My web host provides forum setup.

Yes, I can have my very own forum.

Is this necessary when one does not have hordes of squealing fangrrls in need of a place to gather and gush over the glory of one’s bestselling masterpieces? No. (I don’t think it’s strictly necessary even then.)

I’m not sure what kind of benefit a forum provides over a blog. More interactively chatty, perhaps? Something to tell the publisher when they ask about your self-promotion efforts?

But despite the non-necessity and lack of perceived benefit, I set it up because:

1. I paid good money for web space and intend to squeeze every penny until Abe’s head explodes.
2. I can.
3. Messing with techno stuff is good for my brain.
4. It is so cool to have all that untouched territory to molest any way I please! Have you ever been the very first to throw words up somewhere? Same Manifest Destiny thing that drives human beings to explore and colonize and deflower virgins. I wish I had a flag to plant…

I’m not linking to it anywhere because it’s silly to even have it, and my posts where I pretend to be A Big Famous Writer (”If you can see it, you can be it!”) are pathetic, but with a little ingenuity, you could probably find it and come over to make fun of me. Or pretend to be famous too. I won’t judge. It’ll be like playing dressup.

I have to find author forums and investigate what kind of boards to set up. Anybody know of any author forums (that aren’t congested with stupidity) that I should be emulating?

I think I read reviews as their own art form or… something. They certainly don’t much affect my decision to read a book. The review of Elizabeth Hoyt’s The Raven Prince by Janine at Dear Author, which she categorized as a DNF (did not finish), prompted an evaluation of why I feel this way.

Let me say first that I haven’t read the book in question and don’t intend to. (At least I didn’t when I drafted this post. I have since discovered that Meljean Brook, who has a reading history eerily similar to mine, is all over this series, which might constitute a valid endorsement, and I read somewhere else it’s a “hysterical” fit for contemp-only sensibilities, so maybe…) It isn’t in my realm of interest. It could suck lemur testicles for all I know.

This is more of a response to Janine’s allegations in general than a defense of the book itself.

So-Called Anachronisms. To me, an anachronism is a Prius tooling around 18th century London, but evidently my definition isn’t as broad as some.

A novel might be set in the far distant past, but it’s written for a 21st century reader. An 18th century reader might interpret “demolished his plate” as wanton destruction of the china, but I know exactly what the author means by it and wouldn’t even hesitate over it. (Not only that, but this particular example sounds to me more like an old-time usage than a current one.)

If I wanted authentic period dialogue and narrative, I’d find something written by an author living during that period, which is the only way to get authentic, anyway. Any modern author who tries to recreate the feel of a period is faking it, which frequently results in failure to satisfy reader perception of what “authentic” is (which varies, since readers weren’t there, either), and reviewers attack like sharks on a one-flippered seal.

Fake it and get ripped apart.

Don’t bother faking it and… get ripped apart.

There’s just no pleasing some people.

And fans of historical romance wonder why there isn’t more of it being written.

People didn’t behave that way. I hate hearing that because people behave every way. It’s the people who don’t behave as they “should” who make things happen, and in a story, making things happen is a desirable thing.

Examples: A proper lady would never say “bastard.” (While she was alone, from what I understand, which seems to me the perfect time to vent with a little inappropriate language.)

A gentleman would never say “shit” in front of a woman. (What if he’s overwrought? Dropped something on his foot? Just plain rude? What if he’s being deliberately offensive? I can think of any number of circumstances in which an otherwise respectable man would utter an expletive in any company.)

People don’t always behave as they “should.” Even today, a proper young heiress shouldn’t make sex tapes, have her license suspended for drunk driving, or do jail time for driving with a suspended license. Judging by the amount of attention such aberrant behavior receives, doing what one shouldn’t interests people.

A novel in which characters are rigidly proper and conformist at all times would be insanely dull. Not only that, but every book would be the same because no matter what happened to the characters, they would be limited to a narrow spectrum of socially appropriate responses.

