D.L. Warner's Blog: The Perilous and Profane

Carrying On Calmly and Otherwise

It's been quite a while, dear readers. Like everyone else in the USA and most of the world, this year has been rough. In addition to the well-reported crises, we've had our share of family sadness and scares. The worst part is that the stressors are ongoing. The constant thrum of background stress is impacting my productivity something fierce. I was getting very little done on my creative works. And I've been abysmally slow line editing Jon's novel. Thus, blogging about my life and work didn't seem prudent for a long while. I always feel guilty when not writing anything creative. I also don't like spreading negativity during this extraordinarily negative time. I prefer readers come to my worlds (even the real one) and enjoy their time without care. This was the state of affairs until several weeks ago. Mind, the stressors were still percolating in the background. But I changed my tact and began doing research for a novel I was trying to outline. But first –

Month of Fun COVID Edition

See Photos Below

In trying to keep Jon from foraging hither and yon searching for provisions, I began to heavily rely on delivery services like Instacart [instacart.com] and Pavilions for day to day heavy groceries. But I was running out of pantry staples that I could only get at Mitsuwa Marketplace. I also wanted to order some prime seafood in small amounts. There aren't many shops I'd trust ordering seafood online. Going in person was not possible at the time. I am a high risk for Covid-19.

One day, I chanced upon a website/app in the barrage of ads Social Media sites throw at me throughout the day. Mercado.com is a delivery service that covers specialty stores that don't carry enough variety for mainstream delivery services. Among the shops Mercado serves are many at Farmer's Market LA. I was delighted. My favorite butcher and fishmonger are there. It's funny. I never hear anyone use the term fishmonger save for on What We Do in the Shadows. But I digress. There would be delicious treats for the MoF 2020. WooHoo!

My first order through Mercado.com included plump, firm sea scallops, and a dozen Pacific Oysters. Over the next week, these tidbits were happily devoured. I seared the scallops and dressed them in brown butter alongside a fruit salad. The oysters were served raw with a mignonette sauce.

The beverages were different this year. A friend from Canada suggested a French Rose wine called Fabre en Provence. Fortunately, the local Bevmo had it in stock and on sale. I hadn't tried Rose wine since my early 20s. It had a snazzy ad, as I recall. It was really cheap and awful. The Fabre was light and delicate and refreshing. Delicious! By sheer coincidence, Jon brought home a Rose Chandon bubbly for the scallops. I really disliked pink champagne in my youth (I had to learn to stop buying wine from TV ads), but considering how good the Fabre was, I thought it was worth a try. Sparkling Rose bubbly is now my favorite. This pairs perfectly with my favorite treat of the entire MoF.

Cousins Main Lobster Truck had the best Facebook ad to ever interrupt my scrolling. That was because it had lobster rolls and would be situated ten minutes from my house at a time when Jon could stop by and pick up an order. The prices were reasonable, and the reviews were stellar. I found out later that the company founders had made quite an impression on Shark Tank. The reviews are well deserved. That sandwich was a feast for the senses. The lobster was tender, the bun was perfectly toasted and buttered. I inhaled that, a bowl of lobster bisque and a bowl of clam chowder. It was disgraceful. I can't wait to do it again!

Finding Traction

I've always been self-motivated as a writer. I'm typically able to juggle two writing projects while outlining a third. And I always wrote quickly once a story is outlined. This has not been the case since November 2019. The weirdness that is 2020 exacerbated the disconnect from my work. Since I'd never experienced anything like this before, I was unsure how to fix it.

Thankfully, I chanced upon a huge slate of videos that caused my mind to conjure some fascinating directions for upcoming titles. I've been watching a lot of Singapore TV True-Crime shows because, of course, I am. Singapore is a close analog to one of the regions in my Ensnared series. I've watched many travel documentaries about the country(Bourdain's was fascinating). That led me to historical and cultural documentaries. Next, I found the 24-hour news channel, CNA, has excellent coverage of Asia in general. I think that was when YouTube's algorithm decided I'd likely enjoy some True-Crime (and I always do). Crimewatch gave me insight into just how illogical humans can be when it comes to our baser natures. Who would risk committing crimes in a country known for its draconian enforcement of order? Apparently, a lot of people – enough to have 34 seasons of Crimewatch. Bourdain mentioned being weirded out by the many signs strongly advising against committing crimes or pushing citizens to report everything they see. Most people in the West have heard about the caning that can be part of a criminal sentence. It makes no sense to risk freedom and/or the skin on one's backside pursuing an illegal diversion when the country has so many legal ones. That gave me the central theme to the next Ensnared.

I've also found some wonderful documentaries on the Regency Era in England. I'm about to subvert the very literary romances of that period. The most helpful series for my research has been Regency House Party. A Very British Romance and Elegance and Decadence – The Age of the Regency with the fabulous Lucy Worsley were essential in helping with my world-building. Viewing these shows was also a great pleasure. I've been inspired to great mischief! I am now busily writing and plan to have some teasers up on my Author page very soon.

In other news, I finally got fed up with my laptop's sluggishness and upgraded its RAM. Now, I'm efficiently finishing the artwork I need for a marketing push of my erotica titles. I'm even learning to animate! Flash animation, not Miyazaki. I'm not going to give a timeline for when the marketing will see the light of day. Let's just say that it's coming along nicely.

I am far from stress-free. However, I am writing and drawing again. The great Holiday Bake is coming, and I'm making plans. I'm getting through this. I hope you all are as well.

Stay tuned.

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Year of Fun, Rats, and Holiday Truths

I've always loved the holiday season – even when I worked in retail. I love the food prep and the gift giving. No matter the mayhem in my life, we celebrate Christmases and the New Year. I just saw a lovely documentary from Lucy Worsely that affirmed my belief in celebrating the full 12 Days of Christmas. Happy 12th Night, y'all (I began this blog on January 6th)!
Despite that great love for the season, it is linked now and forever to my cancer diagnosis and the first surgery. Ten years ago, this past December, I nearly departed this world. But there were many holiday miracles that December. My primary care doctor was one of a handful of docs that could recognize my symptoms, There was a cracking surgeon on call when I presented at the ER. Somehow, Temple University ended up in a bowl game (I was really convinced that news was the morphine talking, but it was true). I couldn't eat Thanksgiving dinner, and Christmas dinner tasted like metal from the hellacious antibiotic. I was okay about the food tasting that way, but I was offended that the champagne tasted like metal. I drank it anyway.
Since my diagnosis was in December, my yearly probing, blood draws and chest-smashing are scheduled during that same time. While I'm having fun with the usual rituals and the new recipes or ingredients, I find that I have to drop everything and sit in waiting rooms. As I head into a New Year, I'm waiting for test results. It's quite a dichotomy. Most years, I'm baking and enjoying Alastair Sim (the only Scrooge on film who matters) and imbibing calorie rich libations while worrying about test results. This year, I was doing all those things while worrying about how I'd be financially able to be treated if something comes back or something new comes up. I was also hit with a major downer over the yearly survey of my overall health and state of mind. The former is worse than it was ten years ago in many ways due to the profound side effects of the cancer treatment, and the latter has been in a spiraling depression because of all that I can't do or do as easily as before Chemo.
I scared my Doc with the answers to that survey. I had not intended to do that. The questions didn't have answers that reflect my gratitude for being alive. I had to assure her that my answers did not indicate despondency. I was still cooking, and baking, and following rituals. Most importantly, I'm still writing naughty holiday stories (albeit way, way too slowly). Everything I like doing seems to take a lot more time than the year before. That fact really bugs me, but I keep plugging.
Enough of that. There is another thing about 2020 that I am very excited about. I had hoped to be excited about silver jumpsuits and jet packs, but this is a lot of fun as well. This year, I reach a venerable milestone on my birthday. Thus, it's another Year of Fun (#YoF2020)! Also, the Lunar New Year heralds The Year of the Rat, which is my birth year. That means, I am doubly obligated to celebrate. Thus, there will be hijinx and shananigans. I plan to have dishes I've never tried and a fancy cocktail now and then along with my wine (much more champagne than usual). And there will be travel. There will be!
Speaking of new foods, I have some recipes on my immediate to-do list. One is a Nigerian dish called MoiMoi or Moin Moin. It's made with black-eyed peas, bell peppers, onions, and hot peppers blended and steamed into a pudding-like consistency. Jon used it in his new novel, so I have to try it out. Yes, I will be testing recipes from my fiction. I've also been experimenting with British baking ingredients like Muscovado dark brown sugar(a richer brown sugar that tastes like molasses) and Mixed Spice (a much zestier pumpkin pie spice). They've made a marked difference in my baked goodies this year. Nigella Lawson is responsible for this. Her Christmas yummies looked so amazing that I had to try to replicate them as closely as possible. This isn't British, but I'm also excited about getting a hold of Ruby Cocoa and Ruby Chocolatebaking morsels. They taste like chocolate and berries at the same time. The fudge is amazing. Praise Amazon Prime for making the world an accessible pantry.

