Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 117

Drunk Straight Otters

Okay-- so I ended up driving a couple of people from the golf course to their cabins over the weekend for copious drinking reasons. Mate was my copilot, but because he was the one getting "beard"  (get it? Beer in his mustache, so "beard") I was the one behind the wheel.

The second time was with his coworkers, "Park" and "Bob", who are very nice guys but also very straight guys, and the things that seem sort of common to anyone who reads this blog were not so familiar to them-- and the following conversation took place:

Me (I have night blindness, so I'm a very cautious driver where there's no streetlights): Okay, so as long as nothing jumps out at me, I'll be fine.

Mate: Don't worry, there are no bears in Tahoe.

Me (lasciviously): Well, I'm sure there's a few. 

Park (very earnestly): No-- there haven't been any bear spottings at all in Tahoe.

Me:  You just haven't been going to the right bars!

Park (remember, he's drunk): No, they'd scare them off before they got to bars.

Me: No bear is afraid of a bar!

At this point Park and Bob are getting very confused-- Mate clarifies:  She's talking about hairy gay men-- you've never heard that expression?

Park:  No. Really? Hairy gay men are called bears?  Am I a bear?

Me and Mate, together: No, you're definitely an otter.

Bob:  Am I a bear?

Me:  No, hon, you've got a little boy's face, you're pretty slim, you're an otter.

Bob: But I'm hairy.

Me: On your chest and back?

Bob: No-- oh God no!

Me: Besides, you're too small to be a bear.

Park: Yup, everyone needs a few more inches--where have I heard that before?

Bob: Yeah-- just two more inches-- I hear that all the time. 

Me: So you are an otter!

At this point is a horrified silence, and then Bob breaks into startled laughter:  "I still think I'm a bear!"

I think they were both adorable-- and very good sports.

I survived without wifi...

The altar was so pretty,
we had a friend take
a picture :-)In fact, I feel much refreshed.

We went to a friend's wedding this weekend and the following happened:

*  I sat in the corner and simultaneously read and crocheted an afghan while my husband and his friends golfed.  Sound lonely? Not on your life.  There was no wifi, and the blanket was for the people getting married, and for the first time in… in… in… FOREVER I had a book and my knitting.  I had quiet. I had peace. I had the mountains in the background.  Mate came in at the split and asked me if I was okay. I was so happy, I teared up.  "No computer," I rasped. "Do you know… do you even KNOW how stressed I was?"

*  While I was working on the blanket, Mate's friends also came in at the split. They ALL said hi or hugged me, and chatted a minute. You forget how much you love people until you see them after a while. You forget how grateful you can be for human company until you realize they love you back.

This was right after the golf
game and before the wedding.
Let's hear it for the sun coming
out.*  I finished the blanket.  The couple didn't want gifts.  In fact, all they really wanted was to throw a hell of a weekend party for all their friends.  There was golf on Friday morning, beer and appetizers at a bar on Friday night, a gorgeous wedding on Saturday, complete with apps, drinks, dinner, and dancing, and, this morning, brunch at an amazing place on the way out of town.  When I handed them the blanket during brunch, everybody who saw it had the lightbulb-- they were like, "Oh! You made this blanket this weekend!"  And I think it meant more to them-- they saw me working on it--it was part of the glorious weekend they'd planned for their friends.  It had happy party vibes.  They were also sort of impressed: "I saw you reading while you made this!"  Kip (the groom) did a mime of me multi-tasking-- and Mate said he was dead on. Cracked us both the hell up.

Mate is just drunk enough to
dance in this picture.*  The dancing went on long enough for Mate to get toasted and to dance. I made an amazing discovery, too-- took 28 years to do it.  Mate and I have always been awkward dancers, until Saturday night. Why?  Because I took my shoes off, and he didn't. Damn. Just made such a difference. It's like, "Fun fact! It's harder to dance when you're exactly the same height and twice the width of your partner."  Something had to give. My shoes were the big ticket item, and we danced.

Don't find THIS feature at the
Marquis on Times Square.  *  Our hotel was less than sophisticated--but it wasn't awful.  Clearly a family run operation, it was clean, well kept, and had an enormous television screen.  It also had writing in sharpie on top of the microwave, advising us to slam the microwave door hard to get it to start, a picture that was hanging by one screw when we walked in, and an envelope asking for tips on the bed stand--hand written.  Mate and I were gently amused by this room--Mate sort of adored it. "Nobody can put this place down--it's not crappy, and I love it."

And I love him.

*  We were given tiny triangular boxes with butterflies in them before the ceremony started. We rightly surmised that we were supposed to release the butterflies as part of the ceremony, but, well, there were a lot of birds.  Let's just say that when Game of Thrones was playing, there was a lot of hypothesizing about how releasing the butterflies was going to turn into The Red Wedding, Wild Kingdom style, with the butterflies starring as the Lanisters.  As it turned out, the moment when the butterflies went was actually really lovely-- the birds left them alone, and the rest of the day was filled with butterflies.  Some flew around the ceremony, one lit upon the bridal bouquet, one perched above the happy couple as they stood at the altar, and mine hung out on my finger for a few moments.  Even later, during dinner, as the sun set, the occasional butterfly still wandered by-- we felt proprietary. We helped make that moment of beauty happen, and since the butterflies were a wish and a prayer, not just for the happy couple, but for the groom's mother (who was a truly lovely, warm, memorable woman) to share in the wedding although she'd been called away too soon, well, that was especially poignant.  I guess maybe it was good karma and love that kept the birds away.

