Author-pren-WHAT?

Authorpreneur.

In spite of my definition's acceptance into the Urban Dictionary this is a relatively new but still obvious word: authors today must participate in the business of creating a successful career. Any author publishing today – through ANY publisher – through ANY format – through ANY outlet – must consider themselves in business for themselves.

And that means:

1. Create a high-quality written product.

2. Participate with your publisher in creating your brand or do it yourself if you are publishing independently.

3. Actively promote that brand through a variety of outlets.

As traditional publishing houses reel under the onslaught of digital books, e-readers, and authors taking their product straight to the consumer, they have diminishing resources to commit to the new kids on the block. So authors must become their own Public Relations managers. Their books are their products and their goal is to create a lasting readership.

Notice I said lasting readership?

There is no point in doing all that will be required for the “short” haul, i.e. one book. This endeavor is going to require hours of time online, many miles on your car, and personal appearances at the most random places.

And the pace will be slow; so give yourself time and be patient. Keep your eye on the goal: back lists selling well online and bringing in an income indefinitely. That’s the brass ring.

To get all these readers interested in you, you will need to create a "brand." Simply stated, that is the specific prompt that makes readers think of you and your books. It’s both visual and verbal.

I assume you already have a tag line: a short, snappy phrase which describes the common thread in your books. Build on that. You will probably take your visual cue from your first book cover.

Once you decide on your brand, take it global: put it on your website, blog, business cards, clothing, promo items, car… anywhere you see others advertising. Don't be shy! You are a professional with a quality product to sell!

Long gone are the days when an author can hand over a rough copy of a manuscript and have editors clean it up, and a marketing department spread the word about a debut release. We are still writers first, but in the 21st-century that is only the beginning of this demanding journey!

Click HERE to see a copy of "Becoming an Authorpreneur" 2012 Edition.

A New Year--A New Opportunity...

As a whole, 2012 has been a little rough... I am sincerely hoping that 2013 proves to be a new opportunity to get my writing back on track (what do you call having writer's block for a year? Anyone? Anyone?). As a way to start the momentum, all I have to do is look back in time...

I was a 6-year-old the Christmas Eve of 1988, and I told my family I planned on staying up for Santa. I wanted to see him in person.

I sat on my bed, multicolored Christmas lights spelling C-O-U-R-T-N-E-Y, taped on the wall behind my headboard. I was ready. I would stay up all night for one look at Santa and his sleigh.

Suddenly, I heard the jingle of bells in the distance.

A red glow appeared just outside my window!

I rushed to take a look, my excitement gushing through to my fingers and toes. I got him! I would finally see Santa!

The jingling bells became uneven and louder as I looked up at the sky. Hmm, no sight of him. He must have landed on the roof...

The red glow that drew me to the window started going in all directions. Hmm, and it seemed to be coming from below...

I looked down. My brother was hunched, shaking with laughter on the ground outside. The strap of bells was in his hands. Right next to him was my sister, holding a flashlight with red Saran Wrap rubber-banded over the bright end. She was doubled over with laughter, too.

I guess my expression had been that of a kid who still believed, who had been about to see proof of what she believed in...and my unadulterated excitement had been too hilarious for either of my siblings to bear. They'd tricked me, but hadn't been able to keep it up for long. Otherwise it would've been more traumatic, I think (haha).

On this Christmas, aside from the preparations and family dinners, the gifts and giving, think back and find a holiday memory that makes you laugh. You truly will be the 'cheer' of the party! Besides that, and like I've said in the past, you never know if that memory will inspire a larger story.

Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!!!

Changing up Tradition

How is it, some people can rattle off a blog in five minutes and it takes me a month to figure out what I’m going to say?  This morning, while pondering that very subject, I finished wrapping all the Christmas presents.  This is the first time in many years that the gift shopping was done early. Usually my husband and I don’t even start shopping until a week before, partly because of how the pay period fell and partly because we didn’t want to have to store the gifts so long. I get very antsy about wanting to give the kids their gifts after I buy them, haha.   

