Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Too much!
Why do I still have to pay 12.99 for a Kindle release? Who pays that much for ones and zeros? I know people are paying it because the book I'm looking at--Charlaine Harris's latest--is #26 in Kindle. If it were in hardcover I'd wait for the paperback to come out, or I'd buy a trade because they look nice on my shelf. I hope the big publishers get on board with an ebook business model that isn't all about screwing the readers and authors. Kindles have shown that if getting your hands on books is cheaper and easier, more people will read, and people will read more. Which means that a lower price point will earn them a higher volume. I'm officially not buying any ebook that costs more than $9.99, no matter how much I love the author or the story.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
If It Was Well Done Why Didn't You Buy It, or, Why I Went Indie
Erotica isn't my first genre, it wasn't my first love and it likely won't be my last in the world of words. It's my current passion and the first time I've had any real success as an author thanks to Amazon and indie publishing. I've slogged through different genres in the last sixteen years or so since I started including a SASE in with my double-spaced, Courier font-ed heart's work and mailing it off to editors around the globe. My first submission at a tender age was a second read and was rejected with a handwritten note, 'well done!'. Huh, I thought, if it was well done, why didn't you buy it? Little did I know that thought would define my entire career in traditional publishing.
I spent the next *ahem* many years trying to crack every professional market I came across. Second reads, 'you almost had us', almost always personalized rejections. I readjusted my expectations--something I excel at--and began hitting the semi-professional-but-still-respectable markets and lo! A sale! Ten dollars for a fairly short story. Then a year later, holy crap! Another sale! A hundred dollars this time, and they paid on time and the check didn't bounce, and the editor said my story gave her shivers. I was riding high. I'd made it! This was going to be the turning point and I was soon about to be the darling of the writing world, a shining star at every convention, someone they spoke of when they talked of up-and-comers and rising talent.
That was something like seven years ago. The magazine was online only and was gone shortly after my story went up. I had another story accepted by a semi-pro across the pond, but it folded before they could print me. Then it happened again on my home turf. Then a good friend edited an anthology for pro rates and I sent him my best piece, and even he rejected me, although later he said he wished he'd put me in, that his partner didn't think my story fit. Then I submitted to another across-the-pond professional magazine and after a six-month-wait they responded with a request for a rewrite. Score! I rewrote the story to their specs and sat on my hands for the next year while they took their sweet fucking time getting back to me to let me know I was accepted, I would be in the next issue. I don't think I breathed for the next three months while I waited for the quarterly magazine to come out. Then it did and I wasn't in it. I wrote to the editor, always polite, me, always begging please sir, may I have some more? She informed me that my story was a filler piece for when she needed something to fill in space and she was just going to hold onto it until an issue appeared where she needed it. Naturally this was a pay-upon-publication market, as most of them are. Also naturally, they folded after one more issue, making my wait from submission to market disappearing more than two years with no check.
Six months ago or so I submitted a very short piece online to a respectable editor, in an online forum that allowed everyone to see all the submissions. I read all the other submissions and ten percent of them were better than mine, much better. Lucky for me they needed fifteen or eighteen percent of the pieces, so I felt like I was a shoo-in. Naturally. Naturally.
Pieces weren't accepted based on any standard of quality I could suss out, they were merely hit and miss, this one for its weirdness, this one for a unique subject. I said fuck this, finally and completely, fuck this I'm done. I began to work on a novel because I can't not write, the idea of quitting entirely gives me the wiggins, to quote my favorite Slayer, but the writing was the important part now, I'll have a dozen finished novels in a drawer when I die but I'll have written them because I said I would. Try try again, but books this time.
Then I read an article about indie writing, something I've always been against because I felt that without quality control the written word in the form of story is devalued, which in retrospect is hilarious, because none of those editors wrote to tell me what a shitty job I'd done. I write very well. Some of my stories are quite good. They get rejected for minor things, because twenty of us submitters wrote good stories that month and were put ahead of the hundred poorly-written pieces, but we didn't get in because the top two were unbelievably good stories and three were great stories and they only needed five that month, or because someone in the slush knew the editor, or because the editor had a theme in mind and our pieces didn't fit, or because they needed something with a thousand extra words, or they don't like stories with cars. Some editors will argue this isn't the case, but I've been on that end of it too, and it absolutely is. I've had friends on that side of it and OF COURSE it absolutely is. There are a lot of people in the world, and some of them use their advantages to get ahead, and you would too if you had an in, we all would. Sometimes that advantage is crazy good talent, sometimes it's other things.
