It’s a funny thing about covers, at least for me. I love a great one as much as the next writer, but for the most part I accept that they’re out of my hands. My job is to write the book. Someone or someones within the publishing company (That’s you, Kensington) has a much better take on what readers are looking for than I do. Just because I like something doesn’t mean the majority of book shoppers will.

Take the cover for Spirit of the Wolf for example. Not once while writing my lastest release did I ponder what kind of cover I’d like for it. Kensington Aphrodisia has a specific and very sexy style. Lots of male torsos, lots of heavy clinches. Of course, this is erotica after all. I knew my cover would make that declaration.

I have to admit I had a sense of disconnect when I received the cover flats for Spirit. True, I’d written the book a year ago so my memory was a tad foggy, but I stopped and stared at that magnificent arm with the symbolic tattoo. Hmm. Did my hero have a tattoo? I don’t think so but maybe. Ah, what does it matter? Look at that hunk, what we can see of him anyway. He rocks! I wish he’d walk in my office this very minute. I wish–oh, you know what I wish.

And that’s the whole idea, isn’t it? The fantasy. A book’s promise to take us out of our everyday worlds.

There, in a nutshell, is why I’m happy to leave cover art up to the publisher. I’ll hopefully bring the story to life. The publisher will provide the hook so to speak, the promise of an extraordinary experience.

Woops, how did that happen? When I was in the middle of Life 101, the powers that be behind Kensingtron Aphrodisia were working away insuring that Spirit of the Wolf will indeed hit the stands on July 26 or thereabouts. I wrote it more than a year ago, and as I’m sure everyone can understand, the more time passed, the more the memory faded. The cover is The Bomb (is that still an in term?) and the wolf figure helped jog my memory, but my guess is that if I sat down and read Spirit, a lot about it would surprise me. Did I really write that? Hmm. Wonder where that plot twist and character complication come from? Hmm. That scene rocks, that one not so much.

One thing I’ll hopefully always be clear on is why I wove a spirit wolf into the story. I dig wolves. Have a near obsession with them. I just checked and counted six books on the predators in my bookshelf. Go on, ask me about their complex social structure. I know the answers. Want to see some awesome pictures? In addition to the ones in my nonfiction research books, my calendar is nothing but wolves. Two framed pictures in my office are of the creatures, and the wolf stuffed animal Kate Douglas gave me is perched on top of the stereo speaker. Not long after wolves were first reintroduced to parts of the country where there hadn’t been any for decades, I wrote two articles for outdoor magazines. Setting aside the creatures’ mystique, I wrote about the political arguments that went on for years before the reintroduction was launched. Some ranchers are going to disagree with me, but I’m excited because wolves are spreading out.

I live in rural Oregon and the family has a mountain cabin. Hearing that wolves have been spotted in my state allows me to dream that just maybe one day I’ll step outside in response to my dogs’ frantic barking and spot a fast-moving shape. Just thinking about that thrills me.

In the meantime, I incorporate wolves into some of my writing as a way of honoring what they stand for.
Vonna Harper

The point is, I write h/h. There’s my comfort zone. But maybe the times are a-changing.

Lets step back a bit to earlier this summer when I was cleaning out some stuff at our family cabin. I came across an old Playboy and sat down to read the articles–yeah, right. The month’s centerfold was a female marine. A female Rambo. One kick ass broad. Muscles on muscles and a ‘come and get it’ look.

Okay, she’s not looking for me and I’m not looking for her, but she spoke to the writer in me. I love writing about women ready to take on the world even when the hero has throw ropes around her. I tore out the appropriate pages and tucked them away for future reference. (For the record, unless the creek floods, this week I’ll be finishing a contracted Aphrodisia single title due to come out who knows when)

Soon it’ll be future reference time. And for a change, until a few days ago I didn’t have an idea in me. Not to worry because I’m uploading some old material to Kindle, etc, and was looking forward to concentrating on that.

Then I received an email from an editor. Have I ever considered writing a menage shape shifter? Shape shifters, yet, love ‘em. Write ‘em. But never a menage. On the tails of my confession, the editor shot me several examples which I’ve been reading.

