Stretch goal update: Friday

Hello after a three-day absence. Lemme (quickly) explain where I was. Wednesday, I was out most of the day on various errands and appointments. By the time I got home I was tired and yes, I can write while tired but by this point had written nothing all day, so there was no momentum. Plus, Wednesday evening saw me still in pain from dental work so I thought, however unwisely, “Sod it, I’m going to take some painkillers, lounge on the settee, and watch true crime videos on YouTube.”

Which meant the whole day was a bust, writing-wise.

Thursday too. Why? I had a few things to do out of the house but I have to admit, my lack of creative writing yesterday was entirely my own fault, down to lack of organisation or scheduling my writing time. On the other hand, I got some ‘admin’ done; this is how I refer to anything writing-related that isn’t actual writing. I sent out my newsletter, then got caught up with, and even ahead on, my Patreon posts.

Got back home in the evening, same old same old, tired, no momentum, another zero day.

But.

It’s Friday and I’ve just beaten my ‘best-day-in-years’ total from last week again! Okay, only by 40 words, but those 40 words still count, right?

How did I do it? By scheduling my writing time, utilising the pomodoro technique and getting started as early in the day as possible.

Please allow me a discreet squee and to feel proud of myself. Another 6k day in, and I’m going to reward myself with some more blood ‘n’ guts ‘n’ murder on YouTube, thank you and goodnight.

8 pomodoros for a daily total of 6,050 words.
Weekly total: 10,707 words.

Stretch goal update: Tuesday

Oh, man. I’m reluctant to talk bad about myself because I’d just be speaking self-hatred into existence but today? Today was a complete [redacted].

I did not fail, I merely achieved alternative success.

No 6k days yet this week, but I still got some writing done, and every word gets you closer to typing The End.

Except…I added five (5) more chapters to my outline for Take Me Home today, so it looks as if the damn book is moving its own goalposts.

Tomorrow’s unlikely to be a 6k day either, as I have a number of appointments outside the house so won’t have as much time to dedicate to writing as I did today. Heck, that could be the boost I need — when time is limited, I’m forced to use the hours I do have more wisely. More writing, less YouTube watching, amirite? And for goodness’ sake, Scarlett, use pomodoros to give your writing time some structure!

No set pomodoros, but a daily total of 1,654 words.
Weekly total: 4,657 words.

Stretch goal update: Monday

This one really will be a quick post, as it’s 2am and I’m calling it for the night. Bit sleepy, and I need to wind down before sleep will come and I’ve got my alarm set for 7am.

Did I make 6k today? Short answer, nope. And I know exactly why. I didn’t adhere closely enough to my hour-by-hour schedule. Once I get up, I have to get on with things straight away. Distractions that appear early in my day put down roots, and it’s bye-bye momentum.

That said, I did manage to write 3,003 words and I’m rather proud of what I came up with. An entire chapter set in the Trossachs National Park believe it or not, and the scenery, combined with the paaaaainful sexual tension between the two lead characters, led to some pretty sweet prose, even if I do say so myself.

It’ll obviously require some polishing later, but yeah. I like it.

Going to get changed for bed now and get some rest.

4 pomodoros for a daily total of 3,003 words.
Weekly total: 3,003 words.

 

Stretch goal for the coming week

I don’t normally blog on a Sunday evening — or, as it is now, the early hours of a Monday morning — but I’m just recovering from a migraine and looking to the week ahead. Before I got ill, I managed to write 6,010 words in one day by scheduling in set times for me to sit down on the floor in front of my coffee table and work through a couple of pomodoros. (Twenty-five minute writing sessions followed by a five minute break.)

Wikipedia explanation here.

And this is the online pomodoro timer I use.

Yes, I sit cross-legged on the carpet, with my Chromebook on the coffee table. Yes, it’s comfortable (for me). Especially when I’m wrapped in a blanket, as this Scottish weather often forces me to be.

