The Many Emotions of An Author

Creativity is a strange thing. A blessing, a curse, a form of insanity... It's a fascinating truth that many creative people are at best odd, and at worst just plain nuts. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out why that is, since a good portion of my life before I found my niche was passed thinking I was cuckoo bananas. After all, normal people don't spend hours, days, weeks, living entirely in their heads, do they? Normal people don't find the stories they create in their minds more interesting than real life. And normal people certainly don't talk to themselves in order to work out bits of dialog amongst their characters. Hell, do normal people even think up characters?

Since I'm not a normal person, I couldn't tell you.

You've heard me talk about "suckitis" before, that crushing fear of failure that often comes following the completion or release of a new book. You'd think I'd feel accomplished, proud, happy. I do - for a while. Then the apprehension sets in.

Case in point: Leading Her to Heaven is now available in print. It's the first book of mine to get to print. When my copies arrived on friday, I went through a range of emotions and activities. I cried. I giggled like a maniac. I sniffed the inside. I flipped through the pages. All expected.

Then the weirdness set in. Looking at my book now, I feel...weird. It's been available in ebook format for over a year now, and has been well received. But the suckitis has hit yet again, and I didn't anticipate it this time.

Another thing I didn't see coming: I'm actually a bit embarrassed by the sex scenes. My gravy, I used the word "cock" a lot in this book. For some reason, it's different to see it in print than on the screen.

Overall, I'm exceedingly happy to finally be in print - there's a sense of accomplishment and vindication - but right now, I just feel...weird.

Release Date News

Stella just showed me the wrap cover for Leading Her to Heaven.



How made of awesome is that?

The publisher and I chatted, and they gave me the option of releasing the print of Leading Her to Heaven next month, and Svetkavista in March. Typically, Tease sends books to print three months after their electronic release, but Leading is doing so well that they gave me the option of sending it a month early. I decided to go for it. So, adjust your calendars, Leading is now coming out February 15, and Svetkavista March 15.

The Muse is Back!

There are lots of reasons why the Muse stalls out from time to time. Writer's block, of course, which every author faces is the most commonly cited reason. More often than not for me, though, it's so-called "external factors," like law school stress, life stress, publishing stress. Those are what in turn lead to writer's block. I've had a bit of all three over the last two months or so, and because of that there's been little to no progress on Reckless Liaisons, much to my dismay.

But, I'm pleased to say, the Muse is back. Some of the external stress factors have been resolved, and the ideas are back. I haven't actually written anything yet, but Sebastian is rattling his cage in my mind, bombarding me with what he wants me to let him do.

To get back into the flow of the manuscript, I've been reading back over the chapters I wrote. And, forgive my moment of arrogance/self-confidence:

This book is good.

Really. Aside from an apparent love affair with adverbs in chapter 2, I keep impressing myself with both the story and the writing. Ideas spark from the oddest things. It could be the flash of an image in a movie (which led to Svetkavista), a dream with a bit of dialog and a snippet of a scene (Leading Her to Heaven), a what if question (Unspeakable). Reckless Liaisons started with one line: Sebastian never expected to see an unconscious woman slung across a horse running through his garden. It evolved, became something a bit more sophisticated, but the premise stands. And thus we meet our hero, and our story begins to take shape.

Here's an excerpt from Reckless Liaisons. Enjoy, and Happy Thanksgiving!

Sebastian Cade had seen many things in his two and thirty years. A massive black stallion trotting across the gardens of his estate with an unconscious figure slung across its back was not something he’d ever expected to witness.

Sitting behind the large oak desk in his study, sipping brandy and attempting to chase away the headache that had formed after a seemingly endless day of reviewing accounts and answering correspondence, he had glanced up at the rush of movement in his peripheral vision, highlighted by the light pouring from the kitchen on the opposite side of the manor. He shook his head and looked a second time, expecting the strange vision to have disappeared. But no, there it was again; the horse slowed, lowering his head, and began to nibble with enthusiasm on the perfectly manicured bushes hedging the northernmost garden path. The rider, who had been slumped against the animal’s wide neck, slid forward at the loss of support and toppled, face first, unceremoniously to the ground. Though dressed as a man, he deduced the rider was female from the tangled mass of long black hair, blended almost seamlessly with the nighttime darkness. Her mount seemed unconcerned – after a brief shake of its head in her direction, he returned to his grazing.