I don't make resolutions anymore. However, I aim to treat myself better during the YoF2020 and beyond. I've been working on a consistent skincare routine to add to my natural hair care regimen. You wouldn't believe how many YouTube tutorials it took to get a handle on the skin and the hair. On the plus side, I now know way more than I ever expected to about beauty influencers. It may seem like a waste of time, but the reviews and recs save viewers a lot of time and money. It's especially nice to have advice from women who are my exact shade or hair texture. And bless the professional artists online who know how to makeup women of a 'certain age.' In short, I'm doing the self-care thing.
Writing Updates – I will finish the current story. I've got a couple of new novels in the concept stage while I am continuing with my popular titles. My plate is full, but that's fine. It's full of my favorite kind of characters. I'm also learning a lot about illustrating my work. This New Year/New Decade is very exciting. I am eager to take it on.
Stay tuned!

Writer's Quirks, Strange Research and a New Venture

I live with a writer (he's on the left). We've been together many, many years. I can't deny that such creative cohabitation has great benefits. Jon and I are each other's sounding board. We fill in the gaps for each other. We proofread for each other. This symbiosis was especially important early in our relationship. I was not trained in screenwriting, and Jon was not a writer of prose fiction. In theory, the arrangement should have been simple. I do characters. Jon does visuals. We both work on the concept and the outline. Easy peasy lemon squeezy – it is not.
The big issue is that Jon hates doing re-writes. Who doesn't, right? I am quite famous for reacting so badly to the term 'notes' that my production partners warn the note-makers in advance that they best have complete confidence in their schooling, experience, and taste (depending on my mood) or Deb is really going to hurt your feelings. And I'm known as the nice one. Oh, there were many meetings I was glad Jon wasn't a part of such is his dislike for re-writes. That said, I do know that re-writes are inevitable for various reasons that involve anything from money (remind me to tell you about the animatronic cow we wanted for our Vampire film, Demon Under Glass) to logistics, creative input from the cast and/or crew, and audience reaction. Only Paddy Chayefsky got away with not changing one word of a script, and I'm fairly certain that only happened once.
Somehow, we've made our personal styles mesh well enough to write scripts in a timely fashion with little household tension. I found that I've picked up a lot of Jon's methods for outlining and figuring out what is wrong when I hit a wall while writing fiction. And he's been learning about writing fiction from me. He experimented with all kinds of styles when writing some chapters of the insanely long fanfic saga. Jon was so good at mimicking my voice that very few readers spotted the difference between my chapters and his. For the most part, the Logs were written quickly to respond to episodes and irk the writers for the show. They were also writing experiments.
And then came Life on the Periphery, Jon's collection of short fiction. First off, I must emphatically state that the book is brilliant. That made coping with 'he who shall not re-write' worth the considerable consternation. The protracted research process featured questions about such disparate topics as teenaged girls in the Dust Bowl era, abandoned spouses in olde timey Arabia, personality quirks of the jinn, security protocols at Auschwitz, and courting rituals of young men in 1920s Ohio. The questions tended to pop up randomly and in no particular order. Life was quite interesting during that time. He kept this gal on her toes.

 The range of the collection is breathtaking. He has a truly unique perspective and expresses that with keen insight, great wit, and delightful whimsy. I freely admit that it was so good that I was annoyed. It was his first collection. Who hits a grand slam the first time at bat? When I think about it, I'm glad the collection turned out so well. 
The current book is a novel, but it still involves a wide range of research. Jon has two expert consultants working with him, but the questions keep coming. How do you eat French onion soup (chew, then sip); what do you know about Noh Theater (next to nothing); if you get soaked in the rain, should the clothes come off as soon as possible (yes). Over the past several weeks, he's been through the Concept Stage, the Outline, and the Detailed Outline. He's five chapters into the writing now. The first thing Jon's discovered is that characters are harder to control over a longer arc. That was quickly followed by the revelation that no matter how careful the outline, a plot can be stubbornly wayward.
What do Jon's adventures with writing have to do with mine? Isn't it a distraction? It does seem so when I write it down like this, but I find his drive encourages me when I am wallowing in rough waters with my own work. That said, Jon has derailed me while writing love scenes here and there with the sheer weirdness of some of the questions. That is rare though. It's encouraging to have another writer in the house. Keeps our eyes on the prize, so to speak. And pulling me out of the deep malaise I was in was no easy feat.
Updates
I'm basically finished writing the short story that's taken forever. Its title is Pedestal. I'm working on a few illustrations before going back to proofread and tweak. As I've said before, the story will be free to download. I'll also post it on my Yaoi Blog page. This my gift to the readers for their patience and understanding. I've written an outline for the next Ensnared book while working on the short story. I wasn't planning on that, but a certain character loves hogging attention. Other novels and shorts are in the works. I worked on the next Vampire Rent Boy when I got stuck with the current short story.
Speaking of keeping our eyes on the prize, I was seriously stressed over the thought of having to take on freelance work to keep our heads above water during this situation with the Feds. Before my diagnosis, I worked jobs that didn't drain my mental energy. That way, I could write quite a bit while I was off. The gigs I'm looking at now require a lot of mental and/or creative energy.
I think the worry was evident in my last Author Page post. Several lovely readers strongly suggested that I consider starting a Patreon account. I've considered this before, but I couldn't figure out what perks I could give that anyone would want. The latest person to suggest a Patreon sent links to other authors who had an account. I was surprised at the average minimum ($3.00) and at how simple and easy the perks could be. So – I'm gonna create a Patreon account! It will be a few weeks before I roll it out. First, I must publish Pedestal, Second, I want to plan it carefully and get a jump on the crafting the perks. Thank you to those who suggested the notion.
This is both exciting and terrifying.
An excerpt from Pedestal will be available tomorrow!
Stay tuned!

Muses, Inspirations, and...Jon

It's been a while since my last blog. I thought I'd warm up with a writer's blog. The question I'm answering from my readers is 'Where do my ideas come from?'
I suppose if a casual reader looked at my body of erotica works, the variety of themes that have no relation to one another must look odd. No two settings are alike. The titles that are in the works will likely cause more confusion than clarity. Let's see, there is a new title set in the Regency era of England and another that is in the corporate world of Manhattan and rarefied world of the Hamptons. These will join the other series that span realms that have magical elves and dragons to a New Jersey town where the children of the night hang out in dive bars. My head is often a rollicking, boisterous place.
But how does this happen? The short answer is it's Jon fault. I'll explain that in a little while. Let's do a mini countdown, shall we?
I was going to write fanfic because I loved/hated the original then decided to do new work.The Surrender books originated with my mad love for Lord of the Rings fanfic. There were some works that were so amazing that I was convinced the writers were closeted professionals. I adored their takes on the characters and how they immersed readers in those realms. So, I wanted to try my hand. I was already an infamous fanfic writer with a few series going. Then, I was chatting with an Industry friend who argued that I should spend all of that creative energy on something that could provide an income. That was true. Fanfic never kept me from writing scripts or doing Producer things, but I was hungry for some professional creativity that didn't involve budgets and fighting with my own department heads.

The Surrender books set out to be a typical fantasy romance. It really did. But as Jon often says, I can't resist subverting tropes and then making that twisted version seem reasonable. That is what makes me a very dangerous Domme when I have a mind to be. Thus, the story of a royal princess who is forced to marry in order to save her kingdom becomes a tale of subtle Dominance and submission. I even tried to beat the record for the longest first sex scene that is still held by the amazing Thea Devine (her real name) at over 100 pages. My first love scene didn't get that far, but it was still a hoot. My only regret with those books even though I really loved writing them is that I held back on the fantasy elements, and I haven't written the third book. Well, I'm fixing that with some major re-writes (I'm going for that record adding the magic) and the newest volume!
Let's move on to the titles that inspired me via blind, boiling rage and hatred. The first was the Ensnared series. Yes, this epic series full of fun characters and hot loving was one of the titles born of rage. I'm not going to get into a debate about pop culture influencing bad behavior. These are my own reactions to tropes that have impacted me or someone I know in profoundly negative ways. BDSM is wildly misunderstood by the general public thanks in large part to ridiculous depictions in various forms of media. This is especially true in Yaoi. I was new to the sub-genre when I first ran across Ai no Kusabi. While it wasn't the worst non-con I'd ever seen, it was the one with the prettiest characters and the most compelling voice performances. Thus, it was popular and often held up as representative of the entire genre. This was a problem for me because I was trying to expand the market for Yaoi fiction beyond straight women to include gay men. They rightfully had a problem with the tropes in that title and many others. What to do? When Jon runs across a book or film he doesn't like, he takes similar concepts and weaves a better tale. It is a long tradition in literature. Hemingway did it in Torrents of Spring. Joe Haldeman did it with The Forever War. I set out to turn the all-powerful Seme and the powerless uke love story on its head with a romance that made sense while indulging in lots of BDSM sexy time. Ensnared became way more than I expected, but I am enjoying the ride too much to give it up entirely.
The other title that fits in this category and the next is my response to a film that thankfully had limited distribution called The Pet though it also works as a response to the equally vile 50 Shades books and films. See below for a brief mention of The Proposal.
Continuations of my own themes. Thus far, there is only one title in this category though there is a second in the works that began as a script. The first is the Soldiers Series. This series is an extension of the novelization of our film, Demon Under Glass. Vincent and Rik are the end results of experimentation that began in that film. At the time I wrote A Soldier's Choice, I was much enamored with Conqueror of Shambala so my protagonists vaguely resembled those men, but the entire mythos for the series is ours. Why yes, I did notice that the theme resembles the new series The Passage. I noticed enough to have a hard look at when those books were written and by whom. Ours predate his novel by a few years. I suppose Vampire super soldiers come up in more than one head. And just as the Passage is neither Demon Under Glass or the Soldiers series, my titles are not Conqueror of Shambala. Inspiration comes from many places. The Soldiers series will continue with a fourth book and the script we wrote will become a webcomic.

