My Capturing the Moment virtual book tour has landed at Lynn Townsend’s blog. Lynn was one of my beta readers for the book. In the interview we talk about everything from who inspired me, to Literotica, acceptance letters, and more.
I’m Delilah. I spent the first 31 years of my life in the chilly Northeast before my partner’s work took us to Singapore six years ago. Although I grew up telling and imagining stories, writing them was at best a part-time hobby. I was first introduced to erotica when my ex-boyfriend showed me Literotica.com. I was a senior in college with a thesis due, so obviously the best use of my time was to start writing erotica and erotic fan fiction. Thanks to Literotica, I found my first writing community, and physical friends when I made the move to NYC for grad school.
I’ve heard a lot of about Literotica — oddly enough, I myself have never explored its archives, but several of the writers I know got their start there, or in the various fanfic universes, like AO3… Any interesting stories from that world you particularly remember? Lit is such a great resource for new writers. There’s so much support and love for new writers (and yes, there are trolls sometimes, but that’s the internet). I haven’t been involved in the website in over five years, but I just re-joined under Delilah_Night if anyone wants to connect there. A lot of my friends have moved on.
I wouldn’t have had a social life in NYC if it weren’t for Literorica. There was a Boston vs NYC thread, and through that I met most of my friends in NYC. We had “lit-togethers” where we’d meet up for dinner and hang out.
If you mean actual stories, I couldn’t find it on lit anymore, but a writer I knew on the site wrote the best crossover fanfic “Harry Potter and the Eagle of Truthiness” which imagines that Steven Colbert (in his Colbert Report persona) was the Defense against the Dark Arts Teacher at Hogwart. HILARIOUS
Read the rest here and get to know me a little better.
BTW if you want to read Harry Potter and the Eagle of Truthiness, I found it! Click here to read Christine Morgan’s story.
Here was a seedy bar in get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here Maine. I’d hated all four years, but the advent of my tenth high school reunion had me returning to my small town like a swallow to Capistrano. There wasn’t enough Facebook stalking on the planet to feed my schadenfreude-fueled fantasies about how much better my life was than the hicks I’d left behind.
I certainly hadn’t come back to spend time with my mother. They say that the mother-daughter bond improves once the daughter ages out of being a difficult teenager, but we’d certainly done our best to disprove that theory.
Why am I here?
Right, because after another round of accusations thrown back and forth, I’d left the house and begun to drive aimlessly. Nothing else was open. And the allure of a glass of wine, even a piss-poor one, had been overpowering
Was avoiding my mother worth bleeding from my eardrums? Either way, more alcohol was going to be necessary.
This part of Maine is littered with dead zones. No scrolling on Twitter, no updating Facebook, no bitching on Whatsapp or Messenger. I tried to brace myself for misguided attempts at country, screaming rock lyrics, and unfortunate attempts at the current pop hits. I imagined they’d make a charming counterpoint to the various sounds made when one’s mouth is so close to a microphone that one might as well be fellating it.
I decided to ignore the impending cacophony and read a thriller I’d downloaded to my phone before beginning the trek north. It was topping the New York Times Bestseller List, not that anyone in this room had likely ever read the Gray Lady.
My head snapped up when I heard the opening notes of “The Impossible Dream,” from Man of LaMancha. Broadway? Here?
To dream the impossible dream/To fight the unbeatable foe/To bear with unbearable sorrow/To run where the brave dare not go…
The room didn’t appreciate the scene that was unfolding in front of them. A baritone with perfect pitch.
To right the unrightable wrong/ To love pure and chaste from afar/ To try when your arms are too weary/ To reach the unreachable star
He wore the same flannel and work boots as the other men. This was no fellow city slicker home for the holidays, or if he were, he was far better at blending than I.
The audience continued to talk amongst themselves. He sang on, unaffected by their disinterest.
This is my quest/ To follow that star/ No matter how hopeless/ No matter how far
Our eyes met, and held.
To fight for the right/ Without question or pause/ To be willing to march into Hell/ For a heavenly cause
I abandoned my drink, drifting closer to the chunk of floor with the masking tape denoting the “stage.”
