I realize that my number one influence for Steampunk was actually La Cité des Enfants Perdus which is the proper French title for my favorite movie of all time, The City of Lost Children. The visuals are striking and extremely Steampunk, which is odd to me because I wasn’t thinking of this as Steampunk until just today when I was thinking about the Cyclops (the fat-faced guy with the eye thing is actually a blind man in a cult that kidnaps and sells children to the really old guy).
“The City of Lost Children is…the story of Krank, a tormented scientist who sets about kidnapping local children in order to steal their dreams and reverse his accelerated ageing process. When Krank’s henchmen kidnap his brother, local fisherman and former circus strongman One (Ron Perlman) sets out on a journey to Krank’s nightmarish laboratory, accompanied by a little orphan girl called Miette.” – Umbrella Productions
It’s a weird quest story with a lot of strange world elements. The ocean is polluted (possibly poisonous, judging by the milky green hue), the world is dark (I don’t think there’s any day light in this movie), the characters are all incredibly well-rounded. Almost everyone even the smallest side characters has something they want that they can’t have.
And because trailers in the 90’s were almost as fucking weird as the movie itself, enjoy this:
The Fantasist is a quarterly online magazine that publishes three original Fantasy novellas on the third Thursday of every third month.
There are from a set of postcards designed by Albert Bergeret in 1902. He was French and apparently these were a little risque. Personally, I think they fit very neatly into what we would now call a Steampunk aesthetic. Especially, the Lady General.
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
The Fantasist is a quarterly online magazine that publishes three original Fantasy novellas on the third Thursday of every third month.
I was brought to Steampunk a little late to the game, probably by The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and Hellboy (which might not be Steampunk…). I really wish I could say books, or music, or even the fashion brought me into the fold, but I was really not aware of Steampunk until it went mainstream enough to have movies. But that look is so cool, I incorporated the sci-fi element into my ghost tour uniform (a black skirt, corset, cape, and top hat) pretty quickly.
My top five Steampunk influences are:
The DIY fashionistas. I regularly google steampunk just to see the new retrofuture stuff that exists on the internet.
H.G. Wells, Robert Lewis Stevenson, and Arthur Conan Doyle’s speculative fiction (particularly Doyle’s illustrations).
Sherlock Holmes with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law.
Neil Gaiman’s graphic novel, Neverwhere. I know, it’s not really steampunk, but damn it, it feels like it to me.
The Legend of Korra which also… might not count, but I don’t care about your labels!
The official (i.e., Wikipedia) definition is a science fiction/fantasy work which uses 19th-century designs and technology like steam and clockwork, but for me, Steam-punk is a chance to talk about the modern-day issues by making them relevant to our history. Only without all the limits of actual history (you know, like not having instant communication, or gay rights, or laser guns).
I’ll also add that I’ve always had a somewhat tenuous grasp of history. I was convinced Italians still wore togas until I was in middle school. Part of the problem was that I grew up near the Amish and a Native American reservation. My mom used to watch a lot of Anne of Avonlea, and Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman and something Victorian that I suspect was the BBC. I was utterly unable to differentiate them from the modern day, so I assumed that Canadians, Coloradans, and the British actually acted and dressed that way. I realized this wasn’t true by the time I started reading Robert Lewis Stevenson and Arthur Conan Doyle, but I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t get on a plane and step out and explore Victorian London. Steampunk was a natural fit for my skewed understanding of history and time periods.
I think it appeals particularly to female readers. There’s a very exciting genre of adventure/exploration stories that girls kinda got left out of. Steampunk, which always seems to very extremely cool female leads, lets women particulate in that era of progress as changers and not just spectators.
Steampunk is also really interesting because it lives in a positive time period that precedes one of the most violent and destructive eras in history. So, no matter what advancements a writer creates in a Victorian London, the reader has this background feeling that in a few years WWI is going to happen and be made all the more horrific for these advancements. I think, the era of progress appeals to people who want to write utopias and that might be why so many good Steampunk plots stem from trying to prevent WWI (and I think in our modern minds preventing WW2 and the Holocaust). Personally, I always found it kind of cheating when a single villainous mastermind orchestrates something as complicated as “The War to End All War,” but then again it started as a seemingly random assignation…
But thinking about WWI and progress and classism, and that bright-eyed Utopian ideal in Steampunk, really got my cogs turning for The Scribbling Windhund. I’m not writing about the past in my story in The Fantasist, so I sort of cheated as a steampunk writer. My story takes place in a future where climate change destroyed our current globalized world and forced us into segregated environmental domes where all counties had to reform their old pre-industrial identities. So, Germany becomes Prussia and again reflects the ideals of Fredrick the Great: service to the state, near worship of art and culture, but also a very heavy reliance on its military. Prussia is a very safe sector, where artists and craftsmen are the most highly prized citizens, and over half the population acts as the military/police force supervising the community to keep them from engaging in harmful behaviors.
