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Empress
Hometown: Melbourne
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aggrieved
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May 09, 2010
"the eyes of an aggrieved poet" ... that's how an author I recently read described a dog, and that's how I like my poets - as adjectives. Poetry generally leaves me underwhelmed. Lyrics, however, are a completely different matter.
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Think again...
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March 27, 2009
One of the harder aspects of being a writer is taking a long cautious look at the contracts you have with a publisher... and deciding to cancel all of them. For me that was nine pending including 2 print books (OMG) and at least 20 already out in the world. Why did I do that crazy thing? Because these stories are my babies and I object to having them shaking by proofreaders who questioned a Shakespearean reference, attempted to change "Roald Dahl" to "Ronald Dahl", were too busy attacking my style to bother picking up on actual errors... yeah. A few other things in there, too, but when production quality goes down it's definitely time to rethink.
Might not be so smart to say such in public either. Ha. Onto researching options as I still believe in the stories and want them out there being enjoyed.
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laying out the year
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January 17, 2009
Having finished the second Pandora's Edge novel within a five week period and deciding not to do that again for at least three months, I submitted it today. I already have titles booked in on a monthly release schedule up until August so far. With the novel and the Halloween follow-up I want to do, plus a couple of sequels for various series, that's the year laid out.
Hmmm....
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empress's Featured Art
Winterlark
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When they forbade clocks they exiled time. Then they opened the doors to the exiled, turned the lights to soft and welcomed the lonely into the loving arms of lyricism who loved them all back with a black velvet voice.
A touch of sin in summer, the lightning with the rain, Winterlark crooned the last note, holding it close and warm as she rolled one bared shoulder, curving a hand around the microphone to pull it closer to her lips. She continued to curve as she dipped, her spine arching, hips swaying as she explored the limits of her vocal range, pushing the liquid sound into a subtle shimmy on the threshold of pain.
Curving up now instead of down, the blossom to the stem of the microphone, her ankle hooked around the steel as hers lips twisted, bent the music into a broody mood. She conjured a counterbeat with the snapping of her fingers, tossed a wink to her audience that was pure Winterlark wickedness as the heel of her boot hit the stage-
Snap … the lights cut out, banished the world to black-
Snap … the jazz trio exploded into a percussive tattoo, an incisive beat, dominant and altogether alpha. With sight stripped from the chain of command, hearing took the wheel and wound the window down down down.
The insistent throb tangled in the hindbrain, pressed the primal buttons. It created a crackle in the blood from the sultry simmer of the Winterlark’s melody, called a glow of energy that grew to a haze as the lights powered up again.
Winterlark spun the microphone stand out and brought it home. She raised a brow, twirled a finger in the steamy air and called the wild music to heel. With a squaring of her shoulders that shivered the sequins of her gown, the chanteuse captured the mike, mouth a sly curve to match the lilt of her lashes.
‘Smooth,’ she promised. ‘He’s a smoo–ooo-oth operator.’
The bass player essayed a doubting throb and she answered with a toss of her head, raven locks tickling the small of her back. ‘He’s a born alligator.’
A rill of notes from the piano prompted a flourish of her hand towards the bar beyond the ring of tables and chairs, to the man who glared at the lights as though daring them to dim.
Winterlark blew him a kiss. ‘Face to face, each classic case.’
He ducked and turned the move into a grab for the glue gun on the counter.
‘We shadow box and double cross.’ She cradled the microphone in both hands, hips tracing figure eights as her fingers played. ‘Yet need the chase… a smoo...More >>
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