Today please welcome the lovely Brantwijn Serrah and her new and very amazing book, His Cemetery Doll. Take it away Brantwijn!
1. How did you start
writing erotic romance?
I
read too many erotic romance novels that ended up disappointing me. It already
seems like romance and erotica aren't taken very seriously as literary
genres... and the authors of these novels weren't taking their work seriously
either. I wanted to write something that was not only
erotic and emotional, but had a strong story and solid plot as well. As I wrote Lotus
Petals, my first erotic romance, I discovered I really enjoyed the freedom
and creative potential of writing erotic stories. Since then, I find a lot of
great fun and expression in telling stories embracing eroticism and
relationships.
2. Plotter or
pantster?
I
plot, mostly, though I don't like to use outlines or other more 'structured'
methods. Most of my scenes come to me in
little nuggets, and I sort of 'massage' them into a plot. For His
Cemetery Doll, much of the plot has been involving and developing since my
earliest days of writing stories for myself and my friends. It's evolved from a
very special love story my husband and I made up together as kids, and has gone
through a few incarnations.
3. What are three
things you have on your writing desk?
Sometimes
it depends on what I'm writing. When I was writing my supernatural western series, I kept a deck of
Nordic Rune Cards near so I could shuffle and draw them while I worked. These
days it's usually a large iced tea, the controller for the TV (even if I'm not
watching anything I seem to need background noise to work), and my iPod.
4. Favorite food?
I love Macaroni and Cheese,
especially if it's sharp cheese or white cheddar.
5. Tell us a little
about your new release. What character in the book really spoke to you?
His
Cemetery Doll has been a really fun project for me, from the start. I had
an easy time connecting to both the main characters, Conall Mackay and his
Broken Doll. I like to get out of the female point-of-view every now and then,
and write from the perspective of a male main. Con made for a good partner in that sense; I could
really get into his head. The Broken Doll spoke to me in a very different way,
of course, and I usually connected to her with music. With the right piece
playing, I could slip into her perspective quite nicely.
6. I write because I
have stories to share, and my biggest dream is to know others might enjoy
hearing them as much as I enjoy telling them.
7. What is your favorite
type of character to write about? I like to vary my characters and try out
new things, though by this time I've got so many in my head there are, of
course, some very similar personalities. I have to admit I'm a fan of the
independent "warrior" woman, like Rhiannon (from Lotus Petals) and Reagan both are. That doesn't mean I don't write other
characters, though: Sarayana, my dragoness from Equinox, is infinitely more feminine and Talaith, Reagan's
paramour, is much more a thinker and a schemer.
I'm always looking to stretch my boundaries, but I think the gals like
Rhi and Reagan are definitely my most comfortable types.
8. What is the
sexiest scene you ever wrote?
If
we're just
talking straight-up, X-rated, no-holds-barred sexy, I'm going to say Bad Dreams, the experimental
"tentacle" story Breathless Press released in early October.
9. What advice would
you give new authors in the erotica/romance field?
Don't
limit yourself to stories reflecting your own fantasies or lifestyle. Be open
to possibility of writing a something new and different, something you haven't
experienced and maybe never even considered. Do some research, talk to people
'in the lifestyle' (whatever that lifestyle might be). For years, I wanted to write a
story about a polyamorous trio, a concept I thought of as 'a perfect love triangle'. I'm
not poly myself and have never really felt the desire to explore the lifestyle
in my own relationship, but I knew there could be a really wonderful story there, if I took
the time to learn, ask questions, and discover new things.
10. What is next on
your writerly horizon?
One day I'm going to learn
to stop adding new projects to my writing desk!. I'm currently working on the
sequel to Goblin Fires (and I've been
looking forward to getting into my half-elf male's head). I've got my first
novella, Angel's Keeping, in edits
with Breathless Press, and for the longest time I've been wanting to get out a
story about a deep Master/slave, BDSM relationship.
Social and buy links
Brantwijn's
Facebook Page: http://tinyurl.com/qf2bzwk
Find Brantwijn on Google+
And on Goodreads
Say hi to her on Twitter
Author bio:
When she isn't visiting the worlds of
immortals, demons, dragons and goblins, Brantwijn fills her time with artistic
endeavors: sketching, painting, customizing My Little Ponies and sewing
plushies for friends. She can't handle coffee unless there's enough cream and
sugar to make it a milkshake, but try and sweeten her tea and she will never
forgive you. She moonlights as a futon for four lazy cats, loves tabletop
role-play games, and can spend hours watching Futurama, Claymore or Buffy the Vampire Slayer while she
writes or draws.
