7's Up

I'm always looking for something to write about that won't bore a reader to sad little reader pieces and Josephine Myles on Facebook tagged me for this. While I'm still trying to figure out how Facebook works, anyone stopping by here gets the benefit. 

What it is is seven lines from the seventh page of your current work in progress, then you tag seven other authors. (Um, Slash & Burn authors, consider yourself tagged!) 

So here's my seven lines from the seventh page of a historical that has seized my brain and won't let me work on what I'd been planning. I'm calling it Dead to Me right now. 

It takes place in 1896 in Cornwall. 

I disembarked at the Looe station in the early evening. The air was warm, scented with thick growth and cleansed by the sea. My blackened London lungs immediately rebelled in a violent cough, the hacking echoing through my rattled and aching bones.

The last stretch of track had been laid without regard for safety or comfort, either clinging to  cliff face on a steep incline or traversing a spit of land in salty marsh. I’d done far too much clinging to the hard wooden seat back in my third class carriage, damn Fred to the ninth circle of hell with the other traitors. It had been far too easy to become accustomed to a life of finer things and small luxuries such as clean linen and soft seating.

Informercial voice: But wait, there's more. 

Here's what I thought I'd be working on. Feel free to chime in with opinions and make my manuscript ADD settle. This is seven from page seven of the next Baltimore book, Bad Habit. 

Silver looked back at Marco, who, yeah, Silver had dragged up to Mount Washington. What a fucking time for Silver’s conscience to come back from the dead. He ran down the driveway.

It was easy enough to find the tools in the freakishly neat garage. Remembering how his father had never been happy when he sent Silver for tools, he came back with the wrench and three different-sized screwdrivers which he shoved into the arrogant asshole's hands before backing away.

Though Silver was fuck-all certain the only time Gavin looked under a car’s hood was in a gleaming showroom, the two older guys got cozy and flirty over the engine. It was all Silver could do to not roll his eyes.

The Brain of Morbius

Congrats to anyone who recognized that as the title of a Doctor Who episode from the Tom Baker era. You win many, many geek points and a fangirl high-five from me. Doctor Who doesn't have anything to do with my post, but when I was thinking about a title to go with my evil brain theme, that's what my geek brain came up with.

Yes, my brain is evil. Sadistically cruel. It wants me to suffer. You see, I've been writing this fun series set in Baltimore. The third book comes out in April and I love it to pieces. (For those of you wondering it's about Quinn's friend Jamie. If anyone was worried, Peter isn't in it.) But to return to my evil brain issues, while I was writing Bad Attitude, my story brain birthed an awesome plot bunny for the fourth book...or so I thought. (Cue melodramatic incidental music.)

Basically, number four, which has the working title of Bad Habit (no, no nuns, and no Peter. He doesn't deserve an HEA.), is about Silver, Eli's tall blond friend. Apparently, my brain decided that I'd been having way too much fun with the previous three books and decided to give me a conflict that would be a almost impossible to resolve. I came up with an idea for a reunion romance and let me tell you, there's a serious reason it didn't work the first time. Wrongs on both sides. It sounded awesome. Just the kind of thing to use as a carrot to urge me to finish Bad Attitude. Delighted, I dove in to book number four.

And found out someone drained all the water from the pool.

Ow ow ow.

Sadistic brain. It's up there laughing at me while I am bleeding on the bottom of the drained pool.

Damn. Great idea in theory but this sucker is hard to write. Like Regularly Scheduled Life hard. But just like with that book, when I try to put it aside to focus on something else that might come out a little faster than a sentence every hour, my brain goes right back to that idea. It won't let it go. And that's why I say it's evil. I mean, don't I give it a happy playground full of imaginary friends? How could it do this to me? Why does it want me to suffer?

Maybe I should take a cue from another Fourth Doctor episode, be reduced to virus size and injected into my brain so that I can tame the evil lurking in my head that wants to make me tell this story. Or at least force it to tell it faster.

And for the Whovians who stayed with me, yes, that one is The Invisible Enemy. And if you know which companion was introduced in that episode, you win all the geek points and why aren't we friends already?

You Show Me Yours....

People who get their Christmas shopping done early really piss me off. Not because they then can lord it over stupid idiots like me who are still remembering who they forgot to buy for on December 26, but because it means that every year that dreaded question starts earlier and earlier.

“So,” someone pins me with a look sometime before freaking Halloween, “Christmas list time. What do you want?”

It’s not that I don’t like presents because I totally do, and the idea that I can make a list of stuff I want and have some expectation of receiving has been pretty damned cool ever since I first picked up crayon and put it to paper to clue Santa in on my deepest desires.

Errr, sometimes being an erotica author has unintended consequences requiring brain bleach.

Okay, where was I? Yeah, so around this time of year, people start asking other people all that same question. I decided to have a little fun with the deepest desires part of making lists, and wrote a novella called Wish List which is coming out from Carina Press on December 3 as part of the Red Hot Holiday anthology. In it, my hero Jonah finds a really unexpected gift that send him scrambling to find out what he really wants from his boyfriend Evan. It’s me, so I don’t think I’ll be ruining the surprise to say that much kinky sex ensues as a result of Jonah’s list.