You know, like being too gay.
The main character, Otto Lang, is pretty comfortable in this utopic state until he’s asked to interview a terrorist who’s been imprisoned for fourteen years for kidnapping the last Prussian princess. Throughout their interviews, Otto begins to question everything he believes about his sector, and his government, and his life. Eventually, well, I won’t spoil it because you can read it for free here.
The Fantasist is a quarterly online magazine that publishes three original Fantasy novellas on the third Thursday of every third month.
And this month, while they celebrate Steampunk, one of them is mine!
Support these guys. They have good stories for free.
Otto Lang thinks it’s a joke when he’s asked to hear and record the confession of a terrorist in his globally-read Unprofessional Opinion Column. He’s more used to writing about cravats, coats, and men’s trinkets than serious topics like the fourteen-year-old kidnapping of Prussia’s last princess. Yet when Otto meets Karl Schneider, he is immediately impressed by his intelligence, humor, and the very sane way he talks about utterly conspiratorial ideas. As Otto digs beneath the pristine surface into the dark secrets of his perfect world, he begins to wonder if the prisoner is the real patriot.
Selection from “The Scribbling Windhund”
Fri. June 15th, 134 SE If I had any wisdom, I wouldn’t record a private diary on a contraption where entries can be easily reproduced, but I have neither shame nor wisdom, and I’m beyond lazy about personal discretion. Besides I’m positively bursting with news I legally can’t share with anyone. Elsie received a letter from Gefängnisturm. Yes, The Gefängnisturm. Vitally important, hideously ugly, black tower prison tower, which provides life and safety to all who dwell in its shadow but mars the otherwise heavenly skyline of Stadtoben. When she first told me Ben the Stoic had written to me, asking to be interviewed by me, to confess publicly to his crimes of terrorism to me. Well, simply I thought Elsie was joking. When she insisted, I scoffed. I’m only a fashion writer. It had to be a hoax. Then Elsie admitted she received the letter nearly a week ago. She hadn’t told me because she wanted confirmation of the letter’s validity from the warden of Gefängnisturm. I was utterly stunned. Firstly, because Elsie had kept a secret from me. Just last week, I went on record with Rolf Clausen saying it was utterly ridiculous. Won’t I look like a fool, now? And secondly, what does a terrorist want with a fashion critic? I’ve done my share of human interest pieces, no mistake. Interviewed opera singers and authors and historians for my Friday column. I mean to sit that Pascal Selig down one day and get his story. But a terrorist? That sort of personality doesn’t really suit Rainer Liebling’s frivolous sensibility. So, Elsie and I went back and forth, about it. I said it was silly for me to write it. She said no one else could. I said I didn’t want to. She said it would be good for my career if I ever intended on being taken seriously. I maintained I have no intention of ever being taken seriously. And here my clever little editor trapped me. She said, “Well, if that’s the way you feel. It’s probably for the best. The warden at Gefängnisturm wasn’t going too keen on letting a zleute in.” Oh, wait, that’s incorrect. She said zweiteleute, because Heavens forbid the great Elsie Simper use any kind of slang. Now, I know Elsie isn’t stupid enough to think she was being subtle. Partly because she knows full well, she doesn’t have to be. That’s a gauntlet I can’t walk away from since there is absolutely no good reason for a zleute to be kept from legitimate journalism if he wants to pursue it. I took the letter and disappeared into my office to research for the rest of the day, and if it weren’t for Dear Secretary Clara, I would have forgotten lunch with Hans.
