K.Z. Snow's Blog, page 6

A Trope Down Memory Lane ~ Friends to Lovers

A genre favorite, this theme. It's at the heart of a number of my stories, including Electric Melty Tingles , which features two college-age friends who must endure separation after declaring their love; Abercrombie Zombie , about a team of paranormal investigators who come together via the intervention of a very unusual stranger; Visible Friend  in which a recovering junkie reconnects in a startling way with the best buddy he ever had; The Zero Knot, about two young men, close since childhood, who find the courage to fully define their bond. Finally, there is the Jackson Spey / Adin Swift saga, a friends-to-lovers tale of epic proportions -- or at least one that spans quite a few books. ;-)

Here's a sampling.

Electric Melty Tingles


It's August of 1970, and the friends of 21-year-old Oliver Duncan are having a blast at his bachelor party. Except Ned Surwicki. He isn't an Ivy Leaguer. He doesn't appreciate female strippers. And although he's been Oliver's best friend since they were 14, Ned isn't much inclined to celebrate his pal's impending marriage.

Ned is gay, something he's known since he kissed a boy and got the melty tingles. Ned is also in love with the groom-to-be. Ned is miserable.

On the night before his wedding, Oliver realizes that he's miserable too. Of course Ned comes to his rescue.

Thus begins a romance that spans forty years, requires one coming-out after another, and survives a broken engagement, a menage with War and Pees, world travel, an ill-advised marriage, scores of fuck buddies, a father who thinks his son is destined to be a clone of Liberace, parents who reject their son, and, worst of all, the failure of two misguided men to pursue their fondest dream.

The most important coming-out for Ned and Oliver is summed up in a declaration they spend too many years trying futilely to forget: "I love you. That's never going to change."
Read an excerpt.
Buy at Amazon.
Buy at ARe.
Buy at B&N.

* * *
Abercrombie Zombie


A tale of life, love, death, and other mysteries of the universe, including the importance of a good wardrobe.
Dead folks are the best friends of Quinn McConnell and Hunter Janz. Dead folks pay the bills for this team of psychic mediums . . . but just barely. To make it into the financial comfort zone, they need to outshine their competition.

Quinn needs even more than that. He’s been infatuated with his partner for the nearly three years they've been together, and if he can’t either get over his crush or make something happen with Hunter, they’ll have to split up. Sexual tension and unrequited love can wreak havoc with a psychic’s reception.
 
Salvation comes hobbling along in the form of a well-dressed but ravaged-looking man who can clearly see and converse with the dearly departed. Why? Because, he claims, he has something in common with them: He’s also been dead. The zombie who calls himself Dustin DeWind needs the psychics’ help in finding the man who made him what he is. In return, he promises to steer them toward the often elusive spirits that are their stock in trade.

But something more goes on when Quinn and Hunter forge an uneasy alliance with Dustin DeWind. It seems he’s also nudging them toward each other.
Read an excerpt.Buy at Amazon.Buy at ARe.Buy at B&N.* * *
Visible Friend

Only 24, Christopher Borgasian has made a drastic and terrifying change in his life. He's turning his back on a lover he'd adored for three years. The breakup required more than regretfully spoken words; it was an arduous process that took over seven months. Now it's time for Chris to see if he can make it on his own. Without heroin.

Without much of anything, really. Chris's family rejected him nearly a decade ago when he came out, and his drug buddies, never true friends to begin with, are now off-limits. Chris Borgasian, gay recovering junkie, is alone with his determination.

The night before he leaves a sober-living facility to pursue his uncertain future, a stranger named Denny shows up in his room ... then vanishes as mysteriously as he'd appeared. From that night on, Denny keeps returning, suddenly and inexplicably, whenever Chris battles temptation, self-doubt, or feelings of isolation. This handsome young man isn't an angel, but his identity still strains credulity.