But that’s not the only thing I wanted to tell you about. I am nothing if not a shameless briber—um generous giver of gifts. There’s a 12 Days of Christmas Blog going on at the USA Today Happy Ever After Blog where you can win some awesome prizes from me or one of eleven other authors with holiday romances hitting or heating up your ereaders, like Jill Shalvis and Molly O’Keefe and Leah Braemel and Anne Calhoun. My blog and prize will be going up this Friday, November 9. Then after that, you can enter to win my corresponding gift (five golden rings equals $50 in gift cards at an e retailer) at my website. The contest runs through November 25 so keep stopping by to check out the other writers who are participating.

So...what’s on your Wish List? 

Clogged Filters

In one of my favorite movie’s Desk Set, Katherine Hepburn’s Bunny is given an “intelligence test” by Spencer Tracy’s Richard Sumner. One of the questions is “Often when we meet a person something in particular strikes us: hands, eyes and so on. What do you notice?” With the perfect touch of suggesting that it’s a stupid question, Bunny answers “Whether the person is male or female.”

Throughout the rest of the test, Bunny’s flexible thinking, that she “associates many things with many things” surprises the analytic Sumner. As a film about the early days of computers, it’s a bit dated, but as a character study? As a way of examining how two very smart people can have a great deal of difficulty communicating, it’s a work of art.

When I’m working with characters, like the ones that are giving me fits at the moment, I try to keep make sure that their lack of effective communication is due to their own filters for the world and not just plain stupidity. (Though a character’s stubbornness can definitely make his filter look like stupidity, I must say.)

Those filters affect everything about my stories, including the level of convincing the character will need to make their happy ending work. In the end of Desk Set the computer that created their conflict allows Sumner finally away to make his feelings clear to Bunny. I hope the ending I’ve come up with for Gavin and Jamie will be equally satisfying. 

Local Flavor

I was feeling the need to go back to Baltimore, fictionally, and fortunately I live close enough to that charming city to drive down for a weekend so I could get more of a feel for it in person.

Google maps are awesome, but there's nothing like actually driving on the same street as your characters might or seeing the textures and colors of buildings, the kinds of trees, and the patterns of light, of breathing in the smells and learning some of the sounds. I'm not an overly descriptive writer (mostly because as a reader I tend to skip those parts in favor of dialogue, plot angst and all right, smut) so I know I'll probably never use everything I soak up in person. I'm fortunate in that every story I've written I've been to the place or have a reader or friend I can call on to make sure I'm not messing things up. Errr, except Regency England. Never been there, okay? Don't know anyone personally who has, either.

Since I'm feeling the need to return fictionally to Baltimore, and I only live a few hours away by car, I took myself down to that charming city for a weekend to fill my head with some more details and local tastes. It doesn't get much more local in taste than these. Berger's cookies. Nate hoarded them and sublimated with them in Bad Company. I'm sure Eli and Quinn have tasted them too. Would you freaking look at the fudgy frosting on these things? They have to make it into another book.

Another thing about acquiring local flavor is the chance to meet local readers. @jmc_bks on Twitter was kind enough to steer me in some directions, and to also first alert me to the wonder that is these Berger cookies and tell me where an addict could find some more. Apparently, there is a grocery store called Harris Teeter. I guess it's no less silly than shopping at a WaWa. Knowing those local names and flavors are the kind of details a writer needs to make the setting come alive for the reader.

Excuse me, but the rest of that Berger cookie is calling my name.

Never Tell Your Boyfriend Your New Year's Resolutions

Last round for the year!

Bad Company
Nate: I will—
Kellan: Hey babe, do you want more paper?
Nate: You're lucky you're so adorable.
Kellan: It's true. I am.

Bad Boyfriend

Eli: Remind me again why I said I'd stop complaining about living in here in the suburbs.
Quinn: Because this also lives here. (Grabs his hand.)
Eli: Now I remember.

Don’t Tell Your Boyfriend Your New Year’s Resolutions (Part II)

I did this a few books back and now I have new characters who want to play.

No Souvenirs

Shane: Convince Jay to bottom just once.
Kim: Not going to happen. However, considering the autocracy of that…position, I supposed I could see where an agreement to get that need met elsewhere would be acceptable.
Shane: Gee. Way to take the fun out of it, Jay. Would you even give a shit?
Kim: I didn’t say I would want to hear the details.
Shane: Hmph.
Kim: Threeway?
Shane: Did I ever tell you how sexy your brain is?

Life, Over Easy

Simon and Tyler: Get K.A. off her ass and get her to write our damned book.
Mason and John: You? Get in line. She didn’t exactly leave us on solid ground.
K.A.: The four of you could actually give me more to work with.
Simon, Tyler, Mason and John: That’s your job, lady.

Not Knowing Jack

Tony: 1.Do laundry more than once a week.
2. Keep a straight face while telling Brandon about the dangers of drinking and drugs.
3. Do not buy every single thing that I think would look cute on Sarah.
4. Try to sell Bravo a Desperate Gay Househusbands: Amherst reality show.
Jack: What are you mumbling?
Tony: My New Year’s resolutions.
Jack: Most people write them down.
Tony: Can’t risk them falling into the wrong hands.
Jack: Because then you’d be accountable?
Tony: Bite me. What are yours?
Jack: Number one: give more head. Num--
Tony: Fuck writing it down. Engrave it in stone, lock the door and get the hell over here.