“An unidentified flying object has landed in the garden and discharged an army of face-eating monsters!”

“Tsk. That is not an appropriate topic of conversation for a young lady. Do sit down. Have a biscuit. I spied Lord Boringashell glancing your way more than once at the concert. His title is a fine catch.”

You lost me at tsk. “Socially appropriate” generally translates to passive and inactive, which is death to a plot.

“An unidentified flying object has landed in the garden and discharged an army of face-eating monsters!”

Lady Gettabone sighed. “Again?” She drew the dagger from beneath her pelise. “Must they always arrive during tea?”

Maybe I should start reading reviews for the purpose of finding those reviewers who make statements so fundamentally opposed to my own philosophy, I can use them for reverse-recommendation purposes. “Mary says the characters are inappropriately interesting, Sue says the language is offensive, and Alice says it’s historically inaccurate. Woot! A trifecta winner! This one goes straight to the top of my TBR!”

Count me among the minority of women who loved the movie 300. Watched it twice last night—the first time with lots of awe and wooting, the second time with lots of “Freeze it there!” and reenacting fight scenes with generic flying disks for shields and a broken-down Swiffer pole for swords and spears. Returning it to Netflix today and ordering the DVD to keep. It goes directly beneath Gladiator on Kerry’s List of Kickass Movies: 300 has a visual advantage, but Gladiator has more of a plot, and none of the nearly-naked Spartans are as fun to look at as Russell Crowe.

When the movie was first released, I saw a trailer and asked someone if it was CGI (computer generated image) because the visuals didn’t look like a live-action movie. Mostly shot bluescreen and lots of special effects, but after watching it, I still can’t believe the whole thing wasn’t CGI. It looks like the Final Fantasy cinematics we drop everything to watch, married to slow-motion battle scenes like Prince of Persia speed kills. With a rock battle anthem. Holy holy. All things we love around here. Yessssssss.

It would have been awesome even if the Spartans had been fully clothed, though I’m not going to tell you I was immune to all the exposed musculature. (Half the reason I have a hard time believing it was live-action. That many ripped bodies in one place? The place in question would spontaneously combust.)

Why don’t we have world leaders like Leonidas anymore? If we had a President like that, I’d kick the ass of anybody who badmouthed him instead of joining in with an irate ”And you know what else that self-serving asshole did last week?”

And the queen rocked. Don’t cross Spartan bitches, man. They will fuck. You. Up.

If you’re griping about historical inaccuracy and the actors’ fillings, you have completely missed out on the experience, and I am very, very sorry for you.

I may have found a circumstance in which I am willing to purchase an e-book.

Today I finished reading—or rather struggling through—the first book in a series. Hated the writing—skipped right over entire pages. Actively disliked the protagonist—if not too stupid too live, at least too silly to be tolerated. Bored to tears by the endless balls and stilted, formal dialogue that’s probably authentic Regency—”I’m quite fond of you” is not an impassioned declaration, in my opinion. Found page after page of the protag’s mother and her two dippy friends a pointless and annoying interruption in what little action there was.

Thoroughly despised this book, in case I’m not being clear.

But then there’s Sebastian.

It’s pretty sad when a secondary character (so rarely appearing he may even be tertiary, in fact) is the sole compelling component of a novel. He’s sexy. He’s not a neutered “proper gentleman.” His intentions are dubious and mysterious. I perked up every time he put in appearance. I kept reading (or at least skimming) on his behalf long after this book became a wallbanger.

Sweet Author, why could you not make any other character half as interesting as Sebastian?

No way in hell am I spending $6.99 on another one of these duds. But I have to know what happens with Sebastian (and I gather he’s significantly more prominent in Book Two). I thought, I know! I’ll get an e-book, search for his name, and skip all the crap! Damn, I am one clever minx!

Except for one small problem: No e-book is available, as far as I can tell!