So, anyway, this year we’re changing up our tradition because of the kid’s work schedules and the two significant others of our kids (not spouses, just bf/gf).Usually on Christmas Eve we go to church (or attempt to…it’s so freakin’ crowded you can find a parking spot within two blocks much less a place to sit inside) then we go to dinner, then come home, watch a holiday movie, play games, let the kids open the gifts they got for each other, then go to bed, get up early for breakfast, open more gifts then cook a big dinner…whew.  This year we’re not doing the dinner out on Christmas Eve and no one gets to open gifts (because my oldest is working and won’t be in until after midnight), but we will have a mini feast , listen to Christmas carols and play games. We’re a game-playing family.  One of our favorites is a variation of Pictionary. We use a white board with colored dry-erase markers and you get a card with five words that you have to draw within three minutes and your team has to guess the answer. It’s boys against girls and until my daughter started dating an artist, the girls won. Haha

So, what kind of traditions do you have? Do you change them up as the kids or you get older?

Before I leave you, here is one of my favorite Christmas songs…especially for you.

Merry Christmas!

Happy Chanukah!

Happy Kwanza!

A Very Happy Holiday to you all!

A M/M Christmas Story

This is part of a story I wrote for Christmas last year. It's part of my ROUGH SERIES. The last time I posted a steamy story of m/m romance some readers were taken back by the intimacy so I have left the last half of the story off. Only the mostly PG part remains here. *g* The full story can be obtained here:

http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=ABOR02_5

So enjoy!

Rough Ride by Laura Baumbach

Blurb:

James Justin’s family distanced themselves from him when they learned he was gay. Since then, he’s buried himself in his career so ‘friends’ are really just acquaintances. This holiday season would have been just another lonely time of the year. Except his new lover, Bram Lord, has no intention of letting that happen. Burly powerhouse Bram takes his cautious lover James on a wild ride through both their neighborhood’s slippery, snowy slopes and the even trickier winding trail toward love. Hot holiday heat!

ROUGH RIDE

The world swirled, spinning out of control. James’ vision was filled with a dizzying, white blur dotted with occasional glimpses of Bram’s laughing face and the dark outline of trees that ringed the hilltop.

The early winter sun was just rising and its dim efforts put a warm, golden glow on the surrounding snow-covered woods and hillside. Barely sunrise on a Sunday morning, they were the only two people braving the cold and ice. 

The glow spun and looped as James Justin was carried down a steep, hard-packed slope at what he swore were speeds higher than his car ever achieved on the road. Seated on one side of a double inner tube, he bounced and slid, spinning and flopping along, leather-gloved hands clinging to what felt like too flimsy rubber handles on either side of the giant tube. 

The other side of the tube was amazingly steady, its high lip and deep hole filled to overflowing and weighed down with his lover’s massive bulk. Bram Lord was a tall, broad, beefy man. He wore a dazzling grin. His pale blue eyes matched the blue threads in the Norwegian-print wool sweater that stretched over his broad, barrel chest. The ends of a red fleece scarf loosely wrapped around his neck whipped in the wind like cheerful flags celebrating the high speed ride. 

Bram’s cheeks were a rosy red from the cold and his honey blond hair was tousled over his forehead, creating the perfect canvas to highlight James’ favorite feature on his lover, Bram’s charming and oh-so-seductive lopsided smile. James caught a titillating glimpse of that smile as he rose a foot into the air.

Soaring over a particularly big hump in the long, slick trail, James bounced hard and lost his grip on the tube. Airborne, James yelped and scrambled for a new hold, but his groping hands met empty space for several long seconds before a pair of strong, restraining arms plucked him out of free fall. 

“Holy shit!” 

He landed with a thunk and a thud, sprawled across Bram’s lap and chest, breath slammed out of him.  James grunted and concentrated on not smacking noses with Bram. 

The tube twisted, jetted off another small ramp of snow and hit down hard. Suddenly unbalanced, both James and Bram were thrown off the rubber ring. They rolled and slid a dozen feet down the ice-crusted run, James tightly clasped to Bram’s chest. They came to a stop in a mound of snow, the empty twin tube skittering past them, a blur of twirling black.  

