Haus of Rhi

They're my friends, I call 'em Larry, Mo, and Curly. Death has never been a subject that overly concerned me, not even when I was young. It's always hovered on the periphery, the inevitable, the natural course of existence, the unavoidable conclusion to the story. Those that fear death, fear life, the warrior philosophy goes. So say the soldiers, who won't set foot in a hospital unless they're dead, or unable to fight their way off the gurney under their own power. They don't fear it -- but they sure as hell don't waste much energy talking about it either. But the stories in my mind, the untold sagas, the muses who haven't yet had the opportunity to be born, to stretch their limbs, to wander through the minds of a hundred readers, and live ... present something else entirely for me.

Today's the 12th -- only one month until the release of Blacker Than Black . To celebrate the countdown, I've started a Q&A group on GoodReads (hopefully I've done it correctly) where you can come and ask questions about Black, the book, or anything else you'd like to discuss with me. Including the subject matter and content of my recent post, Ones and Zeros: Breaking Past Binary. Yes, it's pertinent to Blacker Than Black , as I mention in the post. I don't want to 'spoil' the reading experience for anyone, but if you're confused as to why and how the two connect, or what exactly it means, please feel free to stop by and ask a question. Here's the link to the GR group. It's a public group, you don't have to be a member to read the discussions -- though you will need to be in order to post a comment.

I'm sitting here at my writing desk, trying to get some edit/rewrites done. The words don't seem to be coming. Not for that, at any rate. I'm finding plenty of inspiration and words, just not for actual writing projects, it seems. And I look up to see this. Caused by the afternoon fall sun coming through the living room window, and hitting the wall just so. A strange reminder that timing is everything. And no amount of flailing will make things come out right, not the way they're intended, until their time has come. And when that time does come, you need to be prepared to seize the moment, freeze it and hold it, and make the most of it. Don't rail that the words won't come. Wait, and prepare for the moment when they flow forth like a geyser. It'll happen, it's just a matter of patience and preparation. Nothing good has ever come of forcing it. It's why I'm editing/rewriting, as a matter of fact.

I recently stumbled across a blogpost on the official OIIUSA website that made me hackle, hard . For those that don’t know, OII is Organization Intersexual International, the international awareness and rights organization for intersexuality. I began following the blog some months ago as a result of Black’s imminent release, doing research for content—news and otherwise—to feed onto a subject-related page. The content of the blogpost in question was to be commended, actually: 8 November was Intersexuality Awareness Day, and the post was the biographical information of one of the first known and documented intersexuals. What set me off was that the blog also stated the following:

This month marks the fifth birthday of my muse, Black, from "Blacker Than Black." It was in the early fall of 2006 when I found a submissions-call for an anthology with a "Red Light District" theme. A fellow writer had challenged me to write something new and different, completely removed from anything I'd done before. Up until that time the bulk of my writing revolved around an epic fantasy which, these days, I fondly call the Trunk Novel . Okay, I remember thinking. Something completely different. The wheels churned in my head, as I visualized the divergences and extrapolated.

Mike's handler is looking at a black and white print of  Sergei and the Doctrine general at a meeting. He can tell there's something going on. Smoke billowed from his nose as Mike exhaled in one long stream. It hung in the stillness of the room, layered above the floor like incense in a temple, glinting in the sunlight. “Not sure what.” He shrugged his shoulders, the simple observation a completely honest assessment. The man’s bark of laughter reminded him of a hacksaw against steel, and Mike took another long drag. “Find out, then...there might be a way to exploit it.” Get your copy of "Dark Edge of Honor" and read the rest, over here .

This one's from a WIP that I'm working on, and this is a piece of the scene I'm currently editing today. I stumbled across this bit of #soldierporn snarkiness and just had to share! Their fingers tangled as Hamm palmed Marc's cock through his trousers while Marc tried desperately to focus on undoing the buttons. How many thousands of years of military refinement and nobody had devised anything better than buttons?

This one's working title is "Fifth Sound, Sixth Sense" and is the story of a forward scout on what was thought to be an uninhabited planet. Silly humans. But he knew his rifle well, how to eke the most out of what Mat had to give. Mutilate All Tangos. “Time to play, sexy.” He stroked the trigger guard with his forefinger. When the tango shifted back into sight, the shape of a forehead, cheekbone, and temple were unmistakable and definitely not one of his fellow scouts. He squeezed the trigger, watched the tawny shape disappear in a pink mist. “Oh yeah, Mat. Just like that. I knew you liked it dirty.”