As if writers don't suffer enough, erm, issues...

I haven't suffered writer's cramp in years, since I do the majority of my writing on the computer now. But back in the day of the ten page snailmail letters and such, I used to get hellacious writer's cramp. (That, and I'm right-handed but hold the pen or pencil like a lefty, so hypergraphic inspiration often meant lead or ink smeared to my elbow...) Nowadays, my output is significantly higher, partly due to the absence of writer's cramp, yet I suffer writer's block more frequently than I did during the pencil-n-paper days. I often joke that block is like a writer's cramp of the brain. According to this article, I may be on to something:

Writer's Cramp May Be Tied to Brain Abnormalities

Yes, as if writers aren't already fucked up enough. :P

~ Katrina S.
Romance for the Black Coffee Crowd
http://www.katrinastrauss.com/

Confession is good for the soul...

Yes, it's time for another "confession post". Or, the strange shit I not-so-secretly listen to...

I have always loved the theme music from The Legend of Zelda, from those 8-bit days to present. The first few chords of the opening song alone always bring a smile to my face. Imagine my delight to discover this Legend of Zelda orchestra medley:

http://video.yahoo.com/video/play?vid=628837&cache=1

Yes, as I continue to horribly date myself -- I'm a child of the 80's who, even in my punk rock days, cited Prince as a genius. I love the current retro-trend of studio-produced music backed by funky old school beats, paired with slick choreographed vidoes that call to mind the former glory days of MTV. Which is why I totally dig both the song and the video for Umbrella by Rihanna. Not to mention Rihanna is one of those hot babes who looks like she could kick your ass without chipping a nail. (Two words regarding the brief tribute to Goldfinger: hot damn.) Edgier than Beyonce (tho I love her, too), and a hella classier than Britney (well okay maybe that's not saying much, but...) I think Madonna and Janet's true and worthy successor has finally arrived:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMcxWLY0WBo

Now that half of you have had a heart attack from that previous description in which I failed to cite the more expected Siouxsie Sioux -- at last, a J-rock band my daughter and I can agree on! Back-On is Japan's answer to Linkin' Park only less whiny and a lot hotter. Their single New World is another one where I like the song and video alike. I think it's their fresh energy and evident passion for what they're doing that catches me more than anything:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTQJvWiyYHw

(Yes, these are the same guys who do the opening song Chain for Air Gear. Yes, I like that one, too.)

Well I'm feeling much better now. I'm putting on the Rihanna song again...

~ Katrina S.
Explore the darker side of love...
http://www.katrinastrauss.com/

Gina Gershon, Ville Valo, and Anakin Skywalker -- oh my!!!

What do those three names have in common, you are likely asking? Well...this week's topic at the Aphrodite's Apples blog is "the pretties who inspire the Muse". I've just picspammed to my heart's content. To see the pretties, and get an idea of how the creative process works in my twisted mind, take a gander at my post here:

http://aphroditesapples.blogspot.com/2007/07/katrinas-musely-inspirations.html

Here's a teaser of what you'll find. Yes, my preferred hotties are not just limited to boys. ;)



~ Katrina S.
Explore the darker side of love...
http://www.katrinastrauss.com

And today's word is...

My 4-year-old should be pleased, as this is one of his favorite adjectives:



New dictionary includes 'ginormous'"


~ Katrina S.
Explore the darker side of love...
http://www.katrinastrauss.com/

Only in my dreams...

I often dream about my characters. When I'm drafting or editing, I work out plot points in my sleep. When the manu is complete, my characters come back to visit me.

Then there are the anachronistic scenarios -- like the one where the lead male and female of my medieval fantasy, Secrets Revealed, were riding together on horseback, searching in vain for an outlet to power the laptop she cradled in her arms...


~ Katrina S.
Explore the darker side of love...
http://www.katrinastrauss.com/

A little treat for the 4th

It's a rainy July the 4th on my end. Ah well, my family will just have an indoor "cookout" today. For the heck of it, I thought I'd share an excerpt from my short story, Efflorescence, which will be featured in Freya's Bower anthology A Rose of Any Colour - Book 2: Maledom, slated for release next month. Efflorescence takes place in 1920, when the Gibson Girl was fast fading from style but the Flapper had not fully emerged. I use this setting to explore the sensuality of bondage, in and of itself, outside of the actual sex act but rather leading up to the act over the course of four encounters. With each encounter young Hannah, who is unfashionably "plump" for this time period (sound familiar?) blossoms just a little more and learns to accept herself as a woman. Here is the first of four encounters between Hannah and Russian emigre Pavel.

* * * * * * * * *

"You are tired?" Pavel's question shattered their mutual silence.

She nodded. "A little. My arms, and my back—"

Pavel held up one hand, indicating no further explanation was necessary. He set the brush and palette on the tray and went to the cedar armoire. He rummaged inside.

He came toward her, a coil of shiny brown jute in his hands. "We will tie your hands in place," he said casually.

For a moment, Hannah found his suggestion alarming. Yet artists tended to be eccentric—foreign artists more so. And really, his idea seemed practical.

