The book market seems to be in a downswing. Sales haven’t been good and more publishers are on the verge of bankruptcy. I’m also waiting to see how long it will take for my lone local bookstore to go out of business. So what is an author to do? Perhaps the most powerful thing an author controls is their productivity. Backlist does sell. I’m pushing myself to write more this year and will continue this goal into 2016.
So all I can say to my fellow writers is to keep writing. There are better days ahead if we just weather the storm.
Now for a little fun here is an excerpt from one of my current M/M WIPs tentatively titled Half-breed Wolf.
“You belong to a pack?” Oliver asked even though he already knew the answer.
He drew a sharp breath. “Not anymore, sir.” His voice was airy. If it hadn’t been for his keen hearing he probably wouldn’t have caught the words.
Oliver’s nostrils flared. He inhaled the man’s masculine scent a heady mix of leather and sweat and a hint of pine. His tongue circled his lips, wishing he was tasting him instead.
“Stand up straight,” Oliver ordered.
Immediately the stranger’s spine snapped taut. Their eyes met. The heat in the colored man’s gaze told Oliver all he needed to know. He preferred men.
Trying hard to hold back a smile, Oliver circled the man, his footsteps measured, firm, methodical. He’s inner wolf screamed Mate and his cock stirred.
He concentrated on controlling his breathing. He didn’t want the submissive wolf to scamper away. He might not get another chance at a mate for years. Submissive males were a rarity, and not all submissive males were sodomites. This chance meeting could be his lucky night if he played his hand right.
“What’s your name, boy?” Oliver whispered in his ear.
His closeness elicited a tiny shiver. “Lance, sir.”
Lance’s buckskin breeches showed off his tight ass. Despite his small stature, Oliver could tell he would be delightfully toned underneath his clothes. He caught Lance’s chin and the man closed his eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a soothing voice. “I promise.”
Lance didn’t move. He looked poised to absorb a blow.
Oliver took a step back, giving him more space. He didn’t mean to be intimidating. He was powerfully built yes, but he would never hurt his own kind unprovoked. “My name’s Oliver. Oliver Sawyer.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Lance said although he looked far from pleased, more like he had a toothache.
Oliver didn’t know whether to sigh or laugh. “Please open your eyes.”
Lance did as he was told. Oliver found their slate gray coloring with flecks of amber very mesmerizing.