Upshot is, I’m more than a bit cheesed off at fate deciding “Oh, you had your most productive writing day in years? Let’s strike you down with an Almighty bastard of a migraine. How’s that for hubris, bitch?”

So I need to take advantage of me being relatively safe from another migraine for a few weeks and this coming week (Mon-Fri, possibly the weekend as well, depending on how things go) I’ll be reporting on my daily word count each evening.

Please note, this is not aimed at making anyone else feel bad by lording it over them, bragging about how productive I am. Nor is it aimed at embarrassing myself publicly if I fail to live up to my stated goals (which I’m about to mention). Rather, it’s purely and simply about making myself accountable. If anyone wants to join in, great. If other writers have a different way of working, that’s cool too.

The base goal is to write every weekday. Shouldn’t be too hard, providing my head doesn’t fall off and my hands don’t melt.

The stretch goal is to make as many of those weekdays as possible 6k days. I know, I know, I mentioned hubris earlier and I’m pretty much asking for trouble with that one, right? Actually, no. As long as I write every day, I’m giving myself a pass. I know I can write 6k words in a day with a bit of planning and organisation and still have time for chores and errands, so why not try to replicate that productive day I recently had?

Time to grab some sleep; I’m planning to get started as early as possible in the morning, to get the week off to a good start.

Homemade covers and masturbediting

Because things had been so peaceful in Romancelandia lately, I thought it was about time I inserted myself into a random Twitter argument, because I just love the aggro. And what’s the latest nonsense that sent my blood pressure sky-high? The allegation made by…oh, somebody I’d never heard of before they were retweeted into my timeline…that self-published authors should always hire cover artists and editors.

Not so controversial, you might think, but wait! There’s always room on social media for someone to talk bollocks.

When I asked something like, “And if a writer can’t afford to pay cover artists’ or editors’ fees, should they just not publish at all?” I  was told by a bunch of…well, arseholes…who steadily shat their privileged opinions all over my notifications, that no. Poor people shouldn’t publish at all.

Several writers — more than is healthy, to be honest — have told me on Twitter that, if you cannot afford to pay for a quality piece of cover art and detailed, stringent edits, you should give up (for now, at least) and save your pennies until you can afford to outsource the work, which is the most privileged, elitist bullshit I’ve read in a long time.

Why? Because it’s gatekeeping. I don’t care what anyone says; it’s gatekeeping to effectively say “Poor people shouldn’t publish their work until it meets some arbitrary standard I choose to set.”

A lot of the objections I read online seemed to equate self-editing or homemade covers with rushed-out pap full of typos and plot holes, and slapped-on, badly-Photoshopped cover art, which is an insult to the integrity of self-published authors who are genuinely doing the best they can, with the resources they have.

I’ve self-published fourteen books, and of those, eleven have homemade covers. Why? Because I can’t fucking afford hundreds or thousands of dollars to pay someone else. Now, as someone told me on Twitter this evening (Monday as I write this, although this post will be scheduled for 9pm Tuesday my time), “There are some premade sites which are relatively cheap.”

Of course I wouldn’t know this already, having only been published for a decade.

[Edited to add: Which reminds me, glory be to mansplaining in the highest, for the chode who assured me that if I worked hard enough, maybe one day I could have a story published.]

Plus, the key is ‘relatively’ cheap. Relative compared to what? Other cover artists who charge thousands? Added to which, this alleged cheapness only applies to one-off covers. When it comes to series or author branding, the cost jumps up. I did those eleven homemade covers because I could afford a few bucks for several stock photos, and wanted to give my backlist some sense of uniformity. (Blurry effect on the photos, a very slight colour wash, similar font styles.)

Now, when it comes to editing, the costs are even higher.

