The Next Big Thing

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I've been sucked into a chain letter! The horror! The horror!

The first time I was asked to participate, back when there were still piles of authors to invite to contribute, I said:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I'm trying to write a propoooOOOooooOOoooooosal.

The second time, I was simply tagged. So here I am, playing a little game called, The Next Big Thing


What is the working title of your next book?

Count Me In

Where did the idea for your book come from?

One of the jobs I had when my kids were little was working as a research assistant at a company nestled deep in the countryside. The President and Vice-President of this business were a brilliant husband and wife team who were successful enough to conduct business from their magnificent rural home.

Early in the 21st Century the Government of Canada began recruiting census-takers. As a professional researcher I thought this would be a breeze. I’d had a lot of very bad jobs in my life, especially when I was attending university. Little did I know that was about to embark on the worst job I would ever have and dear God I can only hope it remains so until the day I die.

I knew I was in for it when the contract stated that if I tried to quit the Government would punish me with jail time, but I signed anyway. How bad could it be? I found out.

What genre does your book fall under?

Erotic Romance. Or Romantic Erotica. E-romancexxx (the 3rd one is copyright Madeline Moore.)

What actors would you choose to play the part of your main characters in a movie rendition?

I’d need a young actress who is good at playing the waifish, wistful, dreamy kind of person my main female character is. Emma Roberts, maybe?

My main male character is a lone wolf who is brilliant, witty, chivalrous and extremely shy. He’s gorgeous but he doesn’t know it and is oblivious to the way he affects women because he’s too nerdy and focused on his work to notice and isn’t particularly willing to risk upsetting his important research by succumbing to the abstract notion of 'love.'

I like this guy but don’t know his name and can’t shrink his picture to fit my blog.

Hey, dude, get yer fat headshot out of my list of reviews. Sheesh. I don’t work with difficult actors so I’ll go with Timothy Olyfant (once he shaves.)

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

A naive young woman, new to country living, takes a job as a census-taker, which opens her eyes to the many perversities hidden in the hills and valleys of the bucolic countryside and to the possibility of love. (This is a run-on sentence. Conjunctions used to link two ideas should be replaced with a period, unless you’ve been instructed to create only one sentence. – ed.)

Will your book be self published or represented by an agency?

If I can ever actually finish my proposal I'll fire it off to Mischief,the new all digital Imprint of Harper-Collins. I’ve discussed it with the editor so I’m fairly confident it’ll be a go. I first conceived of it as a 'petite novel' but it may turn out to be a novel.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

I’m still working on the proposal! If it's accepted I'll ask for three to four months if it’s a novella, six to eight if it’s a novel.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I’m only comfortable comparing it to own work. When I wrote Sarah’s Education, my third Black Lace novel, I decided to give Sarah a family, friends, a boyfriend and a part-time job while she attends university. In other words, I gave her a real life, as opposed to perhaps one girlfriend and the man or men in her life. It worked well for me and the book continues to sell briskly.

I did the same for my main female character in my first petite novel for Mischief, Debutante. My main female character has all the problems most women have. I think Debutante is my most light-hearted and least kinky story to date, although there’s still an indecent amount of sex, kink and kinky sex in it. There is also plenty of love.

I’m going to continue to give my female characters everything a regular gal has in her life. A lot of erotica authors abhor this but it works for me and allows me to exercise my abilities to write whole paragraphs that aren’t set in an orgy and sentences that are not descriptions of beautiful body parts. Neat.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

As stated above, my experience as a census-taker inspired this book. However, as I have taken an oath never to reveal what I saw while collecting data (also punishable by imprisonment) I won’t be including any real stories. Instead, I’ll use my vast creative skills and make everything up. I think the word for that is 'fiction.'

What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

The male protagonist is conducting research into sleep disorders and dream-states. I’m a lucid dreamer and I know a fair bit about sleep disorders.

Here are the authors I'm tagging. Heads up folks, you're on!


Vida Bailey (posted NOW)

Lee-Ann Graff-Vinson (posted NOW)

Lucy Felthouse (posted NOW)

Ashley Lister (posted NOW)


and finally, the man who has proven you do not need a platform to be a successful author and has posted his answers on facebook, the one and only:
Felix Baron (Posted NOW)

Leonard, for chrissakes, lighten up!

That's what he said, to make us laugh, at the concert in Ottawa last Wednesday.
We laughed.


This is exactly what Leonard looks like - NOW!

(Cohen in concert, Ottawa, Dec.7 2012)


Hmm. Sorry, no time to write the tale of my trip to Ottawa to see Leonard Cohen perform his Old Ideas North American Tour, 2012.


