he stroked his thumb along the slope of her jaw, tenderly, and whispered, “And I don’t want that to happen.”

She blinked up at him in the silence for a long minute, and then her frown relaxed, and she offered him a weak smile. “Are you always going to treat me like a girl?” she asked lowly.

“Absolutely,” he drawled with a toothy leer. Then he chuckled at her as he leaned close. “That is what I like best about you.” And when she gave muffled little laugh in reply, he wound his arm around her shoulders and hugged her in to his chest, briefly but firmly, as he laughed back at her.

“Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s get out of these sand traps and get some food.”

Amber giggled and stepped up from him, then hoisted her board from the sand to comply, lifting it over her head to carry. Her face was shaded by the width of the board, but he could still see the white shine of her smile, and that pleased him.

By the time they made it back to the shop, she seemed in high spirits once more, so he just nodded toward her stash of things behind the counter, moving there himself to tuck away his longboard in the rear room, with its stairs that led to the eaves loft above.

“You want to grab your things,” he said with some distraction, “and we can find something to eat?” He took a moment to settle his Redline into his quiver, but when he turned around to get her answer, he found that she had followed him into the back, still carrying his Mollusc.

She pushed the bright yellow board into his hands, then looked at him with an oddly tense curl of her lips.

“…What is it?” he murmured, glancing her up and down.

She pulled a long breath, mirroring the route of his gaze with her own eyes. Then her smile turned beguiling, and she whispered, “I thought you were going to help me get out of this suit?”

Ross felt his grip on the board go a little slack as he blinked at her, but then she pushed it against his torso as she leaned up to him, rising on her toes to press her mouth to his. She hooked her hands behind his head and held him close for a moment that could have been five seconds or fifty; he was suddenly too lost in her kiss to know, or care.

Somehow, he managed to shove the fibreglass board out from between them, to instead take her in his arms, clutching at her back and hip with his hands as his mouth did the same to hers. Then he pushed back against her, stumbling with her toward the narrow desk along the wall where they kept acquisitions and payment files, which he spilled to the floor, in favour of her.