Because of that, I edit my own books. Well…of those fourteen self-published books I mentioned earlier? Nine were previously published at various publishing houses and so had already been edited. I reissued them after a spit-polish and a bit of a buff. Five of my books were all-new and yes, I edited them myself. Given the choice between paying the household bills and spunking away money I don’t have on hiring an editor, I’ll go with buying the groceries, thanks. Asda doesn’t accept goodwill and “But I’m a starving artist!” excuses in exchange for food.

Interestingly, the only review I’ve seen in which I was dinged for ‘bad editing’ was for a novel which has been through two publishing houses and was edited at both, according to their individual house styles. Mind, during this review I was also accused of churning out fanfic of a TV show which I’ve honestly never watched, so it just goes to show how wrong people can be. This same book was accused of being riddled with typos — after being through edits at two separate publishing houses, mind — which later turned out to be nothing more than the UK spellings of various words, as opposed to the clearly more acceptable US versions.

You can’t win.

I’ve been told to not publish until I’ve ‘saved up my pennies’, to give up my daily coffees and to put that money towards ‘professional’ covers and edits, because mmm-hmm, I just love being patronised, especially by people whose books I’ve never heard of before. First up, despite their denials, telling someone not to publish until they’ve attained a certain income level to plough back into their work is gatekeeping. And yes, if I may say so, poverty-shaming. Who the hell are you to tell anyone they shouldn’t publish until they’ve saved up a set amount of cash you find acceptable?

And when it comes to being counselled to give up my daily coffee? I don’t fucking drink coffee.

Yes, yes, I know it was a metaphor for anything we buy on a regular basis, and which we don’t really need. My expenses, however, are already cut down to the bone. I’ve been open about the fact I’m a minimalist — a combination of choice and necessity. I do, however, still treat myself to things occasionally because without the occasional treat, life would be miserable.

Oh, and if you think the poors shouldn’t have nice things? Fuck you.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, treating myself occasionally. I could forego my occasional bag of Fruitella sweets, or that pretty notebook on sale in Home Bargains for a pound, and if I did? How long would it take me to save up £500 for a ‘professional’ cover?

Oh, only about a fucking decade, you steaming bucket of arse-gravy. And meanwhile, I’d have lived ten fucking years without anything to make me smile, but wait, I don’t deserve nice things, do I? Because…well, I don’t know. Because some walloper on the internet said so, I guess.

Don’t be so fucking ridiculous.

Christ, people are stupid. But you know who isn’t stupid? Jenny Trout. I interviewed her earlier about the first couple of editions of her bestseller The Boss and when I say ‘interviewed’, I mean I DM’d her with a few questions on Twitter in the vague hopes it would drive traffic to my blog and make complete strangers online like me because their opinion matters to me so very, very much.

Please like me, poverty-shaming elitists. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t buy my books with their knocked-up-in-Canva covers, because of my twisted belief I should have food in my kitchen cupboards and the ability to switch the heating on at home.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Jenny Trout. Her bestselling book by far is the first in the utterly filthy The Boss series (written as Abigail Barnette), and I asked her a few questions about it because I’ve been aware for some time that the first edition was self-edited, with a homemade cover.

~*~

1) How did you go about creating the first cover for The Boss?

I took a photo of the lid of this antique silver bowl, doodled around with the picture in a free photo editor, and slapped the title on it.

2) How long was it before you changed the cover to something a bit more professional?

Very quickly. Within the first month. When I saw how much The Boss made on debut at $0.99, I felt comfortable “splurging” on stock art for it.

3) What sort of re-investment from your initial The Boss earnings did that take?

Basically, the money I reinvested was for that stock photo, which I converted to black and white. The covers for that series are all made by me, and they’re all very simple, black and white, one photo. It’s given them a distinct look; you’re not going to confuse them with anything else on the market. So, I started with a standard licensed stock photo and upgraded to an extended license once the book blew past 200,000 when it became a free ebook.

4) Compared to your next best-selling book, how much better has The Boss done?