Okay Hot Mama aka female Marine. Get ready for a ride with a couple of hot men who aren’t always human. I’m plastering the centerfold next to my monitor, the creative juices are rolling, and maybe, just maybe I’ll become one of those male shapeshifters determined to get it on with Ms. July. (Or was it Sept?)

Speaking of shape shifters and beasts, I have two stories that fall into those categories on the stands. Falcon’s Captive http://www.amazon.com/Falcons-Captive-Vonna-Harper/dp/075822947X/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1285026228&sr=1-4 and Sexy Beast 9.http://www.amazon.com/Sexy-Beast-IX-Vonna-Harper/dp/0758238428/ref=sr_1_19?s=STORE&ie=UTF8&qid=1285026296&sr=1-19

Vonna
www.VonnaHarper.com

Maybe no one has noticed but I’m late getting this done. Here on the west coast it is nearly 11 a.m. If it hadn’t been for an ad in yesterday’s paper, I would have tackled this blog much earlier. Here’s the deal. I live not far from Harry and David headquarters. Their peach orchards are producing at fever pitch, and once a year for one morning lasting no more than two hours until the supply runs out, they sell #2 peaches for 10 cents a pound. Need I say more? My kitchen counter is now filled with ripening peaches and I’m drooling.

Onto the reason for the above title–the other night I was meeting with some of my writer buds when the subject of research came up, specifically erotic research.

Picture this: one day my fellow writer/friend Rosie and I are talking about our ignorance in certain areas. As I remember it, Rosie was the one to suggest a fact-finding trip to Castle’s, the local sex shop. She insists I made the suggestion, but she’s wrong. Before Castle’s came to the area, the only sex shop was in a nearby burg, a tumbling-down little place next to a rundown hotel. No way would I ever go in there. But Castle’s wasn’t that far from Barnes & Noble and several nice restaurants. There’d been moral grumbling when they first opened for business, but things had settled down.

Although Rosie and I contemplated wearing disguises, we opted for honesty when we parked in the parking lot of another business and snuck in the side door still wearing our sunglasses. A couple of female clerks who looked like they were still in high school were unpacking, ah, costumes for a little BDSM play. No way was I going to head in tht direction. A beefy, tatooed man and his tiny girlfriend were looking at videos–another area I decided to put off for later.

No one was near the sex toy aisle so there we snuck. It was more of a corridor than an aisle with row upon row of dildos, a few larger than trees. Wincing, Rosie and I continued. I’d give a list of everything we examined but there were some items beyond my comprehension. Clearly my education had been lacking. Gathering courage, Rosie and I broke ranks, each of us heading for what interested us most. Lets just say that my purchase required batteries. When we hooked up again, we’d grown bold enough that we decided to check out the blow up dolls up close and personal.

That’s when we started giggling. And giggling some more. With tears streaming, we again separated. Somehow I wound up asking one of the underage looking clerks why certain toys were behind glass cases. Those, I was informed, were the Rabbits, popular and expensive and therefore subject to theft. Oh, duh, thanks.

Rosie reappeared with a middle-aged paunchy man in tow. Rosie, what have you done, I thought. Truth was she’d snagged the manager by telling him we were erotica writers. He was fascinated. And fascinating.

The highlight of our conversation with him came when he led us down a long, dark hall. This better be the way to his office, I thought. Then he turned on the light and our attention was immediately drawn to the three massive embroidery works on the walls. All three depicted lush nature scenes that made me think of Hawaii complete with birds, butterflies, deer, and magnificent flowers.

“I did those,” the manager said. “Each one took at least two years, and I’ve been offered $20,000 for them.” Believe me, they were worth it.

When the talkative man finally let us go, Rosie and I exited with our brown paper bags not daring to look at each other for fear of hysterical laughter and awe.

Have we been back to Castle’s? What do you think?
Vonna
www.VonnaHarper.com

To set the background, I have a new Aphrodisia book due the middle of October. A month ago I had only the vaguest idea what it would be about. Okay, I knew I wanted to set it in Central Oregon and that’s that. Figured it needed a man and a woman (my erotica has always been m/f and I ain’t about to change) Then as has long happened in that secret part of my brain I can’t explain and sometimes freaks me out, things started coming together. Lots of research, bunch of notes, muttering to myself during my dedicated thinking time otherwise known as walking the dogs time. One day I got home from said dog walk, ran upstairs to my office and pounded out a couple of single spaced pages of plot notes, character motivation, the kind of nonsense that passes for a synopsis.

