Megan Hart

Check it out! My friend Victoria Allen has a new release. Buy it here:

When the turn of a card seals your fate, you need to stack the deck.

Jessica Windemere loses her freedom when her father bets her in a poker game. But she isn’t willing to accept her fate without a fight. To have her revenge, she first must survive an unknown world while contracted as some stranger’s wife. She wants nothing more to do with men until a huge, dark god rides into her camp. Can she risk losing her new love on the turn of a card?

Kiernan Randall is on his way home from a trading mission. The group of abandoned women he finds were definitely not expected, especially their feisty, red-haired leader. She is contracted to his enemy, but gives herself to him and firmly entwines his heart. Can he trust her enough to let her wager their future together on her skill with cards?

I never wanted to live here. Never. When I grew up, I thought I’d move far, far, far and farther away than that.
M

While looking for something else in an old folder I found  a poem I wrote in high school, and I would like to share it with you today.

* * * * * * *

Dawn breaks over the hills

like a sword slicing through veal

A slice slips down, sliding down

veal cutlet

Is the sun.

We eat it.

The moon is a cheese biscuit.

Hello, and welcome to The Meaning Of…the very first blog post. I’ve asked a few writers and musicians to answer the question of “what’s it mean” about either a favorite scene or song, and I figured I’d better go first, since, well…it’s my blog!

See…writers, whether it’s a novel or a song or a poem…well, I’m going to guess that most of us use things in our work that have meaning. I don’t necessarily mean symbolism — you’ll never quite convince me that the color of the wallpaper in someone’s short story is a symbol of the character’s emotional issues with his father — but I do believe the author might’ve chosen a certain color of wallpaper because it’s what he had in his childhood bedroom (hey, and therefore, might actually represent his OWN issues with his father…)

Bottom line, writing is an intensely personal business, and it would be silly to think that the choices we make in colors, names, situations, etc. don’t have some meaning to us, the authors. I know I add personal bits and pieces, trivia, really, to my work as I write it. Pretty much whatever I’m eating, watching, reading or listening to is likely to end up in whatever book I’m working on.

So, here it is: The Meaning of Dirty…

Dirty — The title. I had an idea that I wanted to write a book about a woman who meets a man who just takes her on this sort of wild, sexual journey and they do all this stuff, and it was all really DIRTY, and I wanted to write a book called DIRTY that pretty much summed it all up. Of course, as I started writing it, I realized that’s not what was going to happen, and it wasn’t really going to be that book…and that it wasn’t about being “dirty” at all.

This is what happened. – The first line. Also happens to be the first line of Stephen King’s The Mist, and I remember reading once why he chose to start HIS book that way, that it was the same or similar to someone else’s first line. I tried a lot of other opening lines — including This is how it started. But none of them worked and I ended up with that. I’m not sure why — by the time the book was finished I’d gone through several versions, and made no connection to The Mist until later, reading something else, realized, there it was.

I met him at the candy store. He turned around and smiled at me. Yeah, just like the song. Not intentional. I was surprised enough to smile back.

This was not a children’s candy store. This was Sweet Heaven, an upscale, gourmet candy store. No cheap lollipops or chalky chocolate kisses. The kind of place you went to buy expensive imported truffles for your boss’s wife because you felt guilty for fucking him when you were both at a conference in Milwaukee. If you pay attention, this becomes an important detail later in the book.

He was buying jellybeans, black only. He looked at the bag in my hand, candy-coated chocolate. Also in one color. I’m fascinated by the fact you can buy M &Ms in only one color, or jelly beans in only one flavor, and they cost three times as much as if you buy them pre-mixed.

“You know what they say about the green ones.”  The rakish tilt of his lips tried to charm me, and I resisted.

“St. Patrick’s Day?” Which was why I was buying them.

He shook his head. “No. The green ones make you horny.”

I’d been hit on plenty of times, mostly by men with little finesse who thought what was between their legs made up for what they lacked between their ears. Sometimes I went home with one of them anyway, just because it felt good to want and be wanted, even if it was mostly fake, and they usually disappointed.

