Blog Dis
Upcoming Event
I hope to make an appearance at the Ottawa Romance Book Fair, when a date is officially announced for 2027. This is a one-day event held at the Conference Centre, so check back soon for updates.
I hope to make an appearance at the Ottawa Romance Book Fair, when a date is officially announced for 2027. This is a one-day event held at the Conference Centre, so check back soon for updates.
2026-05-28
The job of an author never ends. Yesterday, over the course of two hours, I worked on novel eight, breaking new ground on Chapter 6. I feel like I'm off to a good start. A start, mind you, not a completion, because a completion implies that all loose ends have been tied up with a pretty bow vs all the other work that should, could and needs to carry on behind the curtain.
Marketing is dastardly. The continual bombardment of pushing out updates and graphic images to promote my novels makes me feel like a pimpette. This is the life I've chosen, an avocation vs a vocation, knowing that a vocation is the job to pay the bills. I'm also my own publicist, given that my former publicist hasn't been in the picture for years. Like all professional relationships, there's a beginning and an end. In the past, I'd spend hours plastering the downtown core with posters to advertise my pending book launch parties for my latest and greatest release. Times have changed, as we all know and appreciate how times are destined to change. Few authors will bother to hold book launch parties. Instead, they'll arrange for a book signing in bookstores, where they'll sit at a table with stacks of their latest ditty next to them, blinking blindly to the unsuspecting public, waiting for a client coming into the store to stop and pick up their novel, without realizing that the author is sitting right in front of them. I've done book signings and I've done book launch parties. I prefer book launch parties. My last launch took place in Oct 2024 and by all rights, it was a success based on the numbers of copies sold.
The selling never ends, however, and I think if I was a true pimpette, which I regard myself as one, perhaps more on an occasional basis, I' be willing to promote my novels. I'd be prepared, if it would help, to arrive to a bookstore signing dressed in a lace corset, red to be exact, to match the blood-red lipstick, and possibly too my face could be painted in stark white, to draw out my eyes and their dark eyeliner. This get-up, while it may not be welcome by the store manager, would surely capture the attention of clients, without me having to expose other body parts, aside from that twinkle in my eyes, and uttering lascivious words.
Whereas, plastering posters on community poles has its benefits too, when it's summer. The thrill is in being able to walk outside in the sun, to stretch my arms way up high, to tape a poster of my novel's cover to the pole, a form of self-promotion that doesn't require my time, hour upon hour just sitting there, or to pre-plan a book launch party, which also requires alcohol and a table of delectable nibbles. Sadly, however, the posters will invariably be covered up when at the end of every month, city officials swing by to rip off any and all posters, to clean up the poles, making room for the next series of posters.
You might not be surprised to learn that space on e-zines, or blogs for review of novels, are at a premium. These too are worthwhile endeavors. At one small press book fair, one Uni student was selling her services to help an author to promote, by way of having developed a list of book reviewers, to whom she would promote your work. She offered various levels of promotion, each priced according to the degree of promotion. I had bought one level, and she delivered on her services. When you write, you need to release, and when you release, you need to promote. You can't do it all yourself. Sometimes you have to hire the services of someone else to promote for you, much as we all like to live the life of a pimpette. We sometimes still need the services of a pimp too.
The humidex had crawled up to 32 degrees Celsius on Monday, so I went cycling instead. Today, I'm going to head out cycling again, at end of day, but while riding I'll be able to consider my promotion options, to come up with another avenue, a new strategy, that doesn't include postering poles, holding bookstore signings that are hardly attended, or to pitch my new novel to review sites. Perhaps this effort appears on the surface to be a waste of effort. I think not. I'm a positive person on the whole because we never truly know what ideas might enter our imagination that'll help to close this impasse called promotion, under the umbrella of marketing — what every author dreads and what every author isn't emotionally prepared or designed to do, such as purchasing advertising online with Google, when most online users utilize AdBlock to prevent these advertisements from junking up their eye space, while staring at their monitor to write.
Writing is a slippery slope, a greased up pole, and no matter how hard you try to dance on the pole, you slide on down to the floor. Kerplunk goes your bum.
If you fancy yourself as a writer and dare to step out on that ledge called indie-publishing, you have to keep three words in mind at all times: Profile, Promote and Persistence. Or, to take a slightly different but same view: Profile, Pimp and Persistence. I prefer the female variation of pimpette. It all comes down to the same thing, a variation of a them to wear that black sexy outfit, as previously suggested, to go along with extra-long, lace stockings, and a bustier with pointy cups to show off the girls, dark long eye lashes, bright candy-apple red lipstick and a skirt that hugs my thighs.