I have a toolbox, just like Stephen King said I did. I open it and root around for the best tools, and I better myself by working hard and writing something of a higher quality than what I wrote last week. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a genius writer, but I'm a solid writer, a good writer. I can put together a moving story to entertain my readers, and it will be better than a lot of what they read elsewhere, and it won't be as good as a few, but I'm ok with that. Because thanks to a change of heart with regard to indie publishing, now it'll be read. People will buy it and most will like it, and some won't, but I won't be wasting any more words on themed anthologies with vague-but-rude guidelines expecting me to work my ass off without getting paid so they can tell me no thanks six months down the road. I'm done with please, sir, can I have some more of your rejection slips with half-thought-out notes about how to improve a story that was fine as it was.
I don't have to ask, If it was well done why didn't you buy it? anymore. Because now I've given them the opportunity to buy it, they do.
~JK
I spent the next *ahem* many years trying to crack every professional market I came across. Second reads, 'you almost had us', almost always personalized rejections. I readjusted my expectations--something I excel at--and began hitting the semi-professional-but-still-respectable markets and lo! A sale! Ten dollars for a fairly short story. Then a year later, holy crap! Another sale! A hundred dollars this time, and they paid on time and the check didn't bounce, and the editor said my story gave her shivers. I was riding high. I'd made it! This was going to be the turning point and I was soon about to be the darling of the writing world, a shining star at every convention, someone they spoke of when they talked of up-and-comers and rising talent.
That was something like seven years ago. The magazine was online only and was gone shortly after my story went up. I had another story accepted by a semi-pro across the pond, but it folded before they could print me. Then it happened again on my home turf. Then a good friend edited an anthology for pro rates and I sent him my best piece, and even he rejected me, although later he said he wished he'd put me in, that his partner didn't think my story fit. Then I submitted to another across-the-pond professional magazine and after a six-month-wait they responded with a request for a rewrite. Score! I rewrote the story to their specs and sat on my hands for the next year while they took their sweet fucking time getting back to me to let me know I was accepted, I would be in the next issue. I don't think I breathed for the next three months while I waited for the quarterly magazine to come out. Then it did and I wasn't in it. I wrote to the editor, always polite, me, always begging please sir, may I have some more? She informed me that my story was a filler piece for when she needed something to fill in space and she was just going to hold onto it until an issue appeared where she needed it. Naturally this was a pay-upon-publication market, as most of them are. Also naturally, they folded after one more issue, making my wait from submission to market disappearing more than two years with no check.
Six months ago or so I submitted a very short piece online to a respectable editor, in an online forum that allowed everyone to see all the submissions. I read all the other submissions and ten percent of them were better than mine, much better. Lucky for me they needed fifteen or eighteen percent of the pieces, so I felt like I was a shoo-in. Naturally. Naturally.
Pieces weren't accepted based on any standard of quality I could suss out, they were merely hit and miss, this one for its weirdness, this one for a unique subject. I said fuck this, finally and completely, fuck this I'm done. I began to work on a novel because I can't not write, the idea of quitting entirely gives me the wiggins, to quote my favorite Slayer, but the writing was the important part now, I'll have a dozen finished novels in a drawer when I die but I'll have written them because I said I would. Try try again, but books this time.
Then I read an article about indie writing, something I've always been against because I felt that without quality control the written word in the form of story is devalued, which in retrospect is hilarious, because none of those editors wrote to tell me what a shitty job I'd done. I write very well. Some of my stories are quite good. They get rejected for minor things, because twenty of us submitters wrote good stories that month and were put ahead of the hundred poorly-written pieces, but we didn't get in because the top two were unbelievably good stories and three were great stories and they only needed five that month, or because someone in the slush knew the editor, or because the editor had a theme in mind and our pieces didn't fit, or because they needed something with a thousand extra words, or they don't like stories with cars. Some editors will argue this isn't the case, but I've been on that end of it too, and it absolutely is. I've had friends on that side of it and OF COURSE it absolutely is. There are a lot of people in the world, and some of them use their advantages to get ahead, and you would too if you had an in, we all would. Sometimes that advantage is crazy good talent, sometimes it's other things.