And I know if I’ll only be true / To this glorious quest/ That my heart will lie peaceful and calm/ When I’m laid to my rest
I mouthed the words along with him.
And the world will be better for this/ That one man, scorned and covered with scars/ Still strove with his last ounce of courage/ To reach the unreachable star
At the key change, a shiver whispered over my skin.
This is my quest/ To follow that star/ No matter how hopeless/ No matter how far
He was singing to me now.
To fight for the right/ Without question or pause/ To be willing to march into Hell/ For a heavenly cause
The world shrank down to the two of us.
And I know if I’ll only be true / To this glorious quest/ That my heart will lie peaceful and calm/ When I’m laid to my rest
I yearned. Every note seared my soul.
And the world will be better for this/ That one man, scorned and covered with scars/ Still strove with his last ounce of courage
Beneath the music, he was propositioning me.
To reach the unreachable star
He belted the final note. I nodded my answer.
The anemic applause barely registered as he took my hand and led me through the bar and out into the chilly night. For once, I didn’t have a snarky comment to make about pick-up trucks.
The door clanked shut. He didn’t bother to turn on the engine.
I heard the zing of a zipper, and he yanked me to straddle his lap. Rough fingers reached under my skirt and tore my panties, the rip echoing in the cabin. With one thrust he entered me and I rode him like the cowgirl my family would’ve probably preferred to an MBA.
Our groans harmonized. My pleasure spiraled up into an operatic soprano note of joy. Several seconds later, his baritone fell into a long bass note as he came.
The seduction spell woven through song shattered when he spoke.
“I can’t believe I just fucked Wendy Adams.”
I never knew a nine-hour drive could double as the longest walk of shame of my life. I still don’t know who he was. I swear upon the holiest of holies–the Louboutin boots upon which I blew my savings rather than therapy–I will never google my high school reunion, because I don’t want to know.
Maybe my mother was right after all. Stick your nose high enough in air and you’ll trip over your feet.
I’ve decided to post four of my stories my blog. These are all stories that have appeared in charity anthologies, and to which I hold the copyright. I also added links to flash fiction I’ve written for the Wicked Wednesday posts.
Curl up with a Deliciously Naughty, Deliciously Free Story
Last week I finished the first draft of the novel version of my short story, Plunder. I wanted a minimum length of 50k and ended up at 42k. There’s so much that needs to be cut or repurposed, like the chapter of exposition. There are secondary characters whose names I lost track of, and ones who need to be fleshed out. There is a lull about two-thirds of the way through after I break up my couple that needs a lot of work. Tertiary characters flip between being alive and dead because I lost track. It is a jumbled, disorganized mess. But that’s okay.
The biggest challenge I’ve faced with the novel is the sheer scale of the story.
Where Capturing the Moment had two main characters and two secondary characters, Plunder has two main characters, and tons of secondary characters. The nature of life on a ship means that I had to flesh out some portion of the crew, and with something like seven named secondary characters on two ships, it’s easy to lose track of who is who and what their personalities are.
Plunder is told from Bree’s perspective, unlike Capturing the Moment which showed both Meg and RJ’s points of view. It is very challenging to not tip my hand or give things away before their time. William is an alphahole, but I need my readers to still root for he and Meg to figure things out.
I have realized that in order to effectively edit the novel I need to create
a master document wherein I list all the characters and details about each of them
a chronological timeline.
chapter by chapter summaries–some of the exposition in a later chapter was dealt with in casual conversation earlier.
a sexual summary–style, position, allegories I use for orgasm. I don’t want to get repetitive, or miss out on something.
I’m not going to start editing yet. I’m still too close to the story. My plan is to take a few days off, write a short story or two, and start the edits in June. I’ve shared the document in all it’s disastrous glory with my husband, but I will spend a month (or more) polishing it to the best product I can create.
