Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 138

But Tony Stark has MONEY… and he's Iron Man.

Okay, so about two weeks ago, after the NPR interview, I was sitting in front of my computer trying to get some shit done.  And by "shit" I mean Black John, and by "done" I mean finish the fucking book (which is, thank Goddess, finished!) before the world of despair, drug use, and cynicism I'd created actually swallowed me whole.  (Seriously-- my submission letter started with, "Hey, Elizabeth, remember how in Dex in Blue I created a seriously irredeemable character and thought, 'Whew, I'm glad I don't have to deal with that asshole again!'?  Well guess who my new protagonist is!")  So, well, I was… I was elsewhere at this point in time.  It was hot outside, cool inside, I had my soda, my pleasant buzz from the NPR interview, and I was good to frickin' go.

And I got a phone call, from the leader of the kids' dance studio, asking for help.  She needed an extra backstage mom, someone "Calm, competent, who could sort of take care of things," to jump in and lend a hand.

Well, yeah.  First thing I asked, right?  "And I'm the first person who came to mind?"

Apparently so-- yeah, surprise to me too!

Anyway, asking me at that juncture was a little like asking Tony Stark to remember a dinner appointment when he's either eyeballs deep in a project, or off fighting aliens.  He'll say yes with all the intentions in the world, but when it's time to execute the plan, he's just not quite what people thought he would be, because, well, he's Tony Stark.

So I am like, problem child of the backstage moms.

I am bossy.  I am not the principle mom, but I still give orders.  Even if I'm ordering the principle mom's kid, I order.

I think outside the box in an environment where the box is sacred.  I played Simon Says with the kids the other day, because the kids were bored shitless.  One little girl not playing got her hand stepped on. Apparently (I don't remember this-- it might not have been me, but it might have, because, hello, Tony Stark) asked her if it was bleeding, or broken, and if she was okay.  She said she was.

And her father became upset because there was no giant bandage and hue and cry, and we are now banned from Simon Says.

I need my phone.  Seriously.  Need my phone.  I had two business dialogs tonight, on my phone, during quiet moments.  I kept contact with my husband, who was working as a security officer, on my phone.  I am not on vacation.  Phone is necessary.  Need.  

We are not supposed to have our phones.  *smirk*

So, here I am, the full bloom of adulthood, and I am experiencing that same surge of rebellion I showed when I was teaching.

And I am reminded that the one consistent subtext of pretty much all of my work is that authority is unreliable as a rule, and to be watched closely as a guideline.

Holy crap.  I am a bad influence around children. I'm an icon of rebellion.  

Like Tony Stark, but, you know.  Not a genius.  And broke.  And, you know.

He's Iron Man.

btw…

We went to my parents' house the other day-- the little kids stayed the night and played in the pool.  When I came to pick them up, I saw my parents had managed to accrue a hummingbird.  He built a nest in their wrought iron moose (you were wondering what that was, weren't you?) and when people (like me) don't spazz her out, she flies back and forth among my stepmom's flowers.

And I'm sort of reminded of MacBeth-- when tender-hearted old Duncan sees the birds at MacBeth's and says, "Look, the temple-haunting martlet is here!  This bird only hangs out in good places!"  Of course, Duncan was blind, and those birds were ravens, (according to MacBeth) and they were croaking his doom, but I'd like to think the my parents are nicer than MacBeth.  Because they got themselves a hummingbird.  Cause he thinks their place is cool.

And I am literally falling asleep typing this-- and tomorrow is going to be harder.  So, uhm, enjoy the hummingbird, and remember-- Tony Stark's blog is way cooler than mine, and probably monetized.

Happiness Oh!

So, when I check to see if I have blog comments I also check to see how many hits I get on a post, and yeah-- the last post was something of a record breaker.

This post will not be.

In fact, if I get over 90 hits, I shall have officially told more people about my wedding anniversary than actually attended my wedding.

Mate and I moved in together for a year before we got married--and together, we grossed not quite $13,000, and even in the late 80's, that's not a lot of money.  Our wedding was… well, a community endeavor to say the least.

We held it in the park by my parent's house, where, about four and a half years prior, my dad and stepmom were married.  (They'd lived together for eight years before the wedding-- something about not wanting to get married because people thought they should and wanting to prove they were getting married because they wanted to.  Which, in my forties, I totally understand.)  Because it was June, it was 104 degrees that day, and I was wearing a satin dress with a tulle overlay.  I remember almost thug-jumping my stepbrother for his glass of punch.

In fact, Mate and I were the most dressed up people there.

The bridesmaids wore sundresses-- we bought them the fabric, they had somebody make them, and the pattern was one of those classic patterns, A-line, ruched straps, full-ish skirt, in a pretty flowered print.  I remember that after I had Chicken, my stepmom had enough of that fabric to make her a little baby dress out of the same fabric-- she wore it to a bridesmaid's wedding.  The groomsmen wore off-white slacks, an off-white shirt, green suspenders and a green bow tie.  I remember that somebody had to tell me I should get my bridesmaids a gift--I think my stepmom picked them out for me and said, "Here--you need to give them these."

But there was so much we didn't know.

See, at 21, Mate and I were the first to get married.

I had no idea what people were supposed to do or get or have during weddings.  What did I know?  My stepmom made dresses for my stepsister and I when she got married.  I still have that dress (nobody I know could fit in it now) but it was just such a lovely green brocade fabric, I couldn't stop touching it.  For my parents' wedding, they had a party in the park-- one of their presents was a matched set of live turkeys that we called Thanksgiving and Christmas, because that's when we ate them.

I remember that a lot of the pre-wedding drama was because I had difficulty balancing work, school, and wedding planning-- and cars that broke down and money I didn't have and an inability to ask my parents for more than they gave us.  Mate and I were still a little raw from "If you're going to move out with him, we're not paying for school!" and that line of what to ask for and what we needed to bring to the table ourselves is always such a weird one.  We wanted to bring it all ourselves, but, well, did I mention we had nothing to bring?

That being said-- my stepmom's friend made the cake (which I took for granted then--I am ashamed of that) and her friend's husband took the pictures (ditto) and the day before the wedding, I showed up at my parents' house and worked with my grandparents and relatives--most of whom are no longer with us now-- and we all sliced cold cuts and made cheese trays and vegetable trays that we put in the refrigerator and brought to the park in coolers.

The day of the wedding the bridesmaids and I all gathered at my friend's parent's house and stressed about getting ready.  I remember that I was helping all of them getting ready, and suddenly I was running late.  I almost hit a squirrel driving my AMC Pacer from Julie's house to the park-- I drove myself to my own wedding, go figure!  My 'hairstyle' consisted of wearing it, dry and down on my back--because I never wore my hair down.  In all of the pictures, it's HUGE-- just a giant writhing red mass, with a little crown of synthetic flowers.  (Oh yes-- my friend's mom did the flowers--synthetic, most of them, although I think my own bouquet was real.)  Remember, this was the 80's, so the whole "virginal white" dress was still a thing, and I was obviously not a virgin, so I went with off white.  I figured it was just as well-- I look sort of awful in white-- ecru was obviously the way to go.  But I remember pulling into the parking lot of the park running late, and running into Mate's aunt and grandmother as I dashed to the trailer where my dress sat.

"I almost hit a squirrel."

Yeah.  I'm more articulate now.

My dad walked me down the aisle, to Mate, who wore his mullet (!!!) back in a ponytail, and who insisted on wearing the full off-white tux with tails.  He weighed about 140 lbs-- I think there was more tux than boy, but God, he was so pretty.

I was supposed to be the English major, so I picked out poems for us to read.  I could not have picked out worse poetry if I'd been five, flipping through my literature book with a crayon-- I didn't know what in the hell any of it meant at that time, how could I?  I was an infant.  But that's okay-- during the ceremony there was a baja-cut Volkswagen bug that cruised up and down King Rd. about sixty-zillion times-- I think they were laughing at us, getting married under the big tree in the corner of the park while their glass-pack muffler rattled through our vows. Fuckers.  That's okay-- nobody heard the badly picked poetry and nobody heard my voice shake or saw Mate's hands, clammily, shakily entwined with mine.

