Vampires SUCK! (Or They Wouldn’t Be Vampires, Now Would They?) by Belle Scarlett

(Note: This blog is re-posted from my blog that originally appeared at The Naughty Literati.)

My boyfriend doesn’t get it. 

"What’s up with women and vampires?” He genuinely wants to know while I peck away at my laptop long past our bedtime (again). I’m writing my current WIP, “Blood Mates: How to Blackmail a Vampire.” It’s my latest story for The Naughty Literati’s upcoming spring boxed-set, “Naughty Flings," releasing May 15th.

The story is also the first installment in my planned “Blood Mates” vampire series. Because he’s pretty smart, the BF guesses correctly that a “vampire series” probably means I’m going to be writing about vampires quite a lot in the foreseeable future.

"What’s so hot about these cold, pulseless, fang-happy blood-suckers that makes you go all weak in the neck?” He tilts his head, honestly mystified. “Vampires suck.”

“Well, yes,” I say, deciding to take him literally. “That’s the whole point, or they wouldn’t be vampires, now would they?”

Fan(g)girls, don’t be too hard on him just yet. The BF is an ex-Marine and deeply romantic in a tough, Alpha, “I can build you a split-level hut and keep you fed on roasted wild game if we’re ever lost in a jungle” kind of way. In short, he’s the sort of guy who wants to feed me. Not feed on me. See the difference?

So, naturally, the BF questions vampires as a smart woman’s choice of dating material. Statistically speaking, most men are just plain in-the-dark about why women feel an allure for an undead lover who “vants to suck your blooood" for all eternity.

I have to own some responsibility for the BF’s consternation in this matter. It probably doesn’t help that I have been running an eclectic, random array of vampire films and TV shows in deep background as subliminal fang-genre inspiration in a non-stop loop for the past week on our big screen.  

Here’s just a small sampling of what my man has endured seeing parade across our TV since I commenced writing this story: Night Gallery, Moonlight, Dark Shadows (the classic TV series and the Johnny Depp film re-boot), Love At First Bite, Night Stalker, Lost Boys. Fright Night (the 80s original film, not the re-make), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the series, not the original film), Angel (but only the first season, because they killed off Doyle and I’m still mad about it), From Dusk Till Dawn, Underworld, Dracula (the quintessential Frank Langella version), Bram Stoker’s (by way of Francis Ford Coppola’s) Dracula (sorry, but Wynona Ryder, Gary Oldman, and Sir Anthony Hopkins put together couldn’t rescue that didactic script in spite of the scenic eye candy), Interview with the Vampire (Anne Rice was right, totally miscast), the Twilight trilogy (somehow crammed into four films instead of three books so they can call it a “saga”), The Vampire Diaries, and seasons 1- 7 of True Blood (Team Eric not Team Bill).

Since the BF has to live up close and personal with my literary career decisions for weeks or months on end, I guess I really can’t blame him for being concerned that I plan to write a whole series about vampires and their human “Blood Mates.”

“Okay, you don’t get vampires,” I say. “Fair enough. I don’t get that you want a six jillion dollar Apple watch when our iPhones already tell us the time just fine.” My attempt at tech-levity slash misdirection falls on deaf ears.

The BF points to the screen. “I mean, how can you possibly want to make that your hero?”

I glance up at the screen. He’s pointing with disgust at this:

Not exactly man-candy...

Nosferatu (1922) is currently on my vamp-loop. Oops.

“No, no, no,” I object hastily. “See, that’s an early incarnation of a cinematic vampire. Back when they were monsters of yore with angry, torch carrying, pitchfork-wielding mobs forcing them to skulk around dark castles while hypnotizing women into volunteering their necks like so much veal de jour. Hollywood vampires today have much better personal hygiene and manicures than did, say, Bella Lugosi or Christopher Lee.” I sound lame even to my own ears. 

“Vampires are so much better groomed today. I mean they're really buff,” I promise. “Virtually indestructible alpha males, in fact. The very top of the alpha food chain, so to speak,” I finish impressively. “Women and the public at large love them today thanks to a massive image makeover they've had ever since the 80s.”

MUCH better...!

“Why?” He wants to know.

“Not sure. Maybe they have better publicists nowadays.” I shrug.

“Uh-huh. Admit it, you’re a sucker for vampires. Sure, they are into a lot of necking,” he quips, slaying me with that anatomical and metaphorical double entendre. “But what makes vampires romantic in a woman’s eyes when they just see you a juicy piece of filet mignon?”