When I wrote Capturing the Moment, I knew that my setting was accurate because I based it on my own visit. As I said in my guest post with F dot Leonora, I’m a photographer like Meg. I had to look up some details about art and the proper name of an instrument, but I was on solid ground. With Plunder, I’m dealing with a foreign time period and selective historical accuracy. The closest I’ve come to being a sailor is working as a costumed guide on the Boston Tea Party Ship and Museum in college. I know nothing about rigging or the other jobs on a ship in the 17th. Research is only going to get me so far. I’ll need to consult with someone who knows their stuff as Bree is supposed to be a skilled sailor and fix the details I’m bullshitting today.
Once I’m done with edits, my husband will give it one last look. When both of us have signed off on it, I’ll send Plunder to my betas. They’ll need time to read and provide their comments.
During that lull, I’ll work on other projects.
When I have beta feedback, I’ll digest their thoughts and then revise Plunder further. I may send it to one more round of beta support or editorial support. A story is never really “done”–it just reaches the point where you are going to send it in or futz with it forever. I also call this the I keep editing, but now I’m making it worse instead of better. That’s the point where I’ll submit it for publication, and cross my fingers.
What does first draft, unedited hot mess look like? Here’s an example…
She was just about to head back to William’s cabin when it happened. A wave rose up and slapped the Ghost, tippping it starboard. She thought she heard a scream, and looked up in time to see the man from the foretop falling. He hit the gunwhale and slipped off into the sea.
“Man overboard!” Bree screamed, but her words were drowned out by the shrieking wind.
The starboard side of the foresail was unmanned, and began to flap. Bree might not be a pirate, but she was a skilled sailor who knew her rigging. She took a deep breath and dashed over to the ratlines and began to climb. The ropes were slick with rain, and she fought to keep her footing. Once at the crossbar over the foresail, she grabbed a piece of rope and knotted it about her stomach as the missing sailor should have. That would hopefully keep her alive if she fell, and she retied the knots that had gone slack.
The storm was like a living predator, snarling as it attacked its prey. Lighting slashed across the sky. She was soaked to the skin by the drowning rain. Waves tossed the Ghost, water sometimes crashing over the deck. Bree clung to the mast, keeping a close eye on the sail, listening for orders.
Bree prayed that the Maya was safely moored somewhere far from this storm. The thought of losing Marcus and James was unbearable. She looked for William, worried that he, too, might have fallen victim to the storm, but he wasn’t near her, and she couldn’t see the aft of the ship. Her heart twisted, but she remained focused.
The storm quieted, but she knew it was just the eye, and that the eerie calm wouldn’t last.
“Lass!” The pirate above her at the fore topsail called down.
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Can’t decide if you’re brave or dumb as a rock, but good work.”
My thoughts
“just” is one the worst offenders when it comes to filler/unnecessary words in my writing
Living predator? As opposed to a dead one?
I really know nothing about rigging, although I looked up proper names for things online
“the man from the foretop falling” what?
Would tying a rope around her waist save her if she fell? Really?
The storm needs more description. Do more than those few sentences.
She cares about Archie, the ship’s boy she befriended as well as Marcus and James
It’s not a bad passage, but it’s a really important one in the story. It needs expansion, more details (including support from someone who knows something about ships and sailing), and other editing support.
Here’s the thing, though. You can’t edit what you haven’t written. I wrote this, so now I have something to edit. In a month or so.
When I heard that one my favorite authors, K.A. Smith, was going to be in a new anthology, I couldn’t wait to read it. I pre-ordered Lez Talk, and was super excited when it appeared on my Kindle.
Lez Talk: A Collection of Black Lesbian Short Fiction is comprised of sixteen stories that defy easy classification. There are stories of sadness and pain, of love and sex, and even of magic. One of the editors, S. Andrea Allen writes in the introduction that
We say in our call for submissions: “We operated under the assumption that lesbian is not a dirty word.” At a time where a disavowal of any type of stable identity is at an all time high, it is important for us to focus on writing that celebrates Black lesbian identities and amplifies the diversity of Black lesbian experiences.
Allen and Cherelle did a standout job. The stories were ordered in a way that I wanted to keep reading, rather than feel fatigued. The variation in themes kept the anthology from being repetitive (which is always a danger). I finished the anthology last week, and I’ve been talking it up like crazy. As a bookworm, I know of no higher form of praise.
While I like most of the stories, there were some standouts that deserve extra applause.
