…and I’m going to give some away!  Maybe a bunch!  Maybe a bunch to one person!

To make it easier, I’ve set up a form where you can enter. I’m disabling comments on this post, just so it’s not confusing.

SO CLICK HERE TO ENTER!

Hey, this seems like a good excuse to repost all of the covers, hmmm?

in print…

…and digital…

Wheeeeeeee!

]]> http://moirarogers.com/blog/archives/2830/feed 6 http://moirarogers.com/blog/archives/2824 http://moirarogers.com/blog/archives/2824#comments Sun, 29 Aug 2010 13:01:16 +0000 Bree http://moirarogers.com/blog/?p=2824 I’ve been posting on my geeky blog this morning, sharing a little bit about the range between our lowest earning books and our highest earning ones.

Judging by the keyword searches and which pages are most popular, a lot of people hit this blog every week looking for info on epublishing.  I split the blogs off to keep a little distance between my goofy author self and my serious business thinking.  But since a lot of you might be hanging around here still looking for info on topics, I thought I’d ask here:

Is there anything in particular y’all would like to see me (or Donna, or both!) talk about when it comes to the business side of epublishing?  I know the things I’m endlessly interested in, but I’d like to talk about other things sometimes, too!

So lay it on me. Or if you have a non-public-consumption sort of question, you can e-mail me at bree@moirarogers.com  (You can always do that anyway, though… I am always happy to answer any and all epublishing related questions.)

Huzzuh! Look what is on sale now in the UK!  The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2 has a ton of awesome authors in it.  I got to read Ava Gray’s story early (a wickedly beautiful tale of fallen angels) and I found out yesterday that Nathalie Gray also has a story in it!  You may know her better as Kanaxa, the creator of almost every random cover I post on our blog when I peruse the Samhain coming soon pages, because her cover art has magical mind control abilities that makes me click on stories.  (True fact. Scientific study forthcoming.)

The book is only out in the UK for now, and I believe will be available on my side of the pond in October.  Our contribution is Zola’s Pride, a short story set between Crossroads and Deadlock, featuring the badass lady lion who’s carved out a piece of New Orleans for her own and isn’t ready to share it with a man from her past. (Duhm duhm DUUUUHM!)

So here’s a little taste, the first little bit of Zola’s Pride!

Excerpt from Zola’s Pride
Southern Arcana #2.5

He was going to get the cops called on him if he wasn’t careful.

Walker Gravois dropped his second cigarette, crushed it under his boot and turned his attention back to the wide window across the way. Fluorescent light streamed through the glass, doing more to illuminate the narrow street than the lamp over his head. Inside the dojo, a woman with chocolate skin blocked a punch, then paused to correct her assailant’s form.

She didn’t have to be facing him for Walker to recognize her. Zola. Every line of her body tugged at memories he thought he’d banished years ago, and he couldn’t help but compare the woman before him with the one he remembered.

She’d been thinner then, just as strong but not as curvy. The wicked flare of her hips drew his gaze, and he licked his lower lip to ease the tingle of curiosity.

Walker checked his watch with a quiet curse—half past ten. He’d been standing there for close to an hour. In this part of the Quarter, it wouldn’t take long for someone to phone the police about the pervert loitering outside the dojo, watching the students kick and lunge in their tiny T-shirts and Lycra sports bras. Unfortunately, the neat letters etched into the glass window that listed closing time as nine o’clock seemed like more of a guideline than a rule.

And he desperately needed to talk to her.

He’d just begun to entertain the notion of simply walking in when Zola stepped to the front of the room and turned to address her gathered students. Clearly, she was preparing to dismiss them, so he shoved his unlit third cigarette back into the pack and crossed the street.

Man up, Gravois, he told himself. She’ll either hear what you have to say…or she’ll kick your ass clear across the river. The hell of it was that he had no idea which she’d choose. Normally, he wouldn’t worry—he could handle whatever fury Zola unleashed on him—but he had more to think about now than himself.

So he’d let her scream at him, get out whatever lingering old hurts plagued her, and then he’d make sure she heard him.

He could do this.

He had to.

#

The evening class had run long again.