Our sound system was a boom box, and it played Journey's "Open Arms" as I walked down the aisle and "Faithfully" as we walked back up.

And there we were.  The first marriage of our peer group.  So many mistakes.  So many mistakes.  Our honeymoon was a well documented disaster-- three cases of food poisoning, two tires replaced at half our spending money, freezing to death on the floor of a two-man tent because the ocean in June isn't warm. It was all we could afford, but, well, we had more better sex on our own bed when we got home to our shitty apartment.  (Although we were lucky the bed was not stolen as, at some point in time, the bedding and our books and the change from our car and our stereo were. It was not a great apartment, oh no it was not.)

But for better or worse (mostly better), richer or poorer (mostly poorer), in sickness and in health (mostly health) we were married.

The two of us completed our education but we never did things the way we were supposed to, and finances are just not our strong point.  (As one of my bridesmaids and I recently discussed, I still can't spend money for shit, but she can strangle a dime.)  Our partnership, our house, even our children, are unconventional and special--in fact, sometimes I think the best reason for having children was that we actually have other human beings that speak our language.  Seriously--until the past few years, wherein I discovered other writers, I was pretty sure Mate and I were all alone in our madness.  I don't know whether it comforts him as much as it comforts me, but it is a comfort to know that, as we progress what has become a true partnership, that we are not alone.  Not just as people in a rather diverse society, but as believers.

Both of us came from divorce--both of us came from two couples that, Goddess as my witness, never should have been in the same room together, much less produced progeny.  (Did I mention Mate's father didn't make the wedding?  His mom said she couldn't be there if he was there, so he said he was going to be there and then at the last moment sent a ginormous bouquet of flowers instead.  I'd never been so angry at two adults in my life.)

But somehow, we still believed in love.

Somehow, through some great years and some really shitty ones, we still believe in love.  And children.  And doing what makes you happy even if nobody else gets that.

And each other.  We believe in each other.

And in simplicity.  Our wedding was simple.  And for all but one of the last fifteen years, our anniversary has been a thing that happened in, under, around and through the kids' dance recital, which is a two week, all encompassing event that swallows our lives.

But, you know, it's the 25th such occasion for us, and although neither of us can believe it's been that long or that we're really that old, I thought it was a moment to remark upon.

We were going to plan a party.  We swore would.  There was going to be dancing and catering and pie, and all of the organization and finery that we didn't make happen at our wedding.  I even looked into booking a planner and a we checked out community centers and had a dance list planned out and…

And life happened.

Because in 25 years, that hasn't changed-- we're still better at real life than big occasions.

And we're still better with each other than anyone else in the world.

To Thine Own Self Be True...

And This Above All, To Thine Own Self Be True…  Hamlet, Act I, Scene 3

Everybody knows that quote, right?  I mean everybody knows that quote.  But only a small percentage of people who know that quote (a much larger percentage if you read my blog!) know that these words are the most mischaracterized quotation in history.  Polonius wasn't advising his son (as many rebellious teenagers believe) to "be true to himself" to "just be himself" or to "follow his own star" or whatever.  Polonius was telling his son to twist his backbone into a pretzel so that he didn't alienate anybody and would thereby become a consummate liar and politician.

Context is everything.

In a recent article, a number of well known M/M authors including myself were all asked why we, as straight women, wrote M/M romance, and what did we think about claims of misogyny in this genre.

Our answers were, at best, grossly mischaracterized.

But before I get to that, I think I should talk about why I do write M/M romance, and how I do characterize women in all of my fiction, and why M/M is so appealing to me and to a lot of women.  Now, what I'm about to say is going to feel like a re-tread for many of you-- you've heard me say this in interviews and panels, and you've spoken to me in person or on the net, or, better yet, you've read my blog when I've been sounding off on this stuff.

So why do I write M/M.

Well, I don't just write M/M.  I started out writing urban fantasy, and I loved doing that.  I loved writing romance from a female's perspective, and even though it was menage and fantasy, I felt like I'd created a believable, flawed, interesting heroine who was easy to root for and fun to watch grow.

I still feel that way.

But while I still love that heroine--and have been looking for a way to publish another story about her-- I was upset by some of the things said about her.  "She's so vulgar, swearing all the time."  But the guys swore all the time.  "She's such a bitch, going out and fighting like that." But the guys fought for her. "How can the men stand her, giving orders all the time!"  But she was the leader-- Adrian and Bracken weren't leaders.  And she's the warrior-- Green wasn't a fighter.

Oh hell.  How can women still think like this about other women?

But they do.

Now, at the same time I was writing about Lady Cory, I was also writing an M/M romance into her story--in fact, several of them.  Enough so that when presented with an opportunity to write M/M romance full time, I had a fantastic cast of characters screaming in my brain, all clamoring to be let out.

Now people ask me why I like M/M, and when I reply, I give the same answer I gave when I wrote my Lady Cory, with her no-bullshit swagger and her ability to take charge and her terrifying vulnerability:

Because equality is dead sexy.

It was dead sexy between Cory and Green or Cory and Adrian, and it was dead sexy between Adrian and Green.

But writing a Cory in anything but urban fantasy or fantasy is all but impossible-- at least without serious critical repercussions, it is.

See, when I was teaching English, and I taught heroic archetypes, when the textbooks were talking about what made a tragic or a romantic or a Gothic or an epic hero, the writers used the words "noble birth".  I didn't like that term-- Americans don't go for that, and the American Romantic hero often didn't have it, so it just confused the kids anyway-- so I changed the term to "social heft."

And that term-- "social heft"-- makes all the difference in what kind of heroine you're writing.

The fact is, in an urban fantasy world or a fantasy world, heroines can have equal social heft with heroes, and they can look their heroes in the eyes and be taken as dead equals in any circumstance, because the rules of the fantasy world can give them that.  

The same cannot be said for the rules of the modern world.  Look at rape statistics.  Look at wage statistics.  Listen to men talk on the street.  We do not yet have the same social heft--and female heroic archetypes are, by necessity, very different because of that.  (I did NOT SAY lesser-- just different-- and that's another article.)

Does that mean I'm not in an equal partnership myself?

No.

But I'm in an unusual one-- I know that for certain.  The other day I listened to two women talk about how one woman's daughter-in-law didn't pack a lunch for her son, because she was lazy, and how she agreed she needed to give up her job or work less hours to care for her children and her husband.

Yes.  That still happens.

Now, when my husband made much more money than I did, it made sense for me to do that.  We both agreed.  It only made sense.  But now that we're equal wage earners?  He doesn't let me freak out about the house.  He spends as much time caring for the children as I do.  Why?  Because we both agree that we're equals-- not just as wage earners, but as life-partners.  If I ever make enough money for him to quit his job or take fewer hours to take care of the kids, we're both all over that.  

Now imagine if I tried to write that female character into a romance.  Or that male character.  Selling that partnership to an agent or a publisher would probably get me kicked out of the romance department and right into literary fiction--but that's not what I want to write!

The fact that these partnerships exist in real life does not make them literarily acceptable.  Listen to women talk about their partners, and look at divorce stats for women making more money.

Social heft matters in a partnership based in equality--and Mate and I are the exception more than the rule.

So back to misogyny and M/M romance.  I write flawed female characters.  I write women with questionable pasts and promiscuous sexual histories.  I write women who have done their best with their children but it hasn't been good enough, and women who haven't been able to overcome the prejudices of the past to embrace their children.  I also write strong women, and kind women and women who are good mothers and women who are good mothers to their own children but not so nice to their children's partners and women who have gotten abortions and women who have kept the children of their abusers and…

Women very much like the men I write, actually.

Because when I'm writing the male partnership, nobody ever questions that I'm writing two people with equal social heft.  In fact, even when social situation and education makes that impossible, the world insists that it should be, because hey, they're both men.  And given that equality, and the fact that my men are flawed, I am given license to write women who are flawed, and this makes me happy.  I can write real live people.  Or at least people who are real to me.

Now I still get flack, and much of it is almost amusing.  I frequently talk about a book in which two female characters make exactly the same mistakes as one of the male MC's--but they are criticized for being weak and I am criticized for writing weak women.

