Off the Clock

As I mentioned in June, I quit ye olde teaching job in favor of not being beat up and getting to write stories of cute guys fucking all day. Props to me. But as Labor Day stares me in the face, I'm getting an odd feeling of being out of time and place. Labor Day has meant the start of a new year to me for a tidy few decades, much more so than January 1. Fall has always been new beginnings, new chances, new clothes and new school supplies. At The Most Awesome Job Ever, all Labor Day means this year is that a book came out, a book is in edits, I have print galleys due and another book due while a trying to keep new characters from trying to escape and take over. All of that is fun (except the print galleys), but they don't have that special connection to this time of year. Still not complaining because, see above, getting to write about guys meeting, fucking and falling in love is absolutely The Most Awesome Job Ever, but it's hard fighting the urge to buy new clothes or a pencil case.

We humans have been coming up with ways to tell time (Stonehenge, New Grange) almost as soon as we could count, so it seems like a pretty basic need to find a rhythm in the cycle of the year. That led me to thinking about finding a similar rhythm in my writing schedule. Does it matter when a book comes out? It seems to me that my books that release in March/April or December/January seem to sell best. May/June is okay. The slowest month for me for new releases seems to be August. Anyone have thoughts on that? Should I beg, borrow and steal to get books to come out December, April...and a month not August to get into a pattern? And how often is good for releases? Every four months? Every six? At what point do readers say, "I forgot she was still writing"?

I may not have semesters to tick off the time for me anymore, but as long as I have the rhythm of write, edit, release, I think I'll be happy living off the clock.

Go Ask Alice

One of the things people who vote for such homophobic amendments as the one that passed in NC often say they're doing it "for the children." I'm here to tell you, it does affect them, but probably not the way those bigots are hoping it will.

My young nieces and nephew were traveling with my parents when a break up song played on the radio and the girls sang along. Zach, six, demanded to know what the song was about.

"It's about a girl who broke up with her boyfriend and she misses him and wants him back," explained his grandmother.

With a dreamy sigh, Ellie, four, said, "I miss my girlfriend." Zach, always pedantic said, "No, no. You're a girl. You can't have a girlfriend. You have to have a boyfriend."

The oldest at eight, Alice said with long-suffering wisdom, "Well, in New York, she can have a girlfriend, but not in Virginia."

Even three years ago, Alice was already a veteran of the culture wars. When she heard about the plans in her state of Virginia (She may have been a tender six at the time. We don't know how she finds this stuff out, but we suspect she surfed the web in the wee hours of the morning.) to strip her aunts of every form of attachment to each other we'd created, health care proxy, life insurance, etc., she was devastated at the thought that her aunts would be "illegal" in her home state. Not only would we be unable to visit her, she reasoned, but we would be taking a huge risk just driving through on our way to someplace else. Poor kid, this really plagued her. The worries kept her up at night. Oh yes, "think of the children."

Alice told her mom she wanted to work against the passage of the law, against the amendment to "make her aunts illegal." She went to meetings. None of this was created or encouraged by the adults in her world. She just couldn't handle the idea that people would be so mean. Despite the efforts of other fair-minded people, Virginia continues to be well, not so much for lovers outside the margins of approved, church sanctioned reproductive ones.

Now at eleven, Alice understands that while the states might seek to limit the rights of her aunts and other loving committed couples, the tide is turning. She worries about our rights, but not that we are "illegal." In fact, the spark of activism, I'm sad to say, seems to have been smothered under cynicism. She now prefers to get her news from Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart. If the people so intent on "protecting children" would talk to Alice, maybe they'd see that all their hatred and fear is doing is creating a generation that will mock their pathetic bigotry with a well-timed eye-roll and a "Seriously?"

The only thing they really want to save is their tiny narrow view of the world. Go ask Alice to explain it to you, haters.

Looking Good

New cover! *pets it* This is the next thing you'll be seeing from me. It's about Dylan, Aaron's (from Collision Course)brother, the loud-mouthed one. The one with a touch of the doth protest too much. I really love the attitude and the eyes that the cover artist did for Dylan there in the foreground. It captures him perfectly. Look for Dylan and Mike to be getting on each other's nerves and turning each other's crank in August. It's available for preorder at Amazon. Now, I'm going back to guys with Bad Attitudes in Baltimore.

In the Eye

Man, I finally made it here. On the right day and everything. Sorry about that guys. I hope you'll think the book I just turned it is worth my missing some blog dates.

I got this really interesting letter from a reader. She asked me about "plain Jane" heroes. I thought about that for awhile, about whether any of my heroes were or ordinary looking whether they all looked like models in my head. The first one who popped to mind was Nate from Bad Company. Nate wears glasses, he worries about love handles. Then I realized that aside from Joey and Aaron in Collision Course, who admittedly get hit on by random "others" with some frequency, maybe none of my heroes are dazzling to the eyes—except to the eyes of the man who falls for them.

As children, most of us think our parents are beautiful. Even after we're exposed to the media and taught what is considered beautiful, most little kids think their mom is the prettiest. If you asked me what I'd change about my wife's appearance, I can tell you "Nothing." Because when I look at her eyes, my stomach flips over. Damn, and I thought the girl of my dreams would have blue eyes, not brown. Still. There she is.

I'm pretty sure it's the same for my characters. The reason why Quinn is so attracted to Eli? Noah to Cameron? Shane to Kim? For no other reason than the man himself. Something about him clicks. You can show me dozens of pictures of people and I'm sure we could all be able to agree on some standard of attractiveness. But put those people in motion, imbue the still faces with personalities, and everything changes. It's no longer about hair or eyes or the symmetry of the features, but the essence of the person, and what captivates us is as unique as the pattern of freckles on a loved one's nose.

My characters may be able to tell you about the guy's sexy mouth or ass, his broad shoulders or beautiful eyes, but if the object of their desire were so objectively hot, why isn't there a line a mile long of guys longing to date him? Why isn't the guy in the modeling business? Maybe sexiness is just as hard to define as obscenity. We know it when we see it. Or touch it. Smell it. Taste it. Oh man, I think the new book feels a sex scene coming on.