The Proposal script never got past the treatment stage. My cancer diagnosis derailed it for a while. The success of 50 Shades made me rethink trying to make a controversial film first. I'm serializing a novel right now that I will release in installments as ebooks followed by a combined print book. If the series catches the right eyes, I still want to do a film.
It's Jon's fault.Somewhere during our many years together, Jon became my muse. He didn't do it on purpose. He just has this way of summing up something in a few words that make for a great starting point. In the Industry, it's called The High Concept (Miami Vice's High Concept pitch was MTV Cops, for example). He's directly responsible for Vampire Rent Boy. That happened while we were looking at a stock image website for art to go with The Companion. We came across the image of a pale face beauty in a top hat and vaguely Victorian clothing, and Jon said 'Vampire Rent Boy.' And I was off to the races. By the way, I really did hang out in a bar like Muttley's in Hoboken when I worked in Manhattan ages ago. A few doors down was the bakery that would be run by the Cake Boss years later. But I digress.
Another time, we were chatting about how any job can become a chore (even filmmaking). Jon wondered if sex bot builders would continue to masturbate after working in such a place. That comment resulted in a short story that is least like me – sexy but darker than dark and depressing. I wrote Product Development for an anthology years ago and will publish it soon as an ebook novella. More recently, he became obsessed with a Reese Witherspoon TV ad that featured a bizarrely designed decanter. That led me to comment that Mykos would think that design was the real reason a civilization fell. And I was off and running with the next Ensnared. I'd been grasping for a beginning for weeks. Jon is also responsible for my writing a Yaoi romance by way of Regency Era England. Well, Jon and Midsomer Murders.

This is my process – such that it is. To find all of my available titles, you can visit my Amazon Author page here: https://www.amazon.com/D.L.-Warner/e/B002BREP2O
Next Blog – Who are my characters based on? Where DOES that dialog come from?
Stay tuned!

Wedding Cakes, Sugar Lace, and Jane Austen

Jon and I didn't have a wedding cake. We had Elvis, singing Klingons and a really great seafood buffet, but I just couldn't arrange a reasonably priced cake in Las Vegas for our wedding. The hotel where we had our reception (in that we ate the seafood buffet that was already there) wanted a cake cutting fee of $10 a slice! Um, no. Thus, for our 20th anniversary (geez, really?!), we want a proper wedding cake. That means making our own. I thought we'd make some small cakes in various flavors and styles and see which one we like best. I also suggested that Jon take some of the cakes to his job to share so our apartment wouldn't be full of cake all summer. You'd think I'd suggested he gut the office cats. I suppose that means there will be a lot of cake in the house. Maybe we'll get visitors. Special visitors.
Sugar lace and its mold.Aside from a wedding cake, I'm not sure how else we'll mark the occasion. We'd love to go to Philly if only for a few days. That is something we're looking at closely. If we stay here, it's a conundrum. Our place is way too small for a party. There is still time to figure something out. Right now, we this cake to figure out.  I'm going to learn a few new skills. There is such a thing as sugar lace, and it can be made at home – allegedly. Fortunately, we live steps away from a lovely Cake and Candy supply shop called Gloria's https://www.gloriascakeandcandy.com/. Thus, we can easily ask a lot of questions and shop for everything required.
Ours will not have the chocolate on top.Our first candidate will be a Tiramisu-layer-cake https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/f.... We've had such a cake from the local supermarket and liked it. However, I'd need a frosting that could stand up to decorating. The recipe I found on the Foodnetwork has a buttercream frosting made with mascarpone cheese. I could decorate that. Don't worry. There will likely be photos. There may even be a video!
Personal Updates
Since the Month of Fun, I've been busy running around to the quarterly medical appointments. There isn't anything dire afoot. However, my docs are finally looking into two painful problems that have bedeviled me for a few years now. I don't understand why all of these places I need to visit are as spread out as they are. But I'm glad to finally have these issues addressed. I'm not complaining. These physical limitations have made me somewhat frustrated that I can't do as much cooking in one go as I'd like. I still have a list of dishes from the Southern cookbooks that I want to try. And my friends keep sending me new cookbooks to look at with many tempting things. So many mouth-watering goodies. Some of them will even appeal to Jon. Sigh. Still, I am determined to get to them all. This may take a while. Yes, there will be photos. I really have to get better about showing the stages. These problems have also made long-distance travel challenging. And I have many places (and people) all over the world I'd love to visit or re-visit. I shall not be deterred!
Writing Updates
I feel like I'm back in high school. My essay for Jane Eyre is overdue, and I'm hip deep in Jane Austen research. Though vexed at my tardiness, I am enjoying the work with these texts from days of yore and researching the lifestyles of the real people from that era. The documentaries can get to be a distraction, but I think it is having a positive influence on the pieces I'm writing. The artwork has had a vast improvement with the latest version of Photoshop. It has a feature that literally will not let you draw a shaky line. I've been able to do the line work on my sketches in minutes. Whoa! That is quite a breakthrough. All in all, I can say that all of my planned works for this year are progressing though not as quickly as I would like. My apologies for being so vague. It is difficult to talk about my work and have it free of spoilers. More details to come. Stay tuned!

Month of Fun 2018 Plans, Schemes, and Recipes

Mint Julep(center) Meyer Lemonade and
Sweet Tea.There is something about a mint Julep that makes a body feel good. I can only have one of them though. Those things pack a punch. I still don't get how those people at the Derby can drink cup after cup. I'd be out cold until the following Wednesday. One was enough to spur me on to make a small batch of fried chicken for the occasion. Jon thinks I made it rather than order it (KFC delivers through Grub Hub don't you know) is to use this nifty product I saw on a Japanese cooking show. It hardons pots of hot grease into a disposable disc. That merely was a happy accident. And it was freaking awesome! I don't have a before shot so just picture a big pan of hot Crisco that was clear. After the magic power, it doesn't even jiggle. Simple pleasures! For anyone interested, I found it online using the search phrase Japanese oil hardener. Don't judge me! (See Photos at the end of the blog).
Right Books at the Right Time
I was watching an episode of CSB this Morning Saturday when a chef named Scott Peacock was being interviewed about his work and his collaboration with a well known Southern chef named Edna Lewis for a book called  The Gift of Southern Cooking. The dishes on the table looked so delicious, I had to look up her cookbooks. In those books, I found many wonderful recipes for foods I'd heard of growing up but had never eaten. I also saw recipes for foods I remembered my grandmother serving me as a child. Many of those recipes were vegetables. This is very hand as Jon is not easy to cook for where healthy things are concerned. I have to admit that I was growing bored with the limited selection. I shall go forth to the next farmer's market with renewed excitement and inspiration. Several recipes for indulgent snacks that go well with wine or cocktails will turn up during the Month of Fun 2018. I am still thinking about what kind of cake to bake for the birthday itself though I do know what the rest of the day's menu shall be. I've been waiting to make this for a whole year! Of course, everything will be documented. One awesome by-product of this new interest in old Southern recipes that actually began with my interest in Vivian Howard (A Chef's Life and the book Deep Run Roots) are some fantastic chats with my father about his vegetable garden and how he uses the veggies.

MoF2018 Adventures
Alas, I will not be in France this month. I remain bitter each May that I fail to be in France. However, I plan some outings beyond the new pool at the YMCA. Of course, there be movies like Deadpool 2 and Solo: A Star Wars Story to see. Deadpool is our special date movie. I also plan to make a trip to the new Cat Cafe Lounge and get some long needed cat cuddles. I'm also hoping to get some company to go to the Original Farmer's Market near the Grove Shopping center. While there, I want to visit the French Patisserie and the World Market. The former is personal pleasure while the latter is a reconnaissance mission for Holiday gifts. That is, I searching out nifty jars for special homemade gifts I found in a Nigella Larson Christmas cookbook. As always, I plan to go to Penzey's Spices in Santa Monica. Since there is now a train that can get me there incredibly quickly, it's rather disgraceful that I don't visit that gorgeous town more often. I'm also leaving room for unplanned adventures. We'll see!

