... A book by its cover

Recent events have made me face up to the fact that I am very very opinionated about book covers. They strongly affect whether I bother to read the blurb or to risk buying the book, and that's a crying shame, because so often books are horribly let down by their covers. I've been there myself:

You can tell it's a swords-n-sandals epic of vast deserts, clashing armies, and the ancient temples of dark gods, can't you?

Book covers should tell the reader something about what lies within, and they should be enticing. That is their job. If they're not doing that, we might as well have plain covers with nice fonts.

To be honest, that works just fine.

So I thought I'd write about what I, as a reader, like and dislike about book covers ... though I'm mostly going to stick to heterosexual romance/crossover genres just to keep it focused. It's entirely about my personal taste. And I want to make it clear that none of the examples I'm going to cite in any way reflect on the text content of the story within!

So here's what I hate.

• I hate anything that looks like it was photographed or painted back in the 1970s:

Would you believe this was published in 2012? Sorry Madelynne, but I think this is the worst cover I've seen in a decade.

• I hate bloated guys with hairless chests.

"Gym Bunny ... standing naked in a tunnel. Huh?"

FFS, grown men have body-hair! Fact! Baby-bald chests look preened at best, and downright stupid at worst. Over-muscled cover models look similarly artificial - and I don't want to read about guys who spend all their life in the gym in order to maintain a narcissistic ideal. I like muscle, but it needs to look like it belongs on a human being, not a bullock.

"Oh god no. I actually feel embarrassed looking at this."

• I hate (almost) anything with faces on.
  

"Oh god, he looks like Starsky."

I'm going to have to explain that. The problem with romance and erotic romance, in particular, is that people depicted on the cover are implicitly understood by the reader (though, Christ knows, not by the publisher) to REPRESENT THE CHARACTERS IN THE STORY. As a reader you're being told: "these are the people you will root for, and feel for, and fall in love with." Now, if I take one look at the cover models and think "Not my type," or "Ewwwww!" then no matter how likely I am to enjoy the written story, I have already been put off investing emotionally or financially in the book. End of.

"He might be okay in ten years time. Ugh: she won't..."

Since my primary romantic alignment is to men, I'm fussier about male faces than female. But what attacts me may not attract the next reader.
So if you are going to show faces - show partial faces. Leave room for the imagination!


So what do I like?

• It turns out that I like arty, but not painted. Digitally manipulated is best.
• I like books where it looks like the publisher and art editor gave a shit, and didn't just pull a stock photo out of a drawer.
• I like symbolic covers that leave room for the reader's imagination.
• I like eyes, and body-parts, but not whole faces.
• Unless you're really good, less is more.

Enough complaining! Here are some (mostly) genre cover pics I love!

Seriously: great cover. Haven't read the books.

Text and marginal art, no central image. Terrific.

Simple, evocative.

Hopefully Madelynne will have forgiven me by now.

Again - no face!

Technically a YA zombie novel with romantic elements...

These two are examples of a genre-standard design type: the layered montage. Yet somehow - and almost uniquely - Tabitha Rayne has managed to get a look that's classy and expensive, and could pass for a mainstream historical novel. I can even forgive the faces.

And it's not actually romance, but ... I love this too:

Eyecandy Monday

I've had a frantic weekend. Now I'm catching my breath before ... the next one.

Seems like a good moment for staring thoughtfully out of the window in zen contemplation of the rainy world at a truly magnificent cleavage.

Everything's alright now, world.

Black Lab - This Night

Love this. It was used in House, The Shield, and Dexter, I hear.

Getting your Five-A-Day

I particularly love the papaya shot.

I'm not sure the hard statistics quoted above are accurate (especially from country to country), but this cute video does make a point I've tried to make before: sex in porn vids does not reflect reality, and it is an appalling shame that it's the nearest thing to instruction in sexual matters and manners that most young people come across.

Porn sex is entertainment - and entertainment aimed primarily at men, at that. It's wholly visual, whereas real sex is both visual and tactile. It's incredibly over-dramatised, and it's enacted by professional performers who are paid precisely because they neither look nor act like ordinary folks.

Written erotica suffers from the same thing of course. We authors are entertainers too. We can over-dramatise. We can heighten the emotions, and play down the common sense and the human frailties. In fact we play down the humour and the silly fun in sex a lot. Anyone who read my stories and thought they were an accurate depiction of what to expect in bed is going to be baffled, I think.

Especially by the lack of minotaurs.

World Fantasy Convention 2013: a worm's-eye view

A burnt-out wreck on Brighton seafront ... and that's just me on the Sunday morning.

