Becky Flade, Author

Today’s blog is for adult audiences only. That’s right ladies and gents it’s erotica blog day.   Last Tuesday I spent a few minutes identifying a few blogs I find helpful, supportive, interesting, etcetera, as a struggling writer and an avid reader. Today (I wish you could see the big smile I’m sporting) I’m going to list a few blogs I find a sexy, even raunchy, good time. The below listed blogs are in no particular order but each is maintained by a writer who dares to dive into the erotica genre. In addition to the books they write, which they often have to self-publish, they also run their blogs where they post stories, pictures and reviews of each other’s work. All the content is titillating, sensual and thought provoking; the ear marks of good erotica. Women were ridiculed not thirty years ago for reading “bodice rippers” (I still have and love mine; there are some very good stories hidden behind those awful covers). I know from experience the sex scenes in those books were

I have a lengthy list of books downloaded to my Kindle just waiting to be read. What I don’t have is a lot of unencumbered time. But I will find some. As God is my witness, I will find the time. [melo-dramatic Scarlett O’Hara moment – totally necessary] The problem is I’m a compulsive reader. Once I start reading a book I have a hard time putting it down until I’ve read every last word. I have a similar issue when I’m writing but let’s deal with one type of compulsive behavior at a time shall we?     Great.   Okay, so most recently I carved out forty-five minutes for some much needed down time and grabbed Storm Dancer by Rayne Hall, which I’m currently reading. BOOM! Next thing I knew three hours had passed, the water was ice cold and I had puckered from head to toe like a freakish white prune. Did I mention I was in the tub?   I managed to squeeze in a couple short reads both by my friend Nikki Haze. Working Closely and the not yet released Sex Games which will have

Gabriel stood outside her window, seduced by her heart ’s slow seductive rhythm and the gentle sound of her lungs at work; exercises he hadn’t enjoyed in nearly four hundred years. Not a hundred of those had passed before he had forgotten how it had felt to be human. It was marvelous, the connection he shared with this woman. He felt everything she did. And not just her emotions. He’d felt her tears, tasted her soup. Experienced the hot water when she bathed. He was entranced. His thoughts turned to the train. He hadn’t lied to Jocelyn; he had not intended to tatke the woman's life. He had n o t killed in more years than he felt the need to count. But when Jocelyn had entered the train and their minds had linked, he’d been overwhelmed with the force of her emotions. Gabriel had shared Jocelyn’s desire, her passion and revulsion. He had felt her stomach clench, her womanhood tighten and her gore rise. He had smelt the musky scent of her arousal while her hear

My publisher (I swear that never gets old!) reached out Monday to let me know that they’d like a different title for ‘the book’ which it will now temporarily be known as. They asked that I put together a list of ideas by today, tomorrow morning at the latest. I have thought of nothing else for two days straight.   I think I broke my brain.

My whole life I’ve been a writer, my imagination just worked that way. Until I joined Twitter I’ve never had like-minded persons to share that with and having a support group of people that “get it” is just incredibly satisfying. An unexpected boon was the creation of my newest vice: Blogs.   =D Some of my favorites: Writer Strong: My Obsessive-Compulsive Muse courtesy of Jade Kerrion's twitter feed. Not only did this speak to the cathartic impact of writing but my own, admittedly less serious, issues with compulsive behavior.   4 Reasons Not to Compare Yourself to Other Writers courtesy of Anne Carpenter's twitter feed & 25 Hard Truths about Writing and Publishing courtesy of Paula Margulies' twitter feed.   Okay who doesn’t really need to hear/read these things every once in a while? Ksenia   Anske - she disperses humor and advice on her blog, and twitter, every day without exception that I can see. Skye McCoy – such a funny and generous guy.

I’ve been awaiting the arrival of edits on Wolf .   It’s funny that I’m nervous about this. I already got the contract. But I am. When I wrote Serviced I had self-revised until there wasn’t a single punctuation mark I wasn’t satisfied with, but that wasn’t even thirty pages long. I attempted to do the same with Wolf , which is why I’ve been holding on to it nearly three years after finishing it but at upwards of 240 pages that was proving, well, let’s just say difficult, and leave it at that. This time I know I’m going to have to make edits and based on someone else’s input. And that has me a little queasy. I was the kid in school that had her hand waving frantically in the air, going “Ew, ew, ew, pick me, pick me.” Because I knew the answer. I always knew the answer. Kids hated me. Unless they didn’t do their homework or forgot to study, then for twenty minutes on Friday morning they LOVED me. My 7 th grade homeroom teacher had this revolutionary idea to try to make smart-she