I don't have the time or emotional reserves to reply to every one of those reviews with the response that I wrote equally flawed human beings-- but it was the reviewer's choice to vilify the women and adulate the man.  But it's true.

So how do I write women-- how do I feel about women in M/M romance?

The same way I feel and write about the men.

We are all flawed, fucked up walking disasters-- male, female, gay, straight, bi, trans, or gender fluid.  We all hurt people on accident and sometimes on purpose and we all crave human connection and we all try so very hard to find redemption and purpose in those human connections and in that ephemeral, amorphous concept of love.

So back to being grossly mischaracterized in an article about misogyny-- some pundit (who probably thought he was being clever) said (and I paraphrase) "Words will tell--taken out of context or not."

Well, A. Context is everything, and B.?

These are my words.  If you're going to attack me, my genre, and my characterization of gay men or straight women or anybody else I create in my own fictional worlds, these are the words I will stand by.

Everything else is hearsay, and I will ignore it.

(And I'd like to thank all of the people who spoke up on FB and other places-- I was almost embarrassed to publish this post because it felt like the people who mattered had already said, unequivocally and without reservation, that my fiction and online presence had essentially refuted everything about the original article that spawned this.  But, well, I'd already written it by then.  And it was a very pretty post ;-)

Books of a Personal Nature

Hey all-- I know it's not *kermit flail Monday* but I'm going to pimp a friend's book here first off anyway.

See, I've made my personal life public for more than eight years.  At first, it was on the assumption that nobody was listening, and after several painful moments proving that wasn't true, I started to edit those personal revelations to something a little more public friendly--but you've all heard my mantra.  All writing is personal, even when it's edited to not expose quite as of your privates as you'd intended.

So I've talked--a lot--about what inspires my books, and you know that's personal too.  You know that Truth in the Dark has a lot of meaning for me, as does Clear Water, The Locker Room, Chase in Shadow, and Christmas Kitsch.  Hell-- all of my work has a grain, a kernel, of something that's personal to me, and that's the thing I build around when I write.  It's all personal.

So this book, A Heart for Robbie, is very personal to J.P. Barnaby.

My children are my inspiration for my best work, and the best of me.  In this case, J.P.'s child did not survive to love beta fish or wear silly costumes or say inspiring, amusing things.  But that does not mean that her child inspired her any less to write something loving and real about someone who changed her life.  People often come to me and thank me for writing a happy ever after for people they know who did not get their own.  (This is especially heartbreaking when they're thanking me for Chase.)  In this case, J.P. wrote a happy ever after for her own child, for her own world, and to me, that is just such a hopeful thing.  I've also said, again and again, that romance writers don't deal in sex, they deal in hope.  This book is a tremendous dose of hope, and I'm proud of my friend for having written it.

Here's a look at A Heart for Robbie:

BLURB: Waiting for someone else’s child to die so yours can live is the worst kind of Hell.
Celebrated Young Adult author Julian Holmes pits the heroic characters in his Black Heart series against all different kinds of monsters. But when a critical heart defect threatens his son’s life, he finds he has no champion. No amount of books, classes, or practice can prepare Julian for the fight to save his beautiful son’s life.
Suddenly there are hospitals, transplant lists, and the nightmare of insurance red tape to navigate. In the midst of his trouble, Julian meets Simon Phelps, the insurance coordinator for Robbie’s case. Simon lives so deep in the closet he might never find his way out, but he dreams of exactly what Julian has. Then one night, drunken need and desperation brings them together, and a new fight begins.
Buy Here

***
Okay--when you're all done wiping your eyes, some other stuff that happened...
Yeah-- Kim Fielding and I were on NPR on Monday!
I loved this experience.  I want to do moar and moar and moar!  (Cue evil laugh here!)  And moar and moar and moar!
For one thing, the CPR station was arctic-cold, and since it was a bazillion degrees outside, that was particularly nice.  For another, I got asked questions about my favorite subject, and Kim got to answer in between times so I got a break.  I obviously needed one, because some of the questions took me off guard-- the numbers one about broke my little pea brain, and the assumption that "most of the books didn't go beyond kissing" also sort of broke me.  But if you look at the write up before the audio link, they took some of the material I sent them and condensed it very nicely-- makes me look verra good, and that's always nice. We also got to talk to the band while we waited, and that was sort of relaxing and lovely.  You should listen to their audio link-- they were awesome!  Kim and I took pictures of each other in the green room, and that was sort of fun-- we look nervous, I think, but excited, and she sounded marvelous during the show!
Over all, I don't think I *heerk*ed too badly, so we're calling it a win!
And when I got home, my kids were like, "Mom!  Mom!  Dad let us listen to you on the radio!  We heard you!"  And then (and this blew my mind) an old friend from teaching looked me up and got in touch.  She'd heard me on the radio and then looked up my website to make sure it was me!  I had no idea my voice was that distinctive, but, you know, that was sort of cool!
And then it was over.  So sad, too bad, you have to go back to your regularly scheduled life of watching the kids play video games and dress up as bees now.
Well, in Zoomboy's defense, there was a very cool documentary on the beasties, and he wished to be a part of that.  More power to him.  Bee-sties unite!  (Do you like his stance?  He and I had a "Ninja-off" in the middle of Michael's when we went to buy uber cheap water noodles.  My form is almost as good as his.)
And in other news, I was all set to not be anybody for recital this year.  Yes, I tried, but I was gone when Joanna (the dance teacher) was taking calls for backstage moms.  So I was not expecting to get a call yesterday asking me to fill in for another mom last night and help for other moms during the rest of rehearsal.  (I think that's what she asked me.  I was pretty confused by the time I showed up last night, half-assed, half-prepared, and really not with my head in the game.  I like to think I helped, but I forgot that sometimes little kids need their laces double-knotted and they forget which foot their shoes go on.  Duh!  (They weren't much younger than Squish, though… sue me!  She's very independent, and I'm spoiled!) Anyway, I'm sure the other stage moms were like this:
But hey-- you can't sneeze at a warm body.  Or, well, you could, but it's not particularly polite.
Anyway-- I"m off to finish Black John, and I could not be happier about this.  Parts of this book were so hard to write, and yanno? I'm tired of sad.  I can't wait to write happy.  It's a good thing John's HEA is coming, and that my next two projects are short, feel-good novellas.  YAY!  
But of course, first I have to finish and edit John.  
Which is where I'll leave you-- the thought of me editing with llama face.  I know.  That's attractive.  Enjoy.

*heeerkk*

Okay-- so, once upon a time, when Amy was in high school, with a very different name and a huge aspiration to be an English teacher and parents who flat out told her she would never make it because she was, in their words, a "Space Cowboy", an amazing thing happened.

Amy discovered theater.

And for junior high, high school, and junior college, she acted her little heart out.

Except Amy, even when skinny, did not have the face or the body for stage, and she certainly didn't have the confidence to overcome the frizzy red hair and freckles, at least not for any length of time.

However, she did have a certain ability with character roles-- I'm pretty sure it came from being 5'10" tall with tons of red hair and a certain caustic sensibility.  So, yeah, she had a reputation as a theater kid, and a band kid, and, toward the end of her senior year, was getting a teeny wee bit of confidence, and that was very exciting.

So, when the handsome, kind, smart captain of the football team said, "Oh YES!  I need to make up a scene in drama-- I'll pick Amy to do improv with me!" it seemed like a social godsend!  Oh my God!  This was my big break!  I was going to make up some social points, and I was going to look good in front of my peers, and now, right before graduation, I was finally not going to be such a shy loser anymore. 

Did I mention he was handsome?

And he had a great smile.

And he smelled soooooo good?

And that all of my hormones RUSHED to assure me of these things, right when we went to rehearse?

Yup.

So Amy, poor Amy, all she could do with her big chance to be charming and funny and play to her long cultivated strengths with the captain of the football team, was…

Spazz.

Seriously.  *heeeeerkkk!!!*  *giggle*  *haaahahahaaa*  Uhm, okay, let's start again.  Wait.  What was my… *heeeeeeerrkkkkk!!!*

Oh dear God.

You get the picture, right?

Amy, spazzing?  All elbows, knees, nose (it's a beauty!) and frizzy red hair?  And freckles-- let us not forget the freckles.

Yes.