I go back to proofreading the last section of my story on the computer screen. “Aside from the fact that now I really want you to take me to Morton’s Steakhouse for filet mignon, let me point out that vampires are immune from disease or death. They live for eternity with rock hard abs, perfect hair, and large estates filled with lovely antiques. They are virtually indestructible, unless a nasty patch of sunlight takes them unawares." I sigh dreamily. “They are basically lonely and tortured, wealthy hunks who are searching for their eternal partners. That’s pretty hot to a whole lot of women, honey.”

“Eternity can seem like forever if you’re with the wrong vampire,” he warns.

I close my laptop and pause the film on the screen in order to give him my full attention. The BF reads all my stories. He gives me the male perspective on what a real guy would and would not actually say, do, or think in a given scenario with a woman with whom he wants a sexual relationship. This comes in mighty handy considering, no matter the sub-genre, I write romances about men and woman inside of hot sexual, HEA-style relationships. So the BFF is research gold. He’s also one of my biggest fans (just one of many reasons I love him). He’s never taken issue with any of my heroes. Until now.

“Come on. Are you telling me that if a hot female vamp wanted to neck with you, you’d turn her down?” I raise a dubious eyebrow.

“Yeah, if she was only dating me to get close to my jugular vein. Why would a woman be cool with that?”

“Well, not to go all Freudian on you but… Oral fixations. Dangerous primal lust that both thrills and terrifies due to the inherent threat. The Beauty and the Beast syndrome. Longevity of a passion that never wanes. Biting as sexual penetration and shedding of virginal blood. Food orgy as carnality and sex as a literal la petite mort.” I pause to draw in breath. “I mean, seriously, all of that could turn a woman’s head.”

He waits for a bit. “That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got? That's silly."

I shrug. "Zombies."

He cutely wrinkles his brow at me in that way I love. “What about them?”

“You like zombies the way I like vampires,” I point out. “And I kind of get it, even though, ugh, rotting, stinking, shambling zombies with body parts falling off. Ugh.”

“Uh, hi, I don’t fantasize about making out with zombies,” he defends.

I wipe pretend sweat of my brow. “Thank goodness for that. But you have to admit you like zombie stories because you’re a guy and you like to fantasize about being all manly while saving your tribe with a few well-placed head-shots during a Z-pocalypse that throws civilization back to a pandemic, epidemic stone age. In that fantasy world, the Fortune 500 CEO is suddenly a disadvantaged loser compared to the Everyman Hero who can wield a mean crowbar straight into lots of soft zombie brains. Thus ensuring any human babe that said Z-slayer fantasizes about would want to be with him because he has the prowess to mow down the zombie hordes. That's not a burning fantasy of mine, per se, but I sort of get why a guy would be into zombies. Admit it. My reasons for liking vampires are every bit as valid as your reasons for liking zombies.”

He folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head in thought. 

There is some silence.

“Okay... You may have a point,” he admitted slowly, “about the Apple watch.”

****

Enjoy an excerpt of “Blood Mate: How to Blackmail a Vampire” here 

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WHIPPED BY WIPs - One Writer’s 6 Step Approach to a Work in Progress

My proverbial drawing board is, at any given time, populated by six (6) to ten (count ‘em 10) Works in Progress (WIPs) across multiple genres.  They often exist as disconnected mosaic pieces via mismatched Post-It notes stuck to the broken coffee maker, the bathroom mirror, in the black hole that is my oversized purse, on the Cat… You get the picture.  

I’ve accepted long ago that my writing process has an ordered messiness to it. (And I’ve just accepted that I tend use parentheticals and oxymorons when describing my writing process.)

Sometimes, a story idea springs forth from my imagination fully formed like Athena from Zeus’ forehead.  When that lightning bolt happens, I turn into a world champion, marathon typist.  It feels like I’m merely taking dictation for a story that is already fully fleshed from characters that are living, breathing people sitting next to me and tipping me off as to what they’ll say and do next.

I love it when that happens. I love it the way I love smelling the flowers before I see them. Or the way easing into a hot bubble bath with a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio makes me feel blissful. 

As a writer, it’s pretty cool when a story cooperates in such a way that I’m just the hand scratching the magic quill across the parchment, channeling a work that’s already been created and dropped down from the ether for me to ink.

That’s happened to me maybe once.  When I blog, even less than that.

The rest of the time, I’m being whipped 24/7 by six (6) to ten (10) WIPs at a time. Here’s how it goes down:

1) TITLE

Without warning, a title with a connected theme rudely slaps me like swatter on a fly. That can be really inconvenient when I’m driving in tricky L.A. traffic or trapped in the dentist’s chair with a drill buzzing in my mouth.

