What’s in a word?

Well, yes, that's true, but I started thinking about what makes a word a thing just the other day. Recently, my sister moved over from Arizona, so I don't live alone anymore–well, alone except for Cosmo, my dog, along with KitKat and Roland, my cats. As I was saying though, once in awhile, she likes to read articles aloud that she thinks are interesting. I like it, too, so I stop writing and listen.

The ariticle I'm thinking about now related to….dun..dun…dun…

Writer's Block!

There was no such thing as writer's block in the 1800s. Amazing, huh? Nowadays, there's a million internet sites dedicated to it and it's actually a studied behavioral health condition. 

I got this straight off of en.Wikipedia.org: 

Writer's block is a condition, primarily associated with writing as a profession, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work. The condition varies widely in intensity. It can be trivial, a temporary difficulty in dealing with the task at hand. At the other extreme, some "blocked" writers have been unable to work for years on end, and some have even abandoned their careers.^{[citation needed]} It can manifest as the affected writer viewing their work as inferior or unsuitable, when in fact it could be the opposite. The condition was first described in 1947 by psychoanalyst Edmund Bergler.^[1]

Personally, I thought the whole thing was fascinating. 

So…I've been sort of …I won't say not writing  because I was writing these many months that I have been out of contact from the world. I've been writing a bit here and there, of course. But I've had focus issues. I'm not sure it could be considered writer's block.

I have MS, like several other writers do. It's really inconvenient, I'll tell you that. Sometimes I forget that I asked a question and ask it three times(from three different people)  –or to my embarrassment, tell someone something and the wrong words come out. It's like a "DAMN YOU AUTOCORRECT" in real life.  I'll try to write and everything else under the sun seems to jump to the top of the "pay attention to me" list. I'm always dizzy like I'm riding a spinning top–not dizzy like the dizzy blonde of myth and legend. Add that to weak limbs and other goodies, and you have a severe lack of focus.

The good news, for me, anyway, is that I'm writing again, and publishing again : – )

I've put links and blurbs about all my new releases on my newsletter, of course, but I thought I'd stick a few Coming Soon covers with excerpts on here–just to prove I'm back in action 🙂

Keep in mind that these are not yet professionally edited. I don't want to post excerpts from the two books I've contracted or am contracting with New Concepts Publish or Torquere Books, respectively. I'll wait until I have publish dates on them.

Oh, and don'g forget Daddy's Girl  has just released!

I hope you'll click over and read the excerpt.

This one is due out in the spring with Melange Books:

The Montgomery Chronicles: Book Four–  Family Matters

Blurb:

 How many Were’s could manage to find their mate and lose her all at the same time? Yancey Montgomery’s mate has been right under his nose for at least a decade. When he makes her his, he also chases her off. What will it take to convince the delicate little werewolf that he is a worthy mate?

Never had Sue been so glad to be back in America, and now she was moving into Old Moon, the town where her best friend lived. What could be better than that? Of course there was no drama at Tracey's place…or so she thought.

Excerpt from Chapter Two:

Standing at the arrival gate in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport holding up a poster-board sign, Peyton couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like such a big dork. Under the circumstances, that was saying something. A werewolf couldn’t be first cousin to the infamous criminal August Livingston without taking a few hits—not in the Montgomery-Livingston pack, anyway. Besides that, he’d never really felt like he fit in. Holding a paper sign up at the airport wasn’t the most embarrassing thing that could happen to him, he knew, but it wasn’t dignified by any stretch.

The moment he’d heard the name “Sue” come out of his new Alpha’s mouth, Peyton had had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. That could have had something to do with the obvious discomfort his employer exhibited when making his request, of course. He had no doubt something was up there. Seeing the woman in the picture just intensified things. There’d been some sort of tug—a kind of déjà vu.

Tav had handed him a second picture when he’d asked for it—this one unframed and featuring the lady in question on her own. The new photo showed a head and shoulders view of a thirty-ish woman; dark chocolate curls and waves cascading down past her shoulders, framing a narrow, oval face.  Her eyes were as dark as her hair, with a hint of haughty challenge sparkling there, complimented by the merest suggestion of a smirk. She had delicately arched brows, flared slightly at the outside.

