A Loaded God Complex

  Taking tequila shots too fast.
  Slow down, I knew you would vomit, but you said you could drink.
  A lie you told
  The first of many
  Rubbing your back as you got sick
  Holding your hand as you cried for all you you'd gone through, all you'd lost,
all you'd given away
  You spun your web, sticky sweet
  I flew in blind, stained glass wings glued fast, you bound me tight
  My Stockholm Syndrome complete
  Your pretty lies and gutting insults
  Is this what passion is made of?
  A great fuck wrapped in rage.

Making a Difference Just by Trying to Be Good

Being firmly rooted in Gen X, I can't tell you how surreal it is to read Tweets from the
Dalai Lama. Though given what I understand of Buddhism, his Twitter presence makes perfect sense. Wisdom isn't something to hoard or make accessible to an elite few. Wisdom is to be shared and built upon through democratization. And as good wisdom usually is, one of his latest Tweets is perfect in its simplicity:

"The basic foundation of humanity is compassion and love. This is why, if even a few individuals simply try to create mental peace and happiness within themselves and act responsibly and kind-heartedly towards others, they will have a positive influence in their community." -- The Dalai Lama

It's the last two words that, to me, resonate the most, "their community." I've admitted often enough to feeling as though I'm screaming into a void, but one reason I stay part-time at the EDJ is not only the supplemental income, but also the feeling I get being there. No, not the soul-crushing pain of our current fast-food healthcare system....
Pshhht, that'll be one sinus infection special with a side of sciatica pain meds, do I have your order correct?

No, definitely not that feeling, but the feeling when someone comes to me with a real pain, desperation, or fear I can solve. Then my inner Buddhist kicks in and reminds me to treat this person with compassion: Think right, speak right, act right. And if I made this person's life just a little easier for even the few minutes I get to spend with them, then I know I have done good by being good. Hopefully they pass it along and when/if they do, that's how we all have the power to change the whole world, one small, community-based impact at a time.

But Cindy, you say, I don't have a job like that. I am not faced with people I can help in that way. I work in ___________ (fill in "an office", "customer service", "IT", "janitorial services", "actual fast food", etc.) But there's where you are wrong, my friend. You have the choice every day to treat others with kindness, respect, and compassion. A Roy Rogers clerk name Khazim, who cheerfully helped me at the drive-thru, comes to mind. I fully appreciate the man has a shitty, shitty, shitty, shitty job, but he did it with good cheer and genuine concern for my customer experience. I wasn't having a great day, but Khazim cheered me up and I know I went forth about my day in a better place just because the drive-thru clerk was nice to me. You can make someone's day with just a smile, a please/thank you, or a sincere "How can I help you?". It's easier than you think.

And the beauty of what the Dalai Lama is saying is that you don't even have to be successful with every attempt to be the best version of yourself. I can tell you I failed spectacularly a couple weeks ago, perhaps when it mattered most to someone in real pain (though in fairness, I deserve to make this guy's list when he gets to step 8....just sayin').

Hey, we are all human and prone to stumbling, but thinking right, speaking right, and acting right becomes a habit. The more you try to be good, the more you will do good, here in your own home. Local action, global results. Don't make me go all It's a Wonderful Life on y'all. Go forth and commit random acts of kindness. Do what you feel in your heart is right. You won't regret it, even if it's just for the selfish reason that it feels really fucking awesome.

Getting over the desire for that feeling....well, that's another lesson, and if you learn how, please let me know how ;)

Namaste,
Cindy

Long Lost Nathaniel, Red Sky at Night--Book Four in the Pirates at Heart Series

One of my better selling series, Pirates at Heart, has a fourth tale untold until now. As I load my works onto Amazon, the Pirates at Heart reboot will contain a fourth book, Red Sky at Night, the story of Nathaniel and Ruby. There's a lot of surprises in this one, the death of one of my main characters which broke my heart to write AND this juicy tidbit below. Enjoy!

Pricking her finger, Ruby watched the droplet of red swell on the surface of her skin. She pressed it to the health scan display. Something was really wrong, she just knew it. With all the nausea, dizziness and fatigue, she feared the worst. Except for the lack of high fever, her symptoms had all the earmarks of Storm Flu. Her temp flirted at the edge of being elevated, 37.6 C, but never quite went over the line.

What would she do if she couldn’t work? She didn’t have enough in savings to take off more than a month or so. Not after her bastard ex had stolen everything she owned a few years back. What if she got really sick? She had no one to take care of her. She hadn’t spoken to her father and brothers in decades. She didn’t know where they were, if they still were. The same went for her mother. She had no one.

Except for Nate, a voice in the back of her mind piped up. The thought alarmed her. Sure, the young man was a fun plaything, a masterful lover and one of the finest captains she had ever worked with.  And that’s how she felt. She worked with him, not for him which was one of the only reasons she had agreed to stay on as his first mate after she had helped him get his feet wet. But did she have him to rely on should the worst happen? Did she want to? Still, part of her felt that if his was the last face she saw before she sank into oblivion, that would be all right.

The little analyzer beeped, jarring her from her thoughts and displaying her results.

“Holy fuck.” She exhaled.

Her condition proved worse than she had imagined.

