What about cockies?

It has been a somewhat tumultuous week in the Indie publishing world. Faleena Hopkins has dominated Facebook and Twitter with her copyright claim to the word "Cocky" - to the extent that reviews containing that word have been pulled by Amazon. That goes to prove what we already knew - these tasks are performed by bots, not humans. We've all talked about this for days, so I won't add much to the mess. Cocky is a word in the dictionary. It has been around for as long as Indie publishing  - maybe longer - as a word in a book title. And apart from that, we Australians use the word as an abbreviation for a cokatoo, and also for a farmer. The first of those would rarely be found in a romance - but the second might. Just think... "Jennifer's Cocky". The cover could have a semi-naked male with a boot up on a fence rail, hat on his head, wheat stalk in his mouth. Then again... what about a romance where a REALLY SMART cocky ((bird) who's really an alien in disguise) brings two people together in outback Australia? There's a thought.

The copyright this woman has claimed is being challenged on several fronts. I'll leave it at that.


Just a reminder that the Blue Books for ALS research is continuing all through May. We'd love you to buy a book and/or spread the word to support the fight to find a cure for that dreadful motor neuron disease.

http://www.leakirk.com/supporting-als.html

In the writing world, like many Indie authors, my sales have slumped. I feel like a surfer who almost caught the wave - but didn't paddle hard enough. However, writing is a challenge to me. It keeps my brain fit, so I'll keep on doing it. I think my next one will be another Morgan's Misfits adventure. It's another story I started, then stalled. That means I've been mulling it over for quite a while and yes, I think it'll work. Here's a snippet from the beginning. Marisa is about to meet the Misfits.

Marisa loitered around the corner from the glittering façade of the Celestial Palace Hotel, avoiding the liveried security guards who patrolled the street for undesirables daring to sully the entrance to Shar Burk's finest hotel. If Soldar didn't appear soon, she'd have to move on. She'd already turned down a prospective client but if she did that too often, even the bone headed security guards would start to wonder.

A punter strolled past, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes all over her. His steps slowed. She took in the cut of his clothes, the way he approached. A wet-behind-the-ears kid off a freighter somewhere, on his first visit to the fleshpots of Shar Burk. His gaze probed the deep cleavage between her breasts, lingered on her nipples pushing against the light material. She could swear he was sweating already. It would be quick work. If she was interested. "Don't bother, son. You can't afford me."

He straightened, scowling. "How do you know? I might be rolling in dosh."

She waved him away. "Around here, we're expecting captains, not junior officers. Take yourself down to Minka. They'll be falling all over you." She pointed manicured nails. "Down there and turn right."

She hardly registered him walking away. A big, expensive skimmer drifted down onto the apron outside the Celestial Palace. She'd been in that limo more than once. The back door of the vehicle slid up. Marisa's hand crept to the pistol in the bag hung over her right shoulder, her fingers sliding around the butt. A figure alighted from the vehicle. A bodyguard, all muscle and no neck. A second man followed. Her pulse pounded. Soldar. At last. You're going to die, bastard. She'd practiced the shot a hundred times, leaning against a wall, firing without taking the pistol out of her bag. Then she would walk away, just another houri on her way to work in Minka.

A red-coated security guard lumbered between her and Soldar, who was running up the shallow steps beside the bodyguard. Damn it, move your great, hulking carcass. But the woman was walking toward her, coming here.

Marisa backed away, rage boiling in her gut. Damn her. Damn her to all the hells in the black abyss. She'd have to wait, try another day, another way. The towering security guard began to run. Marisa turned, ready to kick off her high heeled shoes. A hand gripped her arm, hard. She twisted her arm, snapped it up sharply to break the hold and lunged with her foot tilted, the high heel a spur.

Her assailant stepped aside and slipped a pistol out of her pocket. Emerald green eyes regarded her steadily.

Marisa swallowed. This woman knew what she was doing. "What do you want?"

 "I want to stop you from making a terrible mistake." The woman put the pistol back in her pocket, but there was no doubt it could reappear in a moment.

If you enjoyed that, and you haven't come across the Misfits before, you might like Kuralon Rescue.

Follow your dreams. You never know where they might lead you.
Jirra’s on the run, Siena’s rescuing her lover, Toreni wants Master Chef status and Chet wants her reputation back. Four women, four goals, and one very small ship. Add a fleet request to free a rebel, the promise of little to no help and a caste-defined society simmering with discontent on the edge of explosion.

Now, on their own, they’re staging an escape from a backwater prison planet and navigating the murky terrain of dreams forbidden by the rigid caste system underpinning their culture. Success demands more than team work. They’ll have to jettison their own prejudices and forge relationships free of the rules and caste lines.

There’s more than just lives at stake. There’s dreams and a possible tomorrow more fragile than gossamer.

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