Writing Updates
I am one of the few writers I know that isn't having trouble with ideas. I have enough story ideas for two years worth of titles publishing at one a quarter or more often. The problem has been in execution. Sadly, most of that problem is physical. My 'New Normal' is very delicate and ridiculously easy to derail. Currently, I'm working with a stiff neck and headache that has been with me for nearly two weeks. The doc says it's neck strain that seems to have started with a protracted and uncomfortable dentist appointment. Sigh. The other issues arise from creative curve balls. Those are to be expected. The surprises happening while writing the latest Rent Boy have been a lot of fun and quite satisfying. The characters are evolving in surprising ways and the crazy storylines are making thematic sense. That's been lovely. Better still, I'm almost finished with this sucker. The next new series will be a surprise to my readers though its origins are very much how my writing happens – Jon makes a witty observation about something we're watching and I find that I have to run with it no matter how incongruent it seems. I'm also developing a way of both continuing and promoting my ongoing works more effectively than social media has been of late. Neither Amazon nor Facebook's evil algorithms with thwart this writer! I also think my regular followers will love all of it! An aside to my readers and followers – thank you for all the incredibly kind notes and steadfast support. It really does keep me going during the bleakest of times.

Stay tuned!
Photos
Hardened Grease and Japanese
Grease Hardener





Corn Pudding from Edna Lewis' Book

Solo - A Star Wars Story

Month of Fun 2017, Finding Girliness, and Strange Research

It's been a long time since my last blog. While I really missed writing them, I found I couldn't take time from my books to do one. I was feeling guilty enough about being behind in my fiction writing. Before I knew it, not only was the Month of Fun 2017 over but somehow it was also mid-October! Crazy! Well, let's get to it.
Month of Fun 2017
Strangely, one of the cornerstones of the Month of Fun in any year is making sure that – if I do nothing else – I make sure I have a 'damned fine cup of coffee.' * Why is that strange? I hadn't made myself what would be considered a decent cup of coffee in a number of years. I found trying to make a carafe of coffee from our Mr. Coffee wasteful. I only seem to drink one cup of coffee per day unless I'm working in an office. I'm not sure why a cubicle makes me a three cup a day gal, but it does.
Anyway, a couple of weeks before the MoF 2017 began, I was watching an NHK (Japanese Network TV that runs on PBS in LA) Show called  Japanology Plus . The subject was cafes that serve Japanese Coffee and the history of coffee drinking in that country. I was dumbstruck when I watched the careful procedure for making the perfect single cup of coffee in Japan because it was so similar to how I made it decades earlier in the first apartment I lived in on my own. I once had a carafe/funnel combo and was rather tickled that this method was not just popular in Japan, it had also become big among the Hipsters here. I recalled that coffee was quite strong and delicious. In the TV show, the cafe workers used a ceramic funnel over top a gorgeous cup. I popped onto Amazon and bought myself a plastic Mellita funnel and filter starter kit. Within two days, I was back to making myself a single cup of sublime coffee. I am doing that to this day. I enjoy Japanology Plus anytime I watch it, but this episode brought back a little nicety that I had long neglected.

There was quite a bit of decadent food for this MoF. I always enjoy Eggs Benedict on special occasions like any given Wednesday. This year, I found Bruno Albouze, a zany French chef on Youtube who had the craziest video I've ever seen of this recipe https://youtu.be/WM_oTv5EAhY. He also had an actual foolproof method of poaching eggs that worked for me! I had my dish with smoked salmon and English muffins, as usual. I also enjoyed just the toasted English muffins with the smoked salmon and Hollandaise sauce as a late night snack a couple of times later in the week. For the Big Day, I made a new recipe from the same chef – a Triple Chocolate Mousse Cakehttps://youtu.be/MhUB4Us8BIo . I didn't have ring molds, so I had to adjust the ingredients for a small, springform cake pan. We enjoyed the heck out of that cake. I was also excited about the appearance of King's Hawaiian hot dog and hamburger buns http://www.kingshawaiian.com. The hot dog buns were split on the top which meant I could finally have a proper lobster roll. Well, when the lobster tails were reasonably priced, the hot dog buns were sold out. One day, there was a cook half lobster on a Manager's Special. I made the roll on the hamburger bun. It was so good, I was dancing in my seat! Be sure to toast the interior of the bun with butter in a frying pan first. Decadent!!! Incidentally, those King Hawaiian buns are wonderful for hamburgers and hot dogs.



On Being Girly
Food was not my only MoF indulgence this year. I decided to finally get back to the level of basic polish in my appearance I had prior to my diagnosis. I've never been much for glamour – save for in the 1980s when everyone was really painted and flouffed – but I have always maintained a level of polish that allowed me to put myself together for an Industry meeting or event on short notice. That meant getting a mani-pedi at least once a month, keeping the hair relaxed and conditioned, and keeping my skin care regiment up. All of that went out the window while grappling with my illness. It was when doing research for the current book that I realized it had been so long since I bought new makeup, I didn't even know what current trends were. I certainly didn't know how to make a face that has matured and been through a physical nightmare look its best.
I made the jump to natural hair (no chemical relaxers) a couple of years ago when I realized I didn't have the energy required to thoroughly rinse the chemicals out in one attempt. You can leave that stuff sitting on the hair for rest intervals. The chemicals would burn the hair and probably the scalp. Let me state for the record that natural hair care is neither less expensive nor less effort. That is so far from the truth that I want to punch anyone who says that (and it's usually men) in the face for saying it is. The one good thing about all the products involved in 'natural hair care' (special shampoos and conditioners, coconut oil, conditioning creams, and styling gel) is that they last a long time. Still, routine hair care under this regimen involves five products and at least six involved steps. Oy!
Fortunately, Youtube had all my beauty and skin care info in copious detail. I found experts who were my exact skin share, type, and age. I found advice for making up my hooded/monolid eyes. I found experts who know all the best drugstore brands and which ones can compete with the most expensive products. I was appalled and impressed by how much these folks earn from their videos, but I was glad I found them. Interesting note – the best makeup instructions seem to come from guys. I think it's because they're assuming that the other guys watching don't automatically know the terminology. I had to rebuild my makeup, skin care, and nail care kits. That process started during the MoF. It took a while to figure out the best value for my limited bucks. And by slowly acquiring products, I gave myself time to develop the habit of using them. If anyone is interested in links to my Youtube beauty playlist or what is in my various kits, let me know. I haven't glammed up yet, but the changes have been noted by Jon and others I run across. That's been nice.
Research Purposes Only
My writing involves a great deal of research. Even my Sci-fi fantasies are grounded in reality. The writing flows better for me if I'm writing something that is based on real life. The problem for me is that when I am researching something interesting, I'll follow links to videos and articles to information that has no bearing on my writing whatsoever. I'm curious by nature. Thus, it can be a struggle not to fall down an informational rabbit hole and spend hours distracted. However, I have found some wonderful information for my fiction from people like Hair Archaeologist Janet Stephens whose work helped me with character descriptions. I was surprised to find out how many prominent male belly dancers there are in the world. A few of the dancers influenced a major passage in the book. Meanwhile, amazing present day wonders like the Marina Bay Sands Hotel/Casio in Singapore look like they are from hundreds of years into the future. The documentaries on how this amazing place was built  https://youtu.be/wHx9Af2Uxyg and how it keeps guests and employees fed https://youtu.be/GRfQw5SLVLM were really inspiring for my fiction. And after I finished the draft, I began binging (that word looks weird) on everything I couldn't watch while I was still working. My Youtube feed is bizarre.
What's Next
While the proofreaders beat the draft into shape, I'm finishing details on the cover drawing. I'd worked out the pose earlier. I'm now adding rings, sandals, and other accessories to the characters before painting the thing. In the meantime, I'm working on a test painting to refine my blending skills.
Stay tuned!

*Agent Cooper - Twin PeaksPhoto Gallery

Kentucky Derby Day Eats (Homemade pulled pork sandwich) and a Mint Julep.
Birthday Bubbly and Soft Pretzel Snack.
Triple Chocolate Mousse Cake.
Midnight Snack!
Wall Street Journal article on Janet Stephens and the Vestal Virgin Hair Challenge.
https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB100014...