You're Spending the Holidays Where?

Hey, here we are. I promised visits from my fellow authors in the Carina Men Under the Mistletoe Anthology today, and they delivered. I decided I wanted them to talk about setting, because for me the setting was the most important part of my story, after the characters, of course. I'll tell you why at the end.

First, from Josh Lanyon, author of Lone Star. First is where Josh usually is in my TBR pile. I love the title. I'm sure Josh would agree with me that if we could just figure out how to write gay vampire/shifter cowboys, we'd be set for life.

I’m not exactly sure why I ended up writing a story set in Texas. I’ve always wanted to write a cowboy romance, but I knew from the start that Lone Star wasn’t it. I guess partly it has to do with that great big emptiness that’s the Lone Star State. I think the best holiday stories address that loneliness, that emptiness we all feel sometimes -- a feeling that’s worse around the holidays. So I decided to write a homecoming holiday story. A story that begins with a chilly arrival -- a star falling out of the heavens -- and which gradually warms up with life and love and a little holiday magic.


The house hadn’t changed much.

Mitch’s footsteps sounded too loud as he walked slowly through the dusty rooms that still smelled of pipe tobacco and, more vaguely, horse liniment. But then it had never been a noisy place. Sometimes he and his old man had gone days without exchanging more than a word or two.

The steamer trunk, draped with a red and black Indian blanket, still sat in the front hall. In the dining room was the heavy old furniture that had once belonged to Mitch’s great-grandmother, including the squat china cabinet full of fragile teacups and saucers that hadn’t been touched in all the years Mitch had lived in that house.

In his father’s room the photograph of Mitch’s mother still perched on the bedside table next to the smaller framed photo of his parents’ wedding. Mitch stared at the neatly made bed with the handmade patchwork quilt. It looked so ordinary it was unsettling. He half expected Dane Evans to walk in and ask him what the hell he was doing in there. Maybe that was why funerals were a good idea.

Ava March's story is setting in a time period I love (and would love to come back to in my own writing): Regency England. I love a pre-Dickens Christmas setting.

In the beginning of My True Love Gave to Me, Alexander and Thomas have recently come from Oxford to spend the holiday season in London, attending social functions and family dinners. Setting plays a significant role in the book and not only because it takes place during the holiday season. During the Regency era, love between men was not just frowned upon but against the law. For Alexander and Thomas to even hold hands, they needed to be very careful about their surroundings.


Reluctantly, he shifted off Thomas’s lap, though he did not move back to the opposite bench. After repairing his clothes and pocketing his gloves from the floorboards, he gave the driver the order to return to Mayfair, to Charles Street, to Thomas’s parents’ house. The scent of sex hung in the air, much too heavy for his father to mistake it for anything but. So he opened the window a bit but left the shade drawn, not willing to lose the intimacy of darkness quite yet.

He settled against Thomas’s side and placed a hand over Thomas’s resting on his thigh. Thomas turned his hand over, gloved fingers sliding between his own bare ones. Such a simple luxury to be able to hold his hand, yet a luxury nonetheless.

Impatient lust sated, and confident in the knowledge he would have Thomas in his arms by dusk tomorrow, he soaked up the unprecedented opportunity to simply be with the man he loved. To rest his head against Thomas’s shoulder and to have his hand in his own without the threat of discovery breathing harsh and heavy down their necks.

There were no words between them. The silence companionable and perfect. The chill evening breeze rustled the shade, letting in glimpses of the golden light from the streetlamps as the carriage wound its way back to Mayfair.


Here are a few thoughts on setting from Harper Fox whose prose leaves me breathless. Sometimes I read one of her sentences and think, "Wow. I should just give up writing because I'm never going to be able to come up with something like that."

I’ll let you in on a secret – Winter Knights started life under a different title, Hallow Hill. I thought about the setting for this one before anything else, and in a way it was going to be – and in a way still is – the star of the show. It’s the first book I’ve ever written set in the place where I live, somewhere I can walk to from my front door. It’s steeped in mystery, bleakly beautiful, and once I got the concept of a cavern beneath the hill I was up and running. It seemed such potent symbol for Gavin’s condition – functional on the outside, hollow underneath, but within that hollow space, enormous potential for magic to happen. It could have gone either way – an empty cavern, or rescue and healing – the hallowed/hollow hill. Here’s a couple of excerpts from my Winter Knights backdrops to give you the flavour...


The climb would be easy. I was almost disappointed. The few inches of snow that had fallen hadn’t concealed the footpath leading up from the road onto the moors. In fact it was clearer than usual, in the cloud-bronze light of the moon. She was high near the zenith, competing with snowflakes and stars for the night sky. Briefly I looked up and tried to meet her weary, ancient gaze. What are we up to now, then, Gavin?

Ma’am, I’m sure I’ve no idea.

No. That wasn’t true. I was off to investigate the possible scene of a relevant local myth. I could see Sewingshields lifting its stupendous hill-flank under the snow. The crags, sharp sheer granite cliffs, were on the far side. This was sill-and-fault country, where intruded bands of igneous rock turned the landscape to a frozen wave-troughed ocean as the sandstone around them eroded away.

**

I knew the roads around here well, but I’d never seen this one. There wasn’t anything strange about it. The valley still stretched out to the south, rocking gently with the Rover’s movement. To the north, if I could be bothered to lift my head, I would see the line of the Wall, the great whinstone plates of the dragon’s crest. We were heading deep into the hills, the road narrowing down to a single track so tight the bare thorn branches tapped and scraped against the windows. I supposed there were lots of far-flung villages I’d never discovered on my travels.

This one was called Drift. I only caught a glimpse of the sign as we passed. Art was driving slowly, feeling out the crunch and slither of ice, hands steady on the wheel, but a mist had gathered. I hadn’t noticed it start. One second the air had been clear, the next we were passing through silver-grey rags, a cobweb that seemed to have woven itself out of starlight. Drift, I thought, after the sign had appeared in the headlights and vanished. Not a bad idea. I closed my eyes.