The woman’s face though, that was what arrested Peyton the most. It was attractive when it should not have been. That was his first thought. One eye tilted just a bit more than the other. He could see it right away as he studied the picture more closely. Her cheekbones were almost too high, if that were possible and too sharp as well. Also, there was something wrong with her right upper lip. He spotted it when he pulled the photo near. Her lip was scarred. The scar was thin, perhaps surgical in nature, but he couldn’t be certain. Add to that, her chin was too pointed, making her countenance seem even narrower. All in all, it should have been an unpleasant face, if not homely. It certainly should not have come together with such an arresting beauty. Somehow it drew him, stirred him in a way he’d never felt before. Peyton didn’t like it.

And now, now he stood amidst a crowd, badly made sign held aloft, watching for a woman he was beginning to wish he’d never heard of, all the worse because she had no idea that he, or werewolves in general, existed. Odd, that, since she’d been friends with the Darke family for a decade. On top of it all, he was supposed to live with her? Okay, it had been couched as a request, but really—how was he going to turn his Alpha down? Aside from everything else, the pack owned the house in question.

Oh well, if there was one thing Peyton knew how to do, it was follow orders. Needless to say, if the order was dangerous or stupid, he would…misinterpret it a little. Sharing an expensive and roomy old house with a beautiful woman who was allegedly a great cook—what could be dangerous about that?

The sound of a throat clearing pulled Peyton from his distracted speculation. Taken by surprise, he jerked and spun, hands still in the air, cardboard sign flapping loudly like a drunken paper flag.

Peyton could do little more than gape as the woman’s breathtaking scent washed over him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, just stood there, arms held high, the thin poster sign held at arm’s length above his head.

“I’ll take that,” the goddess informed him, hand out expectantly. Confused, all he could do was shake his head in the negative and stare. He had no idea where his cognitive abilities had gone. “What? It has my name on it, therefore, it’s mine,” she insisted, brow arched. “Hand it over.” What could he say? It did have her name on it, after all.

At a loss, Peyton did as ordered, watching in bemusement as she folded it until it was long and thin, then pressed it in half and marched it to a nearby trashcan, stuffing the abused cardboard inside. Returning to his side, she dusted her hands off in a deliberate manner.

“Now then, how can I help you? Are you the friend Tracey and Tav mentioned in their phone call?” She spoke with a mild Italian accent which just added another intriguing facet to a very alluring puzzle.

Peyton had every intention of agreeing and suggesting they head toward baggage claim, post haste. Instead, he blurted, “You’re my mate!”

Sue cleared her throat again and shook her head sharply, seemingly disappointed.  “Why don’t you try introducing yourself first, hmm hotshot? That’s how this is supposed to go. I don’t know what Tracey’s told you about me, but I don’t “mate” with strangers.” She paused, “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

Excerpt from Chapter Two

“You look pretty rough this morning, old son!” boomed Lakon Montgomery, slapping his cousin and manager, Yancey Livingston, on the back before dropping to the suite’s sofa next to him.

Related through their mothers, the two werewolves were as close as any brothers and had weathered many storms together. Lakon’s singing had brought him to stardom years before and Yancey had managed his cousin’s career since the beginning.

Even when Yancey’s brother, August Livingston, had attacked and kidnapped Lakon’s nephews along with his twin brother’s wife and later Lakon’s own mate, the two men had remained close.

Unfortunately, his cousin was the last person he wanted to deal with now. His exuberance earned a loud groan from Yancey as he leaned back and draped his forearm across his face to block the light. He wished he could blame a hangover for the way he was feeling but alcohol had little effect on werewolves. It was nearly noon and he felt like he’d been run over by a moose. No, alcohol alone hadn’t caused him to feel this way, but it had played some part, along with a frightening collection of other chemicals. Lifting his arm slightly, he looked at the other Were.

“Lake, I think I did something bad last night. I can barely remember–I was so exhausted from the last concert series and high on how well things went,” he sighed and sat up. “Hell, I was high on stuff to keep me going. I was going too strong, I guess, and I did have quite a few drinks,” Yancey buried his face in his hands.

“What’d you do, cuz?” Concern, even worry echoed in Lakon’s voice. Yancey felt a warm palm settle on his shoulder as his cousin offered comfort and support.

“I had sex with some woman…” he managed to choke out, his voice weak with shame.

“Yancey? That’s usually not a bad thing…” Lakon began, sounding genuinely confused.

Yancey looked up at him, head thumping, heart racing in panic. “I have no idea who she was. I don’t know if she was in heat. I can’t even remember if she was human or Were,” he dropped his head into his hands again. “She seemed pretty young.”

“How young, Yance?” growled Lakon, his tone wary and authoritative. Sex with a willing woman was one thing, but hurting a child was a death sentence. Anyone under the age of consent was a child, no questions asked.

