Reviewing Books and Pushy Authors...

Today, I'd like to talk to you fine people about the dreaded book review.

Book reviews can make or break an author. They can showcase the work of someone by telling others how much they liked or disliked a book and for what reasons. But everyone (at least in some writing communities... looking at you, Twitter) seems to think that anything below a 5-Star review is some blight. Some people think a 3-star review will sound the death knell for any aspiring indie-author. And that's just ridiculous.

Writing a shitty book and publishing it is the death knell for indie-authors... Your 1st draft should NOT be your finished product.

One of my all-time favorite books ever written has 248 1-Star reviews, 277 2-Star reviews, and 271 3-Star reviews on Amazon... Shocking, right? This book also has 1,608 5-Star reviews and a movie based on it that has a similar distribution of reviews.

Because of the new "EVERYONE IS PUBLISHING!" world of writing, we all thrive to have that solid 5-Star rating. We ask our family and friends to, discretely, leave reviews that tell the world how great our books and stories are. We build up "Street Teams" or whatever they're called these days... and we try to send legions of rabid fans to Amazon to flood our work with 5-Star ratings to get us all the way to #1 in our given genres... They're all "GO, MY MINIONS! LEAVE ME GREAT REVIEWS!!!" - And, this is just me being honest here, I think that cheapens things a bit. I get it. You're trying to make money. You're trying to be a brand or get a name for yourself. We all are. But, Jesus, do it by writing quality content and letting the readers decide.

If I leave a 4-Star review, I don't hate the book, or the author, nor do I have something against the author as a human being. I will most likely re-read that book and recommend it to other people.

If I leave a 3-Star review, I don't think the author should be upset by it... I still enjoyed the work. Just not as much as some other things I've read.

I, personally, won't leave a 1 or 2 Star review on a book.

Why is this an issue? WHY am I writing about this?  Well, I recently left a 4-Star review for a book. And the author asked me, "Why not 5?" -- and he asked this not in a "I would like to understand and improve my craft" way, but in a "What the fuck, dude?" way. And that rubbed me the wrong way.

I owe you, the author, NO sort of explanation.

I am a consumer and you have released a product to the world. It is up to me to decide where this product sits in my "pantheon of reviewed items." Your book sits on my 4-Star shelf. It was good. I liked it a lot. I will re-read it at some point and I've even recommended it to people ALREADY! - but since you're being a passive aggressive shit about the number of stars in my reviews - I'll probably be recommending it a lot less now.

And this - is how I would breakdown book reviews and the "star rating" system...

1-Star should be used for books that are poorly written with typos and bad grammar. It should NOT be used because "Well, I don't like the F-Word." - THAT is personal taste. Not a review. We've all seen these reviews and these people are trolls. They can get fucked. (I will NOT leave a 1-Star review)

2-Stars should be reserved for books that were okay, but not stellar. Books that won't be re-read in the future. (I will NOT leave a 2-Star review)

3-Stars should be for books you like. And may re-read at some point. Books that you enjoyed reading and were well-written. You should say WHY you liked the book and WHAT you thought could be improved upon in your opinion.

4-Stars should be for books that you would most likely buy in two different formats. Something that you will absolutely read again and recommend to other people. You should go out of your way to explain to people WHY you liked this book so much.

5-Stars should be for the books that evoke emotions within you and make you want to be IN the book. 5-Stars should be "I want this book signed and on my bookshelf forever!" You should do your best to explain to the reader WHY they need this in their life.

So - there you have it. Dr. Bourbon's guide to reviewing books.

Rubbing One Out At The Office

Rubbing One Out At The Office

A @BourbonSex Short Story

He sat as his desk contemplating, not for the first time, just getting up and walking out. This was the kind of office environment that just sucked the very joy from life. And here he was, again, looking at a Monday of pure hell.
          The morning's meetings had all come and gone. Shitty lunch had been eaten. Now he sat, poring over bullshit emails and hating his very existence. Debbie had been in the office not once, not twice, but six fucking times to tell him of her family woes of the weekend. He didn't care. He just wanted to leave. His head ached. He was grumpy. Life sucked - pure and simple.
          As he entered another email address into his address book he sighed. Nothing would make this worthwhile.
          Or so he thought.
          His phone chimed and he looked at it. The notification said, "image." He leaned back and his chair and swiped it open with his thumb. He sat and watched as the screen changed into the smiling face of his wife. There was a pillow tucked behind her head and smirk on her face. Her bare shoulders stood out against the stark, red blankets of their bed and slowly gave way to the gentle, slope of her breasts.
          Another chime and a text message popped up. "Thought you could use some cheering up!"
          Another chime.
          Another image.
          And another.
          And another.
          Soft skin, pink nipples, and a smile. The camera moved lower with each chime until at last it revealed her hips raised and two fingers spreading herself for the camera.
          Another chime - another image.
          Two fingers inserted between her thighs in the foreground of the image, head tossed back in ecstasy in the background.
          He swiped back and forth between the images, feeling the blood rush to his face and beyond. He glanced up to look around and make sure he was alone in the office. He swiped again and watched the progression of images and text slowly revealed the body of the woman he loved in full color. He felt his pants begin to rub against him as he sat. His erection was coming on in full force.
          He got up from his desk, walked to the private restroom down the hall, and locked the door behind him. His pants were barely unbuttoned before he had himself in his hand, stroking back and forth at the picture of her spread wide for the camera.
          He finished in a muted grunt and a spray of semen.
          He stood, panting in the closed men's room. His phone in one hand, his shrinking erection in the other... and a smile on his face.

