Jade's Jaded Eden: Interview: Remmy Duchene

Hello and happy Thursday. Guess who is with me today? Yes, you got it. My sweetheart, Remmy Duchene accepted to answer my questions. You can imagine how proud I am! But let’s get to it, shall we?

The morning, you are tea or coffee?

That’s actually a funny question. I’m from the Jamaica and we make some of the world’s most expensive coffee there but I can’t drink Coffee because of allergies. I do love a nice cup of peppermint in the winter time and in the summertime I drink Milo – it’s like Ovaltine but better lol. I’ll be starting a twisted history MM story soon that takes places in a country similar to England so I’ll be drinking a lot of Earl Grey from Bone Chinas lol.

What kind of books do you write?

Interracial Manlove. I recently began straying from romance into a more hardcore erotica but I am slowly moving back toward that. But mostly Interracial where two men fall in love.

Why did you choose this genre?

I didn’t really chose it. It kind of chose me – as corny as that sounds. I read a book once—MM where gay men were shown in a light that was not flattering and I found it heartbreaking so I thought why not show gay men in the positive light I believe they should be?

When you write, are you keyboard or paper?

Always keyboard. I scribble and brainstorm on paper but my stories are all typed.

Are you more motivated to write when the sun shines or when the weather is gray?

I don’t have that luxury. I write when I have time or when I can steal time. With trying to get my life off the ground I can’t put aside time to write which sucks but it is what it is.

Where do you find your inspiration?

Everywhere—a song, a quote, a building—mostly old architecture, episodes of my favorite TV show, looking at sexy men, my friends, family, random people I meet on the train…

When you start a book, do you already have the whole story in your head, or is it built progressively?

I’m a write-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of writer. If I plot it out to the end I’ll never finish the story because for some reason I feel confined to the plan. I write better when I free-hand it and go with what the character is telling me than planning.

How do you feel before the release of a book? Fear, joy? And after?

Terrified. Not because of reviewers—to be honest I’ve stopped really caring what most reviewers have to say for my own personal reasons. I am always worried about what my regular readers will think, especially when I deviate from what I normally write.

Between your first and last novel, do you feel a change? Do you write differently?

Of course. My first story was a short story for Christmas that did very, very well. While I was proud, and still am proud, of it, there had to be change. I had to grow and change with the times. While I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing interracial or different cultures, I know I have to allow myself to bloom so my writing can become better.

They say that writers project themselves into the skin and into the head of his hero / heroine, is that the case for you?

A few times yes. I often joke that I live vicariously through most of my characters.

You define yourself more like a bookworm, a city mouse or a country mouse?

A little bookworm and a country mouse. I don’t like the big city very much. Too much noise and everything else. As long as I have some peace and quiet, a cup of tea and books all is right with the world.

Molière said: “Writing is like prostitution. First we write for the love of it, then for a few friends, and in the end for money.” What do you think about it?

The man’s right. Some writers write and that is how their bills are paid and if they get no money from these books their bills don’t get paid. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to do that. It would put too much pressure on me and if pressure is there I can’t seem to get anything written. I write better when I don’t have any stresses and wondering if a book is going to make enough money so I can pay my bills would be a major stressor then I’d definitely be homeless and starve lol.

Your books have already been translated?

I haven’t had the pleasure. I have one free book that was translated in French that I have to re-release but that’s about it. I hope to have some translated to other languages soon though. How cool would that be?

Do you pay attention to literary criticism?

Not anymore. I just think “you can’t please everyone all of the time” most times. I realize most of the reviewers out there are harsh and cold for no reason—bordering on bullying and I can’t tolerate that. I do what I love every day and that’s writing. I can’t let a few people destroy that for me.

The days are 25 hours. You spend that extra hour in the garden or in the kitchen?

Damn. I’m Canadian so I would have to say it would depend on the day/season. If its winter then definitely in the kitchen. In the summer, half in the kitchen half in the garden.

What is the book you would bring with you on a deserted island?