I'm drinking from my new cup:

wearing my new tee:

staring at my 4 lapel pins and my silk scarf and slowly, carefully, reading the official program, which I am selling for the inflated price of $50.00 to cover some of the costs of all the merch I could not resist the night of the concert:

(I hope no-one bites on the programme because, um, there's a cheesecake shot of Leonard, naked and posing like the Ladies' Man he was and, well, also 2 pages of stickers!)

Oh yeah, I'm thinking cool and beautiful thoughts of: love; redemption; Leonard lithe and skipping; creativity; stickers; Canada; anger; mercy; sexy; kindness and you.


Thank you for being kind.


is that sand upon his shoulders?

is that the crack of his ass that I see?

She sips, she does not gulp, from her cup of longing...

xoxo Mad

merchandise photos from: leonardcohenforum.com

Photo courtesy @SENSphoto. pic.twitter.com/cZPCIP0b

Tips on How to Enter a Contest

Air Canada plane not en route to Thailand. 1) Read the rules. Air Canada is holding a contest. Seven hundred and fifty winners will be flown anywhere in the world where Air Canada flies. All you have to do is tell the story of where you want to go, and why. Say - hey! I'm a writer! I can win this contest and return to Thailand, where my family lived during Woodstock, the summer of love and, perhaps more to the point, the Vietnam War. I just spent about an hour pounding out the heartwarming tale of a geeky girl becoming a confident young lady while living in a village called Khon Kaen. Two thousand characters - on the nose! All I had to do was upload my story. Except - I was required to type the first three letters of the destination I desired. T. H. A. "Sorry! Air Canada does not fly to this destination!" Hmm. Come to think of it, we flew Thai Air in '69. I remember the lobster luncheon served on china, orchids for the ladies and little purple souvenir fans. Definitely not Air Canada. Not now. Not ever. GROAN! Yeah, I tried Bangkok. Guess what? An airline that doesn't fly to Thailand doesn't fly to Bangkok, either. Ptooey. So what we now have is a little story about me, when I was 15 years old, living in Khon Kaen, Thailand. It is exactly 2000 characters, including spaces. It includes the only picture of family that has been scanned. Just so you know, though it isn't in my little useless contest tale, I had a pile of boyfriends and they were all gorgeous. No touchee was the rule, which was fine with me. And then along came Sudang. He'd lived a year in America so he knew all about us bad North Americans. Only I was a completely untouched very good little Canadian prairie girl - until he showed up, all busy fingers and sloppy tongue.

But I digress. HA! Don't you wish? Recently I reread The Lover by Margeurite Duras. I thought I might be able to write something similar but . . . no. My story would be completely different. Still, I think it's a tale worth telling. But not today. Oh, by the way, I do know how to make paragraphs on Blogger. But this morning, Blogger does not know how to make paragraphs. Cock-sucking crap. Mai Pen Rai. Today, this is the story you get, in a big fat paragraph-minus lump: KHON KAEN In 1969, while hippies turned a dairy farm into a festival of love called Woodstock and The Beatles released Abbey Road, this Canadian girl from the prairies was living on the other side of the world. My father, a Professor of Engineering with the University of Manitoba, had loaded up his large family and moved us to Khon Kaen, Thailand. At the time, Khon Kaen was little more than a village; but it had something that could be found in only 2 other places in Thailand – a University. My Dad helped establish the University of Khon Kaen and a 15 year old girl from Winnipeg came of age in Southeast Asia. I remember the jets flying overhead, six minutes away from their destination, Vietnam. I remember water buffaloes, elephants, monkeys and snakes. I remember the noise, the smells and the colours of the marketplace; the stares of people who had never seen a blonde, green-eyed white girl before. “Falang, falang,” they cried as I tried to meld into the crowd. I was a “foreigner” and, at first, they never let me forget it. But as I learned the language and the ways of the people, I became one of them. I waiied to the Buddha and left treats in the tiny houses for the spirits of trees that had been uprooted to build houses like the one I lived in. We studied by correspondence but we became part of the University life. I’d arrived a gawky adolescent who’d never been asked to dance at the school I’d attended in Winnipeg. I left a confident girl whose dance card, at the many parties held at the University, was always full. Eighteen months after we arrived, we took the night train from Khon Kaen to Bangkok, to begin our journey home. Our friends cried as they draped us with jasmine leis. I cried, too, and vowed that one day I’d return. That was a long time ago. My firm resolve to revisit the place where my eyes were opened to the wonders of another world faded until it became an impossibility. Until now. I want to go “home.” Please help me make that girlhood dream come true, after all.