K.A. Smith has two stories in the anthology. Darker the Berry and Two Moons. In Darker the Berry, what looks like a supermarket pickup and casual sex turns out to be so much more complex than it first appears. I told K.A. that I would love to read a novel set in the Two Moons world because in such a short, lyrical piece, she does some intriguing world-building. K.A. is a member in my “never disappoints” club–I know that if I’m picking up an anthology or independent work by her, I will never be disappointed. (Click here for my review of Get At Me and Gina’s Do-Over).
S. Andrea Allen’s story, Pretty, resonated strongly for me. It begins “Everybody said she was pretty, for a fat girl.” I don’t think that there is a plus-sized woman who hasn’t heard that dig. I blinked back tears at the end of the story for that, too, was a moment I identified with. Her second story in the anthology, Epiphany, is the story of a love gone toxic. What do you do when you need to leave a relationship, but can’t see the way out? I walked away wanting to read more by Allen because in both stories, I became emotionally invested in her character’s stories and their outcomes.
Eternity Philops nearly broke my heart with The Other Side of Crazy. Delilah’s girlfriend Sam is cheating on her. Again. She waits for Sam to come home, but she doesn’t. Delilah ends up seeing Sam ]kissing a girl. The resolution of their story is gut-wrenching. Of all the stories in the anthology, this is the one that I’ve most revisited, emotionally, and continue to think about.
La Toya Hankins’s One More weaves the story of Toni’s first few decades of life. We bear witness to her first flickering crush in childhood that ends in shame, to her mom threatening to pull her financial support in college unless Toni renounces being gay, and the eve of her wedding. We see glimpses of the journey her family has taken on the road to accepting and celebrating Toni for who she is. Everyone except her mother. It hurts to be judged. It’s doubly painful when one’s mother–the person society tells us is supposed to love us no matter what–is the one doing the denying and shaming. Hankins deftly tells the story without allowing it to ever dip into melodrama, which it easily could have in the hands of a less skilled author. Bring tissues.
I would really love to see this become an annual anthology, or the first in a series.
I hope you guys enjoyed my guest post with F dot Leonora about the ways in which Meg and I are similar and different. Today, Malin James is hosting the counter-part to that post–all the ways in which my husband and RJ are similar and different.
I’ll give you a sneak peek of a similarity
They both have curly hair. When my husband’s hair is freshly washed and he hasn’t messed it up over the course of his day, it curls into these perfect ringlets I’m a little heartbroken neither of our daughters inherited.
I enter college, terrified of failing. I will not go back to managing a sub shop or working at JC Pennys. I am not the first person in my family to take a college class, but I am determined to succeed. I balance a fulltime job, a fulltime courseload, and manage to pick up a boy by asking him if he’s taken his girlfriend to Titanic yet.
1999
I am shaking as I board the very first plane I’ve ever flown on. I’m leaving Boston for the south of France for a study-abroad. The French professors have a bet as to whether I’ll get on the plane or not. I do. I have my wallet stolen in Arles, and learn how you report an atm credit card stolen. I hope they enjoyed my Tower Records video rental card and the five dollars in cash I had. I fall in love with a terrible boyfriend, and am dumped in favor of his ex-girlfriend right before New Year’s Eve. But we’ll still be friends. Sure. This is my first New Year’s Eve as a twenty-one year old, and I get plastered. I end up making out with a drunk Northeastern hockey player in a porta-potty (I know, I know) and take him home. This is also the year I start to come to terms with my queerness and seek therapy because I’ve bought into all the toxic stereotypes about bisexuals.
2000
I call my “friend” who dumped me to ask how his New Year’s Eve went. He tells me he hung out with a friend, played video games and drank beer. He asks me what I did. I reply “A hockey player.” Mic drop. The porta-porty make-out was worth it.
2001
I am a college senior, writing an honors thesis for the history degree I’ve realized qualifies me for exactly nothing. My boyfriend introduces me to Literotica and I start writing. I write the infamous Wesley Crusher fanfic. I am now hooked on writing erotica. I graduate from college and become the first person to do so in my family. I become a manager of a retail store because I have a degree in History.
