So, I thought I'd give you some yummy, drool-ish-ious pictures to help start your week off right.
Have a great week!
Monday, June 8, 2009
Mmmm, Mmmm, Monday
Normally I would be doing another post for the wonderful Round Robin that is happening on the blog, but right now I'm up to my nose in edits for an upcoming release at Loose-Id - Never Too Late, my muse is running with my third book in my Dragon Riders series, summer vacation has started this week so I've got two 12-year old boys already saying "I'm bored." (they are homeschooled so they are tired of being home), and then all the other projects I've got to get finished by the time we leave town come Thursday for a couple of days at the beach. *sigh*
Sunday, June 7, 2009
fast cars, fast boys
I've been working for several months on a novel that's due, uh... soon. At the end of June, in fact. Since I'm still about 10k away from the end and the pesky day job is taking up a lot of time and attention right now, it'll be a very exciting race to the finish. HA, and since it's a novel about professional stock car racing, see how I just made a joke?
*silence*
.... Let's move on. A lot of this novel moved slowly for me because it involved actual research into the world of sprint cars. My husband has been a really good sport (as he often is) about answering my ridiculous questions about drivers, their contracts, their sponsors, and general rules of racing. I just wanted to get to the good stuff; namely, the sex and fighting. Since I've now gotten to write both, I thought I'd give just a little snip of the book that's been making me tear my hair out since the beginning of this year.
Meet Mitch and Pacey:
A second thud, harder than the one he’d taken from the wall, knocked any thoughts of finishing out of his head. Mitch had to blink to clear his vision from the jolt and crunch. Danny had slammed him again and the two of them came to a silent, shuddering stop on the grass. Mitch heard the cars on the track ease off on their throttles, which meant the yellow flag had gone up and they were driving under caution.
“Damn it,” Mitch muttered, then again, louder. “God damn it all!” He struggled to get his seatbelt off so he could climb out and inspect the damage. His only consolation at this point was that Danny wasn’t going to be able to finish, either.
The five point harness that neatly bound Mitch to his seat chose not to cooperate with the attempts to unbuckle himself. Frustrated, Mitch fumbled with his helmet and head restraint instead, anxious to get it off and get out of the suddenly restrictive safety devices.
His neck support refused to cooperate too, clearly in cahoots with the safety belt. Mitch glanced up through his protective goggles and saw Danny already climbing out of his car. Mitch redoubled his efforts to free himself.
The adrenaline that still thrummed through him made his task difficult, however, and Mitch felt the first beginnings of panic at not being able to get loose. He’d only been trapped one other time in his career, and even though that situation had been cause for real panic, even the memory of it was enough to make Mitch’s heart pound and his head swim with anxiety.
He was still yanking ineffectually at his seat harness by the time medical showed up. Mitch barely registered the men in blue that were surrounding his car. He was too intent on getting free, getting out of his car before what happened last time happened again, so when his window webbing was torn down, Mitch swallowed a startled gasp and looked up.
“Keep still, man.” Serious blue eyes, the lightest shade Mitch could ever remember seeing, were searching Mitch’s face. “Anything hurt? Are you stuck?”
“My harness,” Mitch said lamely. His thumb remained on the button, trying to get it to unsnap.
Dark brows drew together and the medic reached a hand inside the car. He put his fingers over Mitch’s and pressed down. There was audible click that Mitch could hear even through his helmet, and then he was suddenly free.
He shrugged the harness off and scrambled for the window, anxious to get out of the confined space. Once he was outside the car, maybe his heart would stop pounding so hard.
“Whoa, hey, easy there.” Strong hands were on Mitch’s forearms, easing him back down in his seat. “You should know the rules. You don’t move until medical checks you out.” Blue Eyes gave a quick smile, but something told Mitch there was seriousness behind it. “Got any neck or back pain?”
“Uh.” Mitch blinked and tried to concentrate on how he was feeling. His harness was unsnapped, so there was no more reason for his harsh breathing or shaking fingers. “No. No neck pain. He didn’t hit me that hard.”
It was true; Mitch had known as soon as Danny had made contact that they’d both walk away from it. There had been worse wrecks. Much worse.
“Hard enough,” the medic said casually. “Sit tight, I’ll let you out in a minute.” He scanned the inside of the car and then gave Mitch an up-down look that would have gotten Mitch’s phone number in his pocket if they’d been in a bar.
While the paramedic inspected as much of Mitch as he could from outside the car, Mitch gathered himself together enough to at least light his gaze on the medic’s shiny silver name tag beneath his badge. Pacey Evans.
“Pacey?” Mitch said before he could stop himself. There was a crackling bit of transmission feedback in his ear and he winced. He’d forgotten his mic was on. “That’s your real name?”
Those light blue eyes snapped up to meet Mitch’s own. “Yeah,” he said, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. “That’s my real name. You can climb out now.”
***
Aaaaand there you have their first meeting. Mitch Baker, my professional NASCAR driver, and Pacey Evans, track medic. A match made in heaven, or so it seems. Look for this novel sometime in September or October of 2009!
*silence*
.... Let's move on. A lot of this novel moved slowly for me because it involved actual research into the world of sprint cars. My husband has been a really good sport (as he often is) about answering my ridiculous questions about drivers, their contracts, their sponsors, and general rules of racing. I just wanted to get to the good stuff; namely, the sex and fighting. Since I've now gotten to write both, I thought I'd give just a little snip of the book that's been making me tear my hair out since the beginning of this year.
Meet Mitch and Pacey:
A second thud, harder than the one he’d taken from the wall, knocked any thoughts of finishing out of his head. Mitch had to blink to clear his vision from the jolt and crunch. Danny had slammed him again and the two of them came to a silent, shuddering stop on the grass. Mitch heard the cars on the track ease off on their throttles, which meant the yellow flag had gone up and they were driving under caution.
“Damn it,” Mitch muttered, then again, louder. “God damn it all!” He struggled to get his seatbelt off so he could climb out and inspect the damage. His only consolation at this point was that Danny wasn’t going to be able to finish, either.
The five point harness that neatly bound Mitch to his seat chose not to cooperate with the attempts to unbuckle himself. Frustrated, Mitch fumbled with his helmet and head restraint instead, anxious to get it off and get out of the suddenly restrictive safety devices.
His neck support refused to cooperate too, clearly in cahoots with the safety belt. Mitch glanced up through his protective goggles and saw Danny already climbing out of his car. Mitch redoubled his efforts to free himself.
The adrenaline that still thrummed through him made his task difficult, however, and Mitch felt the first beginnings of panic at not being able to get loose. He’d only been trapped one other time in his career, and even though that situation had been cause for real panic, even the memory of it was enough to make Mitch’s heart pound and his head swim with anxiety.