I have a toolbox, just like Stephen King said I did. I open it and root around for the best tools, and I better myself by working hard and writing something of a higher quality than what I wrote last week. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a genius writer, but I'm a solid writer, a good writer. I can put together a moving story to entertain my readers, and it will be better than a lot of what they read elsewhere, and it won't be as good as a few, but I'm ok with that. Because thanks to a change of heart with regard to indie publishing, now it'll be read. People will buy it and most will like it, and some won't, but I won't be wasting any more words on themed anthologies with vague-but-rude guidelines expecting me to work my ass off without getting paid so they can tell me no thanks six months down the road. I'm done with please, sir, can I have some more of your rejection slips with half-thought-out notes about how to improve a story that was fine as it was.
I don't have to ask, If it was well done why didn't you buy it? anymore. Because now I've given them the opportunity to buy it, they do.
~JK
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
My bucket list
In no particular order...
1. Be an extra in a movie. Preferably some kind of zombie or monster, or possibly just a dead body. Loads of blood would be awesome.
2. Go diving with sharks.
3. Climb a mountain. Not Everest or anything, a small mountain would be good, I don't want frostbite or elevation sickness.
4. Publish a novel through a traditional publisher. I know, I'm an indie, but it's been a long-term goal for so long I can't give it up. It doesn't have to sell well, and I don't have to have a million dollar multiple-book contract, just the one so long as it's print and through a real publisher.
5. Finally take a yoga class.
6. Have sex in a coat-check during business hours.
7. Stand under a blooming sakura tree in Japan.
8. Paint something worthy of fine gallery space. (I've had a show, but not in a fine gallery)
9. Make a good friend on every continent.
10. Sell a million ebooks.
Anyone else?
1. Be an extra in a movie. Preferably some kind of zombie or monster, or possibly just a dead body. Loads of blood would be awesome.
2. Go diving with sharks.
3. Climb a mountain. Not Everest or anything, a small mountain would be good, I don't want frostbite or elevation sickness.
4. Publish a novel through a traditional publisher. I know, I'm an indie, but it's been a long-term goal for so long I can't give it up. It doesn't have to sell well, and I don't have to have a million dollar multiple-book contract, just the one so long as it's print and through a real publisher.
5. Finally take a yoga class.
6. Have sex in a coat-check during business hours.
7. Stand under a blooming sakura tree in Japan.
8. Paint something worthy of fine gallery space. (I've had a show, but not in a fine gallery)
9. Make a good friend on every continent.
10. Sell a million ebooks.
Anyone else?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Fire #SampleSunday
It's time for #SampleSunday, which I'll try to participate in every week. If you enjoy, please Retweet~
An excerpt from Fire, an erotic fantasy short in my new collection out soon.
My older sister daubed her finger in the bowl of doe blood and then painted a warm red stripe across my forehead, down my nose, across my cheeks. Her face was drawn, angry, but it was to mask her worry for me, I knew. Her experience two years before had been unpleasant, although mother says it’s not always so. I was a pleasant experience, but Brigid was not. Perhaps it was a curse passed down thus, and so I had no need to fear, but Brigid had scolded me and called me a stupid goose when I suggested it to her last night. Then she cried herself to sleep.
I drew my deerskin robe closer to my body, as though it could protect me from the night and the traditions of my people. It was barely thick enough to protect me from the drafts which blew like a gale across the floor of our hut. Brigid had spent weeks staining the robe with a white paste and sewing on beads in patterns of the blessed, but I thought it all a waste of time. I’d snuck out to watch last year, and no one so much as glanced at the robes, which were in a pile on the ground before the sunlight had completely faded. The robes were for the sisters, and the mothers and the gods. No one at the fire cared for robes.
My heart hammered in my chest. It was my Fire this year, mine and three other girls from the village, and of course all the men who’d come of age. Their rite was different, secret.
The daylight dimmed and my mouth went dry. The scent of wood smoke invaded the hut. Brigid froze, her eyes wide with panic. I leaned forward to place a reassuring hand on her leg, not because I felt calm and unafraid, but because my sister needed me to act calm and unafraid.