2002
I move to New York to pursue an MA/PhD in History. This is a terrible idea, and I flame out. New York is a cruel city and I have never been more alone and unhappy than I was there. But I saw a ton of Broadway, made new friends, and wrote like crazy. I have no regrets when I leave.
2004
After realizing how much I hated the PhD program, I get a Master’s in Teaching and get my first classroom.
2005
I meet my husband and after our first date, I tell him I want to be “just friends.” When I realize I’m an idiot several weeks later, he gives me a second chance.
2006
We get married. I write the ceremony. The West Wing is mentioned. My husband slips a Babylon 5 reference into his vows. I herniate a disc in my back and spend several months high as hell and unable to walk properly until I get surgery. This is not the best start to a marriage, but my husband is awesome. Serious props to him.
2007
I lose a baby in a miscarriage. I was only 10/11 weeks along but I am devastated. I do not move from my bed for almost a month.
2008
My eldest is born, and we almost lose her at a week of age due to an infection. She spends a month in the hospital. When she gets out I suffer from intense post-partum depression. I consider suicide a lot.
2009
My bipolar disorder is finally correctly diagnosed. I have a mild form that is often misdiagnosed as depression. I finally get useful mental health medication. My daughter, while highly medical, much to everyone’s surprise and joy does not have developmental delays or serious complications.
2010
We move to Singapore. All I really knew about Singapore before we moved here was that gum was banned and they caned some American kid named Michael Fay when I was in high school. We visit and it is hot as hell. But what the heck–we always said we wanted to live abroad, so we jump in.
2011
Kid number two is born and I sell my first story.
2014
I go to Cambodia, alone. It is the first time I’ve been outside the US on my own. I am so proud that I have a wonderful vacation all on my own.
2015
I write and sell my first novella. I nearly die from a kidney infection and deal with the medical and emotional fallout from that. Around a third of my hair falls out and I cope by dyeing it bright blue. Because why not.
2016
We are still in Singapore, despite our initial assumptions that we’d be here only a few years. My children study Chinese as a second language. I am getting a baptism by fire as my eldest progresses through local schools. We are going to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. I just finished the first draft of my novel.
One of the most common questions that writers get is “How much do you resemble your characters?”
I’m over at F dot Leonora’s blog today to answer that question. How much do Meg and I have in common? Check it out and don’t forget to leave a comment on Leonora’s blog for a chance to win a free copy of Capturing the Moment.
Ways in which Meg and I are similar
Meg is a teacher, and I also used to teach sixth grade math. There’s an anecdote that Meg shares during breakfast that I lifted from my own experiences.
Meg is a photographer, and I’m a photographer. Almost every photo that Meg takes can be found on my hard drive. The photo above the excerpt is one of mine, and you can see how I worked it into the story. Alas, I did not have a naked photoshoot in Preah Khan—those are fictional photos.
Meg is really frightened of being hurt, emotionally, again. When I first began dating my husband of ten years, I told him I wanted to be “just friends” after our first date because I was so frightened of being that vulnerable again.
Although I titled the article “Writing Interracial Couples,” and do touch on why I write them (I’m one half of one), most of my article today is about my experience as a white author who writes non-white characters and the steps I take to try to create the best characters I can.
As a white woman, my representations of non-white characters are always going to be flawed. Despite being part of my husband’s family for a decade, a mother to two multiracial children, and a friend of persons of color, I have no live experience to inform my writing. I need to be very careful in my choices when writing non-white characters.
When writing Arjun, my male lead in Capturing the Moment, I made a deliberate choice to make him Indian-American. The experience of being Indian-American is very different than that of a person growing up in India (which is not to imply that there is a monolithic experience of growing up in India). Friends and family members have a wide variety of experience as to whether or not they speak any of the twenty-three official languages of India, eat Indian food, watch Bollywood films, like Indian clothes, and so forth. Arjun has an Indian first name and an Americanized nickname. He speak Punjabi. He has strong ties to his family, which is very important culturally. That said, by virtue of growing up in the US he has the same cultural touchstones as Meg, myself, my husband and friends, and so forth. In other words, I had more wiggle room to create an authentic character.