That brings me to my story, The Christmas Proposition. Now don't get all maudlin on me, but I came up with the idea for the story because I had to travel back to a small town in Pennsylvania for my grandmother's funeral. The town had been radically changed by the hydrofracking industry—including a well right next to our car in the hotel parking lot. I couldn't believe how it had changed since she'd left, since it had always seemed like the land time forgot. I saw some rowdy gas workers at a restaurant (in fact, my wife and I could have been those tired out-of-towners Mel waits on at Skippers) and the plot bunny sank his teeth in and raced away with a story.

The town in the story is fictional. I couldn't find an Epiphany on the map, but I think my grandmother would have loved it—and the reflection of the town where she spent thirty years of her life. She loved my books—though she skipped those scenes, as she told me. (I sincerely hope so.)

Mel, my narrator, has a love/hate relationship with his small town for a variety of reasons. He's deeply rooted and yet longing to leave.

There was still about an hour of daylight, but I stuffed a flashlight in my jacket pocket as I walked to the base of the mountain. We always kept a few unpruned trees up here for the customers who liked their trees with “character.” I pulled some dead weeds from around their trunks as I walked, heading up toward the edge of our property, marked by a low crumbling rock wall. I didn’t know how old it was, only that the valley and mountains were littered with walls like this one. Stones, the most consistent harvest for a Pennsylvania mountain farmer. The wall started near a stream that cut along another edge of our property before meeting up with the Cross Creek that gave our road its name.

There was a little ground cover of snow from the other day. I dusted off the wall and sat down, chucking tiny pine cones and twigs into the stream. It had always fascinated me since Da told me that some of this water would eventually make it all the way out to the ocean and around the world. It was hard to imagine, since the stream stayed pretty much the same. Even when it was swollen in the spring or down to a trickle in a dry summer, there were the same mossy rocks. But I always liked to think of my pine cones being carried all the way out to an ocean I’d never seen. Imagined myself small enough to ride there with one.

Men Under the Mistletoe is available anywhere you usually get your ebooks.

And Bad Boyfriend, where fun sexy things happen to guys in Baltimore is also now for sale.

See you in two weeks.

Monkey Brain

That what I've heard several yoga instructors call it. Not just mine, but the general state of a mind that is leaping from branch to branch of ideas, just to check out a different view. The instructors also mentioned techniques for occupying that monkey brain for improving focus and meditation, but my brain was too busy monkeying around to remember what they said. See, as soon as you say monkey brain to me, I leap from a punchline in the movie Clue (Mrs. Peacock made one fatal error) to the serving of monkey brains in Temple of Doom, to images of them all scampering around in my head, to an infinite bunch of them hammering away at their version of Hamlet. By the time I've sorted through all that, meditation time is over.

All of this is a long way of saying my problems with the wife book and the mistress books is still ongoing, though I'm really getting emotionally attached to Dylan, so much so that I kind of want to slug Aaron for being mean to him. But even as I set the (is it the elephant brain that's focused?) mind on them, there go those monkeys frolicking with plot bunnies in one giant metaphoric orgy of distractions.

In spite of all that, I'm going to grab some focus here and let you know what's coming up. Starting November 15, check my website for a contest I'm running with the three other authors in the Carina Press M/M Holiday Anthology Men Under the Mistletoe, Josh Lanyon, Harper Fox and Ava March. We've got a big prize for our scavenger hunt and will be visiting each other's blogs to do guest posts. The anthology (and the stories separately) release the first week of December. My story "The Christmas Proposition" is very smutty is full of fun for the season. (And yeah, smutty. Exactly how wrong is it that I got the idea for the book while at my grandmother's funeral?)

Then on December 7, you can finally get your hands on Bad Boyfriend, which is about Eli, who was introduced in Bad Company. Eli was an awesome character to write and I think I hooked him up with the right hero. They really steamed my glasses, anyway.

Finally, if anyone missed this awesome post about saying to hell with the monkey brain and all those other excuses for not finishing a book, you have to go read it.

Don't forget the contest beginning November 15.

Juggling Multiple Mistresses

I don't know if I've said this before, but the best metaphor I've ever heard about the book you're writing and the next one is this: "The book you're writing is the wife. The one you wish you were writing is the mistress."

As you may have figured out from the title and my little intro, my writing brain is having a bit of trouble with focus. My time is still heavily devoted to the wife book, but I have three sweet little things tantalizing me with purred promises of how gooooood they will make things. How easy they will be to get into. How they'll do things for me she won't do. Umm. *shakes head* I may have gotten a little metaphorically carried away there. There's even a fourth and fifth one, winking in and out of my line of sight like the shimmer of a mirage. Yeah, carried away again.

I love my wife book. I do. I wouldn't have committed to it, to Dylan and Mike's story, if I didn't. I want to know how it works out. I love hanging with Dylan's sullen attack-first attitude and Mike's ability to make Dylan start to question that attitude. I love that Mike is so smoking hot Dylan can't help himself. Even talking about it makes me regret this time away from them—and get a little weak-kneed.

But damn. Those mistresses.

First, Joey and Aaron appear in the book and if one or the other of them aren't trying to take over every damned scene they're in, they want to tell me about things that don't have any place in this story. Then out of nowhere, this pile of hot-wrong angst downloads in my brain and then keeps popping up to make me put some flesh on those hot-wrong angsty bones. And the more I think about how excited I am about Eli's book coming out in December, the more I want to go back and play in Baltimore with another Bad book.

I've never tried to write two (and start thinking about a third) books at the same time, but I'm not sure I can fight temptation much longer. In the meantime—Yes, dear. I'll get right to it.

(Whispers: Book monogamy sucks.)

To those of you about to NaNo: I salute you. Best wishes with your new wife!