“Bloody hell,” Sebastian muttered, rising to his feet and moving to the door of his study. He supposed the situation required investigation. He was exhausted, and in a rather foul mood after seeing how much money his younger brother had spent on gambling last month, but he couldn’t very well leave a comatose girl sprawled in the midst of his roses.

“Milord.” One of the maids met him in the hall. She was new, had only been in his employ a week, and he had yet to learn her name. “Yer not going to believe this,” she said.

“There’s a girl in my garden.”

“Aye, milord. Did ye see ‘er too, then? I’d stepped out o’ the kitchen t’ fetch some wood an’ there she was. We couldn’t find William, so Mrs. Holland said to fetch ye post haste.”

“Tell Mrs. Holland not to fret, I’m going to investigate.”

“She also said to tell ye to be careful, Yer Grace.” The young girl handed him her lantern with a coy smile.

He grinned in spite of himself, rubbed a hand across his face, and took the lantern. His scar throbbed, as it often did when he was frustrated. “Do tell Mrs. Holland that I can take care of a small slip of a girl perfectly fine, especially one that is unconscious.” The older woman who served as his head of household had been his nurse maid as a child, and was the closest he’d had to a mother growing up, his own having died giving birth to Sebastian’s brother. She’d been wildly protective of him in his youth and little had changed now about her opinion of his ability to care for himself.

With a final nod to the serving girl, he turned and headed for the back door of the manor, then out into the gardens and towards the crumpled heap that was barely visible in the milky blackness. The large black stallion lifted its head and snorted at his approach. It was an impressive animal – ridiculously large for such a small girl, clearly bred for racing. He’d have it cared for, as soon as he saw to its rider.

“Well,” Sebastian murmured, crouching down to brush thick black hair from the girl’s – no, woman’s – face, “this makes things interesting.”

She was indeed a woman, he realized as he set down the lantern. Gripping her shoulders, he gently turned her onto her back and a pair of deliciously full breasts swayed into view beneath the torn fragments of her shirt, snared by the rose bush’s thorns. The rest of her figure was slender and girlish but the swell of enticing porcelain flesh which rose and fell with each ragged unsteady breath proved his damsel in distress was certainly not a child. Her clothing was crude, simple tan breeches and the now soiled, torn shirt, but on her feet were dainty women’s slippers embroidered with green and gold. It was almost humorous and had the circumstances been different he surely would have laughed. Her skin was pale and flawless, not the tone or texture of a servant or peasant girl. What the devil was a woman such as her doing face down in his garden dressed as a stable hand, let alone riding unaccompanied across the English countryside?

His eyes came to rest on her face, tilted to the side and resting against one slender shoulder. Fine, sculpted brows arched above eyes protected by lashes so long and full they brushed the apples of her cheeks in a graceful fan. He wondered what color her eyes were, and hoped, irrationally, they would be blue. High cheekbones and a tiny button nose gave way to a full pouty mouth and small chin which lent her face a heart-like shape. Turning her chin, he surveyed the left side of her face, and discovered the source of her unconsciousness. A vivid, purple bruise marred her pale skin, just above her left temple, and a jagged cut had leaked blood down her cheek, now crusted to a dull brown.

Skimming his hands along her form, Sebastian performed a cursory check for broken bones and was relieved to find none. He stood and lifted her into his arms, surprised at how light she felt cradled against his chest.

Mrs. Holland waited for him at the door, worrying her bottom lip and wringing her hands together.

“I need water and bandages,” he ordered. “And clothes. I believe my sister has some night gowns in her old room. Someone locate my wayward valet and have him tend to the horse.”

“Shall I send for the doctor, your Grace?”

“Not yet.” With a shake of his head he started for the back staircase. “Help me tend to the wound, and then we’ll decide how bad it is.”

“Who is she?”

Sebastian paused and again shook his head, glancing down at the bundle in his arms. In the warm light of the kitchen she looked even more beautiful than his initial assessment had deduced, lips slightly parted, the ugly mess on the left side of her face the only indication something was out of sorts. Her chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, drawing his attention lower, back to her breasts once more. An angel? He bit back a laugh. Where had such an absurd thought come from? It reminded him of the things he’d once said to… Don’t. “I’ve no idea.”

Svetkavista Now Available!

