I apologize for my hiatus for the past year. Who knew having babies, my job closing and then opening my own business, and going to college would eat up all that supposed free time people think I have? The good news is the stories are still coming. Speaking of stories, there’s a box set releasing in September you all might be interested in. And of course I kidnapped—ahem—I mean coerced (okay, that probably doesn’t sound better) a fellow author in the set to tell us their secrets.
Which one of you did I manage to trap this time, and what sexy succulence did you stick in Coming In Hot? Hey Muffy Wilson, tell us your secrets!
I wrote a piece, a novella, of about 23k words about a doctor and a troubled twin, Healing Hearts, who is attacked in her sister’s apartment. Naturally, they grow close during her recovery and take it over the top when she clearly is well enough since she is having the waves of Robert Palmers, “Doctor, Doctor give me the news I got a bad case of lovin’ you!” And she loves him up good, baby. Being a twin makes it even more interesting. And they ain’t sharing their clothes…need I say more? Perhaps this tag line will spark some interest:
Walking on the edge with the underbelly of society in the shadows of the night could be hazardous to your health…or worse—deadly.
Was there anywhere naughty your characters did the thing? Was it based off anything you wanted to try? Or are you a sweet lil vanilla?
Vanilla? No me! I’d put my characters to shame and turn the good doctor’s head faster than a speeding bullet—in my day!
My characters in this book are pretty vanilla. I mean they aren’t doin’ it in a Ferris wheel or an El Camino headed down I-5 at 110 miles an hour (like I did in my sordid, fun-filled youth), for sure, after all she is recovering from a broken pelvis and brain surgery. But, our good doctor is obsessed and repressed so it makes for some saucy sex, I think. We’ll have to wait and see what the readers think! But, in all seriousness, the sex is great but the story is good and could stand on its own. It is complicated with a dandy twist for an ending. Good thing there is sex to break up the story.
If you had unlimited access to money, you would start a... whorehouse!
Nah, but it’s kind of the same thing. I would really establish products and services for Indy authors that they do not have access to now. I do a lot of author promotions on all my social platforms—a bit of paying it forward as thanks to those who helped me so selflessly when I was a greenhorn. I would provide the authors, good Indy authors, access to the finest services: editing, trailers, cover design, models (have you seen Jimmy Thomas—Lord have mercy!), photographers, marketing and promotions. Everything. Our Indy authors today are controlled by social networking and publishing platform algorithms that are designed to percolate the professional, big money making authors to the top and keep the promising at the bottom. It is hard to break through that glass ceiling.
Maybe I’d have a whorehouse too, you know, for…research. After all, I would have unlimited access to money, right? I’d walk around in Bob Mackie gowns and drink SoCo Manhattans like a connoisseur, swear like a sailor, and take what I want, or who, when I want and where I want while dressed to the hilt. Sounds like Heaven-on-a-Stick to me.
Or I would be a time-traveler and go back to change the course of history to make the world a better, safer, more loving place. One or the other.
What is the weirdest experience that ever happened to you? (It can be anything from paranormal encounters to a “I almost died that day!”)
I had an out-of-body-experience the night my mother died. I was 35 years old. We had become best friends from the time I grew out of the daddy love me more competitive between mother and daughter that happens at the thirteen to sixteen stage. I was between jobs and should have been alone. I relied on her a lot—and she me. She was in the same boat. She called me at 0230 in the morning, sick. I rushed over to her apartment and called the EMTs. She looked at me and a tear blossomed in the corner of her left eye and rolled down her cheek leaving a glistening trail of sorrow behind it. She didn’t speak. I knew she was leaving because she took me with her part way. I looked down and saw us together, crying. She wanted me to know she wasn’t afraid or in pain. I was heartbroken but at peace. She was only sixty-one and not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of her. We are both safe and happy.
Tell us a secret about yourself. Shhhh, we promise not to share. Right, Readers?
I was the Midwest Regional Director in the Real Estate and Construction Division for IBM. I retired at thirty-nine to run a 100 year old bar and restaurant with my husband of three years in Wisconsin. We owned it for thirteen years, worked out butts off and had a blast—then retired to Paradise in SW Florida. I’ll be sixty-seven in September, been married to my only husband for 31 years, but I’m a slut at heart.