Spazzing.

*headdesk*

Okay, so Kim Fielding heard an interview on Beth Ruyak's Insight a couple of months back.

Apparently, it got very boring.

And Kim e-mailed the producer and said, "Hey-- Amy Lane and I could do better than that!"

And so on Monday, we get to go on the radio and prove it.

Now, when I first heard about this, I was sort of excited.  Wow!  An interview!  Hey-- I've done some of those, right? Pod-casts, G-chats, Fireside Chats, panels-- I'm an old hand at this, right?

And then Mate said the magic words.

N. P. R.

Oh yeah.  I'm like, "Local radio!"  and Mate's like, "No, dear, it's really (((N)))(((℗)))))(((®))))"

And suddenly it occurs to me.  I've heard of N.P.R..  I mean, I know what that is!  LOTS of people listen to NPR.  I mean… uhm… lots of people.

And I've even heard of Beth Ruyak!  Wait-- oh my God, isn't she the one who does the Olympics?  Wow, she's an institution in Sacramento journalism!

And…

o.o

Holy.  Flipping.  Wow.

Now, I admit, I have a lot more confidence than I did, say, nearly 30 years ago.  I'm smarter, stronger, and more able to hold my own.  Hell-- I"m way more confident than I was even five years ago.  The me that I am now could totally take the me that I was when I first started this blog, and that was eight years ago.

So, I should be able to stand up with the handsome quarterback and deliver a line or two, right?

Oh Goddes.

I hope so.

Cause there's a lot more than a small class of drama students who are going to hear me go *HEEEERRRK* if I'm wrong!

So Kim Fielding and I are going to be on Public Radio, Insight, with Beth Ruyak, Monday, June 9th, at 9 a.m. (with a bunch of other segments, I am sure.)  And if I go *heeerk*  apparently, you can hear it again at 8 p.m., and then, my complete spazz out will be cached, so you can go back and hear it forever.  

Oh baby-- let's just not blow it, shall we?

***

And in other news?

Chicken sent me this picture with "She's adorable, isn't she?"

It took me half a conversation to figure out that there's a rat in the picture, and Chicken wasn't talking about herself in third person.

I mostly blame Chicken for this.  Of course I think she's adorable.  She also burps daisies and farts rainbows, as do all my children and no you cannot tell me otherwise!  

But yes, the rat is pretty cute too.  Apparently she was being really sweet this night-- the morning started when the RA's came knocking on Chicken's door.  Now other students would be hiding bongs and beer cans, but not Chicken.

She had to hide her Bon Bon.  (The rat's name.)

Yup.  Adorable.


***

And tonight, we did a new thing.  We went to a professional (minor league equivalent, I think) soccer game in Sacramento, and I learned a new thing.

You know how the British always make fun of Americans for saying "soccer" instead of "football"?  Well, apparently "soccer" is a Britishism.  The Brits created the Association of Football in 1860, when they were trying to standardize the rules.  They then exported those rules and called it "Asoc"-- and then "Asoccer"… and then Americans kept "soccer" to differentiate it from football, just like the British kept it football do differentiate it from rugby.

And you know what?

None of that justifies playing it in 104 degree heat.  Holy jebus.

But it was still fun to watch.

***


 Okay-- here's a vintage photo I've got of Tab Hunter and either Rudolph Nuryev or Anthony Perkins.  And I sort of fell in love with it, not just because, hullo, hot and happy menz, but also because there's sort of an innocence about it-- a pained, joy.  They are happy and at ease in this picture.  There is no studio, no closet, and not even any sex, which you assume they saved for all of the times the camera was off.  Just a very plain sort of domesticity.

The fact that it was kept under lock and key, pressed against their hearts until it burned?

Gives it poignancy.

Yes… I shall have to do something with this.



***

And see the dog here?  Hiding?

If I blow it on Monday and do the *heeeeerkkk!!!*?

Yeah.   That's gonna be me.

Okay, so I'm sitting at my computer and the following happens...

(*For those of you who saw this first bit on FB already, scroll down-- I've got more stuff below it:-)








Okay… so I'm sitting at my computer and the following happens…

***

...An Altoid's box is plunked right next to my computer by my sober-eyed Zoomboy. 

"What is that?"

"Greg. My fish."

"Oh!"

"Well I wasn't going to bring the whole tank out here!"

"Well I would have brought it!"

"Oh."

"Please tell me the mints aren't still in there with him."

"No. I took them out."

"Awesome."

"And be careful. There's a lot of water still in there."

"DUMP THAT OUT IN THE SINK, DAMMIT!"

"Okay." He dumps the water. "Can we bury him now?"

"NOW?"

"I'll go dig the hole."

As he disappears, Squish comes in.

"Where's the fish?"

"In the Altoid's box on the counter."

"Where? Oooh… let me look!"

Zoomboy comes back in with the shovel. "Is it cold out there?"

"Put on a shirt."

A few minutes later: "Mom, I don't know where to dig in the flowerbed. There might be dead rats or cats that I don't know where they are."

So I'd like to apologize to anyone who saw me digging a hole in my flowerbed while wearing my pajamas and no bra. I promise I'll harness the girls shortly, but in the meantime, everybody say a brief prayer for Greg the fish. He was a good fish,a quiet fish, a fish who knew how to swim in his aquarium and make that work for him. He lived for a year and a half, which is a long time for the fish of a boy who got him on his ninth birthday.

Rest in Peace, Greg. You owe me a box of Altoids and my dignity… and… oh gees… somebody let the dog back in!

(BTW-- the death of Greg the Fish happened not two hours after a conversation with Elizabeth on how proud we were that I'd had a fish survive longer than a minute and a half. Gees, tell one story at a dinner table about how you once replaced your daughter's entire tank because you'd been throwing food on dead fish for a week while she was at camp, and nobody will give you a break, will they?)

***
… The kids, fresh from buying not one but two new bettas (the better for one betta  to see the other, fan his fins and go, "Holy shit! It's a fish!", thus extending his life by at least a year) start running back and forth from Zoomboy's room and back.  

"And mom, we're putting this thing in this bowl, and this thing in this bowl and…"

And so on, until my eyes are closing (well, lack of sleep had something to do with that) and I'm all but snoozing at my keyboard.  

I go to take a nap, and when I wake up, the television is still not on.

"You guys didn't watch SpongeBob?" I ask, because that's usually what happens during the hot part of the afternoon when the AC cannot combat the brutal sun on the television/kitchen side of the house. 

"No," says Squish.  "We were watching the fish!"

Had they not just gotten out of school, and probably cooked their little noggins with all of the outside activities that the school put on in the last three days in the heat, I'd worry about those kids.

***
...I find out I've been quoted on Booklist Online!

***

… I WROTE THIS. 

***
… I realize I've trained the dog to jump up onto my body at the count of three.  Usually it's at one and a half-- little bastard can't count for shit!

***

… (And this is a long one-- are you ready?)  I realize that I have accidentally spawned the horror that is THIS ARTICLE.   And I only wish I was kidding.  If you read the article, you will see the author say that she was inspired by "a commenter" from another article who said that "the only thing that differentiates romance from literary fiction is nothing more or less than the idea that love is redemptive."  She links back to my comment on her other article-- the article in which she lamented the fact that women didn't seem to be reading women, and then completely neglected to mention romantic fiction, which is 25% of ALL FICTION published-- when that industry is primarily written, edited, published, and promoted by women.

She was very proud of this-- she replied to my comment with a bright eyed post saying I'd inspired her to gather together an entire other article!

*deep breath*

Forgive her Goddess-- she knows not what she does.

I have seen romance dismissed before-- I have, before I was forced to defend my place in the world, been one of the dismissers.  But having your job ripped away from you because the powers-that-be believe you're writing "porn" makes you evaluate who you are, what you are doing, and whether or not you are using your abilities to their fullest.  Is romance the most I could be writing?  Am I underselling myself by not writing literary fiction?  I mean… it's only romance, right?  

*laughs quietly to self*

You all know the answer to this-- most of you who've followed me for any length of time will know what I'm going to say before I say it.  But, like "the albatross" at the end of Serenity, some people like to hear it repeated.  

Poetry is more important than history or philosophy.