Tues. June 19th, 134 SE Dear Readers of Der Stadtoben Spiegel, I know I promised a discussion on various styles of gentlemen’s wigs, but you’ll have to forgive me for breaking my routine a day early. It is with deepest and most humble satisfaction that I can, at last, confirm the rumors circulating in the gossip forums (Sorry Herr Clausen, Darling, I had to lie to you). I’ve been taking great delight in watching this debate, knowing but unable to share the truth. As unlikely as it would seem, three weeks ago, I indeed received a request from Prisoner 16 asking to tell his story in my widely read Unprofessional Opinions Column. Fourteen years ago, Prisoner 16, known in the popular imagination as Ben the Stoic due in part to his notorious refusal to speak, was arrested for his involvement in the abduction of Höchste Tebelde Albrecht, Prussia’s last princess. Though he was found guilty and has been imprisoned for his part in the crimes, without his confession the death penalty is unlawful. That being understood, if the gentleman wishes to face execution in order to tell his story, I would whole-heartedly offer him the pen. Under my powers, I would have interviewed him the very day I received letter. However, Gefängnisturm, for good reasons, historically bans zleute from entry, even highly lauded professionals such as myself. Over the past three weeks, the staff here at Der Stadtoben Spiegel has been negotiating with the authorities and the man himself in hopes of finding an acceptable way to present Prisoner 16’s story to the public. While, we offered to send a primäreleute—specifically, the esteemed Frau Elsbeth Simper— the prisoner made it abundantly clear he will speak to no one but me. A dubious honor, to be sure. Last night representatives at Gefängnisturm officially denied my request for an audience. I write this specific column to set the rumors to rest and to indicate Der Stadtoben Spiegel’s ongoing commitment “to do our all to report all.” I am not afraid to enter the prison tower, nor to speak to a prisoner. As far as I can ascertain, I am not the target of a madman’s obsession, though I appreciate my concerned readers for their flattery. Nor is the story a hoax presented by Der Stadtoben Spiegel’s staff, our subscriptions are doing quite well, thank you. Nor is there a conspiracy to prevent the ruling families from obtaining new information about Höchste Tebelde’s whereabouts. At least none that I am aware of. I appeal to Ben the Stoic to reconsider and to speak his truth to Frau Elsbeth Simper.
The Fantasist is a quarterly online magazine that publishes three original Fantasy novellas on the third Thursday of every third month.
And this month, one of them is mine!
The Scribbling Windhund
Way back in the spring-time, I finished this novella just in time to send it into a Steampunk themed issue of The Fantasist. I didn’t have particularly high hopes; since I wasn’t sure a futuristic version of colonial-era Prussia about the impact of climate change, with very dark moral undertones narrated by a mechanical dog counted as steam-punk. I’m not really sure what Steampunk is. I know it when I see it… sorta.
The guest editor, Megan O’Keefe, was open to a wide interpretation of steampunk and my little love story managed to sneak into The Fantasist. In order to celebrate, I thought I’d bring you an exploration of Steam-punk.
I’m going to be showcasing the Steam-punk that inspired my story. There’s going to be music, movies, artwork, and more than a few author interviews.
Also you can find my steampunk story, The Scribbling Windhund, here.
Support these guys. They have good stories for free.
She’s a hybrid shifter who’s not supposed to exist. He’s a wolf who was born to protect her. But her secrets force him to choose: his mate, or his pack loyalty?
My story in Born to Love Wild is “The Flying Saltines”
When the Hudson River falls in love with a walking disaster of a teenager, can New York City survive?
