How Writers with ADD can — SQUIRREL! with Sabrina York
Contest reminders: you can still enter my contest from Saturday!
Today I have the wonderfully naughty Sabrina York here with plenty of distracting shiny bits to share. I’m a huge fan of her Trillo Brothers books, if you’re into a little office romance with some kink. So sit back and enjoy a little spazy fun.
Well, they had it. They just called it something else: Spastic.
At least that was what my older sister called it. Called me.
And I was.
Like a windup toy, I would keep plugging on, bumping from one baseboard to the other until I eventually fell down the stairs—and even then, crumpled in a heap at the bottom, my legs would keep moving. From dawn til dusk, and long after bedtime, I was going.
Some people think that attention deficit disorder occurs when a person isn’t really interested in anything. That’s not true. It happens when a person is interested in everything.
That’s been my challenge my entire life.
There is just too much I want to do, to learn, to explore!
How do you decide? How do you commit? How do you excel at any one thing when there are so many more possibilities in the offing?
Thank God I discovered an early love of books. And thank God I lived on an Army base in the middle of an enormous rice paddy in China so when I ran out of books to read in our—rather limited library—I started writing my own.
Yeah, I discovered that obsession for writing—for controlling the universe, or at least my tiny corner of it—early on.
But it wasn’t the only thing I was interested in. Oh no. I was also interested in… everything else. I’m the kind of person who loves buffets—because I can have a little of everything.
I’m a crafty chick so I’ve ‘done’ it all. One year everyone in my family got a quilt for Christmas. The next year, handmade stationery. The next, stained glass windows. Rubber stamps? Tole painting? Beading? Been there, done that.
Right now, I’m into Pintrest.
Oh and writing.
And speaking of writing… What a challenge that can be for someone with ADD. Even when you can settle down long enough to pick a story to work on, plotting and editing require focus. Sometimes hours upon hours of focus. The only solution is to find a story that is so absolutely fascinating, it captures and holds your attention. Characters you are so in love with, you want to spend time with them. Maybe need to.
As a new writer, I wasn’t even really sure who I was. I dabbled in romance and women’s fiction and sci fi and fantasy. I wrote screenplays and execrable poetry. Pedantic literary fiction. Articles on how to entertain your children over summer vacation. Technical treatises on veritable grade septic systems (not kidding about that, by the way). I wrote everything.
Then one day I was whining to a published friend of mine about how my writing career wasn’t getting any traction. She looked at me askance (she often does) and politely suggested I consider finishing something.
Well. What a novel concept.
I think her exact words were: “Finish the damn book!”
But finishing something meant making a commitment. Picking one of those genres and powering through the prose, slogging through the edits and polishing. That would take a lot of focus.
Because what they don’t tell you when you sign up to be a writer is: Writing is the easy part. Gushing words on a page is a breeze.
It’s getting them in the right order that will kill you. And, even worse, figuring out which of them needed to die a brutal death.
I much preferred writing—endlessly, in fact—to editing.
And, did I mention—squirrel!
But she was right. And I knew it. So I looked at my project pile. And yes, it was a pile. A mile high. There was my wonderful 175,000-word (so far) epic fantasy inspired by George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones—with no fewer than seven major story lines threaded throughout—a young adult sci fi horror, a plethora of 90,000-word historical romances, a sprinkling of women’s fiction, a 120,000-word WWII novel and, oh, a short erotic novel.
Guess which one I picked.
Well, I finished that short erotic novel in record time. Partly because I enjoyed the hell out of writing about sex. I also discovered that when I wrote a shorter piece, I had better tolerance for the drudgery of editing. I fell so in love with the story and characters, I had to write the sequel.
And then I had another idea—wrote it. And another.
Oh my heavens! Before I knew it, I had a litany of completed erotic novels, novellas and short stories.
For me, that’s the true beauty of writing erotica—aside from the fact I really enjoy writing it and reading my work over and over and over again (because, let’s face it, it’s hot!). Erotic fiction doesn’t have to be 175,000-words to sell. Or even 90,000-words. In fact, sometimes, the shorter the better.
Because I’m not shooting for those marathon lengths, my stories are tighter and hotter and harder. I think we can overlook the fact that they are not always long…
(That was an erotica joke by the way, in case your mind’s not as dirty s mine.)
I still have to edit them, though, which requires focus. But I’m getting better. It really helps to get feedback from readers—to know I’m writing for someone. I just wish I had the good sense to write perfect prose the first time.
So how does a writer—or anyone—with ADD silence the noise in their brain? Rein in the stampeding steeds pulling them in too many directions?