What is the most childish pastime indulgence you have?
Trying to have the last word. I am so competitive! I have to WIN at everything. It’s infantile. If you mean real indulgence, it’s chocolate Hostess cupcakes. What is with that?
Do you ever consider writing a different genre? Or do you have a pen name you’d be willing to share that writes a different genre?
I write what I call Provocative Romance. Most of what I write is based in part on my life experiences, dressed up for the Prom, as it were. Some is totally erotic and debased; most of it is about love, lost and found. I don’t have much life experience in being a witch, fighting dragons, flying wingless through the air, chopping people to pieces and feeding them to my pigs or murder. I write what I know and that is relationships, loving, exciting, tortured and/or unfulfilled but always with a happy ending, of sorts. Every manner of the human experience. I want my fans and readers to identify, escape and finish with hope.
Okay, Readers, I better return this author back to the wild before the authorities catch on. Muffy Wilson, before you go, you have to pay the toll. Give the readers an excerpt! (You can make it as naughty or nice as you want.)
I decided to give you the opening page to my piece in Coming in Hot. It’s titled Healing Hearts. Here goes…
Everyone gets what they deserve. Everybody knows that.
Hell, it didn’t matter anyway.
It was the wee hours of the morning and Brianna was all alone on the barren, black, wet streets. Curiously, she was unafraid to walk the night between the underbelly of society that lives in the darkness.
It was probably just like the night her sister was murdered. She was probably troubled by the same things—haunted by the depths of her own depravity. The clack-clack-clack of her heels on the sidewalk announced her approach as she headed…where? Home? That was a laugh. It made her think of the first time—her first time, maybe her sister’s first time—on the streets and in the black flesh pits of San Francisco that served up watered down whiskey, easy women and the finest drug connections money could buy, steal or cheat. Shrouded in the black lies hidden by the night, she did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted and with whomever she wanted. The rain always had that effect, kept the good ones home while the creeps washed out of every skank black hole.
It was like that her first night…and he was a creep. But she did him anyway, holding her breath as he huffed, thrust, and panted into her young pink mouth. She thought of her kid sister. Was he the one?
The police didn’t know and had no more leads. What was she to do? She had to find out; she had to help. At least, she had to try.
But, she got swept away in the trying.
If she had any doubt about what she had become, it vanished with that blow-job stuffed into her sweet Mona Lisa smile. Every night since, her skirts got shorter and the nights longer and the creeps, well, the creeps were all still creeps.
It was getting harder to remember what her kid sister looked like and why she was here. It was getting harder and harder…and easier, too. There were nights she didn’t care who killed her sister and there were nights she could think of little else.
The line between purpose and obsession became obscure.
She could question how she wound up on the streets, but she already knew. It was a matter of choice—her choice—and the men, the trail of men in her life, were a matter of choice too—her choice and hers alone. She picked them; they didn’t pick her. Still…It was just a matter of time before she would call one of those black rat holes home to curl up with the viper that lived within.
There was a wild thought afloat that nothing positive ever happens until you hit the very bottom of the abyss. Nothing positive had even begun to happen in her life. Guess she had further to fall, since she clearly had not hit rock bottom. Could be. Until then, she entertained herself with the fine parade of men. The steady stream of eager lovers had only one thing wrong—there was no love involved. No names, no “what do you do for a living”, no talk about wives, lovers, divorces or kids. Those were her rules and if you wanted to fuck her, you did it on her terms. Clear, simple, no muss no fuss…and no kissing. She didn’t want to kiss the underbelly of society. They were all scumbags and she liked it that way—on the edge, the tight, unforgiving edge.
Any last words, before you are free to go? And if a reader wants to track you down themselves, where can they find you?
It was great to be here with you and your wonderful fans and readers. They sound like a rowdy fun bunch. I would love to come back again. I still have more secrets, after all—a lifetime of them. Like I said… God only knows, my closets not only have skeletons but my clothes and shoes do too. And here’s a tip…don’t look in the purses. Shhhhhh…J BTW, you can find me here:
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