Selection from “The Flying Saltines”
I’m so drunk I think I’m sober. And yet, I’m sprawled in the bathtub wearing my black jeans and an even darker shirt. The shower is on, but it’s only my torso and crotch under the icy spray. So that’s bracing. Pretty sure I screwed someone in the alley behind Taphouse in the last ten minutes. My hair reeks of lavender. The fuck? Lavender? I stagger out of the slippery tub. Turn off the shower. Unstick my wet jeans and t-shirt and leave them in the tub. Cringe at my face in the mirror. “Shit.” If some post-modern beatnik wielding a pair of gardening shears assaulted a photo-shoot of models then stitched their faces together backward, it might look somethin’ like my reflection. And, to be clear, I mean that literally. So I fix my Picasso-esk face, then squiggle a chunk of toothpaste stuck to the faucet. The alley behind Taphouse… Why can’t I remember anything? It’s not like me to forget details. “Damn…” I brace my hand on the wall and sink through. Glasses are in debug mode. I mend the wall, then tap the glasses to day mode. Steady myself. Leave my wet clothes in the tub. Stumble into my apartment. I expect darkness. Instead, I see Lum. Frantic as ever, he digs through my cabinets. Orange beanie slipping on his head. Wet patches on the knees of his Carharts. He grins when he finds a bowl, a smile that shatters— Not that he’s cute. His eyes bug too much, and he hasn’t got a shred of confidence. I mean, he’s my buddy. That’s all. Not cute. “Uh, hi,” He freezes when he sees me. Right. Because I’m naked. “Didn’t you, um—” I reach through the wall into my bedroom closet and grab my bathrobe. “What the hell you doin’ here, Lum?” “I-I, well—” His smile cracks. He gestures at the bowl and milk on the counter without the calm to finish speaking. Somehow, he knocks a box of raisin bran out of the open cabinet. Bran rains onto the counter. As he fumbles to slide the cereal back into place, he tilts the box. Pours cereal into his hat. Eventually, Lum hands me the broom and dustpan. It’s safest when I clean his messes. Crumbs tumble off his hat. “Yeah. Listen, there’s—actually, how are you feeling? Nice and sober?” “Not remotely.” I sweep the crumbs onto the floor. “Why are you in my apartment?” “Uh…” His eyes could swallow the world if he held them steady. Instead, they flicker toward my chest. “R-reality is kinda sprained.” “Sprained?” “Only a little. Um, I’ll show ya.” Lum tugs his stained and tortured shirt. He opens the kitchen window over the fire escape. There’s a potted plant, and I’m frankly stunned he doesn’t knock it over. Instead, a flutter of insects swarms my kitchen. Not insects. They’re too square, too white, too…crumbly. “Lum. Is that saltine flyin’?”
Reveiws from Goodreads:
“Not every paranormal romance is a fairy tale, and this story hits you in the face with that knowledge right away, sucking you into the main character’s life and holding you hostage (willingly) so that you want more. It’s a bit disjointed, so was hard to follow the timeline, but it turns out that was the whole amazing point. I thoroughly enjoyed the romance-infused ridiculousness.”
Naida Bouche foolishly thought she could live as if she was only human. Her true nature hung over her like a thunderhead, driving a wedge between her and her husband.
Cooper Martin had no idea why his ex-wife divorced him. He’d treated her like a goddess. And they had no problems in the intimacy department.
Fate brings them together again. Old emotions flare to life. Can Naida see beyond her self-perceived faults and allow the flames to reignite the love she and Coop feel for one another?
EXCERPT:
Water cascaded off her nude body. Small rivulets ran over her breasts and down her slightly rounded stomach, disappearing into the surface of the lake.
She was one with the water.
She could, literally, become one with it.
Moonlight reflected off the mirror-smooth surface, adding a soft glow to the night.
Crickets serenaded her with their chirping song. The cicadas added their buzzing to the symphony. There were a lot of cicadas, hence the name of the lake. A wolf howled in the distance. Nature cocooned her.
She grinned and dove under. Liquid embraced her, still heated by the sun’s rays from earlier in the day. Her body became insubstantial, fragmenting into molecules of H2O. Disorientation left her bewildered, but the feeling came and went. Weightless warmth enveloped her, and the ebb and flow of the tide lulled her into blissful relaxation.
The moon slid across the sky. Hours had passed. Her body became corporeal with a single thought. After regaining her human form, she cut through the water with powerful strokes and rose to the surface in a rush of bubbles.
The night air chilled her damp skin, raising goose pimples along her flesh. She pushed the long fall of hair from her face and glanced into the deep, lush woods that ringed the lake. Soon the leaves would change to shades of gold, orange, red, and brown. In would come the autumnal chill. Her time in the waters would decrease, and then winter would set in and freeze her out.
When that happened, she’d resort to the swimming pool located on the basement level of her large home. Even with the greenery she had sprinkled about, it never fully replaced the exhilaration of the lake, the feel of fresh air against her skin, and the scent of the wilderness.
She repeated the cycle, year after year. The monotony had long since worn short on her nerves.
She had someone in her life, someone to break the monotony.
More accurately, she would only have him until the end of the day.
Tonight would be the last night they would be together. She’d tell him that they were over and done with. The sad part of the whole shitty deal was she couldn’t really give him a reason why.
How could he understand? Hell, she’d have trouble believing the truth, if it wasn’t her life.
The root of their problems were otherworldly, as her father was human and her mother was a water nymph.