* * * * *

“So then we’ll need to procure a pink orangutan, right First Mate Delaney?”

“Aye, Captain.”

She had heard Nate’s words but they hadn’t quite registered. Then she realized what she had just agreed to.

The shift supervisors snickered, but Nate silenced them with a glare.

“Crew dismissed.” He waved a hand, the sailors scrambling to vacate the pilothouse.

“Sorry, I’m a little distracted.” She shook her head.

“Yeah, a bit. What’s going on?”

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she crossed her arms over her torso.

“Hey.” Nate brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “It’s me. If you’re struggling with something, you can talk to me.”

“I don’t know. Maybe not about this.”

“About anything.” He kissed the back of one hand.

A surge of nausea hit her. Closing her eyes, she took slow, deep breaths.

“Ruby, you’re worrying me.”

“Maybe you should be worried.” Tears sprang into her eyes.

He furrowed his brow. “Now, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You have to promise me not to overreact.” She sidestepped him and began pacing back and forth.

“I promise I will overreact if you don’t talk.” He caught her by the shoulders. “Ruby, please.”

“Nate―” Her voice broke. “I’m―I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.” His eyes grew wide. “Oh. What? How?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, when a man and woman get these special feelings―”

He waved away her sarcasm. “You know what I mean. I thought you had the implant.”

“And I thought you were on the pill.”

“With everything that happened with Momma, I forgot to refill my prescription and I figured you were still on birth control.”

“At my last physical, my doctor advised removal so I had it removed.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I thought you were on the pill. You should’ve told me you went off it.”

“Fair enough. But you’ve been without the implant for over six months now. Why wouldn’t you give me a head’s up?”

Loath to admit the truth, she shook her head and shrugged. Nate’s questioning stare didn’t waver. Apparently, he wanted a real explanation. She sighed, her cheeks burning.

“Because.” She crossed her arms over her chest, studying the floor. “Do you think I wanted to tell my twenty-four year old lover that at my age the implant carries significantly more risk?”

“I don’t know why you’re always so hung up on our ages.” He shook his head. “This mess could’ve been avoided.”

His words cut her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, sugar. You don’t have to deal with ‘this mess’ if you don’t want to.”

“Ruby.” He tried to catch her hand, but she pulled away. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sounded pretty clear to me.”

“No. No, I’m just surprised.”

“Don’t think that I’m thrilled about this either. You aren’t the only one who’s upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He combed his fingers through his hair, a signature move when frustrated or at a loss for words. Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin, he held her gaze for a while. A heavy exhalation broke the silence.

“I’m sorry. It’s just―wow. A baby.” He took her hands and wouldn’t allow her to pull away. “A baby.”

“Stop saying that word. I don’t even know that I want this.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Please, don’t make me say it.”

“I don’t even want you to think it.” He furrowed his brow.

“But it’s the truth, Nate. I just need some time to figure out what I want.”

“We can figure this out together.”

Chewing her thumb nail, Ruby shook her head. She wasn’t so sure they could.

* * * * *

A baby.

A baby.

Sitting in his captain’s chair in his cabin, Nate stared out into space as the thought echoed in his mind. A baby. Definitely not the tack he thought his relationship with Ruby would take, but then again, since when did anything in life go as he thought it would?

Poppa’s career-ending injury, Marcus taking over The Yellow Rose, Momma’s untimely passing. And now a child. But Ruby’s pregnancy didn’t fit in with those other events, did it? He had struggled to deal with all those other things, but a baby, well, the thought gave him a warm, excited feeling. Granted that feeling was also cloaked in more than a little panic, but ultimately it was a good thing. A blessing. Yes, that was the word.

“I don’t even know that I want this.” Ruby’s words from earlier replayed in his head.

Clearly, she didn’t see it as a blessing. Not yet. Maybe she never would.

He knew it was her choice, one she had a right to make, but he couldn’t bear the thought of losing the baby. Somehow he would have to show her his commitment, show her that he could be the man she needed him to be. They could make this work. He would make this work. He had to.

Pushing the comm link, Nate issued an order to his quartermaster, Miguel.

* * * * *

After a nap and a shower, Ruby’s mind had cleared a little. She would take this change of plans one day at a time. Maybe Nate was right, they could figure something out.

Reporting for her shift in the pilothouse, she didn’t understand why Quartermaster Miguel was setting the course.

“It’s my shift, QM.” She stepped up to the wheel.

“Captain says you’re off the schedule until further notice,  First Mate Delaney.”

“He said what?” She set her jaw.

Swallowing hard, Miguel dropped her gaze. “He said―”

“I heard you the first time,” she snapped.

Spinning on her heel, she stormed belowdecks.

How dare he? How. Dare. He? What did he think, that she was some kind of invalid now? By the time she reached Nate’s quarters, she had worked up a full head of steam. Punching in her pass code, she didn’t even bother to knock.

Shirtless and clearly in the midst of a work out, he grinned and toweled off as soon as she burst in. “Hey, darlin’, I was just thinking―”

“Then, you should stop doing things you are ill equipped to do.”

Furrowing his brow, he took a step back. “Are you pissed about something?”

“Whatever gave you that idea? Why the hell did you take me off the shift schedule?”