He was still yanking ineffectually at his seat harness by the time medical showed up. Mitch barely registered the men in blue that were surrounding his car. He was too intent on getting free, getting out of his car before what happened last time happened again, so when his window webbing was torn down, Mitch swallowed a startled gasp and looked up.
“Keep still, man.” Serious blue eyes, the lightest shade Mitch could ever remember seeing, were searching Mitch’s face. “Anything hurt? Are you stuck?”
“My harness,” Mitch said lamely. His thumb remained on the button, trying to get it to unsnap.
Dark brows drew together and the medic reached a hand inside the car. He put his fingers over Mitch’s and pressed down. There was audible click that Mitch could hear even through his helmet, and then he was suddenly free.
He shrugged the harness off and scrambled for the window, anxious to get out of the confined space. Once he was outside the car, maybe his heart would stop pounding so hard.
“Whoa, hey, easy there.” Strong hands were on Mitch’s forearms, easing him back down in his seat. “You should know the rules. You don’t move until medical checks you out.” Blue Eyes gave a quick smile, but something told Mitch there was seriousness behind it. “Got any neck or back pain?”
“Uh.” Mitch blinked and tried to concentrate on how he was feeling. His harness was unsnapped, so there was no more reason for his harsh breathing or shaking fingers. “No. No neck pain. He didn’t hit me that hard.”
It was true; Mitch had known as soon as Danny had made contact that they’d both walk away from it. There had been worse wrecks. Much worse.
“Hard enough,” the medic said casually. “Sit tight, I’ll let you out in a minute.” He scanned the inside of the car and then gave Mitch an up-down look that would have gotten Mitch’s phone number in his pocket if they’d been in a bar.
While the paramedic inspected as much of Mitch as he could from outside the car, Mitch gathered himself together enough to at least light his gaze on the medic’s shiny silver name tag beneath his badge. Pacey Evans.
“Pacey?” Mitch said before he could stop himself. There was a crackling bit of transmission feedback in his ear and he winced. He’d forgotten his mic was on. “That’s your real name?”
Those light blue eyes snapped up to meet Mitch’s own. “Yeah,” he said, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. “That’s my real name. You can climb out now.”
***
Aaaaand there you have their first meeting. Mitch Baker, my professional NASCAR driver, and Pacey Evans, track medic. A match made in heaven, or so it seems. Look for this novel sometime in September or October of 2009!
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Now in Print, Metropolitan Passions, Vol. 1
I'm a bit behind on the promotion train - the to-do list exploded again, but I found three minutes for self-promotion here...
Phaze Books, $12.95
M/M, Contemporary
Click here to order.
Together in one volume come the best of Phaze's M/M stories from the Urban Phaze line! Grab your GPS and discover passion in some of the greatest cities in the world. This volume includes Leigh's thrilling Why, Why, Zed?, her first M/M release in print!
A cryptic phone call to Cameron "Zed" Zedmore's cell reveals a plot to steal away Zed's live-in love, Nick. Devastating the thought of infidelity is, Zed realizes he can't blame Nick for being tempted to stray, as Zed's work has kept him in the lab, and out of their bed, for long hours.
Nick loves Zed, but isn't crazy about being a "house husband" anymore. He has needs Zed won't meet, and when another friend offers help in that department, Nick is tempted to accept. But then Zed comes home early...
You can still get Zed in eBook, too!
P.S.: I'm on Twitter now! See what I'm up to at @LeighEllwood.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Did ya hear???
President Obama officially proclaimed GLBT Pride Month for June 2009!
His letter, HERE, is wonderful and I highly recommend reading it. No matter your political party leanings, it's an amazing step (along with the recent gay marriage ruling in New Hampshire) for the entire GLBT community. :)
His letter, HERE, is wonderful and I highly recommend reading it. No matter your political party leanings, it's an amazing step (along with the recent gay marriage ruling in New Hampshire) for the entire GLBT community. :)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Sometimes It Takes Only A Minute
This'll be short but I felt like sharing. Bout last week, I finally finished something. It was totally out of the blue, not even remotely on my radar. I love it to death. Ask the people on my twitter, I was pulling out lines because I just adored how it was going.
I think I loved it so much because it was the first thing I'd finished since December of last year. I totally hate admitting that but when you're blocked, you're blocked. Anyway, I'm sharing my glee because I'm just that happy about it. Not only because I'm writing again but because I feel like my To-Do list (which is amazingly short) is actually possible.
That story? It came to me randomly and I went with it. Thus the title of my post: it only takes a minute. That's what I love about this job. You can literally be walking down the street, see a dog dodge a car-related death and you suddenly have a story that might include that particular moment in time. I know we gripe a lot as a whole, us writers. Feeling brain dead is probably the highest ranking complaint. In some others, it's having too much at once and the brain just goes "oh what? see ya!".
But in the end, those ideas...oh man, they make it worth it. That's why we push on pass those blocks and write those blogs about how much it drives us nuts to be blocked. Because honestly...those stories, this job in general? Just kicks so much ass.
And this is a totally off the top of my head post but sometimes, you just gotta share the fun parts of being a writer. See ya'll next time!
I think I loved it so much because it was the first thing I'd finished since December of last year. I totally hate admitting that but when you're blocked, you're blocked. Anyway, I'm sharing my glee because I'm just that happy about it. Not only because I'm writing again but because I feel like my To-Do list (which is amazingly short) is actually possible.
That story? It came to me randomly and I went with it. Thus the title of my post: it only takes a minute. That's what I love about this job. You can literally be walking down the street, see a dog dodge a car-related death and you suddenly have a story that might include that particular moment in time. I know we gripe a lot as a whole, us writers. Feeling brain dead is probably the highest ranking complaint. In some others, it's having too much at once and the brain just goes "oh what? see ya!".
But in the end, those ideas...oh man, they make it worth it. That's why we push on pass those blocks and write those blogs about how much it drives us nuts to be blocked. Because honestly...those stories, this job in general? Just kicks so much ass.
And this is a totally off the top of my head post but sometimes, you just gotta share the fun parts of being a writer. See ya'll next time!
Monday, June 1, 2009
A Kinky Orgasm is now available
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-524-9 (Electronic)
Buy link: www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure/KinkyOrgasm.html
Briar Henley can’t believe his good fortune when Truman Lee strolls into his little bar and orders the house specialty—a kinky orgasm. Briar serves up the creamy, alcoholic drink with more than an ounce of curiosity. Why would a straight jock be in a gay bar?
After a little flirting, Briar doesn’t much care why Truman is there. All grown up, Truman looks better than ever. Briar can’t help but react to the pull he’s felt for the other man since high school. Painful memories of the insatiable crush he harbored for the homophobic jock makes Briar yearn for a little payback of the intimate persuasion.
Only Briar is in for a surprise of his own. Truman isn’t in town for a visit. He’s home to stay. And he wants Briar for a lot more than his fancy beverages...
