Ac´cent on Nya Rawlyns

Cracked face with sinister evil scary eyes Gracing the stage is Nya Rawlyns, aka Diane Nelson. Let’s get somewhat up close and personal.

…First, let’s straighten out the name conundrum. When are you Nya, when are you Diane . . . and when/why are you someone else?

My first ever published work was Dragon Academy, a family-friendly action-adventure/fantasy suitable for Middle Grade and up. I used the ‘me’ for that one, proud as punch. Then I wrote Dance Macabre, not so family friendly, eyes-on-stalks, whoa-nelly transgressive. Before putting that puppy to bed, it occurred that a little market research was in order – that whole ‘name branding’ thing was hot at the time – and opted on the side of prudence: do *not* sully the bookshelves, virtual or otherwise, with … *facepalm* she writes porn AND wholesome?!

The deal more or less got sealed when Red Sage picked up two of my contemporary romances and the editor instructed me to ante up five flames because that’s what they were looking for. Fellow authors strongly suggested a new identity, ergo Nya was hatched [Nya = not YA].

…What ten words do you think best describe you personally?

Assertive, intelligent, caregiver, loyal, annoying, high-maintenance, alpha-mare, easy-keeper, overachiever, writer

…Using those few words as a theme or intro, give us an overview of your life—where you come from, where you grew up, your schooling, a few places you’ve worked—whatever paragraph you feel best encapsulates you as an individual.

Dad was a milkman, Mom was a waitress, I was a jock, 3rd gen mixed bag immigrants. A Jersey Girl sans big hair. I grew up with dysfunction parading as normal, married a man with issues, had a son, went wild and crazy in grad school, discovered x-ray diffraction and technical writing, got a horse, got another horse, competed in competitive trail, racked up 1000+ miles. Worked in academia and Corporate America, both suck in their own special ways. Missteps along the way: Agnes Flood, lost everything. Lost my Dad at age 50 to heart disease. I know all about alcoholism and co-dependency, mental illness, suicides and  standing tall when all around was naught but ashes.

If you are my friend, you are my friend forever.

And I write.

…You’ve used the expression “on the fly” to describe your writing. Short of tackling a guy and scribbling on the lap of his pants, tell us what this process involves.

*Gasps with acute embarrassment* I thought no one noticed, I mean … the guys never complain and the more I do it, the better I get at it…color eye

Stories cook in my head. Often I’m completely unaware of the process until a word, a song, a stray image kick-starts the process. That process involves total immersion, going deep-cover, identity and soul-sucking submission to the ‘others’ renting condos in my brain. The firstborn knows better than to talk to me during that time. He quietly goes about seeing to life in the best carry-on tradition, paying bills, feeding me (when the words run, the diet is pizza because that’s what le son knows how to make) and tends to the critters and otherwise runs interference until I come up for air.

Lately I’ve taken to ‘recording’ this stream of consciousness, one chapter at a time on one of my websites, mostly because I have a small fan base who appreciates watching a story unfold serial-fashion. And I love sharing it with them, getting their feedback, testing the waters because, boy howdy, where I go is not for the faint of heart. My stories are about tortured souls, about people who have been marginalized by society. It’s their journey to the depths of despair and back again that interests me most, not the kissy-smoochy happy endings because, really, that’s all just a lie.

I write raw, often in first person POV, because it’s what’s inside my characters’ heads that draws me. I write lean and spare. I write it hard and fast because that’s what life is on those sharp edges without safe words or safety nets.

I write for the people who say ‘I would never pick up and read anything like *this* … but I read *you*’.

…Give us a quick look at your homoerotica novel or novels. If you have several, how about presenting them in chronological order with a sentence or two that best describes them?

The Wrong Side of Right – M/M, adult, BDSM, erotica. Sometimes the only way to find love is to say no. Bestseller on OmniLit.




 The Strigoi Chronicles (Penance, Fane, Michel, Dreu): paranormal, dark urban fantasy, M/M




Dreu-200Book One (Penance) introduces Dreu, the hybrid creature of the night, incarcerated under the aegis of the Church, until a band of brigands releases him to an unsuspecting world.