Picture of my Mom and my little sister, now a drummer in Victoria, B.C. It's tempting to say the other two girls are my sister and me, but that would be a lie. I have no idea who they are or why they are walking with my Mother and baby sis. -Mad (as hell) Mad

Pushkin - a Poem

Pushkin

In a cage at the uptown ASPCA
he left his musky scent on my hands,
and locked his yellow-green eyes
on those of a woman in a blue smock
who said he was strange, and when I took
him downtown on the Second Avenue bus
he forced his head through the cardboard box
and looked like a just-hatched bird
making everyone laugh, and when I first
offered him food he ate growling
under his breath, and from the beginning
he came running to me when I said
his new name Pushkin, as if he knew
he had the spirit of the dead poet within him.
And I have always loved
how dense and black his top coat is,
how white fur hikes up his front legs
like thick storm boots, how he still
has not grown into his huge paws,
how in cold weather he naps on
my flannel nightgowns, or lies across
vents of the radiator so that only he
feels the heat, and in warm weather
fills my small bathtub with his long body,
and when he doesn't like his food
he scrapes his paws across the kitchen walls,
and as he gets older his white stomach falls
like a loose purse between his legs.
When he is sleeping an old soul's smile
forms on his mouth, and each morning
at 6:45 he stands over me pushing his face
against my ear and he is always stalking
shadows at the door when I come home,
and when I write he sits in the middle
of my lined papers and rubs his black
and white face against my pen,
and on sad days when I feel stuck inside
I can not resist him,
and I let him be my poem.

Copyright ©1994 Penny Cagan

Eulogy for a Cat

Once I had a husband, two kids and a big house in the country. I didn't want to live in the country but my husband did and he always got what he wanted.

It was isolated. We had an acre and so did all the neighbours. The whole "Welcome to the neighbourhood" thing did not happen. We were city slickers and we weren't welcome.

My husband could be very nice and he could be very cruel. When I had my first child I knew one sure thing. I loved being a Mom. We gave her a sister. I played with my kids all day every day.

The deal was, when the littlest started school I would be free to write. But when the littlest started school, my husband told me to get a job. He said, "Things change."

That was one of the rules he lived by. The other was "All's fair in love and war." My crazy love for my crazy husband began to wane. I was quite sure he'd stopped loving me a long time before I started to lose interest in him. My children hugged and kissed me but children grow up. I knew that. I wondered who would touch me when they stopped.

We decided to separate in January 2001. In March, 2001 my Mother was diagnosed with cancer. My parents lived in Manitoba and I lived in this ridiculous country town in nowheresville, Ontario.

I was my Mother's primary caregiver in an "anticipated death at home." While in Winnipeg, I sold my house by fax. The day after her funeral I returned to Ontario, I had a month to pack the house up and move. I didn't know where I was going to live. My youngest was going to live with her Father. Like I said, he always got what he wanted.

My eldest daughter and I moved into an apartment in the nearby town. I bought furniture from IKEA. I drove an ancient Oldsmobile. I was in shock.

In February of 2002 I decided my daughter and I needed a cat. I wanted an affectionate cat and I had heard that male Siamese are loving cats. One day I decided, "Today is the day. I'll go get a Siamese kitten. My daughter will come home from school and take a nap. I'll come home and open the cat box on her bed and she'll be very, very happy."

not Leo but just what he looked like as a babe

And that is exactly how it went. When he crawled out of the carrier, onto the bed, she exclaimed, "Oh it's Siamese!"

We named him Leo. The Van is for Van Morrison, because Leo yowled the entire two hour drive home and I played Van Morrison to keep me from losing my mind. We decided he liked to sing. Meow Meow is Thai for cat and since he was Siamese, it made sense.

He hid in the crook of my arm for 3 days. He wouldn't eat or go to the bathroom. Then he ate. He went to the bathroom. He became a member of my household. He would greet us when we came home. Siamese cats hug. Did you know that? He hugged us. The first time he saw me cry he came closer . . . closer . . . until his nose touched a tear and he jumped. I laughed.

My eldest went to live with her Father in August, 2002. He lived in a much better school zone.


Leo, the cat, and I lived together. He didn't mind if I slept all day. He liked to sleep all day, too. He wasn't scared of tears any more. If I had a nightmare, he came to see if I was okay. His purr was deep and strong. He was soft and beautiful. He gazed at me with adoring blue eyes.

In June 2003 Felix moved in with us. Leo bowed to the male authority. But he loved Felix, too.

 Full grown, Leo was almost 20 pounds. His purr was loud. He was loud. He was smart in a lot of ways, but he was addicted to plastic. We had to set up and maintain a plastic free household and we did.

2012. Leo was 11. Leo had asthma. He hated taking pills so recently we switched to an inhaler. He continued to eat plastic whenever possible. Crazy cat!