Either that, or butterflies ain't good eatin'-- but we'll pretend it was good karma and love.

*  Dinner and dancing was filled with good friends, happy to see each other.  I got to thank the guy who talked a mildly drunk Mate into accompanying me to New York-- that alone was worth going up to Tahoe.

Brunch with this view is
never a bad idea.*  And today, after brunch, we came home. We missed our kids. We took them to see Shaun the Sheep (which was adorable) and we took them to dinner and there was hugging and chatting and family together…

Now,  I know tomorrow is going to be back to work again. I've already started my list of impossible things to accomplish.  I'm already stressing about the kids going back to school on Thursday.  Soccer has started, I'm late on five deadlines, and GRL is approaching at warp speed.

Last week I'd wander around the house, crying at odd times, just because I was so tired, and so stressed, and needed a break from all of it just so badly.

This weekend Mate and I had our break.

We may have the same amount of crap on our desks now that we're back, but I think maybe we can both do it without tears.

With apologies….

I've been having so much fun on the fanfic wagon that I was going to keep on rolling with some StOny (Captain America/Iron Man) because someone posted another meme and, well, squirrel.  But I'm going to have to save that for another day, because I have a wedding to go to in Tahoe, and I leave in 5 1/2 hours.

So I thought I'd mention the thing--

There is a thing that happens in my head when I have time to prepare for a trip. I plan a few outfits, I consult temperatures in the place I'm going, I count days, I calculate how much underwear I'll need, and then I add a few things, throw it in my bag and go.

Then there is ANOTHER thing that happens when I got back from another place not much more than a week ago, where I take half the stuff I brought to that last place, hope it's clean, fold it nicely, throw in some other stuff out of panic, add more shit that maybe matches, throw a coat over it cause: cold, and then zip up the suitcase and hope for the best.

Yeah. Guess which of these two things I just did?

God, I hope I don't look like ass at this wedding.

Oh!

And I'm finishing a blanket on the way up, so I can't sleep.  I'll save my sleeping for the golf game, because that's why we're leaving so early. So my husband can play golf.

The guy has earned a LOT of forgiveness points with New York--that's all I'm saying.

No worries. I plan to sleep in the car while he's playing. Just as soon as I finish the damned blanket.

so, yeah. Fanfic next week.  This weekend, there's a wedding and some really awesome people to visit. I'll try to be more coherent in person than I have been on the blog.

Oh yeah-- Bon Voyage, Captain Stewart.  My bullshit detector has always been pretty on point--but I do have to thank you for keeping it calibrated and running smoothly for the last 16 1/2 years.  Oh yeah-- and thanks for the Bruce. I was perfectly fine during tonights broadcast until he launched into Land of Hope and Dreams.

Ciou!

Or, Alternatively...

So, yesterday's post was Super-Bat…

But, yanno… I've always loved the Batman/Robin dynamic… in fact, that's why I wrote Under the Rushes AND The Bitter Moon Saga.  

So, if we're going for fanfic on that post of Batman writing the graffiti, let's do a little bit of that.  (Robin, to me, is a very consensual twenty-something.  No boy-wonder ickiness, trust me.)  I'll be honest, the last few days have been a lot of me being tired and bitchy and out of it--and crying about a trip to Tahoe that I want to take but am not ready for while I work urgently to catch up with shit that got left in the dust this summer AND make up to the kids.

So, yeah. Personal stuff is exhausting-- let's write some fanfic!

*  *  *

"Nice, Bruce," Robin said caustically, squealing his back tire in an effort to get out of that back alley.

"What did I do now?" Batman's voice rang in his head, using his helmet intercom. They were on patrol, different quadrants of the same shitty area.  Robin didn't know when, and he didn't know how, but he knew that Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight himself, had to be responsible for that little bit of pettiness he'd just seen on the side of a brick wall.

"What do you mean, 'now'?"  Bruce had sounded out of sorts, even for Bruce--but that "now" had been important.  "What did you do before?"

The crackle over the intercom was not promising, and Richie Grayson listened hard to see if he could hear the irreverent roar that was the Bat-cycle.

"You blamed me for him leaving," Bruce said after about four blocks of patrol had passed--probably for both of them.

Richie swallowed a quick retort, and thought about what that meant.  "You were an asshole to him," he said, laughing. "But you weren't the reason he left."

"You thought I was," Bruce insisted.  "But I swear, Robin, I never wanted Cal-El to leave Gotham. I begged him to stay."

But… but… "But why would you do that?" Riche asked.  He saw a thug in an alleyway, backing a girl against the wall.  Oh fucking hell.  Without hardly slowing down he spun the bike into the alley, locking the front wheel and spinning a donut that whacked the thug to the back of the alley with the rear tire.  The girl screamed and ran, which meant she was smart, and Robin hung out for a few glaring at the asshole who'd been ready to harm her.  The asshole stayed down, still breathing but obviously out cold, and Robin decided to leave him. He wasn't hurting anybody now was he?

