Bitchin' Blog Posts
: Christine Feehan
March 17, 2011 | Thursday | 63 Comments
Recently, I was sent a giant hardcover book. A book I had already read. And I read it. AGAIN. I am as amazed as you. Such is the power of the crack, and specifically the crack that is Dark Prince. I’ve written before about the Carpathian series, which I gobbled until I began to see the “psychic chick makes dude see color commence doggy style” pattern and had to stop. Dark Prince, however, rocked my world when I read it, and when people talk about Christine Feehan as the author whose work established the paranormal vampire romance genre, I nod…
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November 25, 2009 | Wednesday | 145 Comments
I was pondering my continued enjoyment of werewolf fiction, especially in the wake of the polarized reaction to my review of Bitten, and started to wonder why were-predators and vampires seem to be still the dominant paranormal motif in romance. There are other paranormal creatures - faeries, were-amphibians, were-birds, demons, ghosts, incubi and succubi, for example - within the paranormal romance shelves, but the predominant creature, both in continued fascination and in number of titles, seems to be the weres and the vamps. Why is that? There’s a lot of questioning as to why the Twilight series sustains its audience…
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April 23, 2008 | Wednesday | 14 Comments
And what in my magical inbox should appear, but Christine Feehan, and eight tiny reindeer of rational prose. Ok, no reindeer, but prose? Got it: The story as I know it: The camera did in fact belong to me, not my daughter. Heather and I are friends and have been for many years. I’m old and body part photos don’t really work so well for me as a joke and I was concerned that perhaps someone else might post the pictures on the internet. No, my son never saw the pictures, the ones he saw were of our home so…
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April 22, 2008 | Tuesday | 27 Comments
Heather Graham contacted me regarding the great “What What In My Camera” debate with the following statement: The story as I know it . . . . A bartender had a camera and insisted, as the bar was closing, that someone there take it, as he knew it belonged to our group. (Of hundreds.) Some of the kids—assorted kids, as in children of participants, models, not “camps!”—took silly pictures of armpits. Someone had discovered that close-ups of pressed pits resembled other body parts. The pictures were in bad taste, but then, again, it is a convention where we do have…
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