The Boss has moved more copies because of word-of-mouth and the fact that it’s now totally free. When The Girlfriend came out, it didn’t matter that cover was yet another pattern from the inside of a weird antique in my house. People were hungry for it. The first and second books in the series both started out with weird bowl covers.

5) I’m nosy…and I want to shut up those wallopers who say you shouldn’t publish until you can afford ‘professionally-made’ covers. Are you willing to give us some idea how much The Boss made when it was first published?

It sold 2,000 copies within an hour of going up at $0.99, and in its first month, I made in the low-to-mid five figures…I don’t make that now, LOL. But even if I hadn’t been able to afford those covers and editing, I would still have gone on with the series. Because I believed in it.

~*~

The Boss, the first book in the series, is free to download on Amazon US and Amazon UK. (Other countries’ Amazon sites to but gimme a break, it’s nearly 4am as I type this; you want me to wipe your arse as well?)

Jenny’s website is,  so she claims, a one-stop procrastination shop. And it’s here. So there.

~*~

Now, if you’ll excuse me…my Scarlett senses are tingling. Someone’s being a dickbag on the internet, and I must avenge my people…

Tuesday check-in

Just a quick blog post to keep my hand in (ooh-err) and my blog posts regular on a Tuesday and a Friday…

I actually managed to get some writing done today  — not much, but I’m back to using a word count app on my tablet that reminds you when you have zero days, gives you daily, weekly and monthly averages, and tells you how much  you need to write each day to finish by your own nominated deadline. It’s all bells and whistles, but hey, if it helps you get to ‘The End’, why not?

Another plot bunny is also bothering me. I really, really don’t need to be distracted by another story idea, but also…that’s a good thing? I guess? It shows the well isn’t running dry, and might even help me finish this book by making me look forward to the next one so much. It’s M/F, which seems to be my default these days, contemporary, and involves an age difference…and probably the ‘fake relationship’ trope, which I don’t think I’ve ever done before. None of the characters have names, and the book’s working title? I’m not sure about it. Maybe I’ll set up a poll for my Patreon sponsors. 😀

No. No,  Scarlett. You do not need to be thinking about a future book right now. You need to get back to Take Me Home. Blinkers on, and back to work with you.

Maltesers and a word count tracker

If there’s a better way to spend your Friday than sat in front of your Chromebook, shovelling Maltesers in your face, I’ve yet to hear it. (Actually I can think of plenty other options but for the purposes of this blog, we’re going with the Maltesers because you never know your luck, I might get a sponsorship deal. Buy Maltesers!)

You know that saying, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions?” That reminds me of my new year’s resolutions. I know, I know, a lot of people don’t like making them because they put too much pressure on you but who am I if not someone who likes to put too much pressure on herself to perform, before failing miserably and beating herself up until she has a nervous breakdown?

I joined a Facebook group called 100 Days of Writing, which cheerleads (not pressures) its members as we aim to rack up an unbroken chain of writing days, 100 strong. I’ve already failed, so may as well give up now, huh? NO. Because in the past week I’ve written about 10k words of Take Me Home, which is still something to be proud of even though all counters were reset at the new year and already in 2020 I’ve had a zero day.

I’ve set up a few habit trackers in my bullet journal, some of which aren’t for public consumption because they’re connected to my…I hesitate to call it ‘real’ life, because outside doesn’t exist and it’s the internet that’s real, right? Anyhoo, rising at 7am every day is one of the habits (fail), as is getting ready, that is, not loafing about in my pyjamas for hours after I do get up. Having a bath and getting ready as soon as I’m out of bed. That habit has been a win so far. I definitely feel better for getting myself together straight away, even if I don’t have to leave the house immediately, if at all, on any given day.

As for my 2020 word count goals and release plans, well, I’d be on fucking schedule for individual projects if my damned manuscripts stuck to the word count targets I set for them but ohhhhh nooooo, my characters have to take over and demand longer books, don’t they? As if I have any say in it; I’m only the bloody author. All the same, I’ve bunged a 2020 word count tracker on the sidebar —–> thataway. No specific books named there; it’s just for my yearly count overall.