I'm not exactly a fraud when it comes to the World Fantasy Convention - I have had horror shorts published, and I do write fantasy, paranormal and mythological fiction within the erotica genre - but I'm not "really" a fantasy author by community standards. Erotica is the one genre that SF and horror geeks get to sneer at. We are pond-scum. We are worms. (That doesn't mean that proper authors don't write erotica - they certainly do, but they do it under pen-names and they NEVER ADMIT TO IT).

So here's my outsider's guide to what goes on at a Convention, from the eye-level of a worm.

1) BOOKS:

As soon as you register at the front desk they give you LOTS of free books - there are literally stacks of books laid out by publishers for the taking thereof. Some of them haven't even been published yet and are Sekret Preview copies! So you fill up your bags (they also give you bags). And then you go to the Dealers' Room and buy more books from small presses and second-hand sellers - and they often give you free chocolates and mugs and postcards and stuff when you make a purchase. So by the end of the weekend you can have suitcases full of freebies ... which is the point at which you realise that you haven't got a car and you have to make it back on the train/tube/plane hauling the lot. A process of winnowing takes place. Free books are left in hotels all over the city, possibly distorting the economy for years to come.

(I was, btw, deeply interested to see that big-name fantasy authors - and I mean BIG names - print and reprint many many books via the small presses. It's clearly not all caviar and champagne at the top end, either).

2) FANNING:

This bit is awesome, if you have Fannish inclinations. I SAW SUSAN COOPER!!  IN THE FLESH! She is real! Susan Cooper, in case you don't know, wrote The Dark Is Rising series, five books that dominated my childhood. I lived and breathed those books. I liked to pretend I was an Old One in disguise. *sigh*

Now I'm just Old.

Best. Cover. Ever.

It turns out that SC studied English in JRR Tolkien's class at university, and her first boss when she went into journalism was Ian "James Bond" Fleming.

I bet she was a fan-girl too.

Susan Cooper and Neil Gaiman: double swoon from all women of a certain age

Terry Pratchett: friend and collaborator with Neil Gaiman

Tanith Lee: no known relationship to Neil Gaiman, so probably his mother or something.

3) The MASS SIGNING:

This is a useful Buddhist exercise in teaching authors to swallow their egos.

The idea is, every single author at the convention goes in and finds a random place at a table. They put a name plate in front of them. They wait desperately for people to bring them pre-bought books to sign. They hope that that they haven't accidentally sat next to someone much more well-known who will just make them look like a huge loser. (Luckily, Neil Gaiman gets a room to himself, so nobody has to actually slit their wrists in humiliation.) NO, the authors are not allowed to actually sell or display their books. NO, the dealers' room isn't open at this point, so fans can't even nip out and buy one.

NO, I didn't take part.


4) BEING ON A PANEL:
 

A worm amidst dragons: Chaz  Brenchley, Michael Marshall Smith, me, Jane Johnson (fiction publishing director for HarperCollins), Heather Graham, Robin Hobb.

5) BOOK LAUNCHES / PUBLISHER PARTIES

Publishers hand out free wine and nibbles to anyone who strolls in. This is a Good Thing. There might be a signing table somewhere at the back, but I have no clear memory ...


6) HANGING OUT WITH FRIENDS
 

Megan Kerr and Kristina Lloyd and a ton of booze

 And this is the best bit of all :-)

Eyecandy Monday

I love my internet author friends! Vida Bailey sent me this picture!
I think I may love him too ... Or at least his hairy, naughty, peeking-out bits. And his perky nipples.

Because I'm at the World Fantasy Convention

Books: they're very much like LSD.

W.F.C.

So I'm down in Brighton this weekend. I haven't been back since the World Horror Convention several years ago, but the World Fantasy Convention looks like it's going to be even bigger and more confusing. I anticipate a smaller proportion of bald guys with beards, but I may be wrong!



The Brighton Pavilion really is this fab.

I'm appearing on one panel:

SUN 11:00 am–Noon

By Any Other Name: What Makes an Author Change Their Byline?

These days even J.K. Rowling is doing it with a pseudonymous crime novel! Is it always a good idea when an author publishes their work under a different name? Is this solely a creative or marketing decision, or are there other reasons—and repercussions—when writers allow their work to appear under an alias?

But what I'm really looking forward to is meeting up with old friends and collaborators ... oh, and seeing Robert Lloyd Parry's MR James reading at long last!

Going to the WHC inspired a short story about Brighton Pier which I haven't published yet and am still nervous about: details may need to be changed to protect the innocent (and me). Let's see what this weekend inspires...

Halloween horror

The dolls of Monster High were my inspiration:



like "Bratz" but for goths

So this was my Hallowe'en costume:

you can't see them, but those heels are ridiculous

complete with false eyelashes!

