K.Z. Snow's Blog, page 27
May 15, 2011
The Doldrums
I am in them.
Can't seem to make any real headway in this biz. I think I fall into some substance category between wheat and chaff. Dust? Hell, beats me. I'm feeling kind of swallowed up in this genre, and confused about readers' standards. It's getting pretty depressing. I don't know how to write what lots and lots of people will like. And talk about. And remember. Just don't know how.
Don't. Know. How. And maybe can't.
Can't seem to make any real headway in this biz. I think I fall into some substance category between wheat and chaff. Dust? Hell, beats me. I'm feeling kind of swallowed up in this genre, and confused about readers' standards. It's getting pretty depressing. I don't know how to write what lots and lots of people will like. And talk about. And remember. Just don't know how.
Don't. Know. How. And maybe can't.
May 12, 2011
He's back!
Our pileated woodpecker was right outside my office windows today, knocking at a tree stump. He's large and robust (stouter than the bird in this photo) and determined -- a real joy to watch. I love me wild birds! (Did I ever mention how uneventful my life is?)
May 9, 2011
My Vinyl Comes Out of Hibernation
Almost a decade ago, following my murder of my second husband divorce, I was forced to sell my lovely old farmhouse and most of its contents. But I couldn't give up my collection of classic LPs. Since there was no adequate place to store them at my new residence, which happened to be the home of my Dutch friend, "Ready" Freddie, ol' Jerr was kind enough to let me keep them in his basement (a nice, dry basement, thank goodness). As I've said before, Jerry was a sweetheart.
Anyhoo, after Jerry's passing, JLA and I went over to his house to retrieve my records before the two females living there -- one, a thief just released from prison his kinda-sorta stepdaughter; the other, a drunken slut lost soul he took in out of sheer kindness (because dear Jerr was that way) -- somehow made my albums disappear. Getting them back was like a happy reunion. Or like Christmas. Most of all, it was a relief. Although I've been able to trust Jerry and most of the strays he's taken in over the years, I didn't feel too comfortable having anything in his house once he was gone.
One of the many treasures I rediscovered was African Sanctus by David Fanshawe, far and away one of the most incredible pieces of music I've ever heard. It's beautiful in sound and in spirit and invariably gives me goosebumps.
Dr. Fanshawe was a British composer who, in the late 1960s, traveled to north and east Africa and recorded mostly tribal songs and chants in Uganda, Kenya, and Sudan (although he also captured a haunting version of the Islamic Call to Prayer in Egypt -- and to hear it interwoven with Christian liturgical music brings tears to my eyes). Dr. Fanshawe then masterfully mixed chosen pieces with portions of the Latin Mass and Anglican liturgy, some of which he "recomposed" a little to fit seamlessly with the more primitive-sounding African music. The video below is only a brief sample of African Sanctus. Believe me, the whole thing is well worth listening to.
Anyhoo, after Jerry's passing, JLA and I went over to his house to retrieve my records before the two females living there -- one, a thief just released from prison his kinda-sorta stepdaughter; the other, a drunken slut lost soul he took in out of sheer kindness (because dear Jerr was that way) -- somehow made my albums disappear. Getting them back was like a happy reunion. Or like Christmas. Most of all, it was a relief. Although I've been able to trust Jerry and most of the strays he's taken in over the years, I didn't feel too comfortable having anything in his house once he was gone.
One of the many treasures I rediscovered was African Sanctus by David Fanshawe, far and away one of the most incredible pieces of music I've ever heard. It's beautiful in sound and in spirit and invariably gives me goosebumps.
Dr. Fanshawe was a British composer who, in the late 1960s, traveled to north and east Africa and recorded mostly tribal songs and chants in Uganda, Kenya, and Sudan (although he also captured a haunting version of the Islamic Call to Prayer in Egypt -- and to hear it interwoven with Christian liturgical music brings tears to my eyes). Dr. Fanshawe then masterfully mixed chosen pieces with portions of the Latin Mass and Anglican liturgy, some of which he "recomposed" a little to fit seamlessly with the more primitive-sounding African music. The video below is only a brief sample of African Sanctus. Believe me, the whole thing is well worth listening to.
May 6, 2011
May 3, 2011
An Excerpt from Something New
"Something New" is not the book's title. ;-)
The Zero Knot is, and below is an excerpt from it. This story also takes place in the town of Cold Harbor, the setting for most of Visible Friend.
I suppose it could be classified as a "coming of age" tale. The central characters were childhood pals. They're now 18 and trying to determine the paths their lives will take. So The Zero Knot is about growing up, growing together, and growing apart -- and, most important, about forging identities and the values that define those identities.
Of course, shit happens along the way.