Relieved, James rested on top of Bram’s heaving chest, then unexpectedly found himself buried in the mound of snow as Bram rolled them over, pinning James comfortably under him. 

Snow clung to Bram’s hair and eyelashes, his breath a frosty mint puff of warmth only inches from James’ panting mouth. His pale blue eyes crinkled at the corner with laughter. His handsome, broad face was an enticing combination of light morning stubble and soft, tempting lips. 

“Jesus! That was crazy. You did that as a kid?” James smacked one gloved hand into Bram’s shoulder then hung on tightly to the sweater under his fist. “What were you, suicidal?”

“Nah, just tough, baby.” Bram shook his head and snow flew in all directions, most of it into James’ face.

“Asshole.” James sputtered, chuckling. He shook his head to shake off the flakes, but only made more fall down from the surrounding snow.   

Bram’s laughter was soft and carefree, the deep, joyous sound echoing off the surrounding woods and vibrating through James’ body. Pressed chest to chest, each wiggle of Bram’s large, heavy body on top of his pushed James deeper into the chilly snow bank. 

The unexpected touch of icy cold hit James’ skin and he yelped and squirmed, rubbing their lower abdomens together in his startled frenzy.  

“Shit! Get up. Snow’s going down the back of my pants!” He wiggled some more to try to slip out from under his lover.

“Lucky snow.” Pinning a struggling James in place, Bram slid one muscular thigh between James’ legs and did a little wiggling of his own. 

James’ cock responded despite the cold, but as he started to protest, Bram’s hovering lips sealed over his own. The kiss was slow and thorough, a languid exploration of his mouth that left him much more breathless than the ride. 

The snow that had worked its way down his jeans began to melt and a slow stream of freezing wetness divided its efforts between soaking into his pants and trickling down the crack of his ass. The sensation was uncomfortable, but oddly exotic and arousing. 

His cock strained against the confines of his boxers, hard as the icicles hanging from the nearby branches. A thick shaft that gave the nearby tree limbs some competition for size rubbed between his legs and over his cock. 

Locking his gaze on Bram’s, James felt his heart slide up into his throat. God he loved this huge mountain of a man. Surrounded by the soft morning light, the sound of the birds and the hushed fall of new snow, James felt a sense of peace and security descend around him. He knew he’d never been loved by anyone else the way Bram loved him, cared for him and understood him. This was what finding true love was really like. Looking into Bram’s love-filled face, James felt his heart lock onto Bram’s. They were bound forever, souls united in this single, shushed moment on this isolated park hillside. It was awe-inspiring and exhilarating. And sexy as hell.    

“Want to do it again, Jamie?”

James had to swallow past the lump of emotion in his throat before he could push down his arousal to answer.  

“I don’t know. That was a hell of a rough ride down.” James stroked his gloved palms over Bram’s shoulders, hungry to touch the man any way he could. He chuckled, arching his back to shift the snow still packed under his butt, bringing their groins into closer contact. “I’m not sure it’s worth the bruises.”

Bram smirked, kissed the tip of James’ chin and the corner of his mouth, a light, seductive caress. “Okay.” He let his words tumble into James’ parted, waiting mouth. “Then how about I take you home and give you a different kind of rough ride?” Bram quickly kissed him then tugged at James’ lower lip with his teeth. He released it, his stare heated. “I promise any bruises you get as a result will be worth that particular ride.” 

James hesitated, voice momentarily lost while he imagined Bram deep inside him, their bodies clenched together in different slippery ride that was just as dangerous and breath-taking as the one they just completed.  His breath hitched when Bram’s voice rumbled through his chest again.

“You won’t even have to close your eyes if we go too fast.” Bram tossed his scarf over James’ head but, instead of draping it around his lover’s neck, he used it to blindfold James. “And I’ll make this ride last a lot longer than the one we just took. What do you say, Tiger?” 