“You said you needed time to think. And I thought…in your condition―”

“That I can’t plot a course or program the autodrive to steer the fucking boat?”

“If you have to put it on manual during a squall or if we get boarded―and you need your rest.”

“I can still do my job, asshole. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”

“I was trying to help.”

“Well, don’t. I’m not asking you for help…or anything else.”

“Ruby, we’re in this together.” Again, he reached out to her and again she pulled away.

“Don’t equate your role in this with mine.”

“I admit that in terms of the pregnancy, I’ll have it a lot easier, but once the baby’s born, I’m sure being a father will put me through my paces.”

“Stop acting as though this is a done deal. Right now, all you are is a sperm donor, okay?”

Eyes narrowing and posture stiffening, he whipped the towel onto the floor.

“Is that how you feel about me? Why even tell me, then?”

“I didn’t want to tell you. You pried it out of me.”

“So the plan was to just―to end things without me ever knowing?” he shouted.

The outburst startled her. Hands on his hips and chest heaving, he glared down at her. For the first time, she realized how very big and imposing he could be. Apparently, she had crossed the line. She had never seen him angry. Not like this and especially not with her.

“I don’t have a plan.” She backed away, shaking her head. “Nate, there’s a reason that I’m almost forty years old and I don’t have any children. I’m a criminal, for crissakes. The first mate on a bootlegger’s ship. The way I earn my living isn’t exactly conducive to breastfeeding.”

His expression softened. “We can make arrangements―”

“If I can’t work, I can’t provide for a child.”

“That’s not what I mean―”

She shook her head, tears leaking down her face. Fucking hormones.

“I can’t be seven months along, running from brown coats.”

“No one is asking you to.” He grasped her hand. “Ruby, I’m here for you.”

“As much as anyone is there for anybody.”

“What does that even mean?” He jostled her gently, exasperation drawing his features tight.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know where we are, what we are.”

“Neither do I, but I know that I care about you and I know that―that I want this baby.”

His words drained all the fight from her body. Shoulders slumped, she shook her head. “How can you know what you want? You’re so young. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Wrapping her arms around herself, she trained her gaze on the ceiling. “I have nothing, Nate. No one. You have family, money, you have everything.”

“And everything I have is yours.” He touched her belly. “Is ours. We can do this. Together.”

She hiccupped a sob.

“Ruby, I should have told you this sooner. It’s a thought that’s been swimming around my brain. Maybe it will make all this easier. I think I love—”

“No, don’t say it.” She put a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now.”

She couldn’t bear to hear the words if he didn’t mean them. And what if he did mean them? This thought frightened her even more.

His mouth opened again, but he closed it as if it was all he could do to contain himself. She leaned forward kissing him lightly. One arm snaked around her waist, a hand tangled in her hair, he deepened the kiss. Hot breath passed over her cheek, his musky scent heavy in the air. He teased open her lips, his tongue caressing hers. She melted in his embrace, unable to resist the warmth and urgency of his touch.

Lowering her onto the bed, he eased her back, fingertips skimming over her chest, grazing her nipples and then meandering down to her waist. On his knees before her, he bent down pausing for just a second, smiling, before he planted a kiss on her belly. Heat and need raced through her veins and settled between her thighs.

Gently, he lifted her shirt over her head and unhooked her bra, casting both garments aside. The cool ocean breeze coming in from the porthole drew her nipples into tight buds. He licked at the dots of puckered flesh, nuzzling each breast and kissing them.

She sighed, threading her fingers in his hair. Once he had slipped off her trousers, he took off his shorts. Settling between her legs, he pressed his hard cock to her opening, but hesitated.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He smoothed her hair across the pillow. “Either of you.”

One finger tracing his high cheekbones, she realized how very much she needed him inside her right this very second. Joining their bodies together would make all of this strange dream real in her heart and soul. She might be able to believe in a future she’d never dared to think about, but in Nate’s arms all seemed possible.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Want to participate in WIP Wednesday and show the world what you are working on? Send submissions to cindyjacksbooks@gmail.com. Romance, erotic romance and erotica prefered.

Cheers!
Cindy

Every Breath You Take by Cindy Henson Wiggins

Here's a bit of flash fiction I'm featuring on my new blog, Clean! today. It's not erotic, but definitely romantic in its own way. Hope you enjoy!

Gravel-laced whir of a coffee grinder and footsteps overhead. She is awake. I imagine her messy-haired and half asleep, stretching good morning in her robe. The robe is lavander with small plum blossoms dotted over it’s silken surface. This I know because I’ve seen it when she’s trotted down to retrieve her mail as her coffee brews.

I appreciate that she grinds her own beans. I do the same. Any self-respecting coffee lover does. At least, I assume she loves coffee because I know she has it special delivered and yes, she grinds her own beans every morning. So, she must love good coffee.

Her light footsteps overhead are comforting as I eat my breakfast. I wonder what she eats, if she eats breakfast. Perhaps she settles in with fresh fruit and yogurt. Maybe it’s eggs and toast, just like me. I can hear the scraping of her chair and the soft creak of aged wood, perhaps rattan. I can’t be sure, but we’ve spent our mornings together so often in just this manner. I would cook her whatever her heart fancies if she asked.