"Why would I beg Cal-El to stay?" Bruce said, as Robin peeled out of the alley and back on patrol.  He'd had his own silence--he must have been dealing with his own scumbags.

"Yeah. I mean--you know. He was sort of into me. I'm not dumb, I know that."

"Well, yeah," Bruce said. For a moment, Richie thought that would be all, and he cursed the bastard's reticence, and that iron-fucking-lock on his own emotions.

"Yeah?"

 "You shouldn't be stuck here with an obsessed old man and all his fucking demons," Batman snarled at last.

Oh. Oh hell. The graffiti was making so much sense now--even the pettiness of it, the shitty location, all of which made sure it would never be seen.

"Superman sent him away," Robin said after a moment, heart hurting for the grim, brooding, snarling Cal-El who had only wanted some kindness, any kindness, from his "father".

"Clark likes you," Batman said with a sigh. "He didn't want you getting hurt."

Great. Everybody's looking out for Robin, nobody gives a shit about Batman. It did give him wiggle room on the asshole front, that was for sure.

"I'm calling it a night," Robin said after a moment. "Meet me back in the surgery."

"Are you hurt?"  All concern.

"Not physically," Robin snapped back. "And not me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Jesus, Bruce, just call it a fucking night! Nobody's out, and we've got some shit to clear up."

The intercom crackled off, and Robin wondered if he'd be back by dawn or not.  It didn't matter. Robin would be there, in the "surgery", which had, among actually medical necessities, a nice, comfy, well-used bed that didn't make much noise and didn't echo in the Bat Cave.

Batman knew that bed. Robin knew that bed. They'd been in that bed together.

Cal-El had never had cause to use that bed.

It was time that Bruce knew, once and for all, where his loyalties would lay.

He got in about an hour after Robin--torn up, because Bruce couldn't seem to ride a patrol without losing blood and skin.

Robin was waiting--wearing nothing but a towel after his shower.

Bruce walked to the medicine cabinet after he'd stripped off his armor, and started hunting up stitching supplies.  Robin hopped off the bed and sighed.

"Let me," he directed, and Bruce shook his head.

"I didn't want him to leave," he mumbled before sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Me neither," Robin said, approaching with the antiseptic and the needle and thread on a little tray.  "But not because I want to leave you."

Bruce looked at him through eyes bleary with exhaustion and sadness.  "No?"

"No."  He set down the tray and started cleaning the wound.  "I mean, I may have to some day--I won't lie. You're an autocratic fuckhead, Bruce. You just confessed to asking the guy to stay so I could cheat on you-- that's some sick shit."  His motions were gentle, when his wounds were not.  "But that's not going to change how I feel."

"Like I'm an autocratic fuckhead that needs to stay the hell out of your life?" Bruce asked, his voice leaden with self-loathing.

Robin bent and kissed his temple, wanting the wound dressed so they could tumble in the bed together. He wanted the comfort, the heavy muscles, the relentless sexuality that Bruce only released when they were naked in the same space.  "Like I love you, you stupid autocratic fuckhead," he whispered in Bruce's ear.  That big predator's body went completely still, and he stroked the side of Bruce's neck, as though to gentle a jungle cat. "And I love what we do together. And I want to keep doing it until it blows us apart."

Bruce let out a groan, and Robin straightened up and, satisfied that the antiseptic/anesthetic had time to seep in, he began to stitch the wound.  Bruce didn't say anything, just regarded him from those burning dark eyes, tracking his every facial expression as he worked.

The tension built in the room, with every breath, with every stitch, with every heartbeat.

Robin wondered, his mind growing fuzzier as his chore got closer to done, if they were going to have to replace the bed this time.

It would be totally worth it if they did.

A wee bit of Super-Bat fanfic...

Inspired by a meme someone posted on FB:

Superman saw the graffiti and sighed. Really? How many of these damned buildings had he crapped up?  Okay, a little laser vision, some cooling breath to keep the building from melting, and on to the next one.

Five.

Five buildings where he'd tried to expose Superman's secret identity.  Well, not that it really would have worked. People were so blind sometimes. On the off chance Lois or anyone from the office had actually seen the graffiti, they would have wondered who Clark Kent had pissed off--which story had he written that had made someone mad enough to have him killed? Clark was a busy guy--he'd written a lot of stories, the graffiti guy could have been anyone.

But it wasn't.

That afternoon, Superman flew under the falls and into the Bat Cave, appreciating the cool, humid air and the smell of earth around him.  Okay, up, into the house--Alfred pretended not to notice the blue and red blur--and into his bedroom.  He was just waking up, the sheet falling off his bare chest and exposing the bruises, the cuts and slashes--some of which were bandaged and seeping--and the abrasions on his his chest from his heroics the night before.

His heavy muscles elongated, clenched, bunching together as Bruce worked each muscle group in his morning stretch.  When he'd sat up completely and opened his eyes, he looked annoyed to find Superman there, sitting on the chair next to his bed like any other human being.

"Look who wanted to come to bed," he snapped.