Two nights ago he had a major asthma attack. We took him to the vet. He didn't settle down until I went into the back, where his cage was, opened the cage door and held him in my arms. It reminded me of all those times I held my children in my arms, when they were sick, until they settled. He settled. He was released. I was given the address etcetera of an emergency all night clinic, just in case.

When we got home I stayed up all night, observing my cat. He was calm as long as I was there with him. I discovered one of his teeth on the floor. It seemed to me he'd choked on a tooth and that had brought on the attack. So maybe he'd be okay now?

I didn't leave him until Felix got up.

Today, Leo drank a little water.. He used his litter box. He didn't eat. I was getting ready to go to bed, around 2:00 a.m., when he had another attack. I woke Felix. We gave him two puffs of his inhaler. It didn't help. We called the emergency clinic, put Leo in his carrying case and began the drive to the emergency clinic.

He tried to escape from the box. He was panicking. I wouldn't let him out. I stuffed him back in. I yelled, "I am trying to save your life!" I zipped the case closed. He died.

People think I'm so much fun. People think I'm patient and good and polite, like all Canadians. But I come from a family of yellers. I yelled at my kids, sometimes. I yelled at my husband a lot. I have even yelled at Felix, from time to time, but he doesn't yell back so . . . I don't yell at him any more.

But right there, right then, when Leo was trying to escape that box, panicking and unable to breathe, about to die, I yelled at him. He didn't die with me stroking him and whispering to him, like my other pets have, because they were put down at the vet.

My Mother died with me stroking her and whispering to her.

But Leo died with me freaking out at him because he was freaking out and I was afraid. We were afraid.

Nothing can undo that. It's all done, now. I have a cold cat in a carrying case in my spare room. I can stroke him and whisper to him if I want to and I do and I have and I will again before morning comes. But he can't hear me now.

I find it hard to be kind all the time. I don't know if I can ever entirely stop yelling. The only thing I take comfort in is that Leo and I did yell at each other from time to time. (Remember, he was Siamese.) I believe he knew I loved him and I know he loved me.

People who don't have pets won't understand this and people who do have pets will.

I loved that crazy, plastic eating, beautiful, vain, smart and slightly cross eyed beast.

I just loved him. And I guess that's all I have to say.

Mad

Addendum: Diary of a Sad Cat Lady or Thoughts on the Loss of Leo

1) I have learned that cats have a false larynx. This is why they can purr continuously while they breathe in and out. Also, the brain shuts down in stages. So . . . as I stroked Leo's body and called his name after he stopped breathing, he really did send me a little purr. He said good-bye gently and I said good-bye gently. I don't have to talk myself into believing this. It's the truth. Sometimes the truth can be harsh, but sometimes it is a wonderful thing.

2)One week later: I've had lots of cats and a few dogs, but I never said, "That animal thinks it's human," until Leo. He did think he was human and it pissed him off to be such a little human. He loved to get up on top of the fridge and be taller than me. He'd stand at the edge and we'd rub heads and pet each other. He also understood a lot of things I said. I didn't realize this until fairly recently.

Here's the thing: He lived with Felix and me. So it's not just about losing my pal. There's also this absence to deal with; this cat-sized shape (and he was a big cat.) that's empty now. I'm still glancing at his chair when I get up in the morning or the middle of the night. I'm still looking for Leo. Fresh pain and new tears.

Even if one of my best friends died, I wouldn't be looking for that person every morning and every night. I have lost friends and I've cried my guts out over it. But I don't look for them, because I didn't live with them.

A member of my household has died. One day, I won't look for him any more. I don't know if I'm comforted by that or not. One day, I won't be compelled to get up and add to this eulogy, which has become a diary of sorts. Diary of a Sorrowful Cat Lady. Thoughts on the loss of Leo.

One day I won't be compelled to get up at 2:00 a.m. and add to this post. I do know that I'm comforted by that thought. I'll mourn him for a long time but I can't stand the intensity of this grief. Leo's death is a personal tragedy. Good night.

3) Two weeks & 2 days later: I watched Dexter tonight. I used to make a couch of sorts with my legs up on an ottoman with a blanket over them. "Leo! Hurry! Dexter's starting!" I always included him in everything, like he actually watched and enjoyed Dexter, or needed to know my news, good or bad. I anthropomorphised the hell out of him. I think that makes the loss deeper. It's my own fault. But a friend said, "What are you going to do? Get a pet and not love it too much so you won't suffer too badly when it dies?" That doesn't make much sense, either. So I guess I'll live with loss, having enjoyed the love. People suggest I get another cat right away, or wait awhile, or never get another one. It's not time, yet. I know that for a fact. But one woman told me she cried every night for two years until she finally broke down and got a new cat. I'll probably cry every night until I get my next kitten. I just have to wait until I can live with the fact that the new kitten won't be "Leo the 2nd." It sure won't be no stinkin' barn cat, either. Good night.