Book Two (Fane) chronicles Dreu’s perilous and sensuous journey of the heart, his lust, his love forever in thrall with a youngling werewolf.

Book 3 (Michel) continues with Dreu and his demon father, Michel, locked in an ongoing saga of deceit and betrayal, of love lost and love found.

Book 4 (Dreu, coming soon) The cleric and his assassin lover, Jefrumael, embark on a road trip: to get answers, find the missing nuke, save the world. As usual with Dreu, it doesn’t take long for their best laid plans to derail…



Skin – crime, romance, thriller, M/M, M/F. Rowan is an undercover cop with a checkered past, Sam is an innocent and an asset, Geran draws lines in the sand that shift, and when the Feds get involved, no one is safe.


ajs banner

Acid Jazz Singer (Hunger Hurts) – dark urban fantasy/paranormal, M/M, trans-sexual. Only the hunter stands between the hit squads of demons and the darkness that has become the Acid Jazz Singer’s existence. But when the hunter becomes the hunted, he must rely on a vamp assassin with a secret agenda and uncertain loyalties.


…What is your opinion of exploring the angst of the gay lifestyle in your writing? Or do you write about characters who happen to be gay and whose sexual preference is not their most defining characteristic or even an important part of the story? Maybe some of both?

Since virtually all of my stories are character-driven, it is the inner landscape that draws me, not a construct, an urban imposition of community that somehow often rings false, like actors on a stage trying on different roles but never quite hitting the bass notes, the subtext that will ultimately strip and lay bare a character’s most revealing self. I look to that intersect of pain and pleasure, the point where we meet the real man. Sexual preference is part and parcel of that journey, of course, but it’s not necessarily the defining characteristic.

What intrigues me is that interplay of power and dominance, the threat, the opportunity of submission, walking at the edge of a moral and emotional precipice where being strong takes on an entirely new meaning and discovering what you want might not be what you need.

And I like exploring characters with a certain moral flexibility and the codes of conduct that inform their choices.

…Describe your proudest moment or crowning achievement.

My son. *shrugs, I’m a mom, whadya expect?*

…Present around 200 words from any one of your works, an excerpt that you think shows your best writing. Feel free to add a short intro, up to 50 words.

Acid Jazz Singer (Hunger Hurts): M/M, trans-sexual, paranormal, dark urban fantasy

AJS-200The singer and the protector had a history. But that history changed when a southern bigot vamp turned Travis’ friend into a travesty—neither man, nor woman … but both. Travis fell hard for the trannie known as RayLee. He was having a harder time dealing with his best friend, Ray.

Ray hissed, “Let’s get inside. I’m not exactly dressed for this.”

Flushing, I knew what I’d find when I turned around. He … shit, she … was in some kind of teddy outfit with a push-up Victoria’s Secret device that gave her more cleavage than even a real woman had a right to. The satin number had lace and ribbons, and what my Gram would have called gee-gaws, ending in straps that hooked to black net stockings. Apparently Joleen’s shopping trip to the mall the other day had met with his approval. It had also emptied the cash register.

The chill in the night air had his nipples on full alert, pressing hard against the fabric. Damn, I wish that spell would dissipate. This was getting awkward and I wasn’t sure I was ready to go there again.

“Come on, girlfriend. You, we, need a drink.” He twirled the Glock gunslinger style and staggered off in four inch fuck me black strappy sandals that wound around his lower calves crisscross style. The shoes were new and needed platform soles to balance the walk and suddenly I wondered how the fuck I knew that and what that said about me.

…My own favorite word, beyond a doubt, is an f-word. What’s your favorite f-word? 

Frak <alternatively: frell>

…And what’s your quick, gut reaction to these f-words?

Forbidden: a dare

Frustration: opportunity

Fornicate: plot point

Fractal: can I get a salad with that?