Excerpt
...The bell above the door chimed. Briar turned toward the sound, expecting to see Ben’s daughter crossing the threshold. Instead, Briar gaped as the focus of more than one wet dream strolled into his humble little establishment. With his broad shoulders pulled straight and his head held high, the newcomer strode to the opposite side of the counter from Ben and took a seat on one of the stools closest to the door.
It’d been more than a decade since Briar had set eyes on Truman Lee. The other man had gone off to college on a football scholarship, while Briar had stayed behind to care for his ailing father. After his father passed away, Briar had taken night classes in business management and eventually reopened the family bar as he knew his father would’ve wanted.
Since he and the jock had been on opposite ends of the food chain in school, Briar pretended he didn’t recognize the other man. Better that than make an ass of himself by pointing out their affiliation only to have Truman feign remembrance.
Truthfully, Briar hoped Truman didn’t recall the skinny little outcast he used to be. High school was hard on almost everyone, but it’d been a particular rollercoaster for a scrawny, big-mouthed kid in southwestern Virginia. His piss-poor attitude had gotten his ass kicked more than once. Truman, on the other hand, had been a typical athletic meathead. With his stocky, muscular body and boy-next-door good looks, Truman had been every girl’s— and one lonely gay boy’s—idea of a walking wet dream. Thank God no one had ever found the yearbook photo of Truman that Briar had hidden under his mattress. He would have died of shame.
Briar snapped out of his fit of nostalgia and crossed to where Truman sat waiting. He schooled his features into the polite mask of someone who was used to working with the public. “Welcome to Henley’s. What can I get for you?”
Truman smiled at Briar, showing off the twin dimples in his lean cheeks. “I heard you make the best Kinky Orgasms this side of the Mason-Dixon line.”
“Is that so?”
Truman nodded.
Briar wanted to preen in response to the compliment, but he held it in. Apparently the bartending refresher courses were worth the price of admission after all. “I suppose whether or not they’re the best would depend on how you like them made. Would you rather have the drink mixed with strawberries or creamy vanilla ice cream?”
Truman’s nostrils flared. “Oh, I definitely want it creamy.”
“All right.” Briar swallowed over the frog in his throat. His imagination had to be creating the lustful way Truman eyed him. The man was as straight as an arrow…he’d banged half the cheerleading squad when they were in school. “One Kinky Orgasm, hold the strawberries, coming up.”
He could feel Truman’s gaze on his back as he set about getting the ingredients he needed. The attention didn’t help convince his cock of Truman’s hetero status. Briar’s unruly prick didn’t give a plug nickel about things like straight or gay. It knew what it liked, and Truman fit the bill nicely...
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Dragon's Kiss
Coming Friday, June 5th from Samhain Publishing. This is a short story, first in a new series I'm planning. I've never really done futuristic before so it should be fun :)© Copyright 2009 Ally Blue
Blurb:
In a future ruled by superstition and fear, wanting the wrong man can be deadly.
(A Mother Earth story.)
The rules governing a Pack-Brother’s existence are simple. Love your Brothers. Protect each other and your Tribe with your life. Seek sex only within the bonds of Brotherhood, or your life is forfeit. The laws are harsh, but fair. Or so Bear has always thought. Then he and his Brother Lynx capture a stranger in the Carwin Tribe’s outlying lands—Dragon, a Brother from a distant Pack, banished from his Tribe for the crime of challenging things he shouldn’t.
Dragon intrigues Bear from the start, and not just because of his exotic beauty. Interest in the decadent old world is discouraged in this post-Change society. Dragon is the first person Bear’s ever known, other than himself, who’s curious about the vanished past. That kinship sparks a forbidden attraction between them. An attraction which is, if they give in to it, punishable by death.
In the space of a day, everything Bear was raised to believe is called into question, and he must make a life-changing decision—follow the law, or follow his heart.
Excerpt:
Bear pulled out more cured meat and tossed it to Lynx. “Who’s got first watch?”
“Me. You had last watch before we got started this morning, so you need the rest more.” Lynx tore off a hunk of meat with his teeth, chewed, and swallowed. “We’ll leave at first light. That way we’ll make it home well before dark.”
Dragon’s gaze flitted between them. In the firelight, his eyes were a pale, almost silvery gray. “I heard Carwin Tribe lives inside Char. That true?”
It didn’t surprise Bear that Dragon had heard of the ruined city which surrounded Carwin’s walls on all sides. By all accounts, Char was the place where the old civilization had made its last stand after the Change. They’d done their best to keep the old ways alive—evil, wicked ways, according to everything Bear had learned growing up—and keep the Mother’s punishment at bay. It hadn’t done any good in the end. Less than fifty years after the oceans first began to rise and the human race realized the enormity of its sins against the Earth Mother, Char had fallen into the same chaos that had already destroyed the rest of civilization.
All that remained of Char now was a sprawl of crumbling ruins and a large collection of machines and other artifacts which no one fully understood. Dangerous predators prowled Char’s streets, which made traveling between Carwin’s walled central city and the outlying tribal lands risky. At least it discouraged the nightfeeders and occasional bands of murderous outcasts from approaching Carwin City.
“Carwin’s just inside Char,” Bear confirmed. “It was a ruin before the tribe settled there and fixed it up.”
Dragon’s head tilted sideways. He shot a glance at Lynx, who was poking at the fire, then pinned Bear with a curious look. “So they didn’t build it? It was already there?”
This was Bear’s favorite story, and he couldn’t see any harm in telling it. After all, it wasn’t a story of the old world, was it? Tales of Carwin’s settlement were allowed. Resting his elbows on his knees, he adopted the tone he half-remembered his mother using when he was a small child, before the tribe’s Seer spotted him as Pack and took him from his home.
“When the founders of the Carwin Tribe were traveling through Char looking for a place to settle,” he began, “they came to an old road, the kind people used before the Change. On the other side of the road was a huge, wide field, and in the middle of the field was a city inside a wall.”
“Carwin.” Dragon’s eyes were wide, his voice no more than a breath.
Encouraged, Bear nodded. “This city was like nothing they had ever seen. Strange shapes rose up over the walls, like the skeletons of mountains. One shape pointed straight to the sky like a needle. The people were scared, of course, but the walls of the city were tall and thick, and inside were enough buildings to shelter ten times the people they had. And even then, the Carwin Pack was strong enough to defeat any enemy within or without the walls.”
Leaning forward, Dragon stared at Bear with a strange fire in his eyes. “What did they find there? They must’ve found something from the old world. Books, machines, something. What did they find?”
Startled, Bear shook his head. “Buildings. Nightfeeders. Wild dogs, cats, other animals. Those weird metal skeletons, whatever they were. They’re still there, actually. They’re rusted, parts of them have fallen off, but they’re mostly still there. There used to be little carts on them. Some of the carts are still inside ruined buildings at the base of the skeletons.”