Zola never minded. Friday night was reserved for her private class, the class made up of girls and women who walked among the supernatural denizens of New Orleans as daughters, sisters and wives. Some had powers of their own, like Sheila, a gangly, sweet-faced wolf on the cusp of womanhood, all arms and legs and uncertain strength. Some were psychics and some were spell casters, witches and priestesses who twisted magic and read minds.

Some were human, and they were the most vulnerable of all.

The soft murmur of feminine voices drifted through the dojo as the last few students lingered in the warmth of the building, catching up on the latest gossip or making plans to meet later in the week. February had brought an unseasonable cold snap, the kind of chill that settled in Zola’s bones and made her long for the unforgiving deserts of her childhood.

The floor creaked behind her, and Zola looked up from rearranging a stack of punching targets to catch sight of Sheila’s reflection. The teenager had a jacket zipped up to her chin and a knit hat pulled low over wild corkscrew curls, leaving just her pale face uncovered. “Zola?”

She looked worried, and Zola tensed. “Yes, Sheila? There is a problem?” Even after all these years, English didn’t come naturally. The words tumbled out in an order that always made others laugh, but she’d spoken too many languages in too many countries to worry now.

Sheila was so accustomed to Zola’s linguistic oddities that she didn’t blink. She did, however, speak in her own nearly indecipherable dialect. “There’s a guy lurking outside. I mean, he’s hot and all, but the lurking is pretty creeptastic and a little pervy.”

Zola didn’t need to understand the words to decipher their meaning. She turned and squinted through the broad windows, her vision hampered by the darkness outside and the glare of the dojo’s lights. Even a shapeshifter’s enhanced senses had their limits.

“Stay,” she murmured, already crossing the room. The hardwood floor was cool beneath her bare feet, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the bite of freezing air against her uncovered arms as she pushed open the door.

The scent of the French Quarter hit her in a rush, a hundred smells that would take hours to untangle. Strongest was the coffee from the shop next door, rich and bitter, undercut with the sweetness of freshly baked cookies.

Then the wind shifted, and she smelled him.

Shock held her frozen in place, a statue of ice that might shatter at any moment. Cigarettes. Leather. Lion. Male. His musky cologne should have changed in ten years. The way it heated the blood in her frozen heart should have changed.

Zola turned to face the women who had fallen silent and watched her now, wary and uncertain. She opened her mouth to reassure them and French came to her tongue, so easily she almost bit the tip to keep the words from rolling out.

He’d whispered his words of love in French, under a full moon and ten thousand stars.

She fought for English and it came out choppy and abrupt. “Time for leaving. To leave. Time to leave. Next week, I will be seeing you all?”

They flashed her confused looks but left, filing out into the dark night. Zola watched little Sheila until she met her older brother, who lifted a hand in silent greeting. Zola acknowledged him with a nod, then turned abruptly and strode back inside.

Her visitor would follow.

Follow he did, but not so quickly or so brashly as he would have in her youth. Zola had time to slip her feet into her soft house shoes and don a sweatshirt over her tight tank before Walker Gravois walked back into her life.

His scent hadn’t changed, but he had. Hazy memory had declared him beautiful, with full lips and cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a youthful warrior painted with all the colors of a clear day on the savanna, golden skin and eyes like the sky. But time had left its mark, put sorrow in his eyes and lines on his face.

Jeans and a leather jacket couldn’t hide the strength of him, and instinct twisted inside her, turned a visit from an old acquaintance into something darker. Lion shapeshifters were rare in the States, so rare that she’d carved out her own territory that spanned most of Louisiana. Walker Gravois was an interloper—and maybe lethal enough to drive her from her home.

Sometimes history did repeat itself.

He didn’t greet her, just dropped his bag and leaned against the small counter near the door where she took care of the trappings of business. “You look good, Zola.”

English. She’d rarely heard English from him, though it was his native tongue. Responding in kind would reveal her difficulty with the language, a weakness she felt too unsteady to reveal. So she replied in French, short and to the point. “Why are you here?”

He followed her lead. “I came to see you. I have some news.”