 

These two are going to come out on Amazon Kindle

 

This is a Male/Male story (cover by Nix Winter)

Art & Soul

By J.J. Massa

Oliver Crane was a success. He enjoyed making movies– losing himself in a new role every few months. Acting allowed him to express so many facets of his nature. Dark and intense, he lived his work as the screen's ideal leading man. What woman wouldn't want to spend the night in his bed? For that matter, how many men could say they didn't want him?

Not Thorbjörn  Frisk. Or he wouldn’t deny it, if anyone bothered to ask him. A Swedish artist who emigrated to America in his late teens, Tor often lost himself in his work, avoiding the harsh realities of impatient and intolerant people who had no use for a stuttering sculptor who barely spoke English.

 Both men invested his very soul into his art. What would it cost them in the end?

Chapter One

Tor was up to his elbows in plaster, clay and muck when he heard the disturbance outside. Forcibly ignoring it, he immersed himself in finding the rhythm of the piece he was working on. It was a multi-media piece of art that had been commissioned by the wife of a prominent businessman.

His trade was competitive, if you were into that sort of thing, but Tor wasn’t. Born Thorbjörn Matthias Frisk in Rheinau, Switzerland, his family had moved to New York when he was seven.

Tor had struggled to fit in with his American peers for many years. This had proved to be impossible in the long run, of course. He was just too different. Though his accent had faded, Swedish would always be his first language and the language he thought in. Where he was from, creativity was highly prized, and nobody cared a whit about sexual orientation.

Things were different here.  With a shake of his head, Tor stepped back to view his project. It was only then that he heard the pounding on his studio door.

“Komma in!” he called absently, circling the huge sculpture, assessing what it was and what it might become. As he reached the point where he’d been working, Tor began to back up for a broader view.

“What the hell?” a strange voice shouted. “What’re doing? You got…sludge all over me!”

The new voice and unexpected impact caught Tor by surprise, causing him to stumble, grabbing onto the now gaping stranger.  Only, this wasn’t a stranger—not really. While he’d never met the actor, everyone knew Oliver Crane.

Dark hair, square jaw, piercing blue eyes, muscles in all the right places, the man was a god. Currently, however, he was a god covered in what amounted to mud. Sure, it was expensive mud, but mud just the same. Tor, on the other hand, was covered in…Well, by Oliver crane. He definitely had the better part of the deal—or so he thought until he looked into those raging blue eyes.

 

 

Here's a short excerpt from one going on Amazon later this month or early next month:

Figuratively Speaking

(there's no blurb for it yet but I've asked Mae Powers to do the cover–or I meant to, anyway)

The minute Alyssa saw the old guy she casually walked up beside his chair and grabbed a handle.

“Alright, Granddad, where are we going?” she asked him. He reached back and patted her hand quickly.

“Both hands, young lady, you can push awhile,” he told her arrogantly. She fought a smile. “Play along for now, you’re about to meet my uni-faceted nephew. DON’T correct me.”

She jerked her head in a nod. “Yes, Sir!” she exclaimed smartly.

“Take me through that door,” he pointed. She complied.

“Granddad, what should I call you? Where are we going? And, P.S.: I’m tired,” she grumped.

“Whine, whine, whine,” he laughed. “We’re going somewhere you can’t get to on a bus, young lady! Do you really care? Grandfather is just fine.”

She chuckled outright at him. “It’s a free country and the price of my engine services, Grandfather, is ongoing whining. You’re right, anywhere but here works for me!” she gave him a hard push to get over a bump. “Did I mention that I’m tired? It’s not sleepy tired, you understand, it’s avoiding death tired.” After a minute, she said, “I’m thirsty, too.”

“Hush!” the old man barked autocratically. To a steward, he said, “Is my nephew aboard yet?”

“Yes, Sir,” the steward told him. “He’s in the forward cabin.”

“Good, we’ll take the rear cabin. Please bring the young lady some refreshment.” He seemed used to ordering people about, she thought.

The airplane was a plush, executive jet and Alyssa was fascinated by it. She’d never flown before. She’d never left the city before.

Once they entered the plane, she wheeled his chair to the seat he’d indicated. She leaned down and allowed the old man’s arms to encircle her neck. The unlikely couple did this naturally as if they had had a long relationship.

She raised herself from the waist, raising Bradley with her. Alyssa helped him slide onto a wide, plush seat. She folded the chair and the surprised steward put it behind his seat. The young steward had expected to help the old man settle in.