Believing in Denny means, for Chris, believing in the magical strength of a child's longing -- for the invisible made visible, the imaginary turned real, and, most incredible of all, the possibility of unquestioning acceptance and abiding love.
Read an excerpt.Buy at Amazon.Buy at ARe.Buy at B&N.* * *
The Zero Knot
The Domino Club -- a teenage version of a secret society, formed by four small-town friends to explore their bisexuality. Two years into his membership, Jess Bonner has had enough. He isn’t bi, he’s gay, but he’s just been afraid to admit it. He’s also an 18-year-old bound for college and bent on making a break from pretense.

When Dylan “Mig” Finch admits he’s also gay and fed up with the club, he and Jess give in to a mutual attraction that’s been building for years. Mig isn’t college-bound, but he’s one of the finest people Jess has ever known.

As the young men struggle to define their relationship and determine their priorities, forces they can’t seem to control keep tripping them up: sexual appetite, personal insecurities, fear of discovery, and more.

They need clarity. They need courage. Just as they’re on the verge of finding both, an act of vindictive jealousy sends one of them to jail. All their hard-won victories are in danger of falling to dust.

The only way to save what they have is to recognize and declare it for what it is . . . and fight for its integrity. 
Read an excerpt.Buy at Amazon.Buy at ARe.Buy at B&N.

A Trope Down Memory Lane

The only news I have to report is that I sent in my contract for Machine, the final novel in the Mongrel trilogy. Naturally, Dreamspinner will be publishing it. And I'm still plugging away at my contemporary WIP, Resurrection Men, which now stands at 25k words.

So . . . I thought I'd fire up my time machine and take readers for a leisure ride through my literary past -- in other words, Ye Olde Backlist. I've been so preoccupied with my steampunk storyverse this past year, I sometimes lose sight of the fact I've written quite a few contemporaries and paranormals.

In the following weeks, starting tomorrow, I'll introduce you to them, divided by theme: Friends to Lovers, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Men for Sale, Faith vs. Freedom, and Self-Acceptance, and Faith vs. Freedom. Consider this series of posts a kind of Snowy Days Sampler. ;-)

Writers, don't ever . . .

Publish a book in December if you can help it, unless the story is holiday-related. Seriously. It will get lost. Readers won't associate it with the year in which it was actually published (because, in their minds, they've done all their "serious" reading for the year and are focused on holiday offerings), but they won't associate it with the following year, either. I've seen how Xylophone slipped through the cracks because it was published on December 12.

You're better off waiting until January.

A New Book (with excerpt)

I'm currently writing my first contemporary since Xylophone. Its tentative title is Resurrection Man. (Rainmaker is also a possibility.) It's about a young guy who's lost his first love to gun violence and, in honor of his boyfriend's memory, feels obligated to look after the deceased youth's now-homeless stepfather, an aging black man who goes by the name of Dizzy and shuns shelters. 
I've worked out most of the details. Never fear, the young MC and his elderly companion will NOT be a romantic couple. In fact, I haven't even decided if this will be a standard romance with a standard HEA or HFN ending. I'm still getting a better feel for the characters -- seeing how they think, act, react, interact. But I'm not worried about wrapping it up in a way that's appropriate. ;-)

So . . . here's Elijah Colter, introducing his story.