The section below features Jesse, one of the 18-year-old protags, and his 15-year-old brother, Jared (or "Red"). Just minutes earlier, the kid accidentally let it slip that he's seen the gay magazines secreted in Jesse's bedroom. It's a turning point in their relationship, because it forces Jess to discuss his orientation -- something his parents and older brother still aren't aware of. (The "Mig" who's mentioned is one of Jess's friends.)
* * * * *
Now it was time to set a few things straight with the resident punk.
Without bothering to knock, Jess barged into Jared's room, grabbed the kid by the front of his camo green T-shirt (which proclaimed, ironically, I DIDN'T DO IT), and flattened him against the nearest wall. Red was growing fast—was only a couple inches shorter than Jess now—but had all the muscle mass of a pole bean.
With his forefinger a millimeter from Red's nose, Jess said in a low, ominous tone, "Stay the fuck out of my room, you shit-stirring little twerp."
A sea of crimson buoyed Red's sparse freckles. "Hey…"
"Hey nothing. Keep your nose out of my business." Jess firmly pushed the tip of that nose for emphasis.
He remembered an observation their mother had once made while she was reading some urban fantasy novel: that Jared's freckles, when he blushed, looked like "vampire tears in a sea of blood." Jess loved his mother, but Jill Bonner was one of those in-the-Zone-alone people. She'd always been creative…and more than a little dingy.
Red was temporarily silent.
Jess released him but kept his finger in Red's face, his narrowed eyes locked onto Red's wide ones. "I'm not playin' here. Get it?"
"Okay, okay. From now on I won't go near your room, and I won't say nothin' to nobody."
Point made, Jess turned toward the door.
"FYI, dude, I don't care if you're gay."
Jess stopped in his tracks, spun around.
Red put up his hands. "Chill. I'm an enlightened guy. Live and let live and all that crap. I'm just bummed you're not the best source for dating tips."
Jess hung his head and started chuckling. Why couldn't he stay mad at this little prick?
"You okay?" Red asked warily. "You're not spazzin' out, are you?"
"No. This is just so anticlimactic."
"It's what?"
"Never mind." Jess shuffled to Jared's bed and dropped onto it. The walls in this room were like a bad acid trip, posters and artwork plastered everywhere at every imaginable angle, including sideways and upside down. "So, it was the magazines that tipped you off?"
Red sat beside him. "Well, duh. Dongapalooza."
Elbows resting on thighs, Jess lowered his face to his hands and rubbed it. Maybe this wasn't so anticlimactic after all. The thought of his little brother paging aghast through queer skin magazines…
"You really get off on that stuff?" Red asked, suspended in a stew of disbelief, distaste, and curiosity.
Jess tilted his head and looked through his fingers. "Well, duh."
The kid's eyebrows went up, down. "How, um…how long have you known you're like this?"
The house seemed unusually quiet. It wasn't, of course. The old man had simply turned off the TV and gone to bed. Same drill every night.
Jess dropped his hands and loosely linked them between his knees. "As long as I can remember."
Red scraped his upper teeth over his lower lip. "What's…you know…what's that kind of stuff…?" He paused. A wince tugged at his features.
"What's it like?" Jess said with a sympathetic smile.
"Yeah."
"For me it's just right." As Jess turned a bit more to face his brother, he caught a glimpse of the custom-made T-shirt he'd ordered for Jared's twelfth birthday. Red Rum, it warned in jagged scarlet lettering. The kid had long since outgrown it, but he kept it hanging on the outside of his closet door.
"Remember your soapbox derby car?" Jess said. "The one Dad helped you build when he was still in Oshkosh?"
"Sure I do. I wanted to live in that car. We fit together perfect."
"That's what it's like."
Red looked puzzled. Then his face relaxed and he nodded.
As more questions formed in his addled mind, Red nibbled the inside of his cheek. He always had to do something when he thought hard—chew a fingernail, toy with some object.
Patiently, Jess waited.
"You got, like, a boyfriend?" Red finally asked.
"No." And bam, just like that, Mig was in the room with them.
"D'you want one?"
Jess's stomach squirmed. "Someday."
"You gonna tell Dad you're gay? Or Mom? Or Joel?"
The squirming increased. "Someday."
Red resumed nibbling. The questions clearly weren't over.
"Do you ever, like…shove stuff up your butt?"
Jess wheezed into laughter. "What?"
"Umfy Randall says fa—" Another blush surfaced with volcanic speed. "He says gay guys like sticking things up their butts."
Dare I ask? But it was too delicious to resist. "Such as?"
Red shrugged. "Root crops, small animals, grooming aids."
Snorting, Jess fell back onto the mattress. He lay there, both arms thrown over his face, as his laughter spiraled and his eyes spilled tears. For one thing, he didn't think Umfy Randall, who was dumber than a drumstick, was even familiar with phrases like root crops and grooming aids.
Abs cramping, Jess rolled onto his side and folded his legs. Oh, Christ.
"So…it ain't true?"