Adventures with Miss Patty

Adventures with Miss PattyByDL Warner

Part One – Dancing with the German
Mother was divorced in 1983, but that was only part of the reason why she and I were chasing after a 75-year-old woman down the length of Amtrak’s Crescent City train to New Orleans in 1985. That situation largely stemmed from two room service hamburgers ordered at the Macon, Georgia Hilton in 1979 and the funeral of my beloved Great-Grandpop, Jim.
My Brother had ordered one of the hamburgers. I believe that the incredible possibility of never setting foot inside a Stuckey’s roadside store ever again while en route to visit our southern kin made him a little crazy in the head. I can't say that I blamed him. We actually flew to Macon instead of taking the interminable drive jammed in a very used car with temperamental air conditioning. Those had always been awkward and largely silent sojourns for a group of people who were always vaguely uncomfortable in each others' presence. While I had been elated that the trip wouldn't take more than a few days instead of more than a week, I couldn't help being uneasy about rushing to a funeral. Father rented a car that was cavernous and enthusiastically air-conditioned when we arrived at what was considered an airport in Macon, Georgia. It was the first car he had ever rented. Mother, known to my friends as Miss Patty, was more than frayed around the edges when we landed in Macon. That was her first plane trip. Had she her druthers, I doubt that there would have been a first. She was terrified of flying. Only honoring someone as terrific as Grandpop Jim could have gotten her on a plane. Luckily, smoking was still allowed in parts of the plane. I had been the designated child to sit with her. It's still unclear to me how smoking is relaxing. The smoke I inhaled from the full pack she consumed didn't do me any good. Nor did she ever relax the vise-like grip on my arm from take off to landing. By the time we disembarked from the tiny prop job that took us from Atlanta to Macon, our nerves were completely frazzled. I think if we had to wait for the local kin to finish debating who was the least busy and pick us up, Mother or I would have been screaming to the rafters in the tiny airport. Besides, my Father had been used to having autonomy of movement while visiting Georgia and preferred it that way. That seemed especially true on this trip. My mother, brother and I became convinced that more was afoot than a funeral when we headed for downtown Macon instead of out to the edge of town and Grandpop's house. We checked into a Hilton Hotel instead of dividing up mattresses and box springs across the floor of the humid familial homestead like a UFO cult or mobsters hunkered down for a long street war. These unprecedented extravagances caused my Brother to extrapolate wildly on Father’s new found joie de vivre. The result was the aforementioned room service hamburger. I did not believe for one second that we were authorized to sign for meals on the room, but the evidence was hard to ignore. We were in air conditioning in Georgia that was not inside a Handy Andy convenience store near Grandpop's house. I admit to being overwhelmed by the possibilities as well. I, too, ordered a hamburger from room service. The burgers were good, but I'd had better at diners for a third of the price. We ate everything except for the curly parsley garnish. The trays were banished to the small table in the corner of the room. When our parents returned from the family summit with Grandpop's preacher, I was studying for mid-terms and my Brother was making fun of the local news anchors. The lovely scent of grilled beef and onions still hung in the air. My mother looked really sad. I expected that. She really loved Grandpop Jim. In a family full of hostile factions, especially toward in-laws, he had been squarely in her camp. My Brother and I adored him because he was still spry enough to walk us to the Handy Andy for comic books and Popsicles. Grandpop Jim had also introduced boxed cereal to breakfast in Macon, giving us a reprieve from the giant, meat feasts they still made in the mornings well after the long hard days on the farm had ended. And he used to slap his knee when he laughed. He laughed a lot. Father looked angry and tense entering the hotel room. His jaw was tight which meant he was really upset. My Brother and I got tense, thinking there would be a room service related explosion. Instead, he went to make some phone calls. Mother looked at the room service trays and then at Father making expensive phone calls from a hotel phone rather owlishly. She picked up a cold, gummy piece of a French fry from the tray and ate it. “I've never had room service,” she said quietly before picking up a small pile of clothes and heading into the bathroom to change. I think I was the only one who had heard her. Father hung up the phone with a loud bang a little while later. Then, he took us to the Pig n' Whistle for pulled pork barbecue sandwiches. The ill-gotten hamburgers were forgotten in favor of slow-cooked, spicy sweet meat on the fluffiest of buns. My strongest memory of the funeral itself was an irreverent one that Grandpop Jim would have enjoyed immensely. We were in an extremely hot, stuffy country church during a service long enough to make a High Mass seem as short as a movie trailer. I was fanning myself with the funeral program. My Brother was reading it. “What's a Funreal?” He asked. I looked at my program. Sure enough, funeral was spelled wrong. “I don't know what a fun-real is, but I know it isn't here,” I retorted. My mother stifled a chuckle which caused my Brother to lose his composure entirely. He slid down to the floor shuddering with silent laughter. Months later, Mother's lament about room service still bothered me. I was a sophomore in college who'd never given a thought about how my parents spent their vacations. My father had taken up deep sea fishing at some point while we were still in grade school. Mother got two weeks off a year from her job at a hospital lab. I'm sure that just having a break from work gave her some amount of respite. But the trips we took couldn't have been much fun for her. We were either heading down the highway to visit the Georgia in-laws or heading to Atlantic City for a week by the beach – sort of. In Georgia, she was still cooking and cleaning and looking after us on top of dealing with the hordes of our Father's southern relatives. I always found them to be a raucous good time with all the beer and Old Grand-Dad bourbon flowing, but I can't say that anything that happened there was restful. In Atlantic City, there was generally less cooking – unless they rented a room with a kitchenette – but there still wasn't anything like luxury. Whether we were at the beach or at the motel pool, Mother spent her day with her eyes glued on me and my Brother and whatever stray cousins were with us, making sure we didn't drown. How she didn't burn her retinas out in the glare of reflected sunlight, I'll never know. When I thought about it, Mother never had what could be called a real vacation. Her sad statement about hotel room service brought me up short. It was the first time that I felt what I call Adult Childhood Guilt. That is, the guilt I felt as an adult about things my parents went through when I was a child. I would feel this many more times as I grew older like when I found out just how little fun there is to be had driving around with a cranky toddler is in the car. I decided that from that year on, Miss Patty was going to have real vacations. The plan to go to New Orleans evolved after five years of fairly successful, modestly luxurious vacations in Atlantic City. I wanted to go somewhere exotic. Mother was newly divorced and more than a bit down about it, so I thought that year's vacation should be something really special. I also wanted to go somewhere far enough away that we wouldn't have any visitors from Philly. I didn't mind the occasional Aunt or cousin coming to hang out in the nice hotel room. Miss Patty certainly enjoyed company. But she was down, and I thought she needed real rest on that trip, And I needed to talk to her about some things I wasn't ready for the family to hear. A Caribbean cruise was my first thought. The fare was all inclusive so we wouldn't need much spending money. It was certainly luxurious. However, the price was just beyond what I could squeeze out of my budget. Since Mom wouldn't fly anymore, and I wasn't that crazy about planes at that point either, the trip had to be to somewhere exotic that I could afford and could reach by train. New Orleans had a lot of bargains during the summer months. I had no idea why those 4-star hotels were so cheap in July until we got there, but it didn't matter at the time I booked the trip. I found a luxury hotel just steps from Bourbon Street for the price of a mid-range Atlantic City hotel. The Crescent City train to New Orleans made a daily trip through Philadelphia. It couldn't have been easier to plan. Miss Patty was a very outgoing woman. She smiled easily and could start up a conversation with almost anyone. This trait is particularly useful on a train. We had nice wide leather seats that reclined pretty far back in the main passenger area. I had really wanted a sleeper car, but that was way out of my price range. And since they didn't look like the sleeper cars in Murder on the Orient Express, it didn't really matter. We spent most of the evening after dinner in the bar car of the train. That was where the wine was, after all, and it was where Mother could have a smoke. On a later train trip without me, Mother would nearly miss re-boarding her train to Atlanta in Washington D.C. because of a wager involving a Bourbon taste off. Apparently, two gentlemen on the train got into a heated disagreement over whether Jim Beam or Maker's Mark was the better Kentucky Bourbon. Amtrak only carried Jim Beam. For some reason, Mother went with one of the gentlemen to purchase a bottle of Maker's Mark on the layover in Washington D.C. He was the one dressed like Colonel Saunders, of course. They barely made it back. The argument was never settled, but I understand there was quite a party in that bar car. On this trip, we met Sadie. I can't recall her last name. She said she was in her 70s, but her skin was smooth with just a few smile lines. She had white hair done up in a lovely twist and was on her way to visit her great-grandchildren. I can't remember what we talked about until way into the night, but there was a lot of laughing. We walked Sadie to her seat as it was a car before ours and went to sleep. I didn't think we'd see her again. She was bound for Mississippi and likely to be gone by the time we were and about. Just before dawn, the conductor began the announcements for the first breakfast call and for those getting off the train at Atlanta. We managed to doze through the announcements. As we went off to bed, we'd signed up for the last breakfast seating since we were going to the end of the line. At a little after six in the morning, Sadie was shaking my shoulder. “Wake up! Alabama and Mississippi are dry,” she said. Well, that made no sense, especially since I was half asleep. “What?” “They stop serving liquor after Atlanta. The train is dry until Louisiana,” she said impatiently. I turned to wake Mother, but her