As he secured her wrists to the narrow, whittled spindles of the backrest, Pavel talked with her, putting her more at ease.

"Why do you model?"

Hannah peered up at him through lowered lashes.

"My mother needs help with the rent and my sisters' schooling," she said. "She's a music teacher, but she can only take on as many students as time allows."

"You have lost your father?" he asked.

"Yes, he passed two years ago."

"And he left no money?"

While Hannah's family found her father's lack of success embarrassing among their social circle, which included successful Broadway playwrights, she knew an artist who lived as modestly as Pavel would understand.

"He wrote and directed plays for one of the theatres here in the Village. He left—debts—and the royalties are modest at best."

"Ah, I see. But why do you model? A nice, pretty girl like you could find work at one of the shops, no? Ride the new subway up the street to Macy's?" He smiled down at her. "Do not tell me a starving artist pays more."

Hannah laughed, her self-consciousness waning. "I watched the front counter for a milliner. La Doña came in to buy a hat." And what a hat it had been, the wide horsehair brim decorated with the plumage of an entire pheasant! "She invited me to work for her."

Pavel concentrating on the knot he was tying. "You found work as a salesgirl tedious. Her proposition intrigued you."

"Yes," Hannah nodded, surprised that he understood. She also inexplicably found herself charmed with the way he drew the short i sound in to a long ee. Sensing a kinship, her comfort growing, she opened to him more. "I come from a family of artisans—writers, musicians, painters. I am the only one who does not bear a natural talent. I thought modeling might prove a way to contribute to the arts."

Pavel grunted. "My father was a farmer, and his father before him. And yet I paint. For you, it is different. It is in your blood. In time, you will find your talent."

The final knot cinched, Pavel knelt to inspect his handiwork. His face drew level with hers. His breath bore a hint of alcohol, while his hair smelled of macassar oil and his shirt of light sweat. She caught herself inhaling slowly, deeply, savoring his masculine scent.

Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the strong Russian tea, but her face grew hot once more, and her stomach quivered. She shifted her gaze, shy and timid all over again.

"I do not wish to staunch the flow of blood," he explained. "Is the rope too tight?"

"No," she answered. "It's fine."

Hannah loosed her grip, her forearms hanging limp. The coarse fibers of the jute cut slightly into her flesh, but did not prove uncomfortable. The strain on her shoulders lightened, which in turn alleviated the pressure on her spine.

She stared back out the window. The pigeons had taken leave. With her posture relaxed, and nothing to focus on, her eyes swam and her vision blurred. Instead, she focused inwardly, at the strange tickle of heat growing between her legs.

He is painting me, she thought. He is painting my thigh where my dress has ridden up, painting the strip of flesh between the hem of my skirt and the top of my stocking.

She thought of both his eyes and the brush following the path up her hip, over the curve of her buttocks, up the arch of her spine. A light throb began to pulse between her legs, and her cotton knickers dampened against the seat of the chair. She squirmed, attempting to quell the pleasant yet discomfiting sensation, which bordered on the need to urinate, yet she sensed her body sought some other form of release. To her dismay, her movements only served to exacerbate the strange palpitations.

"The first layer is finished," he announced at long last. "Do you wish to see?"

"Yes," she muttered, her throat gone dry while elsewhere, she had grown quite moist. By the time he had finished unknotting the jute, she found herself badly in need of another drink. Legs trembling, she rose and followed Pavel to view his side of the easel.

While he had conveniently left out any signs of her ligatures, he had included more honest details than any artist she had posed for. Stunned, a tiny shock coursed through her as she viewed herself through the émigré's eyes.

He had tinted her blonde hair a rich shade of gold, depicting her fringe curls exactly as they fell into her eyes, the blue orbs brilliant as sapphires. The angle of her face emphasized the cut of her cheekbones, chiseled high beneath her cherubic cheeks. And where others had painted her lips in a puckered Cupid's bow, Pavel had captured the natural shape of her wide, overly-generous mouth, and somehow made it flattering.

Her gaze drifted downward, and she saw that he had indeed painted her lower torso as she had envisioned, lending her curves an elegant grace rather than grotesque exaggeration.

"I will add more color over the next few days," he explained, almost apologetically.

Hannah nodded, familiar with the layering technique of oil painters. She wondered, if Pavel's work was this vivid and beautiful already, how the portrait might look once the final layer was set.

"Is that really me?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"It is what I see, yes," he said. His tone was not flirtatious, but objective, and yet it was the kindest compliment a man had ever paid her.

She bade him goodbye with five wrinkled, paint-stained bills in hand—two for her employer, two for her mother, and one precious dollar to spend on herself as she saw fit. She promised that yes, should Pavel specifically request her, she would be most happy to pose for him the following week.

As she strode down the sidewalk, she rolled her hips, just a little. Men openly turned and watched as she walked past.

Efflorescence
Copyright 2007 by Katrina Strauss
Explore the darker side of love...
http://www.katrinastrauss.com/