The nymph side of her heritage presented two problems. First, she needed daily contact with water. The more the better. Like her pool in the basement. Second, she also needed sex … a lot. Preferably once or twice a day. After all, the term “nymphomaniac” had been born of a nymph’s sex drive.
They had a lot of sex, but there were times when their hectic lives interfered with his libido. He was human and his sex drive was human.
She couldn’t guess how he’d react if she said, “I’m a nympho which means we have to have sex all the time. Day and night. Over and over and over.”
He wouldn’t understand it and she’d allowed it to build a wall between them.
No, he had never known the truth of her desires.
She had pushed him away, afraid of exposing her real self.
And that fear, that uncertainty, would leave her alone … and needy.
LM Spangler lives in South Central Pennsylvania with her husband, daughter, three dogs, a cat, a rabbit, and some fish. Her son serves his country in the US Navy.
She is a fan of college football and any kind of baseball and likes to watch the Discovery, Velocity, HGTV, DIY, Science, and any channel showing a college football game. She also watches old game shows like $25,000 Pyramid and Match Game.
Hello, and thank you so much for having me here today to talk about my new release, Spice & Vanilla. This is the darker, naughtier sister of my previous release, Woman as a Foreign Language, but it can be read as a complete stand alone.
The BDSM element in Spice and Vanilla came about in part because I had just finished reading Katerina Ross’ beautiful novel Tenderly Wicked, so I was in the mood for something a bit spicier than my previous release, and partly because I had this idea for Raphael, the main character, that he would be “in two minds about anything”. He’s gender-fluid, bisexual, and as it turns out, a switch (he is in fact the sort of character that can piss off absolutely every reader on earth, lol).
I always like sex scenes to carry some of the character building in my stories. I think sex is one of the most visceral things we do in life, and the way we have sex with different people and different sex with the same people at different times can say a lot about us, about our feelings for our partners and where we are in a relationship. You can put so much more than smut in a sex scene (although a good amount of smut is most welcome), and when you stray into BDSM that potential for character exploration rises tenfold, because there are so many more layers to it. Why do we feel the need, in a caring, loving relationship, for giving or receiving pain? Why do power and humiliation become a turn on, even a necessity, at certain times? And can these things add more to our relationships than just a passing kinky thrill? Can they possibly become a way to express feelings we don’t have words for? I do not pretend to have full answers to these questions, but I did enjoy searching for them in the company of such complex characters as Raphael and Hugh.
Blurb:
Time was, when Di could dance all night. Time was, when she could ride any horse in the stable. Time was when she had a fiancée, a future and a home she loved. Until a silver SUV came out of nowhere and broke her life in half.
Well concealed under a sarcastic, spiny hide, Hugh has a darkly romantic, passionate soul. Torn between love and terror, he’s held the talented, elegant, magnetic Raphael carefully at arm’s length since the day they met.
Male or female, men or women, kinky or sweet, top or bottom? Angel or devil? Raphael’s life is a string of unanswered questions. And Lucie, his long-hidden female self, may bring it all together or destroy everything he has.
Be warned: cross-dressing, gender-queer, explicit M/M and M/F sex, anal sex, spanking, flogging, bondage, forced orgasm, sex toys
Excerpt:
Hugh watched him stroking away with great contentment. He was totally worn out after a crazy day at work, and it was not always easy to find the energy to satisfy such an enthusiastic masochist. There were days when he wished Raphael were a bit less fond of being spanked and whipped, but he always did his best to oblige him. The thought of his Raphael going out there looking for release from God-only-knows-whom, and getting hurt for real by some less scrupulous or talented Dom was just unbearable. Still, tonight he would lie back and relax. Mostly. I will have to help him eventually, he thought with a slightly evil grin, but I can take a breather first.
Raphael stroked in perfect tempo. He was one of the most technically exact musicians Hugh had ever played with, after all. Too exact, in fact.
It would do him so much good to let go a bit, to just go with the flow, be wild and imprecise and purely passionate. Then he would not need so much of this.
Tick—tock—tick—tock—tick—tock, went the metronome, and Raphael stroked and stroked. It was a good while before Hugh could tell, from a small furrow between those blond eyebrows, that the unchanging, slow rhythm was beginning to frustrate him. He smiled a bit wider and said nothing, devouring his beautiful quarry with his eyes. He watched, entranced the fluid play of flesh and skin as Raphael’s long pale cock, a nice ruddy purple by now, sank and reemerged into and from his fist, the velvet-like foreskin lapping beautifully over the shinier, silky glans, the testicles bouncing softly to the rhythm as the scrotum was pulled up and released. It was hard to resist the temptation to throw the whole scene to the devil and just take that cock in his mouth and suck it empty.