Hmmm. I think I can milk this for another post! I’ll do the bad Baltimore boys next time.

A Little Something Underneath the Tree

I want to put sparkling lights and ribbons on everything right now!

I'm so thrilled about the reception readers gave Eli and Quinn. Thanks so much. I really had fun with that story. I'm sure I'll be back to Baltimore soon. Jamie—for all his commitment phobic ways—is just waiting for me to come up with the right man to prove him wrong. And I'm thinking that Eli and Quinn might want to tell me how their spending this first holiday together—without the drama of the Laurents messing things up.

Mel and Bryce seemed to amuse people too. It was a lot of fun writing in first person—especially for a character as sarcastic as Mel. As much as I tried to crack Bryce's noggin, it didn't seem to work. I understood him, but couldn't make him talk to me—except through divas of disco.

So since everything is so bright and shiny, I want to leave you a few presents. These are three videos that have made my days brighter. I can't embed them, because I lack the skills, but I promise they're worth a click. Only number three is NSFW.

First up, this was so sweet it brought tears to my eyes. (And a plot bunny to nibble on my brain.) I spotted it at Towelroad, a great blog for gay news and media.

Then this might not be as coy and playful as when Kurt and Blaine sang it on Glee but I loved both their voices and the more grown-up vibe in their version.

Finally, if you haven't discovered Jonny McGovern, you're missing out on some fun. This is his latest song and video. Not only are the lyrics definitely NSFW, I warn you that the song can be an earworm. Yeah, go ahead and start singing "Dickmatized" while finishing up the shopping at K-mart. That should at least get you through some traffic.

I hope everyone's year is ending with light and love. And maybe I'll have a little piece of fic here for you when I'm back in two weeks.

In Which I Mention Pie As Often As Possible

Hey, it's that Wednesday before Thanksgiving again when I'm supposed to blog. Before I get to that, I have an announcement.
CONTEST!
If you haven't already visited my website (or one of the others participating) to join in the Men Under the Mistletoe Scavenger Hunt, you still have time. All you have to do is read the excerpts (hey, good m/m fic is what we love around here, right?) answer a few questions on the entry form and you could win $100 USD gift card to the ebook retailer of your choice. You can buy a Kindle for that!Or pie.

Check back here on the Slash and Burn blog December 7 for a visit from all the authors in the anthology, Josh Lanyon, Harper Fox, Ava March and me.

So yeah, in the US it's Thanksgiving. Or as comedian Lewis Black calls it, Christmas Halftime. (between Halloween and Christmas). I have mixed feelings about Thanksgiving. There's all that pressure on eating and family (like none of us have issues there) and there the whole celebration of eating one particular animal and the bizarre ritual pardoning of one. I think I like the way Anya describes it in "Pangs" (the Buffy Thanksgiving episode from season four), "In order to commemorate a past event, you kill and eat an animal. It's a ritual sacrifice. With pie."

I do have a Thanksgiving scene in Regularly Scheduled Life (oh the family stress) and one in Bad Boyfriend which you can read for yourself on December 6, but that's toward the end of the book, so I can't really excerpt it (though it does mention pie).

Despite all my mixed feelings about Thanksgiving, I never have a problem with stopping to be grateful for what I have. In no particular order, this is what I've been grateful for in the four and a half hours I've been conscious today.

Readers
Hey, if I didn't have readers, no one would be over here bothering to read what I'm thankful for anyway. Thank you so much for liking the stories I tell.

Editors
If my editors weren't awesome, I wouldn't have readers. (See above)

My wife

The fact that I can call the woman I've been in love with for twenty-five years my wife and it means something in our home state of New York

Writer friends
Man. Writing is a lonely slog. Having people who get your brand of insanity helps a lot.

Friends who aren't writers
Sometimes it's good to talk to people who aren't all wrapped up in your tiny little fictional world. Perspective is a good thing.

Twitter
How I get a good fix of those friends.

Life
A pain-free, functioning body and mind and the current ability to afford to keep it that way

Tea
*insert a choir back up as I speak that word with reverence*

That totally awesome Buffy Thanksgiving episode "Pangs" which I watch while I bake pies to take to my parents

Parents who are not only cool with but proud of a lesbian daughter who writes gay erotica (as long as she brings the Snickers pie)

I'm going to go be grateful for some more tea now. I've got more words to write and pies to bake. Oh, and one more thing:

Thanks for reading.

That Old Familiar Feeling

This post should be coming to you from my beach vacation, but Irene had other plans. I've been determined to stick to my plans to do some reading and refill the well, so to speak. But since I'm home, today my eyes wandered over to my keeper shelf. Not just the keeper bookcase, but the shelf—actually part of my bed's headboard that has a few of the books that I go back to because I love them and I'm also trying to figure out how the hell the author did that.