Prologue
“Dust is soil with the life sucked out of it.”
My great-grandpa Cyrus, born in southwestern Kansas in 1921, spent the early years of his life discovering this truth. He whittled away at the huge, shapeless horror that was the High Plains in the 1930s until he got down to something he could recognize, something that made sense to him. When he was in the middle of his growing-up years, Cy didn’t see anything as pure as what he thought Truth should be. He only saw mountainous dark goblins of grit fill the sky, over and over again. They lumbered in from whatever direction the wind determined, bearing down on homesteads and wheat fields, shedding scales of thick misery.
One typically parched afternoon beneath a typically brown-veiled sky, the local men gathered in town to consider hiring a rainmaker. Cy was at the meeting with his pa, although he wasn’t old enough to have too many opinions about too much of anything or to open his mouth and expect anyone to listen. By then they were three years into the invasion. The goblins kept coming with dismal regularity, kept dropping their deadly freight. A roller had just passed through a few days earlier. Each building looked gray and beaten. Even cavorting tumbleweeds were scarce. Farmers had been hoarding them to feed their withered cattle. And even to feed their families, when worse got to worst.  
But trying to bust water out of the sky with dynamite? Cy’s pa was dead-set against making so risky an investment. The Depression had settled in along with the dust. Money was tight. Besides, “The drouth ain’t the real problem,” he said to his neighbors. “We kilt the land. Dust is soil with the life sucked out of it. Dust is the earth’s haint.”
Bonanza Bill Lawton spoke up. “So what we s’posed to do? Persuade Jesus Christ to breathe life back into it?”
“We’ve all tried contacting him a thousand times,” a wag named Pokey Stiles drawled. “Seems he ain’t takin’ our calls.”
After their meeting, while the farmers jawboned a little more outside the feed store, Cy squatted and scooped up a handful of the powder that covered everything in sight. He let it sift through his perpetually dirty fingers as he thought of his father’s words. Finally, Truth appeared, right there in his palm.
The stretches of prairie his ma described so wistfully, the waving buffalo grass and rustling bluestem and nodding flowers, had lain belly-up for years. This dust was its ghost, relentless and punishing.
“’Spect you got every right to dog us,” he whispered.

So what form does the haint of a ruined life take? Maybe this form, blotchy-ink and smeared-pencil scrawls on mismatched pieces of paper. But they’re better than nothing. They’re better than the hole in my soul, and better than oblivion.  
Maybe.

Time to Start a New Book (with excerpt)

Next I'm going to tackle a contemporary story that's been bouncing around in my brain for months. Its tentative title is Resurrection Man. It will be about an 18-year-old guy who's lost his first love to gun violence and, in honor of his boyfriend's memory, feels obligated to look after the deceased youth's now-homeless father/adoptive father/father figure, an aging black man who calls himself Dismus and shuns shelters. 
I obviously haven't worked out all the details yet, but (never fear!) the young MC and his elderly companion will NOT be a romantic couple. In fact, I haven't even decided if this will be a standard romance with a standard HEA or HFN ending. I first have to turn the characters loose on the page and get a better feel for them -- see how they think, act, react. Then the path of the story will fall into place.
I won't reveal the options I have in mind for drama and conflict. ;-)  


Prologue
“Dust is soil with the life sucked out of it.”
My great-grandpa Cyrus, born in southwestern Kansas in 1921, spent the early years of his life discovering this truth. He whittled away at the huge, shapeless horror that was the High Plains in the 1930s until he got down to something he could recognize, something that made sense to him. When he was in the middle of his growing-up years, Cy didn’t see anything as pure as what he thought Truth should be. He only saw mountainous dark goblins of grit fill the sky, over and over again. They lumbered in from whatever direction the wind determined, bearing down on homesteads  and wheat fields, shedding scales of thick misery.
One typically parched afternoon beneath a typically brown-veiled sky, the local men gathered in town to consider hiring a rainmaker. Cy was at the meeting with his pa, although he wasn’t old enough to have too many opinions about too much of anything or to open his mouth and expect anyone to listen. By then they were three years into the invasion. The goblins kept coming with dismal regularity, kept dropping their deadly freight. A roller had just passed through a few days earlier. Each building looked gray and beaten. Even cavorting tumbleweeds were scarce. Farmers had been hoarding them to feed their withered cattle. And even to feed their families, when worse got to worst.  
But trying to bust water out of the sky with dynamite? Cy’s pa was dead-set against making so risky an investment. The Depression had settled in along with the dust. Money was tight. Besides, “The drouth ain’t the real problem,” he said to his neighbors. “We kilt the land. Dust is soil with the life sucked out of it. Dust is the earth’s haint.”
Bonanza Bill Lawton spoke up. “So what we s’posed to do? Persuade Jesus Christ to breathe life back into it?”
“We’ve all tried contacting him a thousand times,” a wag named Pokey Stiles drawled. “Seems he ain’t takin’ our calls.”
After their meeting, while the farmers jawboned a little more outside the feed store, Cy squatted and scooped up a handful of the powder that covered everything in sight. He let it sift through his perpetually dirty fingers as he thought of his father’s words. Finally, Truth appeared, right there in his palm.
The stretches of prairie his ma described so wistfully, the waving buffalo grass and rustling bluestem and nodding flowers, had lain belly-up for years. This dust was its ghost, relentless and punishing.
“’Spect you got every right to dog us,” he whispered.