“That’s an urban legend made up by adolescent boys with wish fulfillment issues.”
His lips tilted further. His smile was his best asset, brilliant and shining in a face made up of otherwise regular features. He had hair the color of wet sand and cloudy blue-green eyes, both attractive but when paired with the smile…breathtaking. Dan, in my head, looks like Ewan McGregor. There. I’ll just say it.

“Very good answer,” he said.

He held out his hand. When I took it, he pulled me closer, step by hesitant step, until he could lean close and whisper in my ear. His hot breath gusted along my skin, and I shivered. “Do you like licorice?”

I did, and I do, and he tugged me around the corner to reach inside a bin filled with small black rectangles. It had a label with a picture of a kangaroo on the front.

“Try this.” He lifted a piece to my lips and I opened for him although the sign clearly said ‘no samples.’ “It’s from Australia.” It’s Kookaburra licorice, which is the BEST FREAKING LICORICE EVER MADE. I’ve bought it online in 5 lb boxes and had it shipped at an exorbitant, outrageous cost to me, that’s how good that licorice is. Also, black licorice is *my* favorite.

The licorice smoothed on my tongue. Soft, fragrant, sticky in a way that made me run my tongue along my teeth. I tasted his fingers from where they’d brushed my lips. He smiled.

“I know a little place,” he said, and I let him take me there.

* * *

The Slaughtered Lamb. It’s also the name of the pub in An American Werewolf in London. Awwww, yeah. Love that movie. There is a place in NYC called The Slaughtered Lamb, too. A gruesome name for a nice little faux-British pub tucked down an alley in the center of downtown Harrisburg. Lots of my books are set in Harrisburg because it’s familiar to me, though I do not live there any more, and it’s a big enough city to have “stuff” but also rural enough to have other “stuff” and frankly, how many books are set in Central PA? Not many, at least that I’ve found. Compared to the trendy dance clubs and upscale restaurants that had revitalized the area, the Lamb seemed out of place and all the more delightful for it. I once read a review of Dirty, back in the day when I  read reviews, that said I didn’t know what I was talking about, as Harrisburg was made of strip malls and had no “urban crime” or some such nonsense. Yeah, well, golly, since I’ve actually BEEN to the pubs and dance clubs in downtown Harrisburg, and I can tell you there actually ARE neighborhoods that are not “good” neighborhoods, I think I know what I’m talking about. So there, reviewer who maybe drove past Harrisburg once in 1987.

He sat us at the bar, away from the college students singing karaoke in the corner. The stools wobbled, and I had to hold tight to the bar. I ordered a margarita. Personally? I drink margaritas, if I drink, which is not often.

“No.” The shake of his head had me raising a brow. “You want whiskey.”

“I’ve never had whiskey.”

“A virgin.” On another man the comment would have come off smarmy, earned a roll of the eyes and an automatic addition to the “not with James Dean’s  Ohhhh, James Dean. Mmmmmm, James Dean! prick” file.

On him, it worked.

“A virgin,” I agreed, the word tasting unfamiliar on my tongue as though I hadn’t used it in a very long time.

He ordered us both shots of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey,When I was in Ireland, I toured the Jameson factory, which is the first place I ever really heard of it; therefore, it’s what my characters drink and also what I drink (when I drink, which is rarely, and if I’m not having a margarita.) and he drank his back as one should do with shots, in one gulp. I am no stranger to drinking,This, however, is NOT me, as Elle is quite the boozer and I’m not even if I’d never had whiskey, and I matched him without a grimace. There’s a reason it’s also known as firewater, but after the initial burn the taste of it spread across my tongue and reminded me of the smell of burning leaves. Cozy. Warm. A little romantic, even.

So, there you have it. The “meaning of” The first couple pages of Dirty. Interestingly (to me, anyway) while I was looking this stuff up, I found 15 pages of a short story called “One Two Step” that was a sort of precursor to Dirty, featuring the scene in the dance club when Dan asks Elle to dance for the first time, only they had different names (Reese and Elise) and it wasn’t told in first person. You can see it here.

