Real Life

Right. I've made a decision and not at all due to the subliminal messaging I've received in my gmail inbox.

I'm going to do NaNoWriMo this year. November marks National November Writing Month, where people across the globe commit to writing 50,000 words in 30 days and see if a novel can be formed from those words. I've had three stories emerge from the fires of NaNo - Remains, An Art To It and Hideout, and I need to feel that dedication to the writing. I mean, I'll probably be juggling edits at the same time, but if anything pushes you to write better, it's your editor telling you not to give an inanimate object feelings or a body part acting independently. Breasts don't talk do they? I mean mine make themselves very present (because they are ginormous) but speaking words? No... no...

I've been fiddling about with an idea for a while, mainly because I've been playing the Love Island Game and my obsession with pixelated dick is out of control, Hot Muse Hank has directed me to put the obsession to the laptop screen. If you follow me on Twitter, you are probably over aware of how much reality tv I watch. I know it's scripted, I know producers tell people what to do, how to breathe, when to fuck over their mates, and what to wear while they're doing it. In the age of social media, it's easy to find out how that those singletons continued their relationship on First Dates, if the stars (and I use that term loosely) of an entertainment reality show are still together, who got engaged, if it's true that so and so is pregnant, and the mystery is very tough to keep secret. Hot Muse Hank thought about it for a moment and said "Challenge accepted!" Means I'm writing one.

It's going to by a typical Billy London scrap with plenty of nonsense, a few twists, a quite a bit of sexy time and wrap it all nice and neatly in 50,000 words. With NaNo, the pantsing has to go out of the window and I need to be somewhat more structured to get the writing done. The last time I struggled to meet my word count, I just threw sex scenes at it until the words count depleted. May try the same cheat sheet this time around but I'm excited to start, to form my characters and to lead them on a path to love.

Good Girl

I spy the end of a 50,000 word journey! And as I'm wrapping up this tale, I'm going to give you a little peek at what I've been working on for the last 24 days (and counting if it's not finished today!) Thank you for the support during. Sometimes it's hard to motivate yourself every day, but wanting to do the best for my readers is always a good prompt. That and the reward of Jessica Jones on the best binge I've done in a while (whole series, eighteen hours. Six of them sleeping).

Surprisingly easy to write, I've been focused on one of my Season of Love tales, the studious Patricia and her cheeky - because he's not quite bad - boy Art. Just to explain: Gwen is Art's mother. Mike is Patricia's uncle. Gwen and Mike had an affair and produced baby Brian, who Patricia was babysitting before Art got his hands on her. So... Step-cousins are go? I promise you, this is nothing stranger than some family dynamics I have witnessed...

Here's the link to the bit before: http://sobillysaysshesays.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/let-me-love-you.html


And here's your sneak peek:

Nothing about this could be good for her mental health. She had broken up with Bradley for a reason – obviously he proved her right by being an absolute knob – and she had more than enough on her plate with school and preparing for her interviews. And yet… Distraction had the intoxicating scent of Art, the softness of his lips and the persuasion of his feather-light tongue. The Chemical Brothers infiltrated the background. The song was somewhat inappropriate, but her focus was solely on the boy between her thighs. His arms felt rock hard beneath her palms, part holding him back and partly pulling him into her. For a breathless moment, he leaned up away from her and yanked his jumper over his head.

“Are you getting naked?” she asked, pressing her fingertips to her swollen mouth. Art laughed, taking her hand away and placing it over his t-shirt covered chest.

“I’m not that mad,” he said, with a grin. “You must be hot.”

The suggestive words came with a languid stroke over her leggings covered calves. She hadn’t really dressed to be anything but warm. Layering in a long t-shirt, a jumper dress, leggings and woollen socks protected her from the sharp February weather. For Art putting his hands in places he really shouldn’t? Heat exhaustion beckoned...

Without waiting for her to say anything else, Art reached beneath the jumper dress and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her leggings. Her stomach fizzled at his grazing touch, her breath catching in fear and excitement. Topshop’s finest rolled down her legs, her bare legs, gathered with her socks and dumped on the rug. A sweet smile lifted his features, from devilish into almost loving, as he caught her by the ankle and pulled her down into the cushions.

Patricia didn’t recognise the sound that came from her throat, when Art’s weight pressed her deeper into the cushions, one hand reaching into the pit of her knee to pull her tight to his waist. It was better than any sex she’d had. Kissing like this, the way Art kissed her, as if she were delicious, and his favourite tasting thing in the world, would always be better than sex.

“Can we…” Art murmured into her cheek, and tugged impatiently at her jumper dress. “Do something about this?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” she agreed, lifting her bottom, allowing him to scoop the jumper from underneath her, over her shoulders and sending her plaits all over her face. Free of the wool, Art gently brushed the hair from her eyes.

“Better?”

She nodded, tilting her head back, to catch his mouth again. “Better.”

Like a bucket of ice water, the sound of the front door opening made them both spring to their feet. Patricia leapt for her clothing and placed them hurriedly in a pile next to the armchair, and she threw herself into the seat. Art sat back on the sofa, hooking his ankle onto his knee, only to look down at his crotch and grab a cushion instead. Patricia clapped a hand over her mouth and he warned her, “Don’t you dare!”

“Coo-eee!” Gwen called, stumbling into the living room. “How’s my baby! BABY!” she crowed when she caught sight of Art.

“Hello, Mother.”

She leaned down and cupped his cheeks, pressing kisses to his forehead. Art struggled to throw her off. “God, woman, how much have you had to drink?”