At long last, I understand the frustration of those who have transitioned to e-reading. Why the hell isn’t every single book being printed also being released in e-form?

So, Flightless Bird-named Publisher, you have lost what little I was willing to invest in you due to your failure to modernize. Better luck next time.

But Sebastian, one way or another, you shall be mine…

The must-have-right-away book for August is due on the 28th, which means it’s time to shop! 

Also, Barnes & Noble threw down the gauntlet. “If you can spend $100 on books, you pathetic weakling, we’ll give you this tote bag as a reward.”

What do you mean, that’s not a challenge? They clearly called me out, and I opened up a can of whup-ass!

Glass Houses (Morganville Vampires #1) by Rachel Caine—I’m such a huge fan of her Weather Warden series, I’m game for YA vampires.

The Becoming by Jeanne C. Stein—Female vampire bounty hunter. Dog meets Vlad in a bra? Cool beans. And the cover reminds me of a pic of Medusa in one of my mytho books.

Innocent in Death by J.D. Robb—I am a series whore, but this one has never failed to deliver a worthy installment.

Scent of Darkness by Christina Dodd—I think the “pact with the devil” caught my interest. That guy’s such a pip…

Beyond the Pale (Darkwing Chronicles #1) by Savannah Russe—Vampire drafted by the government to spy on a Russian terrorist. Eat your heart out, Tom Clancy.

‘Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy by Leslie Langtry—Single mother/professional assassin. This one is for career guidance…

Something Wicked by Catherine Mulvany—Despite featuring the thousandth black bustier of the month on the cover, archaeology, vampires, and bikers can’t be too bad.

A Great and Terrible Beauty by Libba Bray—A Little Princess with a supernatural link to the spirit world?

The Turning (Blood Ties #1) by Jennifer Armintrout—”[T]the first book in a violent vampire series… bares its fangs early, unafraid to spill blood and vital organs from its very first pages” and ”level of gory detail… may put off all but the most stalwart of readers, but if you’ve got the stomach for it, this fast, furious novel is a squirm-inducing treat.” ‘Nuff said.

Night Rising (Vampire Babylon #1) by Chris Marie Green—”The ability to seamlessly blend noir mystery, romance, and dark fantasy” sounds sweet to me. I like the heroine already.

Kiss of Midnight by Lara Adrian—Hmm. I’m sensing a trend here. Vampires, anyone? Must have read a good review (or a scathing one by a reviewer I think is an ass) because the B&N description sounds too much like the same-old to stir me up now.

A Chalice of Wind (Balefire #1) by Cate Tiernan—Finally, witches! Orphans, secret identical twins, New Orleans. The kidlet will have to read it, too.

The Dream Thief by Shana Abe—This was the must-have-right-now book of August that prompted the shopping spree! Loved The Smoke Thief and loved Zane as a boy, so this one is getting read immediately.

The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next #1) by Jasper Fforde—Screwing with literary classics has always been fun for me. Guess I’d be a criminal in this book’s universe! I hear it’s funny. We shall see…

The Neon Rain by James Lee Burke—New Orleans! Dead prostitutes! Drug lords! These are a few of my favorite things…

Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (Blackbird Sisters #5) by Nancy Martin—I still have the last two in this series in my TBR (just got them back from extended loan to Mom), and I read this description and scream. Nora’s pregnant? And there’s the remotest possibility it’s not Mick’s? WTF?!?!

Marked by P.C. Cast—I know for a fact this got a scathing review by a reviewer I think is an ass, but I’d probably get it anyway because it’s… VAMPIRES!

I looked at some other things, trying not to be so predictable, but about 6 words into the description of every historical romance I looked at (writers who are supposed to be the cream of the crop, no less), my eyes were glazing over. Vamps are still fresh (oh, ha, the jokes I could make) for me, whereas Regency London has been ridden into the ground and left to rot on the side of the road with maggots writhing within and buzzards shredding from without. (Oh, yeah, I have the stomach for it! Bring it!)