SVETKAVISTA

Kayleigh Jamison

Tease Publishing

ISBN: 987-1-934678-42-8

Ebook: http://allromanceebooks.com/product-svetkavista-5215-144.html

Print: Coming February 15, 2008

Trapped within a life where she has always been an outsider, Karina dutifully follows the wishes of her father by day, and secretly pursues her dreams by night. Raised within the strict, patriarchal society of the Rom at a time when discrimination and fear are at their peak, she is forced to hide both her love of music and her passion for those who encourage her dreams.

She seeks comfort in the arms of her dearest friend and mentor, who shows her that love and lust rarely confine themselves to the ill-conceived notions of normalcy.

When a lie, spoken in a moment of desperation, threatens to shatter everything Karina holds dear, she must choose between those she loves and her own reputation. Will the truth set her free or destroy her? Does she have the courage to follow her own heart?

If you are looking for a lyrical voice, superb characters that draw you in, and fascinating out of the ordinary historical adventure with an erotic twist, I cannot recommend Kayleigh Jamison enough.
-Emma Wildes, #1 bestselling author and 2007 Eppie winner

Ms. Jamison has penned an absolutely stunning and adventure tale that drew me in from page one, to the point that I forgot everything but the story unfolding before me.
-Caro, Coffee Time Romance, 5 cups

Svetkavista…is a wonderful novel of love and revenge…grabbed me at the start and wouldn’t let go.”
-Amelia, Joyfully Reviewed

Rarely does a novel come along with the ability to capture passion and pain, honesty and love so completely. Sensuous, heartfelt and truly beautiful, Svetkavista is one of the best romance reads of the year.
-Kelly, AORAOG Reviews

…a riveting story; I couldn’t stop reading it and really didn’t want it to end.
-Julianne, TwoLips Reviews, 4 stars

Wow, just one extraordinary, unique story!
-Cathie, Euro Reviews, 5 stars

http://www.kayleighjamison.com

An Excerpt From Svetkavista

The night air was damp and cool on her bare arms as she approached the flickering light of the bonfire, a distant beacon lighting her way across the field. A gentle breeze was blowing off the waters of the Tisza, its banks hidden just beyond the swell of small hills at her back. Her feet sank into the moist, soft mud as she gingerly picked her way through the meadow, the ground swamp-like from the foul weather that had lingered for the better part of the week. It had rained throughout the day without reprieve, upsetting the horses and making travel both difficult and exhausting, but Karina was not too tired to engage in her nightly ritual. She paused in her trek to readjust the threadbare wool shawl she had casually looped through her elbows, pulling the material up over her shoulders to guard against the chill. The garment was old and ragged, but not out of place when paired with the rest of her outfit; the entirety of her meager wardrobe consisted of clothes donated, crafted, or stolen from piles of trash left in the streets of the various settlements through which they traveled.

She was Romani, a gypsy, like her mother, and her mother’s mother before her. Her family wandered the land, living outside of society, on the fringe. Some called them vagabonds and vagrants, others called them thieves and heathens, but they were none of these things. They simply…were. Their way of life was misunderstood, their values misconstrued. The nomadic people were viewed with distrust and distain all across Eastern Europe, and lately the movement to convert or enslave them had increased in popularity.

The noose was tightening around Rom across the Kingdom of Hungary. New laws had been enacted by Empress Maria Theresa, requiring all Rom children over the age of five to be removed from their parents’ care and taken to be raised by peasants in the distant, remote villages of the countryside. They were then being forced into the Christian faith, with the relentless diligence of religious dogmatism. Rom were also forbidden to marry amongst each other, and their nomadic way of life was summarily outlawed, though they were not allowed to purchase land, and they were not permitted to own horses. Because of this, the Rom were on the run, avoiding large cities such as Pressburg and Fahlendorf, left with no option but to hide in the hills and the mountains. They were a stubborn people, and would not bend to the will of a sovereign they did not recognize as their own. The Empress, far away in Habsburg, could not impose her will on people she could not find, and political instability with the remaining Turks in Transylvania had required her to dispatch most of the Kingdom’s military forces to control border skirmishes. There was simply not enough manpower to chase the Rom.

Karina’s family was comprised of Argintari—silversmiths by trade. According to tradition, and law, she was expected to marry Argintari, and raise her children to be the same, if she ever married at all. But Karina’s dream was to be Lăutari. She would wait until mashkari rat, long after her family was asleep, and she would sneak across the camp to where the Lăutari stayed up until the early light of dawn, laughing and playing the lavúta, the flyèta, and the tambal. And then Karina would dance, twirling in frantic circles, skirts flaring, bracelets clinking until she was breathless and giggling.