And We're Back

(This post brought to you by The Eastern Shore Tea Company, Red Bull, Diet Coke, and Five Hour Energy Drinks)

Those of you who’ve been with me for a while know that I’m a teacher and that I tend to mark my “new year” by the academic calendar. For some reason, this year I was moved by the changing seasons to start all those resolution-type things in late spring. I think it was the prospect of my second summer off (since writing is starting to pay enough to cover those two months). Whatever it was, I decided that I wasn’t going to start taking better care of myself. I started doing yoga again, started getting massages, started eating better. Then over the summer, I weaned myself off caffeine. Nothing drastic, I still had a soda or an iced tea, or even a hot green or decaf cup, but no more industrial strength brew, three-cup mugs in the morning just so I could open my eyes.

I’d been having trouble sleeping, and I thought it would help. It didn’t. I didn’t make the connection at the time, but my writing brain went off line as well. During August I told myself “You just need to refill the well.” Then I said, “You just need a story you’re excited about.” But despite plenty of ideas, there was nothing but cold dead silence from whatever takes those ideas into workable stories, and worse that same silence from the so noisy imaginary people who yammer in my ear until I get the words down. I hope I never have to live with an atrophied or amputated part, but I think I might know a bit of what that feels like.

Then I got a nice idea, something I’ve wanted to do for a while. I was going to tell the story of one of Aaron’s twin brothers from Collision Course. I had the other hero, finally, and an opening scene. Then nothing again.

Where the hell did all my words go?

I missed blog dates. I hated going on Twitter. I didn’t email my friends.

I had motivation. I had desire. I had an open file and hands on the keyboard. But nothing was hooked up in my brain. I tried everything I knew to work unsticking me before. I asked friends for help. I switched writing locations. I switched from keyboard to notebook to notecards. Nothing. And I was still having trouble falling or staying asleep.

I can’t ever remember a time when it was so quiet in my head. I was scared and miserable. I’ve been stuck, I’ve been so busy that life temporarily drowns out the story flow, but never experienced over a month of silence. Not ever in my life. Finally I said, "I’ve got to get something together for critique and I’m going to have a venti macchiato and I’m going to write."

Halfway through those four shots of espresso, like someone flipped a switch, it was back.

I’m not claiming the words came through me like fire or that it was suddenly easy, but the words were there again, praise the muses. After that, the ideas, the voices started rolling—and I picked up a few of my favorite little addiction enablers at the store.

Now the skeptical part of my brain is telling me that’s a nice rationalization to restart a bad habit, but the relief is too great to listen to it. Hey, if oiling those neural pathways with a few grams of a nice legal substance is what it takes, I’m all for it. I’m just glad it came back—and for a cheap-as-addictions-go cost.

Now excuse me. Dylan’s hero wants a word with me.

Me, Myself and Bryce

The last time I wrote any fiction in first point of view it was way back a century ago. But I was writing a Christmas novella for Carina, and it just came to me that way. I have to say, it really made life easier. No disconnected body parts, no problems with pronoun referents. It wasn’t just syntax, though, it was fun to get in the head of someone as snarky as my hero Mel. My other hero, Bryce, had a different opinion, and he wanted me to share it with you. It’s your floor, Mr. CEO.

You know why she likes writing without my perspective? That way she gets to cast me as arrogant and controlling without me ever having a chance to tell you my side. All you get is Mel, and yeah, I love the guy, but he can have a seriously skewed way of looking at the world. I still don’t know what made him like that. Growing up here, the whole thing with his first boyfriend, his family, what? We all have shit to deal with. It doesn’t mean we get to be a shit.

See, this way, with the point of view, she makes it so I’m the one who’s got to lay it on the line, actually say something about my feelings since you already know what’s going on with Mel. Guess what? I don’t. I’m good, but I’m no mind reader. So yeah, I get to be the one with my balls hanging in the breeze while he makes up his mind.

Let me tell you this, from me, because if nothing else, you can count on me to tell you exactly the way it is. Mel is something special. I thought so the first time, but now I know it. I couldn’t get him out of my head these past two years. So he’s worth the risk. Worth laying it out there. But I swear to God, if he doesn’t make the same effort this time, I’m not sticking around for another knee to the balls. And he can have this whole damned valley to brood in for the rest of his life.

Jeez, Bryce, maybe I should have given you red hair. Bryce and Mel’s story will be available in December and so will Eli’s (from Bad Company.)

Meanwhile, I think all those people who’ve been asking for a little time with Joey and Aaron while I tell the story of one of the twins could be in luck. I’ll keep you posted.

Dream Come True

I've seen a lot of blogs roll by recapping RWA National (the romance writing conference that was held in New York last week), and if I had something else to say, I guess I'd pretty much have a scoop (Can I use that word for a blog? Do people still use that word?) So yeah, I could talk about something else, but then I'd miss the chance to say how absolutely awesome it was meeting readers there.

You see, I've been writing for…a few decades, but only in the last few years have complete strangers been willing to read my work. And not only that, they pay to do it. Then they show up and talk to me about it, which has got to be one of the coolest things going. Because these readers, these actual people, they've met my imaginary friends, the characters that live in my head. And they even want to talk about them. They have opinions about them. Have you ever been dying to introduce one friend to another, just knowing they'll hit it off? And then when they do, you get this incredibly happy gloat going on. Not in a mean way but in a sunny, warm, peace-love-and-harmony kind of way. Or maybe you've finally convinced your friend to watch the TV show that you're in love with, and she falls for those characters, too and now you sit around and talk about them. Yeah, it's kind of like that. Only a hundred times better. Because something that was only real to you is suddenly real in a whole other way. And it's absolute magic.

So to everyone who's stopped by to talk to me about my books or emailed or tweeted, thank you so much. This is even more fun than making sure no one accidentally closed the door on my pet dragon's tail or making sure Touché Turtle had a place to sit at the dinner table.

Readers: you truly make my dreams come true.