“Your Fire is over, sister,” I said. “They cannot hurt you further.”
She nodded, her eyes locked on mine. Her lips trembled as though she wished to speak but feared she would only weep if she opened her mouth.
“I’m not frightened,” I lied, and stood to go. Brigid clung to the hem of my white robe.
“I don’t want you to be hurt,” she said, and began to weep.
“No one will hurt me. The gods won’t allow it,” I said. She held onto the hem of my robe a moment longer, but then I pulled free and ducked outside quickly so she would not have more chances to object.
Outside the sunset dwindled to a rosy glow beyond the mountains. Inside our valley the darkness had invaded the village so the shadows blended together beyond the reach of torchlight and campfire. On the hills to the east the forest had turned into a dark smudge. My eyes avoided the hills to the north. I wasn’t ready to see it yet.
My mother and a group of women whose Fires had long since passed stood outside our hut to escort me to the northern hill. They wore robes dyed red and embroidered with black beads and feathers. One of them carried a knife which shone ominously in the last of the daylight, and another carried a wooden bowl. The rest bore torches. None of them looked me in the eye except my mother.
“You have always been my brave one,” she began. I held up a hand, shook my head. I couldn’t listen to her explain to me how awful the night was going to be, not after Brigid.
“Lead on,” I said simply, and after a confused moment she did so.
The smell of smoke in the air was intoxicating, but I kept my eyes on my feet as we walked in line through the village and up the trail which wound its way through the northern hills.
My older sister daubed her finger in the bowl of doe blood and then painted a warm red stripe across my forehead, down my nose, across my cheeks. Her face was drawn, angry, but it was to mask her worry for me, I knew. Her experience two years before had been unpleasant, although mother says it’s not always so. I was a pleasant experience, but Brigid was not. Perhaps it was a curse passed down thus, and so I had no need to fear, but Brigid had scolded me and called me a stupid goose when I suggested it to her last night. Then she cried herself to sleep.
I drew my deerskin robe closer to my body, as though it could protect me from the night and the traditions of my people. It was barely thick enough to protect me from the drafts which blew like a gale across the floor of our hut. Brigid had spent weeks staining the robe with a white paste and sewing on beads in patterns of the blessed, but I thought it all a waste of time. I’d snuck out to watch last year, and no one so much as glanced at the robes, which were in a pile on the ground before the sunlight had completely faded. The robes were for the sisters, and the mothers and the gods. No one at the fire cared for robes.
My heart hammered in my chest. It was my Fire this year, mine and three other girls from the village, and of course all the men who’d come of age. Their rite was different, secret.
The daylight dimmed and my mouth went dry. The scent of wood smoke invaded the hut. Brigid froze, her eyes wide with panic. I leaned forward to place a reassuring hand on her leg, not because I felt calm and unafraid, but because my sister needed me to act calm and unafraid.
“Your Fire is over, sister,” I said. “They cannot hurt you further.”
She nodded, her eyes locked on mine. Her lips trembled as though she wished to speak but feared she would only weep if she opened her mouth.
“I’m not frightened,” I lied, and stood to go. Brigid clung to the hem of my white robe.
“I don’t want you to be hurt,” she said, and began to weep.
“No one will hurt me. The gods won’t allow it,” I said. She held onto the hem of my robe a moment longer, but then I pulled free and ducked outside quickly so she would not have more chances to object.
Outside the sunset dwindled to a rosy glow beyond the mountains. Inside our valley the darkness had invaded the village so the shadows blended together beyond the reach of torchlight and campfire. On the hills to the east the forest had turned into a dark smudge. My eyes avoided the hills to the north. I wasn’t ready to see it yet.
My mother and a group of women whose Fires had long since passed stood outside our hut to escort me to the northern hill. They wore robes dyed red and embroidered with black beads and feathers. One of them carried a knife which shone ominously in the last of the daylight, and another carried a wooden bowl. The rest bore torches. None of them looked me in the eye except my mother.
“You have always been my brave one,” she began. I held up a hand, shook my head. I couldn’t listen to her explain to me how awful the night was going to be, not after Brigid.
