…the dead will go for cocktails.

What started out as a perfectly nice day trip to Seattle to hang out with Team Seattle folks ended in a nightmare of biblical proportions…and I loved it.  The Fremont Outdoor Movies people pulled together a zombie walk/Thriller dance reenactment that clogged streets tighter than old man toilet and left blood smears on every sign, window and unsuspecting passerby.

And!!!!

We broke the world record, at last count the registration reported 3800 something, but expect that more like 6000 were in attendance, lots opting not to stand in the massive line.

So here’s a recap…

Started off the day driving our disabled temp-tired hybrid to the tire shop to fix a flat, which of course was in the side wall and therefore not fixable.  New tire.  Thankfully we had a warranty, because–little known glamorous author fact–when you’re as new at the business as I am, and as unlikely to earn out your advance, I don’t get paid with any great frequency. In fact, my last check came around April…2008. So there you go aspiring writers! The moral being, learn to budget that shit. Stretch it like sawdust in Wonder Bread and just be happy to be published. *end diatribe*

We fell in behind this nimrod.

And immediately fell into a discussion about how it was, here in 2009 with these trailer hitch scrotums on the market for well over 5 years now, that any self-respecting male without a micro-penis would actually hang these odes to insecurity off their pussy wagons. We started taking bets. Moderately overweight. Goatee. Pursed lips on a head nodding to the latest Dave Matthews/Lifehouse/OhMyGodKillMe band of your choice. 

Correct on all three counts. I’m glad people aren’t predictable.

We caught up with Synde and Cherie and after snacking on some delicious pineapple upside down cupcakes headed to Northgate to the most awesome costume shop for a big bag full of goriness.  Then it was off to lunch with the freshly straightened Richelle and that garlic fry eatin’ motha fucka she brought with her.  I myself had regular plain fries. Plain. How was I to know?

Makes me sick. *spits*

Cherie’s neighbors must be used to some zombies cuz we were spraying blood out of everywhere but our assholes and they barely blinked as they passed by.  To be fair, a trio of well dressed and summery gays were mortified and thought we’d been in a car accident–though they might have just been being kind.

A note on zombie make-up: It does not hold up well in 90 degree heat. I promptly sweated off the upper half of my slash wound and ended up looking like I’d just been beaten and summarily pissed on by a biker gang.  What can you do?

I’ll tell you what…MORE BLOOD!

It’s really the only acceptable solution.

We got to Fremont early, snatched up a primo parking space care of a certain somebody who collects things like parking spaces and popped in for a little zombie readin’ courtesy of Scott Browne (Breathers).

Irreverent, topical, and always poignant. Dude! Y’all should pick up Breathers now so you can tell all the losers that won’t have heard of it when the movie comes out that they suck and you read it sooo long ago. So long.

We filled up on caffeine at Fremont Coffee Company, them shits was so much better than Starbucks, I can’t tell you, care of Cherie’s husband, Aric (the artisinal roaster not the barista–though she was quite lovely).  Then it was time to go get in the mile long queue for the zombiefest.  Much more blood was spattered before we were ready to hit it up Angels-style (shout out to Farrah, RIP).

Then it was on mothafuckas!

We didn’t stay for the Thriller Dance, though I hear it was a spectacle of white guy overbiting. We ended up succumbing to oldness around 9:30 and spent a half hour after getting home scrubbing the makeup off. I’m pretty sure our bathroom looked exactly like it might if we’d cleaned up after a murder. Here’s a tip to all the wood be killers: Clorox wipes.

In conclusion, totally fun, I’d do it again in a heartbeat…or without.

Have a happy Fourth of July folks, don’t shoot any roman candles out of your ass.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Lots of news this week that isn’t related to finishing a book or starting a new project.  Except. My YA and screenplay intentions were Shanghai-ed by the secretly titled druggie starlet/sensitive high school jock/sexy vampire stewardess drag racing book ala Russ Meyer.  The way it’s starting out it’s hitting all my go neurons. Foul mouths, kinky sex, women who fist fight.  Oh yes.

But I’m getting off track. What I wanted to tell you is this…

If you’re anywhere near the city of Seattle tomorrow (Friday, July 3rd) and can get to Fremont by 5:00 dressed and made up like the zombie of your choosing (zombie French-Canadian clown, zombie egotistical litigator, zombie sorority girl having an affair with her philosophy professor) then do so.  I know I’ll be there.  We’re all trying to break a Guinness World Record.  One that I’m thinking was set back in Pennsylvania where they recreated the mall scene from the original Dawn of the Dead, only this one will look like more zombies, because it’s in a tight metropolitan area.  I’ll be hitting S.G. Browne’s reading/signing at Fremont Book Company at 4:00 along with some members of Team Seattle and, I’ve heard, other authors of some import (who shall remain nameless, as I’ve not met her, him, them).

Here’s the info about RED, WHITE AND DEAD.

Next up, it looks like plans for the next Team Seattle road trip are in effect.  On July 18th from 12-2 PM, Caitlin Kittredge, Richelle Mead, Cherie Priest, Kat Richardson and yours truly will be teaming up with Devon Monk to dance like monkeys for your approval. It’s not just an author event, it’s a happening. And it’s “happening” at Escape Fiction in Salem, Oregon (3240 Triangle Dr.). I’ve been told that there will be famous handpicked berry cheesecake for the offering. So come armed with your books and good looks and we’ll make love.  In a literary sense, of course.

Richelle already made hotel reservations for the night before, so we can be freshly hungover on pineapple-habanero martinis and easily taken advantage of.

Let’s see.  Am I forgetting something?

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

I finished my revisions on BATTLE OF THE NETWORK ZOMBIES on monday and sent that bad boy off to my agent and an author friend to slash and hack until I’ve got something that resembles a readable book. There’s at least one chapter in there that’s such a word salad, they’ll need a crouton trail to find their way out. Sorry guys!

This was one of those “books from hell” you see authors bitching about, endlessly, as we have a tendency to do about a variety of things. If we were the sorts to keep our mouths shut or our fingers clasped tightly together in prayer or around our dicks, or whatever, the world would be much less contentious, but also less fun.

Anyways, back to BOOKS FROM HELL.

Or mine, specifically. It started out benign enough with an outline for my publisher and an idea for an homage to Agatha Christie manor mysteries and sleazy reality shows, oddly enough. I happen to love them and since my books have changed framework from book to book, I thought I’d keep that up, never being my intention to write an urban fantasy in the first place. Happy Hour is probably the closest to the genre, with Road Trip being more of a quest fantasy. Battle is neither, it’s basically a cozy mystery with craziness and relationships and foul language, so if you dig those things you’re going to love it.