Dr. Bourbon and the League of ANNOYING-ASS PEOPLE!

Today in Bad Advice with Dr. Bourbon our question comes from Twitter user, @HeartOfAutumn

She asks:

Dear Doctor Bourbon,

How do you deal with annoying people? Which, to be honest is a vast majority...

The Anxiety of Sleep

Sometimes dreams are awesome. Lady Bourbon is a hyper-vivid dreamer with all sorts of cool shit in her dreams... like Voltron. My dreams are not so cool.

It's been a long time since I've had "fun" dreams. My dreams over the last 10 years or so have all been, more or less, real life while I'm sleeping. Which, as you can imagine, sucks balls. And not in the fun "yeah baby, I like the way you do that" way. More of the "I accidentally fell on the vacuum hose and my balls are being sucked into oblivion and I think I'd rather be dead" kind of way.

Last night's dream though... Holy shit. That was a doozy.

I had a dream in which I was driving my car to the hospital. I called them on the phone to let them know I was coming and that I was having a stroke. In the mirror I could see my face slacken and go lifeless and I lost control of the car as I pulled into the hospital lot. Then I dreamed in 3rd person POV for a while and then back to being me as they tried to fix me. This involved them sticking some sort of needle-like probe into my ear and having fluid run through my brain and out the other ear.

It hurt.

The abduction Of The Human Known As Todd Marcum Part 1 - A serial by @BourbonSex

Chapter One:

Everyone Talks About Being Probed, But Nobody Does Anything About It.

(3,000 words +/- 100 words - mentions of nudity)

  Todd Marcum regretted his decision to socialize as soon as he walked into Mark’s apartment. Why in the name of all that is good and holy would anyone want to subject themselves to this? Somewhere between nineteen and two-hundred people were crammed into a small apartment. The thermostat was set to "broil" and shitty music was blaring out of the tiny, Walmart brand speakers making it an exercise in futility to talk to anyone. The only food available were several bowls of off-brand chips and pretzels... And those were somewhere in the Hellish labyrinth that is Mark’s tiny-ass kitchen, surrounded by throngs of drunk people. Todd had been here for an hour now and it was fast approaching “time to cut your losses” for him.

  To make things even better - it was a costume party. A costume party where only half of the people there were in costume. And only half of THEM were in legit costumes. The rest were all dressed as “Oh, I’m a serial killer” coming to the party in what they wore to work that day. And Todd’s least favorite part of the costumed people were the group of women in the “sexy” costumes. There were an assortment of things wondering around the place with boobs and skin to spare... he saw, or thought he saw, sexy Chewbacca, a sexy Ketchup bottle, and a sexy Swedish Chef… from the muppets. None of these things should ever be sexy in Todd’s opinion. Chewbacca maybe... but that stemmed from a really troubling brush with fanfiction in the early 90s.

  Todd, on the other hand, was in a full-on set of custom Mandalorian armor that he’d worked on for two years. It was perfect and he was very pleased with himself about it. Or, he had been for the first thirty minutes. Now, in his perfect armor, he sat alone on the couch, sweating his balls off for no reason that he could fathom. He looked at the gin and tonic in his hand, debated if a trip through the hall of “sexy halloween costumes” was worth the refill, and decided to sit exactly where he was, finish this fucking drink, and go home. At least home was quiet. Home was a normal and acceptable temperature. Home was… 

At the station

Whatever drugs were in Todd’s system weren’t making him twitchy - that would be the understatement of the year. He was positively vibrating with whatever the hell was coursing through his veins. Everything was bright and loud. Some people and things seemed to move in slow-motion while others, for no reason Todd could come up with, seemed to move in fast-forward. To put it bluntly - Todd was tripping his balls off. 

