Friday, 2 September 2011

Stolen Summer: review and musings

I've just finished Stolen Summer by S.A. Meade.

When I read the blurb, I wasn't sure whether I was going to read it. Elements of the subject matter - terrorist-induced PTSD, anti-depressants, and related lack of sexual desire - were a little too close to home for comfort. However, having read a sample of S.A. Meade's writing, and with an inkling of how good it was going to be, when I saw a Tweet about it, I decided to go for it anyway.

Half way through, the characters kindly reminded me there is a soundtrack to this novel, and so I loaded up Einaudi on my iPad while I read. If you read this book, please do the same. It is the perfect complement.

To the book: I hope S.A. is absolutely over the moon with the release of this novel and that she is bursting with pride; she has every right to be. She handles sensitive subject matter with delicate yet confident skill, and the love story between Evan and Colin is a beautiful thing to see unfold.

If, like I was, you are deliberating whether to read it not because the hostage part of the plot gives you pause, don't worry. It's powerfully written but, as an erotic romance, the focus is enough to slide past what I was anticipating as the difficult sections: it's a love story.

I'm a new convert to m/m erotica, but oh, have I been missing out all these years!

I had tears in my eyes at parts of this book, that's how good Meade's writing is, full of beautiful imagery and gut-wrenching emotion.

And yes, the sex scenes are damn hot. Not filthy, just fucking beautiful.

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Good Morning Blog

When I was a teenager, I would write, and write and write. And I would listen to music. All the time.

Now I'm thirty-something, I don't listen to music for the sheer pleasure of it any more. I forget. Real life occupies my mind too much and oh, now I've realised that, I'm very sad about it. I am going to do something about it. On my buy list are Adele, Ludovico Einaudi and, oh dear, I can only name two. That's shameful. At least I'm on my way to rectifying the situation.

It's scary how easy it is for life to get in the way of things we once thought were the centre of our existence. I used to play and write music too. Don't even go there.

I decided to start writing again - properly - a month ago. For the last ten years, very on and off, I've written erotica. Now I've started paying attention to it as a serious pursuit, I've realised I've written Very Bad Erotica. And I don't even mean bad in a deliciously wicked way. I mean poor.

But that's fine. I can improve. And I can enjoy doing it. Scandalous sex, excruciating teases and men with nice arses. What's not to love?