So what’s the frickin’ problem, you ask? Well, right after I finished the sample chapter and outline, I figured I had some time to goof off and write a spec book. I talked about that one quite a lot. The Dark Rites of Joe Barkley, a third person multiple perspective book about demons and angels living among us and their babies that act as time shares for visiting spirits. It’s also about the human stories that go on around them, drug dealing, blackmailers, octogenarian dominatrixes. Which as I’m reading it over, is unquestionably the best writing I’ve done (again, not really an urban fantasy, per se., but what can you do? It’s more like a soap opera). But it’s not finished.

As fall gave way to the holidays, I started realizing, “Oh shit, I’ve got a book coming due.” So I put my baby aside and went back to Amanda thinking she’d be easy to jump back into and snark away.

Turns out, not so much.

It took me three months. to get a third of the book written. Three torturous months. Every word like pulling my finger nails out. Then, after Romantic Times in April, I finally was able to buckle down and get the words down.

So what was the problem? It’s a matter of voice and mood, I’ve come to believe. Joe, the protagonist of the new project is actually a nice guy, and somewhat heroic. Amanda is a nihilist, through and through. It was a huge stretch to change my mind up and get back to her dark shaded viewpoint. It’s also something I have to be in a mood for.

A bad mood.

So I’m hoping that I’ve pulled it off in the home stretch, I know I’ve been sufficiently grumpy. So much so that I’ve been neglecting my poor blog and even my Glamazombies, who’ve gone so quiet I wonder if the majority haven’t abandoned ship.

Today, though, I’m gathering all my notes and ideas for a script I’m working on with another author, no paranormal elements as of yet, though I imagine some magical realism and over-the-top craziness will filter its way into this pitch black comedy.

Then I’m pulling together my YA proposal and sample chapters for my agent to pore over and figure out whether I can sell it. Lord knows I could use a sale.

Anyways. I’ll leave you with two things. The recipe I’ve been talking about on Twitter and Facebook. Which is where I’m at mostly. And a video for my new favorite workout song.

Cheers!

Banana Oatmeal Chocolate/Butterscotch Chip Cookies

1 banana mashed (medium to large)
1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 1/4 cup flour
2 cups oatmeal
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1/4 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/4 cup butterscotch chips
cooking spray

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Cream first 5 ingredients in mixer. In a second bowl mix the dry ingredients. Add to mixer and incorporate. Stir in chips. Scoop the dough up in heaping tablespoonfuls and place about two inches apart on a sprayed cookie sheet. Bake for 18 minutes or until slightly brown.

They look like big drop biscuits and are 115 calories each, to be exact.

What are y’all doin? Reading? Watching?

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

If my zombie character, Amanda, loves anything it’s a quick bite before hooking up with some swarthy werewolf.  So this week’s Snippet Saturday was a cinch.  Here’s a clip from the upcoming BATTLE OF THE NETWORK ZOMBIES (March 2010).  Enjoy…

The kid nodded and shuffled off in the direction I indicated. When not racing like a madman across a moderately busy freeway, he expressed a slight limp, favoring his right leg explicitly. He lugged the left behind him with a spare hop at the end of each step.

I wish I hadn’t seen it.

Those kind of things make me wish I didn’t have to feed the way I do. The thoughts are always fleeting and always my own fault, a hazard of being too observant. Noticing little details of my victims—and they were definitely that, no matter how hard I rationalized— was not helpful. Not. Helpful.

In those moments, when food becomes human, identifiable, I’m more likely to walk away than any other.

Occasionally.

The boy’s scent trailed in his wake, dense and meaty . There were sweet hints of maple, smoky bacon. The hustler was a breakfast fan. A lot of street people were, cheap meals done quick and from places that usually kept waitresses long after their expiration date, long after they gave a shit about a kid dining and dashing. Either that or hired them so green they didn’t know what to look for.

A quick refresher—if you’re late getting on and trying to catch up—when a zombie catches the scent of its prey, it’s over. Reason goes out the window, for the most part, and the hunger kicks in like autopilot. When I first turned (after a run-in with a breather and later a misplaced donut box—damn if slick cardboard and concrete don’t equal flat on your back dead in a parking garage, at least for a little bit), I had absolutely no control over the process. I’d catch a scent and the next thing I knew I was spitting out a retainer (not mine and not necessarily a kid’s either ).

Anyway.

He stalled at the far corner of the Hooch and Cooch, settling into a spot on a rickety picnic table, whose purpose seemed to be only to hold up a massive bloom of cigarette butts sticking out of a spent can of Yuban. He jutted his chin forward, again, lips screwed up in a sneer, in that defiant way one does when there’s nothing to lose or live for. He probably figured if he put that tough face on, I’d be attracted—some women apparently go for the thug-type.

He was right. I was definitely into him.

After a quick glance behind me, I shoved my arm through the handles of the Mcqueen and shrugged it over my shoulder like a pack (shielding it from the spatter, if you must know).

“So whaddup? You getting’ on this?” he asked.

I could barely conceal my glee.

And check out these other Snippet Saturday authors for even more FREE FICTION…

Cynthia Eden
Lauren Dane
McKenna Jeffries
Michelle M Pillow
Moira Rogers
Sylvia Day
TJ Michaels
Taige Crenshaw
Vivian Arend
Victoria Janssen
Marissa Scott
Maura Anderson
Shelley Munro
Jody Wallace
Eliza Gayle
Kelly Maher
Lacey Savage
Mark Henry
Shelli Stevens

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Wow.

This weekend was packed with the celebrations, fo sho.  Let’s recount them, shall we?

Friday…

Caroline and I trudged forth to the wilds of Seattle to meet up with Synde for some not-writing, as it turns out.  What we did do was head to Trophy Cupcake for some bitterness, not in the form of burnt coffee beans ala Starbucks, but unpleasant counter staff.  Nevermind that we drove 50 miles to have a pineapple upside down cupcake complete with cherry in its scrumptious brown sugar icing and told the clerk just that. When she told us they were out, we were happy to opt for the red velvet and snickerdoodle varieties to go with our french press–even though we had to wait for the Red Velvet to be iced.  So how is it, that on my birthday weekend, after full from consuming our second choice breakfast and chatting quietly nearby, a large tray of pineapple upside-down cupcakes shows up on the rack? Three words for the clerk.

Damned. To. Hell.

Afterward though, and this is definitely going to make us sound like a bunch of cattle grazing across the cityscape, we met up with our friend Ellen and got us some more cud at Skillet…

Skillet has the BEST burger in Seattle.  That’s singular, not plural, because there’s only one and you get it how it comes bitches, don’t fuck around with having stuff put on the side, because this here burger is a work of art.  

It’s got the bacon Jam!

I shouldn’t need to say anything else, but I will. Warm brioche bun, arugula and cambazola and a big ass grab of handcut fries tossed in poutine.  What’s poutine, you ask like a heathen? Well, it’s gravy and cheese curd and herbs and it turns a snatch of fries into a wet mess of sexy.

Oh Skillet, can we make love?

The chef even, out of the blue, asked if it was my birthday and tossed in a free shortbread, which I didn’t get to eat because I was having a hard time breathing with my stomach engorged to the point of shoving my lungs up into my neck.