“Lead on,” I said simply, and after a confused moment she did so.
The smell of smoke in the air was intoxicating, but I kept my eyes on my feet as we walked in line through the village and up the trail which wound its way through the northern hills.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Rewards
So, I'm sitting here with a candy bar unopened on my desk, obsessively checking my sales numbers. My first milestone looms but is painfully, agonizingly still just one click away.
When I began this little adventure into the self-publishing world I set four goals for myself. When I sold a hundred publications I'd reward myself with a candy bar, at a thousand I'd get a new tattoo, and at a hundred thousand something with diamonds, loads of diamonds.
I never really expected this to work. I expected to get a few sales, garner a few bad reviews, and then get so discouraged I gave up. My entire life I've been very industrious and this was just the latest bit of industry, and I expected it to go the way of everything else, a lack of interest on everyone else's part which inevitably leads to a lack of interest on mine. Give up, go away, find something else to do with my time.
This time, the interest was immediate, the results tangible and gratifying. I have good reviews on the various selling sites, I have people who support me, I'm making new friends all over the place. It's beginning to look like this new attempt to make a difference in my life, with my art and industry, is going to be the one that sticks.
Click! There now. I'm about to eat my candy bar and enjoy every bite. Come back and help me celebrate my new tattoo, sooner rather than later, I hope.
When I began this little adventure into the self-publishing world I set four goals for myself. When I sold a hundred publications I'd reward myself with a candy bar, at a thousand I'd get a new tattoo, and at a hundred thousand something with diamonds, loads of diamonds.
I never really expected this to work. I expected to get a few sales, garner a few bad reviews, and then get so discouraged I gave up. My entire life I've been very industrious and this was just the latest bit of industry, and I expected it to go the way of everything else, a lack of interest on everyone else's part which inevitably leads to a lack of interest on mine. Give up, go away, find something else to do with my time.
This time, the interest was immediate, the results tangible and gratifying. I have good reviews on the various selling sites, I have people who support me, I'm making new friends all over the place. It's beginning to look like this new attempt to make a difference in my life, with my art and industry, is going to be the one that sticks.
Click! There now. I'm about to eat my candy bar and enjoy every bite. Come back and help me celebrate my new tattoo, sooner rather than later, I hope.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Barnes and Noble
There's been some upset over on Barnes and Noble's website for indie authors. They have apparently changed the way their internal search engine recognizes book keywords, so if you're not already a top seller and searchers aren't searching for the title or the author's name specifically, most indie books with those keywords aren't showing up. I just did a search for my books by the keywords and I wasn't listed even once (and I have five titles up!). Safe to say, it's broken. There's been some indication on the Pubit forums (Barnes and Noble's author forums) that they're working on this problem, but that information is nearly a month old and sales continue to fall for indie authors, some as much as ninety percent. This is an enormous percentage to lose when you have to scrape for every sale, and worse if you live off your writing income.
If you're an indie author, here's an email address to send a letter of complaint/concern to let Barnes and Noble know we need them to fix their search function and do so quickly. exch_pubitbusiness@book.com
Indie authors should be invaluable to B&N's business model. We generate stock for them free of charge, do all the design and production work, and all the marketing. We're a bookseller's wet dream. They need to show us the love we deserve before we all take our toys and go home to Amazon and Smashwords.
~JK
If you're an indie author, here's an email address to send a letter of complaint/concern to let Barnes and Noble know we need them to fix their search function and do so quickly. exch_pubitbusiness@book.com
Indie authors should be invaluable to B&N's business model. We generate stock for them free of charge, do all the design and production work, and all the marketing. We're a bookseller's wet dream. They need to show us the love we deserve before we all take our toys and go home to Amazon and Smashwords.
~JK
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
My current number one desire
Is to find the best latte in the world, so I can appreciate it properly, by worshiping it before I suck it down.
What's your number one desire?
What's your number one desire?
Monday, May 2, 2011
Selena Misbehaves now FREE
Edited to add: Selena Misbehaves is currently up on Smashwords as a free title. What can I say? I change my mind a lot. It'll be free for at least a week, maybe more. I'll definitely post here a day before putting it back up at the .99 price so everyone who'd like to grab a free copy can do so. I'll leave the coupon code below just in case I change my mind again. Ain't I a pest? ;-)
Hello lovelies!