He wasn’t sure of the day. He damn sure wasn’t sure of what time it was. And there was a nagging sense in the back of his brain that told him he wasn’t in Ohio anymore. The fact the signs weren’t written in English helped to back this last theory up. Well, that and the fact that everyone around him was shorter than him and lacked that clearly midwestern American look. 

“Holy shit, I’ve been kidnapped.” He blurted. 

“What?” Came a barking laugh from over his shoulder. Todd jumped at the sound. The voice was familiar, yet strange all at the same time. He turned to see a woman with bright, white hair that had been cropped short against her head. Her eyes were neon green and she had a tattoo running up her neck that coiled around her right ear. 

“I… uh…” Sweat poured down his body in the afternoon heat. “Where the fuck am I?” He finally managed. 

Date Night... or "How I stopped worrying and learned to love pre-dinner sex"

That's right... I'm 40. I feel old. My body aches and makes noises on its own... I'm not 90... and I'm sure 90 year olds have and love sex too. This isn't a knock on age. I'm not an ageist. I have friends who are aged.

Wait, what?

Right...

I LOVE 2 things... Sex and food. Well, technically I love a lot of things... but I REALLY love sex and food. Not sex WITH food. But eating and getting my fuck on. The problem is - I'm not 20 anymore. Hell, I'm not even 30 anymore. I'm borderline old and not getting any younger. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to eat - both food and Lady Bourbon... But...

There's always a but. And that "but" is that sex is awesome... food is awesome... but sometimes too much food BEFORE sex is NOT awesome.

Let me just lay it out for you.

Dr. Bourbon and The Antivaxx Trail...

Today in Bad Advice with Dr. Bourbon our question comes from B.J. Black

B.J. asks:

Dr. Bourbon Sex... and Coffee:

How should I react when anti-vaxxers ask for advice to keep their kids safe when there is a measles (or other illness that vaccines can prevent) outbreak?

Dear B.J.,

What a good question. Let me tell you - I have no shortage of Anti-Vax people on my Facebook feed, so I've actually had this argument before. And every time it ends with the same thing - me, slamming my head against my desk at the outright stupidity of people who, up until 5 minutes ago, I thought were sane, mildly intelligent people. Okay no... that's not true.

The Call Of Nature A @BourbonSex Erotic Short Story

The Call Of Nature

A @BourbonSex Erotic Short Story

    "It's called camping. Not hoteling." Josh said as he led Emily through the undergrowth in the woods. "Of course there are bugs. You don't hear me bitching about it."
     "You're not human." Emily said smugly. "Mosquitos, as far as I know, want nothing to do with you."

   "Yes, well. There is that." He moved a few branches and ushered her through. "Ta da." He announced with a smile.
     "Oh." Emily said with a start. "Oh, this is quite lovely."
     "Yeah. I thought you might say that."
     He moved ahead into the clearing. It was about 50 meters of open, grassy area surrounded by trees on all sides. A small, hollowed out ring of stones sat the in the center of it all with a large stack of neatly cut wood nearby.
     "This is where I go when I want to get away from everything." Josh said, dropping his bag on the ground. "Let's get set up and I'll show you what it means to 'be in the field'."
     "Uh, sure."

Mark and Emily A @BourbonSex Erotic Short Story

A @BourbonSex Erotic Short Story: Mark and Emily

     The night was finally here. It's something that he'd thought about often. It excited him. It made him anxious. It made him feel very sexy.
     He didn't go all out on his first time. A simple outfit of blouse and skirt with makeup and a pair of his wife's panties.
     The door opened and Mark stepped out into the light. His eyes, rimmed in dark eye-liner, shone in the soft light of the room. Gentle hints of rouge marked his cheeks and his lips were a soft, glossy mauve color. He worked his face into a smile. His hair was done up in a loose configuration of spikes, held out with gel, and his stubble was short and manicured against his chin. He was nervous, but took a deep breath and relaxed. The silk fabric of the shirt he wore felt good against his skin and the warm air circulating and lifting under the black skirt he wore felt good against his legs. His cock was gently stuffed into a pair of silk panties that hugged him everywhere.

     And he loved it.

Dr. Bourbon and The Cleaning Lady

Today in Bad Advice with Dr. Bourbon our question comes from the ANONYMOUS "Mommy Issues" via a Twitter DM.

Dear esteemed Dr Bourbon,

I've got mommy issues. I'm pushing 40 and my mother won't let me be a goddamned adult. She goes out of her way to make excuses to come into my house and clean it.
Now, before you go getting all "ooh free cleaning services" know this: my house is clean. It's just not clean ENOUGH. My floors can be mopped, shelves dusted and beds made and she will RE CLEAN over me. I've told her to stop.
My husband has told her to stop. Our small children have told her to stop. But SHE. NEVER. STOPS.