I’ve resurrected my Instagram account; the plan is to post one photo a day. Right, now I’ve checked in here, I can get back to other stuff, like studiously ignoring the plot bunny that’s been bothering me for days now* because my brain never wants to concentrate on the book in hand, does it?

*Older woman/younger man, fake relationship, since you asked.

2019 can eat my entire ass

Evening all!

Well.

I haven’t blogged in a while, and there was a reason for that, and that reason is…people are arseholes.

No, but seriously. A lot has happened on social media recently to confirm my suspicions that Romancelandia is chock-a-block with stone-cold wallopers. Apparently, right, and this will shock you — apparently, you’re not allowed to have an opinion on someone else’s book, because if you do, it could affect their income (I have that much power!!!) and permit followers of that person to one-star bomb your books, and to dox you.

I wish I were kidding.

I’m okay, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. But certain authors need to grow the fuck up, keep their fans in line and separate their toxic egos from their shitty little rapemances. (But what’s the point of one-star-bombing my books because I don’t like your fave’s? “You dared dislike something so I’m going to punish you by pretending I’ve read all your work in the space of 24 hours and disliked it all, because I’m that precious?” Logic not your strong point, hey, bud?)

And you know what the tragic thing is? That could apply to quite the number of situations recently, because in this genre, plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.

That’s French for people are bastard-coated bastards with bastard filling.

Okay, so now that’s out of my system, WELCOME TO THE LAST DAY OF 2019 and no, before anyone mentions it, this is NOT the last day of the decade. That will come on the final day of 2020, because I may be a pedant, but I am a pedant who can count. You cannot begin counting the new decade until the old one is complete. No-one starts counting at zero. You start counting at the number one.

1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 is the tenth number. The final number in that set of ten is 10. One zero. The decade ends with a zero. Ends. See?

*sigh*

ANYWAY. How’s the writing going? Slow but sure. The past couple of days I’ve forced myself to comply with a regulated wake-up time and they say it takes 21 days to properly make a routine a habit, so if I don’t die of exhaustion within three weeks, we’ll know this attempt to sort out my sleep pattern worked.

Yesterday, I managed to write 3k words on zero sleep and the vague hope of becoming diurnal again if I force it. My word count goal was higher than that, but hey, it’s better than nothing, and like I said, ZERO SLEEP. It’s a wonder I managed to get anything done at all, let alone make headway on Take Me Home.  (A M/F second chance romance, if you’re wondering.)

Got a similar amount done today. Again, not quite what I was aiming for but 6k words in two days from a standing start? Not to be sniffed at. Momentum is important as is the commission don’t break the chain.

Plus I have a massive bag of rhubarb & custard sweets from Home Bargains so it’s not all bad.

Away from the internet — because yes, there is a world that exists beyond the tubes — things haven’t always been easy this year mental-health wise, and it’s not like “Hey,  2020’s coming, fresh start!” because real life has no concept of midnight coming and some arbitrary number ticking over from 9 to 0.

AND IT’S NOT A NEW DECADE, RIGHT?

Aaaaand…breathe.

However, 2020 does give me an excuse, if not a reason, to start on a new bullet journal  (purple dot-grid Leuchtturm1917, thank you Aleks Voinov) with a renewed sense of purpose.  And that purpose is to write books while obsessing over to-do lists and certain stand-up comedians with pretty, pretty mouths.

Hardly a surprise considering I’ve published 14 or so books thus far. “What, more books, Scarlett? You’re going to continue doing something you believe you’re good at, after nearly giving up so many times?”

Yes, yes. Hope springs eternal.

I’ve even written out a writing schedule, with buffer days built in between projects and no, you can’t see it. Mainly because I don’t want to give away future projects to which only my Patreon patrons are party, and also public failure to live up to such a forgiving, doable plan would make my rank laziness and shittiness as an author phosphoresce like Rylan Clark-Neal’s teeth.