One thing these special-shelf books have in common is that they aren't romance. I love romance, but the thing I love best about these books wouldn't work in something sticking to reader expectations for romance—unless it was a multi-book series and you were going to keep the couple apart for a book at least. The thing that makes these books so special is that either a quarter or a halfway through them, the main character loses everything. Not just a plot thing, or a relationship thing, but their very core of existence. For most, suicide would be a step up but they can't even reach that. This isn't a black moment thing, it goes deeper and every time I reread the books, I feel that awful, amazing twist in my gut. Actually, I think the first time I got to p. 70 of Memory by Lois McMaster Bujold, I gave some consideration to throwing up so hard was the gut punch she delivered to the character.



I do like to torture my characters. I like my stories to be emotional, but to be as cruel as some of these authors are, to rip out the very foundation of the character's existence and still ride through another two hundred pages to a satisfactory ending—if not an HEA—is something I shake at the idea of doing to my own imaginary friends. I'm not exactly sure that they wouldn't run off and leave me spluttering, unable to tell the rest of the story.



One of those books, The Catch Trap by Marion Zimmer Bradley, is about a male/male relationship and is finally available for Kindle and probably other digital formats. If you haven't already had the pleasure (and I know I've mentioned the book here at least once a year) I recommend that you take that exquisitely painful plunge and then tell me if you like having your guts ripped out like I do. I just like to have it done by authors who I know will put them back in and seal me back up by the end. Any recs?

Ten Five Things

I'm two scenes from finishing Bad Boyfriend, the sequel to Bad Company which comes out next month, and my brain is shot for blog ideaa, so I'm stealing a popular meme. I was going to list ten things you might not know about me, but I'm pretty boring so I kept it at five.

I love roller coasters, but I'm terrified and dizzied by heights.

I've been a vegetarian almost all my life, and the toughest demand I make on my imagination is writing believably about a character enjoying the smells and tastes of food I find gross.

As much as I love words, I'm a terrible Scrabble player.

If I could be any animal I'd be an otter, but I think the cutest animal on the planet is a baby sloth.

I never believed we'd have flying cars in the twenty-first century, but I did think we would be able to surgically implant gills in people. (I still want to sign up for that.)

And Now For Something Completely Similar

I always worry when I get an email from a reader telling me they've just discovered me and are devouring my backlist. Not because I don't like hearing from readers. It's like crack. I can't get enough and an email from a reader always makes my day. And I'm certainly not complaining about picking up some backlist sales because this writing career thing is also awesome. (I'm going to get a monthly check just for making stuff up and writing it down? Whoo-hoo!) What worries me is that the reader is going to put down the third or fifth or tenth book (figuratively if they're reading on a desktop, of course) and say, "Huh. Déjà vu."

I know that writers have themes that they like to explore. Sibling-parental issues, redemption, and reunions (guilty!) are just as common to genre fiction as secret babies and marriages of convenience are to series romance. I hope that all of my characters have a unique way of responding to the crap I throw at them. But hey, I worry, because if I didn't worry about that, I'd probably have to deal with worrying over something else that I'd rather not think about.

Take what happened to me last week. I was all set to start work on the next Fragments book, when another character started screaming in my head. I'd just turned in Bad Company and I knew from the minute Eli Wright popped up as a secondary character that he would be demanding his own book sooner rather than later. I had an idea for him (or an idea of how I could seriously mess with him) and I planned to get to that ASAP, but I didn't expect the guy I had planned for him to get so damned loud. He came to life and started spewing back story and issues so fast I couldn't have kept up if I had five secretaries taking shorthand.

What does this noisy guy have to do with my worries over rehashing the same theme? Well, Bad Company, which I love more than my favorite brownies and my favorite cookies together on a plate, is about sexuality being a bit more fluid than the characters expect. And what does the new man in my life have to tell me? That a lover's fluid sexuality just bit him in the ass. And not in the fun way. Even the title my brain gave me, Bad Boyfriend, just goes to show that my muse is determined to explore the B-side of the same issue. Now if I can just have the guts to not pull punches—to write on through no matter how painfully raw the feelings get in this—I should have one hell of a book to tell you about by the time you meet Eli in Bad Company. In the meantime, I hope you find things just as different or as familiar as you like them.

Picking Scabs

A very excited version of my dad called me this week asking for computer help with a video. (Not that I have any computer skills beyond ability to type and click a mouse.) Dad had found a video on YouTube that he desperately wanted to save onto his computer’s hard drive and/or some other media. The video was a grainy black and white from the early days of VHS, when the recording camera needed a tripod because it was that heavy. The video was eight minutes long, eight minutes that are legend in our family: the 98-lb state final wrestling match, a match which would end up being my father’s only chance at coaching a state champion.

Jimmy’s path to that finals match has also been memorialized, to the point that the family can recite the names, schools and match scores from his other opponents. And of course we remember that final match score: 8-7 in favor of Jimmy’s opponent. What I remember best about that match was that Jimmy was putting the other kid on his back at the end, in four or five seconds more seconds he would have won, but time ran out. What my dad remembers best is that he told Jimmy not to try that arm drag a third time, that the other kid would be ready for it. Whatever led to the loss, I still couldn’t believe how happy my dad was to find that match. He had it playing the whole time he talked to me on the phone. To me, reliving that moment like that, albeit in a fuzzy black and white, was like picking a scab so that it can’t heal. Why would someone want to relive that?