2) GENRE

It becomes clear to me very quickly from the title and the theme if the project wants to be born as a romance novel, a mainstream novel, a feature film, a short film, a children’s book, a blog, or a bubble gum wrapper.  In this case, “Whipped By WIPs” just wouldn’t cut it as a Pulitzer Prize-winning erotica novel. So, blog it is.

3) FIRST AND LAST SCENES WRITE THEMSELVES

I know instantly how the story begins and how it ends. But I know fuck all about what happens in between writing the opening scene and, “They all lived sexily ever after.”  The hard, time-consuming work happens after the twenty seconds it takes for steps 1-3 to occur to me.

4) DEVELOPMENT HELL

When a WIP is acting like a high-riding bitch, it’s hard to make myself sit down and stare at the dreaded Evil Blinking Cursor (a.k.a. EBC) until my forehead bleeds.  Luckily, there are all kinds of productive ways to avoid confronting bratty characters and reluctant plot arcs.  I clean the house from top to bottom. Then from bottom to top. Organize drawers and closets.  Re-grout the tub. Paint the kitchen. Hey, I’ll come over and re-grout your tub and paint your kitchen.  

Friends who stop by gape at my sparkling clean home and have to sit down in all astonishment.  “I bet Development Hell starts tomorrow,” they guess out loud.

I go shopping for healthy writing provisions like apples, oranges, and peaches. Lots of sparkling water. As back up I add to the shopping cart a bottle of brandy and put the pizza joint down the street on my speed-dial.  

Next, I go through the house, collecting a rainbow cache of Post-It notes crammed with ideas or bits of dialogue scribbled in my Southpaw clawmanship. I clear my social calendar for the next fourteen to sixteen days and call my family.  “Talk to you in a couple of weeks,” I say. 

By now they know this is code for, “If I don’t return your call, I’m binge writing.  No need to put my face on a milk carton or send in the National Guard.”

Finally, there is nothing else left to do, unless you count eternally Facebooking pictures of The Cat.  I have this wild hunch my editor would disagree that “Catbooking” is an acceptable use of writing time.  I wish Tweeting counted towards my WIP daily word count goal, but alas. 

I’m finally forced to snuggle up with my laptop on the lounger on my patio with provisions and power cord at my elbow so that there are no excuses to get out of said lounger. 

After a TBD length of time in a stare down with the EBC I make myself type a sentence. And the next.  If it’s crap, I give myself permission to write crap until the good stuff flows.  It always does, but it usually happens at last rather than at once.  As for the crap I wrote before that, that’s what the comforting delete button is for.

Once I’m in the writing groove, my characters stop acting like shy strangers passing notes in gym class and suddenly begin to talk to one another. In fact, I can’t shut them up much less predict what they’ll say and do next.  Plot snarls stop snarling at me. I suddenly know the mid-point plot twist and it’s bullet proof.  I figure out I’m deep into my literary process when I get really mad that I have to get up to use the bathroom. 

Cut to three days later.  I’m still surfing the writing jag pretty much in the same position and clothing as on day one.   A periodic shot of brandy.  A couple of fitful snoozes in the lounger where my characters are now insistent guest stars in my dreams.  Then I’m awake and writing again.  

Eventually, I realize I’m out of provisions and have been for about twelve hours.  The pizza joint stops delivering after midnight.  Slackers.  

Throwing on a trench coat over my candy-stripped PJs and fuzzy slippers, I drive to the “Rock and Roll” Ralph’s.  I vaguely note curious looks from the rock stars who grocery shop there after House of Blues closes at 2 a.m.

Once in a while a kindly musician type finds me wandering in the diary aisle trying to remember what milk is.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Mickey Dolenz or Bret Michaels asks. 

I de-frag my story-drunk brain long enough to reply, “Yeah… I’m a writer.” 

Instant realization dawns on Mickey or Bret’s face. “Ah.” 

They grab a carton of almond milk or whatever and drift off toward the produce aisle. This is, after all, Hollywood.

5) BE CONSISTENT

Lather, rinse, and repeat for fourteen to sixteen days.

6) WRITING IS REWRITING

I re-surface in the real world and have to look at the calendar to see what day it is. The WIP is no longer a Work in Progress meting out forty proverbial lashes per day.  It’s now a fully fleshed story, with a cohesive beginning, middle, and HEA.  My initially shy, sometimes rebellious characters have become old friends I’d want to hang out with in real life.

I’m breathing the rarified air of a writer who just whipped a WIP into shape.  It’s way better than a hot bubble bath with a chilled Pinot Grigio in hand, or smelling the flowers before I see them.

