Hello everyone! Siôn here, sitting in for your usual host. Today’s shameless self-promotion will be circular in form, as I’ll be interviewing my extraordinarily excitable wife, Raine O’Tierney, who is The Hat Party’s founder and typically does the interviews. So, in the spirit of The Hat Party, Raine, please select a hat, put it on, and prepare yourself to answer some unnecessarily complicated questions!
(And check out the end of the post for info on a giveaway she's running right now.)
If you had to literally, figuratively go fishing for your next book contract and needed a prized possession to bait the hook (obviously, the greater the personal value, the better it will work), what would you use?
Oh god…But I love my STUFF! Can I pretend this is just a “what cool stuff do you have?” No? FINE. I would…bait the hook with my (OMG, my skin just went cold thinking about it) autographed copy of Jessica Steele’s The Sister Secret since 1) It was so kind and unexpected of her to send it and 2) she is a huge part of the reason I write today. Also, I want to punch you for asking me that. (Is this how authors feel when I ask them things?!)
Out for a walk, you turn down a dark alley and there you find one of your biggest writing heroes, who is it? It’s a perfect opportunity for a mugging, what skill or quality do you steal?
OMG, it’s Mishima Kazuhiko! I just punched her (gently! GENTLY!) and stole her ability to make adorably ridiculous characters and love-love feelings. If Sylvia Cassedy were still alive, I’d mug her for her ability to create believable young female characters and her portrayal of loneliness. But I just can’t mug a dead woman. I won’t.
What is the ‘red dress’ and how has it informed your writing?
The red dress is…a red dress that I meant to write into a story—THOUGHT I had written into a story—but never actually wrote into the story. I was flabbergasted when I went back and it wasn’t there and I realized that I’ve got to be very careful to get all my thoughts and feelings down on a page because even though I can see the red dress, if it’s not on the page, the reader can’t.
Apart from screaming at ear-rending volume in order to act as a distraction while your teammates perform simple tasks such as finding a key to a locked door, what skills will you bring to the inevitable zombie apocalypse? And, as a follow-up, which of these skills will you still be able to contribute while rendered catatonic by your crippling fear of zombies?
I’ll be totally honest with you. You don’t want me on a team during the zombie apocalypse. I’m gonna screw it up and get everyone killed. I’m pretty much legally blind without my contacts, which I WILL lose. I can’t run, I can’t climb, I PANIC when I have to hide and usually run screaming from my hiding spot. Oh, and I can not aim for the life of me. Plus my face probably smells like bacon, luring more zombies to me.
What time period contains the most inspiration for you, what is it about that time period, and, finally, why don’t you write stories set in it?
1940s era psychiatric medicine is greatly fascinating to me… and I dunno. *scuffs toe of shoe* ‘Cause I’m busy?
You have 200 words—choose a random slash pairing and make me a believer!
Disclaimer: 1) Duh, not my characters. 2) This takes place EARLY in the Naruto series 3) It’s been a long time sine I slashed, please don’t hurt me.
He let his fingers casually play across Kakashi’s skin, and wondered about the logistics of this. When would they be able to meet? Naruto always dropped in before school and he often spent the night when he was particularly lonely. What would happen if he made an impromptu visit when Kakashi was over?
“Master Iruka?” Kakashi asked gently, loath to move out of their delicious warmth, but watching the cogs turn behind Iruka’s eyes, “What’s going on in your head?”
“I…” Iruka laughed lightly. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”
“You’re a pitiful liar.”
“Am I? Well, I’m glad that it isn’t required that I—”
“You haven’t mastered the ancient art of changing the subject. We can stay here all day long until you tell me what’s going on.”
“…I was just wondering how we were going to do… this.”
“Iruka, do you need another lesson so quickly?” Kakashi teased lightly.
“I mean, no one in the village can know, obviously.”
“Obviously.” Kakashi replied in a way that didn’t necessarily mean that he agreed.
“I was just thinking that Naruto drops by a lot. I would hate for him to walk in on anything… And what if someone from school needed me for something? There’s always the off-chance that a parent will—”
“Then we’ll use my place.”
If your writing ability was the cast of Survivor, who would get voted off the island? Who would you give immunity to? (I’m going to need names and characteristics...)
Voted off the island: Miss Inhibition, she is constantly neg’ing, telling everyone what they can’t do, she’s got totally color-in-the-lines thinking, and even though she’s titillated by new ideas and concepts on how to complete the challenges, she’s so concerned about looking bad on national television, she’ll be the first to dig her heels in the sand.
Immunity goes to: The Artist. Dood never even told anyone his name. But he’s vivid and bold and pretty much the exact opposite of Sara Jane Inhibition over there. Everything is doable with the right colors, he thinks. And he’s come up with some insane answers to challenges. A lot of them involve coconuts, I don’t know what’s up with that.
What fictional character would you most like to have as a collaborator and why?