Okay, I admit it. I have a serious weakness for reunion romances. Most of my characters, including those in my WIP, are driven by an opportunity at a second chance to make things right.

But that’s fiction. And what I love angsting over in fiction is not quite what I enjoy experiencing first hand in real life. Revisiting a crushing disappointment, like that finals match, or missing out on college honors by two one-hundredths of a point (if I’d known, I’d have done that extra paper in that basket-weaving course) or perusing a three-inch high stack of rejection letters is not fun for me. I run from unpleasant realities into fiction as fast as my imagination can carry me. After all, that’s what fiction is for. Escape. I don’t even mind fiction that makes me sob, as long as I get my happy ending.

I should add that my dad couldn’t be prouder of Jimmy if he had won the States. Despite a serious disadvantage in size and height, Jimmy went on to realize his dream of becoming a Navy Seal. My dad measured his accomplishments as a coach not in the hardware of awards, but in molding boys into strong, responsible men.

But although I’ll help my dad store his video, I won’t be watching it. Knowing that you can’t rewrite real history, that second chances in real life don’t come along very often, is why I would always prefer to take my reality with a big healthy slice of imagination.

But Does She Know Dick About It?

Once again Maia has saved me from brain-lock about a blog post. (Thanks, Maia.) As I started to type a comment to her post on being outed, I realized my response was long enough to be a post all its own. Coming out—whether as a lesbian or as a writer of gay erotic romance—is a process that never ends. After all, it's not something tattooed on my forehead. (Though that might save a lot of time. I'd have to grow out my bangs, though. Hmmm.) There are always new people in my life, and while it's easy to slip a mention of my wife in casual conversation, saying "And oh yeah, I write steamy romances about gay guys" is a little more awkward to toss out there. Of the two, my identity as a writer evokes far more astonishment than my orientation. Couple them together and you have anything from confusion to the guffaws of my nurse practioner OB-GYN. I can still picture her bent over with laughter sputtering, "Really? Really? C'mon, no, really?"

When Custom Ride made its first appearance to my awesome critique group, no one was particularly astonished at my ability to squeeze so many sex scenes into a short story. After all, they'd been reading my work for a year, but what I heard was, "For a lesbian, you know an awful lot about dick." Three years later one of those same critique partners told me about her husband pausing in the middle of disposing of some old manuscript pages from her office. He had started reading one of mine, and confessed to enjoying a scene he said he could picture between a guy and a girl—until things went "too far." After his wife confirmed that yep, the writer was "the one who's gay" he asked, "How does she know so much about the cock and the balls?"

There have been many variations of that question in the past few years, and far from being offended, I love the opportunity to answer it. With a wink and a grin I'm proud to say, "I guess I just have one hell of an imagination."

For Whom the Bell Tolls...

...is an awesome song to play on Guitar Hero Metallica. But the ominous pealing of bells indicating the approach of the end of one's time is also a powerful reminder of my current preoccupation. A deadline.

I love deadlines. No, seriously, I do. Those aren't sarcastic italics. I am one of the world's great procrastinators. Hamlet and Scarlet O'Hara look like poster kids for a purpose-driven life compared to me without a deadline (and sometimes with one, too). Case in point, I'm leaving for ten days in less than twenty-four hours. Maybe I should start to pack, especially since most of those remaining hours will be spent at work or asleep. I've still got time, right?

I've been working on this book since November. I'd tell you what it's called, but it's still in the title changing room, trying on about a hundred different titles to find one that fits just right. --Any luck, hon? Almost? Okay.—So, I'll get back to you on that. I am a pantser straight through to my soul, and whatever it is that tells me what happens next is perfectly happy to hang out and play Sims or Guitar Hero or reorganize my playlist or try on titles or come up with a teasingly hot scene for another book instead of focusing on the current project. That's where ticking clocks and tolling bells and flashing digital counters come in handy. There's nothing like a deadline to get that lazy can't-I-think-about-it-later? part of my brain back in action. There is no tomorrow. (Really, there isn't. I'm going on vacation. Guess the netbook's going with me.)

If you don't have the thrill of an actual deadline to inspire you, or that's still too far off, you can do what I did earlier this week. One of my critique partners finds herself in a similarly adrift boat when it comes to her WIP. So we made a bet. Twenty bucks says we can't meet a mini-deadline. Hers was chapter six. Mine was 12,000 words. If one of us made it and the other didn't, the loser forfeited the cash. I still had 10K to write as of Friday, and I spent the weekend at a conference. She did hers on Sunday. But we both made it. There's nothing like pride, cash and a hard and fast deadline to trigger inspiration. The WIP took off again.

So if you see someone way too old to be wearing that princess tiara scribbling in a notebook as she stumbles around Disneyworld for the next ten days, say "Hi." It's me. But I can't chat long. The clock is ticking.

Just a Sec

Oh, the things I suffer for my art. Possible criminal charges, self-immolation. Oops, there's no link to that second one. For those of you who have already heard my dramatic rendition of the how-I-set-my-self-on-fire-making-tea story I will follow in the footsteps of Bertie Wooster, one of my favorite narrators, and tell you to just let your eyes glaze over and rejoin me in about three paragraphs when I get to the point.