–M

It’s over.

Nip/Tuck is over. FOREVERRRRRRR! *weeps*

Ok, so they summed it all up in the way I wanted — sure, we *think* they’re all sort of on the right path, even though we know what they’ll all continue to mess up their lives because not a one of them is mentally healthy, but at least there’s the APPEARANCE of them making it all work. And the last scene? Brazilliant!

Moving on…

I was thinking about what I write. I get emails from people pretty frequently about “Is X a [certain kind of book]” and…you know what? If you think so, then it is. Are my books romances? Some of them are. I could point you to some that definitely are — No Greater Pleasure is a romance. Tempted? Absolutely not. What about Dirty? Hmmm. I used to say no, it’s romantic, but not a romance, but really…maybe it is.

But here’s the thing: I don’t write “romances.” I don’t write “erotica.” Well, lemme back up. I DO sometimes write romances, and I DO sometimes write erotica, but most often I write a sorta kinda mishmash of whatever it is that I’m doing or feeling about the story, and sometimes that means the books come out more romantic and sometimes they’re more erotic and sometimes they’re sexy and sometimes they’re sensual, but here is the thang…

THEY ARE ALL ABOUT AN ENTIRE STORY.

Of course they are, what does that mean?

Well, it means that there’s more going on, most of the time, than the relationship between the hero/heroine. There just IS. That’s the way I write, that’s the way I like it, and I understand, I really, really do, if that’s boring to some folks, or that it takes away from the sexy times, or if hey, you just don’t CARE about the heroine’s life outside of what she feels about the hero. I totally get that. And if you like to read books that focus solely on the one man/one woman thing, then perhaps my books are going to leave you with a little something missing (or maybe too full, like there’s too much going on that you don’t care about.)

There’s nothing wrong with loving books that are only about people falling in love and getting it on. If that’s what you love, then go on witcha bad self and read them! The world is full of things to love and when you find it, please, please, PLEASE! consume it! Read it, watch it, listen to it! And if you don’t love it…don’t waste your time or money on reading, listening to or watching it. Life is too short for that!

But I don’t write books that are only about one thing. My books for Spice tend to be heroine-centric. They’re her story. Not “their” story. And my heroines have lives aside from their relationship with the hero. They have parents, they have siblings, co-workers, they have issues that having nothing to do with the man or men in their lives.

I find this totally realistic, because *I* have more in my life than the man I married. I had more in my life than just him when I met him. I had a past, I had friends, I had stuff going on that had nothing to do with him. Meeting him, falling in love with him and marrying him did not complete me. I was already a whole person when we met. Falling in love with him was an exciting chapter of my life — but it’s not the whole thing. We’ll have been married for 15 years this summer, and I wouldn’t trade those years or what’s happened during them for anything, but falling in love with him was not the beginning or the end of my story. Because it’s LIFE.

A book is different. A book needs a beginning, a middle and an end. The characters are not REAL, but I try to make them realistic. They had stuff going on before that first sentence, and if I write them well enough, you’ll believe they have stuff going on after the final period on that last page. Whatever happens on the pages in between is the BOOK, and it’s their story, but it shouldn’t be the only important thing about those people. I don’t really want to write about that, characters that have only one story to tell. I might only tell one of them, but I like to think they all have many.

So, if you’ve stumbled across one of my books and you’re thinking, WTF, I wanted a romance, this wackadoo has these people actually talking to their parents and stuff instead of spending the whole time knocking boots with their true love…there’s an explanation.

I can’t tell you if Book X is a [certain kind of story.] I might think so, and you don’t, or the other way around. I can’t tell you that I write romance, or that I don’t because again, you might feel differently. I write what I write. I hope people who like it, read a lot of my books. I hope people who don’t like it, don’t read it.

M

I love this song. I love it. LOVE LOVE LOVE it!!!!

If you love it too, please support Christopher by purchasing  his music.

Check him out here:

And on

I didn’t know you when you started.