We met up with other Team Seattlites at a new frozen yogurt place and then scrounged down Broadway for some browsing. Sadly, Broadway has lost its flavor. Once teeming with street kids and a variety of gays, the shopping and restaurant district gave up the ghost a while back to the condo developers.  The Broadway Market is now a QFC and the vibe is just off.

Where is the next big neighborhood, people?  I’d like to know.

As if we hadn’t eaten enough, we drove back South to meet up with Kevin and Jo for some Old School Pizzeria in Olympia. They’ve got the closest facsimile of a New York cheese slice I’ve found, so definitely check out that shit.  You’ll have to wade through the cloud of patchouli’d street kids who’ve migrated from Capital Hill, but it’s well worth the nose rape.

Guaranteed.

Saturday…

Because I’m completely anal retentive and obsessed with my back yard right now, I spent a good portion of time last week working on getting the garden in shape so it didn’t look like we were having a barbecue in a vacant lot.  So I weeded and relocated dry creek beds (fake ones, of course) and even righted the heinous wrong of adding a weed barrier.  And did it all with Caroline’s b-day Home Depot gift cards. Which are the most awesome gift for us, in case you’ve been fretting over what to get me.  We spend a lot of time outdoors over the spring and summer so we love it not to look like a homeless camp.

My next big project back there is to make this…look like this…

Yes. That is my fake dried creek bed, thank you.

We didn’t have any brain cake debacles this year and I was super happy with my first shot at grilling ribs (I know, it’s weird).  Boiled them for three hours, dry rubbed them and then slathered them with a homemade bbq sauce made of my secret ingredient (Diet Coke, no shit).

Here’s some people you might recognize not enjoying the harshest martini known to man, the Lava Lamp…

Like liquid fire people. I know, I downed the first one on an empty stomach and was rolling.  

Never. Again. 

I got a nice haul in gifts, including the most hilarious bottle of rum ever from Richelle (which I can never show you lest a hellstorm of fury swirl around Team Seattle). Yes, that’s a French edition of Succubus Blues and a cocktail shaker in the form of a prescription bottle, also a ganglia (Richelle, Caitlin, Cherie and Kat, respectively). Synde hooked me up with an ARC of The Strain, which I’ve been dying to read and a cool CD of indian beats that get me bollywood dancing everytime I listen.  My best friend Kevin rallied the family to get me Target gift cards so I could buy new underwear –I’m down to just wearing the bands, the cotton long since worn away.

But my most favorite thing were, no surprise, my gift cards to Home Depot (thanks Jo and Craig-Drapers!).

Wait!

Before you chastise me for playing favorites, a little story.

We’ve been in this house for 7 years and watched each of our neighbors install automatic sprinkler systems for the low low introductory rate of a few thousand dollars.  We’ve not been in a position to fork out that kind of cash, in forever, so I had to rig up my own little system which I turn on and off and devote roughly 4 hours of each day to.  Well, not anymore…

If I had photoshop I would have outfitted this picture with a halo.  The sprinklers are now on timers, all 4 zones.  Thank Jeebus!

Sunday!

This blog post just keeps on going.  I bet y’all are sick of it by now.  So I’ll wrap it up.

Sunday was family day, so we took the dogs to the folks and chilled.  Good times were had by all.

*sighs*

What did you guys do to celebrate my birthday?

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

So, a while back, the fantastic Lauren Dane contacted me to be a part of a group project called Snippet Saturday.  Each Saturday, for the duration of the summer we’ll be posting snippets from our shiz that fit into that week’s topic.

This week is outtakes.  Lovin’ it.

So, I give you a chunk of Amanda from Road Trip of the Living Dead, I just couldn’t fit into that book, no matter how hard I tried.  It includes one of my favorite characters.  Beth Liebowitz, voodoo priestess.  She’ll be showing up in future books, but really didn’t work for Road.

So here you go…

*******************************

            With four hours of daylight left before Gil woke, Wendy and I decided to replenish our wardrobe.  Well, replenish would be an exaggeration, since all we had were the clothes on our backs and those were rags at that point.[1]  A more accurate statement would be: get a wardrobe.  I’d never been to Spokane, but it looked like a city that might have some fashion, or a reasonable facsimile.  In situations like these there’s only one thing to do.

            “There’s one.”  Wendy pointed at a grungy little coffee shop with a “Hemp Products Sold Here” sign hanging in the window.  There was one in every city, a hippy hold-out piggy-backing on a cultural caffeine addiction.  But, we weren’t after coffee.

            I pulled up to the front door.  Wendy darted out, poked her head inside, and snatched a free paper sitting within arms reach of the entry.  She waved a middle finger at the barista as she hopped back in the Winnie and flopped down at the table, flipping through the paper.[2]

            “Here it is,” she said, folding the paper back and giving it a shake to pop out the crease.  “The ad is squeezed in after the guy that loves to have low hanging balls shoved up his ass and Cecelia, the hot pre-op masseuse, with fingers of steel and a cock to match.”

            “Gross.  What king of person would do that to old man balls?”

            Wendy giggled.  “Maybe the old man has a personal investment in the scenario.”

            “Now you’re just trying to make me throw up.”

            “Okay.  Shut up.”  Wendy cleared her throat, dramatically.  “Spokane Mambo open to exploring other worlds with style.”

            “How do you know that’s it?” I asked.

            Mambo is the voodoo term for high priestess, plus it’s in with the man on man action.  That’s part of the code, who’d look for it there?  And the guys that would aren’t looking for a dance coach.”

            “Unless he’s got a stretched out sack o’ nuts, apparently.” 

            Fifteen minutes later we sat in front of a brick three-story with blacked out windows and awnings that sagged like tired eyelids.  A homeless woman rolled her shopping cart underneath, overflowing with clothing, books, and a tremendous potted palm strung with white Christmas lights.

            “Oh shit.  Remind me to call Marithé.  She needs to water my plants.”

            A shingle hung from a scroll of black iron over the door.  The winding filigreed lettering managed to blend several crosses in its design.  The name of the shop was enigmatic, yet practical like me.

            Fixes.

The massive door was affixed with black metal bolts and a small caged window cut into the upper half served as a peephole.  I almost looked up to check if someone were about to pour boiling oil from the roof.  Still, medieval or no, it worked with the brick.

“We could just go to the mall,” I said.

“And pay full price?  Forget it.” Wendy knocked.

“Come in, ladies,” a woman’s voice called from inside.

The store was dark from the exposed brick and the black painted ceiling.  Bones strung on twine dangled from curtain rods, candles burned everywhere, in a variety of colors, yet refreshingly unscented.  The display tables were lined with bowls filled with chicken feet, miniature wax, rag and husk dolls and stones of various sizes and colors.

I ran my fingers around the eye holes in a fairly realistic plastic skull while Wendy disregarded the bizarre inventory and marched straight to the counter bobbing her head and leaning past the cash register to look for the body that went with the voice, the Mambo, assumably.