The Colour Purple by Alice Walker. That book is a piece of genius.

In the evening, do you turn off the light directly or do you take the time to read?

These days I do most of my reading on the train or bus. My nights are generally for writing or editing but I love reading at nights. When I was younger I would walk everywhere with my nose stuck in a book. People were amaze I didn’t fall down any stairs or crashed into things or people. Can’t do that anymore—age has made me paranoid lol.

Love Lies Bleeding

Literature professor Anderson Williams has a date with his father but arrives to find him dead. When he meets NYPD officer, Leo Sung Kim, he doesn't expect his body's reaction and he tries to keep his hands off. But as a deranged killer gets closer, he's forced into a tight space with the sexy cop.

Leo's seen horrible things as a cop. But the latest serial killer is worse than anything he's encountered. He's instantly smitten with Anderson and tried to stay professional. But how does one avoid a brainy, sexy man with sad brown eyes?

Even as Leo fights his emotions, the killer gets bolder. When the smoke clears, Leo could not only lose his heart but his life.

He sat in the front row watching everything. Half the time he got so confused, he felt as though someone had blindfolded him, whacked him over the head, spun him around, then turned out all the lights. Law terms were new to him and he had no idea what most of them meant. When each person took the stand, he would watch their faces. Most cried--others looked stone cold. He remembered opening the freezer when he was younger and seeing white smoke coming from it. The people lacked any form of emotion and in their coldness, he could see the same kind of white smoke emanating from them. One woman peered at him through beady eyes, sending a shiver or something nasty down his spine.

The little boy exhaled out his mouth in a noisy whoosh because his chest was tightening.

The courtroom smelled like doom. There was no other way to describe the stench swirling around the room. Lawyers gave off that smell--bottom feeders--those who seek to get what they want and to hell with everyone else. The little boy took a breath and leaned forward in his seat. He never took his eyes off the judge, who had been sitting silently since the defence rested. It was as though he was in deep concentration, but the little boy knew better. As young as he was, he could still see the judge's utter disappointment and the robed man looked outright at his wit's end.

The judge's shoulders lifted and fell heavily while he shuffled the papers before him. He pressed his eyes closed then lifted his gaze to browse the courtroom. "This case has tested me. There are so many things in it that leave a bad aftertaste. I don't know what is more disturbing, the abuse or the fact no one here is willing to take responsibility. As much as I would love to do what my heart is telling me, I have to do what the law dictates. I've listened to both parties and the child, and I am now rendering the following decision."

He didn't know what render meant but the little boy was very sure it was all bad. His little body shook slightly and though he was now painfully twisting his fingers, he couldn't stop. He needed something to keep his mind off the hammer about to drop.

"The law dictates I must do what is in the best interest of the minor. I have to make a decision based on what will give him the best chance of recuperation and life. I cannot make a decision on the property you two are arguing over. That is not my jurisdiction. What is in my jurisdiction is the welfare of this child. I hereby order the he be remanded to the state..."

The little boy felt his world end then. The judge kept speaking but he was too numb. All he heard was a dull, throbbing sound. Eventually someone took his hand and pulled him from the seat and shoved him into a car. There was a flurry of activities but he just couldn't wrap his mind around any of it. Something banged atop him but still he sat, head down, fingers clenched tightly, and eyes glazed over. He wasn't sure what it was and since it caused no physical pain, he didn't care.

The days seemed to melt into one big night and eventually they found him a foster home. He would sit in a corner, silently. Each day blended into another--then another--and soon he'd lost track of time. From time to time he'd hear a bit of the conversations around him and it was always the same.

"He hasn't said a word since he got here."

"Nothing? How do you know he's hungry?"

"I don't. I just put the food out and when he's hungry, he eats. But it's been three months and nothing."

"Maybe it's a phase."

"I doubt it... I've been begging someone to take him to therapy but the government doesn't care and we can't afford it..."

His eyes glazed over again and he hung his head lower.