The Fight Within (2 page)

Moving on now to the next point. More times than not, I speak from the male perspective when I write. Why? Because that is how my brain is wired. Never mind that I am a heterosexual woman with an extensive Hello Kitty collection and obscenely large finger nail polish compendium that could easily go on the black market for hundreds of dollars. That aside, some would argue that I am missing a goatee and penis and am ‘one of the guys.’ I can go from being the stereotypical emotional lady to the ‘I don’t give two fucks about this’ attitude. And both sides of me are legit and take turns being center stage.

All that would be missing is my hand down the front of my pants, a cigar dangling out of my mouth, and me ordering some lady to grab me a beer out the fridge while I watch the game and curse at my losing team. Okay, let’s continue. (If I haven’t scared you off, of course). Let’s jump into how I handle intimate encounters. Ah yes, those pesky intimate encounters…

It appears that I’m known for also writing descriptive love scenes. You will be riding shotgun in the bedrooms, on the floors, against the walls, hanging out the cars, up and down the stairs, in the pool, the steam bath, the ocean, your grandmother’s floral couch hidden in the corner of the mildewed basement, so yes…you get the idea. You will be there and you will know without a shadow of a doubt what each person involved looks like, smells like, sounds like, and most important, how they like their sex served. And that brings me to my next point…

There are some people who read saucy books for one thing and one thing only…to be titillated. If you lean a bit closer, I promise to pique your interest in that department, however, the ride to ‘scream-my-name-ville’ sometimes is…how shall I say this? A looooong one. This gets on some readers’ ever friggin’ nerves! I promise I haven’t done so intentionally. Due to my ADHD, I learned the hard way to not make too many concrete plans in regards to my books. What I mean is, I allow my characters to do what they need to do, when they need to do it. I start with a loose outline so that I have some semblance of a plan, but more times than not, the people in my head run their own show. I am not a micro-managing sort of boss.

Besides, any detailed plans I may have had were destined to be ignored and broken by the likes of me as well. I’m such an outlaw! Anyhow, I just have to sit down and write and let stuff flow.

Now, back to the, ‘Tiana, why do so many of your books have the characters take so long to get it on the first time?!’ My efforts to allow full disclosure of the people in this love story require time, energy and buildup. Very few of my books have a sex scene in the first fifty pages. Yes, you heard that right/write. There is usually no bumping, grinding, screwing, panting, flopping about or cries of ecstasy until I have taken you down some path less travelled and forced you to look that hero and heroine in the eye. So, by the time you
do
witness them making love, you feel what they feel and you might even give a damn.

Over half of my books take at least double that time and a few, even longer. I don’t believe in dragging things out as a general rule, but I do believe in listening carefully to my characters, and having their encounters ‘make sense.’ Some of my characters simply don’t sleep with people quickly. Others do, and sometimes the ones that do and do not are unfortunately paired up with their opposite, so it makes for a tug of war situation. Not all of us jump into bed with people at the drop of a hat, and my characters are not unlike you and me, and other people in the world. The characters go through what many of us experience when deciding if we are going to engage in sexual intimacy with someone new. We may hesitate. We may think about it long and hard, and then cum back for more deliberations. See what I did there? LOL. Now, you’ve officially had your first sex scene in the first ten pages.

My job here is done! Okay, okay, just kidding. Back to the topic. So, understand going in that if you want a quickie, this book probably isn’t for you. Also be warned if you haven’t noticed already, this isn’t a short book. I wouldn’t call it alarmingly long but it is rather meaty. I don’t generally write short stories and one of the reasons is it doesn’t match my writing style; thus, there is a conflict of interest. It’s important to know one’s weaknesses and be real about it. I have issues regarding rules when it comes to writing, and following formulas. For some, it works and is needed; for people like me, it is oftentimes a kiss of death.