“You’d better quit them nosy ways, girl.  I’m comin’.”  The voice clipped the air, in a distinctive Haitian twang.  Wendy straightened out and backed away from the counter.  Maybe there were two women, the first voice had none of the island flavor.

Behind the counter a doorway draped in dense black velvet swept open with a whip.  The Mambo of Spokane emerged, all one hundred pounds of her, bespectacled, and topped with a coppery Brillo-pad of curls.

“Beth Liebowitz.”  She extended her hand.  “Which one’s Wendy?”

“That’s me.”  Wendy stepped forward and reached toward the woman.

“Uh…” I searched for the words to stop her.  Didn’t find them.

The two shook.

“Oh.”  Beth released Wendy’s hand with a start.  “You’re terribly chilly, Wendy.  Deathly cold.”

“Well, it is chilly outside.”  I broke in.  “Hello, Ms. Liebowitz. I’m Amanda Feral.”

“Hello, Amanda.”  She slid her glasses down the bridge of her nose and looked across them, Wendy in her sights.  To Wendy she said, “Do I look like a fool?”

“No.”

“Do I appear to be someone who can be lied to?”  She took the glasses off completely and narrowed her gaze.

“Of course not.”  Wendy glanced in my direction, clearly unnerved.

I shrugged.  Then noticed the deadly stare of the voodoo priestess had transferred to me.

The woman laughed.  “I’m just fucking with you.  Just let me lock up and I’ll take you into the temple.”  She stomped to the front of the store and turned the latch.  When she turned back I noticed the thick set of robes that covered her frame.  She seemed to notice.  “Oh.  These?  Window dressing.”  She whipped them off, revealing a cream bouclé Chanel suit with matching skirt.  Thank God, I thought.  A recognizable designer, maybe this wasn’t a wasteland of synthetic fabrics, and sack dresses.

We followed the woman through the draped hall and up a flight of dimly lit stairs.  At the top, a door opened on its own to reveal a modern loft space in white, white and more white.  Everything but the floor, which was a slick honey stained maple, was devoid of color.  Someone had been reading a little too much Necropolitan Home; the place screamed decorator.  Beth seemed to notice my glare.

“Mr. Liebowitz does love his white.  Something about his Heaven Can Wait fixation.  I try not to notice.  Do you think it’s unhealthy?”

“Not at all.  It’s just a little Starck,” I said, but no one laughed.[3]

Beth stopped by the wall opposite the windows and clapped twice.  A panel in the wall slid open to reveal a modern Voodoo altar from the good people at Crate and Barrel, or it could have been.  In contrast to the minimalist furnishings of the Liebowitz home, the altar was an assault on the senses, draped with clashing fabrics, stacked with small paintings of saints, candles, and scattered business cards.  There were bowls of withered fruit, a cup of coffee, and skulls with candles sticking from the mouths.  Statues cluttered the space.  And not particularly spooky or religious looking statues, either.  There was a miniature leprechaun, and a toy soldier standing guard at the base of the Empire State Building. 

“So you girls are having some kind of fashion emergency.”  She looked us up and down, while she rifled through the cabinet underneath.  She pulled out two framed photographs, Ralph Lauren was the subject of the first one, Coco Chanel the other.  These she sat next to a cocktail shaker, martini glass and a black horsehair flogger.  “This kind of trouble calls for Erzulie.”

“What’s that?” I asked.  She motioned for us to sit down on the leather couch behind us.

“Who’s that,” she corrected.  “Erzulie is a Loa, a spirit.  She reigns over beauty.  You’re going to love her.  Now, go open those windows, would ya?   The white loas like fresh air.”

The Mambo poured some cornmeal on the floor and drew what looked like a crucified heart into it, but lovely scrolling and somehow familiar. “This is Erzulie Frieda’s veve,” she said, and blew the residue from her palm.

She crossed the room to the kitchen area, gathered a mango, a box of Red Hots, and a bottle of white rum in the curl of her arm, and slipped into a doorway, briefly, emerging with a bottle of perfume.  Chanel #5.  She placed these on the altar, picked up a remote that started the sounds of drumming from hidden speakers and began to chant in a deep imploring tone.  “Legba Atibon, Guardian of the cross—Oops.  Forgot the main ingredient.”  She snapped her fingers at me.  “Credit Card.  She prefers platinum but she’ll accept gold.”

I dug for my wallet and emerged with an American Express Platinum.  If that didn’t appease the Goddess, what would?

The Mambo began the incantation from the beginning.

“Papa Legba Atibon, Guardian of the Crossroads, Legba, Guardian of the bush, Guardian of the gouse. Ago, Ago, si, Ago la.  By the power of mistress Erzulie, mamou lade, Erzulie Frieda, mamou vodoun.  Ago, Ago si, Ago la.”

Her chants veered off into unintelligible pleading from there.  The drum beats accelerated; I imagined the frenzied hammering of hands.  A chorus rose to match the rhythm.  Mambo Beth passed the rum at one point, for which I was grateful.  The whole thing was a bit much for my frazzled nerves and the hooch really hit the spot, warming me to the skin. 

The scene was a testament to what I’m willing to subject myself to—and/or Wendy—in the name of fashion.

When the clamor settled, Beth stood at the altar dabbing perfume on pressure points and loosing her hair from its tight restraint.  It fell on her Chanel-clad shoulders in curly coiled waves like shavings of chocolate on a…wait a second…that’s a description better suited to Wendy.  It fell on her shoulders in writhing snaky handfuls.

            “You’ll have to excuse my horse, sisters.  She tends to blather.”  Her voice turned coarse and wheezy, as though not her own.  “Good heart, though.”

            “What horse?” I asked.  Beth’s change of tone caught me off guard.

            The priestess looked over her shoulder, sniffed the air; her nose crinkled. “Ah.  A pair of jumbie.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Nzambi.”

            “Is that with an “N”?” I wondered aloud.

            “Jesus Christ, I’m just pointing out that you’re zombies.  Dead.  Spirit people.  What are you new?”

            That’s when it dawned on me.  “Erzulie?”

            “Of course.”  She raised her arms in a decidedly Diva move that would have impressed me had the voodoo spirit not looked exactly like a middle aged Jewish woman in last season’s Lagerfeld.

            “I was expecting something different I guess.”

            “Such as?”

            “Well I thought the ritual would be more exotic, with ululating and chicken blood, or something, more Angel Heart, a little less…um…prerecorded.”

            “Hmmpf.  That movie did nothing for me,” Erzulie said.  “What was with all the window fans?  Crazy.”

            “I know, right?”  Wendy perked up considerably.  This spirit turned out to be good people.

            “Let’s beat it.” She corralled us down the stairs again and into a gorgeous Mercedes that was parked around the corner.  Unlocked.

            “Isn’t Beth worried about car thieves?” I asked.