4) Dec.13. Today I forgot to look for Leo all day. When I realized, I sobbed my face off. I can't let him go without crying and I can't keep him with me without crying.
Maybe it's just a new way to know when it's time to go to bed.

5) Jan.9, 2013. After much wrestling with middle of the night lunacy and sudden decisions almost acted upon that have apprently resulted in my being branded by the local Humane Society as possibly unstable and not a likely candidate for adopting a pet (!) I will be fostering an 8 month old kitten. I met him tonight. He'll come to stay with Felix and I for 'socialization'. If a relationship develops, we'll adopt him. If not, for whatever reason, he'll go back to his primary foster home. He's mostly grey except for white spots under his arms and on his belly. His eyes are amber. He's very shy. I feel some guilt and some trepidation and some excitement.

Today was my visit with Leo's vet. I cried my face off while discussing what happened. Then I wrote a bunch of cheques to cover the cost of his veterinary care. Something needed to be done to rescue me from the pit of despond and this step, 'fostering' with an eye on adoption, is hopefully a step in the right direction.

I don't expect this little guy to replace my big beautiful blue eyed boy. But, as the vet said, perhaps it's time to start making new memories.

Oh please, wish me luck. (They've been calling him 'Armpit' if you can believe it, because he has white patches under his arms. I'm thinking 'Ashton' because he is grey and my guilty pleasure is a cougar crush on Kutchner. It's a start.

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Well now, look who is #3 on the Daily Mail's list of the 30 most titillating books of all time.

ME!

OMG.

Me and some of my erotica writing pals, although a few are, in my opinion, mysteriously missing from the list.

Take a peek and see what you think.http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2230447/Libraries-shake-image-erotic-literature-festival-celebrating-30-titillating-titles-time.html

Oh Sarah, I lurve you.

Amazon Author Page

Check it out!

Here's the link.:



Keeping that big ol' platform up to date!

xoxo Mad
 

Thrones of Desire Getting Great Reviews

It's not surprising that Mitzi Szereto's new anthology, Thrones of Desire: Erotic Tales of Swords, Mist and Fire is getting great reviews.

But this one, on Good Reads, has me chuffed: JennyH gives it five stars. Go here to read the whole thing.

Here's the part that warms my heart:


Particular highlights for me were “Of High Renown” by Janine Ashbless, a beautifully written story which raises some interesting questions, “In the Kingdom of Roz” by Madeline Moore, the story of a fairytale princess which deviates dramatically from the traditional narrative and “The Widow’s Man” by Nyla Nox, an enthralling story of loyalty, betrayal and personal sacrifice.

Since this was my very first fantasy story, I was happy to have it included in the antho. But it's nice to be plucked from the crowd once in awhile. The crowd, in this case, is a crazy great list of authors so don't forget to get your copy soon!

xoxo Mad

A Brief History of Writing Through Time

Once upon a time . . . the story teller would arrive and villagers, starved for entertainment, would gather round to hear tales of mystery and adventure. By the end of the last tale, the story teller's upturned hat, which had been at his feet while he spoke, would be heavy with coin. The next day he'd move on to the next town, likely imagining new tales with which to amuse folks. He told folk tales.

 (Right now his hat is on his head but when he gets to the next village, it'll be at his feet.)

He was a he, all right. 'Cause if he was a she she'd probably be drowned or burned as a witch.

I suppose I don't yearn to have been part of that scene.

              All I wanted to do was tell a little tale about a few people fucking . . .

Books were invented and people learned to read. Or maybe it was the other way around. I think monks were involved. Many writers got in trouble for the things they wrote and were banished or imprisoned. They were men. If any of them were women they were probably drowned or burned as witches.

               
                                          I shoulda been a midwife like my Ma . . .


Still, no fun for the female gender of our species.

Printing presses were invented. More people learned to read. More writers wrote. Women got in on the action, sometimes using male pseudonyms like 'George Eliot' or 'J.K. Rowling.'

Women got to own property and vote and write without getting drowned or burned.

The typewriter was invented. Yay!

                                              Oooooo . . . Hermes! I'll take that one!

The electric typewriter was invented, sometime after electricity came along. Yay! Yay!

Some writers became famous and made lots of money and went on book tours, and some just stayed home and typed stories and books and sold them to publishers. The idea of the "writer in the garret" came into being but most writers didn't really have garrets. The idea of the "starving writer" became popular. It's possible some writers starved. Writers met with other writers in pubs and drank too much and argued a lot. That I know to be true.

The word processor was invented. It could store one or two lines in its memory. Instead of a typing 'ball' it had what was called a daisy wheel. Hiss. Boo! Daisy wheels sucked.