She’d been so recklessly distracted by his presence that she hadn’t considered what it must mean. Walker had been the youngest of her mother’s bodyguards, sworn to her inner-circle with more than the bonds of loyalty holding him. If he was here, alone… “She is dead.”

Walker shoved his hands into his pockets. “She was killed last week. I’m very sorry.”

Maybe she truly was a woman of ice, with a heart long since frozen beyond melting, for the words stirred nothing but gentle regret and guilty relief. Perhaps surprise that it had taken so long—the madness that claimed most Seers had started its work on Tatienne’s mind a decade earlier, when she’d looked on her only daughter and had seen nothing but a rival.

Walker’s face mirrored her guilt, but there was nothing relieved about it. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

Of course not. Seers were the most powerful creatures to walk the earth—when had the death of one ever come without pain and trouble for those left in the rubble of their broken lives? “Tell me.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

She could take him next door, to the coffee shop, but she imagined nothing he had to say could be said in the presence of humans. Bringing him to her home was too trusting, too intimate—but denying him felt like cowardice.

Pride had always been her folly. “Come upstairs. I’ll make you some coffee.”

#

Walker had thought that nothing about Zola’s present life could shock him. She’d always been a free spirit, and he’d had to acknowledge at the outset of his search that he had no idea where or how he’d find her, which was predictable in its own way. But the one thing he hadn’t seen coming was that she might have run back to New Orleans. “I didn’t expect you to be in Louisiana.”

No one who didn’t know her would have noticed the tiny flinch, the way her shoulders tensed up and squared, a telling defensive gesture. “New Orleans is a good place for a cat. The wolves ignore me.”

“I know.” He’d grown up in the bayou, south of the city. “I guess all the stories about my old stomping ground made it sound irresistible.”

The coffee cup she’d pulled from the cupboard smashed into the counter hard enough to fracture, and she hissed her frustration. “I didn’t come here because of you,” she said stiffly as she shoved the cup aside and reached for another. “And why I am here is irrelevant. Why are you here?”

Easy enough to answer, and it still might get him kicked out of her apartment. “I need your help.”

Zola didn’t seem surprised. “Yes, Seers rarely die quiet deaths. I suppose she left a mess behind?”

That was one way to put it. “Tatienne ran into some trouble with a mercenary group in Portugal. It was bad.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough for them to follow us.” Bad enough for them to kill most of the pride.

She turned slowly, eyes narrowed, face tight. “Why me? Why throw yourself on my mercy when not one of you had a sliver of compassion in your hearts when she drove me out? I am not a martyr, not for any man. Not even for you.”

Yes, she would assume no one had cared, because the truth was an unthinkable horror, one he would never reveal to her if he could help it. “I cared, Zola. You have to know I did.”

“Maybe.” She turned again, gave him her back—this time in a clear show of disrespect. “Maybe not enough.”

There was nothing to say, no soothing words to offer. “The pride is mine—what’s left of it, anyway—and all I want to do is keep them alive. Keep them safe.”

“You want to move them here?” Disbelief painted the words. She spun to face him, and her fingers twitched toward her palm, a warning sign that her temper burned hot. Ten years ago she would have followed through, formed a fist and struck him. Her passions had always ridden close to the surface, but maturity had clearly tempered them with restraint.

“New Orleans is the safest place,” he told her calmly. “Surely a half-dozen lions who only want to keep to themselves won’t get in your way.”

“Oh, are we civilized now? Are we human?” She abandoned the coffee she’d poured for him and stalked across the hardwood floor to slam a hand to the table next to him. Then she leaned into his space, filling the air with the angry sizzle of a shapeshifter challenge. “I will not be forced from my home again.”

Keeping a leash on his own reaction cost him dearly. There were few ways to react to such a challenge, and they all ended in violence or sex—neither of which was an option, not if they both wanted to keep their heads on straight. “I’m the only one left, Zola. The only one who stood by while Tatienne drove you out. And I’ll—I’ll leave as soon as the rest of the pride is settled.”

She recoiled, leaving only the lingering scent of her skin. “You’re asking me to lead.”

A frisson of irritation made him grit his teeth. “Those are your options, Zola. Lead or follow. You can’t stay alone in your territory forever.”

