Posts Tagged 'David Holly'

Slaves of Greenworld

BY DAVID HOLLY

slavesofgreenworld_wallpaper

Slaves of Greenworld Poster

 

The Post

I’m excited to broadcast that Slaves of Greenworld, my latest novel from Bold Strokes Books, is coming out this very month. In fact, I’m brimming over with pride—which is revolting and messy—that I created Slaves of Greenworld. This novel involved complex world-building, mythological invention, and imagining an alien species quite unlike their human invaders.

 

Slaves of Greenworld is SF—science fiction, speculative fiction, and speculative fantasy—and then came the plot and the sub-plots that twist and weave through the narrative.

 

The Plot, Characters, and Setting

Slaves of Greenworld depicts an alien landscape with unearthly creatures, a lurking hostility from an extinct alien species, and environmental dangers. Human versus nature always makes for an interesting theme. However, as is typical in human activities, the greatest dangers to people come from other people. As a result, the most essential conflicts in Slaves of Greenworld involve human versus human, and the fights, skirmishes, and battle scenes in this novel are colorful, sad, glorious, and convincing.

 

Humans settled Greenworld more than a thousand years before the events of this novel take place, and at some undetermined point in that past, humanity lost its technology. No one living on Greenworld knows why they lost their science, nor do most even know that it was lost. Some texts from the old Earth exist, but the Greenworlders don’t possess texts that explain their downfall.

 

Greenworld is riddled with justice, and cruel capital punishment. Of course those are all human institutions, which are abhorrent to the two surviving native species. For reasons unknown to them, Greenworld’s humans have settled into a caste system and slave economy with the xeng, the slaves, being at the bottom (where slaves customarily end up). One of the several plot threads in Slaves of Greenworld involves a violent slave revolt.

 

Just prior to the beginning of that murderous slave revolt, the novel’s narrator emerges naked, after nearly drowning in a stream, only to discover that not only does he not know how he came into the stream, but also he cannot remember his own name or anything of his past.

 

When the narrator encounters Paun, an old and fanatical hermit, something prompts him to declare that his name is Dove, although he cannot imagine why. Paun rescues Dove, and by the next afternoon, Dove is claimed as a young lover by a wealthy woman, Lalayla. It is in her house in Rivertown (see map below) that Dove meets the great love of his life, a male slave named Raret.

 

Raret and others teach Dove about Greenworld’s society, while Lalayla teaches him the basics of commerce. Soon Dove commands a caravan of riches, with Raret as his choice of personal slave. Dove’s caravan must travel to New Marth on the south coast, but along the way, Dove increases his personal wealth and knowledge.

Map of Greenworld

Map of Greenworld

 

Dove and Raret travel together over much of Greenworld, sharing adventures as they seek out Dove’s origins. Along the way they gather friends and enemies, and they are surrounded by intricate webs of treason, trickery, and political intrigue. Dove, Raret, and their companions survive attempted assassinations, judicial malfeasance, and marauding sex slugs (orgasmic but unsexy).

 

Finally, Dove will discover his origins, his true name, and his destiny as this dramatic, sweeping, picaresque SF saga winds to its close.

 

Themes

Cruelty—I don’t like it, so I depict cruel acts as being as repulsive as possible.

Slavery—I’m against it, so I emphasize the ill effects of owning people upon both the owners and the owned.

Love and devotion—I’m all for them, and I show self-sacrifice and enduring affection.

 

Sex

Yes, sex happens. There is male/male sex, female/female sex, male/female sex (though he’s thinking about another male while he does her), solo sex by everybody, and even some interspecies sex (not disgusting, but joyous and contagious, while being ultimately tragic—if I’m not giving too much away).

 

More, More, More

I’d like to talk more about the battles, the courtroom scenes, the prisons and execution yards, the throne rooms, and the conclave, but further description might spoil it. I’d like to describe the lurid encounters and the horrific tortures, the strange and terrible beasts and the wondrous beauty, but those must be enjoyed in reading the novel.

 

In between editing, cutting, and proofing Slaves of Greenworld, I’ve read my own book three times in this past year. And as soon as I get a print copy, I plan to read it again for the pure enjoyment of this story. I hope that you will do the same.

 

David Holly

Happy Valley, Oregon

March 2016

Something to Say

BY DAVID HOLLY

I’m not the first the write about this subject, and I certainly won’t be the last. Others have written on it before and probably better. My problem is this: how do I tell people about my book? How do I explain it in such a way that they will want to read it, and at the same time not give away too much. After all, books are written to be read, not explained. (I hear the distant thunder of critics and reviewers ululating in protest).

 

BSB-HeartsEternalDesireTake my novel The Heart’s Eternal Desire, for example. If I don’t give away what’s going to happen in the novel, readers are going to assume that the novel is something other than what it is and shun it in droves. However, if I give away some of the elements of the plot, somebody is certain to call them spoilers (a word that may have been coined by Doug Kenney for an article in the April 1971 issue of National Lampoon).