Clark grimaced. "Pain doesn't bring out your grown up side, does it?"

"If you wanted grown up maybe you should have f--"

Oh God.  Clark blushed and held out his hand, wishing he was a bigger boy than this, but seriously. The F-word-- he just couldn't do it.  Bruce Wayne could--he could swear like a frickin' sailor, but Clark had just never learned the knack.

"You needed medical attention," Clark said, feeling sententious, but dammit? He did. The man wasn't… well, Clark. His body armor only stood so much!

"I needed a good lay," Bruce snapped. "But maybe next time, I should take one of those vapid debutantes up on her offer, because God knows--"

Clark wasn't aware of moving, but suddenly he was stretched, full length, over Bruce, hovering two feet off the covers, forehead to forehead with the maddening ass-- uh, a-hole who had made his life nothing but a misery and a wonder since they'd first clashed.

"You take one of those girls to bed, and I'll cook your real name into the side of the Daily Fucking Planet," he growled.

Mindless of his injuries, Bruce Wayne sat back in bed and locked his hands behind his head.  "I get hurt all the time," he said with a glare.  "If you ever want this thing between us to work, you'd better stop treating me like I'm made of glass."

Clark let out a long slow breath through his nose.  Carefully, he extended one finger and stroked it down the side of Bruce's neck and across his naked clavicle.  Bruce flexed his chest and shuddered. Just as gently, Clark moved his finger through the mine field of flesh wounds until he managed to circle Bruce's bare, pebbling nipple.

Bruce Wayne sucked in a tortured breath.

"There are advantages," Clark said, as though instructing his lover, "to going very slow."

Bruce groaned and buried his hands in Clark's hair, and Clark allowed his body to settle delicately over Bruce's.  He regretted that he hadn't taken off his uniform. As he settled in, he could feel that Bruce was very naked under the comforter.

"Show me," Bruce rasped. "We have work to do tonight."

"Later."  Clark settled his mouth over Bruce's, liking how hard he was, how much he pushed back.  The kiss deepened, but Clark was still careful to check his strength.  Bruce Wayne was strong through training, through exertion, through will.  But Clark had seen his heart broken again and again and again as they'd fought together, and he was Superman, after all.  He was damned if Bruce would get hurt one more time on his watch.

*Kermit Flail* August!

*phew*
So, if you've been following along, you know it's been sort of a MONTH. Hell-- it's been THREE of them.  And boy-oh-boy am I glad to be back home doing my actual job again!  WHEEEEEEE!!!
But in the meantime, awesome folks are putting out awesome books, and lucky me I get a piece of that action--I'm so blessed!  I put out a last minute call for Kermit Flail this weekend, and suddenly all sorts of amazing people sent me PHENOMENAL stuff.  And I'm so excited to be able to celebrate other people's work.  We have some fun things this month-- a hedgehog shifter (prickly!) from Kenzie Cade and Piper Vaughn, a character study from the ever nuanced, textured writing of Kim Fielding, some angst from Ms. Nic Star, a bit of music from Annabeth Albert, and my fave, a new book from debut M/M author Rayna Vause, and it's got demons in it, and it looks marvelous. 
So great stuff!  Oh-- yeah.  
And a couple from yours truly, because… *whew*  Did I mention it's been sort of a month?  One of them is part 2 of Wounded--and that's exciting because this series is getting new fans.  I'm so very grateful for the M/M blogs who have reviewed my Little Goddess-- Joyfully Jay, Love Bytes-- you guys get some special love from me, as does anyone else who has sort of crossed over into the land of girl parts and strange sexual magical afflictions.  Thanks guys-- it means TONS, and I'm grateful.   
So anyway-- here we go with our monthly *Kermit Flail*, let's give it up for the new releases of the month, YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!!!!!!!


Prickly Business
by Piper Vaughn and Kenzie Cade

Some people might call Avery Babineaux a prick. He’s a hedgehog shifter from an old-money Louisiana family with a penchant for expensive shoes and a reputation for being a judgmental snob. His attitude is why he and his fated mate are estranged. Not that Avery cares. He doesn’t want to be mated to some blue-collar werewolf anyway. Or so he keeps telling himself.
No werewolf likes to be looked down upon, least of all Dylan Green. He doesn’t need a mate, especially not some snotty hedgehog who sneers at his custom motorcycle shop and calls him a grease monkey. But when Avery gets into trouble with a shady loan shark, Dylan can’t stand by and let him be hurt—whether he wants the brat or not.
Yet once Dylan steps into Avery’s world, he realizes there’s more to Avery than his prickly exterior, and that unexpected vulnerability calls to Dylan’s protective instincts. The sassy little hedgehog needs a keeper, and despite their horrible first impressions, Dylan starts to believe he might be the wolf for the job.