So what form does the haint of a ruined life take? Maybe this form, blotchy-ink and smeared-pencil scrawls on mismatched pieces of paper. But they’re better than nothing. They’re better than the hole in my chest, and better than oblivion.  
Maybe.

Wow.

Winners will be announced in March.

Juicing Emma Bovary

Yesterday evening JLA and I started juicing apples from our trees. Aside from being a freaking mess, the process went fairly well. Just as I sat down to drink the first glass -- all muddy brown and gloppy but sweet -- JLA got a call from his BiL, who's in the medical profession.

"You know apple seeds are poisonous, right?" he said, 'cause we'd been cavalierly chopping up those babies without coring them and throwing the chunks in the hopper.

So, after spitting a mouthful of juice back into the glass (uncouth, I know, but hey...), I hustled my ass to the computer to do a little belated research. Sure enough, the seeds contain cyanide.

I started having visions of Emma Bovary, writhing and foaming and groaning through her death throes. (Okay, she took arsenic, but ultimately does it matter?) Then I thought, I don't look as good as Emma; she was young and pretty and had a helluva wardrobe, and I'm gonna check out in a brown-stained stained sweatshirt full of dog slobber with my hair tangled up in a plastic clip. That's not the proper look for a tragic heroine. What's more, I don't have a faithless lover to blame. All I have are some crappy reviews. Killing oneself over crappy reviews isn't only unromantic, it's a bit extreme, even for a neurotic writer. Then I thought further, Damn, I don't have health insurance, 'cause the Affordable Care Act websites, WHEN they're functioning, are incomprehensible.

All I could do was find an antidote right there in the house. Of course, I couldn't give the antidote issue much thought because time, and I, were a-wasting. Would medical marijuana work? Probably, but we don't have that in Wisconsin. Peanut butter? Hershey's Kisses? Progresso chicken soup?

Oh wait, I know!

BEER! (Yeah, we've got plenty of that in Wisconsin.)

The lesson of this story is twofold. If you must juice, then juice something
innocuous, like cucumbers or oatmeal. And if you ever accidentally poison yourself, crack open a six-pack.

Machine

Is finished (51,200 words as it stands). I sent it off today.

This final story in my fantasy-steampunk trilogy centers on Fanule Perfidor, the central character in Mongrel. He must confront unsettling truths about himself. They have to do with his illness (bipolar disease), strengths, weaknesses, and, most significantly, an aspect of his past he's never come to terms with. In the process, he puts his relationship with Will Marchman, and Will himself, in jeopardy.

Simon Bentcross goes through a similar ordeal. Although his storyline is secondary in this book, it mirrors Fanule's in many ways.

Most of Machine takes place in Taintwell. However, the Marvelous Mechanical Circus makes a farewell appearance, as does its "Gutter" or Caravan Park. Fanule's ghostly healer friend, Lizabetta, plays a significant role. More of her past, too, comes to light.

Throughout, things are not always what they seem. Villainy comes in unexpected forms; redemption, in unexpected ways. In the end, Lizabetta tells Fanule, "You know, dear Fan, you've not only earned your title, you've infused it with meaning. 'Eminence of Taintwell' no longer sounds pompous and silly. It sounds majestic. And it suits you." What's much more important to Fan, though, is being the finest man, and partner, he can be.

Here's an unedited excerpt.

