Title: The Panic Pure
Author: Harper Kingsley
Genre: mm suspense thriller
Rating: mature

Summary: Daniel Worth, billionaire and CEO of Worth Enterprises is questioned by FBI agent Marshal Newman about the disappearance of one of his employees. They strike up a conversation and soon are regularly meeting and begin dating. However neither realizes just how close danger is lurking.


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Some part of him had insisted that having Marshal move in would be a disaster. There would be fighting and despair and he would run away to join Arthur in the guesthouse. Everything would degenerate into something from a soap opera and he would get the crazy idea of wanting someone in his life out of his system once and for all. He would settle into the idea of being a lonely hermit and it would be fine.

Danny was happy to be proven wrong. He couldn’t help feeling a touch grateful that he’d met Marshal. He didn’t think there was anyone else that could have fit so perfectly into his world as Marshal had.

It almost made him start believing in predestination. He and Marshal had always been meant to meet and fall for each other. They slotted into each other’s lives so easily that Danny barely even noticed the changes that appeared in his routine. It was strangely natural.

The first week passed with admirable smoothness as everything clicked together. And he was happy.

“What’s with that smile?”

Danny twitched and sat up straight, trying to school his face into blankness. Arthur didn’t seem to buy it from his raised eyebrows in the rearview mirror.

Fortress in the Eye of Time at Amazon

So while I was quietly freaking out, it took me until last night to remember these are self-imposed deadlines with only one of the three really, no contest having to happen.

That’s part of my problem. I put too much stress on myself instead of holding to the old adage of “Slow and steady wins the race.”

I’ve never liked the idea of being slow, but steady is the perfect pace. As long as something is happening each day, a story will build itself up, the words will add up, and suddenly a novel will appear.

It’s like magic beans. Something worthless becomes something invaluable. It just needs a chance to grow.

500 words a day x 5 days = 2500 words a week.
2500 words x 4 weeks = 10,000 words a month.
10,000 words x 12 months = 120,000 words.

Sometimes there’s this urge to do everything at once and force a story to submit, but that just doesn’t work. The words come at a slow trickle and refuse to be rushed. Work with that. Gather up what’s willing to be said and build up what you can. Don’t waste the productivity just because a story hasn’t possessed your fingers like Stephen King and decided to be written all in a day.

Seriously, I’ve had that happen before. A story took over and seemed to write itself, 20,000 words in less than five hours. It was like flying. But that kind of thing is rare.

Writing is work. Fun work a lot of the time, but still work.

It’s like building a house. You assemble the pieces, follow a plan, then get down to putting it all together. It’s just that with writing, you have to make the bricks first.

And I’ve been pressuring myself so much to have a finished product that I haven’t been able to focus on putting it together. So what does that mean?

I’m going back to basics. I’m working on this story until it’s done, not until a specified date. I’m finishing up my proofing. I’m editing my story. I’m letting my creativity have some freedom instead of stifling it.

And from the look of things, there should be three written novels in the next month, two edited novels, and that fanfic thing we don’t talk about (even though I’m quietly squeeing at the awesome.)

Stop stressing about writing as much or more than anyone else. Write like yourself at your own pace. All the agonizing is supposed to happen with the editing, not with your first draft.

The first draft is supposed to be fun times with characters you love, or love to hate.

* * *

Read slashy plotty mm stories free at Kimichee

The Way of the Househusband 01 at Amazon

Social anxiety is one of those things where people don’t believe you have an issue. There’s always this sense of “Get over it.”

If that were possible, I wouldn’t have it.

I posted on some forums and now I’m stressing out because no one’s responded. And I’m not really scared of what they’ll say, because most people don’t go out of their way to be jerks.

No, I’m afraid I’ve made a fool of myself on the internet again. Just the thought of thousands of people judging me and deciding I’m terrible makes me afraid. I start sweating and I get nervous and my stomach churns with acid. I can’t stand the idea of being hated even by people I don’t know.

And do you know what helps? Talking about what I’m afraid of. Then step-by-step I work my way through why my fears are ridiculous. And then I think of some things that I can do if the worst happens.

1. There’s billions of people in the world. Why am I bothered by a few that I will never meet? And besides, not that many people visit this forum and that doesn’t mean any of them will care about the topic.

2. Everyone makes mistakes. Delete it if it’s bad, otherwise don’t worry about it. If someone asks what I meant, I’ll just explain or not respond. Seriously, who I talk to is my choice, and that includes not answering if I’m not comfortable.

It’s people that try to come up with excuses that end up building a castle of lies and get into trouble. Just don’t say anything.