DSP Amazon ARe 
Andrew's Promise

by Nic Starr

Young mechanic Andrew Campbell’s life couldn’t be better. He is about to restore a Ford Mustang with his dad before heading off on the ultimate cross-country road trip with his best friend, Tanner McKenzie.
But tragedy strikes, and Andrew’s life is shattered. Worried his family will be torn apart if he doesn’t step in, Andrew makes a tough choice between following his heart and doing what he needs to do to protect his little brother.
When Andrew pushes Tanner away, Tanner heads off on the planned trip alone. Once Tanner leaves town, his life takes a different path and it’s ten years before he returns. Now a firefighter, he’s never forgotten his first love, and no one has ever taken Andrew’s place in his heart. He’s determined to see if Andrew feels the same way. He just hopes Andrew’s excited to see him, hopes that he’s available—and finally out—after all this time.
They might not have been ready to deal with emerging feelings years ago, but now might be the time for their second chance at love. 

Dreamspinner Press 

Amazon US 

All Romance eBooks

Rattlesnake
by Kim Fielding
A drifter since his teens, Jimmy Dorsett has no home and no hope. What he does have is a duffel bag, a lot of stories, and a junker car. Then one cold desert night he picks up a hitchhiker and ends up with something more: a letter from a dying man to the son he hasn’t seen in years.On a quest to deliver the letter, Jimmy travels to Rattlesnake, a small town nestled in the foothills of the California Sierras. The centerpiece of the town is the Rattlesnake Inn, where the bartender is handsome former cowboy Shane Little. Sparks fly, and when Jimmy’s car gives up the ghost, Shane gets him a job as handyman at the inn.

Both within the community of Rattlesnake and in Shane’s arms, Jimmy finds an unaccustomed peace. But it can’t be a lasting thing. The open road continues to call, and surely Shane—a strong, proud man with a painful past and a difficult present—deserves better than a lying vagabond who can’t stay put for long.
Dreamspinner Press

Treble Maker

by Annabeth Albert

On Perfect Harmony, the ambitious competitors heat things up on stage and off…

Cody Rivers is determined to be a rock star, but couch-surfing between bar shows gets old fast. Joining an a cappella group for a new singing competition show could be his last chance at real fame—unless the college boy from the heart of the country messes it up for him. Lucas Norwood is everything gothy, glittery Cody is not—conservative, clean-cut, and virginal. But when a twist in the show forces them together, even the sweetest songs get steamy as the attraction between them lights up the stage. Lucas wants to take it slow, but Cody’s singing a different tune—and this time it may be a love song…
AmazonBarnes & Noble



Demon of Mine

by Rayna Vause Climbing the corporate ladder can be hell….
As a collections demon, Zavier grants his “clients” one wish in exchange for their souls. His job sucks, but once you make a deal with Corporate South, they own you. The trouble is, Zavier’s not a very good collections demon, with his tendencies to spurn authority and find loopholes to help deserving clients out of their contracts. He’s under scrutiny from the head of his department, who would quite literally like to see him burn. He just needs to close a simple deal to get upper management off his back. Instead, he meets Ryan.
Ryan is desperately searching for a way to save his dying sister. He doesn’t believe in magic and demons, but he’s out of options. Zavier’s not what he expects in a demon, and even more unexpected is the strong sense of familiarity—very intimate familiarity.
While trying to free Ryan from his contract, Zavier discovers secrets unscrupulous even by South standards. Exposing them could cost Zavier everything, but it might be Ryan’s only hope.
Dreamspinner Press  


Bitter Taffy
by Amy Lane
Rico Gonzalves-Macias didn't expect to fall in love during his internship in New York—and he didn’t expect the boss’s son to out them both and get him fired either. When he returns to Sacramento stunned and heartbroken, he finds his cousin, Adam, and Adam's boyfriend, Finn, haven't just been house-sitting—they've made his once sterile apartment into a home.

When Adam gets him a job interview with the adorable, magnetic, practically perfect Derek Huston, Rico feels especially out of his depth. Derek makes it no secret that he wants Rico, but Rico is just starting to figure out that he’s a beginner at the really important stuff and doesn’t want to jump into anything with both feet.

Derek is a both-feet kind of guy. But he’s also made mistakes of his own and doesn’t want to pressure Rico into anything. Together they work to find a compromise between instant attraction and long-lasting love, and while they’re working, Rico gets a primer in why family isn’t always a bad idea. He needs to believe Derek can be his family before Derek’s formidable patience runs out—because even a practically perfect boyfriend is capable of being hurt.
Dreamspinner PressAmazonARe


Wounded, Volume 2by Amy Lane 2nd Edition (This is the SECOND volume of the SECOND book of the Little Goddess.  This book was split up to accommodate length and price point, and has been released as one volume previously.)
Green and Bracken’s beloved survived their enemy's worst—with help from unexpected vampiric help.
But survival is a long way from recovery, and even further from safety. Green’s people want badly to return to the Sierra Foothills, but they’re not going with their tails between their legs. Before they go home, they have to make sure they’re free from attack—and that they administer a healthy dose of revenge as well.
As Cory negotiates a fragile peace between her new and unexpected lovers, Green negotiates the unexpected power that comes from being a beloved leader of the paranormal population. Together, they might heal their own wounds and lead their people to an unprecedented place at the top of the supernatural food chain—a place that will allow them to return home a better, stronger whole.
1st Edition published as Wounded: The Second Novel of the Little Goddess by iUniverse, 2006.AmazonDSP Publications

A Romance Reader's Approach to Genre Fiction

This is entirely tongue in cheek. It will probably offend someone (although that is not the intention.) It simply goes back to what I was saying a couple of days ago about the fact that there is romance in pretty much every sub genre, whether we want to admit it or not. And how I know that as a romance reader and writer, I know what I'm reading for when I read ;-)


Romance: When did they meet and when will they kiss?

