Romance, Erotic Gothic Horror, and Breast Cancer

I’ve been writing over at a group blog for the past year, so I haven’t done a full post in a while. Well, shit just got real, y’all.

First off. I’m writing a serialized erotic gothic horror over on the Romance on the Rocks blog. Well, gothic-like. Mostly, it’s set in the deep American South. Which if you think about it could be gothic horror inspired in some respects. I won’t have completely open doors because we have an all age readership over there. So, I will be using all the tools in my tool box to be erotic without showing erotic. What I might do is a companion open door portion of that story over here on my main blog. Ummm, I might have a few details to work out before September 15. I’m still gelling it in my mind so until I have all the deets finalized, I know about as much as you, dear reader.

Second, I have the cancer. Breast cancer to be exact. And no, I don’t know much more than that. I knew when I went in for the limp that something was wrong. And I prayed and hoped it was a cyst or benign in some other way. It wasn’t. So, I’m having a pity party for a day and then I’m going to get back up the next day and kick cancer’s ass.

If you know me at all, you know I don’t want any body work done. Living in LA and seeing the enormous amount of body work people got done just because really turned me off. I wanted to age gracefully. To show our young women that there is grace in aging. Or least, some semblance of it. I don’t color the gray right out of my hair. I have killer bright silver hair that looks like kick ass highlights, or at least, tinsel. I love it. And I also felt this way about the rest of my aging body. My tits have fed children. OF course, they sag. They’re supposed to at this point. But they’re still fabulous.

Well, until they betrayed me. I won’t know a treatment plan until I go see the boob doc for the first time. I haven’t decided anything yet. But the thought of getting fake boobs makes me sad. Even if I didn’t get them because I wanted, I’m getting them because I need to. Mentally that doesn’t matter. I still feel like my original life plan of aging gracefully has been stolen from me.

But I swear that I won’t let cancer not one more piece of me than I can safely allow.

Still, I will need some words of encouragement. And some patience. Because I have a feeling that a couple of my serialized installments might be late. I will write as long as I am able. If I can’t, I won’t. But writing has helped my sanity so immensely that I will cling to it like the life line it is.

Patience and Love.

What else does anyone need?

Well, maybe a little romance.

p.s. Go get your breasts squished. Go get checked out. Even if it’s for no reason. Don’t listen to anyone else. Listen to me. It might save your life.

Romance on the Rocks

Martinis and Romance, Romance and Martinis. Which came first? And does it even really matter?

I don’t think so.

But what is coming first, middle and last, is Romance on the Rocks. It’s a new blog, yo. With some really great writers of all the things that are sexy and fabulous.

And the theme? You guessed it. Our favorite cocktails! Mine of course is the dirty martini. I love the olive juice as it cuts against the clear liquid. In the beginning, I began with vodka. Because it’s clear and tasteless. But I have since learned to love the gin. But… it has to be a softer gin. Like Boodles or Plymouth. Regardless, I am digging on regular martinis in addition to my dirty ones. Every once in a while, I still bust out the olive juice. But now, I use olives stuffed with blue cheese. I’ve heard of these being called dirty executives. I likey. So Dirty Executive, it is. Regardless of which martini drink you might favor, they are all delish.

Now, crack open a bottle and grab a man or a book and drink, people. Alcohol is the lube of life. And when it comes to Romance, alcohol makes everything go down far more smoothly.

Here’s the link to the fabulous new blog. Romance on the Rocks