I started with Chapter One. Things cooked along. Then yesterday at the 11,000 word mark I hit a wall. Tried to tell myself that it was my son’s birthday, I was distracted by evening plans to celebrate, further distracted because both sons and grandson showed up, also a friend of one son. I pounded out 2K words, one sweated one at a time. I had to have my hero do some things that made me uncomfortable (poor soul is being taken over by an supernatural spirit). I told myself the problem was that I’m not yet clear about the supernatural spirit which impacts my hero in many ways.

Then after the dinner party, I turned my mind back to my problem. Slept on it. Thought about it when I woke up at 4 a.m. Thought about it some more in the shower.

As has happened enough times to keep me relatively sane, I done figured it out. The hangup wasn’t tied into the spirit. Instead, I didn’t know enough about my hero’s background. See, I was a social worker in a former life and dealt with a lot of people with disfunctional childhoods. My poor characters are always messed up in one form or another which, I believe, gives them depth and interest.

Ha! I know what brought my hero to this place in his life. Oh, you’d feel sorry for him. His parents were a mess and there was the violence thing and–Double ha! I love him. I’m mucking around in his psyche and putting him through the wringer and excited about having a grand old time.

One last thing. I’d called him Tyson but that never felt right. Now he’s Matt and I can wrap my mind about Matt. The Matt in my world is my youngest son’s best friend, scary smart with two young kids, a career in computers, and a part-time gig as a river fishing guide. Ah, an outdoorsman who loves and understands nature. Rugged. Competent. Independent. All the things both Matts are.

Look out world, I’m ready to write again.

As long as I don’t decide to play shrink with the supernatural spirit.
Vonna

www.VonnaHarper.com

I’ve been writing erotica almost exclusively for several years, throwing my novels, novellas, and short stories at all publishers that’ll take them. Kensington Aphrodisia has been a great home, especially come royalty time.

But I’m feeling restless these days. The whole wanting to stretch my writing muscles thing. For pleasure reading I turn almost exclusively to romantic suspense/thriller. Nothing like that page turning, pulse popping experience. Okay sometimes the violence goes beyond my comfort zone but that’s my issue.

Yep, I’d like to try my hand at suspense, specifically what I call erotic suspense. I just finished one such and sent it onto one of my epublishers. Now to see what she thinks. IMO its as much suspense as erotica with none of the bondage found in most of my erotica.

Therein lies my quandry. Are readers going to come along with me on my new adventure?

So here’s my question: if a writer you have always gotten one kind of read from takes off in a different direction, are you likely to give the new thing a try or do you feel abandoned?

Vonna
www.VonnaHarper.com

Speaking of spooky (notice the smooth transition here) I’m working on something that has taken on a life of its own. That’s happened to me before but not often and not for awhile. Part of that’s because erotica which I’ve been doing exclusively for several years calls for a concentrated focus on the romantic/sexual relationship. Plots must revolve around that anchor.

Not so much with the present project. Its sexy; I’d be crazy to take off in a direction my readers aren’t interested in. But I’ve pasted a sticky note on my monitor that says “erotic suspense” Maybe I should flip that and say suspenseful erotica because the focus is more on the creepy, dangerous element than whether Maco and Shari head into the future together. Nearly every scene furthers the mystery and suspense.

Example: yesterday I was writing a scene in a pizza parlor designed to give Maco the opportunity to talk about why he’s divorced in addition to ramp up the anticipation because they’re heading to his place afterward. As I worked on it, I perceived it as a break from the strange things that are happening at both their workplaces. Then I took my dogs for a walk and the editor at the back of my brain knocked on the gray matter.

Eureka! I ended the scene with Maco noticing that a man is watching them. I know who that man is and hopefully it isn’t who I’ve been setting up as suspects.