Romantic Suspense: Are they kissing the right person and when will they kiss the right person and is the wrong person gonna hurt them?

Political Thriller: Who was kissing the wrong person when they were supposed to be running the world?

Fantasy: Did they put down their swords and their magic lightning bolts to kiss?  (Also, see Political Thriller.)

Sci-Fi: How do aliens kiss in space? (Also, see Political Thriller.)

Historical Fiction: Which king was kissing the wrong mistress when it all went horribly wrong? (Also, see Political Thriller.)

Literary Fiction: How did the kissing go all the fuck wrong? (Do NOT see Political Thriller.)

Westerns: Did they at least wash after they got off the horse and before they kissed?

Religious: Who does God say you should kiss now?

Urban Fantasy: Will somebody spout magic fire, fur, or fangs while the kissing occurs?

Crime Fiction: Will the good guys kiss before the bad guys kill them?

Porn: Are they going to kiss while they're fucking or are we going to be left hanging?

Young Adult: How much angsting, introspection, potential drug use, incurable disease, and parental reconciliation will occur before they kiss?

True Crime: The world would have been better off if these assholes had just kissed someone! (Consensually, of course! And with therapy thrown in there too, for good measure. And with way less guns.)

Yaoi/Manga: How many nosebleeds can we get before we kiss?

So, uhm, that was weird.

Yeah, you may have noticed, I had a tantrum yesterday and the whole world tuned in to watch.

I'm not ashamed of the tantrum per se-- sort of wishing it was better edited, and that I'd invited some beta readers into my venting quite honestly-- but I stand by what I said yesterday: Dismissing romance literature is a convenient way of dismissing women's literature, and, in fact, dismissing all of the ways in which women interact with the world. We're not equals until things that are feminine are not equated with things that are weak, stupid, or inconsequential. The fact that the fine writing in romance literature has been written off by people who enjoy sticking cattle prods up their asses just to feel the clench is a way of making romance readers and writers feel small.  We owe it to ourselves not to put up with that shit-- no matter what the romance sub genre-- because that's dismissing the values and priorities of over half the human race.

It is, in fact, a rather subversive way of allowing the ancient puckered white men to rule us with derision as well as with their draconian misogynistic politics.  If we buy into the idea that romance is bad because it's a woman's priority, we also buy into the idea that women's minds are weaker because they can't write decent literature, and thus they can't make their own decisions, and hey, hello, attacks on Planned Parenthood and women's health are already acrid in the political climate.

Misogyny is in a casual sneer, in the desire to make women hide the things they love, secreting them under dust covers like a dead canary in a tin box.

So, uh, no. Not ashamed of my tantrum--but sort of exhausted like a hiccupy baby and ready to get back to writing.

I'd like to thank you all-- everybody-- who responded in a positive way. I mean, romance writers and readers are incredibly strong people, and I'm not surprised, but your support and kudos were overwhelming.

Thank you.

Wear your covers proudly, folks-- the literature you love is worthy.

And now, back to a SMOKIN' sex scene between two guys who can barely figure out which tab goes into which slot. I love them so.

Romance and Misogyny--Why We Let Ourselves be Shamed

Men read my books.

You heard me. MEN READ MY BOOKS.

"Yes," you might say, "but, you know…"  *whispers*  "they're gay men."

So?  They are men. Some of them are ex-law enforcement, some of them are teachers. Some of them are accountants--but they are men. They enjoy seeing people they can identify with in my stories, and they read them without shame.  To say that gay men reading my books is different than straight men reading my books is to imply that gay men aren't real men and gay people aren't real people, and I think we just fought a bloody civil rights battle to prove that this just ain't fuckin' so.

So, real men read my books.

My books are romance.  Not porn. Not erotica. Romance.

I've written entire articles on why my books aren't porn-- I take exception to that, and not because I frown on porn, (own lots!) but because romance serves an entire other function, and we'll get to that in a moment.  Let's just be clear-- my books are romance, and men read them, and so do women. 

Women are probably 70% of my audience.

They also enjoy seeing people they can identify with in my stories. When Deep of the Sound was released, I got letters from mothers who had to deal with their mentally disabled children, and daughters who watched their parents suffer through Alzheimer's.  I've gotten letters from people who embraced Naef and his deep woundings about his appearance and letters from people who watched Mackey rise from a shitty apartment building and triumphed in ways that they felt all too deeply.

My books are romance books and women and men enjoy them.

I don't write smut, I write character driven stories which also have (often complex)  plots in which the romantic elements are the strongest part of the narrative.  

In some ways I'm lucky.

Maybe it's because I have two men on the cover and men read my books, but I don't have to put up with any of the crap that the M/F romance writers put up with.  Yeah, sure, I lost my job because my DO was made up of homophobic assholes who were so afraid of the gay that they couldn't actually bother to read what they tried to prosecute me for, but, by golly, they took that gay shit seriously, didn't they?