Her soft footfalls lead to the bedroom. She is barefoot, or at least wearing only slippers. She moves like a cat on sneaky feet. The shower above mine spring to life and the music starts, Pharrell - Happy pours through the vents. She’s in a good mood. This makes me smile.

I start my shower, her bathwater draining into my pipes. We are, in essence, in the shower together. I allow my mind to wander, picturing her silhouette through the steam, her hand outreached for mine. I would take that hand and never let go.

She ends her shower before I do, but she takes longer to dress than I do. The music is softer now. I can’t quite make out the tune, but the driving bass furthers my theory that she’s happy.

I hear her voice over the din, she’s chatting with someone on the phone. Her giggles form silver bells over the din and ring in my heart. What could I say to make her laugh like that?

The clothes I laid out the night before wait for me, folded neatly over my chair. Today is special. Today, I dress for success. Today, I will charm her off her feet.

Hello, darlin’, I’m the handsome downstairs neighbor you’ve been wondering about.

Confidence is the key. I wear my favorite tailored shirt. Well, it’s the only tailored shirt I own. My father taught me all a man needs is one good dress shirt and a good barber.

Ruffling gel through my hair, I inspect my reflection. Rafael outdid himself the last time I went for a cut. Lined up and perfectly in place, my hair resembles a GQ ad if I do say so myself. After slipping into well-worn jeans and dabbing on a bit of cologne, I am ready. As ready as I’ll ever be.

My palms sweat so I dust them with a bit of talc. Another tip from Dad. You only get one shot at a good first impression and a man never has sweaty palms.

Standing by my door, I am ready. Today will be the day.

What will I say? Well, I’ve known that from the day she moved in that I’d fallen for her. I am thunderstruck by her beauty and grace. I know the depth of her mind because I hear all the documentaries she watches at night when she can’t sleep. I know she isn’t the run of the mill kittens and puppies kind of girl because her Facebook posts are funny and pithy. Never corny or smarmy. She has too much taste for that.

She loves her family because they all come over for Sunday dinner every third Sunday of the month and she knows how to cook because the scents from that dinner are always inticing.

She laughs with abandon and cries with equal measure. She is complicated and simple and passionate and kind and honest---all rolled into one beautiful soul.

“You dropped this,” she said, handing me my credit card. It’d slipped out of my pocket. She’d been behind me going up the stairs, a fact I was doing my best to ignore.

“Oh, uh, thanks. Wouldn’t want to lose that.”

“No.” She grinned, shaking her head, chocolate brown locks licking her cheeks. “That would be bad.”

Of course my dumb ass was struck mute.

But not today. Not today.

The door above me slams, not with malice, but with the certainty that it is closed. Keys jangle as she locks it. My heart pounds into my throat as I prepare to open my door. All I have to do is open my door. Open the door. I can hear her heels clicking on the stairs.

Open the door!

A moment’s hesitation too long, I open the door to see the red wool of her coat disappear out the building’s front door. Her car rumbles to life and I’ve missed my chance yet again. Closing my eyes, I take in the scent of her perfume. It is floral without being acrid and it warms my chest even though it is the smell of regret and could-have-beens.

Head hung low, I shuffle into my flat and take a cleansing breath. The door clicks closed behind me. I have my day’s work to get to. Putting her from my mind is a must. I set my jaw, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. There is always tonight. Tonight will be my time.

*****

Powering down my laptop, I prepare for Bold Introduction 2.0. I pour two fingers of Scotch in a tumbler and roll it between my hands before downing it. Liquid courage was definitely what I was missing this morning.

The front door of the building wooshes open and closed. The cacophony of children stampeding upstairs after a long day of school distracts me. It’s way too early to be her, but my stomach lurches at the sound. This is a dress-rehearsal for showtime.

About an hour later, after I’ve double checked my hair and downed another Scotch and soda, the building door scrapes open. Again too early and the fact that it doesn’t immediately hiss shut tells me it’s not her. The clank of the mailboxes one floor down confirms my suspicions. It’s the mailcarrier. He climbs to my landing and knocks on my door.

I greet him with a smile. “What’s up, Fred?”

“It’s a heavy one today. Proofs?”

“An ARC. Yeah. Thanks.” I sign for the hefty package.

Fred sizes me up. “All dressed up and no place to go?”

“Today’s the day, Fred. Today is the day.”

He shakes his head. “Youth is waste on the young.”

I laugh as I close my door, but he isn’t wrong. Fred could’ve been a looker in his youth. He wouldn’t have had any trouble talking to the goddess on the third floor, of that I was sure.

Settling on the sofa, I open the new book I’m supposed to review, but it’s hard to concentrate. Somehow, I force myself to hear the author’s voice and not hers.

Then comes the woosh I’ve awaited all day. I spring from the sofa, ready to make my move. But then I hear her voice. She’s on her mobile phone, heels no longer clicking, she stomps up the stairs. Her door slams, this time with real violence.

The conversation is muffled now, but loud nonetheless. Snatches of her indignance float down:

“I don’t understand--”

“Explain why--”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“--Can’t do that--”

“I won’t put up with this shit--”

Then, she goes silent.