eyes had already popped open. Now, I don't want to imply that we're winos in any way, but we had a lot of train trip ahead of us. And it isn't nearly as entertaining stone cold sober. Sadie had turned by then and was heading out of our car at a brisk clip. I grabbed a tote bag that had my books for the trip and my purse to follow her. Mother was right behind me. We were really moving by the time we reached the dining car. Atlanta was less than five minutes away. The bartender was on duty but still setting up for the day when we piled in. At first, the bartender was reluctant to sell us a tote bag full of small bottles of wines and spirits. The beverages had to be consumed in the bar car, and I doubt he thought that was possible. We assured him that we would stay in the car and that we wouldn't be drinking everything ourselves. He was dubious, and I wasn't up to using my feminine whiles. It was six in the morning. I hadn't even brushed my teeth. My feminine whiles were still in my toiletry case. We opted for looking pathetic, then gave him a huge tip when he complied. We took turns guarding the stash while each of us cleaned up and changed clothes. We had breakfast and lunch in the bar car, guarding our horde like dragons guarding their eggs. I can't recall what we talked about in the time between leaving Atlanta and pulling into Meridian, Mississippi where Sadie took her leave of us on surprisingly steady feet. I remember that the time passed quickly and the swiftly moving scenery seemed more interesting. I don't think it was purely the secret stash though that certainly helped. There was a hint of wickedness that we three shared as we poured our refills in such a way that other denizens of the bar car remained unaware of the treasures we concealed. Other than some rare days when Mother, my Brother and me played hookey from work and school respectively without Father's knowledge did we share in a conspiracy. This was a watershed of sorts between mother and daughter. Our good spirits both literal and figurative continued even after we reached New Orleans. As is the way of a protracted trip on Amtrak, the many delays along the route amounted to a few hours late in our arrival. I hadn't been concerned. There was more than a one night credit card deposit on our room. It had been paid in full. As with all of our big vacation over those years since Granddpop Jim's funeral, I paid for the entire trip save for spending money before we left Philadelphia. And I brought my receipt. Thus, despite having a slightly noticeable buzz and being thoroughly rumpled from a 17 hour train trip, I was brooking no nonsense from a night shift hotel clerk. Miss Patty discovered that her daughter had an imperious side that had never manifested itself at home. I gave the clerk and the night manager such a what for that they upgraded the room to one with a view of the riverside. The room was really nice, but we were too wound up from the events of the day for dinner from room service. Bourbon Street was mere steps away. Though it was a Sunday night at 10 pm, the street was jumping. Music was blaring from every open door. Most establishments also had barkers trying to lure people not persuaded by the music to come inside. We were hungry, but it was too late and we were too tired to figure out which of the local eateries wouldn't be too much for our timid Northern tummies. Thus, that night we settled on one of those chain restaurants that has all sorts of allegedly eclectic paraphernalia on the walls and waiters in whimsical suspenders. Miss Patty called them O-It's-all-the-same-agains Restaurants. These were safe introductions to local food. Each menu had at least a couple of regional dishes or reasonably close facsimiles. She tried some shrimp gumbo. I had jambalaya. The food was satisfying and the atmosphere just zany enough for our train weary sensibilities. The after dinner nightcap and travel fatigue caught up with us just as we got changed for bed. I could still feel the rumble of steel wheels on tracks in my sleep. The slight time difference from Philadelphia and our excitement caused us to be up and about really early. We had breakfast at a local diner then took a carriage tour to get a feel for where the nearby attractions were. It wasn't even noon when we figured out why our rooms were so inexpensive. A heavy, hot blanket of humidity descended upon the city as we finished the carriage tour. Our driver and tour guide, Hattie, told us that sensible souls stayed inside until later in the afternoon when the sun wasn't hanging overhead. Mother looked wilted, and my clothes were already clinging uncomfortably everywhere. “Mad dogs and Englishmen, I suppose,” Mother said as we stepped out of the coach. “But you have a list and some of those places are just down the street.” I could see the shimmering mirage effect on the pavement in the next block. “They'll be there later, too. We're supposed to be taking a break from hard work.” “We just stay in the hotel room?” “Sure, why not? We have books to read. There are more in the lobby store if we run out.” Miss Patty smiled. It was that conspiratorial smile from the train. “Let's get some snacks and sodas for the room.” The skies grew dark an hour or so later. A violent and noisy thunderstorm roared through the city. We fell asleep while reading during the midst of it. Apparently, we were still exhausted from the trip. It was just as well we came back to the room. The rain was so heavy as I drifted off that the huge hotel across the street was a vague gray mass. I was doubtful of going back out again at all that day. The next morning we were smarter tourists. That may have been due to the lazy evening and full night's sleep pushing train fatigue from our minds and bodies. We woke early and took in a few sights at first light, making sure we were back inside the hotel room or someplace cool until the afternoon thunderstorm passed. On the third day, that place was a ramshackle building called Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop. It was a tavern that purported to have been a pirate den. The nearly albino blonde bartender regaled us with how nary a horse was ever shod in that establishment during the time Lafitte owned it, but many a plot was hatched that drove Andrew Jackson to drink. I had no idea if any of the yarns were true. All I knew was that the beer was really cold and the slate roof kept the dark wood and stone building comfortably cool. The bartender, like our tour guide, was a natural storyteller. I learned quite a bit from the hours we whiled away nursing those beers as the afternoon thunderstorm raged on. First, I learned that if a tourist spies an old woman on roller skates pulled by a fire engine while being chased by a flock of ducklings, he could be persuaded to stay in New Orleans and tend bar in a bona fide pirate den. That actually seemed reasonable to me. Miss Patty looked at me curiously. I planned my trips with lists of lists. Being whimsical about changing cities was something that she didn't expect from me. “Sometimes, you have to go with the signs,” I said with a shrug. It was time for another beer. I wasn't ready to talk about the impending change in my life. Second, and even more exciting, I learned that the pirate den had become a writer's den at some point. There were writers both known and unknown in the joint almost nightly talking about writing and the jarring quirks to their lives they had endured. I had long been interested in writing and writers. The interest had become a pull that I could no longer ignore. Yet I had never met anyone who was a professional fiction writer. I knew about a dozen seasoned journalists from my undergrad years. I learned a lot from those very interesting souls, but I really wanted to meet people who made their living making up stories from whole cloth. I really needed Miss Patty to meet people like this. I had become resentful since graduating college. I didn't want to be in Public Relations. I didn't want to be a news reporter. I wanted to have James Michener's life. I wanted to write while under an umbrella on a beach in Hawaii or some other exotic place and make a living at it. When the trip was planned, I knew that I wanted to change the direction of my life. Though I doubted there would be any objections to my going to graduate school in general, I needed Mother's support for the major I had in mind. The films my mother introduced me to often involved those who marched to a different drummer. She always admired those screen heroines who bucked convention to follow their dreams. She loved the tales of expatriate Blacks in 1920s Paris. And more than once during my young adulthood, I was told how she would have easily been a love child in Haight-Ashbury or a mud covered hippie at Woodstock had she not married so young. Miss Patty wanted to be a painter. I was told after her passing that she had talent. But when she was my age, respectable women went from their father's house to their husband's. Women pursuing an artistic bent were either 'funny' or loose. I worried how she'd feel about this path I desperately wanted to take and where it may lead me. But I needed her support above any others. Somehow, I hoped to find a way to show her who I had become. When we left the tavern late in the afternoon, it was cooler. We set out to enjoy the tableau that was Bourbon Street. The performers were taking up their places for the lucrative evening shift, and there were enticing scents drifting out from the many eateries. Mother was quiet for a while. I was worried that she wasn't having a good time by the time she finally spoke. “We could take a cab back to Jean Lafitte's after ten,” she suggested while we considered menus posted in front of restaurants. I smiled at her. She had heard more than I thought. “No, I don't trust the cabs going or coming back. And we don't know when the writers will be there. Besides, they may all be jerks. Let's get some dinner.” We had everything blackened that night including the vegetables and the dessert, but somehow it all tasted good. The local karaoke was not, but it was funny. We really enjoyed Bourbon Street. We even saw a mock, old school funeral procession playing When the Saints Go Marching In. It was like seeing a movie in real life. Of course, the cop's kid and ex-wife also spotted every pickpocket in action and reacted accordingly. Father's edicts always seem draconian when I describe them, but I've never had a bad incident while on vacation. The next day, the rains came in the morning. The weather report said that it would last throughout the day. My reaction was to order the deluxe room service breakfast with a herb omelet and a rasher of bacon each, a carafe of coffee and orange juice and toast. It was rolled in on an opulent cart with silver accents and very fine linen. This was appropriate. There was a Royal Wedding to watch. Sarah Ferguson was marrying Prince Andrew. Miss Patty was quite tickled to have her coffee in the delicate cup and saucer while watching the events unfold. I was pleased that everything was steamy hot, and the bacon was extra crispy. “You know, these royal women have the same tastes in hats as the church women at Zion Baptist. One of them looks like she has a bird's nest with the bird on her head,” she said wryly. It was true. The contraptions formed of incongruous shapes, colors