“I don’t—” She bit off the words and paced away from him, leashed energy vibrating with every step. “You haven’t told me enough. Why do you need to come here? Why are there only a half-dozen of you left? My mother had more followers than all of the lions in this country combined.”

The truth was uncomfortable because, willing or not, he’d been a party to it. “She did, and now they’re all dead.”

She reached the far wall and pivoted, meeting his gaze across the space that separated them. “Are you still being hunted?”

“Yes.” Walker waved to the other end of the sofa. “Sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”

Freeze Line might well be the most hopeless one we’ve written yet, since we’ve got the earth itself trying to keep the hero and heroine apart.  In our post-apocalyptic ice age, both characters depend on the earth.

Shane is a werewolf who lives in the frozen north, where magic sleeps and with it all of the madness that comes from being a monster.  Venturing too far south will put him in danger of losing his humanity.  Nadia is a witch who needs magic to survive.  Going too far north weakens her so quickly that a few months could kill her–if the humans don’t get her first.

These two wacky kids don’t have it easy, but I have loved writing their story.  So here is an (UNEDITED) snippet for the curious.  Freeze Line comes out in December from Carina Press, alongside several other holiday & winter themed stories from absolutely awesome authors.   (We, however, are heavy on the winter, lighter on the holiday.)

#

The springs south of Twin Falls had always been there, or so the old-timers in Hamilton had told Shane.

At one point, when such places were uncommon on other parts of the States, those springs had drawn tourists to southern Idaho. Back then, there had been several hundred springs in the state. Less than half had bubbled up at low enough temperatures not to boil a person’s flesh clean off.

Now, there were three times as many hot springs, and it was the rare one that could scald, much less kill. But the areas around the springs felt different. Not warmer, not exactly–a quick glance at a thermometer would disprove that–but stronger.

Different.

Shane threw his cooling coffee on the ground. It hissed and soaked down, staining the snow. “You want more before I kill the fire?”

“Mmm.” Not quite an answer, but Nadia seemed barely able to focus on him this morning. She sat on the tailgate of the truck with her eyes closed and her head tilted back.

Her skin was flushed, even in the cold, and there had been times during the night when her body had trembled against his. Whatever magic dwelled here in the hot earth, Nadia could feel it.

So could he.

She wet her lips, and her eyes drifted open, heavy-lidded, endless pupils enclosed by a narrow brown ring. Her shallow, too-quick breaths and the unsteady thump of her heart erased any innocence in her sleepy, curious gaze.

His own fever washed over him in a wave of heat, and he knew he has to lock it down. Now. “Nadia.”

The tip of her tongue dragged over her full lower lip again. Her gaze fixed on his throat. “I think I’m ready to leave.”

She’d have to be, whether she liked it or not. “We’ve got a lot of miles to cover.”

Nadia closed her eyes and slipped from the tailgate with a grace he hadn’t seen in her before. “I’m feeling much better…but not very like myself.”

“Everything’s waking up.”

“Yes, it is.” She stretched, arching up on her toes with her head thrown back, early morning sun bright on her face in spite of the biting cold. “I know I should conserve my energy. I know I’ll need it to survive before we reach the border. But I’m so full…I want to do something.”

She was beautiful like this, free and primal, almost wild. “Like what?”

Laughter filled the space between them, warm and low, the sound its own caress. “I could show you fireworks.”

It sounded too much like an invitation, especially with the fever simmering in his blood. “Fireworks?”

Nadia brought her hands together in front of her. A whispered word, and the currents around them began to spin in a wide, lazy arc, as if she was drawing the earth into her. A brilliant light kindled above her palms, a flame that twisted into a perfect sphere refracting a hundred colors.

It hung, suspended above her mittens, and her sudden smile was brilliant. “Sometimes, at home, I throw these into the air for the children. They can be so beautiful when they explode.”

Shane found himself laughing, charmed as much by her smile as by the disarmingly frivolous display of power. “I thought you said you were a warrior.”

Her smile faded. “If I threw this into a person, they’d explode, too. And it wouldn’t be beautiful at all.”