Holding my breath, I wait for more, but nothing else comes. The floor resounding above tells me she’s pacing. What’s gotten her so agitated?

The gentle squeak of springs. She’s on her sofa now, probably with her feet tucked under her bottom. A protective position. I hear her cry and I wonder who’s made her cry, though I’m pretty sure it’s that punk-ass boy I’ve seen climb the stairs far too often. He has no idea what to do with a woman like her. If she were mine, I’d never make her cry. Not sobbing as she is now.

I could scale the stairs and be her white knight. A hero with a box of tissues and a shoulder built for comfort. Loneliness is state we both share and neither of us need ever be alone again. I’d tilt her chin up, eyes shining with tears. I’d kiss her and promise never to do anything to hurt her. I love her. She must know that.

But how could she. I’ve never told her. But somehow, some way, she must know. She is my morning, noon, and night. Shaking my head, I exhale. How am I supposed to tell her all of that? Now, I start to pace. The timing isn’t right. It’s just not right.

I give her some privacy. She’ll quiet in an bit and then turn on the TV. We’ll watch something about the migration of blue whales or the strange disappearance of honeybees.

Lighting a cigarette, I take a long drag. The air is a little crisp and I regret coming out with no coat. I could go back in, but then she’d hear my intrusion. She needs a little time alone.

Then, I hear them---her balcony doors. They click open and closed. She has French doors, not the sliding glass piece of shit I have. The light comes on and her gentle foot steps lead to her bistro set. She’s talking to her mother and once again feel as if I am intruding.

Looking up as I crush out a cigarette, I pause. I want to stay and find out what has her so upset, but it’s none of my business. As quietly as I can, I slip into my apartment.

The night drags on. I work through the ARC, making notes, but she is never far from my thoughts. I wait for her to come inside. Finally, I see the light extinguish from her balcony and hear her. A few ballerina steps and I know she has gone to bed. All is still.

Heading to bed myself, I imagine slipping into clean, soft, cottony sheets next to her. I roll over, the warmth of her arm draped over me and her feathery breath on my neck. This image knotting me in Gordian fashion, I undress and toss aside the useless dress shirt. Then, I retrieve it and fold it neatly over my desk chair. I’ll hang it up tomorrow. I do the same with my jeans and go to bed in my boxers and undershirt. Tucking an arm behind my head on the pillow, I sigh.

Tomorrow, I will work up the courage to talk to her. Tomorrow will be my day.

Everything Is Your Fault....Or Why Tom Bilyeu Is Brilliant

Writing is lonely business. Whether you write from home or surrounded by like-minded individuals, when it comes down to it, putting word to page is just you and your thoughts trying to make sense of a mad, mad, mad, mad world. To produce articles and novels on the reg requires Herculean amounts of self-discipline and self-motivation.

The self-discipline I've got. I've written more in the past couple weeks than most people do their entire lives. Even self-professed "writers". The motivation, well, that's the sticky wicket.

Don't get me wrong, I am more than motivated to write. For me, it is a need, not a want. I always love finding out what I've got to say. More often than not, I surprise myself with my turns of phrase. I read my work and think, Did I write that? Wow! I'm my biggest fan. You have to be otherwise you have no business writing.

The problem comes in when it seems no one else gives a shit about what I have to say. It's nothing short of heartbreaking to have a novel flop or to see a scant number in the "Views" column of blog post. I start to feel as though I am screaming into the void. If one writes from a place of honesty, heart, and soul, it's a blow to ye ole ego to be told by end results, "What you gave wasn't enough." All bullshit aside, that's how it feels: Cindy you are not enough.

But thanks to billionaire genius, Tom Bilyeu, learned how to flip that script. I read an article on Inc.com, The Simple Way to Find Your Passion According to a Founder Who Built a Billion-dollar Brand. Understand, I am not a flavor of the month kinda gal. And no, I am NOT calling Bilyeu a flavor of the month, far from it. I subscribe to tried and true advice such as:

You have to do it the old-fashioned way...you have to eeeeeearn it (And yes, John Houseman does always narrate that line in my head, who else would, silly?).

If you don't know what you are doing, pretend that you do and no one else will the difference - Hugh N. Wiggins aka my dad.

Nothing is ever as good or as bad as it seems - again gotta attribute that to Dad.

Stop screwing around and get your homework done. - Ruby Wiggins aka Mom

Hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard - Kevin Durant

First rule of leadership: EVERYTHING IS YOUR FAULT - A Bug's Life.

Or more recently the way Tom Bilyeu put it in the aforementioned article: "How did I create this situation?"

KA-BLOOEY, mind blown. I'd never thought of my flailing writing career in quite that way.

Well, we all know my sitch right now. Working an EDJ that is killing me, the faucet of words shut off, a situation I thought would be a permanent one. But as all real writers know, that pipe will burst one day and it did burst, leaving me covered in the sewage of my own shame, regret, and bitterness.

I had two choices: wallow like a pig in my own shit, or grab of tub of wet naps (preferably antimicrobial), clean myself up and figure out "How did I create this situation?"