In addition to her novels, Brantwijn has had several stories published in anthologies by
Breathless Press, including the 2013 Crimson Anthology and 2014 Ravaged
Anthology. She's also had a short story
published in the Cleiss Press Big Book of
Orgasm and the anthology Coming
Together Through The Storm. She hopes to have several more tales to tell as
time goes on. She has author pages on
GoodReads and Amazon, and loves to
see reader comments on her work. Her short stories occasionally pop up at Foreplay and Fangs, her blog at http://brantwijn.blogspot.com.
Blurb:
There's a woman in the
graveyard.
Conall Mackay never put stock in ghost stories. Not even
after thirteen years serving as the cemetery keeper in the village of Whitetail
Knoll. But things change. Now, his daughter is dreaming of a figure among the
tombstones. The grounds are overrun by dark thorns almost faster than Con can
clear them. White fog and gray ribbons creep up on him in the night, and a
voiceless beauty beckons him from the darkest corners of the graves.
When the world he knows starts to unravel, Conall might
finally be forced to believe.
Buy Link
Book excerpt:
He hadn't slept long before he heard sounds
from down in the kitchen below.
"Shyla!" he called gruffly.
"Weren't you heading into town?"
No answer came from below, but the sounds of
pots clanging told him his daughter toyed about down there. Perhaps she'd
decided not to leave him after all and taken it into her head to now
re-organize the house, since he'd so clearly wanted her to stay out of the
cemetery. With a low groan, Conall rolled out of bed and stepped out into the
hall.
"Shyla!" he called again, coming to
the head of the stairs. If she had stayed home, she could at least do it
without making a lot of noise.
"Shyla, I—"
He staggered then, as the hallway dimmed.
Afternoon light flickered strangely, lightning cracking a dismal sky outside,
and in the space of time afterward everything else darkened. Conall darted a
glance around him as the house fell into shadow.
From the top of the stairwell, he saw the first
whispering tendrils of white fog.
The heat of adrenaline shot through his limbs.
Conall stumbled back into his bedroom, even as the fog pursued. His gaze shot
to the window as the last gray light of day faded away and eerie darkness
replaced it, like an eclipse sliding over the sun.
More cold mists veiled the glass, dancing and
floating. Trembling overtook him as he spun to find another escape.
He froze, finding himself face-to-face with the
broken mask of the cemetery doll.
"You—" he gasped. His breath came out
white as the fog enveloped them both, leaving a space of mere inches between
them, so he could still see her expressionless face. Gray ribbons wound and
curled through the air around him.
"Who are
you?" he asked.
The doll stared up at him. He sensed her
searching, looking into his eyes even though hers remained covered. She held
him there with her unseen gaze, until her cool, cold hand came up to touch his
bare chest.
Conall let out a low breath. He closed his
eyes, and a shudder of strange ease rippled through his body. The cool pads of
her fingers ran down his sternum, to his navel. The silky ribbons brushed along
his side.
Then he noticed her other hand. She lifted it
up, to her own chest, and she held something tightly in her fingers: Shyla's
stuffed dog.
"I made that...for my daughter," he whispered. The
woman with the broken mask tilted her head down toward the small toy, studying
it. For a fraction of a second, her fingers appeared to tighten around it. She
returned her gaze to him, then, and the toy fell from her grip into the fog,
forgotten.
"Wait—" he said, but she brought her
other hand up to his chest to join the first, and he recognized eagerness in
the way she pressed her icy skin against his. Her face tilted to him, and then
came her lips again, ivory and flawless.
"I—" Conall breathed. "I...don't
understand..."
Her fingers slid up, around his neck, but he
pulled away.
"No, this...this can't real. I'm asleep. I
must be."
Gray ribbons danced, pulling him back to her,
and she stroked his face. He sucked in a breath at her touch and found his own
hand coming up to brush hers.
"You're so cold," he said. "Like
stone...but..."
Her cool touch thrilled him; it made his skin
tingle and the heat of his own body sing. Her perfect flesh did, in fact, prove
soft under his hands, as if the contact with his worn calluses infused cold
ivory with yearning. She caressed his cheek, and Conall leaned into it. Before
he could stop himself, he bowed his head to her and kissed her frozen lips.
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