A harsh reminder, one he shouldn’t have needed. Shane poured another cup of coffee and held it out. “We’ve got to get moving.”

She whispered another word and snapped her hands together. When they fell apart, there was no trace of magic. “Thank you,” she said quietly, reaching out to accept the cup. It looked awkward, cradled between hands encased in oversized mittens, but she just turned and started toward the front of the truck.

He’d upset her. He should have gone to her, tried to explain that it wasn’t her he was afraid of so much as himself.

Instead, he tossed the rest of the coffee, rinsed the pot, and stowed their supplies in the back of the truck. The fire had died to embers, and Shane piled snow on top. He watched as it melted and hissed, shoveling the remains around until nothing warm was left.

Of course, now that we’re at the point where we write almost everything on proposal, we have reached a point where we need to make sure we’re not committing to things we’re not going to be able to pull off.  Not just writing-wise, but writing when we’ll have new releases, galleys or edits to worry about.  That’s why we have… the spreadsheet.

Not always as updated as it should be.

The spreadsheet has upcoming projects, tentative release dates, word counts, due dates, sale dates, galleys, edits and more.  We can also estimate how much we’d have to write on X project every month to have it done by Y date, and in general we try not to estimate more than 15k per project and no more than 30k per month across all projects, to give us wiggle room.

As months go by and projects are finalized, I hide rows to keep it current.  It took me a while to come up with a format I really like, but this is my secret weapon in keeping stuff organized.

Since someone asked, I uploaded a template here: Deadline Spreadsheet Template. I doubt it will work for everyone, but I loooove the thing.  <3  And hey, if my deadlines are organized, I don’t have to explain why my desk is a mess, right?

Right?

Ahem.

Authors recommending their own books.

This is obnoxious for a lot of reasons.  It’s tacky, it’s intrusive, it’s pushy and it’s not really going to leave a good lasting impression.  Plus, you may think you’re clever, or you can find a way to do it that isn’t just the latest bit of unsolicited junk in our cyber-lives, but you can’t.  You’re not the first to discover that button.  You’re not the hundred-and-first.  It’s not cute, it’s not delightfully outside-the-box and it’s really not working.

It’s also not funny when you lay your spiel on me about how I couldn’t possibly understand how hard it is to be an indie writer and that you’re doing what you have to do.  No, you don’t.  I’m here to tell you, unequivocally, that you do not have to.  I’m making a comfortable living wage (even after Donna and I split our money) and I’m not spamming people at random.

The hard sell is always risky.  If you have the time and energy to keep working it, over and over again, maybe it pays off.  But here’s the thing–social networking makes it stupid.  If you call someone on the phone, or ring their doorbell, you are annoying them in a vacuum.

The internet is not a vacuum.  You are annoying members of a community, and members of a community do this funny thing–they talk to each other.  Maybe about you.  Probably about how annoyed they are that you invited them to the “event” of you making a blog post on facebook 7 times yesterday, or that you signed them up for your mailing list 3 weeks in a row, or that you won’t stop rec’ing your books on goodreads over and over and over again.

If that’s who you want to be–the annoying author who spends more time screaming BUY MY BOOK than writing another one–more power to you.  But it’s not necessary.  Anyone who tells you that it’s your job to spam people until they listen is giving you bad advice, and maybe you shouldn’t listen to them.  Listen to the readers, instead, who are constantly begging authors to stop spamming them.

I’m one of those begging readers.  Only begging didn’t work, so I finally set up a challenge question on goodreads.  It says, “Are you an author friending me just so you can recommend your book to me?“   The answer had better be no.  And if I get a few less friends, well, that’s okay too.  I’m interested in the social aspect of social networking, and I don’t need anyone who’s just looking for another set of ears to scream their message into.

Spamming is annoying. Don’t do it.

(Where's Keith Melton when you need him?)

The next couple weeks will be even more busy than usual for us, so this blog will probably be sadly neglected during that time.  We’re revising and editing Deadlock, finishing up Wilder’s Mate and penning the last few scenes of Freeze Line.  I always claim we like to multitask, and it’s true, we do…but not usually quite this much.  (At least not with pressing deadlines!)