            “No child.  She put a protection spell around it.  Lookie.”  She pointed at a thin line of white powder that circled the car.  “Beside.  Who want to steal sometin’ ugly as this boxy ting?”

            “You’d be surprised.”  I sat in the passenger seat without considering whether Erzulie knew how to drive.  My question was answered as we tore out of the loop of protection in a cloud of white powder like a ’70s drug deal gone wrong.  She barreled through three red lights and five hairpin turns, one of them on two wheels.[4]  I supposed she knew where she was going, and just had to trust that we’d arrive there safe.  It helped that a goddess or spirit, or whatever was driving; how bad could her karma be?  Pretty bad as it turned out.

            “From the looks of tings, you girls go in for the high fashions.  I’m right, no?”  Erzulie swiveled around to check out Wendy’s wardrobe and within seconds clipped a car in an intersection, it spun into a fire hydrant sending a spray of water twenty feet into the air.  The spirit chortled so hard a snort escaped.  “Damn fools need to watch where they’re goin’.”  Then to me, she said, “Ain’t that right, girl?”

            “Uh…uh.  Sh-sure,” I stammered.

            “Now where’s a spot?”  The spirit woman craned her neck.  “Ah.  There’s one.”

I followed her gaze to a spot fit for only the most economical of vehicles, or a clown car.  I was thinking, it just wasn’t possible to fit in there, when she slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, cramming the car in horizontally between a Jetta and an old Taurus with a dangerous careening slide.  Wendy let out a sharp cry.

“Now, you two just sit still.  I’m goin’ to talk to one of my people.  Designer originals are hard to come by around these parts and easier to lose.”  She slid out of the car and scampered off into the closest doorway, hips swiveling in a way that Beth’s weren’t prepared for.  She was going to be sore tomorrow.

“She’s going to kill us with that driving.”  Wendy jutted her butt off the seat, tugging at her underwear.  “Bitch gave me a wedgy from all the sliding.”

“I thought you’d done this before?”

“No.  I just knew it was an option.  What choice do we have, really?”

I considered darting from the car, going to the mall and stocking up on Liz Claiborne and Anne Klein, but then gagged.  That would be ridiculous.  I mean, honestly, can you imagine us in matching coordinates or soccer mom sweaters?  We had no choice at all.

Across the street, I noticed a man lighting up a cigarette.  He was tall and sandy-haired with tight jeans and running shoes.  He wore sunglasses that caught the waning light just enough to obscure his face.  There was something familiar about him, though.  Something about the confident lean against the brick building, and that he was definitely returning my attention.  I looked up and down the street for the orange mustang.

“Do you remember that car that cut us off?”

“Yeah.  I guess.”

“I think that guy over there is the driver.”

“What?”  Wendy tried to examine the man, squinting in the glare.

“That’s the guy.  I’m pretty sure.”

“I don’t know.  I can’t get a good look at him.  Plus, I don’t really remember if I saw him when he passed us.  You think he’s one of Markham’s wolves?”

Come to think of it, yeah, I did.  Why else would he show up here, wherever here was?  I nodded.  “I’m going to go confront him.  Maybe I can get him to stop hounding us.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I reached for the handle at the same time Erzulie threw open the door and slunk into the driver’s seat.  “Ready to go?” she asked.

Across the street, the man had disappeared.  I looked at Wendy, who shrugged.

“I guess so.”

Another fifteen minutes of irresponsible driving and we were tossed out onto the sidewalk in front of a glass office tower.  Seriously.  Wendy and I couldn’t get out fast enough; I nearly broke a heel stumbling from the Mercedes.  But we managed to regain composure on the curb, smiled and pretended to be polite young ladies, lest we incur Erzulie’s wrath or internal injuries.[5]  She didn’t seem to notice, either way.  She plucked her matching handbag from the back seat and marched up to the glass doors.

“Come now girls.  Did you come to shop, or stare?” She held my credit card in our faces and we followed her in like a pair of dogs after a bone.

Our destination was the 6^th floor and an office space with a bold bronze placard: Ear Candles Ltd.  Wendy and I glanced at each other, a mirror image in sneers.  What the hell were we doing here?  Did Erzulie know something about our ear canals we didn’t?

Then the door opened and it was like she’d thrown open the pearly gates.  Rack upon rack of designer clothing glistened like the sweat off a hot college lifeguard.  I found myself licking my lips.  If I’d been alive those wouldn’t have been the only lips wet, either.  I’d never seen so many must-haves in my life.  My stock was about to plummet.  I looked over at Wendy, her mouth hung agog as a blow-up doll.  She mouthed ‘a wall of shoes’.  I followed her gaze to a floor to ceiling rack of stilettos, boots, and the occasional flat.

Erzulie sashayed Beth’s body through the space, calling, “Anabel!  Girl, you’ve got customers.  Best get you’re butt out here.”

Anabel was a petite and pretty black girl that didn’t look a day over twelve.  That said, she was probably forty-two and under some kind of anti-aging spell, or another voodoo possession.  Hard to say.

“Greetings, ladies!  Welcome.  Anything specific you’re looking for?”

“New wardrobes,” Wendy said.

Dollar signs sparked in the shopgirl’s dark eyes.  “I think we can provide.”

An hour later and we’d replenished the necessities.[6]  I even extended some credit to our favorite fugitive vampire, filling a man bag with a close cut Prada suit and trench, a couple of Gucci shirts, and some snazzy shoes to set it off.  Anything more and he’d be spoiled—after getting a load of his bank account, that wasn’t going to happen.

*******************************

So that’s that. Unedited. Super long for a snippet.  Hope you had fun.  If you want to have some more fun, go read some more snippets!

Cynthia Eden
Victoria Janssen
Lauren Dane
Leah Braemel
McKenna Jeffries
Moira Rogers
Sylvia Day
Vivian Arend
Shelley Munro
Jaci Burton
Mandy Roth
Eliza Gayle

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Wow. Can I just say, officially, Battle of the Network Zombies kicked my ass.  It was what I imagined my second book would be like to write, only it wasn’t–Road Trip was a breeze comparitively.  I think I spent so much time and energy into one of my spec projects (The Dark Rites of Joe Barkley), when I had to switch gears and drop back into Amanda’s filthy cluttered mind, I just wasn’t prepared.

So, I’m really just happy to have a completed draft.  It needs a ton of work and it seems I have a bit more time to do that work than I’d previously expected, but I’m happy with the comedic elements and the new characters that cropped up despite a pretty detailed outline (oops).

Summer’s here and so I’ll be doing revisions here…

…which helps a great deal.  Something about the moving water from the fountain and the dogs roaming in the yard really helps the vile snark to rise out of me like a meaty belch.  Or not.

We got a new addition to the family this week, a 6-year old Maltese named Yoda (seen here being overtly adorable).