Help a girl out, Dr. B.

love and kisses
"Mommy Issues"

Dear "Mommy Issues,"

Krampusnacht

A @BourbonSex Erotic Fiction - Krampusnacht

It was 7:32 pm on the evening of December 5th and Linda sat in the corner watching the merriment. It was her company and, therefore, her party. But she hated Christmas parties. She was there because she had to be and not because she wanted to be. She wore an elegant black dress with a simple teardrop diamond necklace that drew attention down her lean neck, past her collarbones and into her ample cleavage for all the good it would do her. You just can't fuck the help.

      She was not having a good time.

      The wine was not giving her the blissful lowered inhibitions she’d been wanting. Instead, she sat quietly watching her workers go about their time at the holiday party. She watched Mark from sales flirt with Carol from the call center. Stacy from the reception desk was trying desperately to win the attention of Tim from accounting, but Tim seemed intent on flirting with John from IT.


“If her top gets any more open…” Linda said to herself as she watched.

       "Huh?" Deborah, Linda's personal assistant asked.

       "Stacy." Linda said. "She's throwing herself at Tim. Tim's gay. Tim wants to fuck John in IT." She shook her head. "I swear they're all fucking morons, Deborah."

      "Yes, ma'am." Deborah snapped. "Morons."

      "What about you, Deborah? Who do you want to fuck?"

      "Ma'am?"

       "Oh, come on. It's the holiday party, everyone is happy and drinking. There's got to be someone you'd like to fuck."

       "I am happily married." Deborah said sheepishly.

       "Good answer, Deb! I was happily married too." Linda snapped. "But Stan decided my sexual proclivities were just too much for him." She sighed. "In three weeks, it will be a year since the last time I've gotten laid." She threw back the rest of her wine. "I fucking hate Christmas." She poured a small glass and downed it. "And if momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy, right?"

       "Uh... right?" Deborah agreed weakly. She knew what this meant and she decided to go ahead and ask the question. "Why, if I may ask, do you want to ruin the Christmas party? I mean, it is your company and all..." Deborah's voice grew weaker as she spoke and was barely above a whisper as she trailed off.

       "Bah fucking humbug." Linda said. "That's why."

The blog post about blogging on my blog that nobody blogs

WTF is blogging?  I mean - what is it REALLY?

For some, it's basically their own personal forum for discussing ideas, products, services, bad ideas, and politics - while getting paid for it.

For the rest of us, it's basically an online diary for late-night missives about how we're lonely, depressed, horny, hungry, angry, or some other inane thing. And that's pretty okay.

We can't all be paid to whine online. JESUS I wish I was. I could just sit back, spout off about whatever the fuck I wanted and then just get paid for it! It would be GLORIOUS.  But... nobody reads this blog. I mean, at the height of its existence, I got 22 page views one day.

I'm not going to retire on 22 page views. Fuck, I can't even get a piece of gum for that.

Erotic Fiction Thursdays - The Quickie

 Erotic Fiction Thursdays - The Quickie

Tom and Carrie totally fucked. Like - a lot. In the pool. In his room. In her room. Everywhere. They fucked a lot.

Oh, man... so much fucking.

The end.

Erotic Fiction Thursdays - The Visitor

When John gets a visitor outside of normal prison visiting hours - he thought that was the strangest thing he'd see all day.

He was wrong.

The Visitor 

  "McConnell!" The guard's voice boomed into the cramped, 9x6 cell.
   "Yeah?"
   "Visitor." The guard looked in the door at him with a smirk. "Let's go, sunshine." He motioned towards the walkway with his baton.
   "Sure." John stood, not knowing who might be visiting him. More concerned that this was not a normal visitation hours for the prison. "Who is it?"
   "Do I look like your fuckin' secretary?" The guard said. "Fuckin' move it before I tell her I couldn't find you." His eyes raised and he cracked a smile. Not at John, but at the woman.
   "Cool." John said. So it was a woman... And apparently an attractive one by the guard's standards.
    Looks and catcalls from the cells as he walked by them and out the door. Instead of turning right and going to the visitor's room, the guard led him to the left. To the private council rooms.
   "Fuck." He whispered. "A fuckin' lawyer." It had to be a lawyer. But his lawyer was Franklin James... a fat fuck from Jersey. And, clearly, not a woman.
   "In." The guard said. He ushered John in and watched him sit and the guard reached out to cuff his hands to the table.