See, when I was just writing "trashy vampire romance" and there was a girl doing most of the narration, that wasn't serious-- that was just, you know, housewife porn. I mean, even I used that term, before I gained a backbone and some self-esteem and started sticking up for the people who read my fiction by sticking up for myself.  But it was laughable, right? I mean the men in my department certainly got a laugh out of it--oh, yeah, I remember that, crystal fucking clear.

So yes-- I have to put up with homophobic bigoted fuckheads doing their homophobic bigoted fuckheaded dumbassery, the kind where they put both thumbs up their sphincters and pretend they don't like that shit, but I knew about that going in. You have to face those morons down or the world won't change, right?

But I had forgotten about the other bigoted fuckheads, the ones I used to put up with in the staff room, the ones who used to seriously make my life hell with their baseless hatred.  I mean, I remember sobbing once, uncontrollably, not able to catch my breath, because I couldn't figure out why they should hate me so badly for having an opinion. I had to leave that job before I realized that yes--it really was because I was female.  I'd managed to consign those bigoted fuckheads to that long ago staffroom, convince myself that they really did just exist right there, in my memories of feeling helpless and angry and sick, right up until the NPR thing happened.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am thrilled to be on that list. I mean, it almost made up for not getting the RITA, because, I mean… *flails*  Have you SEEN that list?

Look at those names?  Look at them!

Those are some awesome kickass writers there, and some awesome kickass women.

And then, down in the comments, there is some awesome, terrifying ignorance about who writes romance and who reads romance, and I have to tell you, I get that same helpless sick rage reading those comments that I felt walking into my staff room when my department head was doing a satiric reading of Wounded in front of twenty people, while the teacher's wife who brought the book sat, tearful and embarrassed, and begging me to forgive her for even bringing the book to show me that she'd read it.

Yes, those men think romance is ridiculous. They think it's sad, for fat housewives, and that if they had intelligence at all these women would read real literature, and wasn't it just like a woman to think books like this were important enough to make a list about when really, we all know why women read romance, it's so they can get off, and Jesus, why should a woman be proud of that.

Immature, emotionally stunted, limp-dicked fuckers.

And also terribly undereducated about the nature of romance.

I mean, hello-- taught English Lit here. Remember? King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table? Gawain and the Green Knight? Pride and Prejudice, Romeo and Juliet, The Importance of Being Ernest, The Scarlet Letter, The Tempest, The Great Gatsby, Farewell to Arms and holy shit do I really need to go on?

Yes, those books are considered romances.  Well, sometimes they weren't successful romances, but still-- they were genre fiction when they were written.  When Eleanor of Aquitane brought that shit over from France, it was a big furry deal, right? Suddenly Kings weren't just interested in being kings, they also had friends and lovers and flaws and goals and such, right?  I've said multiple times that the thing that differentiated romantic literature from epic literature was the addition of a personal agenda to the hero's repertoire. He went from being "A Hero" with no other personality to "A Hero" and "A Husband" and "A Friend", etc.  As our society got more complex, the romantic hero got more complex, and as our genres got more specialized, well, we started to phase that sad ending right the hell out, but let's not fool ourselves.  Any of those stories in which someone with social heft tried to have a personal life while wielding said heft is a romance.

The genre today has a few more rules to it-- a happy ever after being one--but that doesn't change the fact that a hero and a heroine trying to live an important life and forge a relationship in a chaotic rule is the heart of the story.  And it's a really fucking important heart!  If we're not reading romance, what are we reading? Murder mystery?  Okay then-- who are our victims?  ARen't they people trying to live that core of happiness that you find in a romance novel?  Are we reading fantasy?  Well, without the sexual element, a whole lot of fantasy revolves around the happiness of the people in power, and yes, my friends, that's romance. Are we reading epic science fiction?  Oh, yes, well, then we are reading on a scope too large to give a shit about the tiny little people copulating in the middle of that planet about to be destroyed, except, hey! Wait a minute! Aren't those people the core of the tragedy, even times a billion?  Are we reading political intrigue, upon which the fate of millions of people depends on the love and political maneuverings of fallible human beings?

Are we reading "literary fiction" in which sex and romance play an important part, but hey, we fuck up the ending so we don't have to get grouped into the hated "romance genre"?  And seriously, who are we kidding when we do that? I've written several books with a less than ideal ending, and I'll fight to the death for the right to call those books romance.  Just because the person dies at the end doesn't mean that his romantic adventures, his personal growth, his impact upon the people he loved has no meaning. In fact, a meaningful emotional life is the hallmark of romance. Romance says, "Yes, love is important! Whether it's one love of a million lovers, the love of kings or the love of the peasants that the kings destroy, these emotional dramas matter.  OUR EMOTIONAL DRAMAS MATTER!"

But nobody says that.

Women apologize for reading it.  "Heh heh… just a guilty pleasure.  Uh-huh. You know. Escapism, that's all."

They hide the covers. "You know, so embarrassing, to have human beings looking beautiful and occupied doing something sexual and healthy and hopefully happy. I mean, if there was blood or missing limbs that would be one thing, but no, can't celebrate happy couples in public, that implies I'm weak in the head."

Men sneer at it.  "Housewife porn, heh heh heh, let the little women read it, gets 'em all revved up for us, right?"

Romance is 20% of the publishing industry-- more if you count things like, hey, romantic fantasy and romantic suspense and detective fiction with a romantic subplot.  It is written primarily by women, and the companies that publish it are run primarily by women.  Not entirely-- there are real men out there who are not ashamed, but yes. There are smart, business savvy women out there who love this genre and make a living writing and editing and publishing and promoting it.

We need to stand up for it.

Yeah, sure, I write gay romance, and gay men are my readers and I treasure the holy hell out of them--and they, in turn, stand up for the women who read this genre too.

But het romance was here first, and there are writers out there of poetry and power who celebrate the individual love story with all of the formidable talent and mastery of the language at their disposal.  I remember those sick, hurt, angry moments in my staff room, and wonder if my self-concept would be bigger, or better, if at any time I'd said, "Look, you ignorant bastards, I am writing in a genre that has its roots in every story we teach. Your mockery is no different than the kids' complaint that 'It's too hard to read! It doesn't pertain to me!'-- the fact is, the kids are reluctant to put their minds to anything more involved than comic books because language is not accessible, and you are reluctant to to wrap your teeny tiny pea brains around a world view that doesn't have a penis."

I mean, I remember trying to point that out.

I remember getting laughed down.

Well, my staff room was mostly men--and not all of them were admirable men, and I was one of the few women who hadn't gone running for the other high school just as soon as the spot opened up because I wanted to prove that I was tougher than they were.

I was only one voice in that room.

But I'm not only one voice in this. 20% of the publishing industry-- we have louder, stronger voices together than I did alone.  We need to stand up for one another. Romance writers--male and female-- are poets and visionaries who believe that the human heart is a thing of complexity and beauty.

The people who try to shame us about that need to look at their own hearts, and see why they would hate a thing that celebrates the individual with such passion.

Is it because it's mostly women doing the celebrating?

Hah! These people claim to be smart-- they claim to be intellectuals.

The truth here-- the plain truth-- is that they have never learned to read.

Bitter Taffy

First of all-- I'm back! Yay! Got McDonalds for the kids this morning and took the dogs-- huzzah!!!  Also, for those of you who know about the little gold-wrapped chocolate RITA statuettes, I have a confession to make. I stole some of the leftover ones at my table and fed them to my kids. Zoomboy was excited-- he got to eat the head. Squish got to eat the boobs and the book (her words!), and Chicken ate the pedestal. Big T was not sure what the big deal was about--by the time I got the point of "chocolate Oscar" across, the RITAs were history. Well, you know, you take too long to catch the irony train, you're going to miss the party at the station.

Anyway-- second of all-- I was going to wake up and celebrate Bitter Taffy first thing, but then I found out about THIS, and had to celebrate that FIRST. It's not everyday you make NPR's list of top 100 romances, and that's the truth!  *does happy dance*  I'm there with some amazing people-- and I'm helping to rep my genre, and I'm just so damned thrilled.

So there's that!

But now I can celebrate Bitter Taffy-- and YES there is some celebration!

Bitter Taffy is the sequel to Candy Man-- it's Rico's story, and yes, it is solid gold happy!

I haven't done my post on yellow yet-- but it's coming.

Most of you have figured out that yellow is my happy-- my playful, my fluff.

That doesn't mean I don't have some serious stuff here-- Rico got his heart broken, and his family situation isn't perfect, and he's making a new life for himself--but it means that, unlike my orange, you're never going to doubt, not really, that there's happy at the end of this rainbow.

And they're going to enjoy the happy slide down all the madness into the giant pool of fluffy joy at the bottom.

I mean yes-- I do like tackling the weighty stuff. You've seen it. But ye gods, do I love to laugh. I think mankind is a quirky, ridiculous, awesome, kind, amazing animal, and I love looking at that too.

So enjoy my happy yellow-- my Amy Lane Lite.  Enjoy Bitter Taffy, and the sequel, Lollipop.  Sometimes reading is meant to take us away-- I know I'm happy writing these, and I hope you're taken away to some happy when you read!

Bitter Taffy

Rico Gonzalves-Macias didn't expect to fall in love during his internship in New York—and he didn’t expect the boss’s son to out them both and get him fired either. When he returns to Sacramento stunned and heartbroken, he finds his cousin, Adam, and Adam's boyfriend, Finn, haven't just been house-sitting—they've made his once sterile apartment into a home.

When Adam gets him a job interview with the adorable, magnetic, practically perfect Derek Huston, Rico feels especially out of his depth. Derek makes it no secret that he wants Rico, but Rico is just starting to figure out that he’s a beginner at the really important stuff and doesn’t want to jump into anything with both feet. 

Derek is a both-feet kind of guy. But he’s also made mistakes of his own and doesn’t want to pressure Rico into anything. Together they work to find a compromise between instant attraction and long-lasting love, and while they’re working, Rico gets a primer in why family isn’t always a bad idea. He needs to believe Derek can be his family before Derek’s formidable patience runs out—because even a practically perfect boyfriend is capable of being hurt.

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