Never Can Say Goodbye

I've probably mentioned this before, but I hate saying goodbye to characters. In order to finish my first manuscript (oh so many years ago), I had to trick myself by imagining the sequel. In fact, other than Hot Ticket I've never finished anything that didn't feel make me want to revisit the characters through a sequel or spin off. For Cade and Elliot in Hot Ticket it wasn't that I didn't love them, it was that they felt complete to me.

So while I was wrapping up Bad Company—and thanks to everyone who's given it a shot—I really intended to start working on the sequel to Life, Over Easy, but one of my characters wasn't having it. If you've read Bad Company you won't have to guess who: Eli.

Eli was one of those characters who sprang to life, fully formed and opinionated, from the second I said, "I need a sidekick here." Not only did he try to make all of Bad Company about him, he wouldn't stop poking me about his own book. After I tried to start the Fragments book a couple of times, Eli kept poking, and I told him to go and dig out a hero. As soon as Quinn started talking, I knew my schedule was doomed. Quinn is the perfectly worst hero Eli could have. Exactly what he's always wanted, except...

Bad Boyfriend is scheduled to be released in December.

I don't think I'm done with the Baltimore books. After all Quinn has a very bitter friend who might need his own HEA, and I love the idea of going back there to hang out with Nate and Kellan and Quinn and Eli. (That is if Nate and Quinn are speaking to each other.) I also have a plan for another book set in Jacksonville so I can go back and see Joey and Aaron and Shane and Kim again. For now, provided someone doesn't get too loud, I've got to figure out exactly how scary John's aura-reading is going to get in this second Fragments book. Everyone else, I love you, but please, take a number.

All Aboard

I've had it.

I'm moving.

From now on, I'm living in Fictionworld. Specifically, Genre-Fiction World. Reality sucks. Even when it's not messy, when mean people aren't going blithely on without suffering any consequence for their hubris, it's boring. Who has to fill out all that paperwork—same stuff again, in detail—in fiction? (Unless it's a funny time loop thing). In Genre-Fiction World, however much it things suck for a while, the people I'm rooting for win. The meanies are snarkily handed what' s coming to them, and if it's well-written, the boring parts are all edited out. There's no sitting at traffic lights or waiting through commercials. It's story, all the time.

That's where I need to live. I realized that the two things I like best about my vocations are telling stories (as a writer, duh) and talking about stories as a teacher. It only makes sense to move into the storyworld full time. It'll be like living at Disney World, without so many kids. If Jasper FForde can send Tuesday Next into the Well of Lost Plots, why can't I go too?

In preparation for my move, I only asked for two things for my upcoming birthday: Sims Medieval (so I can create my own fiction kingdom) and a T-shirt with one of my favorite quotes about fiction on it. Ray Bradbury said, "You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." C'mon. Read that again. And if you're not a writer stick the word fiction in there.

Apparently, the meanies are even out for what's in our heads, as if creating stories of people sharing their bodies and finding love was something bad to begin with, but those are the people who've got the problem separating fiction from reality. I'm sure you all saw this nonsense. As a fellow tenth-grade English teacher with twenty-five years of experience who also happens to write racy novels, I say to Judy May "Go, sister. To hell with those vicious dried-up shrews. I hope this epically unethical, so-not-news article lands you on every best seller list."

Is it any wonder it's more fun here in Fictionland? C'mon. Get packing! There's always room for more.

For those of you kind enough to leave some words about Peter on the last blog, I'm sorry I missed those comments. For some reason they didn't show up in my feed while I was on vacation. Peter is an irredeemable dick, but the sneaky arrogant bastard has his reasons and belief in what life should give him. He's never had to face the consequences, so why can't he keep getting away with it. He's been really interesting to write.

Bad, Bad, Bad Man

Let's just pretend I have skills and there's a crude image of a penis here to convey the word giant dick, okay?


I'm off to write smut while standing in lines at Walt Disney World again. This year, I think I'll take Tori's Happy World along with me to make it even more subversively fun.

While I'm there, I'll be working on Bad Boyfriend, which is a spin off from Bad Company. I've written characters who are antagonists before but this time I've created a monster. Based on word from beta readers and critique partners alike Peter is a major dick. In fact, I can't decide what his worst behavior is yet. He has his reasons—narcissistic, selfish, dickish reasons—but I don't think I've ever written anyone like him before. I suppose I'll have to engineer some comeuppance for him by the end, but when I started the story, I actually thought he might be redeemable. Redeemable enough for his own HEA in another book. Let me make it clear. That is off the table, Peter. After the crap you've pulled, you'll be lucky if people don't start hoping you die in a grisly industrial accident.

So you can have a little idea of what I'm talking about, here's a bit of Peter in action.


Excerpt

When Quinn straightened from brushing his teeth, the face in the mirror scared the shit out of him. Christ. I'm my grandfather.

It had been cold in the kitchen while he sat at the table, surfed the internet, and pretended not to listen for Peter's car in the driveway—or for any breaking news involving fires—so he'd thrown on a sweater Peter's mom had given him for Christmas. And now with the off-brand matching luggage set under his eyes, the gray at his temples and the old man brown wool, he looked like his grandfather. After his heart-attack.

No wonder he and Peter hadn't had sex in….

Hell, Peter it's been three and a half months.

Did you fill out some kind of survey? I've worked eight days straight and I'm thirty-six fucking years old. Do you mind if I pass out now?

Yeah, I remember how fucking old you are. Especially since your birthday was the last time I got laid.

So watch porn. You're always on the damned computer anyway.

…add two more weeks to that conversation and it added up to four months. Quinn was starting to wonder if he'd forget how to do it. Maybe he couldn't blame Peter just dropping off to sleep when he came home and found dead grandpa in their bed. Ten years as a fireman's partner could leave anyone with gray hair and worry lines.

He'd thought about an affair—about Peter having an affair—but the checks Peter was bringing home meant he was telling the truth about working all the overtime. And Peter was in such a panic that anyone would find out he was gay that he'd be afraid to go near another man.