I was asked why I read—not why I read romance (or any other genre), not why I’m reading any particular book, but why I read in general, other than instruction manuals and research materials (”required” reading). The first response that sprang to mind was “to escape,” but that’s not accurate. Honestly, I would not want to escape to most of the places and situations in my chosen reading material, and there’s no escaping anything in my life I might want to get away from, anyway. I wanted to give a better answer, so I hit up Google to find someone more adept than I at explaining her motivations.

I found a blog entry by Rosemary Esehagu aptly entitled “Why do people read fiction?”, in which she says the following:

“… I read fiction because it gives me permission to create as well. The writer may see his/her world as blue, but I am allowed to see it as periwinkle blue, or blue with a splash of lavender. With fiction, I am not just watching (as I feel that I am with non-fiction), I am also a participant, a fellow creator. As a result, I too have responsibility for the life of the book. With fiction, I am not limited to the point of view of the writer. I can disagree, I can acquiesce, and I can do a mixture of both. The result is that the book exists on a richer level in my mind.

“Reading fiction more readily promotes a crossing-over—a chance for the reader and the writer to exchange parts of their worlds, which gives you a slightly different story world, and one that is grounded in the world of the writer and the reader. It is no wonder that any particular fiction has a somewhat different meaning to each reader.”

That’s part of the reason I read fiction. Instead of throwing facts (nonfiction) or images (TV/movies) at me, fiction requires me to contribute something of myself (imagination) to make it work. I’ve had profound differences of opinion with others about the quality of world building, for example, in certain books, and I now wonder if that’s due to the reader’s contribution to the book—I fill in a lot of blanks when I commit to a story, so maybe the story I’m reading no longer bears much resemblance to the same story in another reader’s hands.

Elizabeth Lowell has written an essay entitled Popular  Fiction: Why We Read It, Why We Write It. It’s primarily a defense of genre fiction (versus literary fiction and the critics who love one and disdain the other), but what she has to say about transcendence and optimism in pop fiction fall under the umbrella of why I read.

“The underlying philosophy of much popular fiction is more optimistic [than literary fiction]: the human condition might indeed be deplorable, but individuals can make a positive difference in their own and others’ lives…

… [P]opular fiction is composed of ancient myths newly reborn, telling and retelling a simple truth: ordinary people can do extraordinary things. Jack can plant a beanstalk that will provide endless food; a Tom Clancy character can successfully unravel a conspiracy that threatens the lives of millions. A knight can slay a dragon; a Stephen King character can defeat the massed forces of evil. Cinderella can attract the prince through her own innate decency rather than through family connections; a Nora Roberts heroine can, through her own strength, rise above a savagely unhappy past and bring happiness to herself and others.”

There are real-life problems that will never be resolved. I have them. You have them. Real life is messy that way. Novels are structured so that introduced conflicts must be resolved one way or another by the final page. At the end of a novel, it makes me feel good that the characters have triumphed and resolved their conflicts (with the exception of one Stephen King book—was it Tommyknockers?—which ended with “and then everybody died, the end,” which is not a feel-good kind of resolution), which too often isn’t possible outside the realm of fiction.

Now for some reasons I didn’t pilfer from others.

Never let it be said that fiction isn’t educational. With my terrible memory for names and dates, I’m never going to apply to be a contestant on Jeopardy, but I dominate the Potpourri category every single time, primarily due to the treasure trove of trivia I’ve amassed through a lifetime of reading. (Example: Didja know Florida orange growers will hose down groves in freezing temperatures, completely encapsulating the trees in ice, to protect them from frost? And you really, really do not want to know what I do about forensics; my enthusiasm on that subject has made tough guys gag.)

My day job is repetitive and mind-numbingly boring. Those aren’t dandruff flakes on my shoulder—those are brain cells sloughing off and leaking out my ears. The act of reading—looking at the words, processing them, interpreting them—constitutes much-needed cognitive stimulation, regardless of subject matter. My preferred subject matter is fiction because by the end of the day, I deserve something entertaining.