Now that links to two other posts in which I've discussed this idea before, but, well, old posts.  I need to revisit.

Right now, as I type, I'm listening to the Jon Stewart show, and an Egyptian emissary is discussing the inhumanity of the regime.  It makes me want to cry.  It makes me ill.  It makes me angry.  

I want to scream at the screen, because treating people humanely seems to be so very basic, and it's constantly ignored. 

But it's easy for me to sit in my kitchen and ignore that.  It's news.  After a while, we just have to let the news roll off our back or we can't function.

But what if I'm reading a book, and the hero/heroine is in Egypt.  What if he/she is being tortured.  What if, while understanding the political complexities, I'm also understanding what it feels like to be a real, living, breathing human being in that place.  

Well, if nothing else, I might be voting or donating or even writing for that cause.  

Because that's what the power of poetry-- emotional fiction-- does for us.  It allows us to fully empathize with another human being, to take their part, to live their lives.  

And that's why romance is important-- and not in the "It's escapists literature" way that this article implies.  (States openly.)  

Romance allows us to be somebody else-- and becoming somebody else is the only way to change who we are.

It's often been said that artists and writers are the vanguard of social change, and it would be easy to assume that writers like Charles Dickens, Harper Lee, George Orwell, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mary Wollstonecraft, Ayn Rand, Aldous Huxley, Richard Wright, Eli Wiesel, Sandra Cisneros, or Henry David Thoreau have a corner on that market.  Those writers, you may argue, talked about things that were real.  They talked about social structure, they talked about civil rights, they talked about oppression, they talked about the effects of the mass government on the individual.  Those authors aren't romance authors--romance really has no place among them.

Except Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice took Mary Wollstonecraft's ideas and made them human.  George Orwell, Ayn Rand, and Aldous Huxley took ideas they'd talked about in article after essay and gave those ideas a face.  (Even if you don't like Ayn Rand, you have to admit that the only reason her work has lasted as long as it has is because we were fascinated with that face.) Harriet Beecher Stowe and Harper Lee took the world of Richard Wright and made it relevant for the societal class that was as far removed from the oppressed black man as possible.  Charles Dickens took his travails in debtors prison and made them real for people who would never go without.  Eli Wiesel and Sandra Cisneros didn't only give the Jewish and Hispanic communities artists to identify with, they gave the other ethnic communities a way to identify with what they perceived as outsiders.  And these ideas-- these lofty, important ideas about the human condition and government and how we conduct our lives with meaning--have everything to do with romance.

Romance is not just the primary expression of family and the optimism of redemptive love in literature, it is the ultimate expression of civil rights. One of womankind's  first demands as equals in this world was the right to marry for love instead of to be treated as chattel, and that was what Jane Austen and Mary Wollstonecraft wrote about.  One of the major conflicts in the works of Jane Austen was the right of a woman to interact equally with a man and not to be judged as an ornament. When Harriet Beecher Stowe, Harper Lee, and Richard Wright wanted to show a society gone horribly awry, they showed what the rules and the oppression did not just to the black men in their novels, but to the entire family who gathered around the men. Charles Dickens showed how horribly romance could go when poverty and social class were allowed to intervene.  The primary relationships that were destroyed by the oppressive governments in the world of Huxley, Orwell, and Rand were the romantic and family relationships. Cisneros and Wiesel show us the family unit, impacted by war, impacted by culture, impacted by the inhumanity that humans inflict on each other-- in the very personal units of the growing individual and the family.

  If the purview of literary and speculative fiction is to show us what is wrong with the "world", the purview of romantic fiction is to show us how the "world" affects human beings with faces and flaws in a very specific, individual way.  

Now yes-- some romance is escapism, and gloriously done, may it live forever.  But even in the most glorious escapist romance there is a noble and important subtext:

The family unit is important.  Two individuals falling in love in spite of the obstacles the world has set before them is important.  The belief that redemptive love can save the individual is important.  

Yes, men dismiss this idea-- particularly literary men who point to the artists I've listed above--and say, "But a simple 60-120K work of pulp fiction will never recreate the social impact of a Dickens or a Wright or a Cisneros."

They don't understand that it already has.

When I was teaching, my readers, often girls but not always, would devour romance by the bucketload.  And when we ate lunch together or talked during lulls in class, they would repeatedly ask me questions about what they read:

Why do some authors make the women act so silly?  Why do the male authors always kill somebody off at the end, do they think that makes them literary?  Are there really relationships where women can claim equality?  Don't the men leave when the women make more money?  Why would this character go back to school in her thirties? How come the character is always a loner?  How come the girls don't put out immediately, isn't that what we're supposed to do?  The men never hit the women in these books even when they're mouthy-- is that realistic?  Did they really have sex before marriage back then?  But those people are our parents' age!  Do men really marry girls when they have other men's children?

The questions went on and on and on.  Some of them are disturbing-- many of them are disturbing--and some of them should be a warning to some authors to take their craft more seriously, but all of them pointed to one thing.

These girls, living in a depressed socio-economic area, with often confusing (at best!) choices of gender and family expectations to choose from, were looking at these romance books as a blueprint for their own behavior as they entered into adulthood.   They wanted to know if they could be strong, independent, educated women like the ones they read about.  They wanted to know if those relationships are real.

What could possibly be more important to a successful economy and an educated populace than women--and men--who believe that one half of our population should have the same rights as human beings as the other half?  Yes, the school curriculum suggested all of those other canonical writers, and we the teachers taught those books as we taught critical thinking and language skills.  And our growing citizens took those critical thinking and language skills and applied them to a topic of personal interest to them: What kind of person can I be, and what kind of personal future can I have when I reach maturity.

And the romantic relationship is one of the key pivotal relationships.  

They wanted a blueprint.  And the romances they read-- the ones with strong, educated, powerful and equal partners who weren't too stupid to live (a fortunately dying trope)-- were that blueprint.  And the adults who read those same books-- the divorced teachers (there was a terrifying number of them)-- were reading those books for hope.  They hoped that the jungian choice of companionship vs. loneliness had not yet passed them by, and that they, too, could find a relationship in which they could be the strong, educated, powerful and equal romantic partner, who could find someone who would love them for exactly that.

This is our youth.  This is our adult citizenry.  These are the educated and the self-educating.  And they are turning to romance to see if society has a place for personal happiness.

They are turning to romantic fiction for hope.  

There is nothing trivial in that.  That concept is not subservient in the the arena of human rights.  The people being imprisoned and tortured in Egypt want nothing more than to walk down the street with the people they care about, and to be allowed to be strong, educated, and equal.  The LGBTQ community wants nothing more than to have equal civil rights with their heterosexual friends and family, and to walk down the street with the people they care about, and to be allowed to be strong, educated, and equal.  The people crusading for the environment or against gun laws or for a change in government fear that these issues will affect the health of their loved ones, or their partners, or children, and when they speak against their government they have faith that they are strong, educated, and equal, and that their families will be respected.

God(ess) may have created Adam and Steve-- and more power to her if she did--but she did not create a parent and a child, or a president and an advisee, or a pair of platonic friends.  God(ess) created romantic partners who were equals, and who made mistakes and forged a life together.  That is (whether we're Christian or not) one of our society's first stories, one of our touchstone mythologies as humans.  

And, ultimately, it is a romance.  

And romance is important.

So I appreciated the writer of the article.  I appreciate that she used my comment and tried to address the thing I said in there.  But I will stand by my literature, and I will stand by my genre.  There is more going on here than the mating rituals of the 21st American denizens, and more going on in the genre than guilt free fantasy escapism.  

You just need the eyes of a world citizen to see it.  

*kermit flail Monday*-- June's releases!

Wow.  
So, it's been something of a month, right?  But when I put out calls for *kermit flail Monday* I got a lot of really awesome responses.  
This first one, from Eisabeth Staab is right up my alley-- or rather, my Urban Fantasy alley.  Elisabeth writes a really amazing vampire series called the Chronicles of Yavn , and I've read the first two (MUST. READ.) and right here is the third one, and WOOT!  Elisabeth is a friend-- friendly enough to put up with Mary and I cutting up during her panel at RT (Sorry, Elisabeth!) and to do it with grace.  I also really loved her books-- and the trip back to Urban Fantasy, which, as you know, is my original home.  So it's a pleasure to be able to pimp this on my blog… watch me kermit flail over
Hunter by Night-
YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!

She wants out
Party girl Alexia Blackburn is only hanging around the vampire compound until her best friend—the queen—has her baby. After that, nothing is going to stop Alexia from getting back to daylight, safety, and feeling like a normal human being. But leaving the vampire world has one big catch…
He needs her to stayHead of vampire security Lee Goram has hated and distrusted humans for centuries. Feeding on vampire blood has kept him strong...but now it's killing him—and he's horrified to discover that Alexia may hold the key to his cure. He'd rather die defending his king than admit his weakness, but time is running out for the great vampire warrior...
Links:Comes out June 3rd:Amazon Pre-order: http://goo.gl/ZM3pVsApple Pre-order: http://goo.gl/iL0AhPB&N Pre-rder: http://goo.gl/kNLOa2Add to Goodreads: http://goo.gl/QTzn6U

Okay-- I haven't read this next one, but here's a first.  I put out the prompt for *kermit flail Monday* and suddenly, six of this author's fans asked if I could post it.  I had to tell them that he needed to ask me himself, and his PA sent me the email and I was thrilled.  See, Dan Skinner may have just really started his writing career, but his photography career has graced some of your favorite covers of mine.  The Locker Room, Truth in the Dark, Clear Water, Gambling Men, and Bolt-Hole all feature Dan Skinner covers, and I'm thinking "Hey-- anyone with the thoughtfulness and sensitivity to create such resonant photos and photo-real covers is going to be able to find beautiful words when he puts his creativity to work."  So I am not surprised that people loved this book so much they wanted to see it get some serious love-- and I'm honored to be able to recommend it on my blog.  
Let's here it for  The Price of Dick by Dan Skinner, YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!
His name is Richard but he'll say, "Call me Dick." He's a big, butch, brainy guy in an executive suit, hotter than spit on a skillet. The type of guy you can see fully dressed and imagine buck naked in the throes of an orgasm - every six-feet-two, muscular, sexually intoxicating inch of him. He's an ambitious freshman in a prominent brokerage firm who's figured out he can use more than his smarts to get ahead. He's perfected a surefire method to drive home a hard deal. No one can resist him. And he's got one really big secret. But that will cost you.

For photographer J.J. Johnstone, the price of Dick just might cost him everything.
BUY AT AMAZON

Now, this next one is by Skylar M. Cates, and you know those people on the internet who always say nice things when you need to hear them?  Skylar M. Cates makes it a point to greet all the new DSP releases on FB with a link and a shout-out and a really positive excitement.  So I'm more than happy to do the same for 
The Only Guy by Skylar M. Cates--YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!
 Aaron Weiss knows how to escape. Years ago, he ran from a romantic disappointment and impulsively joined the Army. Now, he’s forced to take a medical discharge and readjusting to life at home proves a challenge.  Jesse Ross knows how to hide. He realizes he’s an oddball, and that he’s an outsider within his own family. He also knows his secret love since childhood, Aaron, only wants his good-looking, favored older brother. Yet Jesse could never completely abandon his intense feelings for Aaron. Over the years, Jesse was a faithful pen pal to him. Still, he's shocked to his core to find Aaron on his doorstep.  As long-buried secrets and past hurts take center stage, the two are overwhelmingly drawn to each other. But it’s their future that may force them to risk everything.
BUY AT DREAMSPINNER PRESS
BUY AT AMAZON 
Okay-- so, I'm at the Dreamspinner Press Writer's Conference at Portland, and this striking, regal, stunning woman with an impish sense of humor and a reputation for writing M/M historical (a sub genre which leaves me in complete awe because it needs to be accurate and the ability to capture the mood needs to be spot-on) is talking to me at the cocktail party.  She is funny and witty and interesting and, most odd, willing to let me blather on, you know, the way you do when you're talking in a social setting and nobody is willing to say "Stop talking, Amy, for the love of the sweet Goddess, you're embarrassing yourself!"  
Well, turns out, this woman is Rowan McAllister, and she's a fan of the blog.  And I'm humbled-- you sort of have to talk to her, and, like I said, be aware of her reputation for writing amazing historical literature to understand my amazement.  "You actually read me?"  I almost cried.  
So when she said she had a book to pimp for *kermit flail Monday* I was STOKED!!!  Psyched, excited, woot-happy, whatever the kids are saying these days.  Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you, 
Never a Road Without a Turning by Rowan McAllister, YAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!
A Spin-off of A Devil's Own Luck
When unapologetic rake Phillip “Pip” Stubbs takes a position at Greer cottage, he’s only thinking of a new village to explore, new chits to woo, and hoping for another distraction from the growing restlessness inside him. But when the new master arrives, Pip ends up more unsettled than ever.  Major Astley McNalty is a wealthy retired surgeon, soldier, and world traveler. Despite the injury that has left him lame, the gentleman has everything a common servant like Pip could ever wish for, and yet he spends his nights in drunken brooding and his days in solitary melancholy. He’s a mystery to Pip, so when the major defies convention and asks Pip to read to him at night, Pip gladly accepts for a chance to spend his winter evenings by the library fire and perhaps satisfy his curiosity. Until one night, while thoroughly drunk, the major kisses Pip and changes everything between them.
Fear of discovery, fear of repeating the past, and secrets on both sides threaten their burgeoning connection. They must learn to trust one another if they have any hope of finding a safe path to a future together.rom the growing restlessness inside him. But when the new master arrives, Pip endsBUY AT DREAMSPINNER PRESS
BUY AT AMAZON.COM 
BUY AT ARE
So you know how there are people you see in certain situations that make your day just much happier?  K-lee Klein is one of those.  We are frequently seated at least near each other at signings, and she is almost always working very hard to be as optimistic, happy, and excited to be there as a person can be.  
And she gives astounding hugs.
So I was so excited when she responded to the prompt for new releases.  It gives me great happiness to recommend K-Lee Klein and her new release,
Tabby's Pride-- YAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!
 ~~Levi is ready to do anything to make his rock star—and hopefully, personal—dreams come true.
Levi Tabberton has dreamed of being a rock star ever since his brother's best friend, Alexander, showed him his guitar when he was young. But becoming a member of his boyhood crush's band, Lion's Pride, is even more important.
Growing up, Levi emulated Alexander Morrison and, years later, his feelings remain unchanged when he auditions for the band. Xan is laid-back, caring, gorgeous, and takes Levi under his wing—paw. But Levi's guilt and insecurity hold him back from letting Xan see the real him.
Levi needs to prove himself worthy of the band and deserving of Xan's attention, but the lengths he's gone to have left him reeling with anxiety and exhaustion. Levi's not sure how much longer he can pull off the charade he's been acting out to reach his goals and to keep Xan's affections.
Has he made the right choice or will his dreams fade in a catastrophe of lies and uncertainty?~~
Buyer's Link: http://www.amberquill.com/store/p/1968-Tabby-s-Pride.aspxAmazon: http://www.amazon.com/Tabbys-Pride-1-Lions-ebook/dp/B00KIYYCO8AllRomance: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-tabby039spride-1522621-340.html

(And have I mentioned my love of fan art?  K-Lee has some fans who put together some of those wonderful fan-art memes that I adore so much, and when she sent them, I just had to include them. Enjoy!)
Okay-- so I have to admit, I badgered this last participant. I was like, "Oh Annnndreeeeewwww!!!  Remember when you wanted me to post your Oz book on my blog, and I did, and I decided to do that for all my friends, just because I loved you enough to break my rule against doing it on a regular basis? How come you're not pimping your newest release on my blog, Andrew? Huh?  Huh? Huh? Huh?"

And because he loves me, just a little, he sent me the press kit for his newest release.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you

Love Means… Patience by Andrew Grey, YAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!