 

Suppose I mentioned that The Heart’s Eternal Desire concludes with the suggestion that the story the readers thought they were reading was not the actual story and really they were reading something else? Would there be a hue and cry? Would they arrive at my door with tar and feathers?

 

However I have to say something.                   (The blank space following those last six words is there intentionally.)

 

The Heart’s Eternal Desire is adult reading, no doubt of that. There is gay sex and masturbation described in it. However, the sex doesn’t drive the plot. Sex is just what the characters do when they aren’t doing something else.

 

What does drive the plot?

 

The Plot: Some unknown and shifting group is trying to kill Seaton French and his lover Dustin Marley. The plotters may be Satanists or evangelical Christians or the American Psychological Association or a group of skateboarders or the local police force—who knows! Nothing makes sense.

 

Perhaps that’s how I should describe my novel. The big selling point: Nothing in it makes any sense—until the reader gets to the last chapter.

 

The Driver: Of course, someone might ask why The Heart’s Eternal Desire doesn’t make any sense (until the end), and then I would have to explain about dissociative identity disorder, multiple personalities, paranoia, bizarre fixations, and the horrific consequences of physical, psychological, and sexual child abuse over an extended period—because those are the conditions that drive the plot of this novel.

 

Now perhaps I have told too much. Or perhaps, I have not told enough.

 

 

 

p.s.: Did I forget to mention the three cats? Too late, so pass the Minibate. (For this postscript to make any sense, you will have to read the book.)

The Riting Life or all Misspellings and Typos Being the Intent of the Author

By David Holly

Witch title brigs us to a discusion (sic) of tgpfgrapal errors (sic), otherwise known as the writer’s inability to spell authorial brain farts—or finger farts because the brain is imagining a story that is travelling by neural impulse down the writer’s neck and down the writer’s arms and into the writer’s fingers and coming out the pads of the writer’s fingers onto a keyboard (sick). Oh, my God—The Humanity!

 

On a purely personal note, I write to avoid clichés like the plague, clichés in language and clichés of thought that rain down like cats and dogs. I write to avoid allegory that brings a tempest in a tea pot or sentimentality as American as apple pie. However, there is always some sentimentality that will wiggle in on pretty puppy paws and wag its tail until I give it a bed in my manuscript, and there is always the lurking cliché, the cliché that is so cliché and so lurking that it hits the nail on the head so well I don’t even recognize it as a cliché, because it creeps in lurkingly (on little puppy paws) and toes the line.

 

Then too, and by too I mean also and added on, there is repetition, which repeats repetitively until it repeats itself beyond all previous repetitions. I can’t say enough about this problem.

 

As one of my college professors warned his befuddled student (me) so long ago, the writer must suppress his or her sesquipedalian tendencies and eschew obfuscation. So we pick the perfect word, but it turns out not to be so perfect because the readers think it means something the writer never intended.

 

Take my novel, The Raptures of TimeThe Raptures of Time 300 DPI (yes, please take it, and by take I mean buy the damned book because it needs to sell ten million copies because it’s brilliant and meaningful and thrilling and it will give you a hard on—even if you are a female).

 

When I fished about for a title for The Raptures of Time, and as Thoreau wrote, time was a stream that I went a fishing in, I spent a hell of a lot of time seeking a word that would convey the idea of being carried away through time and another dimension while also being carried away by extreme sexual ecstasy. Certainly the primary meaning of rapture is being lifted up, even out of oneself, by gusty emotions or sexual transport. The first known use of the word rapture occurred in 1594, a while before John Nelson Darby came along and applied the term to Christian eschatology and created the “rapture” of dispensationalism.

 

Could I have ever considered that my title might lead readers to assume falsely that my gay erotic novel might connect up with the so-called Left Behind series?

 

So take note, fellow authors, beware, for you too may be rabidly incoherent and end up mentally masturbating metaphorically instead of writing something meaningful and profound like these meaningful and profound words of expert advice.

The Rear

BY DAVID HOLLY

When I was young, much younger than I am now, guys would habitually make unsolicited, albeit most satisfying, compliments about my posterior (admittedly shapely and well-honed in those days). “You have beautiful buns, man,” a passing Jim, Ricardo, Mikhail, or Abdul would say as I strolled through a park, down a sidewalk, or along a beach.

While attending college, I worked a variety of jobs, usually behind the desk of a hotel, and it was no unusual occurrence to feel an exploring hand on the curves of my rump. Then the male switchboard operator named Garcia or the bellboy named Stein would flatter me with “nice ass.”

These compliments and random gropings happened in other places besides the workplace, most commonly in the grocery store. Of course, the grocery butt gropers were more often the female of the species. Nice to hear the compliment, but the gender role was not to my taste.