This is without exception the best use a metronome was ever put to.
Raphael’s body was developing a number of small, charming tics and twitches. He briefly lifted his left knee from the mattress then relaxed again. His right wrist was pulling on the strap from time to time, and his breath was coming in slightly ragged bursts.
Still it took a long time. Too much control, thought Hugh, smiling. Tsk-tsk.
Tick—tock—tick—tock.
He slowly unfolded his hands and moved to sit between Raphael’s legs. He spit on his middle finger and watched Raphael’s face, half hopeful, half anxious, as he slowly approached his anus. He didn’t hurry. He let Raphael wait for it. He would beg, in time, Hugh knew, but there was no need for that, not yet. He finally pressed his fingertip to the twitching, tight, live rose of flesh and felt it jolt and spasm. He massaged it in circles, with relish, and didn’t even try to penetrate it. Raphael was shaking all over, trying to press down on his finger, but there was just so far he could stretch, tied as he was. His belly muscles went taut. They were contracting in random, jerky convulsions. Hugh had never seen anything so beautiful.
Then Raphael missed a beat. His hand had picked up pace, ignoring all orders. Raphael whimpered, trying to compensate to get back in the right tempo. The double change of pace made him squirm all over. He swallowed twice and missed the beat again. This time Hugh slapped the inside of his thigh, very hard. Raphael could take a long regular series of well-spaced blows with relative ease, but a single hard slap coming down out of the blue like that drew a ragged cry from him.
“You do know what tempo means, I asked?” Hugh said, in a plain chatty voice. He had never had any taste whatsoever for histrionics. He was not, he had never been, a theatrical Dom. He wasn’t in it for setting up a show. He just got the job done.
“Yes. Yes!” said Raphael, a bit frantic. He managed to stick to the rhythm for a minute longer, until Hugh gently stuck his finger just within the ring of his anus. All of Raphael’s body twisted, and he lost all track of the cold, mechanical rhythm of the metronome.
And that is exactly what you need, my love . Too much playing by the rules, too much fucking control. You need to find your own tempo, and just let go.
Five or six fast hard strokes followed. Hugh slapped him twice, on his thigh, and, when he turned suddenly, on his butt. And then Raphael came, on the third slap, as he flopped flat on his back again, crying out in pleasure or pain, or both. It was hard to tell. Semen spurted out in beautiful, long, arched white streamers, splattering over Raphael’s belly, chest, and even his face.
It is difficult to aim while being spanked hard.
Hugh watched him coming, avidly.
He was so naked. So vulnerable, so unguarded. Hugh, who felt, every day, that he might shatter like glass, on Raphael’s unearthly, impossibly graceful, self-possessed beauty, lived for these moments, to watch him released of all self-consciousness and all bonds. Strange, how it took a bunch of leather straps to get him to do that.
“Ah, oh, shit. That hurt,” Raphael whispered after a minute. “Not complaining, mind,” he added, with a small edgy laugh, wiping some drops of sperm from his lips and eyebrow.
“Good,” said Hugh, quite composed, despite the erection straining in his pants. Watching Raphael twitching and jolting while covered in glistening semen was not a sight to leave him unmoved. He reached out for the metronome, stopped it and lowered the weight a tad, then started it again.
This was a faster, business-like tempo.
“There you go, hot lips,” he said to Raphael, who was still breathing hard from his orgasm.
“What? Wh—but…”
Hugh gave him a small devilish smile. Raphael was perfectly capable of coming two or three times in one night, but, like most men, he needed a while to recuperate in between. Well, tonight, he wasn’t getting it.
“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”
You can also find an exclusive excerpt on my website, here.
Into the Mystic, Volume Three is a short story anthology featuring nine paranormal short stories that center on a lesbian/bisexual romance. I’m super excited about it, since I feel there is a lack of LGBT fantasy romance especially ones that focus on the ladies. Since I know a few of these authors, they let me interview them!
Ava Kelly
It Started Before Noon – All Stories must begin somewhere.