The how-I-set-my-self-on-fire-making-tea story goes like this: I was pitching my work to an editor at a conference a few years ago and her eyes had definitely done the glazing over like icing on a cake and so I pulled something out of my err hat and pitched a story that I'd been planning. I thought I had about thirty pages of it written and figured she'd only request a partial (three chapters and a synopsis.) She perked right up, asked many questions (to which I winged the answers), told me she was excited, and wanted to see the full manuscript. I got home and realized I had eight pages written.

So I slaved away, day and night, a zombie chained to the keyboard. The chain stretched as far as the tea kettle on the stove. I put the lid on the kettle and looked down to realize my shirt had trailed over the still-red hot electric burner. Fwoomp! The flannel shirt was not "flame retarded" as the Halloween costumes around here often proclaim as a virtue. I looked down and called to my wife "I'm on fire." No, she did not think I was speaking figuratively about my writing progress.

I had what felt like a half an hour to consider my options. My waist–length hair was down, very close to the flames. Would it catch? It's a galley kitchen. Do I go to the front room to stop, drop and roll or do I run to the sink and shove myself under water? Should I take it off and stomp on it? Wait for help? It really was excellent slow-motion camera work. I yanked it off and stomped on it so hard I thought I'd set my foot on fire. I didn't. My hair was fine. My skin was fine.

Oh and I finished the book. But that's not the point. The point is those seconds. Or probably just that second. In that instant when your life can change forever, do you make the right decision? How can you ever know if you did?

Right now I'm writing about two characters who meet while trying to resume lives that have changed for the worse in separate examples of those very long instants. Those instants where there are a million possibilities. Or maybe there's only one. Maybe it was always going to work out that way or maybe they could have prevented what happened.

Our lives may be made up of more of these instants than we know. If you're just far enough behind, you don't see that car that ran the red light or the kid who safely chased a friend across the street in front of you. Those moments still happened.

I know what the characters from some of my other books would say. Joey would tell you it's all tape-delayed and it's already determined. Jae Sun Kim will tell you life's a crap shoot but it beats the alternative. Speaking of Kim, his gorgeous cover and an excerpt from No Souvenirs is up on the Samhain website. Watch my website and my live journal for outtakes and other fun stuff as the release date gets closer. And hang onto every second.

Now excuse me, I have two very angsty young men to sort out. I think they're kind of pissed about those life experiences I doled out in their back story. But man do they have some chemistry. Tell me more, guys.

Don't Tell Your Boyfriend...

...Your New Year's Resolutions

Chasing Smoke
I will not bring up high school every time Trey and I get into an argument.
-------Daniel Gardner

Thank God, but I'd settle for not bringing it up one time out of four.
--------Trey

Diving In Deep
I promise not to do that in an airport bathroom again.
--------Noah Winthrop

Why the hell not?
--------Cameron

No Souvenirs
I will not take any vacations without very careful planning.
--------Jae Sun Kim

C'mon, it didn't totally suck.
--------Shane

Says the guy with scars from it.

Yeah, but that's not all I got.


Hot Ticket

I will remember that the volume knob has more than one setting.
--------Cade McKuen

Huh? I can't hear you? I think I'm deaf.
-------Elliott

And continue to worship my boyfriend's huge cock.
-------Cade

Cade!

I thought you were deaf.

I can still read.

Oh, right.

Regularly Scheduled Life

I will find a way to get that outdoor shower installed at the beach house without Sean finding out until it's done.
--------Kyle DiRusso

Nice try.
--------Sean

You'll thank me when the families descend on us.

Let's not tell them when we finish the house.

I like the way you think, papi chulo.

Unnamed WIP

I will figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.
---------John

I will figure out if I want a rest of my life.
---------Mason

Jeez, guys. Dark much?
---------Alex

Collision Course
I will only manipulate people when it's really necessary.
-------Joey Miller

I will only not manipulate people when even if I think it's really necessary. Much better.
-----------Aaron

Stop editing my resolutions.

No.

Fine. Aaron Chase's resolution: I will stop calling people assholes even when they deserve it.

It's not a resolution if you write it for me, princess.

My point exactly.

But yours isn't a resolution. It's got a huge loophole.

But—

Resolutions are for pussies anyway. You aren't going to change so why bother.

But I—

Are you happy right now?

Yeah.

Then what the hell do you need a resolution for?

What if we make it interesting.?

How?

A bet.

I thought you were supposed to want to keep your resolutions.

I do.

So why bet when you know you love losing as much as winning.

Mine?
I will keep trying to make as many readers as possible fall in love with the characters in my head. Clearly, I'm already nuts about them. And no, I'm not working on a menage. ^ ^
---------K.A. Mitchell

Nicky and Ian from An Improper Holiday hope that everyone's Twelfth Night was as pleasurable as theirs was.

Winners!! (And a little something under the tree from Joey and Aaron)

First of all the winners:

Yes, Monday, my tree is purple. Contact me with your email for the gift certificate.

But...Stormcloude, I wanted teal when I first set up housekeeping! And I'd really love to see a bronze tree. If I ever have a house big enough for three trees, I'd like one in cranberry and cream. We have a smaller tree that's all Disney-themed ornaments.