Here is my confession:

• I doubted my talent.
• I allowed the needs of others to supercede my own, trying to be some kind of martyr, somehow more loved for my sacrifice.
• I made expensive choices both financially and emotionally.
• I wrote what I thought other people wanted to read instead of writing what makes me happy.
• I put all my eggs in one basket.
• I bought into the myth of "overnight success". I hoped one book would rocket me to the bestsellers list. **see the aforementioned John Houseman line.
• I thought small.
• I stopped making it personal.
• I got caught up in what Bilyeu would call "petty emotions" which is exactly what they are.
• I stopped READING....a writer's cardinal sin.
• I isolated myself.
• I did what I thought was expected of me.
• I let other tell me who I am or who I should be.
• I hid my true self from the world because I thought my true self was unacceptable.
• I allowed my vices to control me.
• I blamed others for my failure.
• Worst of all, I stopped trying.

I admit right here and right now that I, Cindy Anne Jacks, made every single one of those decisions.

So....how do I re-create my situation so that I elevate myself from the cacophony of self-doubt to the place of literary greatness I know I can achieve?

Well, I don't have all the answers yet, but I do know I don't know everything. I embrace my mistakes and I vow to myself, and no one else, that I will never give up ever again. When faced with obstacles, I will find a way around, over, under, or through. I will reinvent myself a thousand times because I owe it to myself to do so.

From here on out, I accept everything is my fault. Sincerely, thank you, Tom, for what you do.

Cheers,
Cindy

How to Get Laid, the Intro

As promised, I'm sharing an excerpt today of my WIP How to Get Laid Like A Billionaire-Superhero-Pirate-Cowboy-Rockstar-Fireman, copyright 2013 Cindy Jacks, Rave Studios all rights reserved.

Enjoy!

Introduction

The powerful tool you’re not using

Sex.

Whether you’ve been married for fifty years, are just starting a relationship, or are still looking for Ms. Right/Ms. Right-Now, sex is important. More and more studies these days confirm what some of us already knew: Sex―that is good and frequent sex―is the key to our health and happiness and bonds us to our partners. Easier said than done, isn’t it? Especially when you don’t have a partner to begin with or your current partner has lost interest.

I’ll be the first to admit women say one thing and crave another. What’s up with that? It’s simple. We’re bombarded with messages that good girls don’t (yes, even in this day and age) and we want you guys to think we are good, especially if you are someone we’re interested in for more than one night.

Good girls don’t jump into bed on the first date. Good girls don’t give blowjobs and they especially don’t swallow. Good girls don’t ask for anal and if they give in to a man’s request, they certainly don’t enjoy it. But there is hope. There is a bad girl in every woman and it’s your job to unlock her.

“How the hell do I that?” you ask. Well, gentleman, I’m about to give you the keys to the castle:

Romance novels or more specifically, erotic romance novels. Never heard of erotic romance? It’s chick porn. But more than that it’s a roadmap to what women really want in bed. It’s the most powerful tool most of you aren’t using.

Don’t believe me? Just check out the genre on Amazon….Go ahead, I’ll wait. There’s a reason smutty ebooks targeting women’s sexual desires comprise a billion dollar industry. The fact of the matter is we read these books because we want you, real flesh and blood men, to seduce us and fuck us as if you just got out of prison. Unfortunately, most of you don’t. Sorry. The truth hurts.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve bought into the myth that women don’t like sex or maybe you don’t know how. And I’m also guessing you ain’t interested in reading one of those books. I don’t blame you, some are real pieces of crap. So I’ve done your homework for you, gentlemen.

Keep reading and you’ll discover there are really ten easy steps to seducing **any woman, including that hot girl at the office who won’t give you the time of day or, for you married guys, your wife who more often than not claims she’s got a headache. Take a look at her Kindle or iPad. She’s going to bed with someone every night, it’s just not you.

But it could be…

**Disclaimer: By “any” woman, I mean any sexually active, heterosexual woman. If you’re hunting lesbians, virgins, or nuns, I’m not sure I can help.

Bigmouth Strikes Again

Nothing pleases a writer more than a reader having a real and powerful emotional reaction to something they've written. Unless that reaction is hurt feelings. Not because what the writer wrote offended their sensibilities, but because the piece was about them and there was awful backlash to this portrayal.

Seeing yourself through someone else's eyes is daunting and I always consider what I am saying before I ever base a character or use a real life event as the basis for a story or article. What nerves will I touch? Was this a private moment not to be shared? Will others recognize about whom I write and will this cause problems for them either personally or professionally? But first and foremost, I always ask permission before using personal information in my writing.

As for the latest case of open laptop, insert foot, I never saw this friend's hurt coming. I'd asked permission. I'd explained exactly what I would be writing about and was given a whole-hearted thumbs up. Only caveat: they had to be able to read the finished problem. Por supuesto!

The fly in the ointment came when they shared the article with someone close. A bit of party foul, but not being a writer they're to our etiquette. Not to mention, I'd forgotten an info sharing situation. Big oops on my part. I wrote the piece for a very specific audience and their boo was not on that list. But since I hadn't spelled out FYEO, I couldn't get upset about it.

So, writers, how much responsibility do we bear as observers and chroniclers of the world we live in? I know readers do not have a right to all the secrets, thoughts, and feelings we collect, but it's those same gritty details that take a good piece to great. How much do you worry about using real life? Have you ever offended someone by your portrayal of them? And if so, how did you fix it, if indeed you were able to fix it?