The outside world disappeared behind a blanket of soft warmth, isolating James, making Bram’s voice and lingering scent his only tangible connections to it. He instinctively leaned into Bram’s body. James’ pulse rocketed and his cock jerked. He panted, feeling the wisps of warm air from his mouth grow cold, their moisture condensing and clinging to his face, captured in the scarf ends that lay on his cheek. 

Slowly and deliberately, he tugged the fabric loose until it fell free to his shoulders. The expression on Bram’s face was hot enough to melt the entire hillside. James’ cock chaffed against the confines of his jeans. There was a tightness in his chest. A flush of warmth shot though his limbs as need flowed though his veins, along with growing desire. It still surprised him that it only took a look from Bram to get him hard. He had no doubt he was in love.    

James laced his hands behind Bram’s neck and pulled his lover down for a searing kiss. He poured as much heat into the kiss as he could, his own lips tingling, scorched with wanting. When he pulled back, Bram was panting and James could barely huff out his answer. “You’re on, Caveman.”

James let Bram pull him to his feet and dust him off. Against James’ better judgment, they retrieved the evil snow tube for future excursions and then walked back up the hill holding hands.

Let's all just get along... and a free read!

Everyone has their own thoughts on self-publishing -- I choose not to call it 'indie publishing', because that term includes things other than self-publishing, and if we're so proud of it, let's call it what it is -- and I don't intend to argue with anyone.

It's all about what's good for you.

Not for your friends, or that author you just met on the internet, or that best-seller you keep hearing so much about.

It's about you. What's good for your book, at that particular time.

Some books do well in print, others are better in e-book. Some books do well at a higher price point, others suffer unless they're cheaper. Some books you want to make money from, others you're just after publicity, branding and copies sold or downloaded.

None of these things are better (or worse!) than the others. None of them are shameful, despite what some people say.

And you certainly don't have to choose just one.

I've been in traditional publishing for long enough to understand that some of my books will be attractive prospects for trad pubs, while others won't. That doesn't mean they can't all sell copies. It's just the nature of the publishers' business that some genres, or styles of book and concept, work well for them, while others can't and won't. And it's nice to have the option of getting those stories out there in other ways.

But the bottom line is: we're all writing books. Whatever choices we make, we can all play in the same pond, can't we? There's no need to exclude anyone, or rate anyone as lower than anyone else, just because they made a different choice to us.

In the end, for me, it's the books that matter.

Okay, rant over :) if you're into sexy paranormals, I've got a little free read for you!

Hellcursed is a prequel short story to my Shadowfae Chronicles series. It's about Jade, a headstrong girl who's just been tricked into a thousand years of demon servitude. Of course, she's not having any of it. As far as she's concerned, her demon lord can go straight back to hell... but she's yet to discover the true meaning of demon thrall.

You can download it free from Smashwords. It's an erotic story, so over-18s only please.

Happy holidays!