and textures perched just so on those well-coiffed heads reminded me of the women fanning themselves in that tiny southern church. I wondered what those refined women sitting so still in Westminster Abby would think of that comparison. During that delicious and leisurely breakfast, we gleefully critiqued outfits, hair, and hats. Our favorite moment was late in the proceedings when Queen Elizabeth reacted with cat-like reflexes to corral her grandchildren before they ran after the wedding carriage. “She's fast for a woman that age,” Mother observed. “Didn't even lose that hat.” We kibitz over clothes and all of the pomp until the meal was done and the coffee was nearly gone. “It's still raining,” I said as the coverage wound to a close. “Emmmhmmm,” Mother replied. “The weather trollop said it would be until the afternoon.” “We could fill out the postcards,” I suggested. “It would be great to actually mail them instead of handing them out when we get home. There's a mailbox in the lobby.” I found the cards and pens and we set about writing at the little table by the windows. The coverage of the wedding ended at some point. The next program featured interviews with regional celebrities. That week's special guest was author Eudora Welty. I wasn't paying close attention to the interview as I had not read her work for some time. But Miss Patty was listening. “She sounds like you,” she said at one point. I looked up from the tome I was trying to inscribe into 3 square inches of the postcard to figure out what she was talking about. “You mean you hear voices in your head that make your write?” The reporter asked. “Now, I'm not saying I'm crazy,” came the dry reply. “I'm saying there is a point at which the characters become so fully real that they speak to each other. Then, I write it all down.” I still think the reporter thought she was crazy, but I smiled. At that point, I had never heard another author describe the process that way. “Is that what you mean?” Mother asked. I nodded. “Sometimes, it's like watching a movie in my mind. Then, I have to write it all down.” “You always were writing things down everywhere,” she replied thoughtfully. “And the nuns always said you could write.” And we have to listen to the nuns, don't we, I thought. “It's like I have to write, Mom,” I said. “Sometimes, the stories in my head drive me to distraction. I write now because I have to write. I think I always felt that way.” “But you've been doing well in your job,” she countered. “Can't you keep writing on the side?” I didn't want to tell her that I hated that job and public relations in general. It was organized lying. The Park Avenue company I worked for was still dealing with the Apartheid government in South Africa, and we'd had staff meetings that included discussions on whether to supply VIP clients with cocaine. I got a headache at 3 pm every single day in my power suit. “I made the wrong choice with my career,” I replied. “I want to work with books and writing. I've found a Graduate Program in Philly where I can get a Masters in two years. It requires a novel to graduate.” “You could teach,” Mother remarked. “And you can move back home.” I nodded at that. That was the angle I planned to take with Father. He wasn't living with Mother anymore, but I still didn't want to deal with his disapproval. Teaching was something that I neither wanted or eschewed. It seemed to come with the territory for professional writers, so I was open to the idea. And the notion calmed my mother down. “You aren't going to go tramp around Paris like James Baldwin, are you?” “Maybe. But If I do, I'll take you with me.” She was quiet for a moment, affixing stamps to the postcards. “I could paint in Paris.” Miss Patty in a beret with an easel painting along the river Seine. That made me smile. We had a lovely, mostly lazy week in New Orleans despite the oppressive heat. We traveled on a River Boat – where Mother refused to let me belt out Old Man River – to the Plantation near the site of the Battle of New Orleans. Two things we learned from that day. First, plantation houses aren't as big as Hollywood would have you believe. And second, that southern belles had the vapors in that humidity and in those layers of petticoats is no longer a question in my mind. We wondered how they ever remained conscious and upright in the summer. The heat and humidity made if hard to breathe even on the airy veranda of that elegant mansion wearing modern, breathable fabrics. Thankfully, this modern riverboat was fully air conditioned. There was a ladies night at the nightclub in our hotel on the last night of our stay. It was a tempting offer of free wine and an appetizer buffet along with free admission. I wasn't in the habit of clubbing with my Mother, but I thought it would be a nice diversion for a couple of hours. Our train was scheduled to depart early the next morning. So we put on our dancing clothes. Or, I put on my dancing clothes. At that point in her life, Miss Patty was a chair dancer. She looked lovely though. Miss Patty always looked classy when she stepped out. It was the 80s, thus I had big hair and a black mini dress and a jacket with shoulder pads. I looked like I belonged in a music video between the hair and make-up, and that was what I was going for. “I still can't get over how fast you go from looking like a librarian to that,” she commented. “Just like Wonder Woman.” I rolled my eyes and ushered her out of the door. If the men in Philly nightclubs are an indication, I did okay getting dolled up, but I never seemed to be as put together and glamorous as Miss Patty was when she and my Father went out to paint the town. From the heads that turned and the eyes that followed us as we entered the establishment, we both did okay. Since my 18th birthday made me eligible to drink in New Jersey, my friends and I went out dancing almost every Friday or Saturday or both. Discos were still in vogue and most hotels had a dance club. Thus, there were a lot of joints to choose from. I loved to dance. In college, I used up most of my elective course hours on dance classes. Both sides of the family and all generations could really cut a rug. Thus, most family gatherings involved showing off new steps or proficiency in old routines. Most participated save for me and a couple of bookish cousins. I never liked dancing in front of the family, not even after I had had some training. It seemed that everyone had a role in the family. There were the mechanics, the cooks, the gardeners, the big party people. I was brainy and nerdy. I had glamorous cousins who were center stage at those gatherings when my nose was in a book. Even after I became more complicated than that, it was impossible for me to show my family. Mother knew I went clubbing with my buds, but I think she believed I stayed in a corner with them talking about Star Trek as the bass pulsed around us. As I stalked into the nightclub, Miss Patty seemed to realize that I was no longer a wallflower. I had learned from the secretaries I worked with on temp jobs to walk into a club like I was on a fashion runway. My walk wasn't exaggerated, but it was in time with the music playing. I expected to be looked at, so I was. I picked a table near the dance floor where everyone could see us. Then, I ignored everyone in the room save for Mother. “There are some men trying to get your attention,” she informed me after the cocktail server took our order. “Ignore them until at least seven o'clock,” I replied. “Why seven o'clock?” “Most of the married ones will be gone,” I said, sipping the wine. It was the kind that was sold by the gallon, but it didn't make my throat raw. “Married guys cruising hotel clubs are hoping for a quickie.” Miss Patty looked at me owlishly. I patted her hand. “I've never had one,” I assured her. “But I've had offers, and I've seen a lot of pitches. Let me get us something from the buffet.” I stalked to the buffet and back with an assortment of fried appetizers. There were vegetables, but they were battered and deep fried as well. But it was tasty and free. We ate and danced in our seats and quietly critiques the dancers. When seven o'clock rolled around, we had eaten four plates of fried everything, and half the men who had been sitting at the bar were gone. There were more dancers on the floor as the music was cranking up. “Excuse me,” A soft feminine voice said from behind our table. We turned to find a very blonde, well-dressed woman. She looked to be between my age and Mother's – late 30s. We looked at her expectantly. “Excuse me for bothering you,” she said. Her accent was German. “I was wondering if you wouldn't mind dancing with my husband.” She pointed across the room to a table where a very blonde, well-dressed man sat grinning at us. He waved. Mother and I waved back. “He looks all the time at MTV and knows all the steps,” she continued. “He really wants to dance with someone who knows how to do the moves. He can tell you can.” “I haven't been dancing,” I replied in dismay. “He knows from the way you walk,” she explained. I looked at Mother. She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” I said. “Tell him to pick a song when he's ready.” “Isn't that something,” Mother said. Then, she looked concerned. “You don't think this will lead to some orgy, do you?” After nearly spitting out my drink, I shook my head. “Not likely. I saw Deter over there dancing in his seat. He wants to dance.” I knew when the next song began that it was the German's number. Sure enough, he was walking towards me. I stood and met him on the dance floor. “Because you look like Janet,” he said with a smile. “You like the song?” “Sure do.” Deter could dance. It only took a few moves for him to figure out how to follow me. It was impossible to do the choreography from the video, but there was a routine in it that suited the size of that dance floor. My partner was my mirroring everything with a big grin on his face. I was only aware of him and Mother while we danced. As long as she didn't have a look of horror, I figured I was doing okay. What I didn't expect was the applause as the song ended. I laughed as Deter kissed my hand. Then, I curtsied and went back to the table. Miss Patty was grinning. “I didn't know you could do that!” She exclaimed. “You were always so quiet. Your Aunt Ellie and your cousins should see that.” “I'm not ready to tour. Shouldn't we get another drink?” The server came back with an ice bucket and fresh glasses. “The couple over there bought you a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, ladies,” she said, filling the glasses. “That's easy for you to say,” Mother quipped as she tasted the wine. “Now, that's good.” We raised our glasses to the Germans then we touched them together “To more great adventures,” I said quietly. The fact that the trip was ending saddened me, but I was excited about the road to come. Miss Patty smiled and took a sip. “I'm glad you're coming home. It seems like I have to get to know you all over again. Do you know how you'll pay for school?” “Not a clue,” I replied. “I don't know if I'll even get in the program. I just know that I have to try.” “We'll find a way,” she said with confidence. “I'd like to see Paris someday.”
I hadn't realized it then, because I was too much in the moment, that I'd always be grateful to my Brother ordering that room service hamburger.   