Peter's truck growled into the driveway and Quinn dropped his toothbrush in the holder. He was too short on time for a dye job, but at least he could ditch the grandpa sweater.

He traded his sweats and saggy boxers for a close-fitting pair of black briefs and shivered his way under the covers.

He thought about trying to pose, but Peter had always been able to see through Quinn, so he just propped himself up against the pillows and hoped it didn't look like he was in a coffin. Hubert's tags chimed in warning, giving Quinn time for the futile hope that the big St. Bernard mix wouldn't shake his shaggy head and send drool around the room.

Hubert yawned and then Quinn was wiping his cheek from the spray as Hubert shook off sleep and climbed out of his bed, stalking stiff-legged out to meet Peter in the hall.

Peter's keys hit the kitchen table and Hubert's tags jangled as Peter rubbed his head and neck. "How's my old man?"

Hubert whined and after a satisfied sounding yawn, made his slow way back to bed.

Peter slammed around in the kitchen for a few more minutes, leaving Quinn to wonder if this was a beer or orange juice before bed kind of night. Beer meant on the couch for TV, ignoring the bedroom, orange juice meant he might come to bed in a few minutes. Quinn heard him in the hall.

"Hey. You're still up."

Something was different about the man Quinn had lived with for ten years, like he'd shrugged off something that had been hanging on him for weeks—months—maybe this whole past year. It was in the broad shoulders, the steady hazel eyes, the way he stood straight in the door of the bedroom and offered Quinn the first smile he'd seen in who knew how long.

"You're home early."

"Lupi's back from his suspension. We can finally stop covering for his ass."

"Shit. I was counting on those big paychecks so I could run off to Vegas."

"Yeah. Right. Like I can see you dropping something bigger than a nickel in a slot machine." Peter pulled off his shirt, reaching over his head, arms crossed dragging the material up from behind. Something about the familiarity of that quirk eased the ache Quinn had been wearing under his scalp for so long he didn't notice it until it was gone.

Peter was back. And they were going to be okay. The weirdness was gone, just one of those bumps in the long, long road.

"Hey, I can spend someone else's money no problem. And it's not like you'd even notice I was gone." He said it lightly, but Peter looked up from where he was folding his pants across a chair, lips twisted in a grimace.

"Sorry." Quinn said quickly.

Peter stared at him until Quinn wondered if they were back to the land of weird. Then Peter's face relaxed, like he'd made up his mind not to get all pissed off again. "Not tonight, okay?"

Quinn's throat went dry. "Got something else in mind?"

For a big guy, Peter could move fast and quietly—maybe he snuck up on fires. He had a hand on Quinn's ankle, yanking him toward the edge of the bed. "Yeah. Get your slut panties off so I can suck your cock."

(Ahem. Sex ensues.)

Quinn was on his second cup of coffee, Hubert keeping his feet warm under the kitchen table when Peter came in with a cardboard box in his hands, wearing sweats and a purposeful expression.

"Jesus." Peter jumped. "I thought you'd be at work."

"It's winter break. We have the week off."

"Right. I forgot." Peter slid the box onto a counter.

Quinn gestured at the box with his coffee cup. "Early spring cleaning?"

"Not really. Shit. I can't believe I forgot about winter break."

"It's okay. I figured you'd be working. I didn't have plans." The last time they'd had vacation time together had been…three years ago.

"Quinn." Peter sat down clutching at the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

The coffee was barely warm, but the sip Quinn had just taken burned all the way down his throat. Tension strung rusty wire through his neck, under his scalp, warning prickles erupting on the skin.

"What?"

Peter's face got still and calm. Did he use that face when he was keeping people from running back into a burning building after someone they loved? Quinn had a sudden premonition that he was about to know what that desperation felt like.

"I've been dealing with some stuff."

"I noticed." A preliminary skirmish, no casualties.

"I've been with other people. Not a lot. Just sometimes."

"Okay." Quinn managed to keep that word even, despite the flare of panic. Christ, how many? Were you safe? When the hell did you manage that in your double shifts?

"Do you remember the Christmas party? When I asked you to come get me?"

Cops and firemen and paramedics drinking. Together. God help the innocent bystanders. "Yeah, some guy met me in the bar and told me they were going to get you home later."

"Yeah. That was one of those times. And..."

So it was possible for one breath to last a lifetime.

Peter couldn't even look at him. "She's pregnant," he finished.

Quinn knew there weren't too many different ways to interpret that, but he heard himself stupidly ask, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I had sex with a woman eight weeks ago and she's pregnant. And before you ask, yes it's mine and no I wasn't too drunk to know what I was doing. She's going to keep it and—that's what I want. We're going to get married."

Married. Quinn heard himself repeat the word but it sounded far away.

"This—" Peter made a vague gesture that was supposed to cover ten years of sharing an apartment, a home, a dog, a life together. "It's never been all I wanted."

"We could—" But Quinn stopped himself before he finished it. We could do it together? The three of them? Did he even want to suggest it?

Peter shook his head. "I'm going to marry her. She's—it wasn't something she was expecting either, but I need to do this."

"And the fact that you also need a dick up your ass or down your throat when you want to really get off? Is that something she can expect?"

"I don't—I'm not gay, Quinn."

"You've been faking it pretty good for ten years. And it's not like I made a pass at you at your brother's birthday party all those years ago."

"You're the only guy I've ever fucked. And I was married before."
"Yeah, to Stacy, I remember. All two months of your marriage. After you jerked me off at your brother's party."

"You knew what you were getting into."

"And I'm to blame for not saying to hell with your closeted ass?"

"No one's to blame." Peter looked down.

"Yes, someone is: you."

Peter pushed away from the table. "I never made you any promises."

"Living together for ten years is a fucking promise, Peter."

"You were still on active duty for four of it." Face implacable, Peter leaned back against the counter with his arms across his chest.

Quinn itched to get that look off his lover's face. "I'm confused. That wasn't you begging me to come in your ass last night?"