Fortunately for me the drama I caused calmed down pretty quickly. Sorry, Batman!



Cheers,
Cindy

Groove is in the heart

I really wish I could pull off this outfit. Then again,
where would I wear velveteen shorts?

If you read my entry last week you know I'm trying to get my writing groove back after months of being away from it. After opening and reading through several pieces of manuscripts, I felt lost. Adrift on a sea of words that no longer recognized as my own. I couldn't connect with the character nor could I hear them whispering in my head, nudging the plot forward. So much for picking up where I left off, but what to do now?

Start something new.

As soon as the idea occurred to me, I was sure I'd lost my mind. After all, I'm trying to get a COMPLETED manuscript in my editor's inbox as quickly as possible. Two of the partials I read were at least half finished, if not more so. Surely it would be wise to finish one of those novels first. Starting from scratch sounded insane. Then, a recent conversation with my mother played in my head:

"Have you started the next book in your pirate series yet?" she asked. Yes, my mom reads my work and particularly enjoys the Pirates at Heart series.

"No," I admitted guiltily. Even my editor had inquired about the ETA of Nate's story.

Still, could I really start and finish a whole new book in a month? Granted, I'd done it before, but that was when I had been adhering to a disciplined writing schedule. That being said, both SMUGGLER'S BLUES and SAILOR'S KNOT practically wrote themselves. Could be because Pirates at Heart is a series I thoroughly enjoy writing. I know the characters inside and out and the world is already built. When I thought about RED SKY AT NIGHT in those terms, the hardest work on the project was already done so I dove in.

I wrote 3000 words the very first day. I'm only one week in and the manuscript has already hit 10,000 words. Apparently--to quote Deee-Lite--groove is in the heart. I love the Logan family, they feel like part of my family. It seems no matter how long I'm away from them, Brett, Kate, Marcus, Amelie, Nate and Ruby are all more than willing to chat with this struggling writer. Writing about my futuristic pirates was like coming home.

I'm off to rack up more word count. I'll leave you with a little Deee-Lite to brighten your day.
Sing it, baby!

Cheers,
Cindy
http://cindyjacks.com/

Help! Cyborg poop dilemma. #WrittenMyselfIntoACorner #StrangeWritingIssue

Yes, I said cyborg poop. Stop laughing...I'm serious.

Here's situation:

I'm doing an erotic gothic horror retelling of Frankenstein, set in the future using a cyborgnetic body instead of pieced together corpses. The main character is Dr. Stine. Her husband was in a rock climbing accident and has such severe brain trauma that even with all the advances in science, he's in a vegetative state. The hospital is pressuring to her pull the plug because they've reached the time limit indicated in her husband's living will. Dr. Stine decides to regrow her husband's brain, program it with all his memories (which she can do), and place it in her cyborgnetic project's body.

Here's the problem:

If she does not alter the cyborg to looks like him and she tells him what she's done, there are all sorts of psychological issues that would plague him. I did some research on current day face transplants, limb transplants, etc. It's nearly impossible for someone to process this type of change very well so I'm thinking a whole new body would be exponentially more traumatic. There's no way then to get to the romance, sexy, sexy part.

If she does alter the cyborg to be an exact replica of her hubby and doesn't tell him what she's done, then there's the whole eating, drinking, eliminating waste issue. If hubs doesn't know he's a cyborg, he would expect to get hungry, eat a few times a day, get thirsty, go pee a few times a day, poop once in a while, LOL.

I'm leaning toward the exact replica route, but if the project originated as research for the military, there's no reason to have a fully functioning digestive or even sexual system. I've figured out the sexual part of it (other research she did for cyborgnetic genitalia for sexual dysfunction, damaged sexual organs, etc). But why in the world would she need to make a cyborg poop?

And yes, I have taken all my medications for the day...why do you ask? Any and all suggestions are much appreciated. Man, sci-fi is hard to write. I'm going to work on my next contemporary erotic romance today. Sex and love I understand :)

Cheers,
Cindy

Hero's POV

In romance and erotic romance, it's a given that the tale will be told mostly from the heroine's POV. After all, most of the folks reading this genre are female and--if I've done my job properly--readers will most strongly identify with the heroine. While it's always nice to get a peek inside the hero's head from time to time, it's rare to find a tale told mostly or entirely from the hero's POV. Lately, I'm wondering why.

Yes, in reality, we rarely get to know exactly what is going on in the mind of our leading man and maybe that's a good thing, lol. I suspect we would find it uninteresting at best and terribly alarming at worst. But fiction by definition is not reality. Wouldn't it add to the experience to know all the hero's thoughts, intentions, insecurities and desires? If indeed readers do identify with the heroine, wouldn't it heighten the fantasy to project yourself as the object of the hero's affections?

I'm testing that theory with my latest WIP, titled If You Were Mine. This work of short erotic fiction is told entirely from the hero's POV from the moment he spies the heroine to him working up the courage to talk to her, his internal dialogue as they flirt and finally, and, finally, her seduction and submission. I do realize I'm imposing my own wants and desires on this whole process, but isn't that ultimately what fantasy is all about? This is how I would want to be seduced were I to be seduced *grin*.