He’s taking a lot of time away from my writing, forcing me to make baby noises and be otherwise ridiculous.  We’ve had him for four days now and he’s bonding with us and the other dogs, which was our biggest concern.  The bonus is he’s trained to go poop on potty pads, which has had an interesting effect on the brood.  They’ve been doing it too and not just wherever the fuck they feel like.  Could he be training them?

So anyway, back to the writerin’.  I plan to have a draft for my beta readers by Friday.  After that, I’m working on the following (in handy list format–since someone pointed out they never know what I’m actually working on)…

1. YA proposal (Ghosty Teen Goths/Purgatory/Buttload of Possessions)

2. Screenplay with Mario. (Not paranormal at all)

3. Finish Joe Barkley and get that off to my agent.

4. Work on Russ Meyer/sexy vampire stewardesses/wayward druggie starlet/drag race project

5. Option Book Proposal

6. Blog more routinely (Cuz Dayum I’ve been absent lately).

Not necessarily in that order.  But you get the gist.  Lots to do this summer and fall.  And, bonus!, I’m excited for the prospects.  Wish me luck y’all.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

To steal a line from The Color Purple.  Apparently, even through a fog of cold meds, I can’t be swayed from reading zombie smut for the masses.  Check out my evening reading or Road Trip of the Living Dirtiness over at Bitten By Books.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

I’m over at Bitten By Books today, chatting, vlogging and giving away books and 5 slots on my ARC list. Head on over and lets talk about what you did for Memorial Day–but only if it’s weird or dirty, cuz that’s what I like.

Go now! Go. Go!!!

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

And by away, I mean finishing up Battle of the Network Zombies (and dammit, it’s almost finished).  Why not join the GLAMAZOMBIES?!?!?!  They’re a superfun group of readers and aspiring writers who don’t take themselves (or much of anything) too seriously.  Also, they kind of like me books, so I’d totally make out with them.

Join today!!

Ps. Did I mention I totally want the My Zombie Pinup calendar?  My birthday’s next month.  Just sayin’.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Bitten By Books nominated our Gil for favorite vamp, yet he’s being destroyed in the tally. Poor guy. The poll is on the right hand side of their newly designed site, you’ll have to scroll down a bit.

Go show your love for gay vamps everywhere!

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Holy crap am I behind. With all the promo of the last two months for Road Trip, I somehow let Battle slip away from me. So I’m outtie until it’s done. Talk amongst yourselves.

Here are some topics…

Swine Flu turns out to be lameness.
Why does Mark enjoy oatmeal so much?
Can one Amanda book have too many drag queens?

Also…

Here’s a video for all you slanket devotees.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Oh yes chicas! It’s that time again. I’m home from Orlando, sun-blistered, exhausted as a motha and ass aching from a near constant stream of bowel daquiris. Fun even wilder times were had than last year, if you can imagine. And I think you can.

We rolled into Orlando late and booked it to the hotel via a $40 cab-ride (bastards!), and though I was frightened by the reviews of the hotel, was not nearly as disgusted as I’d assumed. You see, the Sunday before we left, Caroline was looking on Travel Advisor (dot) com and found a consensus that the Wyndham was flat out filthy. It would have ended there, with a growling in our guts, had she not read further. “Not bad for the price.” Intriguing. A filthy $140/night hotel room, we thought. How could that NOT be bad. But no. NO. The price wasn’t $140, it was $69 on the website. Seems RT was getting reamed.

Quicker than you can say cancellation, I was on the phone to save us over $200 on our stay. Oh yes. I’m that guy. So…Tuesday night, despite being worn out like a trio of aging hookers, Richelle, Caroline and I hooked up with Diana Rowland, Jackie Kessler and Michelle Rowen for a suite party thrown by these two naughties…

Lauren Dane and Megan Hart have an awesome vlog that’s almost defies description…oh wait…it’s dirty (in a totally good way–as if there were any other).  Yep.  Mario Acevedo and I had to go to their panel on co-writing without killing each other.  He’s still alive so it must be working.  Anyways, back to the party.  Heather Osborn and I thought Jameson’s and Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper might mix well…

Um…wrong.  Did we drink it anyway?  Yes, of course.  What better to wash down mini-cupcakes, I ask you.  After meeting some online peeps and apparently snubbing Ann Aguirre (I hope I made up for the social faux pas–wait–BUY BLUE DIABLO!!!!).  

We caught up with the C.O.T. at the pool bar which became the nightly hang for drinks, gawking and general mayhem (including Renee George’s crazy video questionnaires on Bitten by Books–do go).

Also…

You wanna know who’s fun?

These two…

That’s Renee Sweet and Karen Mahoney (our token Brit who curses in that adorable accent–true, make her say asshole!).  Wednesday was all about hanging out and recovering from too much alcohol and stuff, but Thursday.  Thursday, my friends, was crazy.

Started off the day by having a League of Reluctant Adults party at Club RT where we took entries for some pretty awesome prizes, including a shiny-ass Sony eReader.  Oh yeah.  Then I sat on two panels, one on series and the other humor.  I was able to fit in references to puffy nipple fat, throwing legs out of socket during rough sex and all manner of filthiness.  *pats self on back*

Kensington threw their authors a cocktail party with emphasis on the “cocktails”.  Holy crap did I get wasted, also met like-minded drinking buddies, seen here in various states of inebriation…

The Kensington authors know how to party, I’m not gonna lie (clockwise from top left, firecracker Sasha White, Delilah Devlin and Beth Williamson, Karin Tabke, Sylvia Day and Myla Jackson and then finally, Myla again with some drunk).  So much so, that I barely remember the fairy ball, except that Mario kept sticking things on his face and in his mouth, like this lemon which he swallowed whole and then regurgitated in slices (there’s no end to his bizarre talents)…

Frequent hangs and hilarious pals, Renee George and Michele Bardsley were on hand for snarking and dirtiness, as per usual.  After one particularly evocative conversation we had to stop at the Crab Shack for lemon wipes.

Lest you think I have no proof of Faerieness, here’s Cici, Erika and her fam in full unseelie regalia (I’m always impressed but is this quartet not insanely awesome?)…

Friday was all about punking Jaye and it’s on video, so you’ll have to keep checking the League of Reluctant Adults for that portion of the blog, but let me tell you, we nailed her.  Like so…

Oh gun bra, why are you so awesome?

Friday was the RT Awards and you know who won? Our very own Jeanne Stein and Michele Barsdley!!!  Other UF/PR winners were Keri Arthur and Ilona Andrews.  Lauren Dane won too, holla!  Celebrations were rampant and we partied at Pizzeria UNO, because dayum they gots good pomegranate margaritas and crust.  Flaky as pie, bitches.

Later, it was time for a dramatic reading of some menage erotica, which was a great time, there was a big group and I shared storytelling duties with Heather and Diana, a good time was had by all, even though we had to have a safe word for passing kids. Sadly, there’s no video. Though, that could easily be remedied.