Peter's gaze was steady, like Quinn was the irrational one in this conversation. Not irrational, just clueless. Months of Peter pushing him away, spending all his time at work, coming home last night acting like he'd finally figured something out. Leave out the sex and it almost made sense.

When Quinn didn't get an answer, he said, "Then what was last night about?"

"I wanted to give you a nice good-bye." Peter turned away and opened a cabinet. "I'm just going to take the stuff my mom gave me."

Gave us, Quinn wanted to point out, but he stared at the box on the counter as another horrible realization pierced his brain. "So when I came home from work, you were going to be packed and gone?" Did his voice break? Did he care?

"Yeah, but I was going to talk to you."

"Why bother? I'm sure a note would have covered it."

"Don't get—"

Quinn shoved the table away and stalked over to box Peter against the counter. "Dear Quinn, The last ten years were a mistake. I'm straight. Except when we fuck. Later, Peter."

Peter shoved Quinn away.

"You don't have to marry her to be the kid's dad." Quinn wanted to pin the son of a bitch against the counter again, but he was afraid that would lead to one of them taking a swing.

"Yes, I do. He deserves better than that."

"Than what? A father who's so ashamed of himself he wraps himself in a lie?"

"It's not a lie." Peter's face flushed. "My dick got hard. I came. You're the one who's having trouble with the facts."

"And what facts are you going to share with her? Are you going to tell her who's been getting your dick hard for the past ten years?"

"No. She doesn't have anything to do with that. I'm not asking her what she's been doing either."

"Maybe I owe her a warning. I hate to think of her waking up to this same shit ten years from now—with a kid to think about too. Don't worry. I'll be sure to explain how not gay our relationship was."

There it was. An honest emotion on Peter's face. But it wasn't love or sorrow. It was fear. "Don't. Please, Quinn, don't. I know—I know I'm hurting you but don't do that to me. You can't tell anyone."

"You know how I love it when you beg." The words felt like he was swallowing dirt, clumps falling cold and dry into his stomach.

"Quinn."

"I'm not going to say anything. Ten years is a hard habit to break."

"Thank you." Peter went back to taking dishes out of the cabinet.

"But I gotta say, if you're trying to pass, you might want to try harder. I don't think many straight guys pack their stoneware before they walk out."

"I moved some clothes last week."

Last week."Where?"

"I know we've got another month on the lease, but I found a place that will take dogs."

Quinn couldn't even make his mouth form a word. His body snapped at attention, braced for whatever abuse was coming his way as the commandant looked for some kind of weakness in his eyes. He must have made some kind of sound, because Peter turned around.

"He's my dog."

Quinn knew that. And he could remember dress whites covered in dog hair, chewed shoes and endless drool. But he was the one who fed him and took him to the vet when Peter was working.

Quinn started for Peter. Maybe to punch him, maybe to kiss him, one argument no better than the other, but after the first step the floor turned to quicksand. What had ever happened in his life to make Quinn think that this was safe, that this would last? He fucking knew better than that.

His hands closed on the box instead of Peter. The box made a satisfying crunch as it hit the wall, and Quinn stepped over the pieces as he left.


(And that may be the least of Peter's sins so far.)

Ahem.

Hey!

We used to have this cute song at summer camp that we sang before announcements, but it's the kind of thing that's mostly only cute at summer camp and even if I was tech savvy enough to imbed a recording of me singing it, my voice would make you all flee before I could get to the announcements.

First of all, for anyone in the capital area of Albany, NY I'm going to be at the NY Library Association's Book Festival at the Empire State Plaza in Albany this Saturday (April 2). This link takes you to the website and a little map. It's open to the public and free to attend, and there will be lots of stuff there for book lovers. I recommend parking in the underground garage (it's worth the $5) Leave yourself some extra time, because although it's easy to get to, the Plaza was designed in the age when we wanted everything to look so symmetrical it's disorienting once you're out of the car. Did we pass that modern art painting before?

In addition to the total coolness of seeing me—and many more famous authors—there are panels on many topics. I'm involved in one called "Writing Under the Covers" which is scheduled at 12:45 so feel free to show up and ask me embarrassing or interesting questions.

And for the very shiny news: My June release has a gorgeous cover.
That's Kellan in front and Nate in back. Best of all, after you fall in love with them in Bad Company you'll get to hang out with them—and their friend Eli in Bad Boyfriend which will release in December. I love these books and can't wait to share them with everyone. They've been a lot of fun to write. Okay, I'm back to torturing Quinn so Eli can make it up to him. Hope to see you Saturday.

Thank You Very Much

When I think about the past couple of years I want to burst into that song from the Albert Finney version of Scrooge, heavy on the "That's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me." I tend to be a bit sarcastic and snarky (You? Never I hear you say) but expressing gratitude is an important part of feeling good no matter what your spiritual-emotional path.

I announced my career intention as authoress (yes, I was keen on gender differentiation in words) at the age of six. It took me longer than I expected to reach that, but now I can say that I can support myself with my writing. I haven't quit my day job, because my wife would kill me and live on the insurance, but if I had to, I could be simply an authoress. It is mind-blowing and humbling because one of the things I couldn't grasp at the age of six is that to be an author who made a living one had to also have readers. Readers who were willing to pay real money (not Monopoly money) for the opportunity to be dragged into my imagination. To believe that people are willing to do that takes incredible chutzpah. To actually see it happen can leave a girl awestruck.

I am living my dream. And I couldn't be here without readers. And if I'm really slow on answering an email (or if you sent me one and it's floating in cyberspace) please know that I am profoundly and humbly grateful for your willingness to come with me as I tell you a story.

Quoting the songwriter again, "I would simply like to say, Thank you very, very, very much."