“A bit too much, Mikey Mike is parting,” she hiccuped, “parking, sorting out the car.”

Finally, Art got up and pushed his mother into the sofa. “Just sit down. I’ll make you some coffee. Actually, I’ll get you some water.”

Patricia leapt to her feet. “I’ll help you.” She grabbed the baby monitor and scarpered off after Art. He reached for a glass, and his t-shirt lifted, exposing some crazy definition over his hips.

“Mike’s clearly re-evaluating his life,” Art said ruefully, using the water dispenser to fill a glass for Gwen. “It doesn’t take that long to park a car.”

Patricia leaned against the fridge, catching the hem of his shirt and pleating it with her fingers. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out.”

He cradled her jaw with a warm palm, his lashes fanning over his cheeks, eyes focused on her mouth. “Why not?”

“Umm,” she began, distracted by the intensity of his focus on her.

“We were okay without an audience of the drunk.” When he’d moved so close, she couldn’t recall, but kissing him again was so easy, with the fridge keeping her partly up right.

Gwen bellowed from the living room. “Where’s my coffee?”

Art rested his head against Patricia’s, eyes closed, briefly. “Mind out.” He opened the fridge and squeezed a half lime into the water. He circled her, trailing a kiss over her cheek and she heard him say, “All right, Mike?”

Patricia jumped. Had he heard something? “I’ve been better,” her uncle replied, sounding severe. He stalked into the kitchen where Patricia hadn’t moved, gripping the monitor like a talisman.

He looked her up and down, somewhat more casually dressed than when he’d left. A t-shirt that just about reached her knees, and nothing else. No socks, no jumper, and had Mike and Gwen turned up a little later, probably no knickers either. “It’s warm in here. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the heating down.”

Mike stared at her as if she’d just said she didn’t realise she was a girl. “Really? That little white box I pointed to before we left?”

Patricia shrugged. “I was thinking about my interview.”

He didn’t look convinced, but changed the subject anyway. “Brian okay?”

Patricia waved the monitor at him, the screen glowing in black and white where Brian snored away in content. “He’s been perfect.”

“I’ll go look in on him, then I can drive you home.”

The protest came thick and fast. “Oh, no don’t worry about that. Um, Arthur said he’d give me a lift, and besides, Gwen is toasted. You can’t leave Brian with her in that state. Yes, he’s sleeping, but what if he wakes up?”

Mike made a huff of irritation and lowered his voice. “That boy has a world full of problems, Patricia. Don’t let him get back at his mother through you.”

Power Up!

I don't know about you but this weekend has reminded me of the brilliance of escape. Where books and stories have always helped, disappear into a world that isn't your own and takes you far away from all.

I did say that once I reached 25,000 words on NaNo that I'd do a giveaway. So I will do. Five books from my back list. Any one you like. One that you've looked at and thought hmm? One that you missed? One that you've always wanted to read and hesitated. Whatever reason. You just need to do two things. Make sure you've liked my Facebook page (I know you have Facebook, don't swerve on me) https://www.facebook.com/Billy-London-191934367497027/, and then tell me what book you'd like and why. You can email me or post under the link on the page or post a comment on this blog post. The giveaway will end on Saturday 21 November - midnight my time (GMT) so you've got plenty of time. 

Right! Back to NaNo! If you wanted to know which one I'm working on and will absolutely finish it's this story: http://sobillysaysshesays.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/let-me-love-you.html

Something to look forward to, right? 

Violet Hill...

I'm still wrestling with the uncontrollable beast that is NaNoWriMo. And I've done something I really wish I hadn't.

I have a plot device. It unveils the villain. It brings the hero and the heroine together - because nothing defines love like a goddamn crisis. And it teaches my beta to be a better man. A more deserving man. His eyes are opened to all that he is and all that he can be. There's logic to the madness. And yet, I don't want to do it. I don't want to kill off this character. I need to. The story doesn't work if I shirk it.

I've killed off people before. It's not an IK story if there aren't a few bodies littered around. (Oh god, there are two massacres each in the next two) . That's not what's making me hesitate. I've killed off people I didn't care about. I didn't blink when I had them shot. Or their neck snapped in two. Or their ribs kicked through their lungs...  Of course it's simple to slit a literary throat when you can't see their smile, or hear their voice, or ignore special they are. I shouldn't do it, but I must. Hank tells me I must. He's also told me he'll make it all right. I call him an out and out liar. So while I've been a quaking mess sobbing over something I'm yet to do, Janet Eckford reminded me that she's done this. *side eye for the pain she caused me* It hurt at the time; tears were shed; but it made sense in the end.

That's all I can hope for.

Move!

For some reason I've signed myself up to the undeniable pressure that is NaNoWriMo. 50,000 words in 30 days. I don't know why?! One is not a flower that blooms in the dark. Or some such rubbish. We're on day 4, and.... Well I'm ahead. Just. And it's a story that I've started and abandoned a thousand times. I knew there was something wrong with it. Something missing. I couldn't quite grasp what it was. Until a day before NaNo was to begin, I had a light bulb moment. The heroine always had this rather mystical way with words and an even more alluring way with men. So Hank nudged me and said bluntly, "Bitch is a witch."
"No, she's just... Just... Bitch IS a witch. Who knew?"
"Me. You weren't listening."
I've got a lot to do. 36,000 things to do... But with a strong start these last few days, I've got room to do it. I will do it! Plus it's only pushing my competitive side. I want to win something this year. I mean a drink or a free meal is all very well and good but I want a badge! Badges plural! I love a badge. And a tiara. Might get one of those too for the 30 November. Now, to plotting!