It's a boring job to promote. At least an outfit would make the ordeal fun and amusing to the street people who come up to speak with me as I do my postering thing, or as I sling novels in a bookstore. I am a magnet for the questionable persons of this world. I've been asked out on dates while postering, or asked whether my breasts are real or fake. Seriously. I've been called "sweetie" and "that's my girl" and one of my favorites was, "That's how I like my women - stacked!" plus some other unfavorable names that I care not to repeat in this moment. The streets of Ottawa are more of a freak show these days, than say how they were even ten years ago. One might conclude that the edges of society are fraying, and coming apart at the seems, and at times this is the best description for decay, as what happens with all urban areas. We all hear it on the news day by day, how food banks, soup kitchens, and the like are visited three times more, and their cupboards are bare, that they need donations to help those who are food challenged.
It's hard not to notice idiosyncrasies of the downtown core when you're postering. The experiences of being an Indie-author have opened my eyes to the sights I wouldn't have ordinarily seen. Like most, when we walk outside we have a tendency to look down at the ground instead of looking up. I believe this is a defense mechanism to prevent ourselves from stepping in doggie doo or possibly people don't want to make eye contact with those on the street. Why be shy? Be daring and look them straight in the eye and smile! You'll find that people by and large are crazy as a fox, as well as being good at heart and only want to go about their day unfettered with worry.
As for my dual roles of pimpette and author, I finished re-reading the previous chapter in my latest work-in-progress (novel 8), which is how I begin to write a new chapter, to re-read the previous, a way to drop myself back into the mindset of the characters and the story. Once I've re-read, then I proceed to write the next paragraph and the next. Before you know it, another chapter is in the can. I'm not speaking of the pass-through, what all authors will eventually have to do, to go back to the beginning, to re-acquaint themselves with their entire novel, the primordial ooze before it's shaped into a pile of excrement, and then maybe a first draft might emerge. Maybe. The pimpette in me isn't familiar with this work, the hard slog of it all. The pimpette only knows of the pleasure that comes in having something formed into its final stage, before it needs to promotion, and then the pimpette can strut her stuff.
I've had plenty of interviews in prior years by local newspapers who reference my fearless nature, based on the subject matter of my novels, and during our discourse of being interviewed as an Indie author, I'll make jokes about pimping novels. Not sure, though, if they appreciate the term pimpette. I feel it is suitable and straight to the point.
And, another point in fact, however, I'm just doing what I feel my nature is destined to do and that is to represent myself as an Indie author. I realize my novels are radical for some. But as for being fearless, well you may agree with me that the houseless are fearless, living on the streets day in and day out, subject to all sorts of sh*t from those who've long divorced themselves from humanity. We have gang territories in Ottawa, no surprise, that are carved up by the likes of young adults whose sympathy for the houseless can fit into the nail of their baby finger. It troubles me, quite frankly. I recall the local news highlighting how a houseless teenager was knifed to death last Spring, right across from the Parliament Buildings, sleeping in a bridge underpass. Apparently the assailant was paying his "dues" to his gang to show his resolve by ending the life of another. This isn't lovely, not one bit. It makes the job of marketing a novel seem easy in comparison, so I'll stick to my fantasy novels. I k*ll characters too in my stories but only on paper. This is by far the only time when k*lling should be tolerated, that and being a pimpette.
[Incidentally, the image below depicts a Roman bra made from gold].
Marketing is dastardly. The continual bombardment of pushing out updates and graphic images to promote my novels makes me feel like a pimpette. This is the life I've chosen, an avocation vs a vocation, knowing that a vocation is the job to pay the bills. I'm also my own publicist, given that my former publicist hasn't been in the picture for years. Like all professional relationships, there's a beginning and an end. In the past, I'd spend hours plastering the downtown core with posters to advertise my pending book launch parties for my latest and greatest release. Times have changed, as we all know and appreciate how times are destined to change. Few authors will bother to hold book launch parties. Instead, they'll arrange for a book signing in bookstores, where they'll sit at a table with stacks of their latest ditty next to them, blinking blindly to the unsuspecting public, waiting for a client coming into the store to stop and pick up their novel, without realizing that the author is sitting right in front of them. I've done book signings and I've done book launch parties. I prefer book launch parties. My last launch took place in Oct 2024 and by all rights, it was a success based on the numbers of copies sold.