Yes, I went to a party dressed as a Teenaged Mummy ... ;-)

Eyecandy Monday

 

Well, Hallowe'en is coming up...

:-)

Is that daylight?

Hallowe'en party last night, surrounded by lovely ab-normal people and very happy about it too! Don't be normal, guys. Be you.

Guest Post: Cougar's Courage

Did I ever tell you I did a couple of years Shamanic Training? That might be a post for another time ... but it makes me extra pleased to have longtime fellow smutwriter (and fellow Samhain author)  Teresa Noelle Roberts on my blog today, talking about her upcoming novel release. Take it from here, Teresa!

xxx
Janine

"Logic says wait. Their bodies scream go. And their spirit guides are playing dirty."

Thanks for letting me visit your blog, Janine. I’m here to celebrate the upcoming release of my paranormal erotic romance Cougar’s Courage, the next installment of the Duals and Donovans: the Different series. (It’s book 3, though there are four Duals and Donovans titles out counting this one. Fox’s Folly takes place several years before the numbered books in the series. Don’t worry, it confuses me too!) Duals are shapeshifters, persecuted in the US for their abilities. Donovans are a powerful witch clan. But while Donovans are important secondary characters in this book, the book focuses on another flavor of magic-users: shamans. And unlike witches, shamans don’t have to be human…

Blurb: Toronto cop Cara Many-Winters Mackenzie is still reeling from her fiancé’s murder when her orderly life takes a turn toward the weird, complete with voices in her head and phantom bleeding wounds.
This violent awakening is the rise of her Different gift—a chaotic, Bugs-Bunny-on-crack magic that she must learn to control before it destroys her. There’s only one place to get help: her mother’s ancestral village, and a mentor who seems to have stepped straight out of the smoke of her erotic dreams.
Cougar Dual Jack Long-Claw reluctantly agrees to take Cara under his wing, though he’d much rather take the beautiful city girl into his bed. As he guides her through a crash course in shamanic magic, sparks fly—some sexy, some snarky. But when an ancient enemy attacks the village, they must work together to hone a magical weapon against certain destruction.
Common sense tells them it’s a terrible time to fall in love. Their spirit guides have other ideas. And shamans who don’t listen to their spirit guides are dead shamans…

Warning: Hot shape-shifting feline hero. Strong but shell-shocked heroine. Snarky, meddling spirit guides. And lots and lots of sex: angry sex, crazy sex, magical sex, and just plain sexy sex.
 
Excerpt: This sexy bit falls shortly after Jack, Cara, and another shapeshifting shaman fought off mysterious creatures that turned out to be loups-garous: sorcerers possessing wolves through a particularly nasty form of magic. Jack and Cara are both in shock.

---

Jack had dropped the blanket when he bolted for the door. Technically, he was dressed—at least, all the most interesting bits were covered—but the shredded jeans and exploded shirt exposed a lot of velvety bronze skin and sculpted muscle.

Cara tried to look away.

He gently but firmly pushed her face back toward him. “If you want to stare, stare. Lesson number two: denying harmless impulses makes good chaos turn bad.”

“The trick is figuring out which impulses are harmless.”

His hand was burning her face. She’d have a print of Jack’s hand on her jaw before long, from the heat of his touch.

She moved his hand away with her own, the one where she still wore her engagement ring. She tried to focus on the ring. Phil had been dead less than six months. Her body might be ready to jump into something, but it was too soon. Wasn’t it?

The contact surged through her like a jolt of electricity—a cliché, but it seemed appropriate. Every cell in Cara’s body went on alert. She heard distant music. Not angels singing, more like the bom-chicka-bom-bom soundtrack of a vintage porn movie, but it fit the erotic promise in that simple touch that, she suspected, hadn’t been intended to convey more than generic, instinctive flirting.

Moisture gushed between her legs. Her nipples perked painfully.

Her willpower and morals were out drinking whisky until their panties melted, and the pale memory of a dead man looked at the big, handsome, vividly alive man in her company and decided to join willpower and morals at the bar.

“Oh Powers,” Jack whispered, no trace of teasing in his voice now. “Did you feel that too?”

Before she could answer—before she could deny what she certainly shouldn’t be feeling, manage a last-ditch effort not to do something dumb—they were kissing.

Cara was doomed.

No, she’d been doomed even before he wrapped his arms around her, guided her to her feet and pulled her against him with a groan. Doomed before she got a good noseful of his scent, pine and fresh air, wood smoke and, despite being in wordy form, fur. Doomed before his mouth took hers, nothing polite or tender or gentle about it, but sheer, wanton need.