My new BDSM short, Selena Misbehaves, is now up on Smashwords for .99. Luckily for you I have a coupon here that makes it 100% off for the entire month of May!
Just go to the Selena Misbehaves page on Smashwords, here, and add the book to your cart. Then when you check out, use the coupon code: XP58K to make the book completely free!
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Have a wonderful day!
~JK
Hello lovelies!
My new BDSM short, Selena Misbehaves, is now up on Smashwords for .99. Luckily for you I have a coupon here that makes it 100% off for the entire month of May!
Just go to the Selena Misbehaves page on Smashwords, here, and add the book to your cart. Then when you check out, use the coupon code: XP58K to make the book completely free!
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Have a wonderful day!
~JK
Friday, April 29, 2011
The cover to my new FREE story coming soon
Check back for an update when Selena Misbehaves goes live, free for e-readers everywhere!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Win a free ebook!
Hello lovelies!
Today I'd like to give away some copies of my books, how does that sound?
Do you have a blog? If so, and you're willing to give an honest review of one of my titles, you're eligible to win a free copy! Just send me an email at jolenekendry (at) gmail (dot) com with a link to your blog and "Contest Entry" in the subject. The first ten people to send an email will receive a coupon code for a free copy of one of my titles available from Smashwords.
Be sure to mention which title you'd like to read and review, so I can give you the correct coupon code.
No review experience is necessary, and any review style is welcome as long as the review is your honest opinion!
18 and over only.
Good luck!
Today I'd like to give away some copies of my books, how does that sound?
Do you have a blog? If so, and you're willing to give an honest review of one of my titles, you're eligible to win a free copy! Just send me an email at jolenekendry (at) gmail (dot) com with a link to your blog and "Contest Entry" in the subject. The first ten people to send an email will receive a coupon code for a free copy of one of my titles available from Smashwords.
Be sure to mention which title you'd like to read and review, so I can give you the correct coupon code.
No review experience is necessary, and any review style is welcome as long as the review is your honest opinion!
18 and over only.
Good luck!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
In which I do things that are not writing, fucking or surfing
(or eating seafood)
Yesterday I set aside my work for a while to paint a vase I bought at a local flea market. I have no idea what the seller was trying to tell me about it, perhaps it was priceless and I've ruined it, but in any case it was this great, curvy vase and upon seeing it I *had* to have it. I stopped by the art store to pick up a brush and a few paints, some base, and a sealant (I don't travel with such things as they don't fly well) and yesterday I finally got around to putting my mark on it.
It's a stubby little thing. I can't figure what it's made of, not quite terra cotta, not quite porcelain, and it used to be rough like a ceramic that hasn't been glazed yet. I coated it with a base, daubed it with inexpert little flowers, and once it was dry I sprayed a sealant over the entire thing. Just now I put in some cut orchids and a bit of water. Here's hoping it doesn't leak!
No matter how full my life is, I always feel the need to occasionally set aside my work and create something new and beautiful. If I can create something beautiful every once in a while I feel as though I've contributed in a positive way to the world around me.
Yesterday I set aside my work for a while to paint a vase I bought at a local flea market. I have no idea what the seller was trying to tell me about it, perhaps it was priceless and I've ruined it, but in any case it was this great, curvy vase and upon seeing it I *had* to have it. I stopped by the art store to pick up a brush and a few paints, some base, and a sealant (I don't travel with such things as they don't fly well) and yesterday I finally got around to putting my mark on it.
It's a stubby little thing. I can't figure what it's made of, not quite terra cotta, not quite porcelain, and it used to be rough like a ceramic that hasn't been glazed yet. I coated it with a base, daubed it with inexpert little flowers, and once it was dry I sprayed a sealant over the entire thing. Just now I put in some cut orchids and a bit of water. Here's hoping it doesn't leak!
No matter how full my life is, I always feel the need to occasionally set aside my work and create something new and beautiful. If I can create something beautiful every once in a while I feel as though I've contributed in a positive way to the world around me.
Break your day up with a Nooner
Nooners, short and sweet erotic tales is now live on Barnes and Noble.