Lest any reader think I’m bragging, let me own up, with a sad heart, that the days when men would worship my rump are behind me (pathetic pun intended). In the absence of compliments on my butt curves, I compensate by turning pen to paper (a metaphor for pounding finger pads upon a keyboard). I attract not, so now I write.

However, the human gluteal region—especially the bum of the male of the species—provides particular problems for the gay author: what to call it, and how to make it sound enticing.

Some of the names for the rear end are depressingly technical: gluteal region, glutes, buttocks, gluteus maximus. In these words, the thrill is lacking.

Some have a crude sound, as if this delightful body part were unattractive. No sane author is going to write “your tuchas drives me wild with lust,” because the Yiddish word tuchas implies “ever widening,” which is perhaps not the intended compliment. Can, keister or keester, nates, hams, bum, and wazoo just don’t sound enticing. An author writing, “I was hot for his wazoo” or “I want to get into your keister” is more likely to provoke a laugh than an arousal.

Other names are cutesy, but not erotic, such as haunches, hunkies, hunkers, prat, heiney or heinie. Some words are neutral in themselves; nonetheless, fundament, posterior, backside, behind, hind end, tail end, rear end, hind part, and hinder part, can be made more erotic with adjectives.

“Nice posterior, guy.”

“I love your sexy rear end.”

“Provocative backside.”

The alternatives bootie or booty, buns, and cheeks aren’t so bad.

“Nice booty.”

“Cute buns.”

“Hot looking cheeks.”

Neither are seat, seater, stern, hips, curves, breech, tush or tooshie, breech, caboose, cheeks, duff, fanny.

Ass, butt, rump, rear, bottom are okay but not so erotic. Ass is an Americanism for the British arse and generally works well. For example, in my novel The Moon’s Deep Circle, bsb_the_moons_deep_circle_small__26137my character Tip is aroused sexually by a mere glance at his teammate’s ass: “The curves of Jeep’s ass were enticing, and my cock was soaring.” In another passage in The Moon’s Deep Circle, I write, “Lyle’s eyes were transfixed on Tizzy’s curvy buttocks,” evoking the power of the human posterior to hold another person in thrall.

From my novel The Raptures of Time:The Raptures of Time 300 DPI “He caressed my ass as if he were worshiping it. His hands massaged my buttocks gently, sliding slowly into the crack.” I have to believe that the description works.

Butts are nice to ogle, but difficult to write about. In the end, call this divine form what you will, its delightful curves and sweet invitations deserve a comfortable seat in gay fiction.

 

Invention

BY DAVID HOLLY

The Raptures of Time, The Raptures of Time 300 DPImy latest novel from Bold Strokes Books, is coming out this month. In Raptures, my storyteller Mack and his friends explore a geologically impossible cave and emerge lost on another world. In the otherworldly realm of Qysteria, they explore cultures unlike our own with odd traditions and kinky sexual rituals.

 

The action shifts between the gynocratic customs of Qysteria and the societies of our Earth, past, present, and future. On Qysteria, villagers demand that the guys participate in gay sex rituals or subject them to sex slavery. In between participating in deliriously erotic acts, Mack and his friends must avoid outlandish creatures and a malevolent sorcerer from Earth’s future. While our Earth moves toward the totalitarian patriarchy of the twenty-fifth century, our heroes voyage to the Qysterian island of Absonia where they are dominated by towering island women with enormous phalluses and forced to emasculate themselves with a naturally growing island herb.

 

Without revealing more of the peculiar and tasty twists this novel takes, I’ll acknowledge that the story raises one obvious question about authorship: do you have to do it in order to write about it?

 

Does a mystery writer have to be a murderer?

 

Does a science fiction writer have to be a space alien?

 

The answer is simple. I’m a writer—I really am making this up. I can write from the perspective of another race or another gender, just as female authors can describe male on male sex or a black male can write about the experience of a white man.

 

Some writers write close to their own hearts and expose themselves and their relationships. Others write away from themselves. I belong to the second category. I’m not my characters. That first person I, Mack Frost the first person storyteller in this novel, is a voice I’m creating. Writing by the seat of my pants, I let my imagination and the developing characters carry me onward.

 

In The Raptures of Time, my characters travel through time and space in ways I’ve never done. They engage in oral sex with the hunky men of Tungon Village. They experience anal penetration in the village of Jekor, including getting pegged by women with strap-on dildoes. They are captured by underground troglodytes and held as sex slaves. They are emasculated by gigantic dominatrices, and eventually restored by Mack’s growing superhuman and paranormal powers.

 

I’m making up the story of The Raptures of TimeThe Raptures of Time 300 DPI—I’m a writer. I have done my upmost to give my readers a grand story in outrageous and enchanting detail. Raptures, like all that I write, is pure fiction and glorious invention.


Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 620 other followers


%d bloggers like this: