K.Z. Snow's Blog, page 19

Heeeere's Anne Tenino, and Frat Boy, and Toppy!

Welcome to the next stop on the Frat Boy & Toppy BlogTour Extravaganza! 

 On this tour, I'm writing a series of posts on how I cook up astory. Not a how-to manual, just a how-I-do manual, wherein I reveal all thedirty little secrets about how I approach a story, using Frat Boy & Toppy as an example.
For a schedule—with links—of all the places I'll be on my tour, visit my blog, http://annetenino.com . There you will alsofind information on my tour contest—I'll be giving away a Frat Boy & Toppynotebook, signed paperback copy of 18%Gray, and e-book of my next release, Turning Tricks. Toenter the contest, you must ferret out the three questions (each in different blogtour posts) and answer them in one email sent to anne@annetenino.com. I will choose one winner atrandom from all the emails received by 11:59 pm (PDT/GMT -7:00) April 3rd.
Enjoy!


When Frat Boy Met Toppy
I foundBrad in a fireworks tent on July 3, 2011. Brad is "frat boy" from Frat Boy & Toppy, my new release."Toppy" is Sebastian, the teacher's aide in Brad's history class.
When Idiscovered Brad, I was on a family fireworks buying trip. My daughters wererunning around snapping up incendiary devices, I was serving as their chaperoneand holder of the purse, and my husband was sitting in the car doingwho-knows-what on his phone, naively assuming I would make sure the kids didn'tspend too much money. (We've been married fifteen years. I don't know how thisman continues to delude himself that I'll rein in the spending.)
I wascontemplating how many of those egg-laying chicken fireworks I might want toset off (in direct proportion to how much beer I might drink the next night)when this really hot guy walked in, case of fireworks perched on hisshoulder.  He started bossing around thecashier—clearly he was the kid's olderbrother or someone similar—busted open his case ofmerchandise and (thankfully) didn't notice me staring at him.
Fireworksboy looked like a college student home for the summer to run a get-rich-quickfireworks stand. He had nearly black hair in a brush-cut and was seriouslybuilt (and dressed to show it off—yum). He had these incrediblyhigh cheekbones, and while he wasn't exactly model-gorgeous, he had that thing -- you know? That thing that can make even some short, middle-aged, balding,rotund guys with hair on their backs wildly attractive to all and sundry.Sexual magnetism.
Justanother wholesome Tenino family outing. Dad hiding in car, kids spending farmore than they should, Mom perving on some guy who's only half her age.
Later,when we were paying for our booty (snerk),he looked up and met my eyes. That's when I thought, "Oh, he's so Brad."
I'd been lookingfor a Brad, you see. For my new work, about a slightly subby frat boy and themildly dominant grad student he was obsessed with.
I changedsome things about fireworks boy and filled in some blanks to make him mycharacter. I changed his eye color and took away some of that crazy sexualenergy—he just had to be appealing toSebastian. I gave Brad a cooking hobby, and a big family. Oh, and I made him agay frat jock.
I'd neverhad a character appear in flesh and blood in a fireworks tent. Or any tent.Normally characters just sort of appear out of the fog wreathing my brain.(This fog is similar to the stuff wreathing the isle in Marion Zimmer Bradley'sThe Mists of Avalon. This analogyhelps me pretend the mists shrouding my brain are a good thing.) For example,Sebastian appeared to me out of the brain fog. A generally flippant, gayLothario wandered into my head, telling me he thought fireworks boy was"highly doable."
OnceToppy showed up, I had a couple. I introduced Brad to Sebastian and let themplay. They played well together, as it happened.
The thingabout fireworks boy was a look he had about him. As if he was a guy whom Iwould have found cocky and a bit too full of himself. One of those kids who hada tough-guy face on most of the time. Instead of excising that aspect of hischaracter, I used it to inform Brad's, making him dual-natured. He's uncaringand tough with the rest of the world, but he's completely the opposite withSebastian.
Here's an example of Brad with the rest of the world. The excerpt is from ChapterFive, where Brad's roommate, Kyle, is trying to talk to him.
"Kylewas fucking with his concentration. The history of Sparta took some effort towrite about. It was boring as hell. Nothing about guys-on-guys in the books hewas looking in.
"Doyou have some kinda STD? Is that why you aren't the Alpha Dawg anymore?"
God,were these guys ever gonna get past this? "No. And I fucking hate thatnickname. Go away, I'm trying to write."
"Andwhat's with that, dude? You hate history."
"Istill gotta pass it, Kyle. If I don't keep up the GPA, I lose the scholarship."
"Yeah,but you usually write some lame-ass paper on Monday night. You've been workingon that one for, like, five hours and it's freaking Saturday. You get high enoughgrades in your other classes to even it all out." Kyle refrained frommentioning most of those classes were health, PE, and "family and consumersciences." Home ec, in other words.
Bradshrugged. Whatever. "I want it to begood." The fuck was a stoa again? Kyle stood silently next to him for so longBrad had to look up again. "What?"
"Allyou need's a C. Why do you care if it's good?"
Dammit.Brad looked back down at his paper again, quickly. "Just do," he muttered,flipping through his book like he was looking up something very important.
Kylesighed and walked a couple steps away to flop down on his bed. "The guys arestarting a betting pool, Brad."
"Whydo I care?"
"It'sabout you. They're taking bets on how long you can go without getting laid, andwhy you stopped chasing tail."
"Huh."
"Tankbet you're secretly engaged."
Bradlaughed. "Yeah? He's gonna lose."
"Rickybet two hundred bucks that you're secretly engaged with a baby on the way."Brad could tell by the sound of Kyle's voice he was smiling over that one.
Bradsighed. "No one ever claimed Ricky was smart. What are the odds?"
"Shit,I don't know. I never understood how that worked."
"Sowho bet I have an STD?"
Kyledidn't answer. Which was sort of an answer in itself. "Hope you didn't put alot of money on that, bro," Brad murmured without looking around. "
On theother hand, here he is with Sebastian. This is their first real interaction, inChapter Six. I'm not going to tell you what it's about; let's just say Brad gothimself in a bit of trouble with the TA.
""So.Brad. You probably have an idea what I wanted to talk to you about."
"No,"he said, unthinkingly. He was watching Sebastian's hands stir and stir and stirand stir his cappuccino. He didn't drink those kinds of drinks, so he wasn'tsure if this was normal. Did fancy coffee need more stirring?
Thestirring stopped. "No?" Sebastian's voice sounded kinda hard.
Bradlooked up from his hands into Sebastian's eyes. They were so brown. Kind ofsoft, deep brown. Except at the moment they looked a little bit pissed. Hedumbly shook his head. Even though, yeah, he was pretty sure he did know whatthis was about. He'd fucked up good.
Sebastiantook a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. "Okay, let's start here.You're on an athletic scholarship, yeah? And another one from your frat?"
Oh,had Sebastian been checking him out? His heart did some sort of fluttery thing."Yeah. Not that big a deal. I mean, we're only a smaller Division II school, soit's not like I'm some great player or anything . . ." His voice sort of gaveup under Sebastian's intense look.
"Andyou need those scholarships, right?"
"Well,uh . . ." He ran a hand through his hair and looked out the window. Shit. "Yeah. I mean, my parents nevercould have sent me to a private school otherwise. Not without a lot of debt,you know. I'm the second of five and . . ." He gave up again. He'd made themistake of looking back at Sebastian and the guy so totally was just waitingfor him to shut up. He looked down, not wanting to see that in Sebastian'seyes."
Want toknow what it is Brad did that has Sebastian mad at him? You have to read thebook. It's worth it; Sebastian later punishes Brad for his transgressions . . .
Topurchase Frat Boy & Toppy, visitRiptide Publishing --  http://www.riptidepublishing.com/titles/frat-boy-and-toppy
*~*~*~*


Raised on a steady mediadiet of Monty Python, classical music and the visual arts, Anne Tenino rockedthe mental health world when she was the first patient diagnosed withCompulsive Romantic Disorder. Since that day, Anne has taken on conquering theM/M world through therapeutic writing. Finding out who those guys having sex inher head are and what to do with them has been extremely liberating.
Wondering what Anne doeswhen not writing? Mostly she lies on the couch, eats bonbons and shirkshousework.
Check out what Anne's up to now by visiting her site --  http://annetenino.com

A special guest is coming!

Next Wednesday, March 28, my humble blog will be graced by the appearance of a funny, freaky, fur-bearing, friendly, forthright female writer of m/m fiction. (And she's hella talented, too!) Who is it, you ask? Here's a hint:

(Stay tuned!)

Jackson and Adin . . . and Carny

Here's another excerpt from Carny's Magic (unedited), coming June 12 from Loose Id.
Taking pity on the battered 19-year-old who wants to be his apprentice, the wizard offers to temporarily take him in. Carny is the narrator. He sometimes has trouble keeping his foot out of his mouth.*"You don't have a place togo, do you?" Jackson asks."I can find one." Yeah,maybe for a day or two. I suddenly realize Ihaven't thought this through very well. My acquaintances either don't have theroom to accommodate me or wouldn't welcome the intrusion. Or both. I haven'tmade a secret of being gay, so that could be another issue. My last resortwould be a sex-for-shelter trade, but that kind of arrangement seriously rubsme the wrong way. As much as I enjoy nookie, I don't like being expectedto put out. Especially for some gnome with a sense of entitlement. Man, I'dfeel like a drop-kicked piece of shit."So stay here until youfind a place," Adin says. "We have the room. And we obviously don't have anissue with your being gay."I'm kind of flabbergasted.Call me a cynic, or a dreamer, but I'm beginning to wonder if they want to getsome kind of ménage thing going. That harness I saw tells me they're not atotally vanilla couple, and considering their ages (thirtyish to fortyish),maybe one of them has a hankering for a twink, even though I don't see myselfthat way. I'm not sure how I feelabout this possibility. I mean, yeah, they're both hot as hell, but—"Something wrong?" Jacksonasks.Apparently my forehead'sbeen collapsing toward my nose. Only now do I feel it. "Uh…you're not, like,looking for…" Fuck. How do I say this? "Do you kind of want…a third?"Now Jackson's forehead iscollapsing. He stops chewing and stares at me. "A third what?"Adin's tryingunsuccessfully to hold in a smile. "I think he means dick."Jackson swallows witheffort. "Huh?"Oh, man. Now Adin issnickering and Jackson is looking back and forth between us and I want to grabmy faux-twink ass by the back of my pants and pitch myself out the door. "Imaybe didn't say that right," I mumble. "I mean, I don't…I'm just trying tofigure out why—"My throat seals whenJackson's eyebrows hitch up, like he suddenly gets what I meant. "Are youserious?"Adin rises from his chair to clear thetable. He's sort of bent over because he's trying to contain his laughter butcan't. I get up too, mostly to pull myself free of Jackson's color-shiftingeyes. But they continue to follow my every move."You think we want aplaymate?"He's so incredulous, I nowfeel like a drop-kicked piece of shit that's broken into a hundred little turdlets.So of course I get defensive and lash out again. "How am I supposed to knowwhat you're after? It wouldn't be the strangest thing in the world for a coupleof middle-aged queers to want—"Uh-oh. Jackson shoots up from hischair like a goddamn rocket. Dishes and silverware clink together. Good thingmy hands are empty, because he grabs me by the shirtfront and literally yanksme onto my tiptoes. I'm five-eleven, so I'm no midget, but he's got to be atleast six-three. That gives him four inches of lifting room. His iron fistbumps the underside of my chin. Fucker's got big hands and plenty of muscle toput them to good use. I wouldn't be surprised if he battled demons by punchingout their lights."You want me to mentoryou?" he says in a low, graveled voice. It's like a fine spray of grit hittingmy eardrums. "Okay, here's Lesson Number One: learn…some…respect." He hangsonto me a few seconds longer. I swallow, feeling myAdam's apple bob along his knuckles, and eke out a nod. "Sorry," I whisper.Forming the word feels strange to my mouth. I don't use it often."FYI, we don't want orneed a 'third'."Adin returns from thekitchen and gives me a reassuring pat on the back. "Believe me, Jackson hasenough cock for two men."

The Poop Shelf

The original source is HERE, on Tumblr.

Goodreads

I followed links on Tumblr but couldn't find the origin of this. Nevertheless, thank you, origin! :)

Religion in Popular Fiction

Ever eager to acquire fodder for my still-kinda-new Kindle, I recently downloaded a free read titled Scream.  (You all probably know horror is my second fictional love.) The novel sounded promising. I didn't bother searching for reviews because, hell, it was free.

After downloading it, I did check its reviews. The book wasn't criticized for its premise or its bad craftsmanship. (From what little I read of Scream, the author's style was workmanlike and inoffensive, and the story's opening provided a solid hook.) Rather, the publisher was criticized -- for not informing readers upfront that this was CHRISTIAN fiction.

Whoopsie. But who would've guessed? It's classified as a horror novel, for crying out loud, and the cover clearly signals that.

When I saw one Goodreads commenter complain that the book "went born-again" halfway through, I decided to delete it from my Kindle. Evangelical testimony, regardless of the guise it's wearing, tends to trigger my gag reflex.

Still, this experience got me thinking.

First, I wondered if publishers should slap some sort of descriptive tag on "inspirational" fiction. (I hate that term, by the way. In my world, all good fiction is inspirational. And dogmatic fiction is rarely good.) Doing so makes sense. Many readers find such content objectionable, just as many readers find erotic or violent content objectionable. Granted, it's usually easy to steer clear of the inspie stuff -- either the blurb or the name of the house or imprint will alert you to it -- but, obviously, readers are sometimes fooled. Free or not, I would've been royally pissed if I'd invested any time in reading this book, only to discover it was a "Jesus Saves" tract.

What do you think? Would an alert be appropriate?

Then I started fretting a little over how my next release will be received. Religious faith is an integral part of A Hole in God's Pocket. What drove me to write the book (in addition to my lifelong fascination with human belief systems) was something I'd read online a while back, an opinion piece by a queer guy who lamented how the issue of spirituality was usually overlooked in queer fiction.

He was right. Authors don't hesitate to cast fundamentalist homophobes as villains, which is perfectly understandable and justified, but not many in the m/m romance genre want to tackle the importance of faith in the lives of gay men and the painful struggle that often results when orientation clashes with theology. None of the so-called Abrahamic religions -- Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, in nearly all their various sectarian manifestations -- takes a kind view of non-heterosexuality.

So I considered the difference between Christian manifestos disguised as fiction (the Left Behind series, for example) and religious faith as a theme in fiction. Although I still haven't breathed a sigh of relief, the difference quickly became apparent. The aim of evangelical writers is, essentially, to proselytize. Spreading the Word is part and parcel of their raison d'etre. But the rest of us, whether it's Marie Sexton or Andrew Grey or Shelter Somerset or authors of "literary" GLBTQ stories, aren't ideologues. We're simply trying to examine a significant and often troubling issue that shouldn't be ignored.

Book Lovers, Beware!

Interior of Collyer brothers' home, 1947Last night's episode of "Hoarders" on A&E featured a Chicago couple so fond of books, they'd managed to accumulate hundreds of thousands of volumes (by one estimate, possibly more than 500k). Over the course of 40 years, their home had turned into a warren of floor-to-ceiling stacks and shelves, and aisles so narrow, an adult had to ease sideways down each one. Landslides often occurred -- tumbling towers of tomes that could easily bury or at least brain a person.

People (I wanted to scream at the TV), haven't you heard of e-books? And I hugged my Kindle.

This show dovetailed with a nonfiction piece I happen to be reading (thanks again for the tip, Val!) Ghosty Men is about the legendary Collyer brothers, a pair of eccentrics who literally hoarded themselves to death in their once-mansion-like Harlem brownstone. (Homer & Langley by E.L. Doctorow is a fictionalized version of their story.) Sad to say, even e-books wouldn't have saved these guys.


The obsessive-compulsive disorder that is hoarding has always fascinated me. I've known people with this disease and I've seen, firsthand, the results of it. As much as I recoil from clutter-gone-wild, I understand the allure of frenetic collecting. Hardcover books, especially old ones, have always been a Siren song to me. The same is true of vintage Christmas decorations and folk art. If life hadn't staged multiple interventions and regularly forced me to rid myself of possessions, my collecting could easily have gotten out of hand.


So, to reinforce this cautionary tale and to celebrate Read an E-book Week, here are more period photos of the Collyer brothers' residence. (And you know what? As foul as this place was, and as tragic as Homer's and Langley's fate, I still find myself zeroing in on all the antiques and feeling covetous!)

Junk removal begins.
Check out the windows!
Can you make out the body on the sea of garbage? That's Langley, crushed and rat-gnawed. By the time he was "unearthed,"  he'd been dead over a month. Homer, who was blind and totally dependent on his brother, died of starvation shortly thereafter, also in a bunker of trash. 

Announcement

Carny's Magic, a full-length novel featuring my favorite wizard, is tentatively scheduled for release on June 12 by:

In Praise of Cover Artists!

Since I blab a lot about my respect for cover artists, I thought I'd post a little homage to them. The covers below are but a small sampling of the ones that have recently caught my eye (within my genre, that is). Enjoy! Christine M. Griffin, for Loose Id Alex Beecroft, for MLR
Reese Dante, for Dreamspinner April Martinez, for Loose Id Justin James, for Loose Id Jordan Taylor, for Riptide L. C. Chase, for Josh Lanyon 
Anne Cain, for Dreamspinner Anne Cain, for Dreamspinner

(More) Doodoo Stirred

Yesterday was unpleasant. It was full of stink from multiple sources. At first, the stink brought me down. Then I started getting angry. Really, really angry. I don't often get really, really angry. Irked, annoyed, irritated -- yes, superficially and temporarily. But yesterday I was pissed. Royally. Still am today. (There are a few reeking hypocrites in particular I wouldn't hesitate to trip while they walked over a bed of shattered glass -- and I'm a freakin' pacifist.) 
I had a whole blog post planned, a damned good one, but then I thought, Why bother? 'Cause this song is so much more cathartic. (Plus, the Tea Party footage adds another level of aptness.)

You know what assholes have in common? They think their shit doesn't stink.