“And that’s it?”
Bear chewed his bottom lip, torn. He’d seen the things the council and the tribe elders called photographs, some of them more than fifteen generations old. The first tribe members had encased them in a tough, transparent, flexible substance to preserve them for all time. The photographs depicted a world beyond imagination. A world where giant metal birds filled the sky and magic boxes could show a person things that were happening so far away it would take weeks to walk there. According to Mother Rose, the Carwin Tribe’s founders had discovered the photographs in a pile of books, papers and clothes alongside four huddled corpses inside one of Carwin’s many buildings.
The problem was, Bear wasn’t supposed to know that. He’d overheard it at a council meeting when he was nine and he, Rabbit and Lynx had snuck into the council room and hidden in the wine cabinet. So he couldn’t very well tell Dragon, in spite of the oath he’d taken as a Pack-Brother to be truthful. He doubted that oath applied to situations like this anyway.
“No,” he said after a long silence. “They didn’t find anything else.”
With a sigh, Dragon slumped where he sat. He picked crusted leaves off his knee. “I bet they did. Your Mother and your council just don’t say so, because they don’t want you to know. But they know something about it.”
Shocked, Bear stared into the flames. He didn’t dare look at Lynx for fear his expression would give him away. He often wished he could go back in time, just for a day, to glimpse a life that had vanished forever when the Earth Mother took back what was Hers.
He knew better than to express that desire. Lynx had never understood Bear’s fascination with tales of the world before the change. A Pack-Brother shouldn’t walk around with his head in the clouds, he always said whenever Bear broached the subject. But nothing could stop Bear from dreaming of that lost world sometimes, when the nights were hot and restless.
Glancing at Dragon, Bear saw a faraway look in the man’s eyes. A look Bear knew he himself wore when he was daydreaming about the distant past. As if he could feel Bear looking at him, Dragon blinked and met his gaze. Bear smiled. Dragon smiled back, and Bear felt a jolt go through him. He looked away, heart racing. He didn’t want to feel this drawn to a man he couldn’t have. Especially a man who might be a murderer, or worse.
“I’m gonna get some sleep.” Bear stretched out on his back, keeping Dragon’s rope looped around his wrist. “Dragon, you might as well get some rest too.”
“You want me to take the rope?” Lynx asked, moving to a position where he could see into the darkness outside while still keeping an eye on Dragon.
“No. I’ll wake up if he moves.” Bear yawned and shut his eyes, trying to ignore Dragon’s tantalizing nearness. “Don’t forget to wake me up for my watch, Lynx. Just because you can stay up a whole day and night doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
Lynx laughed. “Shut up and go to sleep, Bear.”
Bear smiled. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he felt the rope move as Dragon shifted. His fingers tightened, making sure Dragon stayed close.
------
Watch the Dragon's Kiss page on my website and the Samhain homepage for the buy link to go live on Friday!
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Forsake Not by Maura Anderson (Unedited Excerpt)
This is a new story, to come soon from Aspen Mountain Press as part of it's Because of the Brave anthology. I don't have a release date yet but will update you when I do.
---------------------------------------
FORSAKE NOT
by Maura Anderson
Leo watched the roiling grey clouds move overhead and clenched his hands on the steering wheel of the small rental car, savoring the ache of his bruised and torn knuckles. His world, or what was left of it, was poised to tumble down around his head but he couldn’t find it in him to regret beating the crap out of Barker. The bigoted asshole deserved it, or worse, for what he’d said about Terry.
Terry.
Nausea rose in his throat and he fought it back. He would not puke in the parking lot at Arlington, dammit. He’d come here to pay his respects and he would do his goddam duty and do it right. It was the least he could do for his fellow soldier, his fire-team mate, his best friend — the man who’d given his life for those of the rest of the squad. After two tours in Iraq and less than three months before they were done with this tour and all Hell cut loose in a rain of blood, shrapnel and shards of bone during a routine op.
One by one, he forced his fingers to uncurl and release from the steering wheel. He wiped his sweaty palms on the stiff denim of his new jeans and took a few deep breaths to steady himself before he cracked the door open. The heat of the mid-summer Virginia day rushing into the car, quickly overwhelming the chill of the air conditioned interior. The humidity made it a lot harder to breathe than the dry heat of the middle east, even though it was cooler here. He was glad he’d decided not to wear his Class A’s or a suit. Just the long-sleeve dress shirt would be hot enough.
The smells were different, too. Gone were the rancid smells of the desert, the base, the machinery and even his fellow infantrymen. Instead his lungs filled with the scent of new-mown grass and the nearby river.
Leo climbed out of the car and quietly shut the door behind him. It seemed disrespectful to slam the car door in this place. The car locked and double-checked, he threw his shoulders back and began the long walk to Terry.
The now ingrained walking cadence mindlessly carried him forward and allowed for far too much time to think. To remember. He passed other people but carefully avoided looking at them. What could he say? What would they say? He couldn’t deal with other people right now - he wasn’t sure he could deal with himself right now.
The weight of those he walked among seemed huge. The true meaning of freedom and its cost exposed through the acres and acres of graves that stretched over the grounds of Arlington. Each one paid a heavy price - some by choice, some not. What would they think of what he’d done? Of what he was? Of the lies he’d told to be allowed to continue his service to the country he loved?
All too quickly, he reached the round brass marker that indicated Section 60. He stepped carefully between the ranks of the graves, treading as lightly as he could among the fallen. In the next to last row, he spotted the name he sought.
“Terrence Ray Olson.” His whisper was the last straw and he fell to his knees in the soft grass next to the grave. The white marble marker made it so final. His gut churned again at the memory of the last time he saw Terry, bloody and torn apart by the IED he’d thrown himself on top. He’d been the first to Terry and when he’d turned him over to start first aid, his head had almost fallen off.
Bitter bile filled his mouth as he fought back the urge to puke.
“I’m sorry, Terry.” His voice strengthened a bit. “You saved us all and I couldn’t do a damned thing for you.”
He rubbed his hands on his legs again. He kept feeling the blood coating them, no matter how long it had been or how often he’d scrubbed them.
The tombstone was gleamingly new, stark white with precise black letters spelling out Terry’s information, including the medals he’d been posthumously awarded. Such a few words to encapsulate a life. Part of a life, anyway. The part the military recognized. A few small momentos sat atop the marble stone.
“I made a big mistake, man, and I think I’m in deep shit now.”
He settled down cross-legged in the grass by Terry and bowed his head to speak quietly to where he imagined Terry might hear him. “Barker is such a fucker. He got assigned to our fireteam, on entry, after you were… killed. Shithead couldn’t see a haji if he was wearing neon robes and dancing in the middle of the road waving an AK-47.”