Oh, I saw the articles in Entertainment Weekly, heard the buzz. But you came on in a time when I didn’t watch television, had no Tivo to help me. I didn’t care much about you, in the beginning.

And then…Netflix came into my life. That saucy whore. Teasing me, tempting me with unlimited rentals of programs I’d heard about but had never watched.

Like you.

So…yeah, I rented you at first. Just one disc. I said, “hey, if I don’t like you, I don’t ask you out again.” I didn’t know when I slipped you into the DVD player, slowly, carefully, that you’d turn out to be so. Damn. Beautiful. That first season murdered me. Tore me up, slit me open and sewed me up again. I screamed, I cried, I writhed.

I fell. Hard. Fast and deep. All the way.

Dr. Troy? Yes, please. Over and over again, and then one more time? Break my heart, please, because it yearns to be broken by the likes of you.

That first season was some of the most balls-to-the-wall, over-the-top, outrageous, horrifying, tantalizing, scintillating and sometimes disgusting television I’d ever seen. Oh, sure, you were too much to believe. Sure, you took everything that was good in anyone and turned it bad. I knew I could count on your characters to always make the wrong choices, no matter what.

You have no redeemeable qualities, Nip/Tuck. You know that? You know you’re filthy and unrepentant, don’t you? Just like you know you have me begging for more every single time you’re on.

Season two was next, and I ate that season. Oh, I didn’t rent any more. I had to OWN YOU. Yes, Nip/Tuck, you’re my filthy, nasty habit. I could watch you over again…and here’s a secret…oh, yes. Yes, I did. Snuck peeks at you during the day when I was supposed to be writing. “Research,” I called it. But we both know I lied. That’s what you do to me, Nip/Tuck, you turn me into your dirty, lying whore, and I LOVE IT.

Got caught up just in time for Season Three on broadcast, and with the help of some strange gadget called a DVD recorder (NOT A DVR, no, baby, this thing actually used RECORDABLE DISCS) I was able to keep up with you every week. Oh, sure, the dvds never recorded right and the timer was always off. Sure, I had to scream myself hoarse with frustration when I missed you. Thank God FX played you so many times I could always catch up.

This is it, Nip/Tuck. I wasn’t with you from the start, but I’ve been with you a damn long time. I’ve cried. I’ve laughed. I’ve cringed. I’ve stayed with you through every single unbelievable, repulsive story twist and plot line. I kept up with you even when Sean and Christian moved to L.A. because…how fucking ridic was that? But I was there with you. Loving you. Yearning for you. Aching to be filled with your weekly dose of OMG WTF.

And now…

Now, we say goodbye.

There’s only one episode left. And I can’t watch it. I can’t. I cannot bear to watch you end.

Christian, Sean, Liz, Julia, Matt, Connor, Annie, Kimber…none of you could ever get your heads out of your asses, and with one more episode to go, I don’t see as how you possibly CAN. But I guess that’s okay, because it would be unfair to expect any of you to get it straight after so long.

And after all, isn’t it what I so loved about you? Your constant flaws? Your never-changing lack of common sense?

Oh, Nip/Tuck, my dear Nip/Tuck…my beloved Nip/Tuck. I weep in advance at the thought of losing you. You were the one show I cheated on Supernatural with. The one I have to watch. Must see. Can’t be without.

I’m going to miss you.

<3,

M

I haven’t been here in a long, long time. Barnes and Noble, that is. Sunday mornings are sometimes spent at home, doing laundry and working on stuff while Superman takes the spawn to religious school. Or they’re spent buying groceries and running errands while the spawn are in religious school. Or, sometimes, but not lately, they’re spent at the Barnes and Noble writing.

I worked on some articles today (I write for Helium.com on a variety of subjects, nothing fancy.) Wrote a new “How-To” Guide for Helium (on how to apologize to your girlfriend, of all things!) and I checked out the shelves for my books.

Didn’t see any.