Giordan Stone, hands down. I’d write stuff and then he’d paint what I wrote and together we’d make this incredibly beautiful graphic novel of M/M sweetness.
I’ve heard you called a genre slut (just now when I said it), if you had to choose only one genre to write for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Why are you cruel? No, seriously. Why? Uh…Contem— no, hmm, Science fict— I… Can M/M romance just BE a genre? If so, that one.
What is your greatest inanimate external deterrent to writing?
Right now, my C key. Stupid frickin’ C key you have to mash on the keyboard to get a C and sometimes it doesn’t work. All my encouragement comes out looking like, “YOU ARE A ROKSTAR!” Noooo!
~ ~ ~
Giordan Stone is lucky, all things considered. Sure, he spent five years in a coma only to wake with a right leg that’s practically useless and no memories other than his name. But now he’s under the care of sassy southern surrogate mother, Chloe Devereaux, spending his days painting and healing. Giordan wants for nothing at all… until he looks out the window one morning and sees Chloe's gorgeous son, Shane, standing there. Something very familiar stirs in Giordan.
When he sketches, Giordan is able to go into an “art trance” where pieces of disjointed memory come back to him without time or place. More and more of these flashes are of Shane Devereaux and the intense, intimate experiences they shared together. Even though Shane keeps his distance now, Giordan is convinced his flashes are real. But he doesn’t have the whole story. Giordan is determined to fill in his memory blanks and convince Shane his feelings are genuine.
CHLOE DEVEREAUX’S hands were gentle as she helped Giordan step into the bath.
The first time she’d stripped him naked in that no-nonsense way of hers, he’d flushed from head to toe and tried to cover himself with his hands. Chloe clucked her tongue and let him know that being a wife, mother, and new grandmother—though how can someone so young possibly have a grandbaby?—she had seen her share of dangles. Surprisingly, this frank admission helped, and he let her run the soapy sponge over his naked back. Besides, it was quickly evident that with his stiff right side, Giordan needed her help.
This particular morning, Giordan shakily sank into the steaming bubbles, neither ashamed nor protesting as Chloe helped him adjust his position. His left knee bent fully while his right moved barely an inch. His hip, too, didn’t work properly on that side. The ugly pink scars that zigzagged from his waist down his hip and leg almost all the way to the ankle served as outward warning: He was broken.
Chloe, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, hummed as she dipped the rag into the bath. Lifting it, she let the water rain down over his shoulders. It felt familiar in the way everything did. An almost-memory or a dream. He tried not to overthink these moments, or he’d end up crushing the familiarity right out of the situation. Too many frustrated days had taught him this lesson.
There were only two things he remembered with the concrete certainty of ever having existed at all: His name was Giordan Stone and he was an artist. The rest of it was covered by a mental veil too thick to see through. In that, he supposed he had a third concrete truth. Giordan had amnesia.
“Dr. P’s comin’ by today,” Chloe told him, breaking in to her sweet song. She helped him lean back into the water so she could wash his hair. “I told her that we had things in hand, but I guess we don’t pay her the big bucks for nothin’.”
Giordan had learned quickly he wasn’t supposed to argue with Chloe. His first day out of the hospital, the day he insisted on helping out, she favored him with a look so displeased it still made him shudder when he thought about it. Chloe was firmly in charge, and what she said, went.
She told him then and there, in that sweet southern accent of hers, that she had been expecting a pliant patient who would let her mother and coddle him. “After raising two of the most stubborn children God has seen fit to bless a woman with,” Chloe had said, eyes flashing, “and makin’ a home for a husband with his head so far up his ass he might as well do his own colonoscopy”—she tapped him lightly on the nose—“I am lookin’ forward to no questions, no back talk, and no lip, Giordan Stone. Now, there is no way in the sulfur-stinkin’ fires of hell that you are settin’ a foot outta this bed, lest you mean to use the toilet or take a bath, and until I say so, you’re doin’ both under my watchful eye.” She wagged one stern finger at him, her wooden bangles clacking at her wrist.
“All right,” he agreed meekly.
“Once you tip the scales at one thirty-five, then we’ll talk about chores. Don’t worry,” she chuffed, “I’m savin’ ‘em up for you. In the meantime, your job is to eat.”
Available from Dreamspinner Press
About the Author: Raine O’Tierney is an always-writing, boundlessly enthusiastic, exclamation point addict! (!!!) She is known for declaring every day “the best day EVER!” and every thing her “all-time FAVORITE!” Despite this (obnoxious?) exuberance, she still somehow manages to have a wonderfully encouraging husband and writing partner, Siôn, and an amazing group of friends and colleagues who continue to support (read: put up with) her. Raine spends her days working as a library lady, fighting the good fight for intellectual freedom.
You can find her at:
Blog Tour and Prizes!
Sweet Giordan, Please Remember Blog Tour
March 17th--March 29th
*** Set of Sweet Giordan, Please Remember and Under the Table and Into His Heart ebooks
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