Doomed from the instant she woke to see him sitting next to her bed, looking like where he really belonged was in it. Doomed as soon as she’d laid eyes on him along the road. Doomed perhaps, as soon as she’d had that first erotic dream.

It wasn’t right, she dimly knew, to blame fate or magic or anything other than her own weakness and Jack’s impulsive behavior. His hands gripped her ass, cocking her hips forward so her heated sex pressed against his rock-hard thigh, while his lips and tongue and even his teeth did things to her mouth that sapped her common sense. The surprising heat of his body embraced her so she felt like she wore his aura of feline and magic. Her body, and perhaps their magic, made the choice for her.

Maybe for him too, because Jack, big, beautiful, arrogant Jack, was trembling against her like a teenage boy in the heat of his first time. His hands shook as they worked their way under her layers of clothing. They were cold on her skin, but only for a second. Then they turned hot, as if leaving trails of fire behind them as they journeyed up her body.

---

Cougar’s Courage will be released on October 29, but you can pre-order from all your favorite e-book vendors. And you know authors love it when you pre-order!  NB: New readers can start anywhere in the series. The main characters of Lions' Pride play important roles in the story, but my editor made sure the backstory would make sense to new readers.


Amazon US / Amazon UK / Kobo (we’re all a bit annoyed with them but Kobo owners need books too) / Barnes & Noble (Nook) / Samhain


Teresa

Incorruptible virginity

Warning: this post is creepy and a bit tragic. 'Tis the season to be ghoulish, after all.

Those of you who read my blog regularly will know I have a perverse fondness for mummies, and particularly for tracking down the corpses of "incorrupt" saints in Catholic churches across Europe.

Pictures here is the body of Blessed Imelda Lambertini, patron of First Communicants, who died in 1333 and was beatified in 1826. Her body is on display in San Sigismondo in Bologna, a church which almost never seems to be open, so I was pretty lucky to have the chance for this picture last year.

Her story is actually rather awful. A pious child from a very early age, she became obsessed with becoming a nun and her great goal in life was to be allowed to take Holy Communion - she'd been told that there was no greater ecstasy on this earth than receiving the very Body of Christ into oneself. "Tell me," she'd ask, "can anyone receive Jesus into his heart and not die?"

Because she was too young to be allowed to partake, she could only watch, "weeping bitterly". Take it away, hagiographers:

"This great and deep love for the Blessed Sacrament caused Imelda to burn with desire to be united to her Eucharistic Lord. When others knelt before the altar to receive Holy Communion, tears filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. “When, oh when will He come also to me?" she murmured. The nuns knew of this longing in her heart. They knew, too, her purity and piety. Yet in that country, First Communion was only for those fourteen years or older, and they could do nothing to help Imelda. They encouraged her to persevere in her love and to pray while she waited. The little girl tried to bear the pain this caused her. At holy Mass, she thought of the sufferings of Jesus, and begged Him to help her to carry this heavy cross of being kept away from Him.
To some, it may have seemed that Jesus was ignoring the pleadings of this tender loving soul but, in reality, He was merely purifying her love and her soul by these sufferings which He permitted her to endure. God only sends us crosses if we can benefit by them; if we don’t waste them. By patiently offering up her sufferings to Our Lord and humbly accepting His Holy will, she was meriting a higher place forever in Heaven and therefore a tremendous increase in her eternal beatitude.
And in reality, Imelda’s heart was not the only one that burned, with ever increasing intensity, for union. As her soul became more increasingly beautiful to God, His Own desire to be one thing with her became increasingly more difficult to restrain. Finally, He could wait no longer."

Ewwwwwwwwwwww... It's like a horrible religious version of Lolita.

So what happened was that in May 1333 little 11-year old Imelda was watching all the nuns at Mass, and in an overwrought state as usual, when there appeared around her a light and a vision of the Host descending toward her. The priest felt compelled to give her Holy Communion at last and the girl was so ecstatic that she dropped dead on the spot.

I remember what it was like being eleven, with all its hormonal highs and frustrations, and consider myself to have got off lightly. See: you can die of sexual excitement.

Her face is, btw, clearly and obviously a wax mask, not flesh at all. Bologna has a long and famous tradition of anatomical wax modelling. Contrast this with St Catherine of Bologna (died 1463, I've seen her several timnes but haven't been able get a pic of my own) : she's a dried, smoke-blackened mummy.

Eyecandy Monday

 

Oh boy, I am doing so much travelling this autumn ... up and down, in and out ... off to the World Fantasy Convention and several LARP weekends, and dragging my parents in my wake (but not to any of the above). My calendar has gone completely crazy. I'm not even going to start on what I had to do last weekend, just to touch base with everyone I'd promised to be there for...

If I'm looked glazed and confused, please cut me some slack!