My god, I have such a boner for big words.

Right, well [insert random promises of more regular blog posts in the new year here], I’m off to put the kettle on. Because another thing I can’t quit is caffeine.

New release (not mine; someone else’s!): BEYOND JUSTICE

Because this blog has been a bit quiet of late and I’m a huge fan of smut, what better way to open up my blog again than by announcing the latest release from Tibby Armstrong and Bianca Sommerland, Beyond Justice: The Asylum Fight Club Book 2?

(An excerpt follows after the blurb.)

* * * * *

Raised and trained by The Asylum Fight Club’s most infamous owner, Reed Dane is almost untouchable. Might sound dope, but there are disadvantages to his ‘privileged’ status. His guardian’s reputation makes a serious relationship impossible—turns out the club’s members are addicted to breathing—and the one man Reed truly wants sees him only as a stray his former lover brought home.

An endless string of one-night stands lacks the intimacy Reed craves, but at least edgy post-fight hookups distract him from what he’ll never have. Until he takes a wrecking ball to the walls that set him apart.

Curtis Smith is a lot of things—MMA fighter, club owner…son of a drug lord—but one thing he’s not is prepared to face temptation exploding past his carefully built boundaries. Reed is forbidden, to him most of all, but resisting what they both want becomes impossible with the sub challenging him at every turn. And with his past threatening everything The Asylum has been built to protect, Curtis can’t afford to be addicted to Reed’s brand of candy coated sin.

He can’t deny himself one taste before his stolen time runs out. Because when it does, all that will be left behind for Reed is a memory…

And his heart.

* * * * *

Curtis’s expression darkened, flattening the peaks of his upper lip. He leaned in, to brush his thumb over Reed’s lower lip and examined the sticky residue. Brought it to his mouth and sucked it from his skin. Pushing away from the breakfast bar he went to flip his pancake onto his plate and returned. Tapped two fingers under Reed’s chin to close his mouth. “Eat up.”

Eat. Yeah. He should eat. Then his brain might start working again. He cut another big piece and focused on finishing his breakfast.

“So…” Considering his fork, Curtis chewed and swallowed. “You like the hardcore stuff, or you think it’s the only way to give up control?”

Blinking at the other man, Reed almost choked on the piece of pancake in his mouth. He ducked his head as his cheeks flamed. “Dude, me and you…we don’t talk about this stuff.”

Curtis frowned, head canted, seeming to rifle through his brain for some piece of information, then nodded when he found it. “No, I guess we haven’t. But if you want to, I don’t recall being told I’d be gelded for crossing that particular line.”

“I…” Reed set the tines of his fork against his lips, touching his tongue to it as he stared at the wall over Curtis’s shoulder. “I like letting the Dom decide. Once he does, the rest is easy. Never lasts long enough though.”

“Sounds like the headspace you’re after has very little to do with pain and everything to do with how long you’ve negotiated to give that control over.” Curtis met his stare, unflinching, pushed back his plate and leaned in on his forearm. “It’s not as easy as you’d think to maintain, but when done right it can be pretty amazing.”

Reed nodded slowly. “In case you missed it, I’m more trouble than any Dom wants to take on. But it’s better that way.” He shrugged, picked up his plate and Curtis’s, and brought them both to the sink. “I get to enjoy a bit of everything. And no one’s gotta deal with me being…too much.”

“Is that what’s rolling around in that pretty head of yours? That you’re either not enough or you’re too much?” Curtis had moved behind him. Close behind him. “From where I stand, you’re the Goldilocks of submissives, Reed, and anyone who makes you feel any less isn’t half the Dom you think they are.”

Curving his hands over the edge of the sink, Reed shook his head. He should not be having this conversation. Not with Curtis, of all people. He was still too messed up from the scene which had left him wide open and vulnerable. He’d gotten away from Kovit and Lawson without letting his issues bleed out all over them.