I make myself step away from the story for a bit.  Getting out of my writing lounger is just as hard for me as getting into it.  I actually have to make myself not re-re-re-read it right then and there.  My favorite part of the writing process is in the polishing, finding the exact better word, quip, turn of phrase, or description to tighten and refine the novel, novella, feature film, short, blog, or bubble gum wrapper that I’ve just wrestled to the mat.  But revisions and tweaks will have to wait for a couple of days.  I have to let the first draft dust settle a bit.  And recover my eyesight.

I check my messages and emails.  I’m told by any number of family and friends that I will shower and change my clothes today.  I do, but only after sleeping for thirteen hours straight and updating The Cat’s Facebook status.

    Buy Today!

The Self-Hell Aisle: Where's the Romance?

So a funny thing happened on the way to the romance aisle at my local Barnes and Noble.

I was there ostensibly to hunt down more romance novels to shore up the base of my already towering TBR pile so it wouldn't fall over and crush The Cat.  Without warning, I was distracted by the joyfully sinful aroma of the adjoining Starbucks chocolate muffins. I am naturally directionally dyslexic yet, naturally, I choose to blame chocolate muffins for what happened next. 

I took a wrong turn and wound up meandering down the "Self-Hell" aisle. This unfortunate journey is a little like when one trustingly follows those ginormous arrows on the floor of IKEA for hours searching for the perfect SMÖRBOLL only to wind up in Valhalla limbo, subsisting on Lingonberry jam and Swedish meatballs until rescue arrives.  

But I digress. 

The books in the "Self-Hell" aisle are engorged with probably well-intentioned, often eyebrow-raising, and sometimes inadvertently humorous yet earnest tips that promise to give the lovelorn reader the satisfying relationship (or a reasonable facsimile) to rival the most lurid cover of their favorite HEA romance novel.  

Perusing just a handful of the hundreds of relationship-centric albeit nonsensical titles on the "Self-Hell" shelves, I think we can all agree that that particular aisle is ironically the most unromantic aisle in the joint.  Well, except for maybe the "Strange Diseases You Never Knew Existed But Probably Already Have" aisle. There aren't enough chocolate muffins to trick me into that aisle, by the way, but I hear it's pretty unromantic, too. Again, I digress.

They say never judge a book by its cover. In this case, it was pretty hard to resist and I am guilty as charged, your honor.  Cue drumroll...

Six (6) of the Most Disturbing Self-Help Book Titles. Ever.

1. Men Who Hate Women and the Women Who Love Them: When Loving Hurts And You Don't Know Why   

  
(All of those women's friends know why, and we tried to warn them.)
        







2. How to Get Your Husband to Talk to You

(For the woman who marries the guy from title #1.)









3. How to Improve Your Marriage Without Talking about It 

(Plan B for the woman who married the guy from title #1 when he still won't talk to her.)







4. How to Get Over that B*tch and Grow Balls They Can’t Resist 

(Obviously written by the guy from title #1 after the wife he won't talk to serves him with divorce papers.)







5. DogSense: 99 Relationship Tips from your Canine Companion

(If only the guy from title #1 and his wife had listened to their dog, this entire list needn't have happened.)








6. Self Help for the Bleak

  (Mommy, I need a chocolate muffin now.)








Easy now, self-helpers.  Don't call a firing squad on me quite yet.  I have no doubt some readers of these books found the comfort and/or guidance they sought. But confronted with so much relationship angst and woe staring at me from the book shelf all at once when what I was after was a lurid HEA fix, what would have "helped" me best in that moment was a compass to find my way back to the romance aisle (or even IKEA) stat. 

Buy today!

Belle's Obligatory Blog: Lotsa tricks and treats coming for All Hallow's Eve...

Belle's Obligatory Blog: Lotsa tricks and treats coming for All Hallow's Eve...

Lotsa tricks and treats coming for All Hallow's Eve...

Stay tuned... will you earn a treat? Or a trick? Muwahahahhahaha!

XO,

Belle's Pixies

Book Trailer Awards for EC's THE WOODSMAN by Belle Scarlett

I'm thrilled to announce that my book trailer for THE WOODSMAN (Ellora's Cave) has won two awards - one from The New Covey Book Trailer Awards for Most Artistic Trailer and another from Readers Entertainment TV for Best Author-Made Video.

If you aren't prone to attacks of the vapors, you can catch my steamy book trailer for THE WOODSMAN at:

http://sextalkforwickedwomen.blogspot.com/
or
http://www.bellescarlett.com/

XO,
Belle Scarlett
Passion is the spice of love
Buy THE WOODSMAN