The kid sounded serious, which made Jess laugh even harder. "Of course it's true. If it came from Umfy Randall, it must be true." He gasped for breath and tried to control his hooting. "In fact, I'm packing a blow dryer, three parsnips, and a litter of newborn weasels as we speak."
Stony-faced, Jared regarded him. "Dude, weasels are dangerous."
Jess curled in on himself. His gut was ready to split.
If only coming out to everybody else in his life could be this much fun.
* * *
~ From The Zero Knot, copyright © 2011 K. Z. Snow
The Zero Knot is, and below is an excerpt from it. This story also takes place in the town of Cold Harbor, the setting for most of Visible Friend.
I suppose it could be classified as a "coming of age" tale. The central characters were childhood pals. They're now 18 and trying to determine the paths their lives will take. So The Zero Knot is about growing up, growing together, and growing apart -- and, most important, about forging identities and the values that define those identities.
Of course, shit happens along the way.
The section below features Jesse, one of the 18-year-old protags, and his 15-year-old brother, Jared (or "Red"). Just minutes earlier, the kid accidentally let it slip that he's seen the gay magazines secreted in Jesse's bedroom. It's a turning point in their relationship, because it forces Jess to discuss his orientation -- something his parents and older brother still aren't aware of. (The "Mig" who's mentioned is one of Jess's friends.)
* * * * *
Now it was time to set a few things straight with the resident punk.
Without bothering to knock, Jess barged into Jared's room, grabbed the kid by the front of his camo green T-shirt (which proclaimed, ironically, I DIDN'T DO IT), and flattened him against the nearest wall. Red was growing fast—was only a couple inches shorter than Jess now—but had all the muscle mass of a pole bean.
With his forefinger a millimeter from Red's nose, Jess said in a low, ominous tone, "Stay the fuck out of my room, you shit-stirring little twerp."
A sea of crimson buoyed Red's sparse freckles. "Hey…"
"Hey nothing. Keep your nose out of my business." Jess firmly pushed the tip of that nose for emphasis.
He remembered an observation their mother had once made while she was reading some urban fantasy novel: that Jared's freckles, when he blushed, looked like "vampire tears in a sea of blood." Jess loved his mother, but Jill Bonner was one of those in-the-Zone-alone people. She'd always been creative…and more than a little dingy.
Red was temporarily silent.
Jess released him but kept his finger in Red's face, his narrowed eyes locked onto Red's wide ones. "I'm not playin' here. Get it?"
"Okay, okay. From now on I won't go near your room, and I won't say nothin' to nobody."
Point made, Jess turned toward the door.
"FYI, dude, I don't care if you're gay."
Jess stopped in his tracks, spun around.
Red put up his hands. "Chill. I'm an enlightened guy. Live and let live and all that crap. I'm just bummed you're not the best source for dating tips."
Jess hung his head and started chuckling. Why couldn't he stay mad at this little prick?
"You okay?" Red asked warily. "You're not spazzin' out, are you?"
"No. This is just so anticlimactic."
"It's what?"
"Never mind." Jess shuffled to Jared's bed and dropped onto it. The walls in this room were like a bad acid trip, posters and artwork plastered everywhere at every imaginable angle, including sideways and upside down. "So, it was the magazines that tipped you off?"
Red sat beside him. "Well, duh. Dongapalooza."
Elbows resting on thighs, Jess lowered his face to his hands and rubbed it. Maybe this wasn't so anticlimactic after all. The thought of his little brother paging aghast through queer skin magazines…
"You really get off on that stuff?" Red asked, suspended in a stew of disbelief, distaste, and curiosity.
Jess tilted his head and looked through his fingers. "Well, duh."
The kid's eyebrows went up, down. "How, um…how long have you known you're like this?"
The house seemed unusually quiet. It wasn't, of course. The old man had simply turned off the TV and gone to bed. Same drill every night.
Jess dropped his hands and loosely linked them between his knees. "As long as I can remember."
Red scraped his upper teeth over his lower lip. "What's…you know…what's that kind of stuff…?" He paused. A wince tugged at his features.
"What's it like?" Jess said with a sympathetic smile.
"Yeah."
"For me it's just right." As Jess turned a bit more to face his brother, he caught a glimpse of the custom-made T-shirt he'd ordered for Jared's twelfth birthday. Red Rum, it warned in jagged scarlet lettering. The kid had long since outgrown it, but he kept it hanging on the outside of his closet door.
"Remember your soapbox derby car?" Jess said. "The one Dad helped you build when he was still in Oshkosh?"
"Sure I do. I wanted to live in that car. We fit together perfect."
"That's what it's like."
Red looked puzzled. Then his face relaxed and he nodded.
As more questions formed in his addled mind, Red nibbled the inside of his cheek. He always had to do something when he thought hard—chew a fingernail, toy with some object.
Patiently, Jess waited.
"You got, like, a boyfriend?" Red finally asked.
"No." And bam, just like that, Mig was in the room with them.
"D'you want one?"
Jess's stomach squirmed. "Someday."
"You gonna tell Dad you're gay? Or Mom? Or Joel?"
The squirming increased. "Someday."
Red resumed nibbling. The questions clearly weren't over.
"Do you ever, like…shove stuff up your butt?"
Jess wheezed into laughter. "What?"
"Umfy Randall says fa—" Another blush surfaced with volcanic speed. "He says gay guys like sticking things up their butts."
Dare I ask? But it was too delicious to resist. "Such as?"
Red shrugged. "Root crops, small animals, grooming aids."
Snorting, Jess fell back onto the mattress. He lay there, both arms thrown over his face, as his laughter spiraled and his eyes spilled tears. For one thing, he didn't think Umfy Randall, who was dumber than a drumstick, was even familiar with phrases like root crops and grooming aids.
Abs cramping, Jess rolled onto his side and folded his legs. Oh, Christ.
"So…it ain't true?"
The kid sounded serious, which made Jess laugh even harder. "Of course it's true. If it came from Umfy Randall, it must be true." He gasped for breath and tried to control his hooting. "In fact, I'm packing a blow dryer, three parsnips, and a litter of newborn weasels as we speak."
Stony-faced, Jared regarded him. "Dude, weasels are dangerous."
Jess curled in on himself. His gut was ready to split.
If only coming out to everybody else in his life could be this much fun.
* * *
~ From The Zero Knot, copyright © 2011 K. Z. Snow
May 1, 2011
Of Fugly and Funerals
It's a weird coincidence that after I wrote this post, I got a message from Elisa Rolle informing me that Fugly was among her top ten "referrals" (I think that means click-throughs from her site) for April. A good cover truly is a gift that keeps on giving.
Anyway . . . this post is a downer. Don't read it if that will upset you. I just needed to vent.
I went to Jerry's funeral yesterday. Rather, I went to the visitation and realized I couldn't do more. But who, or what, was I visiting? (Oh my, it appears I've read too many blurbs!)
I cringed when I found out Jerr wasn't going to be cremated. All our other friends who've taken their final journeys over the past few years -- and there've been too many -- have been incinerated and their powdery cremains put in attractive containers. Ashes to ashes. I don't have a problem with this kind of exit, especially when the containers are surrounded by photos of their contents when those contents were intact and vital and happy. Flowers are pretty, too. The whole setup can help make an otherwise painful event tolerable. Poignant, yes, but not repugnant.
When I wrote Fugly, I did a good deal of research on behind-the-scenes mortuary practices: embalming, cosmetizing, "presentation" --manipulations of the dearly departed that most folks would rather not think about (and who can blame them?) The research didn't particularly bother me. Writing the Todd and Gabriel chapters didn't particularly bother me. Maybe that's because I was more focused on the characters and their developing relationship than on their work environment. I was focused on the "happily," not the "ever after." Know what I mean?
BUT. I couldn't do any focus-shifting yesterday, and I couldn't stand seeing those practices applied to someone I cared about. The realization hit me hard. I didn't want to see Jerry as a worked-over stiff. It was bad enough walking into that delicately scented, mauve-hued room and catching a glimpse of his frozen profile. Bad, bad enough, knowing he'd been propped just so on a satin pillow, his face artificially colored and artfully lit, his hands crossed unnaturally instead of gripping a Pabst can or pool cue or remote control.
JLA was with me -- a mixed blessing. (Let's just say he isn't a very emotional or even empathetic person.) I immediately told him, "I can't go up there [to the casket]. I don't want to see him that way." JLA, tough guy that he is, had no such qualms. He went up there. However, he did change his tune after he'd made the short trip. When he came back to my chair, he murmured, "Yeah, you're better off staying here. Really." Later, he was on the verge of telling me precisely why I'd been better off keeping my distance, but I abruptly said, "I don't want to hear it." Because, I inferred, whatever the results of all that embalming, cosmetizing, and posing, they couldn't have been pleasant.
I don't understand what Jessica Mitford called, in her 1963 classic of the same name, "the American way of death." I honestly don't know why a deceased person's loved ones would willingly subject themselves to the whole hideous ritual of a full funeral. Closure? I don't even get it in that context. I want to remember Jerry laughing or tending his pumpkin patch or cooking his secret-recipe barbecue sauce; I don't want to remember him as a creepy mannequin laid out in some tricked-out ride to nowhere. What the hell kind of final image is that?
I didn't go the cemetery. Couldn't. I recoiled at the thought of witnessing that part of the ritual too -- the massive, gaudy, environmentally unfriendly capsule descending into the dank earth, where it would sit for decades upon decades doing nothing but taking up space, leaking chemicals into the ground, and inhibiting a process nature wants to happen. It seemed like yet another desecration, disturbing and pointless.
As far as I was concerned, Jerry had left the building four days earlier. He'd done so while he was in his own house, on his own couch. It would've been much more appropriate if he'd been left alone and that piece of furniture buried or burned with him on it.
Shit, what a day.
Anyway . . . this post is a downer. Don't read it if that will upset you. I just needed to vent.
I went to Jerry's funeral yesterday. Rather, I went to the visitation and realized I couldn't do more. But who, or what, was I visiting? (Oh my, it appears I've read too many blurbs!)
I cringed when I found out Jerr wasn't going to be cremated. All our other friends who've taken their final journeys over the past few years -- and there've been too many -- have been incinerated and their powdery cremains put in attractive containers. Ashes to ashes. I don't have a problem with this kind of exit, especially when the containers are surrounded by photos of their contents when those contents were intact and vital and happy. Flowers are pretty, too. The whole setup can help make an otherwise painful event tolerable. Poignant, yes, but not repugnant.
When I wrote Fugly, I did a good deal of research on behind-the-scenes mortuary practices: embalming, cosmetizing, "presentation" --manipulations of the dearly departed that most folks would rather not think about (and who can blame them?) The research didn't particularly bother me. Writing the Todd and Gabriel chapters didn't particularly bother me. Maybe that's because I was more focused on the characters and their developing relationship than on their work environment. I was focused on the "happily," not the "ever after." Know what I mean?
BUT. I couldn't do any focus-shifting yesterday, and I couldn't stand seeing those practices applied to someone I cared about. The realization hit me hard. I didn't want to see Jerry as a worked-over stiff. It was bad enough walking into that delicately scented, mauve-hued room and catching a glimpse of his frozen profile. Bad, bad enough, knowing he'd been propped just so on a satin pillow, his face artificially colored and artfully lit, his hands crossed unnaturally instead of gripping a Pabst can or pool cue or remote control.
JLA was with me -- a mixed blessing. (Let's just say he isn't a very emotional or even empathetic person.) I immediately told him, "I can't go up there [to the casket]. I don't want to see him that way." JLA, tough guy that he is, had no such qualms. He went up there. However, he did change his tune after he'd made the short trip. When he came back to my chair, he murmured, "Yeah, you're better off staying here. Really." Later, he was on the verge of telling me precisely why I'd been better off keeping my distance, but I abruptly said, "I don't want to hear it." Because, I inferred, whatever the results of all that embalming, cosmetizing, and posing, they couldn't have been pleasant.
I don't understand what Jessica Mitford called, in her 1963 classic of the same name, "the American way of death." I honestly don't know why a deceased person's loved ones would willingly subject themselves to the whole hideous ritual of a full funeral. Closure? I don't even get it in that context. I want to remember Jerry laughing or tending his pumpkin patch or cooking his secret-recipe barbecue sauce; I don't want to remember him as a creepy mannequin laid out in some tricked-out ride to nowhere. What the hell kind of final image is that?
I didn't go the cemetery. Couldn't. I recoiled at the thought of witnessing that part of the ritual too -- the massive, gaudy, environmentally unfriendly capsule descending into the dank earth, where it would sit for decades upon decades doing nothing but taking up space, leaking chemicals into the ground, and inhibiting a process nature wants to happen. It seemed like yet another desecration, disturbing and pointless.
As far as I was concerned, Jerry had left the building four days earlier. He'd done so while he was in his own house, on his own couch. It would've been much more appropriate if he'd been left alone and that piece of furniture buried or burned with him on it.
Shit, what a day.
April 29, 2011
Good News, Bad News
Meet the Author.
That be me, of course. Dreamspinner Press has its own discussion group at Goodreads, and on Sunday afternoon, May 1, I'll be holding court hanging out in the "Meet the Author" forum (click on post title to get there). So stop by and bitch at me if you'd like, or ask questions, or just ramble about anything book-related that's on your mind.
You Can't Buy This Kind of Promotion!
One of my former fellow authors at Ellora's Cave, Judy Mays, is a RL teacher whose second career as a writer of erotic romance was outed. You can read the ridiculous news item HERE. This story has received gobs of attention on the Interwebz and, as a result, Judy has received gobs of support, including two dedicated groups on Facebook. A little birdie told me that her books are now selling quite well, thank you very much, and her supporters can expect to receive postcards sent from her world cruise. (Okay, I made that last part up.) Go, Judy!
A Beautiful Blog.
If you haven't yet visited 2boysinlove, get over there. It's charming and heartfelt and will make you feel so, so good. Really, it's absolutely lovely -- and, I hope, will prove an inspiration to other gay teens.
A Fond Farewell.