Karina’s father despised the Lăutari. Music was an important part of Rom life, but he viewed the musicians and dancers as lower-class, without any useful, material skills. They were fanciful, frivolous, and at times downright promiscuous. Tales were reaching Hungary that in Russia the nobility were using Rom to form private choirs, which they would display at parties and society events. There were even rumors that such practices were now being adopted in Pressburg. The Lăutari who received special privileges from the Hungarian nobles were thought of as traitors. It was considered worse than being common slaves, to be mere entertainment for outsiders; it was considered, by most, a fate worse than death.

Not so for Karina. Her father called her impractical and foolish, but the Lăutari with whom she spoke in secret called her gifted. She would hum and sing to herself when she was alone, repeating the melodies she’d heard the night before, and would feel her hips start to sway instinctively. It was as if the music overcame her when she danced. She no longer thought, or worried, about anything. She let the song wash over her, closed her eyes, and gave in to the rhythm.

Karina did not have the look of a traditional Roma. Her dark blonde hair and pale skin were evidence that at least one of her ancestors had been gajè, non-Roma. Her sisters used to tell her that her eyes were too close together, her nose too aquiline, and her lips too thin—they said she looked like a hawk that had caught a sick mouse for its meal. Neither her two sisters, nor her brother, all younger than she, shared her gajè characteristics, and they had teased her about it their entire lives. It was a forbidden subject in the presence of her parents, and the one time Karina had broached the topic with her father he’d told her that God had not chosen to be kind to her, in more ways than one. The answer had frightened her so deeply that she’d never asked again.

The music drifted to her across the plain as she drew closer to her destination; the delicate clink of the bells within the tambal, and the deep, sonorous melody of the lavùta. Brishen had the violin tonight, she could tell even from this distance—no one else played quite like him. His flesh seemed to meld with the black, polished fingerboard, to fuse with the catgut strings stretched taut across the bridge. The instrument was an extension of his body—wood of his flesh, of his blood. When he played, he owned the music; he was the music.

The other musicians called him an angel. Karina thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen when he was playing. When he wasn’t, well, that was another matter. Though Karina did not have much interaction with him other than to dance to his music, she’d heard the stories of his arrogance, his insolence, and his frightful temper. He was the epitome of the Lăutari stereotype. In fact, he was precisely the reason her father forbade her from associating with the musicians and dancers of their tribe.

Sometimes, she thought she saw Brishen watching her through slitted eyes as he played. Often, she was certain that she could feel his eyes on her back as she danced or moved about the camp. But each time she turned to face him, his attention was elsewhere.

Finally, she reached the small clearing where a bonfire had been set, the wet grass pressed down by the trample of horses and boots to create a circular stage. Wooden crates had been unloaded from the wagons and placed on the ground as makeshift chairs. Brishen stood atop one of them, violin tucked under his chin, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, body swaying to the rhythm of his song. His shoulder-length hair, rich brown in color, was tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a slip of twine. He had a strong, masculine jaw, angular cheekbones, and a light brown complexion that had been dramatically darkened by the sun’s rays. He was tall and broad-shouldered—larger in stature than most of the other Lăutari men in the tribe—but the violin suited him perfectly, nonetheless.

It was a traditional gypsy dirge that he played, one normally accompanied by a female voice, but no one dared sing. Not when Brishen was playing. The melody began slow, the horse-tail bow drawing across the G and D strings in a leisurely glissando that transitioned into a grating, dissonant chord. He held the notes, drawing them out, tormenting his audience with the unsavory sound before sliding his ring finger up a half-step, reconciling the note with harmony once more. Karina swore she saw him smirk, but his eyes never opened; his expression never changed.

Without warning, the mournful tone disappeared as Brishen’s tempo increased. He played faster with each passing bar until all traces of the mulengi djilia had disappeared, transforming into a fast-paced cante jondo. His fingers danced across the strings, his right arm a blur as he moved the bow in frenzied, staccato strokes. Several members of the informal audience began to clap in time. A few were inspired to stand and dance.