This story–and it really needs a decent title–has a mind and direction of its own. It moves fast for me and I’ve turned into a one armed paper hanger trying to juggle two mystery threads. But damn is it fun! I’m not stopping to edit, full steam ahead. Tie off all the loose ends once I hit ‘the end’. Trust the inner editor.

Have I mentioned that I’m having a ball. Energy and excitement follows me to the computer every day.

Changing topics again and not so smoothly this time, how about some comments on the cover? Oh and if anyone has a spare title hanging around, please share it.
Vonna
www.VonnaHarper.com

Okay, the deal is I’m in a confessing mood this morning. Way back when my only connection to the then new world of erotica came from reading ‘those’ books. Well, to be honest, my reaction was a far cry from a shrug and a, “Yeah, so?” Reading erotica turned me on. Hey, I really didn’t expect that. After all, I’ve written romance, suspense, and historicals and none of those genres kicked me. Category romance didn’t get me all hot and bothered, I didn’t go around locking the doors while working on suspense, and I didn’t dress in period costume as I pounded out my historicals.

But reading about in-your-face sex, holy cow! Now you’ve got my attention and interest to say nothing of my blood pressure which is kind of surprising considering I’ve been married to the same man for about a million years.

“This is what I want to try,” I declared before I’d finished reading my first erotica—which happened to have been written by my friend Kate Douglas. “Hmm. Fine,” I yammered at myself. “So go for it.”
How, the practical side of my nature challenged as I fanned my flaming cheeks. How does an old married broad go about penning words I hope my mother never reads?

The light bulb flashed. Research. After all, research got me into and through those seven historicals. Next question: what kind of research? Not the personal kind, thank you very much. Not only didn’t I want to wind up in divorce court, it can be a dangerous world out there. I don’t know the rules. Heck, I don’t even know where the games are played. Besides, I’m pretty sure the good stuff starts after my bedtime.

That’s when I started to let my fingers do the walking, on the Internet. I prowled Amazon. I discovered books about Kama Sutra. (Yes, I live a pretty isolated life) I devoured Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden. I downloaded a fifty-page tutorial about the ways and wherefores of the female climax and wound up highlighting darn near the whole thing. The Kama Sutra books (if you don’t know) are unabashedly illustrated and demonstrate more sexual positions than my body could accomplish back when I was lean and mean. I rejected some for the simple reason I couldn’t describe the necessary gyrations but others, oh my!

But erotica is a lot more than Part A fits in Slot A. Like all other successful fiction, it hinges on emotion. Feelings. The heart. The mind. What’s happening between the ears of my characters became the vital question.

Shortly after I stated writing erotica, I half stumbled and half marched into bondage, BDSM, and capture. Some editor let it out that bondage was a top seller and that got my wheels turning. I confess: my first sexual fantasies were about becoming some pirate’s hostage. (Or was it Tarzan’s captive?) I loved the idea of being tied up and reining as a macho hunk’s prize possession. Why not take those fantasies out of the closet or wherever I’d stashed them and have fun and make money writing about damsels in distress who just happen to be having the sexual adventure of their lives?

Research time once more since I’ve never been a BDSM player, and in the real world, bondage would scare the you know what out of me. Back to the Internet and stumbling into a pile of sites that were so amateurishly produced I couldn’t get past the bad acting, and/or infected my computer. Was I ever going to get honest and open insight into bondage-loving women and the men eager to accommodate them? Where to go to tap into my own libido so I could authentically produce the kind of stories I wanted to?

Kink. Specifically www.Kink.com. Even more specifically www.Hogtied.com and www.SexAndSubmission.com. There are other sites within Kink devoted to one fetish or another, but my pump is primed at those two places. Hogtied is the granddaddy of the whole enterprise (and that’s exactly what this multi-million dollar business is). Sex And Submission banks on a number of fantasy scenarios. At both sites, nubile young women are stripped naked and tied into positions I didn’t know the human body was capable of assuming by master riggers.

I’ll leave it to your imagination what takes place. Suffice to say, at the end of a shoot, both the women and men are happy and satisfied customers. I can’t relate to the more extreme scenes and knowing everyone’s being paid for their performances gets a tad of a bit in the way of the fantasy. But I listen closely to what’s being said, the look in the eye, the body language, the sights and sounds of a climax.