“Grandfather?” she slid into a seat directly across from him. He arched a steel colored brow. “A whole ton of things have just occurred to me starting with– I’ve never flown before.”

A small smile played around the old man’s mouth. “We’ll deal with the flying,” he chuckled. “Fight the rest off.” To the steward he said, “Bring the young lady a snifter of Canadian Whiskey followed by a glass of Merlot if she’s still awake.”

“Grandfather!” she snapped. “I don’t drink that much!”

“If you fly, you might as well drink!” he snapped back.

She gave him a hard look. Slowly, a grin spread across her face. He grinned, too. She knew that they understood each other perfectly.

If you fly, you ought to drink. That way if you crash, you don’t care.

Alyssa had just met her soul mate and he had one foot in the grave and the other foot on a banana peel. It didn’t matter because she’d gladly follow him to hell and carry the water.

*

Neither the old man nor the young girl knew that they were being observed. Nikodemos Kosmapoulos watched from the plane as the woman walked up and put her hand on his uncle’s chair.  He saw the old man pat her hand and then order her about. He could tell she was more amused by him than awe-struck. She was doing what she wanted as long as she chose to.

He’d watched them come aboard. They’d seated themselves as if this wasn’t the first time she’d helped him from his chair. Uncle Bradley spoke to the girl as if he knew her well. She’d responded in the same manner.

Nik had been surprised when he heard her say she’d never flown as if it had just occurred to her. His uncle had ordered alcohol for her and she’d refused. Old Bradley had rolled right over that and Nik had seen understanding and acceptance dawn on her face.

This could be something more than one of his old uncle’s strays. It was time to go and greet the old man. Nik had felt the plane leave the ground a minute ago. He unsnapped his seat belt and moved to the rear cabin.

He couldn’t see the girl’s face under her baseball cap but he could hear his uncle talking.

“Steward,” he called. “Young lady, remove that awful cap and take a sip of the whiskey and you’ll be fine.” Bradley saw his nephew and greeted him. “Nik, hello! Help me out, boy!”

“How can I be of service, Uncle?” he asked standing near his uncle’s chair. “I see you brought a guest,” he said blandly.

“Pour that young lady her whiskey, the steward just gave her the damned bottle. Put the glass in her hand and she’ll drink it. She’ll be fine.”

“Certainly, Uncle Bradley,” Nik smirked. He could see that she was frozen with fear. If his uncle didn’t know her name, she wouldn’t be able to tell him. “How shall I address her?” he asked, pouring the whiskey into a glass tumbler.

“Alyssa!” Bradley said sharply. “Alyssa pay attention!”

The girl jerked her head around. Her eyes were huge under her cap.

“Take that abominable cap off right now, young lady!” he barked.

With shaking hands, she reached up and removed the cap, revealing long, thick hair that appeared a dark burgundy or a dark russet. Nik wasn’t sure. Her enormous eyes were a brown-purple color.

“Alyssa, turn to the man that just sat down next to you,” she did so. “Take the drink and have some,” when she held the drink in both shaking hands, she raised it to her lips but didn’t drink.

“Grandfather…” she whispered in a horse voice.

“Drink Alyssa!” he barked.

She did drink. Apparently it was a harsher whiskey than she expected – if she’d ever had any kind of whiskey at all.

“Why you malevolent, loathsome, mordant old coot,” she sputtered.

“You know you just called me the same thing three times?” the old man struggled to contain his smile.

“I live to be redundant! I told you I was tired and thirsty. You knew I was scared and you – you – you tried to choke me?” she leaned forward to make sure he could see her glare. “When you least expect it, old man, expect it!” she growled.

Bradley threw back his head and laughed. “Alyssa, calm down, girl. Meet my nephew, Nik.”      She closed her eyes and leaned back. She took a calming breath.

She sat up and turned to Nik.

“Nice to meet you, Nik,” she said hesitantly. She held out a shaking hand. He took it. Soft – with calluses.

Staring into her unusual eyes, Nik felt everything stop for a heartbeat. His body hardened instantly. He’d never been so affected by a woman before. He took a deep breath and hoped his uncle didn’t notice. She was so beautiful — she was ethereal.

And that's all you get *grin*

Let me just add that Nix and I are writing together again and are going to be releasing some new books very soon. Hopefully in the next ten days, in fact. We're writing a third story for the Storm storyline. It'll be Storm Whispers, Storm Front, and then Storm View.

Oh–and Sovereign of the Dragon is back, too, and you can find out where it is by getting my newsletter. *evil grin*