Karina caught sight of her friend, Papusza, on the other side of the clearing, and picked her way through the crowd. Papusza was two years older than Karina, and had been married for nearly ten years before her husband was killed by the Hungarian militia, several months ago. He had resisted them when they’d tried to take away his son. His body had been hung from the gallows in Pressburg as a warning to other Rom, and Papusza’s son was taken anyway.

“Karina, we weren’t certain we’d see you tonight,” Papusza commented, approaching her with a grin. She embraced the younger girl with one arm, and offered up a flask of liquor with the other.

“But we’re glad for it,” one of the older men interjected from his crate, not far away. “Papusza’s dancing isn’t half as entertaining as yers.”

“And your singing, Uncle, is about the worst thing I’ve ever heard!” the tiny woman shot back, but she was still smiling, and so was her tormentor. Her name meant “doll” in Romany, and it suited her perfectly. She had long, raven-colored hair that framed her face in tight corkscrew curls, offsetting full, red lips that reminded Karina of a heart when she pursed them together.

Karina smiled broadly and accepted the proffered flask, taking a tentative swig of the rich, brown liquid before passing it to Papusza’s uncle, Vesh.

“How long have ye been associating with us, shebari, and ye still can’t hold yer liquor?” he grunted, downing a considerable portion.

“If Dat suspects I’ve been to see you, Kako, he’ll have my head,” she explained, shaking her head at his offer of a second draught.

“Li' ha' eer, Karina, we need to find you a husband so that you won’t have to be so frightened of your father anymore!” Papusza exclaimed, earning a sharp glance of reprieval from her uncle. A woman had no place saying such things, certainly not in mixed company.

Karina blushed and dropped her gaze. Papusza was constantly talking about arranging a suitable marriage for her, and the subject was a sore one.

Much to her family’s dismay, Karina was čhaj, unmarried, despite her age. Her younger sisters had married at twelve and thirteen, and her brother took a wife at fifteen. She was now twenty-three, and still under her parents’ care. None of the young Argintari men of her tribe had ever expressed an interest in her hand, and her father had not, to her knowledge, done much in the way of finding her a husband either. Her family blamed her misfortune on prikàza, a form of karmic backlash. Cosmic bad luck. But, in many ways, her unmarried status was fortunate. It kept her safe from the harsh legislation of the Empress.

“Dosta!” Vesh said, raising his hands firmly above his head. “Leave her alone, Papusza, and let her dance. She doesn’t come here for yer scheming.”

The two women smiled at each other, and Karina nodded her head slightly in the direction of the fire, where several women were already dancing, the gold and silver of their jewelry flashing in the reflective light of the flames.

The music’s frenetic pace began to subside; the song winding down, growing softer, fading to a piano, then to a pianissimo, and then…to nothing. Brishen froze, eyes closed, bow poised in midair, fingers curled around the neck of the violin. The crowd paused also, turning to acknowledge him, waiting anxiously for his next song. The performer seemed to savor the temporary silence before lowering the instrument to his side, cradling it under his arm. Then he raised his bow and pointed it directly at Karina, singling her out amongst the dozen or so women that watched him.

“Bring me the rakia!” he bellowed, and his voice was deep and melodious, much like the sound of his violin.

For a moment she simply gaped at him; in part because he’d singled her out, and in part because to give orders to a woman not your daughter or wife was just not permitted.

“Here,” Papusza said, pressing the flask of brandy into her hand and giving her a nudge on the shoulder with the other.

“No, Papusza!” she hissed, digging her heels into the mud.

“Just take him the drink, girl,” an anonymous voice yelled. “Or else we’ll not hear another song tonight!”

Karina bit her lip, drawing blood, and closed her fingers around the neck of the flask, shooting her friend a dismayed look before stepping forward. She kept her gaze lowered, studying the ground, and stopped in front of the crate upon which Brishen stood. She raised the flask above her head, waiting for him to take it from her.

Strong fingers closed over her hand and she looked up, startled at the brazenness. Brishen bent down and brought his face close to hers.

“Chindilan?” he asked softly. Are you weary?

She shook her head slightly and mumbled, “No.”

“Then dance for me.” He winked and raised the flask to his lips. “And I’ll play for you.”

“I’ll dance,” she said curtly, suddenly angered by his arrogance.

“For me?” he pressed.

“No, it won’t be for you.”

“I think it will be,” he replied with a grin, before straightening and tossing the flask of liquor into the crowd.

