Monday, January 21, 2013

Marscon Wrap-Up, Book News, and a Strange Freebie.

Last night I returned home from another great Marscon, an annual SFF event held in Williamsburg. This is, I think, my fifth visit to the con as a guest, and I had a great time hanging with authors and editors like JM Snyder of JMS Books, Elizabeth Brooks, Nobilis Reed, and Helen "Cynical Woman" Madden. This year I appeared on various panels on erotic fiction and writing for a living, and I participated in the Marscon preliminary round of Erotic Iron Chef.

No, it didn't involve nude cooking. :-) This is a fun competition where erotica authors are giving a theme and must write a short in about 20 minutes using the theme. The audience decides the winner. Not to brag, because I had formidable competition, but I won! I now will go to Balticon and compete in the finals for the prestigious Golden Artichoke Award and the Crocheted Penis of Doom award.

Yeah, I suppose you have to come to Marscon to understand all of this. It's a fun time. I wish I had spent more time enjoying the con, but I have been sick all week and elected to take free time to myself to recover and nap. I also went to the Williamsburg Outlets to buy new Vans. Vans are my signature shoe. If you see a woman in Vans at RT, Authors After Dark, Book Expo, or any major book event, it might be me.



I took this photo to compare my old and busted black Vans from the new awesome chili red pair currently on my feet. I usually wear shoes until they dissolve, and my husband hates that. "We're not homeless yet," he said, and sprang for the shoes.

While I recover from my sniffles, I will work on polishing Bittersweet, the long-asked for follow up to Taste This. Finally, it is done and I am trying to decide what to do with it - rather, add more to get it to 50K or keep it around the 38K number where it is now. I've spent enough time away from it, so we will see. I only hope it's well received regardless of the final length.

While you wait, I'm happy to offer the spur of the moment story that won me the first round of Erotic Iron Chef. Bear in mind, this was a spontaneous story and in no way representative of my published works. Bear in mind, too, that Cynical Woman did the last two Iron Chefs at Balticon, and she's a dangerous influence. If you've read her stuff, you'll understand.

Not sure if I'll revisit and lengthen this one. Where could I take it?

~

Untitled - Leigh Ellwood


“I am sorry to inform you that 50 Shades of Mayberry wouldn’t make for a good erotic parody,” he told me.

I felt my heart deflate like the flaccid penis of an old man disappointed by a nudie magazine that promised more than it delivered on its cover. “Why not?” I demanded.

“I’ve spent the better part of the week describing Barney’s Red Room of Pain, located just over Gomer’s garage. I have already mapped three sequels to include however many other cousins have appeared on that show over the years.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, darling. Have you any idea how many 50 Shades parodies have been pitched to our sketch show? I’ve got 50 Shades of Gilligan, 50 Shades of Monkees, 50 Shades of Green Acres.” My director ticked off examples from 1963 CBS TV schedule with his thick, tobacco-stained fingers. “The market is saturated. You give me something else, and I’ll definitely consider it.”

I left his office dejected, too brokenhearted to attempt the Dick Van Dyke collision over the ottoman on the way out. The studio seemed quiet, as though everybody had acknowledged my failure. All I ever wanted was to be a comedy writer, and include a bit of raunch if possible. After this disappointment, I didn’t know when I’d get another appointment with the director and creator of the most popular sketch show on TV again.

I decided to cut through Studio 12, where they were filming an outdoor scene for a new soap pilot. I plodded past a farmyard backdrop until I came upon a small bridge that didn’t really lead anywhere. It looked out of place on the set, and I figured maybe somebody had moved it until the lunch hour arrived. Why would Teamsters work when they didn’t have to?

I stepped on the bridge and leaned on the railing, contemplating the future. If this bridge had been over water, I’d have thought about jumping. I couldn’t even contemplate suicide correctly, I thought, and stamped my foot in frustration.

“Ow!”

I looked down, to discover somebody napping under the wooden structure.

“What was that?” I muttered, and stepped down to investigate. A lanky, handsome key grip, wincing as though awakened stared up at me. “Are they filming yet?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just passing through,” I said. “Should I pay a toll?”

He leered at me. “That depends. Do you have an EZ Pass?”

“I’m sure I could provide the easy part, easily.” What the hell, I thought. I’d heard quite a bit about the key grips and best boys who worked at the studio, how their job titles definitely fit their skills. I glanced around the studio to confirmed we were alone, and slipped under the bridge and hope no billy goats trod over us to get to wherever the hell it was they go in fairy tales.

My key grip sported an impressive bulge in his Calvin Kleins, offering me something to grip. “How long have you down here?” I asked.

“Question is,” he said, his voice low and growling, “is how soon do I get to go down?”

Oh, why wait? Off came my skirt, the short-cuffed socks, the Mary Janes – anything I had on obstructing the key grip from his goal. Settling myself on his smiling face, I rocked against his probing tongue while grasping the underside of the bridge.

Unbidden, soon, came that blasted songs tearing through my head. “London Bridge is coming down, I’m coming down. My fair lady!”

Right on the high note, I shuddered my climax and collapsed in a heap on top of him. All thoughts of Mayberry and sketch comedy had faded from my mind, and I relaxed under the bridge in my new lover’s arms. Thelma Lou should have this so good.


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