Saw books by Lauren Dane, Cynthia Eden and Beth Kery — oh, and I did see Naughty Bits 2 so I guess  I am on the shelves here after all. Checked out the final two books in Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series. Looked at all the teen books. There’s really a plethora of paranormal teen fiction out there right now, just the kind of thing I loved as a teen and still do. Also lots of books about angst and woe. Guess what, I like that, too.

Tomorrow I’ll get back to working on By Its Thorns, and I have confidence I’ll get back into the groove. I feel…overflowing…with ideas lately. I write them down. Sometimes I even plot them out a bit. I keep a notebook of idea snippets, though lately I’ve taken to writing a plot synopsis on the computer instead of doing it long-hand, and I made a folder on my hard drive to save all these “proposals.” My problem is not lack of ideas, but too many.

It’s a good place to be. Full of ideas. Full of the feeling I could actually write most of them, that the ones I really like, the ones that have been hanging around, in some cases, for years, are good ideas. Viable. They’ll be good books, if I have the chance to write them, which really depends on a lot of things, since some of them aren’t in genres for which I have current contracts and would therefore require I get new! exciting! contracts!

I’m all for that.

I don’t want to write the same kinds of books forever. Rather, I do — I want to keep writing what I love and what I think I’m maybe a little good at, or at least decently skilled. But that doesn’t mean I want to write ONLY those books. I have a lot of books in me and the drive to write them.

One of the problems in becoming complacent, in writing the same sort of books over and over, is that I could forget how to write something else. Like, how exciting it is to follow a different path, not the same formula (and listen, there’s always a formula, or else how would you be able to do the same thing over and over?) — to remind myself that I don’t have to keep to the restraints of certain genres, or I don’t have to limit myself to one certain kind of plot point; that some things in some books are necessarily more important than in other kinds, and what will simply not work in an erotic romance is totally fine in horror novel.

Yeah.

I like that.

I want to keep doing this for a long time, and I don’t want to run out of enthusiasm. I don’t think I’ll run out of ideas. I guess you never know. But for now, I have notebooks and documents full of some crazy, crazy ass shit, ya’ll.

Write on!

M

So, I started the book with the tentative title By Its Thorns (apt to change) last week and got a whopping…41 pages. Yeah, I know, not quite the amount I’d hoped. HOWEVER — I lost my notes from the other three books, so that was sort of annoying. I know I have them, I just can’t find them! Then, the character’s name changed. The heroine still has a name I don’t really like, so I have to think of one I do. And then it just took some time to switch the gears and move from one book to another, one genre to another.

By Its Thorns is the fourth Order of Solace novel so the world is established and yet there’s so much possibility for more stuff! (Of course, if I could find my notes, it would help. A lot.) On the other hand, the style of it — the language, the way the characters interact, is very different from the contemporary erotic fiction book (Collide) I just finished the rough draft of. Things take longer in the Order of Solace world. People talk a lot more, using more words to say less.

It takes a little time to get back into that. Plus, while Pleasure and Purpose was pretty hot, sex-wise, No Greater Pleasure was quite a bit less graphic. The third book, Selfish is the Heart, out this fall from Berkley  Sensation, is also less graphic. It was my plan that By Its Thorns would be a little more on the erotic scale rather than sensual, and so far, it seems as though it just might be. But four chapters into it, I realized something — the heroine’s been in love with the hero for YEARS! Which means I have to make some changes in the first chapter or so to reflect that. He, on the other hand, has no idea who she is at all.

Delicious.

It’s tricky, getting people into bed. Sure, they can just have sex for the sake of having sex (people in real life do it all the time) — but in a book, well, I kinda sorta like to have it mean something, if only to further the plot or make a point or something like that. It’s not real life, it’s a novel, every word counts. So while they can get into bed on page one, for me, it still has to make sense and mean something.

Of course this week I have TWO days with obligations, but I hope I can get into the writing groove again and pound out the pages on this book! Hooray! Hooray!

M

My futuristic erotic romance, PASSION MODEL, will be re-released from Samhain in May (or possibly April!) 2010, so be on the lookout!