This update is the hardest one to write. Very early Tuesday morning, my best friend, Jerry, died suddenly and unexpectedly in his sleep. He's the same person responsible for my "Jokes from Jerr" posts. Nobody knows precisely what happened, but speculation leads to a grim conclusion. Jerr was on a lot of pain meds (long story involving accidents and such) and was also very fond of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. It's possible he indulged too much in both before turning in the night before.
Jerry was an almost legendary figure in this county. Hundreds of people knew him. He was also one of the most good-natured and generous individuals I've ever known. Never, ever did he refuse a friend anything it was in his power to provide -- housing included. The person he was putting up at the time of his death was a local woman whose alcoholism likely provoked Jerry into drinking more than he normally would have. That this tragic turn could have been prevented is the toughest part to take.
That be me, of course. Dreamspinner Press has its own discussion group at Goodreads, and on Sunday afternoon, May 1, I'll be holding court hanging out in the "Meet the Author" forum (click on post title to get there). So stop by and bitch at me if you'd like, or ask questions, or just ramble about anything book-related that's on your mind.
You Can't Buy This Kind of Promotion!
One of my former fellow authors at Ellora's Cave, Judy Mays, is a RL teacher whose second career as a writer of erotic romance was outed. You can read the ridiculous news item HERE. This story has received gobs of attention on the Interwebz and, as a result, Judy has received gobs of support, including two dedicated groups on Facebook. A little birdie told me that her books are now selling quite well, thank you very much, and her supporters can expect to receive postcards sent from her world cruise. (Okay, I made that last part up.) Go, Judy!
A Beautiful Blog.
If you haven't yet visited 2boysinlove, get over there. It's charming and heartfelt and will make you feel so, so good. Really, it's absolutely lovely -- and, I hope, will prove an inspiration to other gay teens.
A Fond Farewell.
This update is the hardest one to write. Very early Tuesday morning, my best friend, Jerry, died suddenly and unexpectedly in his sleep. He's the same person responsible for my "Jokes from Jerr" posts. Nobody knows precisely what happened, but speculation leads to a grim conclusion. Jerr was on a lot of pain meds (long story involving accidents and such) and was also very fond of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. It's possible he indulged too much in both before turning in the night before.
Jerry was an almost legendary figure in this county. Hundreds of people knew him. He was also one of the most good-natured and generous individuals I've ever known. Never, ever did he refuse a friend anything it was in his power to provide -- housing included. The person he was putting up at the time of his death was a local woman whose alcoholism likely provoked Jerry into drinking more than he normally would have. That this tragic turn could have been prevented is the toughest part to take.
April 19, 2011
A New Excerpt
Coming April 27from Dreamspinner Press(Click on post title to see sales page.)Cover by Anne Cain
Although you can read the Prologue and Chapter One in their entirety at the Dreamspinner site (click on post title), here's another little snip.
It takes place the night before Chris Borgasian leaves the sober-living house where he's been staying since his three-month stint in rehab.
* * *
Whether it was a sound that woke him, or that distinctive fragrance, or a sense of somebody else's presence in the room, Chris couldn't tell. His eyes merely opened. A muted creak sounded from the other bed, the one that should've been empty, the one Beni Sanchez had vacated.
Had he come back?
Chris's heart thumped against the wall of his chest. The longer he stared into the wadded darkness, the more it thinned. A shadowy figure was poised on Beni's mattress, only it didn't seem to be Beni.
Breathing heavily, Chris did an awkward, frantic flip to his right and scrambled to turn on the nightstand lamp. Sure as shit, some guy dressed in faded jeans and a Cooler Near the Lake T-shirt sat on the edge of the second bed, facing him.
"Hi," he said brightly.
Chris stretched his eyelids. "What are you doing here?"
The guy smiled. "Guess you don't recognize me. I'm Denny."
Recognize him? From where? "Oh."
"I'll be staying with you."
"You mean…." Chris tried to get more awake. He rubbed his face. Stubble sanded his palms. All he had on were briefs, and his hair probably looked like a Nikola Tesla lab experiment gone horribly awry. He wasn't prepared to greet a new resident. "Did you just check in?"
"Not just. I've been here awhile."
"And this is your room."
"Well yeah. Of course. Temporarily, anyway."
Finally, Chris focused on the newcomer. He was pretty damned attractive. Not picture-perfect, but… short, reddish-brown hair, appealingly chaotic; perfectly proportioned nose; rosy cheeks; strong, shadowed jaw. Nice physique, too, its interlocked dips and rises flowing from a pair of broad shoulders.
He isn't so special. I've just been deprived, that's all.
Denny kept watching Chris. The dark brows over those fawn-colored eyes gave his gaze a soft intensity. It wasn't in the least bit threatening, but it didn't quite suit his youth. He seemed to be around Chris's age.
"I, uh… I'll be moving out in the morning," Chris said, because that thought had suddenly popped into his head—specifically, how glad he was, how relieved. Sharing a room with this guy would've been agonizing. He might not have been all that special, but he was special enough to make Chris squirmy.