Svketavista, © 2006, Kayleigh M. Jamison

Reader Feedback

In the last week I've heard from three different readers personally telling me how much they have enjoyed "A Scandalous Arrangement," and my other work. This makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I know some authors are too busy to respond to comments or don't care what readers think. I am not one such author.

I love hearing from readers because I am an attention whore I like knowing that I have some. As a general rule, we authors have large, fragile egos. I try to give other authors feedback when I have enjoyed their work, since I know how important it is to me.

So, next time you read a book and you like it (one of mine, perhaps? ;)) drop the author a note and tell them so! We don't bite, and you will probably make his or her day.

4 Champagne Flutes for "A Scandalous Arrangement"

Cocktail Reviews had a chance to check out A Rose Of Any Colour Book Two and Lovely Butterfly gave "A Scandalous Arrangement" 4 Flutes!

Anna has been sent to work for a madam. Given the new name of Rose, she is thrust into a whole new way of life. Lily, another girl, has been instructed to get Rose prepared for her first night. An amusing exchange about the removal of pubic hair and the fact that two women could pleasure one another made me smile, for Rose is shocked by Lily’s blasé approach to what she does for a living, and Lily obviously doesn’t see what she does as anything but normal. Hilarious.

Rose is put on display for the gentlemen that visit Madame’s establishment. Uncomfortable and out of her depth, Rose is surprised when one of society’s prominent males, Vere Fane, selects her. He ‘purchases’ her, and Rose is sent to his home, where she is to become his submissive. Though shocked by this turn of events, events out of her control, Rose learns that her predicament isn’t quite as alarming as she first thought. That feelings and emotions that she has kept hidden are encouraged to run free. At last, Rose is able to be the real Rose.

I enjoyed A Scandalous Arrangement because it shows the character arc of Rose very well, that she literally blooms from a bud into a beautiful flower.

Happy Halloween and Some Announcements!

Happy Halloween! My favorite day of the year, in my favorite month of the year, in my favorite season of the year (though here in Florida it's little different from my least favorite season, summer). Unfortunately, I am sick today and unable to enjoy Samhain in all its glory, but I do plan to watch a few scary movies and enjoy the fact that it's Halloween!

On the announcements front:

As you've seen, "A Scandalous Arrangement," a BDSM Regency short is now available in Freya's Bower's A Rose Of Any Colour anthology. I wrote this piece in a mad whirlwind of musely inspiration. The hero, Vere Fane, literally kept me up for three days straight writing his tale. He's very demanding, as you may have guessed, and at the moment he demands you buy his book. Oh, but don't let that be your only motivation, dearies: the fabulous Katrina Strauss also has a story in the book, "Efflorescence." Set in the 1920s, Katrina's tale explores the friendship of a young model and a Russian painter, with a special guest appearance by Anais Nin. It's an excellent story, and for those of you familiar with Katrina's Eldritch Legacy, it shows a softer side to her writing that is no less effective.

Aphrodite's Apples Press has unveiled its new website. To celebrate, all titles are currently 10% off.

And if you really want to scare the pants off yourself this Halloween, then I highly recommend Adra Steia's Swamp Baby. Zombies, cannibalistic swamp-dwelling freaks, and one seriously pissed off spirit, this book creeped the bejesus out of me, and I do not creep easily.

On to more me-centric things...

Svetkavista's 2nd edition will be releasing in electronic format November 15th, that's just two weeks away! Print release is scheduled for February 15th; more info on print as it gets closer. Yes, there will be contests.

Svetkavista's new cover is up for the November New Covey award. Please do get your ass over there some time in November and vote! Stella Price deserves a win for this one!

Leading Her to Heaven 2nd edition will be releasing in electronic format December 15th, and March 15th in print. The new cover is to die for. Again, contests. Many.

For those of you on the lookout for press packs. Yes, I have them. Yes, they're awesome! Wanna know how to get one? Well, here's the first way:

Stella Price will be at the Small Press Expo in NYC December 1st and 2nd. She will have some of my press packs in her hot little hands. T-shirts and coffee mugs are first come first serve, but it's in your best interest to hot foot it on over and pick one up. Why? Because inside one random coffee mug, along with the other press pack materials, is a special hidden prize. I can't tell you what it is, then it wouldn't be special or hidden. But free, signed print books and jewelry are involved.