Ava Kelly is an engineer with a deep passion for stories. Whether reading, watching, or writing them, Ava has always been surrounded by tales of all genres. Their goal is to bring more stories to life, especially those of friendship, compassion, understanding, and comfort.
“Secluded Storefront” art by Ava Kelly
L.J. wakes up bound to M. Hollis’ wheeled chair, but she is not in her kitchen anymore. Instead L.J. is surrounded by books, cogs, wires, and bubbling liquids. A picture perfect steampunk laboratory.
L.J.: Damn! Serves me right for trusting a vampire and her delicious cookies.
L.J. scoots and the chairs rolls forward.
L.J.: Hello? Is there a mad scientist around? Maybe a minion?
Crash that sounds like tools and metal, but also pens and paper. Ava Kelly pops around the corner. L.J. wiggles her fingers to wave.
Ava: Oh! You’re awake already. That vampire told me you were a dream factory and would sleep for a hundred years. I hadn’t even gotten around to test you yet!
L.J.: Nope, just a friendly writer going around door-to-door in other author’s imaginations and getting interviews.
Ava: Aw. Serves me right for trusting a vampire and her discounts. Well, I suppose it’s nothing a sedative won’t cure.
L.J.: But the interview? I mean this silliness has gone along quite long enough don’t you agree?
Ava: I suppose…
Ava sits down and sips from a cup of tea.
Ava: You’ll want to know what draws me to F/F romance?
L.J.: Actually, I’d like to be untied before–
Ava: The same thing that draws me to queer stories in general. Diversity and normalizing diversity.
L.J.: That’s beautiful. Can I quote you on that. I just need to not be tied up so I can–
Ava: Names are powerful things. I’ve been an outsider throughout my formative years, raised in an allo cishet environment in which queer media was almost non-existent.
Ava paces through the laboratory, pausing as they encounter experiments that need fine tuning.Tightening loose screws, pruning idea trees, that sort of thing.
Ava: So you can imagine the revelations I had later on, when—through the stories and movies and books of others—I could name the peculiarities of my own person. When I knew that I wasn’t alone. I’d like to bring that feeling to others. I’d like to help them understand who they are, be able to name their demons and thus turn them into trusted companions. Because, hey, we’re all different and that’s what makes us human. That’s a good thing.
L.J.: So is untying your guests.
Ava turning sharply with a needle full of dream-dust.
Ava: What?
L.J.: What inspired “It Started Before Noon”?
Ava leans against a table stacked high with books and sets down the needle. One of the books stretches, yawns, and patters over to L.J.
Ava: That is a very good question, since “It Started Before Noon” is a story about inspiration.
Ava rubs their chin.
Ava: Honestly, I can’t remember what it was that started it all. One moment I was hopping through the mythology multi-verses—Wikipedia is both a burden and a joy, isn’t it?—the next there were storypuffs and muses and scientists looking for romance in a world dry of it.
L.J. nods helpfully. But as soon as Ava returns to their survey of the room, L.J. rubs her bound wrists against the hard-ridges of the book’s spine. The book arches up happy with the attention.
Ava: I must admit, I have a soft spot for steampunk aesthetics, the visual part of it most of all. The universe of “It Started Before Noon” has that aesthetic, but it has magic. A subtle kind of supernatural energy, persistent, generously infused in everyday life. A resource like everything else.
L.J. stops sawing through the straps when Ava turns to look at her. The hard-cover book annoyed bats at L.J.’s hands with its sharp pages.
L.J.: That’s really cool. You don’t often see sci fi and fantasy blending like that.
Ava nods and collects the stray books and returns it to its tower while it hisses.
Ava: The people living in this world are on a spectrum of magic… flux, if you will. Some are immersed in it to their core, it’s part of who they are, what they are. Others are at the other extreme, oblivious to its tendrils wrapping around reality. Most, however, reside in between, be they creators of magic or simply users. Talida, a muse, is a part of it. Ingrid, a scientist, cannot see it.
L.J.: Oh that’s a relationship fraught with conflict right from the start.
Ava: Indeed. Their personalities aren’t all that similar either. Talida is easily annoyed, but she also has patience; unless startled, in which case she acts rashly and without much consideration. Ingrid is exuberant, relentless, a little stubborn. Yet, when it comes to tending to her own happiness, she might give up too easily. They fit around each other, not perfectly, but enough to make them gravitate toward each other.
L.J. snaps the rest of the strap while Ava plays with a character mixer demonstrating the auras mingling.