Rest assured we’re here, and Vivian Arend and I are secretly plotting a crazy October party that will have even more prizes than the Vampire Lumberjack vs Werewolf Bootlegger throw-down.  Muahahahahahaha.

And hey, if you didn’t vote yet…

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

And now, by (we’ll pretend it’s) popular request…

AN UNEDITED SNIPPET FROM WILDER’S MATE
(now with some rather naughty language)

There was only one woman Levi had ever valued enough to keep near. “Ada was your mother?”

She stiffened so fast her horse sidled before she tightened her hands on the reins. “Yes.”

Another thing Nate had never mentioned. “Levi talked about her sometimes. He…” He’d loved her, as much as he’d been able. “Yes, he was fond of her.”

“Yes, he was.” Her voice held tension, and loss. “He didn’t have to take us in. He didn’t have to give me a home when she died.”

The old man hadn’t often spoken of things like sentiment. “You were family.”

Her lips twitched. “I was Ada’s girl, and as welcome most days as a stone in his shoe.”

Levi hadn’t been a particularly warm man, but he was ruthlessly practical. “He may not have been handing over pretty words and hugs, but he took care of you. With a man like that, it’s all the same.”

“Never saw much use for pretty words and hugs.” A brief hesitation, and he picked up the rapid beat of her heart, fast and nervous enough to belie her calm expression. “If you brought me with you intending to have a warm body during the new moon, I’m not unwilling.”

Wilder’s jaw clenched. She didn’t think much of him, if she thought he’d plan to take that sort of liberty without asking. “Takes a damn sight more than not unwilling to heat my blood, girl.” He grinned because he knew it would fluster her. “I like my women enthusiastic.”

Color rose in her cheeks, but her eyes glinted with stubborn challenge. “It’s a wonder you find any, unless you take care not to speak to them first.”

“Funny,” he murmured. “I’ve never had a problem, discussion or no.”

“I was wrong. Thirty pounds of ego, and I pity your poor horse.”

Wilder laughed. “He’s accustomed to my insufferable bullshit.”

“I suppose he would have to be. Do you think we’ll be able to rescue Nathaniel and return before the new moon, then?”

She was eyeing him with unmistakable interest. Perhaps all her questions about the moon phase had less to do with her low opinion of him and more with her own curiosity. “If not, I’ll make arrangements.”

“I see.” She rubbed the palm of one hand against her dusty trousers, a nervous gesture that matched the quick way her gaze jumped away from him to fix on her horse’s ear. “I’ve never crossed the border before. Nathaniel took me out to the Deadlands a few times when I was younger…”

“But not after you…blossomed?” It was the most polite way he could think of to refer to her considerable curves.

Satira looked like she wanted to cross her arms over her chest again, but she only shrugged. “He said it wasn’t a good place for a young woman.”

Wilder had seen women traded and sold there, either as whores or meals, and not enough of them had been willing participants in the transactions. “He’s right.”

“I know. I’ll do what I have to do, just like anyone.”

She would have run off, unaccompanied. She’d planned on it. The knowledge made Wilder’s gloved fingers tighten around his horse’s reins. “Just remember what you agreed to, honey. What I say, when I say it.”

“I remember.” And she sounded grumpy about it, too.

The afternoon sun gilded her pale skin, and a hint of breeze ruffled the golden strands of hair that curled around her face. She’d burn without a hat or bonnet, but something told him she wouldn’t appreciate him pointing it out.

They made it out of town before she spoke again, glancing at him with both eyebrows raised. “The plan isn’t to walk the horses the entire way, is it? I can handle a hard ride.”

Leading words, ones she’d meant to make him think of fucking. Of sweat and bare skin and the delicious, wet grip of an eager cunt around his cock. “Hope to hell that’s true, sweetheart.”

He urged his horse into a gallop without turning or waiting to see if she could keep up. If she wanted to play dirty, so could he.

This is officially not the best way to store random extra harddrives.  But that’s okay, because I know how dumb it is.  And if you know how dumb it is, you can break the rules.  (Like writing! Sometimes.)

Now the same picture, with added commentary.

That is your glimpse into my life. It’s thrilling, huh?

What weird things have you got on your desk?