He plucked a few blades of grass near his knee and tore them slowly to bits. The scabs on his knuckles pulled with the motion. “He can’t even do his damned job. Instead he spends all his time hating on everyone else. I kept trying to just do what I’ve always done and stick to doing my job and ignoring Barker whenever I can. The man would make a much better FOBBIT. At least there he wouldn’t be as much of a liability.”
Leo tossed the shredded grass to the side and plucked some more. “He keeps going on about fags and queers. On and on and on. When we got home, I went out for a drink with the squad before we all went on R&R and someone told him you were gay. When he started talking about how you deserved to die for being a fag, I lost it.”
He caught himself picking at the scabs on his knuckles and forced himself to stop. He didn’t need some sort of infection on top of everything else.
“I jumped him, Terry. Went right over two other guys and started swinging. I don’t remember a lot about the fight itself, just that Barker fights like a fucking girl. Star and Helling pulled me off him and I remember asking him how it felt to have the crap beat out of him by a fucking fag.” Leo sighed and shook his head. How stupid could he be. His entire career in exchange for a brief moment of vengeance?
“There’s no way he won’t report it, Terry. No way in Hell.”
A huge hand seemed to grab his chest and crush it. What was he going to do? It wasn’t as if some of the squad didn’t know he and Terry were gay. It had just never been an issue. They put on a good show of being straight, everyone else made a show of believing it and they all did their damned jobs.
Memories flooded through him of the two tours they’d shared and their friendship. Funny moments, scary moments, even nights on a pass when they were unable to sleep and instead shared their tales of home, growing up gay and how they coped with the Army regulations. Each moment seemed to replay itself.
“Excuse me. Sir? Excuse me.” His head jerked up at the sound of the quiet voice. A thin, sad-looking woman stood on the other side of Terry’s grave, looking at him with swollen, red eyes and a tentative smile. “The cemetery closes at seven and it’s 6:30. I didn’t want you to be interrupted by the guards instead.”
“Thank you.” His voice choked up and he cleared his throat to try again. “Thank you. I’ll wrap it up for today.”
The thin woman nodded and caressed Terry’s cold, polished headstone with one hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She turned and slowly walked away, shoulders slumped with the weight of her own grief.
Leo knelt and ran his fingers gently over Terry’s name. “I miss you, bud. Thank you for what you did. You saved my life, you saved all our lives.” Tears welled up in his eyes, despite his best efforts to hold them back. “I brought you something.”
Coming to his feet, he examined the items on top of the headstone. A small pile of pebbles gathered on one side, flanked by two glass pebbles but next to those was a set of rubber edged dogtags, facedown on the marble and still on their chain. Curious, he flipped them over and saw they belonged to a Skinner, William R., USMC. The social security number had been carefully cut out of the tags but they were worn and dinged up. They’d seen use.
He carefully placed them back as he’d found them and reached into his pocket for the challenge coin he’d brought for Terry. The heavy brass disk had the Army Emblem on one side and the crossed rifles of the Infantry on the other. He’d carried it since he’d decided to enlist as a teen but after Terry died, he’d bought another for himself so he could give his friend this one.
Caressing the enameled coin one more time, he set it on top of the headstone to join the other tokens. “I forsake not my country, my mission, my comrades, my sacred duty.” His voice choked out the final words. Unable to continue, he snapped a salute and turned to make his way back to his car.
---------------------------------------
FORSAKE NOT
by Maura Anderson
Leo watched the roiling grey clouds move overhead and clenched his hands on the steering wheel of the small rental car, savoring the ache of his bruised and torn knuckles. His world, or what was left of it, was poised to tumble down around his head but he couldn’t find it in him to regret beating the crap out of Barker. The bigoted asshole deserved it, or worse, for what he’d said about Terry.
Terry.
Nausea rose in his throat and he fought it back. He would not puke in the parking lot at Arlington, dammit. He’d come here to pay his respects and he would do his goddam duty and do it right. It was the least he could do for his fellow soldier, his fire-team mate, his best friend — the man who’d given his life for those of the rest of the squad. After two tours in Iraq and less than three months before they were done with this tour and all Hell cut loose in a rain of blood, shrapnel and shards of bone during a routine op.
One by one, he forced his fingers to uncurl and release from the steering wheel. He wiped his sweaty palms on the stiff denim of his new jeans and took a few deep breaths to steady himself before he cracked the door open. The heat of the mid-summer Virginia day rushing into the car, quickly overwhelming the chill of the air conditioned interior. The humidity made it a lot harder to breathe than the dry heat of the middle east, even though it was cooler here. He was glad he’d decided not to wear his Class A’s or a suit. Just the long-sleeve dress shirt would be hot enough.
The smells were different, too. Gone were the rancid smells of the desert, the base, the machinery and even his fellow infantrymen. Instead his lungs filled with the scent of new-mown grass and the nearby river.
Leo climbed out of the car and quietly shut the door behind him. It seemed disrespectful to slam the car door in this place. The car locked and double-checked, he threw his shoulders back and began the long walk to Terry.
The now ingrained walking cadence mindlessly carried him forward and allowed for far too much time to think. To remember. He passed other people but carefully avoided looking at them. What could he say? What would they say? He couldn’t deal with other people right now - he wasn’t sure he could deal with himself right now.
The weight of those he walked among seemed huge. The true meaning of freedom and its cost exposed through the acres and acres of graves that stretched over the grounds of Arlington. Each one paid a heavy price - some by choice, some not. What would they think of what he’d done? Of what he was? Of the lies he’d told to be allowed to continue his service to the country he loved?
All too quickly, he reached the round brass marker that indicated Section 60. He stepped carefully between the ranks of the graves, treading as lightly as he could among the fallen. In the next to last row, he spotted the name he sought.
“Terrence Ray Olson.” His whisper was the last straw and he fell to his knees in the soft grass next to the grave. The white marble marker made it so final. His gut churned again at the memory of the last time he saw Terry, bloody and torn apart by the IED he’d thrown himself on top. He’d been the first to Terry and when he’d turned him over to start first aid, his head had almost fallen off.
Bitter bile filled his mouth as he fought back the urge to puke.
“I’m sorry, Terry.” His voice strengthened a bit. “You saved us all and I couldn’t do a damned thing for you.”
He rubbed his hands on his legs again. He kept feeling the blood coating them, no matter how long it had been or how often he’d scrubbed them.
The tombstone was gleamingly new, stark white with precise black letters spelling out Terry’s information, including the medals he’d been posthumously awarded. Such a few words to encapsulate a life. Part of a life, anyway. The part the military recognized. A few small momentos sat atop the marble stone.
“I made a big mistake, man, and I think I’m in deep shit now.”