She gripped the curtain helplessly as she listened. Her windows were closed and bolted shut. He stood across the street, his features shrouded in darkness. His voice was intimate as a whisper and she could hear him as clearly as though he was standing by her side. “Jocelyn, please understand,” h e compell ed. “I need to eat , to survive. I didn’t intend to kill her. I haven’t taken a life in centuries. I was experiencing your emotions as well as my own and I got swept away. But I did n o t hurt her.  You’d have felt her pain, her fear, if there had been any . That amazing gift of yours doesn’t lie to you does it , Jocelyn? Just as you know I am not lying to you.” Yes, Jocelyn thought, yes, he’s telling the truth. He doesn’t kill for food or sport , the woman was an accident and she ’ d died peacefully, but that means I’m partially responsible for her death. “No , Dearest, you are not. ” He said. She didn’t question that he could hear her thoughts. When you l

I have two children, both girls, and they are my reason. But they are so different and in every conceivable way. In fact, more than a decade apart in age, they have so little in common, other than being my children and female with brown hair, that you’d be hard pressed to guess they were sisters if you didn’t know it. But even though I find that sad sometimes, I also kind of like that about them. In fact, one of the things I enjoy most about their differences is seeing the opposing pieces of my own nature in reflection. My eldest, CF, she’s a realist. That stick on the ground is just something you should avoid tripping over. That’s an integral part of who I am. A place for everything and everything in its place. *Course I never manage to avoid tripping; a trait she and I also share.* My youngest, MM, she’s a dreamer. That stick she saw is a charmed sword that can shoot streams of defensive magic at the dragon chasing us away from the castle [her school] it’s protecting. *That a

I’m not normally home on Tuesdays. I’m not normally home weekdays, period. But my daughter was sick with the flu and since my ex-husband has a new baby at home, and so does pretty much everyone else I know who is home during the day, I was taking non-paid leave to be home with her. It’s not such a bad gig, if you don’t mind the disgusting parts that accompany a sick eight year old, and as I’ve been a mom far longer than I haven’t been, I long ago stopped minding the disgusting bits. The poor little thing had finally managed to nod off and I was quietly wasting time on the laptop when I noticed that a publisher I’ve been following on Twitter because I like their books, @Crimson_Romance was having a promotion of sorts: Tweet-pitch the editor on completed manuscripts, one day only.   I had finished writing a book and then spent the next two+ years, revising and insisting it wasn’t ready. But, with my daughter’s not very subtle snoring as a soundtrack, I figured it would be an opportuni

There I sat at the dining room table eagerly tap-tap-tapping away on the laptop while my 4 year old step-daughter played under the table, literally at my feet, occasionally hollering up a question or comment. Suddenly an unmistakable odor filled my airspace.   “Shay? Did you pass gas?” “It wasn’t me. The bear did it.” She vowed to find the bear and teach him to say “Excuse me." This led to a twenty minute long bear hunt including her handing me a black fuzz-ball (likely from her father’s wool socks) produced as evidence that there was a gassy bear loose in my house. All this to avoid admitting that she was, in fact, the culprit; and that she did not say excuse me. But because I enjoyed her creativity and commitment, I played along.* Later, as I’m sharing the story and a chuckle with her dad it occurs to me that in a sense, each time I sit down with my laptop attempting to convert my imagination from something ethereal to something corporeal, I’m engaging in my very ow

More than once her gaze was drawn to an intriguing couple about three quarters of the way down the car. They had their heads close together, like lovers, hers on his shoulder, his tilted down to look into her eyes. His arm was tossed over her shoulders in an easy intimacy Jocelyn envied. His hair was dark as midnight, shining blue in the cheap fluorescent light. His partner’s was a fiery cap of red that billowed around his forearm. Jocelyn used the couple as a focal point to keep her guard from slipping again and when she finally exited the train, she thanked them both silently before trudging the last blocks to home, tears falling unabashedly. She didn’t notice or sense the figure trailing behind. Hours later, after a long, hot bath and a soothing dinner of grilled cheese and soup, Jocelyn slid into the comfort of bed with a favorite book. She was determined to chase away the last of the shadows before succumbing to what she hoped would be a cleansing rest. Just as she felt her