A blog chain and contest! Don't miss out!

Check this out!

Today is release day for the fabulous Jill Myles' debut GENTLEMEN PREFER SUCCUBI, and, if it's not completely obvious from the hunk of mantitty on the cover, it's a sexy supernatural tale full of adventure, humor, and...um...sex.

Jill will be stopping by Writes in the City on January 18 to talk to us about--wait for it--writing sex scenes. Of course. And just to entice you some more, there's a contest:

Jill's agent Holly Root of the Waxman Literary Agency is offering a personalized query critique to the winner. How awesome is that? To enter, just follow the blog chain and comment, starting today with Amy Bai's The Purple Patch. One entry per blog, please, and the winner will be chosen at random on the last day of the tour (January 27) when Jill will also be posting an interview with Holly.

So what are you waiting for? Get over to Amy's! And buy Jill's book!

Chain chain chain...

I've signed on to do the AW blog chain for this month, and everyone's posts have been interesting so far. Razib Ahmed posted about life during the economic recession. Then it was Benjamin Solah with the view that nationalism is racism. Then Fresh Hell chimed in from Virginia with a post about racial relations. Everyone had a clear point of view and something unique to say.


Oy, the pressure. My blog is light and fluffy, people! If you don't believe me, just check out my last post about Cashew Chicken.

I was inspired by a comment in Fresh Hell's blog about racism Virginia being a scary state. I do have to say, it's everywhere, even here in left-liberal Manhattan. But in places like this it's more covert. Lee-Jackson-King Day would never fly here, and if you say the n-word you won't be invitied to the next dinner party. But I have heard the following remarks, for sure:

When looking for a babysitter
"Whatever you do, don't hire a Caribbean nanny."

When applying to private school kindergarten
"Of course the Smith family will have no trouble getting junior in. They're considered 'diversity.'"

At a fundraiser
"I like supporting the scholarship fund so families like the Smiths can afford to send their kids here."

Such assumptions about those poor Smiths! Which, by the way, are untrue.

So our own negative prejudices are unlikely to go away anytime soon. But I do hope that electing the first black president is a huge step in the right direction on that front.

There, I was at least semi-serious in a post. And it didn't hurt a bit.

Next up: madderblue

Journals: Written Proof of Your Stupidity

I’m an AW blog chain virgin here, so don’t get all huffy if I screw this up. Well, let’s see, this chain started out with some lies, then we moved on to hatred and jealousy, and next up was years from hell. But Family on Bikes did throw in a bit of travel, and growing from experiences, so I’m going with that.

I go though fits and spurts in my life when I keep a journal. One needs to chronicle such events as First Real Boyfriend (he’s sooooo cute!) and My Mother is Mean (grounded! the nerve!) But my last real journal was from 11 years ago, when I spent a month volunteering in India. By myself, which was a) a big deal for me at the time, having lived a fairly cloistered life and b) incredibly stupid, and probably pretty dangerous. I reread a passage recently, and realized the importance of writing things down, if only just to focus on your actions for a little while.

I had a couple of days in Delhi to explore on my own before catching a train to eastern India. Being what I thought was an intrepid traveler at the time, I took off on foot from my hotel, which was a huge white Hilton, you couldn’t miss it, right? Um, no. After a few hours of walking down dark passageways, through parks that looked familiar but not quite, it began to get dark. Shit. “Hilton? Heel-ton?” I would ask rickshaw drivers and shop owners, pointing to where I thought it was on the map. No, no Hilton there, miss. Of course I didn’t know that the name had recently changed.

A very scrubby-looking man overheard and offered to take me there. “I know this place,” he said, “You come with me.” That didn’t sound like a good idea, but as my other option was to camp out on the street, I went along. He told me he was a Kashmiri refugee, and he lived with his brother in a park. We crossed busy streets, him just holding up his hand for cars to stop, me trailing behind trying not to get run over. I pictured myself walking into some tent, being sold as a sex slave and never heard from again.

Finally we found the Hilton, in all its palatial glory. Of course this man would want some money. “Helpers” always want money. I tried to think of where I’d hidden it on my body, hoping he wouldn’t notice the rest of the bills and mug me. I pulled out some notes and handed it to him.

“No,” he said, “Don’t do that. I took you here because you were lost.” I still remember the hurt look he gave me, just before he turned and walked away.


Auria Cortes
Life in Scribbletown
Polyamory From the Inside Out
For the First Time
Family On Bikes
Writes in the City
Elf Killing and Other Hobbies
Rotating Bear
Fantastical Imagination
Asian Business
Spittin' (Out Words) Like a Llama
As Yet Untitled
Mad Scientist Matt's Lair
Peregrinas
Delirious