The selling never ends, however, and I think if I was a true pimpette, which I regard myself as one, perhaps more on an occasional basis, I' be willing to promote my novels. I'd be prepared, if it would help, to arrive to a bookstore signing dressed in a lace corset, red to be exact, to match the blood-red lipstick, and possibly too my face could be painted in stark white, to draw out my eyes and their dark eyeliner. This get-up, while it may not be welcome by the store manager, would surely capture the attention of clients, without me having to expose other body parts, aside from that twinkle in my eyes, and uttering lascivious words.
Whereas, plastering posters on community poles has its benefits too, when it's summer. The thrill is in being able to walk outside in the sun, to stretch my arms way up high, to tape a poster of my novel's cover to the pole, a form of self-promotion that doesn't require my time, hour upon hour just sitting there, or to pre-plan a book launch party, which also requires alcohol and a table of delectable nibbles. Sadly, however, the posters will invariably be covered up when at the end of every month, city officials swing by to rip off any and all posters, to clean up the poles, making room for the next series of posters.
You might not be surprised to learn that space on e-zines, or blogs for review of novels, are at a premium. These too are worthwhile endeavors. At one small press book fair, one Uni student was selling her services to help an author to promote, by way of having developed a list of book reviewers, to whom she would promote your work. She offered various levels of promotion, each priced according to the degree of promotion. I had bought one level, and she delivered on her services. When you write, you need to release, and when you release, you need to promote. You can't do it all yourself. Sometimes you have to hire the services of someone else to promote for you, much as we all like to live the life of a pimpette. We sometimes still need the services of a pimp too.
The humidex had crawled up to 32 degrees Celsius on Monday, so I went cycling instead. Today, I'm going to head out cycling again, at end of day, but while riding I'll be able to consider my promotion options, to come up with another avenue, a new strategy, that doesn't include postering poles, holding bookstore signings that are hardly attended, or to pitch my new novel to review sites. Perhaps this effort appears on the surface to be a waste of effort. I think not. I'm a positive person on the whole because we never truly know what ideas might enter our imagination that'll help to close this impasse called promotion, under the umbrella of marketing — what every author dreads and what every author isn't emotionally prepared or designed to do, such as purchasing advertising online with Google, when most online users utilize AdBlock to prevent these advertisements from junking up their eye space, while staring at their monitor to write.
Writing is a slippery slope, a greased up pole, and no matter how hard you try to dance on the pole, you slide on down to the floor. Kerplunk goes your bum.
If you fancy yourself as a writer and dare to step out on that ledge called indie-publishing, you have to keep three words in mind at all times: Profile, Promote and Persistence. Or, to take a slightly different but same view: Profile, Pimp and Persistence. I prefer the female variation of pimpette. It all comes down to the same thing, a variation of a them to wear that black sexy outfit, as previously suggested, to go along with extra-long, lace stockings, and a bustier with pointy cups to show off the girls, dark long eye lashes, bright candy-apple red lipstick and a skirt that hugs my thighs.
It's a boring job to promote. At least an outfit would make the ordeal fun and amusing to the street people who come up to speak with me as I do my postering thing, or as I sling novels in a bookstore. I am a magnet for the questionable persons of this world. I've been asked out on dates while postering, or asked whether my breasts are real or fake. Seriously. I've been called "sweetie" and "that's my girl" and one of my favorites was, "That's how I like my women - stacked!" plus some other unfavorable names that I care not to repeat in this moment. The streets of Ottawa are more of a freak show these days, than say how they were even ten years ago. One might conclude that the edges of society are fraying, and coming apart at the seems, and at times this is the best description for decay, as what happens with all urban areas. We all hear it on the news day by day, how food banks, soup kitchens, and the like are visited three times more, and their cupboards are bare, that they need donations to help those who are food challenged.
It's hard not to notice idiosyncrasies of the downtown core when you're postering. The experiences of being an Indie-author have opened my eyes to the sights I wouldn't have ordinarily seen. Like most, when we walk outside we have a tendency to look down at the ground instead of looking up. I believe this is a defense mechanism to prevent ourselves from stepping in doggie doo or possibly people don't want to make eye contact with those on the street. Why be shy? Be daring and look them straight in the eye and smile! You'll find that people by and large are crazy as a fox, as well as being good at heart and only want to go about their day unfettered with worry.