I don’t have the time, money, or courage to travel, and I’m afflicted with paralyzing social phobia. In other words, I don’t get out much. Through novels, I have the opportunity to visit places I’ve never been and have no expectation of ever going. I could read a travelogue, but they tend to be dry and impersonal, whereas in fiction, the settings are often intimately related to the characters and their actions, giving them a richer feel.

Not to mention the impossibility of visiting a setting in any time other than right now. Novels make fantastic time machines.

Once again armed with self-awareness, I can answer the question of why I read fiction. I might add a question of my own: Why wouldn’t someone read fiction?

I can’t imagine how dull life would be without it.

Demon Angel by Meljean Brook
Mass Market Paperback, 432 pages
ISBN: 0425213471
Available Now
Retail Price $7.99

I was so engrossed in this book, when blurry vision forced me to take a break (rapt, unblinking reading + contact lenses = blindness), I discovered that demon dog had ripped the shit out of the sofa cushion three inches away from my ass in an attempt to dig a bone out of the crack (I’m not going to go there—I’m just not), and I’d been blissfully unaware of the rending cloth and flying clumps of foam.

Sir Pup? Pfft. Not half the hellhound my cocker spaniel is.

Ms. Brook, for rendering me oblivious, you will be receiving the bill for my slipcovers. (Yes, plural. The loveseat has to match. We may be white trash, but we are not barbarians.)

The guts of it: There are two parts to this story, before and after The Fall.

Before, Lilith (a demon) amuses herself by toying with boy hero Hugh, who is all the more amusing because he plays along, knowing he’s being played. She’s not in an attractive guise (Hugh likens her face to that of a cow), and she is clearly a woman of low virtue (shamelessly admitting to dallying with a tied up, naked man and attempting to seduce poor, innocent Hugh) and a troublemaker (her lies, ostensibly to keep him out of trouble, create worse problems for him than the truth would have), but Hugh enjoys her company. Even after he learns Lilith is a demon, he seeks her out because she’s such a sparkling conversationalist.

Her lies bite Hugh in the ass in a big way, and he’s saved from death by being made a Guardian (angel-like being). For the next 800 years, Hugh and Lilith continue their verbal sparring, working together and against each other as the situation dictates, enemies by nature who happen to like one another.

Then Hugh does a thing or two to so badly damage his sense of honor, he chooses to Fall—giving up his Guardian role to become human again.

After, Lilith has become, of all things, an FBI agent—only natural, considering the number of demons in law enforcement and politics (which explains a lot, really). The city is overrun by nosferatu (ugly, uncivilized bloodsuckers) who have entered a union with Lucifer that involves destroying Hugh, for reasons that are not readily apparent. He’s human, just one of 5 billion, and it takes some time to figure out why he’s so damn important in Lucifer’s scheme.

That time is filled with lots of violence, demon sex, family dysfunction, declarations of love that always was, Cerberus’s balls, and a vampire whose vanity exceeds even Lestat’s, not necessarily in that order.

The pacing is brilliant, slowly tightening up until the climax, when you feel events spinning out of control right along with the characters.

Why I like Hugh: He is so bloody good natured. How many men do you know who would cooperate while their girlfriend threatened another guy with blackmail by buttsecks, and later joke about her interest in watching him engage in some manlovin’ when she’s not even around? They got along so smashingly for so many years despite what would otherwise have been construed as serious verbal abuse on Lilith’s part because he understood her from the beginning and happily played along.

Understanding is a very attractive thing in a man.

Why I like Lilith: Armored bitch exterior, gooey cream filling (reminds me of someone…).

With an 800-year friendship that’s endured despite lies and bloodshed and mutual murder attempts, you get the feeling this couple can make the relationship last for the rest of their lives.

Demon Moon, Ms. Brook’s next, is being rushed to me as we speak. I do love finding a new autobuy…