And Nate is the name I drew from the hat for the free story download. And well-deserved, confessing to the Smurfs' album. Ouch. Contact me with what you want. Any story I have out.

Jambrea, thanks for the compliments on An Improper Holiday.


Most of all I loved reading all those traditions and I think that Joey and Aaron from Collision Course might be setting one up for their future Christmases right now. Want to see?



Joey was the most selfish person in the world. He realized this on Christmas Eve Eve, or as most people would call it, December 23. He realized it when he stood in front of a display in Pleasure's Treasures, a sickening twist in his gut reminding him that he still hadn't found anything to buy his boyfriend for Christmas.

With time now easily measured in hours, Joey was desperate, hence the trip to a sex toy shop. The cute guy in the Santa hat and matching micro shorts had been nothing but helpful, if a little touchy feely, and Joey still kept finding gifts for himself. That leather number for Aaron to wear? Strictly something that would make Joey's eyes bulge as he dropped to his knees. The plus size string of anal beads the clerk had shown him? Again, much more pleasure for Joey than Aaron. Flavored condoms? Thank God they didn't need those anymore.

He'd had his family done by Thanksgiving, had no trouble picking out stuff for the kids, much to Aaron's relief. But Aaron? How could Joey be so clueless about what would make his own boyfriend happy? Sheree, Dylan and Darryl had all pronounced Aaron easy to buy for. An action movie, an X-box game, even clothes. But Joey knew that wasn't the answer. He'd considered Aaron's first love, caffeine, but even one of those specialty one-cup pots was out of the question. Not because of price but because Aaron never drank just one cup of coffee. Joey moved down the list to the Ducati. He'd even gone so far as to call Mark—who was still a little pissed—to get a suggestion about what Joey could give Aaron for his bike.

After first sneering at the European name, the best Mark could come up with was a gift certificate to a garage that specialized in Ducs. A gift certificate. Joey might as well hand Aaron cash. There had to be something special, something that would make Aaron's eyes heat up, that smile break slow on his lips and his voice get deep as he said, "Thanks, Joey."

The clerk unhooked the paddle Joey had been running his fingers over. Joey slapped it against his palm. Big sting, nice heat. His ass tightened. But again, that would be a present for Joey, not for Aaron. The door chimed and the clerk turned away to greet a new customer. Joey tested the flexibility of the paddle, felt the light warmth from where it had smacked his skin. So maybe Santa could put this in Joey's stocking. He was a selfish bastard, and he still didn't have anything to give Aaron.

A voice purred in Joey's ear. "Mmmm. Nice. But I like my hand better."

Joey jumped and turned around. "Aaron. You're supposed to be at work."

"Saw your puke green car out front. Hennie's got the truck running, and I've got my radio." Aaron waved it.

Aaron's paramedic uniform was an ugly dark blue polyester, but it was the first thing Joey had ever seen him in and he had a soft spot for it. He flicked a finger against the name badge. Aaron snatched the paddle from his hand and swung it so that it swished in the air.

"You told me you were done. Last minute shopping? Someone on your list I should know about?"

Joey's gaze fixed on the leather in Aaron's hand. One side had metal studs set in it. Jesus. His cock filled at the thought of Aaron using that on bare skin.

Aaron tapped the paddle lightly against the seat of Joey's jeans. "Joey. Question. Answer."

"Uh. No."

Aaron holstered his radio and tapped the paddle against his finger tips. He gave Joey that slow smile, and his gut got as warm and tight as his cock.

What the hell. "Aaron, what do you want for Christmas?"

"Nothing. Anything. I don't care. I told you, it's not a big deal."

The frustration Joey felt must have shown on his face, because Aaron cupped the back of Joey's neck. "How about a blowjob?"

"C'mon. I want to get you something to make you happy."

Aaron's jaw tightened and his eyes looked bleak. The warmth in Joey's belly turned to a heavy doughy ball. What the hell was wrong with that?

He started to turn away, but Aaron held him with that hand on his neck. He bent down and kissed him. "For a smart guy, you can be a total moron."

"Huh?"

"I am happy, don't you get that? Every fucking day. And you know why."

"Oh." Joey grinned as everything got warm inside again. "But I still have to get you something."

"Get me a book of Sudoku. I like to do'em in the can. And sometimes I read that guy. Um, David Sedaris. And," Aaron turned to wave the paddle at the clerk. "You have a place we can test this out?"

The clerk smiled and jerked his chin at a small curtained off space.

"Here? But Hennie's waiting—and that guy—"

"You fucking love the idea of an audience."

Okay, so Joey did. And he loved it even more when Aaron pushed him past the curtain with a swat just hard enough to burn.

Aaron put Joey's hands up on the back wall and ran a hand over the warm spot on Joey's ass. "You want to feel it on skin or should I have him ring it up now?"

"It's still more of a present for me than for you."

Aaron reached around and unbuttoned Joey's shorts. "I think we're both gonna like it."

Contest and How I Got Here

Although they often feel like independent entities (I certainly can't make them do what I want), the existence of my characters is tied pretty damned closely to mine; and my existence is tied pretty damned closely to a fairly bizarre holiday appellation. Yes, from Ryan and Jeff to Nicky and Ian, we owe it all to rain.