Years after his discharge from the Marines under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” Cody Culver lives in a PTSD-induced world all his own. On a mission, under misconceptions that Geoff and Eli are the enemy, Cody breaks into their farmhouse but is quickly brought back to his senses by a frying pan to the head. After receiving much needed help in the hospital, Cody has nowhere to go. Luckily, kindhearted Eli knows just where to turn.When Eli asks former Marine Brick Hunter to help, Brick isn’t sure he wants to get involved. But Brick has worked through his own PTSD, and like it or not, he owes Eli a favor. With Cody struggling to rejoin the real world and Brick agreeing to take him in, they discover they have more in common than either of them thought possible.
Though Cody tries to stay in the here and now, he sometimes flashes to unexplainable traumatic events—events that don’t fit his usual war zone delusions. As the “delusions” grow more frequent, it becomes apparent they might not be delusions at all. Cody may have actually witnessed a murder.
BUY LINKS AT DSP 



Oh-- and for Amy news, don't forget to check me out next Monday, June 9th, at 9:00 am on Capital Public Radio (my husband assures me that this qualifies as NPR, which sort of flips my switch only because I've heard of that, and I don't hear of much) on Insight hosted by Beth Ruyak.  The lovely and entertaining Kim Fielding (who, by the by, got us this gig) will be there, and we are going to raise hell and count bodies later on the radio.  Without saying the F-word, which, as you know, will be my biggest challenge.  So be sure to tune in then!  (And if you miss it, I believe the links I gave you were the cache pages, so you can listen in later when it's over.)  I'll be REALLY NERVOUS before then, just sos you knows.

And that's it for *kermit flail Monday*-- I think we did her proud!

Out!

Wild Kingdom

And in the backyard whence all things are possible…

"Look- look, Mom!  Gordie has a dead bird!  And he's trying to get into the house!" (This from both kids, screaming and waving arms in excitement.)

"Ack!  SHUT THE DAMNED DOOR!"

"Aw, mom-- look!  He's playing with it.  He's so proud!"  (This from Zoomboy.)

"Oh!  Mom!  The little bird's legs were so skinny!" (This from Squish.)

"Like Mordecai from The Regular Show right?"

"Uhm, yeah."

"Wait-- there goes Jonnie!  There goes Gordie!  There lieth the dead bird!"

(Kids) "Aw.  He's just gonna leave it?"

And that's it.  Excitement over.  Ded bird iz ded, spazzy cat iz spazzy, and the dog hath defended his yard!

Except I text Chicken about the whole event--her response?

"No! My cat runs from no dog!"

Well, even the most eeeebil feline might have a moment of flight-or-fight when a furry little bullet comes flying for him.

And as for the furry bullet?  Oh yeah- he's napping in my shirt, because he had a big morning, didn't he?

*whew*  Wild Kingdom gets exhausting around here!

And as for Steve the Girl Cat?

Well, her big showing this morning was (you guessed it) in the bathroom.  I went to let her out, and Mate was like, "Really?  She wants out?"  See, usually, she's in the bathroom with me so long she leaves big puncture wounds in whatever nightgown or shirt I was wearing when I went in there.  The other day, Squish just stood at my shoulder and walked her fingers over the tiny little holes, trying to figure out what they were. When I told her, she held her hand to her mouth and gasped, blue eyes big in classic Scottish Kibuki Theatre pose.

Yes.  The cat pokes that many holes in my clothes.  Sometimes she pokes those holes when I'm asleep, and I have (oh SHAME!) forgotten to fill her food bowl before the interminable period of no consciousness whereby she might starve.

But not today.

"There's so much" *cough* *gasp* "hair floating around in here" *cough* *gasp* "that I can't breathe!"  *snort* *choke* *expires on potty after petting fluffy cat before summer*

To which Mate said, "Well keep the door shut!  If there's a whole other cat of hair in there, it doesn't need to come out!"

Apparently he was not worried about my potential survival.  Well, he's an optimist.










Anyway, that's the animal function in our house (and pause here to admire the series of pictures I took of the cat and the dog IGNORING THE HOLY SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER) but I should mention that while I was away, Mate managed to establish ABSOLUTE DOMINANCE over the dog.  Jonnie will be licking my face and bothering me when I'm trying to yarn in front of the television.  All Mate has to do is yell at him once and he goes straight to his (get this!) dog bed, and retreats in wounded silence.

Mate is brilliant.

In fact, Mate is so brilliant, I elected to go watch his team play softball on Tuesday.  Now, he's been on this team on and off, for around twelve years.  What's interesting is watching the guys play.  They're not the youngest, or the the most athletically brilliant, but what they are is practiced.  I told Mate that the term that came to mind was the "ease of long familiarity".  They were competent and they knew where to throw the ball when.  (Which is something I never mastered.)  They enjoyed to play, because they knew these things-- being competent and working smoothly made it fun.  It gave them chances to be brilliant, and that's one of the things they don't tell you about growing older.

It does give one hope.

Oh…

And the picture of Zoomboy, with the hat and the Lego-built-flashy-thing?

Remember all those old movies they played on Monday?

One of them was Men in Black.

And oH!  I admit it--I've gone back to my old hooking ways.  For this one project, at least.  Seriously-- this is a shawl I'm crocheting out of Noro sock yarn.  It's going to be stout and practically windproof, and, well, rainbow striped.  I'm trying to decide if I should give it away or keep it, but right now, I just sort of love it, and we'll leave it at that.

And that's the end!  Oh-- two bits of book business to insert here.

One-- don't forget that on Monday I do *kermit flail* Monday! where I post new releases from friends who e-mail me with new releases to post!  But if you've got a new release, hit me up with the blurb, the buy link, and the cover art, and I'll put it out there.  I've got a couple already for Monday, which is great because last Monday I didn't have ANY.

And…

I'm pimping the radio interview Kim Fielding and I are doing on Capitol Public Radio Monday, June 9th.  We'll be on Insight with Beth Ruyak, at 9 a.m., and the station streams online, and also is saved in cache in case you miss it.  I have to confess, my biggest fear is forgetting that this is not a podcast (wherein anything goes) and just blurting out the F-bomb.  I've spent the last two weeks practicing saying "Holy flipping WOW!" whenever necessary.  I, uhm, need more practice.

And to that end, I bid you adieu!  And should the cats catch anymore birds, well then, Holy flipping WOW!

Memorial Day

I'll be honest, my family isn't particularly sentimental about patriotism.  We've see far too many politicians use it--as Mark Twain insisted-- as the last refuge of the nincompoop.  If someone doesn't like your version of how to fix the world, well, they scream "UNPATRIOTIC" in your face, and you run away, for fear of being blackballed or having your family taken away or being put in a room for months and sweated for a confession.  And that was even before 911 and the Bush years, and the last wearying eight years of having a thinking man in the white house and a whole bunch of extremists everywhere else, including surrounding us in our general area.

It is enough to make a flaming liberal a little wary, at the very least.

On the other hand, well…

Mate and I are respectful children, and we've been taught to respect our elders, and, well, yeah.

My grandparents were heroes in the war.

Did I mention this?

That my grandparents were heroes in the war?

I know I have.  I know if you look through my blog archives you'll see my memorials of the two of them, and the mention that I listened to their stories, I watched my grandfather's interview for the office of living history, I was there when my grandmother's role in the OSS was finally declassified, just a few months before her death.

I'm not going to rehash everything they said-- and in a general sort of way, I am aware that grandmother was famous for embellishing story, and she may possibly(!) have spread a little bit of misinformation when she told me what she did, just because I was hanging on her every word.  But how could I not?

My grandparents were HEROES!  

And I'm just a storyteller.  How do you not put those things together and get me, hungering for their stories, wanting more of them, and more?

How do you not get me…

Writing my own story, with bits and pieces of their story inside.

Well, see, when this book comes out (The Bells of Times Square)-- and I'm thinking sometime in what?  November?  I'll probably put a forward at the beginning of it, talking about what my grandparents' contributed to this book that I wrote years after their death.

I'll talk about what I know about what they did in the OSS and what they said they did, and how I twined it all up in the story like it was real, because sometimes the stories you tell your children and grandchildren about what you did are the things you wish were real about people in general.

I'll talk about what they said they did and what I found out in the course of my research when the book gets a little bit closer to release, but for now, I want to concentrate on the pictures I chose.