                                                
                                   AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Make it go AWAY!


And then - along came the internet. Computers. Keyboards. Marshall McLuhan's 'Global Village' became a reality.

               
                                                      See? Proof of the Global Village.



Now writers go on virtual tours as well as, or instead of, physical tours. E-publishers have come along and writers create stories and sell them without so much as one piece of paper being involved in the process. Writers all over the world can meet, not in bars but in chat rooms, and argue a lot. They send and get sent electronic mail. Some never meet their editors face-to-face, but they have editors, and publishers, sometimes on another continent.

Writers get to promote themselves.

Some savvy writers love self-promotion. Some probably promote themselves more than they write.

Others, perhaps not particularly technologically proficient, struggle to grasp the concepts of up and down loading, posting pictures, establishing links, networking via websites, blogs, facebook, my space, twitter, chrome, Google plus, Pinterest . . .

                               
                                                                           I bet it is, too


And then there's all that writing to be done!

Sometimes, a writer will be invited to be a guest on a very popular blogsite, like, say, KD Grace's "The Story Behind the Story,"which is published on Mondays.

Over the weekend, the writer puts together what she hopes will be an interesting article. She chooses an excerpt from her work. She gathers her links together; she organizes pictures. She e-mails the text to her gracious hostess. She finds typos, corrects them and e-mails the text again. She can't help but take one last look at the piece and finds more typos. What time is it in the UK when it's tea time (if we had tea time) in Canada? Shamefaced (but no one can see her face) she sends a third draft.

The writer posts a promo on her blog, facebook, twitter . . . but not on her website because it sucked so bad she trashed it, and not on my space because my space is so yesterday it's not even funny.

On Monday when she gets out of bed the post has already been up for a few hours! Oh boy!

                                                                             Oh Boy!


Hey, it looks good!

No comments yet? She pounds out an e-mail to her hostess because KD Grace will certainly know why there are no comments yet.

Can you say 'High Maintenance MaddyMo?'

Well, actually, KD Grace does have an answer:

And if it makes you feel any better about comments, though my site doesn't always get comments, it's #13 in the top 100 of eBuzzingliterature  sites right now and also in the top 100 in the culture category as well -- based on visits. I get a lot of people contacting me to be on because they know its so heavily trafficked, so don't worry if you don't get comments. You're still getting the message out there loud and clear, I promise:)

 but it's still early and anyway, you can't rely on comments to tell you how many people actually read the post.

The writer relaxes. She has actually promoted her newest story! Won't her editor be proud of her?
Well, she's damn proud of herself. All that technology utilized in the promotion of her piece of work.

God Bless The Internet.

The writer ventures into the great outdoors to forage for food. When she returns, she checks the blog post and sees this: DATABASE ERROR.

WTF!

God Damn the Internet!

She e-mails her charming hostess, who is about to go to bed.

                                                          
                                                 Please Madeline, just let me get some sleep . . .

Right. That damn time zone thing.

The next day, they discover that the host site was hacked. 'Go Daddy' did not go. See the article in The Guardian.

Oh! Did I forget to mention hacking, plagiarism, viruses and flaming?

That's a post for another day. After all, there are stories to be written. Many, many stories have yet to see the artificial light of day.

xoxo Madeline Moore

Picture credits:
folk story teller: thedocent.tjctv.com
drowning witch:  kmclafferty-salemwitchtrials.blogspot.com
burning witch: relijournal.com
Hermes typewriter: enotes.com
Daisy wheel: webrealestatetools.com
Marshall McLuhan, global village:  mcluhangalaxy.wordpress.com
Google is watching you: itthing.com
getting up:  marykunzgoldman.com
Painting: Young Woman Going to Bed by Jacob Van Loo  (Wikipedia)
Once Upon A Time:  Wikipedia or Google or somethin' like that

Monday - More about Me and My Pretty Porn Stars-

Come to KD Grace's gracious blog, The Story Behind the Story and read all about the trials and tribulations I endured to delve deep into the psyche of human sexuality and cough up the new Mischief petite novel, Pretty As A Porn Star.



I'm on the front page of the Mischief site. Yippee!

I'm a guest on KD's site. Yahoo!

See you there . . .



xoxo MaddyMo

Pretty As A Porn Star - NOW!

Today, August 23, is launch day for my Mischief petite novel, Pretty As A Porn Star.

Click right here to go to the site.

Believe me, for less than one pound sterling, you will get many more pounds of flesh.

This little novel has everything you have relied on Madeline Moore to give you in the past:

sex

kinky sex

girlie-girlie sex

hot sex

witty dialogue

a few good laughs and

yeah, sex.

But this time around, you'll find a few things I haven't offered my marvelous readers in the past:

public sex

sex on film

true love!