The answer is passion. And not just the sexy steamy passion in my books. It’s the passion in your heart. It’s finding that delightful nugget, that chunk of the universe that excites you, inspires you, drives you to excel.
For me, that chunk of the universe is erotica. The wonderful genre wherein I can write anything and everything. As long or short as I desire.
Until I catch a glimpse of something shiny out of the corner of my eye., released to rave reviews followed quickly by the second book in this duet about a pair of tormented, sexy brothers, Tristan’s Temptation.
Sabrina York is an award winning author writing for Ellora’s Cave. She specializes in writing hot, funny romances with lots of steam, but—since she has ADD—has been known to wander off the path and flirt with stories featuring alien plant sex and BDSM. Her debut novel, Adam’s Obsession
Connect with Sabrina on Twitter at @sabrina_york or on Facebook. If you’re feeling brave, check out her naughty postings (definitely NSFW) on Pintrest. Of course, you can always check out coming books or read an excerpt at www.SabrinaYork.com.
Contest: Sign up for Sabrina’s newsletter to enter her contest to win a sexy pair of rhinestone handcuffs at www.SabrinaYork.com. Drawing Date: September 1, 2012.Check out Sabrina’s newest release, Rising Green, a true departure from her romantic dabblings. Forget happy endings and get ready for steamy erotic horror that will shock you even as it turns you on.
By Sabrina YorkChaos erupts for the members of a scientific expedition on a remote island in the Pacific when the team’s botanist, Sage Green, is impregnated with the spores of an alien plant form. She’s always been the crew’s Ice Princess, but now something’s changed. Now, something is driving her, raging through her, compelling her to screw every man on this desolate rock. Again and again and again.
What the very appreciative men don’t realize is that each illicit interaction, each hedonistic comingling, will take its toll on them as well. And no one can survive the torturous pleasure unscathed.
Reader Advisory: Forget happy endings and get ready for steamy erotic horror that will shock you even as it turns you on.
Rising Green Excerpt
Copyright © SABRINA YORK, 2012
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
From the middle of the thicket, a thick stalk topped with a bulbous bud rose. It was reminiscent of Pinguicula grandiflora, but instead of purple it was a blood-red hue with bright-yellow streaks.
Sage set down her rucksack and pulled out her sample kit. Carefully, she sliced several cuttings into vials and dropped them into the sack. Then she pulled out her camera. She started with several long shots and then moved closer, stepping carefully on the leaves and vines for a tight shot of the flower. Its petals were tightly folded with a waxy velvet sheen. They shimmered in the weak sunlight. Smelled like poppies.
She stepped closer. Stroked.
It was silky-soft.
As though reacting to her touch, the petals began to curl back, unfurl. Sage stared in fascination as the stamen was revealed, long and thick, bright yellow and heavy with pollen. A swollen pustule throbbed at its base. She leaned closer, pulling her camera up for another shot.
And the bud exploded.
In a great puff, it ejaculated a cloud of tiny seeds. A thick haze surrounded her. Seeds crawled up her nostrils and clung to her lips. Her hair was dusted with them.
“Shit,” she said under her breath as she backed away. Coughing and sputtering, she brushed the spores from her shoulders, her chest.
A strange flutter danced through her belly, followed by a wave of dizziness. Her vision blurred and weakness washed through her. Her thighs trembled and she stumbled, unable to negotiate her own feet. Fighting unconsciousness, she dropped to her knees.
And then she fell into the embrace of a soft bed of leaves.
She awoke to a dream. A misty, murmured haze.
Struggling to rouse herself out of the muddled cloud, she shook her head. The infinitesimal motion made her reel. She closed her eyes against the miasma, the exotic thrill skating through her. Her heart beat, distinct thuds pounding in her ears among a rushing tide.
Somewhere through the haze, she sensed movement. She wasn’t sure if she was moving or if the world moved around her. She felt as though she were floating, suspended, lighter than air.
A soft, questing tendril stroked her ankle. She tried to look at it but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move at all.
The tendril tightened and another licked at her, on her other ankle.
A nip, gentle and oh so soft. Warmth blossomed at the spot, blossomed and rose within her until it flooded her being. A feeling of excitement—and impending doom—swamped her.
The tendrils at her ankles twined slowly, making their way up her calves. With each pass, they nipped again and the warmth expanded. A vague awareness of myriad movements captured her attention. Other tendrils twined slowly over her body, everywhere. They were on her face, her torso, her abdomen. They crawled and curled under her shirt, questing.
One of the tendrils found a nipple. As the soft, furred vine passed over the sensitive tip, it pebbled. The tendril froze. Returned. Made another pass.
Sage moaned and tightened her muscles, trying desperately to move away. But she was frozen, frozen in place, a statue.