One of them is of grandma, a few months before she passed away.  In a way, it's sort of an unfair picture to share-- she's vulnerable.  Old, infirm, content to wield the remote control and deal with her discomfort and will the confusion of the world to go away.  (I was looking for a picture of grandpa, and I know there's one in my phone, but I don't know how to make folders and it's just so chaotically organized-- hottie, hottie, hottie, drawn hottie, meme, hottie, thinly disguised peen, grandpa in a wheelchair, hottie, hottie, meme… I figured I'd stick to grandma, since she was easier to find.)

Anyway, the other picture is of DC heroines, easily found on the net, I chose the picture that's a little bit old school, not quite so sexually exploitive as some, and full of optimism-- women in their prime, kicking ass.

And how these two pictures are the extreme ends of what I believe heroism is, and why I tried to write The Bells of Times Square to reflect this, and why in spite of a deep and abiding cynicism and distrust of my government and a dislike of how they treat their veterans in general, I still like to take a moment to remember my family's sacrifices on this shamelessly exploitively patriotic day.  (Don't get me started on the Fourth of July.  We try to spend that day at the movies.)

The fact is, we are not, we will never be, the fearless heroines in the poster.  Even the heroines were not the heroines in the poster.  The best superhero stories are the ones about how the people overcome their generally flawed humanity and rise to the occasion of being a hero.  That's the entire archetype of the hero.  That's why man started writing stories, to explore the difference between what man was and what we all wanted him to be.  

And we find (as we have always found) that the genuine hero is somewhere between the two extremes.  Somewhere between the elderly woman sprawled inelegantly on the couch and the cut, determined women on the comic book cover was the woman who worked for the OSS after a job modeling, cooked up "dirty tricks" for the POW's to play on the Germans, and was proud of serving her country.  Somewhere between Captain America and Bucky Barnes lies my grandpa, whose job it was to take pictures from airplanes, and who either went down over Greece and joined the resistance, or was dropped over Greece, while using a completely different name.  And somewhere in the middle of all of that was the elderly man in the wheelchair, who gave his grandchildren high fives and wanted to know if I was going to name my last child Moonbeam, since all my others were named some sort of wierdo name that he had no familiarity with at all.

And that's why Memorial Day.  That's why a moment of silence.  That's why some appreciation of the heroic war movies on television today.  That's why some honoring of those who have gone before.

That's why The Bells of Times Square.

Because yes, patriotism is the last refuge of the nincompoop and you're not going to convince me otherwise.  (Even Captain America wasn't buying the party line by the end of the last movie.)  And yes, our government is flawed, cracked, rubble and lies. But not even those beliefs can taint what real heroism is.  That in the heart of the departed, in the soul of the elderly grandparents, still sharp even as they declined, in the core of so many of the people I admire, is the part of humanity that wants to make the world better.

That thinks it's their job to help make this come true.

That is willing to risk terrible odds to see it happen.

We need to remember them.  We need a remembrance of them.  We especially need to remember that the core of heroism in them was seated in the same flawed flesh that couches our own optimism, our own view of the world.

We need to see that heroism in ourselves.

You can't cook the children!

Well, I tried to cook the children, but they're still not well done.

I took them to the pool and let them swim until Squish's little cheeks got really red, and her shoulder too.  And then we came home and I napped.

Which is sort of what I've been doing all week.  What, Amy, you napped?

Oh hell yes.  I can't lay down on my own bed without pointing and curling my toes like a cat.  If I could, I'd bend my knee and lick the bottom of my feet, because I'm just so relaxed and happy to be home.

Anyway-- so I've been cooking along on John's book, and you know what?  When you take a guy who sells his best friend into a porn scene for the money he owes his dealer, and then get him out of rehab to an ex-lover's suicide, do you know what happens?

A lot of fucking soul searching.  Jesus, I'm wishing for a bomb or something.  People will be begging me for a murder mystery after this.  This book is going to be a cure for insomnia, I am not shitting around.  Every cat in the world is going to sleep on the corpse of this book-- it's going to be their holy place-- the place where all sleeps come from.  A hundred e-readers are going to disappear under the giant fatty-fuzzy tummies of a hundred house cats thinking, "I still can't read, but I know what sends out sleep vibes, and honey, this thing's got it going on."  Where's a good old fashioned explosion when you need one?


*pant pant pant*

Okay, that rant's over.  (And don't we all love Amy's marketing technique?  That should be my next T-shirt: This book sucks.  By all means don't buy it.  I'll sell tens of books doing that, right?)

Okay.  Rant really over, I think.

Oh!

I do have a funny story to tell.

See, we went to the children's Open House the other night.  Now, see, when Mom was in New Orleans, she got to hear Squish wax rhapsodic about meal worms.  I said, "Oh, was the meal worm gross?"

"No mom!  Meal worms aren't gross-- they're our friends!  But I killed mine and the teacher had to pick it up with a spoon."

"Awesome, hon.  I'll look forward to seeing that."

Well, I did get to see the meal worms, and the milk weed bugs and the other accoutrements of second grad science, God love all second grade teachers everywhere.  Of course, because she's Squish, she wanted to show me the meal worm up close and personal-- she even dumped it out of it's vial and onto the special piece of paper they use to poke the meal worms to make them more active.  (I shit you not.  It's part of their day.)  Anyway, she did that, and then couldn't get the meal worm back in it's vial and then…

Oh God.  I had to pick it up.  I did.  Because she was afraid of squashing it and it almost fell on the ground and it would have broken her heart…

And you know what?

It was every bit as gross as I thought it would be.  Oh my God.  I don't pet slugs either.  Can we think of anything less appetizing?

Anyway, as we were leaving that classroom of hopeful happy learners and squeamish parents, her teacher stopped and told us something.  She said that Squish's class has read 2 Million words this semester.  We were suitably impressed.  Then she said that Squish had read 300,000, and I was hella frickin' jealous.  *I* don't get that much time to read!  Oi!  That kid needs to do some chores for me so I can catch up with her reading word count, I am saying.  (Honestly, we were both just really proud.  That's sort of insane-- gees, she's good!)

Zoomboy's classroom was a surprise too.  For one thing, Zoomboy had actually done work.  Now, his state report got a 32/50, but you know what?  It was the most homework that kid had done in the 5th grade.  We were all about the celebration, I'm telling you.  It's frustrating in a way.  He's up on all of his concepts, gets the good grades on all of his tests, but that whole idea of having an aid come help him organize his shit seems to fall on deaf ears.  I know if I'd had someone do that for me every so often, I'd probably be much better off-- next year, I shall insist, but for now, we have a scant nine days of school left, and I'm doing the happy dance too.  We shall swim as often as possible, and remember sunblock next time.

And besides that?

Okay, coconut water-- does anybody know the point?  Now, Berry Jello (a friend I know both IRL and on the web) says that coconut oil supplements make us not crave carbs, which sounds like a really good idea, but is that the same idea for coconut water?  Because honestly?

Gag me.

Maybe it was the metal can, but the Thai place we ordered from tonight gave us a can gratis, and it was gnarly ick.  I am not seeing the point of that.

But ooh! Ooh oh oh!!!

I'd forgotten!

Author Kim Fielding and I are going to do an interview on the radio.  I blame Kim (who is adorable and talented and deserves to get credit!) because she was listening to an author get interviewed on Insight, a local radio program on KXJZ featuring Beth Ruyak (who has been an Olympic commentator and an Emmy award winning host) and said, "Hey!  Amy lives in Sacramento and I live in Turlock, and I bet we could be way more interesting than this guy!"

So she e-mailed them, and now here we go!

The interview will be on Monday, 9:00 a.m., June 9th, and that LINK I provided will get the program streaming, but I think it will also record the program if you want to hear it sometime not 9:00 a.m. in the morning, right?  Also, if you follow the link, it will give you the locations on the dial, so, you know, Radio Free America, it exists.

Now as I was freaking out quietly to Mate, (I sent her Racing for the Sun to read?  WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING!!!)  Mate said, "You know you can't swear on the radio."

So yeah.  Among other things, I've been practicing how to say "Holy Frickin' Wow!" and make it sound authentic.  Wish me luck there too!

And that's about it.  I have to admit, searching all these pictures of sleeping kittehs has sent me running for my default operation the last four years.

Ah, sleep. Seriously.  How could I have lived without you?