Never having done so before, I'm struggling a bit to narrate an entire story as a man would speak--I mean, we all know men think and communicate differently, but trying to keep the masculine voice is part of the fun. I enjoy challenging myself as a writer and I'm hoping readers will enjoy something that's a little bit different. I'll keep you all updated on the progress.

So here's my question: Would you like to read an erotic romance told entirely from the male POV? Why or why not?

Cheers,
Cindy
http://www.amazon.com/Cindy-Jacks/e/B003XRMLLS/

Thrilled to announce...

I have a new contract with Ellora's Cave. Yes, my editor Jilly offered it to my last month, but I don't like to make the announcement until I get the signed copy from the EC contract department. It's official--BLACKEST NIGHTS will be published later this year. SQUEEEEEEEEE!

Here's a little sneaky peeky...unedited of course so please forgive my typos ;) Oh and if BDSM isn't your thing, you might not want to read on...you've been warned!

BLACKEST NIGHTS
copyright Cindy Jacks 2012

Excerpt:

For our first play session, I arrived early, reciting, “Scarlet, slow. Midnight, stop,” as I parked in his driveway. Once I’d inspected my makeup and smoothed my black skirt and spaghetti strap blouse, I propelled myself out of the car. The humid night air threatened to kink up my hair. A smile on my lips, I hoped my hair wouldn’t be the only thing kinked up that night. My stomach did flipflops at the thought of what Black had in store for me.

At 8:55, I knocked on his door. I heard him moving inside the house, but he didn’t answer.

A couple minutes passed and still I stood on his porch, the crickets chirping in the cooling night air. Maybe he hadn’t heard my knock. I rang the doorbell.

Another minute or so passed and every second that ticked by left me feeling foolish. Why was he making me wait? Finally out of patience, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and hit the auto-dial for his number.

As soon as Black jerked open the door, I knew I’d made a mistake. His lips down-turned, his eyes narrowed, he folded his arms over his chest.

The intensity of his stare unnerved me.

Fixing my gaze on the ground, I offered an explanation though he hadn’t demanded one, “I wanted to be sure I was on time.”

“But you aren’t on time, you’re early. Nine o’clock means nine o’clock.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Go into the dining room and sit.” He moved aside to let me pass. “To your left.”

Hurrying to do as instructed, I didn’t have much time to take in the decor of the house. Once I’d taken a seat, I studied the austerity of the mission style dining table, chairs and china cabinet. One massive photo―at least four feet by six feet―hung on an otherwise bare wall. It depicted a close up of a fig sliced in half. So suggestive was the imagery of female genitalia that I found myself averting my eyes, sneaking furtive glances. Every time I dared to look at it for more than a couple of seconds, my cheeks burned and butterflies flitted around my stomach.

The door clicked shut and I heard his footsteps head in the opposite direction. Then he returned, his cell phone in hand. Drawing his finger across the screen, he turned it so I could read. The glowing display showed his call log.

“Read the most recent entry,” he said.

“It says, ‘Red’.”

“And is it an incoming call or an outgoing one?”

“Incoming,” I mumbled. I knew exactly what I’d done wrong.

“I said never to call me.” He grabbed me by the hair and I flinched more out of surprise than pain. He wasn’t pulling all that hard…yet.

“I’m sorry.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, excited by the control he exerted over me.

Setting the phone aside, he moved behind me. Leaning down, he let his lips brush past my ear. I could feel his breath on my cheek and neck. Inhaling his cologne, I closed my eyes, my heartbeat quickening.

“You don’t listen.” He tightened his grasp, shaking me a little. I gasped, the pain sharper now, the throbbing of my pussy radiating throughout my body.

I didn’t reply, struggling to suppress a smile though I couldn’t figure out just why I felt like grinning.

“What’s funny?” He tugged at my hair.

The tug hurt so much my eyes watered. “Nothing.”

“Say it. Say, ‘I don’t listen’.” His held my head held back, forcing me to make eye contact.

“I―” My voice cracked, arousal and agony gripping my throat. “I don’t listen.”

“Do you need me to make you?”

“Yes…please.” My legs trembled, my pussy quivering at the thought of what he would do to punish me.

Bending me over the table, he pressed my cheek to the cool surface, hand still tangled in my hair, but he’d eased up on the agonizing hold.

The skirt I’d taken so much care to pick out wound up crumpled around my waist. He ripped off my panties then caressed the swell of my ass. I heard the jangle of his belt buckle and the woosh of it sliding out of his belt loops. Oh God, he was going to―

Crack!

I cried out and squirmed, the initial sting so intense I could hardly stand it, but he held me down.

Crack!

The belt smacked against my ass, heat spreading over the entire cheek. I yelped and whimpered. A sharp burning sensation ran along the junction of my buttock and my thigh and I was sure he’d given me a welt. The thought turned me on to no end. I was bare-assed, splayed out across a table and one of the most gorgeous men I’d ever met was punishing me. Oh yes, I wanted more.

_________________________________________

Like what you read? Discover more Cindy Jacks books at Ellora's Cave

https://www.ellorascave.com/index.php/authors/index/author/slug/cindy-jacks