He settled down cross-legged in the grass by Terry and bowed his head to speak quietly to where he imagined Terry might hear him. “Barker is such a fucker. He got assigned to our fireteam, on entry, after you were… killed. Shithead couldn’t see a haji if he was wearing neon robes and dancing in the middle of the road waving an AK-47.”
He plucked a few blades of grass near his knee and tore them slowly to bits. The scabs on his knuckles pulled with the motion. “He can’t even do his damned job. Instead he spends all his time hating on everyone else. I kept trying to just do what I’ve always done and stick to doing my job and ignoring Barker whenever I can. The man would make a much better FOBBIT. At least there he wouldn’t be as much of a liability.”
Leo tossed the shredded grass to the side and plucked some more. “He keeps going on about fags and queers. On and on and on. When we got home, I went out for a drink with the squad before we all went on R&R and someone told him you were gay. When he started talking about how you deserved to die for being a fag, I lost it.”
He caught himself picking at the scabs on his knuckles and forced himself to stop. He didn’t need some sort of infection on top of everything else.
“I jumped him, Terry. Went right over two other guys and started swinging. I don’t remember a lot about the fight itself, just that Barker fights like a fucking girl. Star and Helling pulled me off him and I remember asking him how it felt to have the crap beat out of him by a fucking fag.” Leo sighed and shook his head. How stupid could he be. His entire career in exchange for a brief moment of vengeance?
“There’s no way he won’t report it, Terry. No way in Hell.”
A huge hand seemed to grab his chest and crush it. What was he going to do? It wasn’t as if some of the squad didn’t know he and Terry were gay. It had just never been an issue. They put on a good show of being straight, everyone else made a show of believing it and they all did their damned jobs.
Memories flooded through him of the two tours they’d shared and their friendship. Funny moments, scary moments, even nights on a pass when they were unable to sleep and instead shared their tales of home, growing up gay and how they coped with the Army regulations. Each moment seemed to replay itself.
“Excuse me. Sir? Excuse me.” His head jerked up at the sound of the quiet voice. A thin, sad-looking woman stood on the other side of Terry’s grave, looking at him with swollen, red eyes and a tentative smile. “The cemetery closes at seven and it’s 6:30. I didn’t want you to be interrupted by the guards instead.”
“Thank you.” His voice choked up and he cleared his throat to try again. “Thank you. I’ll wrap it up for today.”
The thin woman nodded and caressed Terry’s cold, polished headstone with one hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She turned and slowly walked away, shoulders slumped with the weight of her own grief.
Leo knelt and ran his fingers gently over Terry’s name. “I miss you, bud. Thank you for what you did. You saved my life, you saved all our lives.” Tears welled up in his eyes, despite his best efforts to hold them back. “I brought you something.”
Coming to his feet, he examined the items on top of the headstone. A small pile of pebbles gathered on one side, flanked by two glass pebbles but next to those was a set of rubber edged dogtags, facedown on the marble and still on their chain. Curious, he flipped them over and saw they belonged to a Skinner, William R., USMC. The social security number had been carefully cut out of the tags but they were worn and dinged up. They’d seen use.
He carefully placed them back as he’d found them and reached into his pocket for the challenge coin he’d brought for Terry. The heavy brass disk had the Army Emblem on one side and the crossed rifles of the Infantry on the other. He’d carried it since he’d decided to enlist as a teen but after Terry died, he’d bought another for himself so he could give his friend this one.
Caressing the enameled coin one more time, he set it on top of the headstone to join the other tokens. “I forsake not my country, my mission, my comrades, my sacred duty.” His voice choked out the final words. Unable to continue, he snapped a salute and turned to make his way back to his car.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Round-Robin XXVI
Last round here.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Matthew's heart raced in that sickening way that told you you were about five breaths away from falling over. He dragged in a deep breath and felt himself calm enough to pull his wits together. That had been…intense. Cole had surprised him yet again in yet another way. Was he for real? Matthew'd never thought of himself as an optimist, but he couldn't deny the tiny spark of hope that warmed his belly.
Ruthlessly, he tried to smother it. No one was that nice. There were no knights in shining armor. Everyone had ulterior motives. He just had to figure out what Cole's were. If wasn't easy sex, it was something else. Maybe Cole wanted something kinkier than what Matthew had offered so far. Or maybe he didn't want it to be so easy; maybe he wanted Matthew to make him work for it. He could handle that. He'd turned some pretty twisted tricks in his life. He could do this, figure out what Cole wanted and give it to him. Unless… Unless Cole really didn't want anything from Matthew.
Damn it, there was that hope thing again.
Did he really dare to take that chance? Matthew hands trembled at the possibility. He clutched them into fists. He took a shaky breath and released them, reaching out for his coffee simply for something to do, something to focus on besides his confusion. The mug had gone cold. He set it back down and was glad to see that at least his trembling had stopped. On the outside. Inside, he was a mess. He wanted to believe Cole's offer was honest. Wanted to believe there really were no strings. He almost had himself convinced when an image of Tyler suddenly flashed in his mind's eye. Matthew had thought that relationship had been honest and look where that trust had gotten him.
How could it have been honest when they'd had to sneak around and lie to Tyler's folks?
Huh. First hope and now logic. You'd think he'd been watching daytime TV. Oprah would have a field day with his fucked up life. And yet…
Even through the bitter taste of his cynicism, there was that sweet hint of hope. Matthew still didn't believe in fairy tale heroes, but Cole had saved his ass twice already--once from the guys who attacked him, once from the cops who'd shown up at the door of the art shop--and he'd repeatedly refused compensation. Maybe, just maybe, it was safe to hope this time. At least a little bit.
He rose from the table and went to find Cole.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit! Matthew's heart raced in that sickening way that told you you were about five breaths away from falling over. He dragged in a deep breath and felt himself calm enough to pull his wits together. That had been…intense. Cole had surprised him yet again in yet another way. Was he for real? Matthew'd never thought of himself as an optimist, but he couldn't deny the tiny spark of hope that warmed his belly.
Ruthlessly, he tried to smother it. No one was that nice. There were no knights in shining armor. Everyone had ulterior motives. He just had to figure out what Cole's were. If wasn't easy sex, it was something else. Maybe Cole wanted something kinkier than what Matthew had offered so far. Or maybe he didn't want it to be so easy; maybe he wanted Matthew to make him work for it. He could handle that. He'd turned some pretty twisted tricks in his life. He could do this, figure out what Cole wanted and give it to him. Unless… Unless Cole really didn't want anything from Matthew.
Damn it, there was that hope thing again.