3. Don’t feed the trolls.

4. I sounded like an asshole, but even if it became big news on the internet for some reason, a surprising amount of people don’t care. Just be cool, keep my head down, most everything blows over
eventually.

Seriously, social anxiety disorder is hell. But it’s liveable, manageable hell.

* * *

Read slashy stories at Kimichee.

Pick up a copy of “From Diamond to Coal: Arc One,” by Sol Crafer. A mm superscience novel. Meet. Marriage. Murder.

Kakushigoto 01 at Amazon

I appreciate how much better my Kindle has made my life.

I will never give up having at least a laptop, but I’m not chained to it anymore. I have something that more easily fits my hand. I can work outside or thanks to Swype write while I’m walking somewhere.

I use ColorNote to write posts, then email them either to myself or directly to my blog. I’ve nearly completed a novel with it.

And for proofing … The Kindle has become my hero.

I make a mobi file, then use notes to tell myself where changes should be, and the dictionary has saved me a few headaches. I bookmark the page where I left off so I never lose my place. And when I’m all done, I see where changes need to be made and I do a Find & Replace on my document.

Maybe I’ll upgrade to a better and fancier tablet, but the Kindle has been a great introduction for me. It’s given me a taste for what I want a tablet to do and I didn’t have to sell my soul to afford it.

***

Read slashy stories at Kimichee.

***

Have an excerpt of “Fierce,” by Harper Kingsley. mm contemporary.

EXCERPT:
Rating: teen+ to be safe

Being on location was one of those things Simon used to love but that now made his stomach churn nervously. He didn’t really like being out of his safety zone, but it was something he felt had to be done.

Looking over and being able to see Byron Hughes standing with the rest of the crew made him feel better. His bodyguard had a gun and was willing to use it. He was perfectly safe.

“All right, Simon, in this scene you and Colby are entering the Dragon’s Tomb,” the director, Paul Bleek, said. “Just like in practice, you bring the gun up and it’s just ‘bang-bang-bang.’ Colby, you get hit and fall down, knocking over the Orb. We all good?”

Colby nodded and Simon said, “We good.”

They were standing in front of the archway leading to the “Dragon’s Tomb,” a temple built by the set designers in the middle of the desert. It was already hot and Simon could feel the sweat trickling down his forehead and sticking his clothes to his skin.

Waiting for the cue, he flashed a smile at Colby. “So what’s it like being the male Lara Croft?”

Colby Jackson gave his world famous grin. He really was amazingly good looking, a tall African-American with a leanly muscled body and a perfectly trimmed beard. “I feel very pretty.”

They’d never worked together though they’d known each other for years. It had only been because Colby asked so nicely that Simon had even accepted the role of “Percy Walden,” assistant and sidekick to itinerant explorer “Nicholas Blaine.”

“Places!”

“Let’s Indiana Jones this bitch up,” Simon said, earning himself a laugh.

Dressed in black pants, a long-sleeved black shirt, and a flak vest jangling with all kinds of faux-weaponry, Simon already felt like he needed a break and they hadn’t really even started yet.

“All right… Action!” Bleek called.

Simon drew in a deep breath and hurtled forward and kicked the stone door down with a grunt. He had a gun in his hand and he didn’t hesitate to run forward into the tomb. His head moved back and forth alertly and it seemed natural to bring his gun up and start shooting.

An Asian-looking tomb all shining with gold and jade. Dangerous looking men in lots of brown and gray clothing toting machine guns as they worked at stripping the place bare of treasure. They dropped what they were doing when he started shooting them and brought their own weapons up.

There were screams and shouts and the plink-plink of misses near his head and feet as he jumped, rolled, and dodged until every one of them was dead.

He stood from his crouch and turned to Colby. “It’s clear, sir.”

Colby sauntered in, his lips forming a disappointed moue. “Really, Percy, did you have to come charging through like a bull in a china shop? Perhaps some of these gentlemen would have liked the chance to surrender before you shot them in the face?”

Simon holstered his gun with a shrug. “We’ll never know now, will we?”

Colby smiled and started to say something, then hesitated. His expression congealed, his brows coming together, and he raised his right hand to his left shoulder.

“Sir?” Simon took a step toward him.

Colby pulled his hand away and there was blood on his fingers. He half-turned and there was a giant, bleeding wound in his back. “I think I’ve been shot,” he said calmly, then his legs wobbled and he stumbled sideways before collapsing. His flailing arm knocked against the pedestal and the glass Orb trembled and fell with a crash against the floor.

There was a puff of glittery dust that obscured everything.

/EXCERPT