I have to be free to write
what
I want to write about,
how
I want to write about it, and
when
I want to write it. This is not to say I lack discipline, quite the contrary, but it has to be done in way that is self-imposed, or my work may suffer. The main character, Sean Mahoney, also experiences that same ailment and when it pertained to him jumping the heroine’s bones, he is not the ‘wait around’ type of person. Still, his love interest is, and when you read the story, you will find out why.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk about the nitty-gritty of this book. Sean Mahoney is an Irish American kickboxing trainer and champion from Sunnyside, New York, which is located in Queens. It is an area comprised of many races and ethnicities, though population there is heavily Irish. I’ve been there, seen the place, and bought the t-shirt. I got to see it all up close and personal so this aspect is particularly special for me. Thanks Shannon for letting my friend and me use your john in your Irish pub when we didn’t even buy anything to drink at two in the damn morning! Okay, I digress…

Anyway, he is a city kid who grew up around an array of people, many of whom had completely different backgrounds and outlooks on life than his own. Like most people in the world, some things have happened in Sean’s life that he didn’t too much appreciate. That’s simply called life. None of us have had a perfect existence; it kind of goes with this silly notion of being human, vulnerable, and having expectations.

The difference with Sean is that these things built up like layers of an onion, tiled squares of a quilt, and braided fibers of a rug, until an entire entity had formed and swallowed his humanity, part of his resolve and his ability to turn a coin and see the other side. Coins… that is a great segue, actually. You see Sean comes from a middle class family, lower middle class to be exact…working folks with a family to support. He wasn’t destitute, but he felt the pinch. His parents were hard working, good people, and he and his brother, only apart by one year of age, became best friends – seeing themselves as warriors against the rest of the world.

This book is about love. It’s about how this torn down man survived in a place that hated him due to superficiality and arrogance. It is a story about surveying one’s motivations, about analyzing oneself so that one is not imprisoned by one’s mind and self-appointed limitations. After all, the brain is the biggest, most lethal jail cell of all, should it turn on you…

This is a story about starting over, hitting the pause button, and learning to speak up for oneself. It is a tale about refusing to be the doormat, the verbal punching bag and the long forgotten person that people only contact and cry out to when they are in need. It’s a story about putting one’s foot down, and holding one’s faith up. It’s about believing in the magically impossible, and the question begging for examination, ‘How wild! Could that
really
be true?’

We have here a story about taking advice, taking chances, and seeing one’s life change right before one’s eyes. It’s a story written by me for YOU. Sean and Treasure meet in a less than conventional way, and their relationship pretty much keeps that same pattern and theme. Nothing about them is common, yet everything about them is relatable. This is a tale about wealth, power and riches and what that means, how it affects one person as opposed to another, and how we, as a society, define others based on their socio-economic status. We judge, but become angry when the same is done to us. We make assumptions, but hate when we are placed in a box. It’s time to open the lid and get out. It’s time to remove ourselves from the familiar, and walk amongst the ‘something new.’

So, without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to Sean Mahoney and Treasure Chambers. May your aspirations regarding this novel be fulfilled, and may you leave ‘richer’ after you’ve read, ‘The End’. Thank you, and enjoy.

‡

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

–Friedrich Nietzsche

‡

H
is bloodied, bandaged
hands were soon framed in another puff of cough-inducing, chalky smoke. With stinging, stiff fingers, he hit the heavy bag, as if in slow motion while the damn thing swung like some hypnotic pendulum. Dull with time, the silver hanger chains rattled like the proverbial ghosts inhabiting his mind – never seen, but heard day after damn day. Through flared nostrils, he took another ragged breath then traced a spot at the corner of his creased mouth; the tip of his tongue roved out the side, slicking across his wet flesh. He tasted the shit, his usual meal during such a display. Salty sweat rolled onto the tip of his tongue, and he swallowed it whole. The brackish flavor etched inside of his mouth awakened him a bit like a sleeping giant from an involuntary, hazy trance.

BAM!

His fist connected once more with the black punching bag, this time causing it to swing uncontrollably in uneven circles as it cut the air in crazy whisks.

BAM!

Sean kept right on hitting, sweating, cursing, fighting, and now kicking the painful shit away…

His right thigh muscle flexed and burned as he lifted it high into the stagnant air dyed with the odors of old sweat and swampy underarm stench. Exerting all of his damn might, his foot connected with the bag along with a simultaneous punch, causing a loud, popping noise as if he’d deflated the damn thing, burst its hearty bubble, and made it crumble to pieces.

Beating one’s troubles into extinction became intoxicating; it was so fucking good going down,
almost
better than sex. But when training was over, and the kickboxing matches put to rest, he’d hold his shiny golden trophy, but always wonder,
‘What did I really win?’