The plaza was all but deserted by mid-afternoon. Sellers and speech-makers had begun trickling away just after lunch, when the throng of browsers thinned. Some visitors sought further entertainment within the Marvelous Mechanical Circus; others, their appetite for novelty sated, went elsewhere.The affable inebriant Ernest Muggins simply got up, walked away from his table, and never returned. All he’d taken with him was his tin.
Will had just finished closing and locking his cart when a shadow fell over him, chilling the air. He looked up. Instantly, his breath caught.
The owner of the Spiritorium loomed beside him. As if that sight weren’t unnerving enough, the man fixed him with intense violet eyes. “You exude the scent of Quam Khar,” he said without introduction or preface. “It’s faint but still detectable. Yet, you’re not Quam Khar. You haven’t the depth or complexity. You haven’t the dark corners where broken wings beat.”
What on earth was he talking about? Dumbfounded, Will stared. He tried to assume a neutral expression, but he’d always failed miserably at concealing his reactions. “I… no, I’m not Quam Khar.” Surely, Will thought, he looked far too ordinary to have such an unusual name.
The man didn’t answer, didn’t move. “Who’s your wife?” He stated the question quite unabashedly, as if he had every right to ask it.
“N-no one. I’ve never been married. I’m a bachelor.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. Will’s insides shriveled. Coldly slicing into him, layer by layer, that surgical gaze seemed to go on forever. “Not lawfully wed, eh? Then you’re a fornicator who preys on Out-dwellers. That’swhat you are. A user of the Blesséd Damned.” He took a step forward. “What’s her name?”
Will blinked as his befuddlement, and his discomfiture, deepened. “I beg your pardon?”
“The woman. What’s her name?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea to whom you’re referring.” Or what the hell you’re talking about! Trying to still his quaking hands, Will pulled up the handle of his cart. “Now I must take my leave of you, sir. I have other obligations.”
“No doubt.” The man inclined his head. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Master Marchman.”
Not if I can help it, Will thought as he hastily pushed his much-lighter cart toward the Circus’s employee entrance.
He couldn’t wait to get home.

My Ideal Drinking Buddy

Listopia needs more lists!

What do people love lists? I can only speak for myself. Lists serve as crutches for my memory. They prevent instances of "Oh, crap. I forgot to get those cheese-filled franks to supplement my fat and sodium intake! If only I'd made a shopping list!"

But what's with "best" lists? I don't understand them. Choosing a best anything has always been nigh impossible for me. Why? Because I haven't been exposed to every possible choice in any given category. "Greatest Books of the Twenty-first Century." How the fuck can I, or anybody else, choose? 1.)  The century is far from over. 2.) Even if the century were over, I wouldn't have lived through all of it. 3.) Even if the century were over and I did live through all of it, I guarantee I wouldn't have read every book published.

Maybe "best" lists are an extension of the CLAPMO (Crazily Love Always Pimping My Opinions) syndrome. That must be it. Because, like me, nobody who votes on these things has seen every cover or read every book in each of the categories -- which essentially makes every vote invalid.

Except the votes I get, 'cause I don't get many. ;-)

But, okay, we have to live with this system. So I think we can at least add some snappier Listopia lists to the 9,533 that already exist on Goodreads for gay fiction and m/m romance. Like:

Best Cover That Features an Enema Gone WrongBest Gay Stories That Could Conceivably, if Slightly Rewritten, Involve Humanoid Alpha Spiders w/ Silly GrinsBooks Guaranteed to Make You Barf if You Read Them While Eating Greek Yogurt or MarmiteBest "I Don't Give a Shit About Editing; I Just Wanted to Get It Out There" Self-published StoriesBooks That Should Be Made Into Movies -- But Only if I Can Make the Movies and Include All My Favorite Perversions Best My Little Pony SlashBest Dennis Rodman/Kim Jong Un SlashBest Andy Warhol Lookalike HeroesCovers That Make You Put a Finger to Your Chin and Go "Hmm, Why Does He Have Hair in That Spot?"Best Scratch 'n' Sniff Stories 
Books I Could Write Better, 'Cause the Authors Are NitwitsUgh. (Sorry, but I'm a Nitwit and Couldn't Come Up with a Better List Name.)Got any other ideas?