After that was the librarian/bookseller party.  There was a box in the middle of each table and once it was opened, we wished we could put the lid back on, not to hide the Nutter Butters, those were snapped up immediately.  It was the potted meat and sardines that turned our stomachs on end.  I never saw the hos eatin’ that nasty on Ladettes to Ladies.

Saturday was the gigantic book fair and I pulled out my secret weapon for increasing sales–the MUTSUKI!!!!

Oh yes.  For those who bought both books, they received a special gift…Convenience!  Ever get really into a book and then feel that uncomfortable urge to relieve yourself?  Well now you can keep up with your favorite characters without the bother of walking to the bathroom.  Mutsuki by Amanda, the zombie diaper is now available or humans!  Seriously, the little prize helped me sell nearly 70 of my 80 books.  

Afterward, the League of Reluctant Adults convened at the Charlaine Harris party, thrown by the adorable Debi Murray, her hubs Steve and the Charlatans (the Charlaine Harris fan club, FYI).  A good time was had by all as there was delicious food and drink and PRIZES!!!!! Caroline won two Fangtasia shirts which she plans to brandish at our True Blood dinners next season.  Oh the jealousy will be thick and malignant.  I gots me a signed book and a book plate, but the grand prize was won by this crazy lady…

Surprise surprise. Dakota Cassidy’s winning streak continues.  Must be the smoldering.  From there, it was all about the Mangent.  Although this time, I was twittering so much I barely remember anything.  You might want to check out those tweets for a recap.  I do remember laughing so much I thought I’d piss myself, or my nearby seating companions.

The whole shindig ended with a trip to Pirate’s Dinner Adventure.  Oh LORD.  Rum punch was flowing like a stream of…well, rum punch, only with the CRACK in it!  The intoxication was rampant.  Rampant! Just ask Stace and Caitlin! Or Heather!

Oh Michelle Rowen.  Your robot is the stuff dreams are made of.  Sigh.  So that’s about it.  RT was a blast and I was completely exhausted.  But not too exhausted to skip Disneyworld!!!  Someone remind me to post about that.

Almost forgot.  Check out this swag!  I met vampire authors Kathy Love and Erin McCarthy who ponied up the colored condoms.  What’s wrong with the one on the left?

If you answered, “Take my jaundiced prick.” Then you’re the winner. Yellow condoms are not okay. Ever. In that most vulnerable time, the last thing you want to be thinking about is disease.

So what did I forget?

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

I’ll be twittering only the most heinous and inappropriate Romantic Times happenings, so you’ll want to be following me for those tasty tidbits.

http://twitter.com/mark_henry

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Oh yes. It’s that time of year. The time of year where urban fantasists hone in on a good thing at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention. This time it’s in Orlando, so you know we had to build in a few extra days for Disney debauchery. Caroline’s particularly excited about Animal Kingdom. Me too, really. I loves me some animals, way more than, say, noisy skateboarding neighbor kids. But that’s beside the point. I thought I’d give you my schedule in the form of some predictions.

Tuesday night, we’ll arrive late with Richelle Mead in tow, grab some snacks and head on over to the Dane/Hart suite party (sweet party?) for some rock star room destruction. The next morning though, when we peel ourselves at of the puddle of vomit, we’ve got some debating to do. You see, I don’t have a single panel scheduled for Wednesday.

Should I…

a) Hang out and mingle? Talk shit? Flirt?
b) Go see my friends’ panels and heckle them mercilessly from the front row?
c) Ditch the fuck out and go to Universal Islands of Adventure?

It’s indeed a conundrum. Especially when we have to be back for the Ellora’s Cave Fantasy Party with the patented AND EROTIC river of chocolate sins–people wait all year to dunk their junk in its dark currents. I’m just sayin’. Plus, it’s looking like a dinner of some import is being hatched. Plans are being made, people! Plans!

On Thursday at 10:30 AM ’til 11:30, The League of Reluctant Adults will dazzle and delight fans at Club RT, which, this year, I’m told is like a 24 hour rave, or something involving ecstacy (could they mean the sexy kind?). Anyways, here’s the deal. Free sony eReader. Free books. Free love. No one’s backed out as far as I know, so we gots: Mario Acevedo, Michele Bardsley, Dakota Cassidy, Moi, Stacia Kane, Jackie Kessler, Caitlin Kittredge, Richelle Mead, Michelle Rowen, Jeane C. Stein and my partner in crime Jaye Wells.

Right after, some of us will be rushing to our first panel…

URBAN FANTASY: I’LL LOVE YOU … FOREVER: WRITING A SERIES IN URBAN FANTASY
11:30 AM THURSDAY: What happens when there’s no happy ending to wrap up the book? Urban fantasy authors discuss the nuts and bolts of writing a series: how to build a world, plan a story arc and keep the romance alive book after book.
Captain: Richelle Mead Panelists: Mario Acevedo, Ilona Andrews, Jocelynn Drake, Jeaniene Frost, Mark Henry, Jaye Wells

Then, later, this…

PARANORMAL: HUMOR IN PARANORMALS
2:30 THURSDAY: Timing is everything, even when dealing with the undead and uncivilized. From zombies to werewolves to vampires and everything in between, these authors will talk about their writing strategies to make you laugh out loud.
Captain: Patrice Michelle Panelists: Michele Bardsley, Dakota Cassidy, MaryJanice Davidson, Mark Henry, Judi McCoy

Holy crap! MaryJanice!! I love those Queen Betsy books. Serious.

After that’s done, it’s all debauchery and juggling balls (both mine–I’m not immune to the current tea bagging craze that’s sweeping the nation–and the ones where people will undoubtedly dance horribly). I’m not planning on dancing, but get enough hooch down my craw and you never know what I’ll do. That said, as you can imagine, the bar will be our primary hang, so make sure to stop by and slum it with us.

Friday night! Right after the Vampire Ball, I’m going to be one of 6 authors invited to the librarian/bookseller slumber party. I was totally honored and have even had a couple of meetings with local librarians to get some input on topics. After that though, I’m imagining lapdances and accidental bedwetting (okay, maybe not so accidental, I’m bringing a bowl of warm water and if that doesn’t work–did I mention I’ll be drinking heavily?). That’s at 11:30 until 1:00 AM. I’m going out tonight to get some pajama bottoms. They do NOT want me coming in what I normally sleep in (an allergy fugue and a pee hard-on). I’m just trying to protect them. Because I’m kind.

Saturday is the Big Ass Book Fair with 300 authors signing everything from books to buttholes (actually I won’t sign an anus, some might though). I’ll sign just about anything else though. Just about. Don’t make me list them.

After that, it’s anyone’s guess. I will tell you that there’s been talk of a Deadline Dames/League of Reluctant Adults Mash-Up. I think we might be roaming the halls like a street gang, hopped up on speed and crackin’ skulls.

You never can tell. Have a good week folks!