And a groovy cover that captures the allure of those Los Angeles women we all adore..



"Oh boo hoo Madeline Moore, this is a digital book and I don't have an e-reader."

Neither do I! But I can still read digital tales and so can you. Adobe offers a digital reader you can download for free! Easy as one, two, three.

For .99 pounds sterling (that's less than one pound) you can buy the book and upload the epub. edition to your Adobe reader.

Just think. In the time it's taken you to read this blog post, you could be reading my book.

Here's a taste of what's in store for you:

      ‘Action!’ yelled Luke.

      The bedroom door burst open and Kara charged into the room, wearing the white satin bustière that laced up the back and white stay ups (one with a ladder she’d complained of in Scene One) and stilettos she’d had on at the end of the scene. Her chest and face were freshly-fucked pink in a pleasant contrast to virginal white. Her breasts bounced in their twin satin cradles and her dark, hard nipples played peek-a-boo with the viewer as she raced around the room.

      ‘No!’ she screamed.

      Gary charged after her, buck naked. He was hirsute (albeit with a clean shaven face); from chest to ankles he was dark with black hair. His pubes and underarms were thick with it. He carried a bottle of lube and, as he pursued his prey, he pumped some into his other hand and fisted it onto his rigid cock.

      Luke flashed Marion a peace sign. She was already positioned beside the second cameraman and now she tapped his shoulder.

      While Jimmy, the operator of camera one as well as D.P., continued to shoot the full scene, Paul’s camera two followed the cock’s progress, zoomed in at the prearranged mark just as Gary’s cock paused, then panned slowly back to resume its pursuit of the bride.

      This was their first two-camera shoot and everyone was pretty pumped up about it. Luke wanted Gary’s hard-on, as it zeroed in on Kara like a heat-seeking missile, shot up-close and real personal. It seemed he was getting what he wanted.

      ‘You promised, Mrs Bottomsby.’

      ‘I’m not ready,’ pleaded Kara. She collapsed in the middle of her oh-so-recently abandoned wedding gown. ‘I’m too scared.’

      ‘I’ll make you ready, baby, don’t worry. And don’t be scared. You’re gonna love this.’

      Gary pounced on Kara. He kissed her long and hard.

      She visibly relaxed. ‘I love you, Mr Bottomsby.’

      ‘I love you, too,’ he said. ‘Now assume the position!’

      Kara burst into tears. She grasped the head of the hidden zipper in the front of her bustière and in a moment the lingerie was unzipped and discarded, the lacing up the back as tight as ever.

      The crew looked as one to their leader. Even Marion, who’d performed the unsung, essential duties of First A.D. with such finesse Luke had begun to wonder how he’d ever directed without her, goggled at him.

      He made a short, circular motion with his index finger. Keep rolling. They hadn’t had a lot of time for rehearsal but he was one hundred percent certain his leading lady was not in real distress.

      Gary gave Kara a sharp smack on each cheek of her bum. ‘Spread ‘em baby, or I’ll spread ‘em for you.’

      Make that ninety percent.

      Kara sniffled and knelt up nicely, her elbows on the brushed fake suede of the sofa, her knees and thighs surrounded by netting and crepe. The look she gave Gary, over her shoulder, was wide-eyed and reproachful.

      ‘Please, husband . . . don’t hurt me.’

      Gary grinned. He licked his lips. He parted the cheeks of her ass with his hands, exposing Kara’s pink asshole. He sat back, as if admiring it, giving camera two ample time to zoom in and hold on a tight close up of her tight hole.

      Luke nodded, Marion tapped, and camera two zoomed in.

      ‘Aww baby, you know you can trust me,’ said Gary. He leant in, teasing her hole with the tip of his tongue. ‘Doesn’t that feel just like a . . . like a rose petal, caressing your pretty little virgin hole, all soft and sweet?

      ‘Ye – yes . . . ’

      ‘Mm . . . gorgeous . . . every inch of you is so fucking gorgeous I feel . . . one minute I feel like I could . . . mm . . . I could lavish you with little kisses all day . . . ’

      Kara arched her back a little, presenting her bottom as Mrs Vixen might present hers to Mr Fox. Her head tilted back, as if his low, cooing praise was, like his tongue, imparting such a delicate sense that she needed to lean in a little to catch it.

      ‘. . . and the next . . .’ Gary fisted another dollop of lube onto his dick, ‘. . . the next I want to roar with pride!’ He rolled back onto his heels, lifted an inch and jammed his cock to its hilt up Kara’s ass.

      Kara screamed.

      Gary roared.

      Luke stepped back. Hadn’t Kara agreed to star in a porn shoot as long as it wasn’t ‘too kinky’? This stuff was so not in the script. He pointed at his ear. Marion tapped the soundman on his back. He nodded. She nodded.