Don't Forget the Mistletoe - a little Christmas romance

by Christy Carlyle

The Westerley’s annual Christmas gathering

London, 1887

     “You’re not going to marry Eliza Hobbs, are you?”
     The question took Benedict Poole utterly by surprise, so much so that he nearly tripped over his own feet. One moment he had been indulging in the pleasure of playful banter with the prettiest girl in the room, and in the next she had shocked him to his boots. He regained his balance quickly but couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice when he responded to the young woman at his elbow. “What makes you say such a thing?”
     “You spent a good deal of time with her at the Newland’s dinner party, and I heard that you accompanied her to mama's gathering tonight.” Was that a flush of pink he saw on Amy’s cheek? He noted that she was suddenly very interested in studying the cut of the crystal glass in her hand.
     “I offered her the use of my carriage. I delivered her to your house. Not the same thing at all.” It was the truth. He had as much interest in Eliza Hobbs as he did in any of the other eligible young ladies in his circle. He did his duty, danced when necessary, offered the use of his carriage when needed, but none of them endangered his heart. His heart was secure. Uselessly, pointlessly devoted to the one woman who had no interest in it at all.
     “You aren’t going to marry her then?”
     Amelia Westerley was nothing if not tenacious. It was one of her qualities that he most admired. But her newfound interest in his marital status was a shock. More than a shock, it was an irony. He had only ever asked for one woman’s hand in marriage, and Amy had refused him.
     “Are you so eager to marry me off?” He wondered, for the first time, if their continuing friendship was difficult for her too. For very different reasons, of course. She would want him married off to be secure from any more unwanted declarations of love.
     The Westerley’s home suddenly seemed too crowded and the fire in the drawing room grate blazed too high for comfort. Benedict began devising an excuse so that he could make an early departure without causing too much offense.
     “No!” Amy must have felt the heat too, as her cheeks were clearly flushed with color. He felt the light pressure of her hand on his upper arm. She was warm. He savored the heat of her fingertips as they grasped him.
     “Don’t marry her, Ben.”
     He looked into the mirror over the mantle and studied her as she turned to him, practically pleading with him. She looked strikingly beautiful, with that pink flush in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. His hopeful heart thought, for just a moment, that it read a glint of desire in those glistening eyes. No, she did not desire him in that way. They had crossed that ground already. That was the way of pain. Those notions were the road to folly.
     When he didn’t speak, she continued. “I have heard things about her.”
     “Amy, you know how I detest gossip. Spare me a recitation of the latest girlish tittle tattle.” He lifted his cup and drank down the final swig of Mrs. Westerley’s warm Christmas punch, determined to put an end to this evening. He had looked forward to it for weeks, mostly for the opportunity to see Amy, but no amount of overly spiced punch could blunt the pain of discussing matrimony with the one woman who would not consider it with him.
     “I am not a girl anymore. What you call gossip may simply be facts shared among friends. Facts that one should know before yoking yourself to a woman for life. I know you are eager to marry, but—”
     “Who says I am eager to marry?” Amy didn’t answer. She opened her mouth as if to speak and he could see that she was nearly bursting with some emotion. But still she said nothing. He wanted to help her, to draw from her all of the emotion that he could read in her lovely face, whatever it might be.
     He wanted to recapture the ease they had shared in each other’s company earlier in evening. Conversations that ambled from topic to unrelated topic and good-natured mutual teasing had been the hallmarks of their interaction almost from the moment they had met.
     Before he could speak and say something benign to cut through the growing tension between them, she struck him speechless by reaching out to take his hands. As she was at home, she had not worn gloves and he had shed his own with his coat and hat.

     It had been so long since he had touched her bare flesh. He recalled the moment the previous September when he’d held her hands, caressed her face. He had been the one pleading then. A surge of pain came with the memory, fresh and sharp, as if her rejection had been just yesterday.
     “Amy, I must go—”
     She cut him off. “You can’t go.” Nothing she could say could persuade him, not even her supple hands still holding his tightly. “Have you forgotten about the mistletoe?”
     “Mistletoe?” His lips formed the word, but his thoughts scattered as if a stiff wind had just blown through the Westerley’s stuffy drawing room.
     Amy tugged at his hands, pulling him a few steps into a corner of the room, not far from the glow of the fragrant, candlelit Christmas tree. A sprig of mistletoe hung from a red satin ribbon above their heads.
     “You do know what you must do under the mistletoe, don’t you?” Benedict sensed no tension in Amy’s expression now. Indeed, a smile a curved her lips and she stood close, achingly close to him.
     He slid his hand along the sleeve of her dress, grasped her arm, and pulled her closer. “Has something changed, Amy?” Hope flared in his chest like an ember.
     “Yes.” Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. Benedict leaned closer, relishing her familiar rosewater scent.
     His voice grew husky, the words thick in his mouth. “Shall I kiss you, Amy?”
     She didn’t answer, not with words, but she lifted up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. Benedict slid his arms around her waist and held her as tightly as he dared, gently, fearful of breaking the spell that had placed his heart’s desire back in his arms.
     All too soon, she pulled away from the kiss, but she did not move out of his embrace. Another question filled his mind. A question he had asked once before and vowed never to ask anyone again. He could not fathom a change of heart or surviving the pain of another rejection. Now, with Amy in his arms and a love that mirrored his own shining in her eyes, he thought Christmas might just be the right time to risk his heart again.