Description: Sometimes you don’t need to see the leak before the pipes are ready to burst, and in those times you can turn to a short and sweet tale to help the flood along. Nooners contains three short stories that get right to the good stuff. A little romance, a little anonymity, and a whole lot of steamy windows. If you’re looking for characters who aren’t looking for relationships, look no further than these three teasing tales.
I also slipped in a little bonus something in the back, a little dirty pillow talk.
Buy now for only .99!
Those who don't Nook or Kindle may now purchase The Princess and the Minotaur on Smashwords.
Description: Sometimes you don’t need to see the leak before the pipes are ready to burst, and in those times you can turn to a short and sweet tale to help the flood along. Nooners contains three short stories that get right to the good stuff. A little romance, a little anonymity, and a whole lot of steamy windows. If you’re looking for characters who aren’t looking for relationships, look no further than these three teasing tales.
I also slipped in a little bonus something in the back, a little dirty pillow talk.
Buy now for only .99!
Those who don't Nook or Kindle may now purchase The Princess and the Minotaur on Smashwords.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Published!
I hope everyone had a lovely Easter. Mine began with some wonderful kink in the bedroom, and later in the day I had another wonderful surprise. The Princess and the Minotaur is now available on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com. Whether you're a Nooker or a Kindie, we've got you covered.
Check it out! Reasonably priced at $1.99 for loads of sex, a hint of danger, and a sweet and sensual story that's sure to delight, if I do say so myself.
Check it out! Reasonably priced at $1.99 for loads of sex, a hint of danger, and a sweet and sensual story that's sure to delight, if I do say so myself.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Pleasant Dreams Motel
An excerpt from The Pleasant Dreams Motel, the first novella in the Fangs in the Night series, which revolves around an enclave of vampires who for hundreds of years have lured human women to them by enchantments and trickery in order to feed. Until their second-in-command, Ramos, meets Brenda at the Pleasant Dreams Motel, and he discovers that some human women taste better with tongues than with fangs...
The man on the screen was astoundingly beautiful. His dark hair stuck out at odd angles, mussed from exertion. His back was wide and rippled with muscles as he plunged into the woman beneath him. Brenda watched his ass work, flexing each time he thrust. She barely noticed the girl but she would have seen little of her even if she’d been looking, just legs that stuck out on either side of her lover. He was just that big. She didn’t look for the girl, however, because his body glowed with a dark beauty she wanted to wade into. Brenda wanted to see more of him, to see the cock she was certain would be made to order, thick at the base and as long as her forearm. She wanted to see his face. His face would be stunning, she was sure.
The weird thing, though, the crazy thing was, he fucked in time with her neighbors in room fourteen. The bed on the screen hit the wall at the precise moment Brenda heard a muffled thump from the wall behind the tv. It was surreal.
The camera angle was strange as well. It filmed from above, far above, as though the camera was on the ceiling beyond the foot of the bed. Without realizing what she was doing, Brenda shifted her gaze to the ceiling above her bed. She let her eyes move until she gauged where the camera would be to get the right angle. Her ceiling was thankfully (or regrettably? She wasn’t sure) empty of cameras.
The bed was what clinched it; the king-sized bed with the redwood headboard and soft down coverlet which had fallen to the floor but was just visible in the corner of the screen. Once she could focus on something onscreen other than the beautiful buck slipping it to some blonde, she was positive it was a room identical to her own. Brenda looked around, now alarmed. What to do?
Her car was still broken down. She was still stuck here, and there didn’t seem to be a camera in her room filming her. To be sure she clicked through the rest of the channels, oddly reluctant to leave the stallion’s station, but after she clicked through all the stations she let it rest on him again. No visions of her lying in bed, horny and a little freaked out. Relief filled her. That made this a perverted anomaly, not standard practice in each room. Maybe the motel people had a deal with this guy to make their own porn on site instead of paying for cable. The idea caught her interest. Brenda had a thought. It made her squirm in discomfort but it wouldn’t leave her mind once it occurred to her.
If he was just some guy paid to fuck on camera for the motel’s guests to ogle while they rubbed themselves off, maybe he’d be agreeable to come to Brenda’s room, to spend time with her. Maybe, and Brenda’s face burned almost as hot as her pussy at the thought, maybe she could go to his room instead.