Oh yes, my imagination has taken flight, bolstered by vivid visuals. Just because this old broad walks the straight and narrow doesn’t mean she can’t have her kinks. Or write about those kinks.
Now, where are those handcuffs?

And a question: where, if anywhere, do you go online to prime your pump?

Vonna
www.VonnaHarper.com

All right, onto the reason for this title: I’ve written fiction nonstop since I first dove into the business, but earlier this month, I set that aside and worked on something that’s been simmering in me for years–a memoir.

How self-important! How self-absorbed! Who gives a darn about my life’s story? Truth to tell, even I’m not that engaged with it because its no different from millions of other people.

Except, I believe, in one way and that’s what I’m focusing on in Grandfather Lost. Actually, I started writing about my grandfather who died at age 38 when my mother was six years ago, tackling it as a biography. I put together a nonfiction book proposal and knocked on more publishing company doors than I want to admit–without success. Okay, I came close a few times but no cigar. Wiser and sader, I put Grandpa aside–or rather I tried to, but the man I never met refused to let go. Finally I came face to face with reality. The only way to do justice by his life and tragic death was by documenting its impact on me.

So there’s where the memoir took hold. Five emotional chapters later plus all the other proposal have-tos such as a marketing plan later, I’m nearly ready to knock on doors again. My grandfather was a writer. His genes are strong in me. His short life impacted me in ways I now accept. I grew up without a father. As I’ve said numerous times, when I was five, my father divorced my mother, sister, and myself. Exit stage left. I have almost nothing of him. At the same time I have a closet full of my grandfather’s writing, both what made its way into magazines and books and the precious, precious letters he wrote to his wife and children when economic necessity separated them during the last year of his life. I also have a half dozen newspaper clippings of the articles written about the investigation into his violent death. Maybe most important, because I grew up in his widow’s home, I understand how his death impacted the family for generations. The family knew a loving, intelligent, fiscally impulsive man while as the result of a single night, the public was left believing Grandpa had been a criminal.

I feel emotionally fragile. At the same time, I know I’ve finally done the best I’m capable of and that’s both freeing and satisfying. For a writer who has laughed and cried with her characters, this latest project has gone deeper than I believed I was capable of.
And such is the joy and responsibility of being a writer.

On that note, I’m off.
Vonna Harper

Watching the Olympics has me awed. These young men and women are among the best athletes in the world. Their work ethics, sacrifices, and confidence leaves me in awe. Each one has a story of putting excelling at their sport above everything else. I don’t know what they’re going to do with their lives once their years of competing are behind them and hope they draw on their can-do attitudes to succeed. What is it like to stand on the winner’s podium and know their committment has been worth it?

And what is it like to wake up two months later?

Comparing writing to athletic excellence might be a stretch, but I’m trying to make a point, to myself if no one else. I’ve been writing literally all my life. Granted, my early attempts are laughable, but although I didn’t know it, I was laying the groundwork for my career. I did well in English and loved journalism (and the sports editor/quarterback had only some to do with it) Restlessness was a way of life. I wanted to reach something; I just didn’t know what it was. I’m still not sure I do but writing manages that restlessness. There’s my creative outlet, my way of celebrating the human spirit, the satisfaction of making my fictional world come out right–unlike the real world. In fiction my characters seriously kick ass. They don’t have dirty windows, a sick husband, aged mother, flat feet, etc.

Is what I’m writing today the best I can do? Have I reached the limit of my incompetence as they say in the corporate world? Have I learned everything I need to learn or, as I suspect, will the curve continue? I start each story with a goal, a mountain top, a prayer that this character and plot and setting will speak to readers. This heroine will leap off the pages. This hero will bare his soul. This plot will break new grounds for me.

But will they? Do they? There’s always that moment (more than one of them) when I’m disappointed in myself. I’m not getting to the top of the mountain. I won’t stand on the winner’s platform. True, I reached the finish line but could I have run faster?

So, for me, being a career writer is a never-ending Olympics. I compete against other writers but mostly I’ll always strive to be better than before.
Vonna
www.VonnaHarper.com