As for my dual roles of pimpette and author, I finished re-reading the previous chapter in my latest work-in-progress (novel 8), which is how I begin to write a new chapter, to re-read the previous, a way to drop myself back into the mindset of the characters and the story. Once I've re-read, then I proceed to write the next paragraph and the next. Before you know it, another chapter is in the can. I'm not speaking of the pass-through, what all authors will eventually have to do, to go back to the beginning, to re-acquaint themselves with their entire novel, the primordial ooze before it's shaped into a pile of excrement, and then maybe a first draft might emerge. Maybe. The pimpette in me isn't familiar with this work, the hard slog of it all. The pimpette only knows of the pleasure that comes in having something formed into its final stage, before it needs to promotion, and then the pimpette can strut her stuff.
I've had plenty of interviews in prior years by local newspapers who reference my fearless nature, based on the subject matter of my novels, and during our discourse of being interviewed as an Indie author, I'll make jokes about pimping novels. Not sure, though, if they appreciate the term pimpette. I feel it is suitable and straight to the point.
And, another point in fact, however, I'm just doing what I feel my nature is destined to do and that is to represent myself as an Indie author. I realize my novels are radical for some. But as for being fearless, well you may agree with me that the houseless are fearless, living on the streets day in and day out, subject to all sorts of sh*t from those who've long divorced themselves from humanity. We have gang territories in Ottawa, no surprise, that are carved up by the likes of young adults whose sympathy for the houseless can fit into the nail of their baby finger. It troubles me, quite frankly. I recall the local news highlighting how a houseless teenager was knifed to death last Spring, right across from the Parliament Buildings, sleeping in a bridge underpass. Apparently the assailant was paying his "dues" to his gang to show his resolve by ending the life of another. This isn't lovely, not one bit. It makes the job of marketing a novel seem easy in comparison, so I'll stick to my fantasy novels. I k*ll characters too in my stories but only on paper. This is by far the only time when k*lling should be tolerated, that and being a pimpette.
[Incidentally, the image below depicts a Roman bra made from gold].
2026-05-26
The claws came out, the fur went up on the back, the haunches lowered and the eyes... well, the posture said it all, "Touch me, mother f'er, and I'll scratch out your eyes!"
To those who've loved and lost kitties, who've gone through this, and only those who harbor true, blue love for the kitty will understand what it means to take a terrified kitty to the vet. Not everyone loves the kitty, and history has shown that kitties were often vilified, accused of aiding in witchcraft, evil, notwithstanding the fact that historical hatred has typically occurred before Modern times.
Read More
To those who've loved and lost kitties, who've gone through this, and only those who harbor true, blue love for the kitty will understand what it means to take a terrified kitty to the vet. Not everyone loves the kitty, and history has shown that kitties were often vilified, accused of aiding in witchcraft, evil, notwithstanding the fact that historical hatred has typically occurred before Modern times.
Read More
2026-05-25
The hero, the hated:
he makes me bloom
then makes me wilt
and yet,
I want to keep his lips
inside a wooden box,
next to my own
he shows me his pleasure,
in his nature, wild.
He leaves the impression
there is no ending.
Either I die or live in his love,
my sensuality is drunk
on the ecstasy,
that he delivers to me.
He is my man exceptional.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K. McCarthy
he makes me bloom
then makes me wilt
and yet,
I want to keep his lips
inside a wooden box,
next to my own
he shows me his pleasure,
in his nature, wild.
He leaves the impression
there is no ending.
Either I die or live in his love,
my sensuality is drunk
on the ecstasy,
that he delivers to me.
He is my man exceptional.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K. McCarthy
2026-05-21
I have no shame and, in truth, I've no use for shame. Who really needs shame? What good does shame do for anyone? I can only hope to go through life having something to be ashamed of because then I'd know I had lived with some abandon and truth. Shame gives you something to live down. When I attend fantasy events to sell novels, I'm prepared to happily flaunt cleavage...er... that is the cleavage of my novel covers.
No one should judge a book by its cover yet the metaphorical cleavage of novel covers, if designed well, will entice and tantalize the curiosity of readers, and hopefully will inspire someone to buy and read on.
Read More
No one should judge a book by its cover yet the metaphorical cleavage of novel covers, if designed well, will entice and tantalize the curiosity of readers, and hopefully will inspire someone to buy and read on.