Musings on LA, Burglary, and the Diabolical

I spent the 7th Anniversary of what Jon calls 'Deb Not Dying Day' sipping bubbly and watching Good Eats on the Cooking Channel. That seems appropriate as the Cooking Channel and their older sibling, The Food Network loomed largely during chemo and my recovery. I'm a big fan of Deb Duchon (pictured with my bubbly). She answers many of the stranger questions I've had about where food comes from. As always, anniversaries make a person think about time passed from a significant event. In this case, it's made me think of why the move to LA most likely saved my life. This thought came at a particularly opportune moment as I have been struggling with that choice among many I've made since leaving Philly.

Life has always been a strange and wild trip for the Hubs and me since coming to Los Angeles. There were many days during the 20 plus years out here that I've seriously questioned what in the hell we're doing out here. But with all the diabolical and challenging obstacles thrown our way, there has been some magical serendipity in our professional and personal lives as well. Nothing put this in sharper focus than how I was diagnosed with a rare cancer and how I found treatment in my own backyard.
Fewer than 50 doctors worldwide know how to treat Appendix Cancer. Not many have ever heard of it, let alone know how to diagnose it. I still argue with docs that don't believe I had something so rare. Bitch, I wouldn't learn to spell Pseudomyxoma peritonei for the fun of it! Most patients die because it's mistaken or a host of other abdominal ailments or types of cancer. It's typically found during a surgery for something else. In most cases, it's too late to save the patient. My Oncologist believes I was sick for at least a year before I was diagnosed. So, in a country where treatment is available in only a handful of cities, and most doctors have never seen a case, my community clinic had a Supervising Physician who was once a resident under an Oncologist who had treated the disease years ago. She remembered the odd symptoms and physical characteristics she'd heard about from a single case and sent me to the nearest ER with a detailed diagnosis. I was days from dying. Of course, I didn't know that at the time, especially after the morphine kicked in. I didn't get why all the nurses were coming in to see me along with the minister (no priest was available) until after I got back from surgery.
The magic continued after the first surgery. They'd saved my organs from being crushed by a 13-pound tumor, but I was still full of cancer. The Community Clinic Physician continued to be a rock star. She alerted the lead Oncologist at LAC USC that there was another patient, and that solved a gigantic hurdle I had for getting any treatment at all – no health insurance. As an extremely rare case and a potentially lucrative surgical procedure to teach, I was a find. My treatment was covered in full by the Hospital. If we had remained in Philly, and if I found someone who knew what I had, the nearest treatment center was in Washington, DC and he was not in network for the most part and that's before travel, room and board are factored in. Here, I could get to the hospital by bus or train if I had to.
Life in LA can be soul crushing in how it frustrates creative people. But it is also the only place in the US where we feel normal. Everyone we know here is some kind of creative person. Anyone of is a few steps in a random direction from the brass ring. It's a place that is alive with inspiration and connections. Because of this environment, we became publishers and I became a professional author (and now cover artist). Jon has also started writing prose as well as scripts. We have a richly satisfying creative life which makes up for most of the frustrations. While I've been sidelined by cancer treatments and recovery, I've also found an amazing network of connections to writers and readers via Social Media. And I became a national expert on a very odd sub-genre of Japanese manga and anime. All of this has resulted in writing to partially support our household (something I have always wanted to do).
Thus, on this anniversary of being cancer free, I can say things are pretty good overall and gradually getting better. We're still working hard to get a film or TV project off the ground. Most of those plans are not for public consumption for a number of reasons, but they are still ongoing. And I've had the time to learn really difficult recipes and kibitz with some of my favorite TV chefs. Bourdain remains elusive, but I am patient. Also. One of his authors owns a restaurant walking distance from out place. I'll find him eventually. I've also had a lot of to tp read/ My favorite book this year is on burglary and architecture!  It's better than any caper film. Seriously! Thank you, Craig! I'm hoping to get back to world travel as soon as my knees and our bank account allows it. All in all, life is pretty good.

Meanwhile, The Month of Fun is nigh! Stay tuned.

Lucifer, French Rent Boy and an Admiral's Sofas

Talk about a roller coaster week! I hadn't even uttered any dangerous phrases like 'Now What.' I've learned to never say or even think anything like that. It all began with me feeling fairly good about the world last Thursday. I managed to drag myself around to a couple of supermarkets, including the always daunting Costco before the arrival of a big, scary storm the I'veweatherfolk dubbed Lucifer. I don't usually take the hysterical rantings of local weather prognosticators seriously. A little rain in Los Angeles can send them into a tizzy. But the radar forecast looked like something from The Day After Tomorrow . The big red blob is the heaviest rain, and it hovered over LA from the early morning. Jon got to work relatively unscathed. We had a short power outage here lasting less than ten minutes. I thought the biggest problem we had was Jon's soaking wet work shoes. And then, he turned on his PC.
The PC and everything else on that power strip should have been fine. It is a very expensive power strip/surge protector. It had one of those insurance policies to replace damaged equipment up to $5,000. We weren't concerned until the danged thing refused to power up. After many a frantic message and a lot of Google searching, we discovered the problem was the motherboard. Fabulous. It was a refurbished machine that was cheaper to replace rather than buy the part and pay to have it installed. Either way, we would be down a computer for a week, if we were lucky. Worse was ALL of the Sybpress book files were on that hard drive, and they hadn't been backed up in who knows when. Why yes, I did give him that wifely 'I'm seconds away from taking a frying pan upside your head.' After some deep breaths and several cocktails, I decided that all may not be lost. The two books we had in the pipeline weren't under any kind of deadline, and there seemed to be nothing wrong with the hard drive. Thankfully, the current Ensnared Installment was live while the one I was working on was on my laptop (and an external and a thumb drive, because I back up stuff). There was no hurry, book wise. Great News/Bad Timing
One of the best aspects about the Indie Publishing community is that it tends to be generous in every sense of the word. Writers share tidbits that would be helpful to colleagues and often offer a shoulder to cry on or an ear to vent at. One of the classiest authors in my genre, Yamila Abraham , posted that a distributor of homoerotica in French was looking for content. I hemmed and hawed about sending a query. I wondered if I had enough sales or good reviews for them to be interested. One morning after a big cup of strong coffee, I just went for it. Two days later, I had a contract! They will be publishing Vampire Rent Boy – For Love and Money! I was stunned and elated. My track record with queries has been mostly bad. The last time I had one that worked was with the original publisher of The Companion . I hardly ever get paid for stories upfront. I was over the moon. And then, I realized they needed the finished word doc of the story by March 1st along with the cover without the title. Yes, all of those files are on the hard drive in the dead PC Tower. Yikes! I was worried that the tower wouldn't get here in time or that the hard drive reader wouldn't work as advertised. It was a stressful week even while I was really happy. The PC tower arrived on Wednesday and the hard drive reader arrived today. I have all the files I need to fulfill my end of the contract. Jon is also out of the dog house. I plan on backing up those publishing files at my first opportunity. Oh, his shoes dried out by Monday, and the pool never spilled over into our living room. We were, in many, many ways, far luckier than many others in California. Lucifer was a bitch.Writing Updates
I've started writing the third installment of Ensnared Volume 4. I have new research to distract me. This time, it's the Lake Como region of Italy. The Lake Como research was a lot of fun. I went shopping for villas in my search for the right settings. Now, the villa rental company is stalking me across my internet travels. Mind you, I was love to rent a six-bedroom villa with a heated pool and its own dock. However, that's a little out of our budget right now. And since the world doesn't yet have military spaceships, so I had to go with the next closest thing – aircraft carriers and submarines. Admiral's quarters aren't nearly as lavish as I thought they would be. No matter. Darius is always an exception to any rule. Meanwhile, I have discovered some interesting facts that will be very useful in the narrative.

A reader of Ensnared and my blogs brought up a valid concern about changes over the course of a series. Don't worry, I'll answer in generalities. No spoilers! Would profound trauma and life altering change morph the characters readers have followed for so long into something that was unrecognizable? Please, do not fear. Aside from having a firm understanding of why these characters are appreciated and why they continue to find readers (thank you to the lovelies who keep hawking my wares), there are aspects of these characters that make them enjoyable for me to write. I have to spend many, many hours with these beings during the writing, re-writing and editing. I have to enjoy watching them at some level, or I'd never finish any of these stories.
As an example of this issue I have with depressing characters, there is a short story I wrote for the same publication that bought The Companion . It is called Product Development (this story and a roster of other awesome sci-fi can be found in this edition of Full Metal Orgasm ). That story got a lot of praise from folks who typically don't like my erotica, and I have had a lot of encouragement to make it a novel. I'd love to do it. That story was one of the best meshes of hard science fiction and erotica that I've ever done. However, Ambrose Mortimer was the most depressing and dismal soul I have ever created. I have yet to find an angle that makes me want to write the arc of a brilliant man's downward spiral into moral and ethical bankruptcy. I've got an outline, but it's been really slow going.
Ensnared just leaps out of my head. I've had a fully formed character I didn't know was there pop out on the page this week. It is a joy to spend time with those characters. And a drastic change to them would also be at odds with the plot. It is who Andreas, Darius and company are that was part of the reason the Watcher chose for them to come before him. Changing them drastically would defeat that very wise being's plans. So, worry not. The traits that make the guys and gals from Ensnared attractive to readers will endure, but that does NOT mean that the road ahead of them will be easy or that they will never suffer pain to offset the joys they share. A saga has to have some drama!
Now, I must get back to work! I will let everyone know when Tristan and company are in French. I'm am writing the next Rent Boy as well.

Stay tuned.