"I know." Denny was calm, good-natured. Some people in rehab were like that, as if dodging the big-ass bullet of addiction, and the bigger-ass bullet of fatal overdose, had packed their dispositions with smiling porpoises leaping through fluffy clouds.
"What's that beside you on the bed?" Chris had just noticed it, some sort of bouquet. Denny's girlfriend or mother or sister must've given it to him. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so he likely didn't have a wife.
"Oh!" Denny lifted the bundle. They were branches, frothing with delicate white flowers. "I brought these for you. I know how you love the smell." He held them out, his smile sweet and guileless.
Chris gaped at the cluster. The scent again wafted over him. A familiar scent. "Wh-what are they?" he whispered.
"You know."
Numbly, Chris shook his head, as if denial of recognition could erase recognition.
He heard what he'd expected to hear.
"Plum blossoms."
That's when the dizziness began, and the trembling. "Who are you?"
Although you can read the Prologue and Chapter One in their entirety at the Dreamspinner site (click on post title), here's another little snip.
It takes place the night before Chris Borgasian leaves the sober-living house where he's been staying since his three-month stint in rehab.
* * *
Whether it was a sound that woke him, or that distinctive fragrance, or a sense of somebody else's presence in the room, Chris couldn't tell. His eyes merely opened. A muted creak sounded from the other bed, the one that should've been empty, the one Beni Sanchez had vacated.
Had he come back?
Chris's heart thumped against the wall of his chest. The longer he stared into the wadded darkness, the more it thinned. A shadowy figure was poised on Beni's mattress, only it didn't seem to be Beni.
Breathing heavily, Chris did an awkward, frantic flip to his right and scrambled to turn on the nightstand lamp. Sure as shit, some guy dressed in faded jeans and a Cooler Near the Lake T-shirt sat on the edge of the second bed, facing him.
"Hi," he said brightly.
Chris stretched his eyelids. "What are you doing here?"
The guy smiled. "Guess you don't recognize me. I'm Denny."
Recognize him? From where? "Oh."
"I'll be staying with you."
"You mean…." Chris tried to get more awake. He rubbed his face. Stubble sanded his palms. All he had on were briefs, and his hair probably looked like a Nikola Tesla lab experiment gone horribly awry. He wasn't prepared to greet a new resident. "Did you just check in?"
"Not just. I've been here awhile."
"And this is your room."
"Well yeah. Of course. Temporarily, anyway."
Finally, Chris focused on the newcomer. He was pretty damned attractive. Not picture-perfect, but… short, reddish-brown hair, appealingly chaotic; perfectly proportioned nose; rosy cheeks; strong, shadowed jaw. Nice physique, too, its interlocked dips and rises flowing from a pair of broad shoulders.
He isn't so special. I've just been deprived, that's all.
Denny kept watching Chris. The dark brows over those fawn-colored eyes gave his gaze a soft intensity. It wasn't in the least bit threatening, but it didn't quite suit his youth. He seemed to be around Chris's age.
"I, uh… I'll be moving out in the morning," Chris said, because that thought had suddenly popped into his head—specifically, how glad he was, how relieved. Sharing a room with this guy would've been agonizing. He might not have been all that special, but he was special enough to make Chris squirmy.
"I know." Denny was calm, good-natured. Some people in rehab were like that, as if dodging the big-ass bullet of addiction, and the bigger-ass bullet of fatal overdose, had packed their dispositions with smiling porpoises leaping through fluffy clouds.
"What's that beside you on the bed?" Chris had just noticed it, some sort of bouquet. Denny's girlfriend or mother or sister must've given it to him. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so he likely didn't have a wife.
"Oh!" Denny lifted the bundle. They were branches, frothing with delicate white flowers. "I brought these for you. I know how you love the smell." He held them out, his smile sweet and guileless.
Chris gaped at the cluster. The scent again wafted over him. A familiar scent. "Wh-what are they?" he whispered.
"You know."
Numbly, Chris shook his head, as if denial of recognition could erase recognition.
He heard what he'd expected to hear.
"Plum blossoms."
That's when the dizziness began, and the trembling. "Who are you?"
April 18, 2011
A Book's Journey on Goodreads
With a new release imminent, as well as a "special" appearance (meaning, there was a time slot open April 30) on Dreamspinners' Goodreads group, I can't help but wonder how books must feel once they're out in the GR world.
Here's how I imagine an illustrated autobookography would look.
CHAPTER I
Woohoo, I'm free!
And I'm closer to 5 than to 4! The first people who read me really liked me. Gosh, appreciation is the best high. Maybe I am good!
CHAPTER II
Okay, can't float above 4.5 forever.
Well, not most of us, anyway.
But I'm doing okay; I'm still in the race, holding my own!
CHAPTER III
Uh-oh. I'm mighty close to that 4 mark.