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Here are a few things inspiring me at the moment…

I’m loving me some Metric. Can’t get enough. Must be Amanda’s new vulnerability. Also, The Veils are cool, in that continually retro 80s way…

And, finally, I’ll cut someone if I don’t get to see the new Bret Easton Ellis movie…

Seriously.

What’s inspiring your work?

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

Good times this past weekend were had in the airport shanty known as Seatac (named, presumably, because it’s midway between Seattle and Tacoma, though there’s a town called Midway in there too, so…). Norwescon ran smooth as silk and parking was a breeze this year with a secondary lot and shuttle system that was the best addition of all.

I sat on a number of panels with old friends and people I hadn’t met but will certainly seek out in the future, among them Brenda Cooper, Josh Palmatier, Gordon Van Gelder, Eric Morgret and Lorelei Shannon (I totally want to be taken under her horror watching wing). She brought a list of French Horror films and a special brand of snarky review, that I totally dug and was more than a bit jealous of. I might have to bust out a Netflix membership for quite a few.

Richelle and I did a Twilight panel with Mickey Pheonix, who is a wildly enthusiastic moderator and sparkles without the aid of undeadness. I read three selections during my allotted reading time and was only sad that I couldn’t make out with everyone that showed up–to be polite. First, Amanda’s totally inappropriate sex scene from Road Trip, which, if you can believe it, made me blush like I’d rouged up for a night of back alley hooking. It wasn’t the content, it was the dialogue. Scott’s voice (he’s quickly becoming a favorite character of mine) came out really filthy. I hadn’t read the scene before, so I didn’t know how I’d inflect it, but he was as lascivious as I’d first written him. I read a couple of scenes from Dark Rites of Joe Barkley (my perennially pushed aside baby of a manuscript), which made me want to jump back into that world. Much like the French horror Le Bois Frotté de la nuit (Dark Driftwood) makes me want to claw into my own gut.

Lisa Mantchev was on hand to make everyone “Taste Her Bad Candy.” She’s a naughty girl and her minions are mighty and t-shirted. Here she is with Richelle and I at her first signing type thingie…

You’re all going to have to pick up Lisa’s debut, Eyes Like Stars, when it hits stores! Didn’t party all that much, but did hang out with Team Seattle folks and affiliates, including the newly minted Mark Teppo, author of Lightbreaker (I know what you’re thinking, 2 Marks? And I know, we’ll probably revert to surnames and don’t get me started on the 3rd Mark that’s been bandied around as a newbie). Tiffany Trent was on hand (shouting her new favorite word to all those who’d listen) as were Rosemary Clement-Moore, Ken Scholes and Jeremy Lassen (pub of Nightshade books and my one degree of separation from favorite UF author, Liz Williams). Got to meet some fans, some I knew from online stuff (porn) and others were new to me and sprayed with my love (I’m talking about saliva you perverts).  Last thing I did was attend Richelle’s reading from her forthcoming succubus book which was totally funny and had the crowd belly shakin’.

I didn’t have my camera the first day, which explains the sad imagery in this post. I know, I’m pathetic. My swag was even lame–postcards. I should be flogged (even more than I do to myself on a regular basis).  

But wait! I made up for it after Easter Brunch (where I partook of a Body of Christ omelette that was in a word, holy). Caroline and I got home way earlier than expected and she whipped out the camera for a red hot camera session before I slipped back into my writing wardrobe (dirty tee, shorts, flip flops, fucked-up hair). The result is a selection of possible author photos.

Now, I know! I know! You already voted, but that–kind and gentle readers who’d never do anything but pet my arm hair and certainly wouldn’t beat me with my own books, or what have you–was a photo for the Las Vegas newspaper. This one is for the cover. So here we go again…

Should I go wacky humorist?  And if so which one?

Or i r srs awfur?  Then, same question…

I suppose the bigger question is, why can’t I make up my mind?  If we could narrow it down to 2, I’ll just send those off and let Kensington do what they like.  

Hmm?

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

I should probably put a rating on these posts but I won’t.  Anyone that knows me is used to my foul mouth, the books aren’t exactly clean, so…

I tried to post this yesterday and something fouled up, so here we go again.

I’m new to the idea of vlogging, and I’m trying to be spontaneous rather than write up a script.  But eventually I’ll run out of things to talk about (or things I’m willing to talk about–I know that seems odd coming from me, but I actually do have some limits).

So, a question: what would you like to have me ramble on about?

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

And I’m off again.  Tonight starts the Seattle area’s big fan convention, Norwescon.  Last year there were 3000 attendees and lots of bizarro photo ops.  So expect more on this.

If you’re coming out for the big show, make sure to swing by a panel, my reading or the signing on Saturday.  Here’s where I’ll be…

Friday @ Noon: Writerly Friendship   Evergreen 3

What’s it like to start and maintain a friendship with another writer? How about rivalry? Collaboration? What part is played by professional admiration? How about by alcohol? Can only another ink-stained wretch really understand?

Richelle Mead, Donna Barr, Brenda Cooper, Kat Richardson, Mark Henry

Friday @ 4: Vampiric Lore and the Twilight Phenomenon   Evergreen 1

Vampire stories have always been about sex, the domination of the victim, the exchange of bodily fluids. And then along comes the Twilight series with these romantic but chaste characters. How does Twilight fit into the modern Vampire Mythos and how might it influence future vampiric lore?

Mickey “Meowse” Phoenix, Mark Henry, Richelle Mead

Friday @ 8: Reading: Mark Henry    Cascade 3

Road Trip of the Living Dead – Zombie comedy/urban fantasy – Rated PG (should be R)

Friday @ 9: French Horror    Cascade 4

J-horror has faded but the French are ripping up the screen with hard-hitting visceral horror. Are they the next wave of horror?

Mark Henry, Eric Morgret, Lorelei Shannon

Saturday @ 11: The Blogger Effect   Cascade 5

Has blogging ruined the fine art of editing? What do we gain with publishing spontaneous writing? What do we lose? There is a growing network of SF/F professional and aspiring writers connected via LiveJournal and other blogging communities. Is it breaking down the barriers between pro, amateur, and fan-ficcer? Does it function as an informal online writers’ workshop, as a support group, or a black hole of cat-vacuuming?

Joshua Palmatier, Mark Henry, Michael Martinez, Gordon Van Gelder

Autograph Session 2           Noon   Evergreen 1 & 2

Grab your books! Our Guests of Honor and many of our pros will be available for autographs.

R.A. Salvatore, Geno Salvatore, Todd Lockwood, Alma Alexander, Carol Berg, Paul Chadwick, Brenda Cooper, James C. Glass, Mark Henry, Jak Koke, Lisa Mantchev, Juliana McCorison, Joshua Palmatier, Kevin Radthorne, The Reverend En Fuego, Mary Rosenblum, Lorelei Shannon, G.Robin Smith, Bruce Taylor aka “Mr. Magic Realism”, Christine D. Winters, Janine Ellen Young

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So that’s it.  Be there or be square.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.