Did he really dare to take that chance? Matthew hands trembled at the possibility. He clutched them into fists. He took a shaky breath and released them, reaching out for his coffee simply for something to do, something to focus on besides his confusion. The mug had gone cold. He set it back down and was glad to see that at least his trembling had stopped. On the outside. Inside, he was a mess. He wanted to believe Cole's offer was honest. Wanted to believe there really were no strings. He almost had himself convinced when an image of Tyler suddenly flashed in his mind's eye. Matthew had thought that relationship had been honest and look where that trust had gotten him.
How could it have been honest when they'd had to sneak around and lie to Tyler's folks?
Huh. First hope and now logic. You'd think he'd been watching daytime TV. Oprah would have a field day with his fucked up life. And yet…
Even through the bitter taste of his cynicism, there was that sweet hint of hope. Matthew still didn't believe in fairy tale heroes, but Cole had saved his ass twice already--once from the guys who attacked him, once from the cops who'd shown up at the door of the art shop--and he'd repeatedly refused compensation. Maybe, just maybe, it was safe to hope this time. At least a little bit.
He rose from the table and went to find Cole.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Round Robin XXV
I hope everyone is having a fun and safe Memorial Day (those that are in the US) It's been nice weather until the afternoon thunderstorms that are about to roll in. So before I lose my internet, I'll post the next part of the round robin. ^-^
Last Part Here
Matthew’s comment made Cole’s blood boil – and not the good, desire-type of boil. Cole was pissed. The guy was a stubborn, jello for brains fool. Could he not see that the world had some good people? That just because he’d run across some pricks…okay, a lot of pricks if he was involved with the Bronsons, but not everyone is in the same mind set.
Cole moved in on Matthew until his back was against the nearest wall. It didn’t matter that Matthew was a half foot taller than he. Cole knew he had more bron and could take him easily. He stared up into Matthew’s blue eyes, not missing the flicker of fear.
Good. Real fear just might do him good. But then, the purpose of this wasn’t to instill fear. He just wanted Matthew’s complete attention so he’d see the anger and hear the seriousness of his words.
“Cut the bullshit, Matthew. If I was just after a piece of ass, I’d have taken it, quite often the way you offer yourself, and then sent you packing, just like Bronson. I don’t know your situation because every time I try, you clam up or get defensive. Yeah, I’m curious as hell as to why a gorgeous guy like you needs to sell yourself on the street, but you need to get a grip.”
Cole slammed his hands on the wall next to Matthew’s head, making him jump. “All I’ve wanted to do was help you. I’m not asking for sex or a live in pleasure slave. If you see yourself as a whore, that’s fine. I don’t.”
Some of the anger cooled and he broke eye contact to hang his head and let out a long breath. “I see a lost and confused soul who distrusts everyone.” He pushed off the wall and turned away. “The offer stands. It’s up to you. My studio has a couch with a fold-out bed. You can stay in there until you decide your next step.”
Cole left the kitchen without looking back.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Conspiracy? Or just reality TV?
There was a bit of controversy this week on some of the sites and blogs I frequent. Season 8 of American Idol came to an end, and despite being very talented with a wide range of ability, the openly gay contestant didn't win.
There was an outcry among the GLBT and GLBT-supporters. Adam Lambert had gay rights organizations pulling for his victory. It was said that the more conservative center of America was doing anything they could to avoid making Adam the victor, and opting instead for the handsome (non-makeupped) Kris Allen from Arkansas.
I have no idea if any of that was true. I watch American Idol for the sheer enjoyment and to feed my guilty pleasure of reality shows. (That Simon Cowell is some cutie, too.) I had absolutely no opinion either way on Kris Allen or Adam Lambert, and it pleased me to see that the two men seemed to genuinely like each other and got along well during the competition. Gay or straight, they were both exceptionally talented and had different abilities as far as vocal range. Either man deserved to win, and not because of sexual orientation.
Can't we all just sing together?
There was an outcry among the GLBT and GLBT-supporters. Adam Lambert had gay rights organizations pulling for his victory. It was said that the more conservative center of America was doing anything they could to avoid making Adam the victor, and opting instead for the handsome (non-makeupped) Kris Allen from Arkansas.
I have no idea if any of that was true. I watch American Idol for the sheer enjoyment and to feed my guilty pleasure of reality shows. (That Simon Cowell is some cutie, too.) I had absolutely no opinion either way on Kris Allen or Adam Lambert, and it pleased me to see that the two men seemed to genuinely like each other and got along well during the competition. Gay or straight, they were both exceptionally talented and had different abilities as far as vocal range. Either man deserved to win, and not because of sexual orientation.
Can't we all just sing together?
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Join me at Balticon!
Join me, Helen Madden, and Alessia Brio as we talk dirty and literary in Baltimore for what will prove to be a terrific party. This is to be my first Balticon, and I'll speak on two panels, one on Saturday night and one on Sunday night. It'll also be the first time in a while where I don't have put in time at a table or booth, and I don't mind that at all. It will be nice to play tourist for a bit and see the con through those eyes. Next year we'll get the booth and do the hard sell.
I will have gift certificates for free eBooks, though. Just look for the tired old lady in the pink Coming Together t-shirt and I'll give you one.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Memorial Day movie hunks
I'm sure I'm not the only one who's noticed this but, man--there have been some really hunky dudes in geeky comicbook/sci-fi movies lately! I started tracking the phenomenon with Mr.Sexy himself, Hugh Jackman, in X-men Origins:Wolverine, chased that with the adorable-licious Mr. Spock in Star Trek, and ended at Dr.Manhattan in Watchmen. Now with the three-day weekend upon us, it's back to the movie house where the new Terminator flick seems poised to continue the trend of male cuties in sci-fi flicks.Have a fun and safe Memorial Day, everyone!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Kink!
*grins* Well, got your attention at least, eh? ;)
I'm working on a BDSM story for an antho Beth Wylde is putting together for Phaze. So... Without further ado... here's a snip... ;) (We're aiming for a Christmas time release.)
***
“On the table, hands and knees.”
Eli climbed up and got on his hands and knees, head hanging down. He watched Kent from between his legs. Kent wheeled over a towel-covered tray, but Eli couldn't see anything when Kent pulled off the towel. Kent reached out and pressed Eli down until Eli's shoulders were down and his head rested on his folded arms. The position left Eli's ass in the air, thighs wide.
“Just my fingers,” Kent said after a few seconds. Eli sucked in a breath when two slick fingers breached his body, surging deep. “That's it,” Kent murmured, hand twisting.
Eli moaned and couldn't stop himself from rocking back onto Kent's fingers. A swift, sharp slap on his ass followed and Eli yelped.
“Keep still, boy, or I'll strap you down now.”
“Yes, Sir,” Eli gasped, biting back a shudder when Kent's fingers stroked over his gland. “Oh, God...”
Kent withdrew and then something cool and slender slipped into Eli's ass. “Just a quick temp reading,” Kent explained. He left the thermometer in and walked around to Eli's front. “Look up.”