If you can't make it to the expo, or you don't find Ms. Stella in time, never fear. After each release over the next few months I will offer to mail you your very own goodies first come, first serve. More details on that to come later.

I think that's all for now. Boy, this sounds like a newsletter. Time to take my sniffling self off to the couch and watch some horror movies.

-KJ

Now Available! A Rose of Any Colour Book 2

Featuring "A Scandalous Arrangement" by Kayleigh Jamison

A well-bred lady and a rakish earl escape the ton and shed their inhibitions in A Scandalous Arrangement...

Sold into the service of a brothel madame to satisfy her brother's gambling debts, Lady Anna Boscawen finds herself catapulted into the scandalous, seedy underbelly of the ton when she is given a new name and her virginity is auctioned off to the highest bidder. Vere Fane, Earl of Westmorland is rich, powerful, and devilishly handsome, known throughout society for his carnal inclination and the pleasure and pain he inflicts upon the women he alternately ravages and worships. Bound together by unusual circumstances, Vere leads Anna through a whirlwind of emotions, teaching her to find the ultimate freedom - in submission.

Excerpt:

Anna heard the riding crop cut through the air a moment before the blow landed on the small of her back. Another struck her, this time lower, followed by a flurry of strikes to her buttocks and the soles of her feet. Her eyes filled with tears and she cried out; the pain radiated outwards from her abused flesh and warmed her skin.

"Why?" she shrieked, the harsh surface of the rope cutting into her wrists as she attempted to twist out of his reach.

"Why?" Vere repeated, slightly out of breath from the exertion.

"I did what you asked, milord!"

"You did," he confirmed as the crop landed with another thwack, "you did very well."

"Then I don't understand!" The tears ran freely now, cooling her flushed cheeks and splashing onto her breasts, her breathing erratic and labored.

"Your job here is what?" he asked patiently, circling around to face her. He removed his shirt and she took in the sight of his strong, muscled arms, the crafted perfection of his chest. Even bound and at his complete mercy, she found him heartbreakingly attractive. The tongue of the crop touched her chin and lifted her head, forcing her to meet his gaze. He traced her jaw with the slip of leather, but paused to brush a strand of hair from her eyes.

"To obey you, milord," she whispered.

"Yes, and what else?"

"To please you, milord."

"Precisely. And it pleases me to see you this way, sweet Rose." This time, the crop dipped lower over the swell of her breasts. He traced one nipple, then the other. The pebbled flesh tightened traitorously, causing her to shiver. "Does it not please you as well?"

"N-no, milord," she stammered. Liar, her heart whispered.

Vere leaned forward and murmured in her ear, "It will."

Buy it here.

Copyright 2007, Kayleigh M. Jamison

Red Rose Publishing Now an RWA Recognized Publisher!

That's right, folks, Red Rose Publishing has been recognized by the RWA!

Taking a Moment to Squee

"Eyes Like Yours," my contemporary paranormal short from Red Rose Publishing is still in the Top 10 Overall Bestseller list at RRP. It has been on the Bestseller list since its release on July 20th! How awesome is that!

Haven't read it? Go, go now! http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/product_info.php?products_id=29

Nora Roberts, I would have your babies

Seriously, I would.

Having been called the most confrontational person ever on a number of occasions, I can't deny the allegation that I enjoy controversy. It's the spice of life, after all. It keeps things interesting, and gives me something to write and think about, not to mention ideas for my writing. So yes, I have found the drama of this past week abundantly entertaining. I won't claim otherwise.

Perhaps my favorite part of this week has been interacting with other authors I don't normally encounter. Nora Roberts has been weighing in regularly on the MGP issue, and offering what I consider to be very good advice to new and aspiring authors. I don't read Nora's books; the headhopping drives me batshit. (I realize I headhopped like it was going out of style in Svetkavista, we'll talk about that later) But it's refreshing to know she actually cares about the little guy. In addition to finding her commentary amusing and intelligent, I love this one fact above all others: she wastes time fucking around on the Internet just like the rest of us.

Honestly, given the speed with which she can write a novel, I had always pictured her as sitting in a dark, 5' by 5' room with nothing more than a folding table and metal chair, typing so fast that cartoon smoke rises from the keyboard. Of course this raises the question of how does she write novels so fast when she's online? Katrina Strauss and I think she's got monkeys in the basement.