He had to find a way to do the same with Curtis.

His throat tightened as he let out a soft laugh. “I’m the perfect sub. For one night. That’s how I like it. You gotta stop seeing me as some poor…kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m a big boy, Curtis.”

Curtis’s hand encircled Reed’s upper arm, tugging him around. “You think that’s what I’m thinking about right now? That you’re a kid? If so, I need to go to jail.”

“For what? You’ve been the perfect ‘Daddy’.” Reed really needed to shut up, but he’d already stepped over the clear line Curtis had drawn long ago. He couldn’t seem to retreat back to the place he’d been assigned that night he’d been dragged home. Covered in glitter, still feeling the rush from the eyes of the crowd on him as he’d danced. The heat that spilled through him when Curtis gave him that look brought him even higher. As though Reed had given those strangers what belonged to him. Reed’s jaw tensed. “If you’re talking about that one time that shall-not-be-discussed, it was a punishment. One Noah should’ve probably given me so you didn’t have it hanging on your conscience.”

Curtis’s eyes had closed partway through Reed’s speech, but they opened now. “I assure you, the pleasure was all mine, brat. And if you had a lick of sense, you’d stop baiting me to do it again now—because I’m certain you’d like to be able to sit in the next decade.” He lowered his lips to Reed’s ear. “I suggest you rethink some things about me, and about you. Because the next time you come to me wanting to be taken in hand, I will gladly oblige.”

Pushing away from the counter, he stepped back, giving Reed room to breathe.

Damn it, why did Curtis have to go and say…all of that today? Today, when Reed had no idea what to do with the implication of his words. Eyes burning, he hugged himself. The very thing he’d wanted more than anything, right there, while the marks from another man still covered him.

“Shit.” Curtis swore softly, reached for him and pulled him in. Cheek resting on Reed’s head, he sighed. “I don’t know how it is I keep fucking up with you but trust me when I say that I don’t want to hurt you.” He laughed, a rough sound. “Not like that. I miss you and me. So, yeah. You name what you want—what you need—and I’ll try to be that for you. But…” Leaning back, he brushed Reed’s forehead with his lips. “Try to remember, I’m fighting with one hand tied behind my back.”

He really didn’t get it. But maybe that was Reed’s fault too.

Tracing his tongue over his bottom lip, he tipped his head back. Despite the pain, having Curtis’s arms around him felt good. Like all the broken pieces were being held together by the other man’s strength, so he didn’t have to cling to them alone.

His lips curved slightly. “You might wanna figure out how to untie it then, ‘cause I’m not gonna ask.” He met Curtis’s eyes. “You’ll know.”

Curtis’s gaze dipped, his attention fixating on Reed’s mouth. Unwrapping his arms from Reed’s body, he brought one hand to the lip of the counter and the other to cup Reed’s face. Lowered his mouth with excruciating care and whispered, “I’m going to hell” against Reed’s lips.

Reed grinned, flicking his tongue over Curtis’s bottom lip. “Not quite yet.”

* * * * *

Amazon Kindle | Apple iBooks | B&N Nook | Kobo

Universal Book Link for BEYOND JUSTICE: THE ASYLUM FIGHT CLUB BOOK 2 showing all available vendors.

How I price my ebooks

I’ve recently done some housekeeping on my back catalogue; changing covers to make them more uniform, simplifying the pricing system and so on. Whereas before I used to have four price points depending on book length, I’ve minimised the ‘rules’ and decided books below 50k words (novella) will be $2:99 and books above 50k words (novel) will be $3:99.

As before, because the U.S. has the biggest ebook market, I set the prices in American dollars and let the exchange rate dictate the prices in other currencies.

And of course, if the word count is borderline, I’ll err on the side of the lower price point. If you’re looking for a book that’s doubleplusgood value for money, you could try Deep Screw, 49,449 words long and therefore only $2:99.