Eli lifted his head and Kent fed a short black silicone penis into Eli's mouth. With the strap buckled around Eli's head, he couldn't spit the gag out. He whimpered and had no choice but to suck, the sensation of a cock on his tongue making his own throb.
“If you need to stop, use your visual cue – two for slow down, three for stop.”
Eli nodded, highly doubting he'd need the cues. In all their playing over the years, he'd only needed a safe word once, and that had been at the beginning, before they got to know each other's limits. Now, things between them seemed to be second nature.
Kent returned behind Eli and grasped the thermometer. Eli had almost forgotten it until it began twisting and sliding in and out, teasing the hell out of him. Then it was gone. A few seconds later, both asscheeks were spread wide apart and he felt Kent's breath on his hole, blowing gentle and hot. Eli moaned around the gag and sucked harder on it, his ass clenching with every tickle of breath. Kent alternated between cool and warm, and Eli couldn't decide which he liked more.
“Good responses,” Kent announced. He released Eli and rummaged on the tray for something. “Now this is going to be a little cold...”
I'm working on a BDSM story for an antho Beth Wylde is putting together for Phaze. So... Without further ado... here's a snip... ;) (We're aiming for a Christmas time release.)
***
“On the table, hands and knees.”
Eli climbed up and got on his hands and knees, head hanging down. He watched Kent from between his legs. Kent wheeled over a towel-covered tray, but Eli couldn't see anything when Kent pulled off the towel. Kent reached out and pressed Eli down until Eli's shoulders were down and his head rested on his folded arms. The position left Eli's ass in the air, thighs wide.
“Just my fingers,” Kent said after a few seconds. Eli sucked in a breath when two slick fingers breached his body, surging deep. “That's it,” Kent murmured, hand twisting.
Eli moaned and couldn't stop himself from rocking back onto Kent's fingers. A swift, sharp slap on his ass followed and Eli yelped.
“Keep still, boy, or I'll strap you down now.”
“Yes, Sir,” Eli gasped, biting back a shudder when Kent's fingers stroked over his gland. “Oh, God...”
Kent withdrew and then something cool and slender slipped into Eli's ass. “Just a quick temp reading,” Kent explained. He left the thermometer in and walked around to Eli's front. “Look up.”
Eli lifted his head and Kent fed a short black silicone penis into Eli's mouth. With the strap buckled around Eli's head, he couldn't spit the gag out. He whimpered and had no choice but to suck, the sensation of a cock on his tongue making his own throb.
“If you need to stop, use your visual cue – two for slow down, three for stop.”
Eli nodded, highly doubting he'd need the cues. In all their playing over the years, he'd only needed a safe word once, and that had been at the beginning, before they got to know each other's limits. Now, things between them seemed to be second nature.
Kent returned behind Eli and grasped the thermometer. Eli had almost forgotten it until it began twisting and sliding in and out, teasing the hell out of him. Then it was gone. A few seconds later, both asscheeks were spread wide apart and he felt Kent's breath on his hole, blowing gentle and hot. Eli moaned around the gag and sucked harder on it, his ass clenching with every tickle of breath. Kent alternated between cool and warm, and Eli couldn't decide which he liked more.
“Good responses,” Kent announced. He released Eli and rummaged on the tray for something. “Now this is going to be a little cold...”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Fan Mail and Deep Thinky Thoughts
So the other day, to my very pleasant surprise, I got fan mail about a story I hadn't put much thought to since it came out. I don't mean to say that I didn't care about the story; I'd simply moved on. I'd written The End and hoped others would enjoy it while I tried to figure out what was next.
I suppose this is an example of my brain at work.
The story was short, maybe 5k and I'm sure afterward I was beating at myself to stretch my word count. That's my problem, you see. I couldn't, and too often still can't, see myself as a real writer without a novel under my belt. I hang out with the real deal, chat in groups, promo, and probably have my own set of fans (I met a few of them when I did my interview on Wave's blog)...but it's like it doesn't penetrate.
For each 5k story I write, it's as if I instantly feel like I'm playing at writing. I'm not, ya know. I just can't seem to do it right to my mind. Sorry, this is very stream of conscience but the fan mail got me thinking. I need to stop dismissing my short stories. I'm good at them, hell, I'm great at them. I know I am. But I suppose this feeling of failure comes from the fact that I'm friends with people like James Buchanan, Jay Lygon, Stephanie Vaughan, Amanda Young, and the list just keeps going...
I don't think it's surprising that I occasionally feel rather inadequate. Still...that bit of fan mail? It tells me that I'm not bad. That short story that reader found will lead her to my back list and maybe she'll become a fan too. I guess in the end, it's not about novels. It's about writing something that people enjoy, that I enjoyed and if that happens to be only 5,000 words, then so be it.
Don't take this as me giving up on writing novels. One of the reasons I am a writer is because of that lust to be in print. I'm not gonna lie and there's really not an author alive (generalization) who would tell you otherwise. I do really want to write a novel or ten. To become a recognizable name. I guess it's just gonna take a little longer than I thought. This little bit of fan mail though...it'll keep me going.
And I realized that I liked that short she asked me about. Maybe there will be a sequel after all.
So what about you? What keeps you moving forward?
I suppose this is an example of my brain at work.
The story was short, maybe 5k and I'm sure afterward I was beating at myself to stretch my word count. That's my problem, you see. I couldn't, and too often still can't, see myself as a real writer without a novel under my belt. I hang out with the real deal, chat in groups, promo, and probably have my own set of fans (I met a few of them when I did my interview on Wave's blog)...but it's like it doesn't penetrate.
For each 5k story I write, it's as if I instantly feel like I'm playing at writing. I'm not, ya know. I just can't seem to do it right to my mind. Sorry, this is very stream of conscience but the fan mail got me thinking. I need to stop dismissing my short stories. I'm good at them, hell, I'm great at them. I know I am. But I suppose this feeling of failure comes from the fact that I'm friends with people like James Buchanan, Jay Lygon, Stephanie Vaughan, Amanda Young, and the list just keeps going...
I don't think it's surprising that I occasionally feel rather inadequate. Still...that bit of fan mail? It tells me that I'm not bad. That short story that reader found will lead her to my back list and maybe she'll become a fan too. I guess in the end, it's not about novels. It's about writing something that people enjoy, that I enjoyed and if that happens to be only 5,000 words, then so be it.
Don't take this as me giving up on writing novels. One of the reasons I am a writer is because of that lust to be in print. I'm not gonna lie and there's really not an author alive (generalization) who would tell you otherwise. I do really want to write a novel or ten. To become a recognizable name. I guess it's just gonna take a little longer than I thought. This little bit of fan mail though...it'll keep me going.
And I realized that I liked that short she asked me about. Maybe there will be a sequel after all.
So what about you? What keeps you moving forward?
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