I'd love to express my gratitude in person if you happen to be near central New Jersey. I'm participating in the Book Fair at the Liberty States conference. It's from 5:30 to 7:30 at the Renaissance Woodbridge Hotel in Iselin, NJ. For more details, stop over here. Do not feel like you have to buy books there (though it's nice ;) especially if you've

No Wonder He's Having So Much Trouble With It

As I believe I have mentioned, video/image skills, I have them not. But in this absolutely fabulous, one-of-the-all-time best movies Rear Window is a great snippet of dialogue that often plays in my head. I tried to embed it and failed, so the link is here. link The dialogue is at 9:00 to 9:30. If you don't have the patience for that, it's like this.

Lisa (dreamily): There's that song again. Where does a man get inspiration to write a song like that.

Jeff (dryly): He gets it from the landlady once a month.

I do get that question from wonderful concerned friends and subtle saboteurs alike. How do you keep writing? Aren't you afraid you'll run out of ideas? Where do you find the time?

It is both of sides of the coin in that dialogue: the dreams and the dry, romance and practicality. I get the wonderful booster shots from the powers of creation that gift me with a flow. On days when those powers have other places to be and my fingers are halting and painfully slow at the keyboard, I remind myself that I'm in a business.

I love writing stories. It's my passion, but I've gone part time at my day job (Whoo and a whole lot a Hoo!) and the desire to be sheltered and fed and hopefully solvent is an equally strong inspiration.

When my imaginary friends are pissed off enough to not be speaking to me, I have to go to plans B, C, and sometimes as far as AaPrime to haul the words out of my brain, but as far as inspiration goes, there's nothing like the sheer panic of working with a much smaller net.

Earlier in the film, the characters talk about the same song and songwriter.

Lisa: Where's that beautiful music coming from.

Jeff: There's a songwriter over there in that apartment. Lives alone. Probably had a very unhappy marriage.

Lisa: It's enchanting. It's almost as if it were being written especially for us.

Jeff: No wonder he's having so much trouble with it.

We Are Hereby Resolved

Happy New Year, everyone!
I had a lot of fun making New Year's Resolutions for my characters last year. They're easier for me to keep and besides, my characters are so much more fun than I am. So here goes with some new ones.

Not Knowing Jack
Jack: *coughs* Honesty is the best policy.
Tony: Laundry. Swear. I'm going to get to it. Soon. Ish.

Bad Company (Coming June 7)
Nate: It's all right to sometimes be—be—wr—wr—
Kellan: The word is wrong, Nate.
Nate: I knew that.

WIP (Fragments 2)
Simon: What Nate said, kind of.
Tyler: *eye roll* Hey, who's that hottie over there?

Me? This is my theme song for the year. And hopefully all the years to come because life is fun.
And considering this conversation Josh Lanyon and I were having, I'm working on not saying to myself if I had a dollar for every time someone asked me why I don't try to write and sell mainstream romance or fiction (and five dollars for everyone who asks it a second, third and fourth time). I know they mean well (as in I don't get this gay romance thing and isn't it a little smutty?) but I am, to quote the esteemed Freddy Mercury as above, "Having such a good time, I'm having a ball."

New and Old

Oooo, look. Shiny new print book. I think that may be my favorite cover so far. There’s something about the 3D effect. And hey, check out that name with mine on the cover. I was thrilled to be included in an anthology with Josh Lanyon. I love his voice. His story "The Dickens With Love" is a really fun read, and I highly recommend it (either in the print or separately in digital).

My story is the historical Christmas novella that came out last December, “An Improper Holiday.” It’s funny that it wasn’t until my sixth published work that I sold a historical. When I started trying to make a living at writing, I always thought that I would write historical romance. After all, it was my first love as a romance reader. I went right from The Black Stallion and Trixie Belden to Shanna. As far as my published work goes, I think it’s my best piece of writing, maybe because I wrote the first draft of it twenty years ago, never imagining it would ever find a market. Twenty years is a nice long time to get the revisions done! That early draft was full of overblown prose and sappy declarations, but I loved the structure and the characters: a twelve-day house party, a wounded veteran with issues, and the holiday traditions of another time.

No one could be happier than I am to see Nicky and Ian’s love story make it to the page after all these years. I have a few other old gay historicals hanging around in my drawers—my file drawers, thank you very much. I think maybe Deverell and Ethan are due to be dusted off and spruced up.

Loose Bunny

K.A.'s been working really hard. She kind of passed out a while ago, so I'm grabbing the blog space. Who am I? I don't even have a name yet, if you want to know the truth. And from looking around here, I really don't belong. You see, I'm not gay, all right? Not that there's anything wrong with that, but if she thinks being in one of her books is going to change that she's bat shit crazier than usual.

Yeah so, everybody experiments when they're younger, but since then? No way. I've had lots of girlfriends, and I know what I like, thank you very much. When I first found myself here, I tried to tell myself it was all fine. I know who I am, and she doesn't do gay-for-you stories. But now, I'm getting kind of nervous.

Look, it's just a thing. I just need to ride this out for six months, six months and then I'm free. Free like I'll have more money than even I can spend. If getting that money means I've got to spend those six months with him, it's all good. I mean it's not like he's a troll or something. He's—well, sometimes he's almost—not pretty but—shit. It's hard to explain unless you've met him. There's this thing he does with his with his thumb and his lips when he thinks nobody's looking—not that I've been looking. If he caught me looking, he'd laugh his tight little ass off—not that I've noticed that either.

The money, right. Lots and lots of money. You know who else likes money? Chicks. Hot women with soft bodies and the right kind of curves. And that's all I've got to say about it. Except for that thing about his eyes.

RWA Time!

On Tuesday, I'll be heading down to Orlando, Florida for this year's RWA. Yay! I'm excited to hang out with my critique partners J.L. Langley, Kimberly Gardner and Jade Buchanan, and meet all the other authors. I'm also really looking forward to meeting a whole bunch of readers at the Literacy Autographing on Wednesday afternoon, July 28th. Anyone who's in the area, come on out and see me! K.A. Mitchell's gonna be there too *g* And Suz Brockmann!! I'm already planning my fangirl squee over her. LOL.

I'm bringing my hubby's camera. Hopefully I'll remember to actually take pictures...