Anyway, while the excitement was fun for a bit, I'm starting to get tired of the drama. What started out as a constructive dialog about the pros and cons of epublishing has, in the last few days, devolved into a mudslinging insult war. People are taking the opportunity to bash authors or publishers they don't like with no constructive reason behind it. That's when it stopped being fun for me.

So now I go back to writing, which is what I should be doing anyway. Reckless Liaisons is shaping up nicely and I fall more in love with Sebastian Cade each day. His brother, Alex, also makes his presence known and at a cross between Ceallach Ruthven and Trevor Caufield, I guarantee you'll like him. The book is more "traditional Regency" than I have written in the past, and whether that's me growing as an author or not I'll leave to the readers to decide. Best of all - the series will be in print. (insert internal dance of joy here) I'm already compiling fun things, so keep your eyes peeled for info on how to get your very own Scandalous Situations goody bag.

And Nora, I mean it, the offer's open.

Updating on the Updates

Dear Readers,

Are you wondering why I've not updated my website when I've had a new release last month? Where are the excerpts, you grumble irritably. I'm no more pleased, I promise you! I had a computer crash in July and lost close to everything. The year and a half old laptop, which has broken three times already, may be savable, but tech support has yet to offer any, well, support. (Yes, my "Death to Dell" campaign will be starting up soon) Even better, the external hard drive I'd been using to back up my laptop crashed within days of the computer fiasco. If Dell doesn't come through, I really will have lost a great deal, including 10,000 words of Woman of the Forest, my retelling of the Ancient Roman legend of Rhea Silvia.

But in other news, you heard right, "Eyes Like Yours" is now available from Red Rose Publishing! Curious as to how my chops fare with contemporary romance? Well, at $0.99, you've no excuse to not check it out. Hurry on over to http://www.redrosepublishing.com and grab your copy.

I'm hard at work on Reckless Liasons, book one of my new Scandalous Situations series, exploring my favorite type of hero, the Regency rake. I promise you'll like Sebastian Cade just as much as you enjoy Trevor and Vere. But wait, you haven't met Vere Fane, Earl of Westmorland, yet, have you? Not to worry, "A Scandalous Arrangement" will be released later this month in A Rose Of Any Colour from Freya's Bower. What are your naughtiest fantasies? Vere knows them, and can carry them out all without wrinkling his cravat.

More news soon, darlings.

The All-Important HEA

Happily Ever After...love it or hate it, it's a traditional staple of the romance genre. Some review sites will not even read a book that lacks an HEA. To write a romance novel that doesn't end with the hero and heroine riding off into the sunset is considered blasphemy by some. (Technically, books without HEAs are love stories, not romances. But that's a can I don't plan on opening in this post.)

I have been writing nearly all my life. For as long as I can remember, I've told stories. Most of the ones I wrote before the age of 24 will never, ever see the light of day if I have anything to do with it, but I have kept most of them, for amusement, shame, or nostalgia I don't know. In my angst-filled, goth-influenced teenage years I never wrote happy endings. Ever. If anyone was left alive at the end of the story, they were mutilated or incarcerated.

In my early twenties, during which I suffered crippling depression, I didn't write HEAs either. I had started leaning towards romance and erotica then, but things never ended well between my hero and heroine. I believed that real life never ended happily, and so, my stories should not either.

I don't know exactly when I made the transition to being an HEA advocate, but I suppose it was after writing Svetkavista, which has a happy ending for the most part. I had invested so much sweat and tears into my characters that I had to leave them happy. I couldn't stand doing anything else. And from then on I've been an HEA queen. I don't even like reading other people's books if they don't have HEAs any more. To journey with these characters through all their pain and their shit only to walk away knowing they still suffer? Hard to take.

And so now I find myself faced with a dilemma. My current WIP is a piece for Tease's Tarot Series, based on The Empress card. Woman of the Forest is a retelling of the myth of Rhea Silvia, a Vestal Virgin who is seduced by Mars, god of war, and bears his sons. Those sons, Romulus and Remus, go on to become great warriors and, eventually, the founders of Rome. I am taking some minor creative liberties with the story, but I am, on the whole, staying true to the myth. My problem?

The myth doesn't exactly have a happy ending. Depending upon which version you subscribe to, the story is either bittersweet at its close, or downright tragic. And already I am having trouble swallowing that.

So, your thoughts? Is an HEA a must? What about a HFN ("happy for now")? Or a "happy, sorta"?