The weird thing, though, the crazy thing was, he fucked in time with her neighbors in room fourteen. The bed on the screen hit the wall at the precise moment Brenda heard a muffled thump from the wall behind the tv. It was surreal.
The camera angle was strange as well. It filmed from above, far above, as though the camera was on the ceiling beyond the foot of the bed. Without realizing what she was doing, Brenda shifted her gaze to the ceiling above her bed. She let her eyes move until she gauged where the camera would be to get the right angle. Her ceiling was thankfully (or regrettably? She wasn’t sure) empty of cameras.
The bed was what clinched it; the king-sized bed with the redwood headboard and soft down coverlet which had fallen to the floor but was just visible in the corner of the screen. Once she could focus on something onscreen other than the beautiful buck slipping it to some blonde, she was positive it was a room identical to her own. Brenda looked around, now alarmed. What to do?
Her car was still broken down. She was still stuck here, and there didn’t seem to be a camera in her room filming her. To be sure she clicked through the rest of the channels, oddly reluctant to leave the stallion’s station, but after she clicked through all the stations she let it rest on him again. No visions of her lying in bed, horny and a little freaked out. Relief filled her. That made this a perverted anomaly, not standard practice in each room. Maybe the motel people had a deal with this guy to make their own porn on site instead of paying for cable. The idea caught her interest. Brenda had a thought. It made her squirm in discomfort but it wouldn’t leave her mind once it occurred to her.
If he was just some guy paid to fuck on camera for the motel’s guests to ogle while they rubbed themselves off, maybe he’d be agreeable to come to Brenda’s room, to spend time with her. Maybe, and Brenda’s face burned almost as hot as her pussy at the thought, maybe she could go to his room instead.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Beats on the Dance Floor
A bit of a teaser from today's short story, which will be in a collection of shorties out from Amazon next month titled Nooners: Short and Sweet Erotica by Jolene Kendry. Enjoy a nooner today!
Ellie pushed her ass back a bit so the hand would know it was ok to touch. She was on fire tonight. The body in front of her, something well-muscled and tall, took a step back and sandwiched her against the man behind her. She knew it was a man because she could feel his strong hands come up to grip her hips. Ellie’s breath caught. He wore jeans and a t-shirt from the feel, and his dick was stiffening against her. She bounced higher to the beat, a wild grin spreading across her lips.
Ellie pushed her ass back a bit so the hand would know it was ok to touch. She was on fire tonight. The body in front of her, something well-muscled and tall, took a step back and sandwiched her against the man behind her. She knew it was a man because she could feel his strong hands come up to grip her hips. Ellie’s breath caught. He wore jeans and a t-shirt from the feel, and his dick was stiffening against her. She bounced higher to the beat, a wild grin spreading across her lips.
~JK
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Princess and the Minotaur
A new erotic short story soon to be available online for your favorite e-reader. Enjoy the excerpt, lovelies!
The Princess and the Minotaur:
~JK
The Princess and the Minotaur:
“Who are you?” she whispered, still frightened. She could hear his breathing. It was enormous and echoed around in his chest before entering the world to mix and mingle with Ariden’s exhalations. He didn’t answer, only breathed. Now she could feel his air on the back of her neck. It was warm and moist, and she wished for a moment, despite her fear, that he would breathe on her breasts to warm them as well.
“I wish to see you,” she said, but she waited for an answer rather than just turn. She had a feeling he would be gone again before she could catch a glimpse, and she very much wanted to catch another glimpse of him. The tugging feeling in her stomach pulled lower, and she shifted her arms so the dress would pull against her sensitive nipples. Warmth began to build between her legs. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she wasn’t sure she would hear him if he did speak. “Please.”
“Not yet,” he whispered, and now she felt something warm and solid move against her back.
“I wish to see you,” she said, but she waited for an answer rather than just turn. She had a feeling he would be gone again before she could catch a glimpse, and she very much wanted to catch another glimpse of him. The tugging feeling in her stomach pulled lower, and she shifted her arms so the dress would pull against her sensitive nipples. Warmth began to build between her legs. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she wasn’t sure she would hear him if he did speak. “Please.”
“Not yet,” he whispered, and now she felt something warm and solid move against her back.
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