Regionally, people have different names for the same things. If you want a carbonated beverage made from brown syrup, you have to ask for pop west of me, coke south of me, and right here we just call it soda. Similarly, in the household where I grew up, the breaded mush you put in a turkey is called filling, not stuffing, or even dressing. My parents come from the same hometown Chasing Smoke's Daniel Gardner and Trey Eriksson's hometown) of Easton, PA though they attended different high schools. When my dad was at college, he was helping another man hang the long thin tinsel that most people call icicles on the Christmas tree. On the ladder, my dad called down to the other man, "Hand me up another box of that rain." The other man held up the box of tinsel. "This? Funny. My girlfriend calls this rain, too." My dad said, "I'll have to meet her." The result is my genetic history. Oh that magical power of words.

The fact that the Christmas trees in my family sporting tinsel will have rain and not icicles on them and that our plates will get a spoonful of filling and not stuffing are not our only quirks. We also will not be eating the point off our slices of pie first as that brings bad luck. And it wasn't until my age hit double digits that I realized other people decorated their Christmas trees in more than a single color. (I was the only kid in elementary school art class who didn't fight over the red and green markers at Christmas. If the object wasn't blue, it didn't go on Mom's tree.)

When I wrote An Improper Holiday, I had fun looking up historical Christmas celebrations. The game of Snapdragon, which seems like an invitation for self-immolation to a klutz like me, was particularly interesting. When I read about it, I knew it had to go in the book. I'm all for Twelfth Night celebrations. Anything that makes the holiday season longer before we go back to enduring a Northeast winter is fine with me.


That brings me to my part of the holiday contest. I will draw a winner from anyone who leaves a comment here and tells me about a holiday tradition. (Any holiday—hey, we're weird on the fourth of July, too!) That commenter will win a free copy of his or her choice of any of my ereleases (including An Improper Holiday). That part of the contest will be open until midnight EST on December 11.

The first commenter who correctly guesses the color of decorations on my own mono-chromatic Christmas tree will win a ten dollar gift certificate to Amazon, sent via email. (No, Mom—and other family members, you can't play.) This part of the contest closes when I get the first right answer or on December 14 at midnight EST.

And hey, doesn't that stuff look more like rain than icicles anyway?

In Which I Ask Your Further Indulgence of My DID

Hi! Isn't my cover gorgeous? It's for my new release, An Improper Holiday, available from Samhain Publishing on December 1. That's Nicky in the back and Ian in front of him and they appear to be acting out an excerpt that I just posted over at my live journal.

I'm excited since it's my first m/m historical, and I'm eager to find out what readers think of my historical voice. It's set during the--

Ian : Whatever is she doing?

Nicky: It appears to be some species of slate, magnetized, with clockwork or some such, perhaps. What's positively frightful is the uniformity of her letters. Reminds me of Beresford. Used to birch my hands, remember him, Ian?

Ian: He would scarcely have been taking it out of you at that rate if you had your translations ready.

Nicky: And that could only ever happen if you did them for me.

Ian: Lazy ass.

KA: Excuse me. I was talking.

Nicky: About that, love. You do know the only reason anyone cares what you have to say is because of us.

KA: And if you don't let me tell people about the release, no one will find you and how will you exist then?

Nicky: Is this that self-promotion thing you've been on about? Why don't you do what you always have done?

KA: Because what I usually do is offer a free prequel about—

Ian: Prequel?

KA: It's a short piece about something that happened before your story started. Which in your case—

Ian: Your atrocious grammatical construction notwithstanding I begin to see the difficulty.

Nicky: Well, I'm deviled if I do.

Ian: Where did we meet, Nicky?

Nicky: At school.

Ian: And how old were we when we first, ahh, made a connection of any sort of an intimate nature?

Nicky: I still don't see.

KA: You wouldn't. Of course my other option is the time before Ian left for war—

Ian: And recalling that incident, particularly given your penchant for detail is something I will not countenance. I refuse to be put through that dreadful—

Nicky: Dreadful, he says. Noddy fool. Very well. What then, Mistress of the Magic Slate?

KA: Well, aside from this blog—err, unstructured conversation on the slate, I thought you might be willing to take questions from readers, or potential readers.

Nicky: It sounds like an examination at school.

Ian: I very much doubt we would face similar questions, Nicky.

Nicky: More interesting, then?

KA: Much more.

Nicky: I can only consent if Ian is amenable. You know how uncomfortable he gets.

KA: I'll protect him.

Nicky: Your desire to do so could never equal mine.

KA: Understood. Agreed then?

Ian: If you truly feel this is the way to bring harmony to the lives of others through reading our story, then I am agreed.

Nicky: Harmony, indeed. My what a name for it. I do so love you, Ian.

KA: All right. So here's the link again to the excerpt on my livejournal. And here's the link to the first chapter on Samhain's website. Nicholas, Lord Amherst and the Honorable Mr. Ian Stanton would be available for your questions either here, or at my livejournal through December 9, 2009. Check back on December 9 for a chance to win a free copy of An Improper Holiday. Thanks for visiting guys, uh, chaps.

Ian: Did she mean some sort of imprecation with this "guys"?

Nicky: Perhaps the answer lies in the slate. Lend your brain, Ian, and we shall figure out how to use this thing.