My beta reading team also includes several Indian Americans, and my primary beta reader is my husband. Whether on this story or others, they have helped me improve with each piece. A beta sent me an article discussing why using food words like “chocolate-colored eyes” can be seen as offensive, and I have tried to ensure that I no longer do that (or fix it in edits). I once had a character speak in Hindi, and it was just awkward. In retrospect, a friend was right, and I was doing it to make them seem more “Indian.” They aren’t afraid to call me out and educate me, and I don’t give them white tears over it, although I have to sometimes make difficult choices because they have different opinions (for example, my husband has no issue with the food allegories, but I still chose to omit them). I even asked a friend to look over this blog post!
Read the rest, including my suggestions for authors of color you should be reading here. Don’t forget to leave a comment recommending your favorite authors of color!
**apologies in advance. There was something of a miscommunication regarding links, so the post is a bit ugly and missing embedded links.
Yes, I felt like that many exclamation marks were needed.
To celebrate my general release, I’m guest posting at Tamsin Flower’s blog. Tamsin is not just a good friend, but was also one of my two beta readers for the book. I hope you read my interview with Meg, because today I’m interviewing RJ.
Delilah Night: What made you fall in love with Meg?
RJ : My friend Rachel introduced me to her sister, Megan. I used to be a player, but all that changed. Meg was an education major, and her eyes glowed with passion when she talked about how she wanted to help kids love learning. We were studying in the library one day, and I offered to help her find a book. We ended up making out in the stacks, and I was hooked. Her brains, her sense of humor, and our sexual connection ruined me for every other woman.
DN: Sounds intense. What happened?
RJ: It’s a long story. The short version is that we were together, we got engaged, and then we broke up. We were both to blame, and honestly, I was kind of a jerk. We’re going to need to deal with our past to have a shot at moving forward. Unfortunately, once Meg agreed to spend the day with me in Siem Reap, Cambodia, one of her first rules was that she wouldn’t talk about our past. She wouldn’t even let me apologize for the ways I fucked things up.
DN: Yes, well, you weren’t exactly invited to join Meg on her vacation in Siem Reap.
The pain of a broken heart is not fun, but sometimes the timing just isn’t right for two people to be together. In this case, time apart had a beneficial effect, and everyone but Meg realizes it.
Now, let’s talk sex.
Wow. The heat and chemistry between Meg and RJ sizzles.
I usually prefer a bit more kink in my erotica, a bit of spanking, dominance, and dirty talk. Given that the story takes place over the course of less than 24 hours, though, it’s a bit much to expect an author to reconnect ex-lovers, have them explore a bunch of ruins, fit in three meals, have sex, AND get kinky.
Having said that, there’s this one time RJ spanks Meg… And then there’s this amazing outdoor sexperience… And then there’s this sensual massage…
Ah, who am I kidding? While it didn’t venture too far outside vanilla, this couple sizzles together. And Ms. Night clearly understands photography and setting the scene (in more ways than one), plus she’s done her homework on the art, history, and culture of Siem Reap. The book can be read in a couple of hours, but Meg and RJ’s relationship will stick with you.
Now, we just need a sequel about what happens on the 8 hour plane ride…
read the rest of her review at CrushBlush (buy links below)
You never forget your first love…
Meg and RJ were passionately in love. But that was six years and a broken engagement ago.
Meg has only one day in Siem Reap, Cambodia, before she must leave for her sister’s wedding in Bali. She fulfills her dream of taking a photograph of the sun rising behind Angkor Wat, one of the oldest temples in the world. But her joy is short-lived when she turns around to see RJ standing behind her.
RJ threw himself into work after Meg ended their relationship. He’s built a successful business, but it’s a hollow victory. He’s come to Siem Reap to win back the woman he’s never stopped loving. But first he has to convince her to spend the day with him.
Meg is as physically attracted to RJ as she ever was. Maybe the secret to finally getting over him is a one day only, no strings attached fling.
Can RJ win Meg back, or will she love him and leave him?
As of today, Capturing the Moment is on sale everywhere!
delilahnight.com 