      Gary pulled almost all the way out.

      Tears rolled down Kara’s cheeks. ‘Honey it hurts, it hurts . . . ’

      ‘Only for a minute, sweetcheeks,’ Gary said. ‘Trust me, baby.’

      ‘I do.’

      ‘There’s my girl. I do. Remember what you promised, now. I promise to love –’ he buried his cock in her ass in another smooth, hard stroke. This time his body dropped forward, too, so that chest was against her back and his arms and hands on either side of hers, keeping her in place.

      ‘Honour – ’

      Kara’s head dropped a little.

      His mouth pressed up close to her ear.

      ‘And obey.’

Well, what can film students do, in their final year of university, when the Film Studies tuition suddenly jumps sky high? If some of them are pretty as porn stars and all of them want to make movies, the obvious answer to the dilemma is: make porn movies and use the profits to pay the tuition.

Makes perfect sense, don't you think?

BUY THE BOOK! I promise you won't be disappointed! It's more of the Madeline Moore you've come to know and love.

xoxo Mad

ps: to the charming Vietnam vet who sent me a fan letter not so long ago, to which I responded with a promise to let you know when my next story was released: I can't find you in my emails so I'm telling you right here on my blog. This is my latest story. I'd love to know if you enjoyed it as much as you've enjoyed my previous work.

Pretty As A Porn Star coming soon!

Yippee. My first petite novel for  Mischief Books will be released on August 18, 2012. This is a really sexy romp through Tinsel Town. Not to be missed by those who enjoy my sizzling sex scenes and witty dialogue. Woo hoo!

http://www.mischiefbooks.com/books/pretty-pornstar/

A Poem for the UnDad

I’m so glad

you’re not my Dad.

I’d ever so much rather

have you as a fiancé than a Father.

Though I’m sure you’re very good

at the job of Fatherhood

I’d rather not be a rater

of your abilities as pater.

‘Cause if you were my dear papa

I know you’d touch not one ta ta

and if you were my begetter

it wouldn’t make my cunt wet, Sir.

Though you are King of our wee shire

it’s best that you are not my Sire

for I’d have never felt the crop

if I were kid and you were Pop.

This way each day I adore you more

than if you were my progenitor

and I am free to love you madly

which I couldn’t do if you were Daddy

So if this ditty makes you say “Ha!”

Let’s celebrate! You’re not my Pa!

                                            -for Felix

                                                 love from Madeline

The Glenn Gould Prize Gala Celebrates the 9th Laureate, Leonard Cohen

This event has left me speechless but I'll try:

I'm so grateful to live close enough to Leonard Cohen to have attended this ceremony.

He is so loved, by so many. I think he knows it.
My homage poem, "Famous Troubadour" and a copy of "Sarah's Education" was taken from me by a kind assistant who said she would make sure he receives my gifts.

His speech was gracious and short, because he wanted to listen to the music.

The stand-out performances were not the ones I expected to be: Anjani (his companion) sang her song, "Crazy to Love You." She has the voice of an angel. I'm happy he finally has his very own angel.

Alan Rickman, of "Harry Potter" fame, read poetry.

John Prine was good and so were the "Cowboy Junkies," especially when Prine joined the Junkies on the song "One of Us Cannot be Wrong."

Serena Ryder was truly spectacular, singing "Sisters of Mercy."

Adam Cohen, who introduced himself as the son of a famous singer from Quebec, Celine Dion (zo zilly) was also a surprise. He is a terrific musician! He and Serena Ryder sang "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye" and then Adam sang a rockin' rendition of "So Long, Marianne" and we were all invited to sing along. Many of the performers piled back on stage to sing along as well.

Leonard waved to us all from the balcony and left.

What a special person he is. There were many kudos to Glenn Gould as well. I hadn't realized how much of an impact he had on the world of classical music until tonight.

Many people in the audience wore fedoras. I'll make sure my sister and I have them for his upcoming tour. We'll see him in Ottawa.

Leonard makes me want to be a better person while soothing me with the truth about how difficult it is to be good. He makes me feel better about the world, while reminding me how harsh life can be for some human beings.

He makes me want to sing, dance, write, cry and laugh.

Leonard makes me want to touch, physically touch, everyone and yet -

He makes me yearn to be alone so I can listen and learn from the silence.

Sunday! Read all about me!

I'm Lee-Ann Vinson's guest on her Sunday blog post. We're not talking about Mothers, even though the post goes up on Mothers' Day.

We're talking about ME.

Although, yes, I am a mother.

Don't confuse me now!

Just come see. Even better, come leave a comment!

Click right here and it'll take you right there.

xoxo Mad

Zeitgeist!

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