Nobody's interested in a book that drops below a 4.
Where's all this negativity coming from? It's weighing me down!
CHAPTER IV
Oh, shit. The nay-sayers' boat has rolled over me!
I'm sinking, sinking . . .
*bbbllllbbbblblblbbbllllbll*
CHAPTER V
[image error] But here's my dad, the author!
We're not going down without making a statement.
We've had it. Fuck y'all with your 1 and 2 stars
and the woodwork you crawled out of!
Who the hell are you, anyway?
Wait, we really don't care. You're goin' down!
© 2011, 91.7 % of the Books on Goodreads
Here's how I imagine an illustrated autobookography would look.
CHAPTER I
Woohoo, I'm free! And I'm closer to 5 than to 4! The first people who read me really liked me. Gosh, appreciation is the best high. Maybe I am good!
CHAPTER II
Okay, can't float above 4.5 forever. Well, not most of us, anyway.
But I'm doing okay; I'm still in the race, holding my own!
CHAPTER III
Uh-oh. I'm mighty close to that 4 mark. Nobody's interested in a book that drops below a 4.
Where's all this negativity coming from? It's weighing me down!
CHAPTER IV
Oh, shit. The nay-sayers' boat has rolled over me!I'm sinking, sinking . . .
*bbbllllbbbblblblbbbllllbll*
CHAPTER V
[image error] But here's my dad, the author!
We're not going down without making a statement.
We've had it. Fuck y'all with your 1 and 2 stars
and the woodwork you crawled out of!
Who the hell are you, anyway?
Wait, we really don't care. You're goin' down!
© 2011, 91.7 % of the Books on Goodreads
April 15, 2011
Asspressions & Acronyms
Sorry, but this is all I've got for you.
(_!_) a regular ass
(__!__) a fat ass
(!) a tight ass
(_*_) a sore ass
{_!_} a swishy ass
(_o_) an ass that's been around
(_x_) kiss my ass
(_X_) leave my ass alone
(_zzz_) a tired ass
(_E=mc2_) a smart ass
(_$_) money coming out of his ass
(_?_) dumb ass _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Dear Employees:
Due to the current financial situation caused by the slowdown of economy, Management has decided to implement a scheme to put workers of 45 years of age and above on early retirement. This scheme will be known as RAPE (Retire Aging Personnel Early).
Persons selected to be RAPED can apply to management to be eligiblefor the SHAFT scheme (Special Help After Forced Termination). Persons who have been RAPED and SHAFTED will be reviewed under the SCREW program (Scheme Covering Retired Early Workers). A person may be RAPED once, SHAFTED twice, and SCREWED as many times as Management deems appropriate.
Persons who have been RAPED can only get AIDS (Additional Income for Dependants & Spouse) or HERPES (Half Earnings for Retired Personnel Early Severance).
Obviously persons who have AIDS or HERPES will not be SHAFTED orSCREWED any further by Management.
Persons who are not RAPED and are staying on will receive as much SHIT (Special High Intensity Training) as possible. Management has always prided itself on the amount of SHIT it gives employees. Should you feel that you do not receive enough SHIT, please bring to the attention of your supervisor. They have been trained to give you all the SHIT you can absorb.
~ The Management
(_!_) a regular ass
(__!__) a fat ass
(!) a tight ass
(_*_) a sore ass
{_!_} a swishy ass
(_o_) an ass that's been around
(_x_) kiss my ass
(_X_) leave my ass alone
(_zzz_) a tired ass
(_E=mc2_) a smart ass
(_$_) money coming out of his ass
(_?_) dumb ass _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Dear Employees:
Due to the current financial situation caused by the slowdown of economy, Management has decided to implement a scheme to put workers of 45 years of age and above on early retirement. This scheme will be known as RAPE (Retire Aging Personnel Early).
Persons selected to be RAPED can apply to management to be eligiblefor the SHAFT scheme (Special Help After Forced Termination). Persons who have been RAPED and SHAFTED will be reviewed under the SCREW program (Scheme Covering Retired Early Workers). A person may be RAPED once, SHAFTED twice, and SCREWED as many times as Management deems appropriate.
Persons who have been RAPED can only get AIDS (Additional Income for Dependants & Spouse) or HERPES (Half Earnings for Retired Personnel Early Severance).
Obviously persons who have AIDS or HERPES will not be SHAFTED orSCREWED any further by Management.
Persons who are not RAPED and are staying on will receive as much SHIT (Special High Intensity Training) as possible. Management has always prided itself on the amount of SHIT it gives employees. Should you feel that you do not receive enough SHIT, please bring to the attention of your supervisor. They have been trained to give you all the SHIT you can absorb.
~ The Management
![[image error]](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0A6OIg5LLI8/TaMyyyH758I/AAAAAAAAB20/HJWq7vpQHuI/s1600/water%20gun.jpg){kind=link}