Read More
2026-05-19
Where there's passion there is creation, and creation can sometimes include folly and fire. Fire being the eruption of one's temper and folly being the headlong dive into troublesome waters, those of the relationship and familial variety where tempers can often collide.
Read More
Read More
2026-05-18
I'll be your strumpet,
your five-dime whore
on soiled sheets,
smiling and beckoning for more.
I want my ashes to die
as you burn my body
in the dust of eternity,
spreading my legs apart,
coming inside me, golden,
the fire of crimson eyes
then orange,
then white.
Illuminate me,
in the early morning,
then go but only after
you've skewered me to death.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
your five-dime whore
on soiled sheets,
smiling and beckoning for more.
I want my ashes to die
as you burn my body
in the dust of eternity,
spreading my legs apart,
coming inside me, golden,
the fire of crimson eyes
then orange,
then white.
Illuminate me,
in the early morning,
then go but only after
you've skewered me to death.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
2026-05-14
Time isn't your friend. Try to make time your friend and I'll show you a human being with a watch that's barely observed, only until they notice at the last minute that they've run out of time, and are still many projects behind schedule.
Read More
Read More
2026-05-12
It is by far his most renowned poem, The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost, a man born in the sunny state of California, in San Francisco no less but I shan't hold that against him, being born in a flaky state, for the man writes as though he belongs in the winterized paths of snowed over Canadian forests, stopping in his tracks to make that all but fateful decision to take the road less traveled.
Read More
Read More
2026-05-11
Your buttermilk tongue,
is a kiss,
that pleases and dips
into a sensory taste.
Your milk of love flows,
across the surface
of my body
feeling freshly,
the suppleness of your soul
are the only eyes
I see,
King Solomon of heart and body.
Bound by love and lust,
our hearts tethered forever
together,
until we writhe.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
is a kiss,
that pleases and dips
into a sensory taste.
Your milk of love flows,
across the surface
of my body
feeling freshly,
the suppleness of your soul
are the only eyes
I see,
King Solomon of heart and body.
Bound by love and lust,
our hearts tethered forever
together,
until we writhe.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
2026-05-07
An orgasm a day keeps the doctor away, which is potentially a better scenario than the adage of an apple a day keeps the doctor away, though this is true too, according to many medical doctors.
Orgasms come in all forms, and are not limited to the standard idea of the human orgasm, when our bodies gyrate in the throes of pleasure. I've known persons who orgasm regularly when sitting down to a meal. Each bite represents pure unadulterated pleasure.
Read More
Orgasms come in all forms, and are not limited to the standard idea of the human orgasm, when our bodies gyrate in the throes of pleasure. I've known persons who orgasm regularly when sitting down to a meal. Each bite represents pure unadulterated pleasure.
Read More
2026-05-05
Despite the suggestive title, and before you delve deeper into this subject, know that it cannot be done. Hierarchies are here to stay. Not once, have they gone away, not once.
I studied political science at Uni, along with French language training, only to later abandon both pursuits in the pursuit of my creative writing. Regrets are a waste of time but spending time in the pursuit of learning is never a waste of time. One all-important truth you teach yourself, and learn to reconcile, is the line between the elites who own and shape the world (or the super-rich as they're more commonly known) and everyone else who falls underneath the top ranking.
Read More
I studied political science at Uni, along with French language training, only to later abandon both pursuits in the pursuit of my creative writing. Regrets are a waste of time but spending time in the pursuit of learning is never a waste of time. One all-important truth you teach yourself, and learn to reconcile, is the line between the elites who own and shape the world (or the super-rich as they're more commonly known) and everyone else who falls underneath the top ranking.
Read More
2026-05-04
A long horizon coming,
minimizing along,
out of the sun,
Disagreeing
with the leftover moon.
That blue before the black of night.
The taste of your tongue, inside my mouth.
It was your lazy confidence
taking your sweet time to pet me,
a stroke away from
the rolled hills of your love, bygone
because you are relentless.
O God yes, you tease me,
you please me,
staying forever within our kiss.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
minimizing along,
out of the sun,
Disagreeing
with the leftover moon.
That blue before the black of night.
The taste of your tongue, inside my mouth.
It was your lazy confidence
taking your sweet time to pet me,
a stroke away from
the rolled hills of your love, bygone
because you are relentless.
O God yes, you tease me,
you please me,
staying forever within our kiss.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