Fake: the whole ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ scene

Flip-flop: what happens when I try to stay within genre constraints

Freak: the new normal

….Erin takes the liberty of inserting one more f-word: Fane!












…Now sell a book. Give us a reason to buy it. Present an excerpt (hot or not, your choice).

The Wrong Side of Right (M/M, BDSM, contemporary): Two men with tortured pasts confront an attraction that cannot be denied.

Excerpt: This encounter sends Tony Mitchell’s world into a downward spiral, releasing truths long buried.


The apron sat on the edge of the sink. Tony glanced down at it, then at the huge hand descending on his damaged wrist, the bruising already purpling over the blue veins. He was no lightweight but the biker out-massed him a good fifty pounds, not a bit of it fat. There was little he could do as the man examined his handy work.

He knew enough to not beg. That had stopped years ago. The fear never went away, though.

The man husked, “Sorry about that, sometimes I forget, ya know?”

No, he didn’t know, but it gave him a moment to take a breath. Sorrys often led to something else, usually punishment because the one being sorry didn’t like that kind of vulnerable, and that kind of vulnerable was him waiting for more, like he earned it. Hell, maybe he did.

He used to fight back but that made it sport because there was seldom just one. They ran in packs, the haters, and loners against a mob never fared well, at least not in his experience. So he’d tried passive, hoping for mercy. Shutting it out until the rage and the hate wore down and they’d made their point.

Looking in the mirror he was surprised to see a flare of compassion in the biker’s eyes, as if the man had gotten inside his head, had been where he was, where he still existed.

Tony muttered, “It’s okay,” though it never would be, but that wasn’t something he’d share with the hulk looming over him, pressing his groin into the hard porcelain, the man’s massive erection hard and stiff and prominent even through the thick leather.

The man turned him around and shoved him back against the sink, fumbling with Tony’s zipper, then his own.

“You ever been raped, boy?”

Turning away, Tony mouthed ‘please’ and tried retreating to his safe house, the one in his mind that blanked out everything hateful and ugly.

The biker’s hands pried him loose from his tentative scrabbling for safety, stroking and plumbing his flesh with determination, and sensation swelled from the inside out, responding and slamming the door against fleeing.

“Well, have you?”

“N-no.” ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

The question terrified him. He had always feared he’d go to his grave a virgin, but the prospect of facing a savage with a cock the size of a semi wasn’t how he dreamed his first time would be. Definitely not when it promised to also be his last.

Tony’s cock betrayed him, growing stiff and thick, dancing against the biker’s huge phallus as the man ground his groin into his belly. The ridge of the porcelain bit into his ass and he reached behind to grip the edges as their cocks tangled and sparred, and he nearly swooned when the biker’s hands pressed both together and pumped hard, fast. Up, down, the beast nearly lifted him off his feet, only to jam him into the floor, his fingers curled around the rough underside of the sink, an anchor in a sea of violence. The grunts and pants and fuck yeah oh that’s good swam in the air like bubbles with words, not tethered to either of them. Just out there.

Tony bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut tight, tighter, until the explosion behind his eyelids lifted him into orbit and he came, hot and sweet, cursing himself to hell and back because he loved it. He hated it.

Later he could not recall cleaning up or wrapping the apron around his waist, hiding most of the wet spots on his jeans and tee shirt. He did remember watching the big man pause at the door and give him a strange look because he had asked, “Have you?”

“Have I what, kid?”

“Been raped.”

“Not anymore.”


About Nya Rawlyns:

Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul. 
It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true.????????????????????????????????????????

Author Central:










4 Responses to “Ac´cent on Nya Rawlyns”

  1. Thanks so much for hosting me, Erin. It’s truly an honor.

  2. Fantastic interview with one of my favorite authors. Great to see the person behind the pen 😉

  3. Great post! I especially love the story behind your pseudonym. Brilliant! I spent weeks agonizing, and went with something that’s difficult to spell and/or pronounce. *shrug*

    I’m off to add to my wish lists. Have a lovely Sunday!

  4. Thanks Sessha and Charley! You two made my day!

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