“The Storypuff and the Rose” art by Ava Kelly
L.J.: It sounds like you have a really in-depth world for a novella. Was that a challenge for you?
Ava: When writing fantasy, the most difficult part is world-building without making it obvious. It’s easy to drop a chunk of text explaining how that particular setting works, its rules, its way of life; but considerably harder to interweave it within the story.
Ava reaches into a jaw of descriptors and begins to pepper them around the lab. A ‘thatched’ there, an ‘eye of newt’ here, ‘creaky floor boards’ all around, and ‘smoke swirling upward. The ‘gingerbread fragrance’ thickens.
Ava: Let it drop here and there, make its way into the reader’s mind quietly and unobtrusively until they’re there. Until they’re living inside that space with no memory of having to jump through. As a writer you have to know how to open the doors to your own imagination without yanking your reader through. Must have patience, must lure them with crumbs under the canopy, one after another on the meandering forest path until bam!
L.J.: Holy cow, we’re in a witch’s cottage.
L.J. is now imprisoned in a cage made of hard-rock candy.
Ava: Would you like some gingerbread to munch on?
L.J.: No, I’ve leaved my lesson about snacking in other authors’ imaginations. What about the romance part of the story? Was that difficult?
Ava continues drinking their tea, though they lean against a kitchen counter full of dangling herbs, jars of organs, and vials of electricity.
“Light Painting” Art by Ava Kelly
Ava: Romance is… weird, in a good way. There’s a thing I noticed over the past decade(-ish). Our world demands fiction to be more and more realistic. There’s so much technological progress that science fiction is becoming true. I essentially design artificially intelligent systems in my research.
L.J.: Wait, like…for real?
Waves hands and dispels the witch cottage and re-checks their e-mail.
L.J.: Ava… is an engineer… That reality is a hundred times cooler than anything I could making up.
Ava: Yeah, let me tell you: it’s mind-blowing. Twenty years ago, having an entire computer in your pocket would’ve been too out-there to imagine it as an integral part of our lives. Now that computer can be the size of a watch and you can still write emails on it. And remember those Star Trek comm devices? The only difference is that we’re wearing them around our wrists instead of on our chests.
L.J.: I’d give all my money to the person who designs a case for one that clips onto my shirt and stays in place.
Ava: One will probably pop up soon enough. So, now we have this world in which the impossible is suddenly not only plausible but also probable, and we start craving reality to bleed through. Romance as a genre is a mirror that distorts reality toward happiness, but the world is sadly too bleak. On the one hand we want to see the possibility of contentment, and yet, on the other, we thrive when it moulds around life as we know it.
L.J.: So the challenge of writing romance…
Ava: Is making it feel possible. Realistic enough to touch. In the end it’s all about fulfilling the purpose of romance: to give hope. And that’s pretty damn hard to do if your heart, as a writer, is not in it.
L.J.: Alright, last thoughts. What is your advice to new writers, Ava Kelly?
Ava: I’ve seen a lot of advice regarding writing in general, but a lot less when it comes to the struggles of getting your work out there. So I’m going to talk about the publishing part. If you don’t want to self-publish, you have to submit your work for consideration. To a magazine, a publisher, an agent, etc. and convincing them to buy your stories can seem sisyphean.
One of the realities of today’s world is that there’s just so much of everything in it. So many people, so much media, a lot fewer avenues of publication. It’s hard to shine from a pool of millions doing the same thing (and this happens not only in art-related fields, but also in research and academia). I’ve been publishing things in both fiction and non-fiction since the late ’90s and oh, boy! I have gotten at least ten times more rejections than acceptances, overall. Haven’t really counted, but that’s in the upper hundreds there.
It’s spirit-crushing. Heartbreaking sometimes. Discouraging to the point of hopelessness.
My advice? Keep submitting.
The hardest thing about this is to not give up, so how do we endure? Simply don’t stop—don’t set that quill down, that’s your sword! Polish the story, if you must. Rewrite it, reimagine, but never stop submitting. Be patient, let the no’s slide off and get back to it. Persevere.
L.J.: This has been a lot of fun for me and now I’m super inspired.
L.J. walks away before any of these nutballs from Into the Mystic catch her again.
L.J.: Can’t believe I got an interview with the inventor of our future Robot masters.
BORN TO LOVE WILD
Graceful Indecency 